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Toronto city council finds cash for more road-safety plans
By Ben SpurrTransportation Reporter
Thu., July 14, 2016timer2 min. read
City council has agreed to inject more money into a plan to protect cyclists and pedestrians from traffic collisions.
In unanimous decision Thursday, councillors endorsed the city's new road-safety strategy and a budget of $80.3 million over five years, up from the $68.1 million transportation staff originally proposed when they released the plan last month.
The $12.2-million funding boost comes after traffic safety advocates slammed the original version of the plan as too weak. The additional money will allow transportation staff to accelerate implementation of the strategy, as well as to undertake some new safety initiatives and enhance some existing ones.
Public works chair Councillor Jaye Robinson, who has championed the road safety plan, admitted that when it was first unveiled, "the scale and the scope . . . simply wasn't where it needed to be."
The original plan outlined 40 safety "countermeasures" to be deployed at high-risk locations to reduce serious collisions, including expanded use of "watch your speed" radar signs, street lighting improvements and longer pedestrian crossing times. It would also allow for the creation of "pedestrian safety corridors" — areas notable for serious collisions which would be targeted for safety measures like lower speed limits and no-right-turn-on-red provisions.
The enhanced version adds four new countermeasures, and expands or enhances six previously proposed ones. Staff will double the number of mid-block pedestrian crossings they will install to 10 each year, and quadruple the number of new audible crossing signals to 20 intersections per year.
Robinson said the increased funding would allow the city to significantly enhance its efforts. "The bottom line is this plan is a pivotal step for ensuring road safety for all Torontonians, whether they walk, cycle of drive," she said.
Daniella Levy-Pinto, a member of Walk Toronto's steering committee, said she was pleased that councillors increased funding for the plan, but pointed out that the spending was dwarfed by the hundreds of millions of dollars allocated to projects like rehabilitating the Gardiner Expressway.
"I feel that, still, driving is being given prominence over other modes of transportation," said Levy-Pinto, who is blind and walks with a guide dog. She said she had hoped the city would adopt blanket speed-limit reductions, as well as introduce a city-wide prohibition on right turns on red lights.
Councillors passed a string of amendments at the end of the debate, which took up most of Thursday afternoon. They included asking staff to report on compressing the timeline for the strategy's implementation from five years to two, designating motorcyclists as vulnerable road users, and requesting the province to look at reducing the default speed limits.
In a surprise vote of 26 to 15, they also approved a motion from Councillor Frances Nunziata to ask the province to consider prohibiting pedestrians from "actively using" a handheld phone or electronic entertainment device "while on any travelled portion of a roadway."
So far this year, 23 pedestrians and one cyclist have died in traffic collisions in Toronto. That's on track to match or exceed the record single-year total of 40 pedestrian deaths in 2013.
The original version of the safety plan set a target of reducing serious collisions by 20 per cent over 10 years, but after criticism Robinson revised the target to eliminating traffic deaths entirely. | {
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The following handouts provide notes on Lear but focus on how to make use of the notes ie focus on study approaches as well as the text itself.
King Lear seminar exercise (on how to organise material to write an essay on Lear).
Lear seminar exercise sample answer ie showing one way to organise material when writing an essay.
Lear presentation exercise – things to think about when writing a presentation.
Lear presentation – sample answer showing how you might construct a presentation script.
More coming soon. Please check out my Facebook and Twitter pages in the meantime. You will find posts on cultural contexts, critical and literary quotations and essay writing. | {
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Stephen D. Brookes, auch Steve Brookes, ist ein Informatiker.
Brookes erhielt seinen Bachelor-Abschluss in Mathematik an der Universität Oxford und wurde dort 1983 bei Tony Hoare in Informatik promoviert (A Model for Communicating Sequential Processes). Er ist seit 1981 an der Carnegie Mellon University, an der er 2006 eine volle Professur erhielt.
Mit Hoare und Bill Roscoe entwickelte er das failures model von Communicating Sequential Processes (CSP), das er in seiner Dissertation eingeführt, hatte, mit Roscoe weiter verbesserte und das die Basis für den FDR (Failure Divergence Refinement) Model Checker wurde. Er befasste sich mit semantischen Modellen für Programmiersprachen mit nebenläufigen Prozessen (wie Idealized CSP, Parallel Algol) und mit intensionaler Semantik.
2016 erhielt er mit Peter W. O'Hearn den Gödel-Preis für ihre Entwicklung der Concurrent Separation Logic (CSL), das nach der Laudatio ein revolutionärer Fortschritt bei Beweissystemen für die Verifizierung von Eigenschaften von Systemsoftware war, wozu typischerweise sowohl die Manipulation von Zeigern als auch die Verwaltung von Nebenläufigkeit im gemeinsam von den Prozessen geteilten Speicher gehören.
Weblinks
Homepage
Laudatio beim Gödelpreis 2016
Einzelnachweise
Hochschullehrer (Carnegie Mellon University)
Informatiker
Geboren im 20. Jahrhundert
Mann | {
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5 Hilarious 'Star Wars: The Force Awakens' Trailer Spoofs
Knowing the audience of this site, chances are you've already seen the new 'Star Wars: The Force Awakens' trailer, but you may have not seen these awesome parodies.
Launched on November 28th, it's been quite a divisive issue for fans across the globe. From the new-look Lightsaber, to the creative choice to not explore the Expanded Universe with these new films, the debates seem to have no end in sight.
I propose we do something different. Let's drop the discussion/arguments for one weekend and ask different questions with hilarious results: what would the new Star Wars be like if Disney had more creative control? What if J.J. Abrams hadn't learnt his lesson about excessive use of lens flare? What if Michael Bay took the helm instead? Here's 5 hilarious trailer spoofs to Episode 7 (in no particular order).
1. George Lucas' Special Edition
Allow me to paint you a word picture, dear reader. George Lucas is sat at a nondescript giant conference room table within Disney HQ, about to sign over the rights to Star Wars. He hesitates because of the dreams had about continuing the saga and instead takes complete creative control. This is the result of that: "The Dark Side and trade negotiations."
Either that or this would be (as the title suggests) the revamped edition Lucas will release 20+ years down the line. Whichever story you choose to accept, it results in a wild ride of CGI and way-too-many TIE fighters.
The Dark Side and trade negotiations.
2. If Disney micromanaged Star Wars
Characters wearing Mickey Mouse ears, Goofy Stormtroopers, cameos from Aladdin and Bambi's mum, this film has it all. If you ever thought that Disney's acquisition of the Star Wars license could spell doom for the amazing sci-fi universe, then you are greatly mistaken. This trailer proves there would be no integrity lost in the transition.
3. Directed by Michael Bay
You know the drill whenever somebody uses the name 'Michael bay' with the word 'parody.' Get ready for product placements, bass drops, the use of a Linkin Park soundtrack and, of course, copious explosions peppered with Wilhelm screams.
4. Lens Flare Edition
A while ago, J.J. Abrams apologised for using too much lens flare in his work, admitting it's overkill and promising to improve. Turns out he's not learned that lesson in this parody, blinding the excited viewer with plenty of non-sensical beams of light.
5. The Cage Awakens
Probably the strangest pick on this list (if things weren't strange enough already), the whole Star Wars universe has been infected by Nicolas Cage. Seeing his face everywhere, even as the Millennium Falcon, is nothing short of both hilarious and terrifying.
movies, FeatureJason England December 5, 2014 Star Wars, Star Wars Episode VII, Episode 7, Episode VIII, The Force Awakens, Parody Trailer, Countdown, Top 5
#NRMPresents 'Halitron.' Kickstarter Project Defeats Gravitational Force With Magnets
Technology, newsJason England December 9, 2014 Halitron, Kickstarter, Oxford, Gravity, Levitation, Magnets
Bristol University Tech Uses Ultrasound To Create 3D Shapes You Can See And Touch
Technology, newsJason England December 4, 2014 University of Bristol, Bristol, Bristol University, Minority Report, Ultrasound, Computer, Control, Research, User interface | {
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} | 8,260 |
Superparamagnetism is a form of magnetism which appears in small ferromagnetic or ferrimagnetic nanoparticles. In sufficiently small nanoparticles, magnetization can randomly flip direction under the influence of temperature. The typical time between two flips is called the Néel relaxation time. In the absence of an external magnetic field, when the time used to measure the magnetization of the nanoparticles is much longer than the Néel relaxation time, their magnetization appears to be in average zero; they are said to be in the superparamagnetic state. In this state, an external magnetic field is able to magnetize the nanoparticles, similarly to a paramagnet. However, their magnetic susceptibility is much larger than that of paramagnets.
The Néel relaxation in the absence of magnetic field
Normally, any ferromagnetic or ferrimagnetic material undergoes a transition to a paramagnetic state above its Curie temperature. Superparamagnetism is different from this standard transition since it occurs below the Curie temperature of the material.
Superparamagnetism occurs in nanoparticles which are single-domain, i.e. composed of a single magnetic domain. This is possible when their diameter is below 3–50 nm, depending on the materials. In this condition, it is considered that the magnetization of the nanoparticles is a single giant magnetic moment, sum of all the individual magnetic moments carried by the atoms of the nanoparticle. Those in the field of superparamagnetism call this "macro-spin approximation".
Because of the nanoparticle's magnetic anisotropy, the magnetic moment has usually only two stable orientations antiparallel to each other, separated by an energy barrier. The stable orientations define the nanoparticle's so called "easy axis". At finite temperature, there is a finite probability for the magnetization to flip and reverse its direction. The mean time between two flips is called the Néel relaxation time and is given by the following Néel–Arrhenius equation:
,
where:
is thus the average length of time that it takes for the nanoparticle's magnetization to randomly flip as a result of thermal fluctuations.
is a length of time, characteristic of the material, called the attempt time or attempt period (its reciprocal is called the attempt frequency); its typical value is between 10−9 and 10−10 second.
K is the nanoparticle's magnetic anisotropy energy density and V its volume. KV is therefore the energy barrier associated with the magnetization moving from its initial easy axis direction, through a "hard plane", to the other easy axis direction.
kB is the Boltzmann constant.
T is the temperature.
This length of time can be anywhere from a few nanoseconds to years or much longer. In particular, it can be seen that the Néel relaxation time is an exponential function of the grain volume, which explains why the flipping probability becomes rapidly negligible for bulk materials or large nanoparticles.
Blocking temperature
Let us imagine that the magnetization of a single superparamagnetic nanoparticle is measured and let us define as the measurement time. If , the nanoparticle magnetization will flip several times during the measurement, then the measured magnetization will average to zero. If , the magnetization will not flip during the measurement, so the measured magnetization will be what the instantaneous magnetization was at the beginning of the measurement. In the former case, the nanoparticle will appear to be in the superparamagnetic state whereas in the latter case it will appear to be "blocked" in its initial state.
The state of the nanoparticle (superparamagnetic or blocked) depends on the measurement time. A transition between superparamagnetism and blocked state occurs when . In several experiments, the measurement time is kept constant but the temperature is varied, so the transition between superparamagnetism and blocked state is seen as a function of the temperature. The temperature for which is called the blocking temperature:
For typical laboratory measurements, the value of the logarithm in the previous equation is in the order of 20–25.
Equivalently, blocking temperature is the temperature below which a material shows slow relaxation of magnetization.
Effect of a magnetic field
When an external magnetic field H is applied to an assembly of superparamagnetic nanoparticles, their magnetic moments tend to align along the applied field, leading to a net magnetization. The magnetization curve of the assembly, i.e. the magnetization as a function of the applied field, is a reversible S-shaped increasing function. This function is quite complicated but for some simple cases:
If all the particles are identical (same energy barrier and same magnetic moment), their easy axes are all oriented parallel to the applied field and the temperature is low enough (TB < T ≲ KV/(10 kB)), then the magnetization of the assembly is
.
If all the particles are identical and the temperature is high enough (T ≳ KV/kB), then, irrespective of the orientations of the easy axes:
In the above equations:
n is the density of nanoparticles in the sample
is the magnetic permeability of vacuum
is the magnetic moment of a nanoparticle
is the Langevin function
The initial slope of the function is the magnetic susceptibility of the sample :
The latter susceptibility is also valid for all temperatures if the easy axes of the nanoparticles are randomly oriented.
It can be seen from these equations that large nanoparticles have a larger µ and so a larger susceptibility. This explains why superparamagnetic nanoparticles have a much larger susceptibility than standard paramagnets: they behave exactly as a paramagnet with a huge magnetic moment.
Time dependence of the magnetization
There is no time-dependence of the magnetization when the nanoparticles are either completely blocked () or completely superparamagnetic (). There is, however, a narrow window around where the measurement time and the relaxation time have comparable magnitude. In this case, a frequency-dependence of the susceptibility can be observed. For a randomly oriented sample, the complex susceptibility is:
where
is the frequency of the applied field
is the susceptibility in the superparamagnetic state
is the susceptibility in the blocked state
is the relaxation time of the assembly
From this frequency-dependent susceptibility, the time-dependence of the magnetization for low-fields can be derived:
Measurements
A superparamagnetic system can be measured with AC susceptibility measurements, where an applied magnetic field varies in time, and the magnetic response of the system is measured. A superparamagnetic system will show a characteristic frequency dependence: When the frequency is much higher than 1/τN, there will be a different magnetic response than when the frequency is much lower than 1/τN, since in the latter case, but not the former, the ferromagnetic clusters will have time to respond to the field by flipping their magnetization. The precise dependence can be calculated from the Néel–Arrhenius equation, assuming that the neighboring clusters behave independently of one another (if clusters interact, their behavior becomes more complicated). It is also possible to perform magneto-optical AC susceptibility measurements with magneto-optically active superparamagnetic materials such as iron oxide nanoparticles in the visible wavelength range.
Effect on hard drives
Superparamagnetism sets a limit on the storage density of hard disk drives due to the minimum size of particles that can be used. This limit on areal-density is known as the superparamagnetic limit.
Older hard disk technology uses longitudinal recording. It has an estimated limit of 100 to 200 Gbit/in2.
Current hard disk technology uses perpendicular recording. drives with densities of approximately 1 Tbit/in2 are available commercially. This is at the limit for conventional magnetic recording that was predicted in 1999.
Future hard disk technologies currently in development include: heat-assisted magnetic recording (HAMR) and microwave-assisted magnetic recording (MAMR), which use materials that are stable at much smaller sizes. They require localized heating or microwave excitation before the magnetic orientation of a bit can be changed. Bit-patterned recording (BPR) avoids the use of fine-grained media and is another possibility. In addition, magnetic recording technologies based on topological distortions of the magnetization, known as skyrmions, have been proposed.
Applications
General applications
Ferrofluid: tunable viscosity
Biomedical applications
Imaging: contrast agents in magnetic resonance imaging (MRI)
Magnetic separation: cell-, DNA-, protein- separation, RNA fishing
Treatments: targeted drug delivery, magnetic hyperthermia, magnetofection
See also
Iron oxide nanoparticles
Single-molecule magnet
References
Notes
Sources
An English translation is available in
External links
Superparamagnetism of Co-Ferrite Nanoparticles
Powerpoint presentation on Superparamagnetism in pdf
Magnetic ordering
Statistical mechanics | {
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Stephen Richard Wright (born 26 August 1954) is an English radio personality and disc jockey, credited with introducing the zoo format on British radio, known for its zany, multi-personality approach. He presented Steve Wright in the Afternoon for 12 years on BBC Radio 1 and 23 years on BBC Radio 2, two of the BBC's national radio stations, the latter being the most popular station in the United Kingdom, ending on 30 September 2022. He continues to present his Sunday Love Songs weekend mid-morning show on Radio 2. On BBC Television Wright has hosted Home Truths, The Steve Wright People Show, Auntie's TV Favourites, Top of the Pops and TOTP2. Wright has won awards, including Best DJ of the Year as voted by the Daily Mirror Readers Poll and by Smash Hits in 1994. In 1998 he was awarded TRIC Personality of the Year for his radio programmes.
Early life and career
Born in Greenwich, South London, the elder of two boys in a working-class family, Wright was raised in New Cross. His childhood ambition was to work in the entertainment business. His father, Richard Wright, was a tailor and the manager of the Burton's store in Trafalgar Square. Wright was a quiet child, and never very scholarly. He was educated at Eastwood High School for Boys, near Southend-on-Sea, Essex. Steve occasionally broadcast a nascent radio show over the school speaker system from the school stock cupboard. Wright originally joined the BBC staff in the early 1970s working as a returns clerk in the Gramophone Library in Egton House, opposite Broadcasting House, in London before leaving to start broadcasting in 1976 at Thames Valley Radio Radio 210 in Reading, Berkshire alongside Mike Read. In 1979 Wright got his big break at Radio Luxembourg, where he presented his own nightly show, presenting a Saturday evening show, then Saturday morning.
BBC Radio 1
In 1980, Wright joined BBC Radio 1, taking over a Saturday evening slot before moving to Saturday mornings later that year.
Steve Wright in the Afternoon (March 1981 to December 1993)
Wright moved to daytime radio with Steve Wright in the Afternoon in 1981, later introducing the zoo format to the UK.
In 1984, Wright took over a Sunday morning show entitled Steve Wright on Sunday, which meant he presented weekday afternoons Mondays to Thursdays, with Mark Page and Paul Jordan presenting Friday afternoon's show. In 1986 his Sunday morning show ended, and he returned to five afternoons a week.
The original incarnation of Steve Wright in the Afternoon ran from 1981 to 1993 on BBC Radio 1. The show became known in its Radio 1 incarnation for its cast of telephone characters created and performed by Gavin McCoy, Peter Dickson, Richard Easter and Phil Cornwell. Like his mentor, Kenny Everett, Wright went out of his way to be irreverent, including stories taken from the Weekly World News. The success led to a hit single, I'll Be Back, released under the name Arnee and the Terminaters. In later years the style changed, dumping most of the characters and instead having a "zoo" format, with spoof guests and comedy sketches. A "posse" of producers and radio staff joined in. This format was new to British radio and marked the beginning of the marginalisation (and eventual departure) of several established Radio 1 DJs over the years that followed.
The Smiths' 1986 hit single "Panic" was inspired by Wright playing "I'm Your Man" by Wham! following a news report about the Chernobyl nuclear disaster on his show. Johnny Marr and Morrissey, who had been listening to the broadcast, viewed this as an insensitive and disrespectful act.
Radio 1 Breakfast (January 1994 to April 1995)
Wright and his Posse moved to The Radio 1 Breakfast Show in 1994. He resigned from the Breakfast Show in 1995 due to differences with the BBC Radio 1 management; he was unhappy with the plummeting listening figures of the station due to its restructuring under new controller Matthew Bannister, which led to many of the more established DJs leaving, or being sacked, around this time.
Commercial radio
Wright was picked up by the new station Talk Radio in 1995, where he presented a Saturday morning show. He presented various syndicated shows on Sunday mornings on a number of other British commercial stations.
BBC World Service
Wright joined the BBC World Service on 5 January 1999, presenting a 1 hour programme, Wright Around The World This show ran every Saturday afternoon until the final show on 25th October 2003. This meant that he was now on BBC Radio 7 days a week.
BBC Radio 2
He joined BBC Radio 2 in March 1996, where he began presenting Steve Wright's Saturday Show (1996–1999) and Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs (1996–present), and his afternoon show beginning in July 1999. In 2006, Wright was said to earn £440,000 a year at Radio 2.
Steve Wright in the Afternoon (July 1999 to September 2022)
In mid-1999 following a shake-up at Radio 2, Steve Wright in the Afternoon was revived, with Wright taking over this slot from Ed Stewart. Jonathan Ross took over Wright's Saturday morning slot.
Wright presented his Radio 2 version of Steve Wright in the Afternoon on weekday afternoons from 2pm to 5pm, alongside Tim Smith and Janey Lee Grace, who have both also occasionally appeared as relief presenters on the station, as well as traffic reporter Bobbie Pryor. Another frequent contributor, "The Old Woman", was played by Joyce Frost who died in November 2016.
On 1 July 2022 Wright announced that the show would end in September, to be replaced by a new show with Scott Mills. Wright would remain on Radio 2 to continue hosting Sunday Love Songs, along with a new Serious Jockin podcast, seasonal specials and other projects. The final show was broadcast on 30 September 2022, with Wright playing "Radio Ga Ga" by Queen as his last record.
Sunday Love Songs (March 1996 to present)
Sunday Love Songs, which Wright presents solo between 9am and 11am, features a blend of classic love songs, dedications and real-life romance stories.
In 2013 it was revealed that the show was recorded on a Friday afternoon. The BBC Trust's editorial standards committee said the failure to inform listeners breached guidelines on accuracy and interacting with the audience.
Career outside radio
Wright presented a BBC TV series, The Steve Wright People Show, from 1994 to 1995. His next stint in television was as the narrator and writer of the retro pop show Top of the Pops 2 between 1997 and 2009. The last episode of TOTP2 he presented was the Michael Jackson special broadcast on 27 June 2009; Mark Radcliffe presented the next episode, which was the 2009 Christmas special broadcast on 23 December 2009.
UK Chart Hits
Whilst a radio presenter on BBC Radio 1, Wright was involved in a number of UK chart hits with members of his Afternoon Posse (the drive time radio team) including the UK Top 10 hit "I'll Be Back" which was performed in character by Mike Woolmans as 'Arnee' and which featured Wright as one of his backing band, 'the Terminaters', on the 29 August 1991 edition of BBC One's Top of the Pops.
Young Steve & The Afternoon Boys - "I'm Alright" (RCA Records 1982, single) UK Singles Chart number 40
Steve Wright And The Sisters Of Soul - "Get Some Therapy" (RCA Records 1983, single) UK Singles Chart number 75
Steve Wright - "The Gay Cavalieros (The Story So Far...)" (MCA 1984, single) UK Singles Chart number 61 in December 1984.
Mr. Angry With Steve Wright - "I'm So Angry" (MCA 1985, single) UK Singles Chart number 90 in August 1985.
Arnee and the Terminaters - "I'll Be Back" (Epic Records 1991, single) UK Singles Chart number 5
In addition to these records, Mr Food's number 62 single from 1990 "And That's Before Me Tea!", was based on a jingle by Dave Sanderson recorded for Wright's afternoon show.
Personal life
Little is known about Wright's personal life. He was married to Cyndi Robinson until they divorced in 1999, and has two children. He is allergic to feathers and penicillin.
Bibliography
Steve Wright Steve Wright's Book of the Amazing But True: Trivia for the Connoisseur, Pocket Books (1995)
Steve Wright Just Keep Talking: Story of the Chat Show, Simon & Schuster (1997)
Steve Wright Steve Wright's Book of Factoids, HarperCollins Publishers (UK), (2005)
Steve Wright Steve Wright's Further Factoids, HarperCollins Publishers (UK), (2007)
References
External links
Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs (BBC Radio 2)
Radio Rewind: Steve Wright – profile, pics and audio clips – BBC Radio 1
Radio Rewind: Steve Wright – profile, pics and audio clips – BBC Radio 2
'Sid the Manager' site
archive.org: Steve Wright in the Afternoon Airchecks
1954 births
Living people
English radio DJs
English radio presenters
BBC Radio 2 presenters
BBC Radio 1 presenters
People from Greenwich
Radio Luxembourg (English) presenters
Top of the Pops presenters | {
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Lead Casting Processes | Medi-Ray™, Inc.
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This value added service reduces customer labor and inventory costs, facilitates and lowers shipping costs and enables Medi-RayTM to perform precision 'fit' and functionality Quality Assurance testing.
Finite, per container, 'delivered' pricing can be calculated while instituting efficient cost control measures.
Medi-RayTM is the industry leader in developing coatings to guarantee paint adherence to lead products. Development of environmentally friendly, water based paint, in conjunction with an initial paint layer to guarantee adherence, makes lead products easy and safe to handle in production.
Coatings enable Medi-RayTM to assist customers in developing company and product recognition through PMS color specifications and surface texture.
Medi-RayTM offers purchase and application services for labeling lead containers. This value added service incorporates maintaining inventories and quality control inspection of labels. Related cost savings to our customers had been dramatic.
Development of proprietary casting techniques has enabled Medi-RayTM to offer complicated insert casting technology to our customers.
Aluminum, brass and other metals can be successfully cast within the lead casting to facilitate intricate designs and product assembly. | {
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Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
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Copyright Page
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To Fang Fang with love
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
Most of the dialogue sequences in this book come from the veterans themselves, from written sources, diaries or spoken interviews. I have at times changed the tense to make it more immediate. Occasionally, where only basic descriptions of what happened exist, I have recreated small sections of dialogue, attempting to remain true to the characters and their manners of speech.
Prologue
The short, wiry man with the grey military moustache, known to everyone simply as 'Dick', sat slightly uncomfortably between two companions on a stone bench that had been warmed by the bright Tuscan sun. He wore a plain grey civilian suit and on his back was a bulky homemade rucksack that looked fit to burst. Stuck in the waistband of his trousers was a peculiar wedge-shaped block of wood with a metal hook protruding from its narrowest side. The terrace where the three men sat was pleasant, stretching along the western side of the castle's central keep, and actually consisted of a lower and upper terrace enclosed by an eight-foot-high, thick stone perimeter wall, the top of which was crenellated with medieval battlements. The prisoners used the lower terrace for exercise while the guards watched them easily from the upper terrace, any danger of fraternising neatly eliminated.
The castle, built of grey stone, sat imperiously atop a high rocky hill near the village of Fiesole, five miles from the Renaissance splendours of Florence. It was a gloomy Neo-Gothic reconstructed medieval fortress, the slopes of its lofty perch planted with cypress, pines and shrubs.
Beyond the huge wall was a sheer drop of some 30 feet to the solid bedrock below, upon which the great castle had been constructed many centuries before. Two tall battlemented towers rose up at the castle's northern end, overlooking the main gate and road down to the nearby village, a smattering of tiled roofs and little fields huddled at the foot of the hill. The views from the Castle's terrace were stunning – rolling green hills that stretched away to Florence. On a good day one could see the golden dome of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore shimmering in the sun like a precious jewel.
Dick's heart was racing. He was waiting for a window of opportunity that would be measured in just a handful of seconds. That was all the time he had to make his daring bid for freedom. It was risky to attempt such a thing in broad daylight, but he had no choice. At night Dick and his fellow prisoners were confined to their rooms in another part of the castle and denied access to the terrace.
Tuscany was hot and sultry in late July 1942, and Dick sweated inside his suit as he waited for the signal to go. His keen blue eyes carefully watched as his comrades moved into their positions to assist his escape.
Suddenly the signal was given. Dick didn't hesitate. He stood up on the bench, facing the wall, raised his arms above his head and stiffened his legs. His comrades on either side took hold of his legs and, as they had practised so many times before, launched Dick skywards. Dick stretched his arms up until his fingertips found the bottom of the guards' walkway and then he pulled with all his might, his comrades pushing on the soles of his feet until he was out of reach. With a supreme effort Dick fought to gain the platform, his short legs pedalling in the air as his arms took the strain. With panic rising like a wave inside of him, 53-year-old Lieutenant-General Sir Richard O'Connor, the hero who had defeated the Italians in Africa and taken 130,000 prisoners into the bargain, gritted his teeth and pulled for all he was worth. One of the unlikeliest escapers of the Second World War was about to try one of the most daring escapes in the history of war.
CHAPTER 1
The Prize Prisoner
'After nine months as a member of his staff, when we left England I admired and respected Air Marshal Boyd. After two and a half years of prison life with him, living in the same house, often in the same room, I admired and respected him a hundred times more. I knew him then to be a great and simple man.'
Flight Lieutenant John Leeming
John Leeming cursed loudly as his shoulder connected painfully with one of the Wellington bomber's internal struts, his stomach lurching as the stricken plane pitched and rolled alarmingly through the air as it headed for the earth. The wind screamed like a typhoon through a large and jagged hole in the Wellington's floor, one of several caused by cannon shells from the swarm of Italian fighters that had suddenly pounced on them without warning. Leeming kicked at a heavy grey steel strongbox with one of his long legs, edging it towards the lip of the hole until, with a final push of his boot, the box flew out of the aircraft, plummeting towards the Mediterranean far below. One more box remained, and Leeming, dressed in his blue RAF officer's uniform with pilot's wings above the left breast pocket, his legs aching from his awkward position on the plane's floor, began to kick at it wildly until it followed the other boxes out through the hole. Then Leeming lay on the floor for a few seconds, listening to the roar of the dying engines as the wind blew everything that wasn't secured around the Wellington's interior like a mini tornado. I've just thrown away £250,000, thought Leeming, shaking his head in silent disbelief. 'A quarter of a million of pounds sent to the bottom of the sea!' he muttered aloud. In Leeming's opinion, the war had suddenly taken a dramatically strange turn for the worse.
'Brace for impact!' came Squadron Leader Norman Samuels' frantic yell from the cockpit. 'She's going in hard!' Leeming was instantly jerked out of his private reverie, rolling on to his stomach and grabbing hold of anything solid-looking that would support him. He glanced behind him and saw his boss, Air Marshal Owen Tudor Boyd, 'a short, broad-chested, and powerfully built' man with short greying hair and a neat moustache, doing likewise, his normally genial face set with a determined grimace. Boyd caught his eye and mouthed something, but Leeming couldn't hear what it was above the racket of the whining, guttering engines and the ceaseless wind. Leeming glanced back at the hole through which he had just deposited the cash boxes. The azure of the sea had been replaced by green rolling hills and fields. 'Sicily,' muttered Leeming to himself. The Wellington was now very low. Leeming closed his eyes and awaited the end.
* * *
A strange quietness followed the terrific violence of the crash landing. Leeming lay on his side in the broken fuselage, his hands still grimly gripping a spar. The air was dusty and there was a ticking noise coming from one of the engines as it cooled. Then Air Marshal Boyd, Leeming and the four crewmen began to stir, groaning and occasionally crying out in pain from their injuries. Leeming dragged himself out of the fuselage with the others. His arm hurt like hell.
Once outside, Leeming surveyed the Wellington. The plane was a complete wreck: one of its huge wings had broken off, its nose was smashed in, and the big propeller blades had been bent back on themselves by the force of the impact. For several hundred feet behind the Wellington the Sicilian landscape had been gouged and churned up by the crash landing. Leeming narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, which was warm on his smoke-blackened face. Boyd slowly stood and walked, slightly unsteadily, around to the cockpit where he began fumbling in his pockets, pulling out some papers and his cigarette lighter. Leeming soon realised that the Air Marshal was trying to set fire to the plane. It was a vital task, considering what Boyd had been carrying aboard among his personal kit. His private papers would comprise an intelligence treasure trove if they were to fall into the hands of the enemy. They, along with the plane, had to be thoroughly destroyed before the Italians arrived to investigate and take the Britons prisoner.
Leeming reflected on the journey that had landed him unexpectedly in the hands of the enemy. They had taken off from RAF Stradishall near Haverhill in Suffolk on 19 November 1940 bound for Cairo via the airfield at Luqa in Malta. Once in Egypt, the 51-year-old Boyd was to assume deputy command of Allied air forces under Air Chief Marshal Longmore. The appointment of the energetic Boyd to the Middle East came at a time when Britain was struggling to maintain its position in Egypt against a huge Italian assault.
Benito Mussolini had entered Italy into the war on Germany's side in late June 1940, after witnessing Hitler's triumphs in Poland and against the Western Allies in France and the Low Countries. Il Duce undoubtedly thought that Italy might be able to snatch a few of the victory laurels for herself on the back of Germany's defeat of France and the ejection of the British from the Continent. But the Italian entry into the war was particularly worrisome for Britain in the Mediterranean, a traditional bastion of British power. The large and powerful Italian fleet and the massive Italian army in Libya posed serious threats to the British Empire's lifeline, the Suez Canal, as well as to British bases at Malta and Gibraltar. Already seriously run-down as the best equipment was siphoned off for the defence of Britain against a possible German invasion, the small British garrison in Egypt was vulnerable and difficult to supply. Mussolini had ordered the invasion of Egypt in early August 1940, and by 16 September the Italian 10th Army had occupied and dug in around the Egyptian town of Sidi Barrani. Outnumbered ten to one, the small British force under General Sir Claude Auchinleck had begun planning for Operation Compass, a series of large-scale raids against the Italian fortresses that would be led by a plucky and aggressive general named Richard O'Connor. Owen Boyd was being sent to Egypt to attempt to revitalise and reorganise the RAF's response to the Italian threat. Boyd seemed the ideal choice – a pugnacious First World War decorated flyer whose last post had been leading RAF Balloon Command, providing vital barrage balloon cover for Britain's cities.
But now, eleven hours after leaving England, Air Marshal Boyd's plane was a battered wreck lying in a Sicilian field. After they had dodged German flak near Paris, Wellington T-2873 from 214 Middle East Flight had headed out over a wet and stormy Mediterranean towards Egypt, with a scheduled refuelling stop at Malta. But an apparent navigational error and consequent fuel shortage had brought the Wellington too close to the island of Sicily where it was immediately pounced upon by alert Italian fighters and forced down. Questions would be asked as to why Boyd's plane had been sent unescorted to the Middle East by such an obviously dangerous route, especially as he was one of the few senior officers that were privy to the secrets of Bletchley Park and the 'Ultra' intelligence emanating from cracking the German Enigma code. It was for this reason that Boyd, still shaken up from the crash landing, struggled to burn the aircraft and his private papers that had been carried aboard.
The boxes full of banknotes that Leeming had kicked overboard into the sea had been loaded under guard in England. They had been destined for the British headquarters in Cairo as well, vital operating funds for various hush-hush sections that conducted 'butcher and bolt' operations behind enemy lines. Once the Wellington had been hit, Boyd had pointed at the small pile of grey boxes and yelled at Leeming: 'Get rid of it, John! We're going down in enemy territory!' Shortly afterwards Leeming, his heart heavy at the sacrifice, had kicked out the quarter of a million pounds, ironically enough money in 1940 to buy a replacement Wellington three-and-a-half times over.
It had only been because of the direct intervention of Prime Minister Winston Churchill that Boyd had been on the plane. Air Chief Marshal Longmore had requested a different officer be appointed his deputy, Air Vice-Marshal Arthur Tedder, but the Prime Minister had rejected Tedder and approved Boyd's promotion instead. With Boyd having been taken prisoner, Tedder would now assume Boyd's post anyway.
* * *
Boyd looked up from his frantic job of setting fire to the front of the plane and spotted movement. A motley collection of Sicilian peasants, dressed in their traditionally colourful open-necked shirts, broad waist sashes and trousers worn with puttees up to their knees, were gingerly approaching the crash scene, armed with wood axes. They had been cutting down trees near the village of Comiso. 'Stop them, John,' shouted Boyd at Leeming. Leeming turned and stared at the peasants. With their axes slung over their shoulders, moustachioed faces and old-fashioned clothes, they looked like the kinds of rogues who had been at Blackbeard's side. Leeming swallowed hard and stood rooted to the spot. Boyd's booming and irritated voice repeated his order. Is this how it ends for me, thought Leeming gloomily, I survive a plane crash only to be murdered by Sicilian cut-throats?
Focusing his mind, Leeming followed his friend's order and began walking towards the Sicilian peasants. He touched the .38 calibre Webley revolver that he wore in a holster around his waist, but then thought better of it. He didn't relish waving a gun in the face of these well-armed locals, particularly a gun that only held six shots when there were fifteen armed Sicilians. Instead, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a battered packet of Woodbines and a stub of pencil and started to draw a Union Jack. Holding up his artwork before the Sicilians, he noticed how the sun glinted off the sharp axe blades that were slung over their shoulders. The peasants soon gathered around him in an excited, chattering mass as they debated loudly what to do. Suddenly, over Leeming's shoulder the cockpit of the shattered Wellington burst into flames with a loud 'whoomph', startling the Sicilians who began running around, yelling and shrieking excitedly. They were clearly worried about explosions, probably thinking that the Wellington was equipped with a full bomb load. Leeming took the opportunity to retreat to where Boyd, Squadron Leader Samuels, Flight Lieutenant Payn, Pilot Officer Watson and Sergeant Wynn had gathered near the aircraft's tail. Thick black smoke poured from the front of the plane, blotting out the harsh sun, as the flames devoured the Wellington's interior. Boyd smiled at his handiwork.
Leeming, determined to salvage his personal kit before the rest of the plane was engulfed, climbed back inside the fuselage. Grabbing the kit, he was suddenly lifted out of the aircraft as if thrown by a huge hand, landing in a winded pile on the grass. Squadron Leader Samuels had managed to arm a special explosive device designed to destroy the plane's sensitive equipment shortly before they had crashed, and this had detonated just as Leeming grabbed his kit. Leeming had had enough. He lay on his back on the grass attempting to recover his composure, the pain in his arm bothering him, listening to Boyd attempting to coax the Sicilians back over in a loud, impatient voice, telling them in English that there were no bombs on board. His efforts were suddenly undermined when the flames reached the oxygen cylinders carried aboard the Wellington, which promptly exploded, spraying shrapnel through the air. Leeming, Boyd and the others jumped to their feet and ran after the Sicilians, anxious to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the rapidly disintegrating plane.
* * *
It had already been a long road for Leeming, at 45 years old one of the oldest Flight Lieutenants in the RAF. Born in Chorlton, Lancashire in 1895, Leeming had demonstrated an early talent for writing, publishing his first article at the age of thirteen. He was later to write many bestselling books, some indulging his fascination with aviation. While at school he witnessed some of the early efforts at powered flight and quickly became hooked. In 1910, aged fifteen, Leeming had built his first glider, and he continued to build and fly gliders throughout the 1920s. Moving on to powered aircraft, Leeming had achieved lasting fame in 1928 when he and Avro's chief test pilot Bert Hinkler became the first people to land an aircraft on a mountain in Britain. They selected 3,117-foot-high Helvellyn in the Lake District for their stunt, managing to set down and take off again in an Avro 585 biplane. Leeming had founded Northern Air Lines in 1928, and he was instrumental in finding a new airport site for Manchester at Ringway.
In the early 1930s Leeming had branched out into horticulture, building a stunning garden at Bowden, writing bestselling gardening books and creating the character 'Claudius the Bee' for the Manchester Evening News. Walt Disney bought the film rights. With the onset of war in 1939 Leeming had been commissioned into the RAF and appointed as aide-de-camp to Air Marshal Boyd. Though separated by a considerable difference in rank, Leeming at 45 and Boyd at 51 were close in age and united by their fascination with flying, going back to childhood for both men. They were to become close friends and comrades during the coming years of adversity.
* * *
'You know,' declared Air Marshal Boyd to Leeming, Samuels and the other RAF crewmen who were sitting inside a tiny house before a large audience of excited villagers, 'all this is highly irregular.' Boyd, who was seated on the only chair inside the hovel, was referring to the fact that the Sicilian peasants had yet to disarm them. The Air Marshal was a stickler for the rules and regulations, and dealing with civilians, particularly foreign civilians, was wearing what remained of his patience thinner. Each Briton still wore his service revolver on a webbing gun belt around his waist. Boyd, noted Leeming, sat in the centre of the room 'like some medieval monarch holding Court, we grouped like courtiers around him, the crowd of chattering villagers facing us.' Boyd, stern-faced and clearly not impressed by the situation, decided upon a 'proper' gesture. It was inconceivable that no one had yet demanded that they surrender. 'We'd better hand over our revolvers,' he stated, resolutely making up his mind.
Boyd slowly rose from his chair and reached into his holster, pulling out his pistol, Leeming and the Wellington's crew following suit. But if Boyd had expected a formal surrender ceremony he was soon disabused of the notion as a peasant instantly snatched the proffered sidearm from Boyd's outstretched hand, while other Sicilians crowded forward in a noisy tumult. The British revolver was worth a considerable sum of money to the impoverished locals, who soon descended into a pushing and shoving mob who competed loudly and increasingly violently for ownership.
Boyd, not content to see his surrender gesture reduced to a farce, acted swiftly to restore order. He suddenly launched himself into the crowd, his squat, broad-shouldered frame bulling through the riotous locals and roaring at the peasant who had taken his pistol: 'Give it to me!' Though the Air Marshal was rather diminutive, the peasants reacted to Boyd's force of personality, drawing back from the red-faced and shouting foreigner in fear. It was a magnificent display of sheer bravado on Boyd's part, but entirely in keeping with his strong character. 'Give me that!' shouted Boyd, snatching the pistol from the peasant who'd originally pinched it. He broke it open and emptied the shells into his other hand before snapping the pistol shut and handing it back. 'Now you'll be safe,' Boyd explained to the confused peasant, enunciating each word in the loud manner many English use when addressing foreigners. 'Silly devils! You might have shot yourselves!'
Shortly afterwards a unit from the Royal Italian Navy arrived from a nearby base and formally took Boyd and his companions prisoner. This time the 'surrender ceremony' was a good deal more dignified, and Boyd was satisfied. The Britons were conveyed by car to the Italians' base where they were given an enormous meal before being taken on to the town of Catania, on Sicily's east coast. Their journey into an uncertain captivity had commenced.
* * *
Darkness had fallen by the time the car carrying Boyd and Leeming arrived at Catania. Their fellow captives were being separately conveyed to another camp.
'Dear me,' muttered Boyd under his breath as he looked out the car window. 'The place is lit up like a bally Christmas tree.' Both RAF officers were struck by the ineffective local blackout, with shops still brightly lit and even streetlamps on in places. Boyd did a fair amount of tut-tutting under his breath as they drove by, making comparisons with the British blackout. Eyebrows were raised further when Boyd and Leeming were summoned to see 49-year-old Major-General Ettore Lodi, the handsome and rather serious officer commanding the 3rd Air Division 'Centauro' and the senior Italian on Sicily. Lodi was deeply proud of his 'blackout', and took pains to point out to Air Marshal Boyd that many of the city's street lamps were extinguished. Turning to Boyd, through an interpreter he asked for his professional opinion of his efforts. The Air Marshal, 'one of those honest people who say what they really think', told him.
A red-faced General Lodi and his ADC personally showed the exhausted RAF officers to their quarters. Each man was given a bedroom, sharing a spartan bathroom. After being left alone for a while, the Britons heard someone moving around outside the door to Boyd's room. Intrigued, Boyd and Leeming cracked the door slightly and peeked out. Standing in the corridor was a bored-looking Italian soldier armed with a rifle and fixed bayonet. Using sign language, Boyd managed to ascertain that the sentry was to remain on duty outside the door all night. This news seemed to strike Boyd as an affront.
'The poor chap won't be relieved all night, John,' said Boyd, his brow deeply furrowed by this further evidence of Italian military inadequacy. 'It's just not on, John, not on at all.'
During his previous commands, Boyd had built up a sterling reputation as an officer that genuinely cared for the welfare of those serving under him. Typically of the man, Boyd now extended this solicitude to his enemy.
'The poor devil can't stand there all night,' he said, still baffled by the incompetence of it all. Suddenly he made up his mind and strode across his room, snatching up one of the warped wooden chairs that they had been issued with and handed it to the sentry, indicating that he should sit. The astonished sentry, his eyes round with amazement, took the chair from Boyd.
'Grazie, grazie,' said the sentry over and over, making little bowing movements before finally sitting down.
'Not at all, my dear chap,' said Boyd, grinning, as he closed the door.
'That Lodi devil ought to be relieved of his command, John,' said Boyd once the door was shut. 'Can you imagine a British officer treating his chaps in such a fashion?' Leeming admitted that he couldn't and sat on his bed while the Air Marshal pottered about the room muttering about 'incompetence' and 'slovenliness' until he finished hanging up his uniform and retired to bed.
After a little while they heard a key being gently turned in the door and for the first time their situation sank in – they were prisoners of war. 'There seemed something grim and final about the turning of the key,' wrote Leeming. For a long time he stared into the darkness, unable to sleep and more than a little apprehensive about what the morrow would bring.
* * *
'My God! I'm slipping, John!' the voice from outside the window said in a fierce whisper. It was the dead of night and Air Marshal Boyd was clinging for dear life to a rickety drainpipe that ran outside his bedroom window down to a drain at the foot of the building. Leeming leaned out of the open window and grasped his boss by both arms. 'I'll pull you in, sir,' he gasped, attempting to take the strain. But it was easier said than done. For a few seconds it was touch and go, as Leeming thought that he would have to make a decision between dropping Boyd the twenty feet to the stone courtyard below or risking being dragged out of the window by the weight of the Air Marshal's dangling frame. But, after much struggling and cursing, Leeming managed to pull Boyd up to the ledge, where the exhausted Air Marshal clambered back inside, the beam of a sentry's torch settling momentarily upon Boyd's struggling legs and posterior as they disappeared over the window ledge. Seconds later the bedroom door burst open and several Italian soldiers rushed over to subdue the two struggling RAF officers. This first attempted escape from the Italian HQ at Catania, where Boyd and Leeming were imprisoned for several weeks, had been precipitated by Leeming's pre-war reading of thrillers featuring dashing cat burglars who shinned like cats up drainpipes to crack safes and steal jewels. 'What we failed to realise was that at our age climbing down a drainpipe was a precarious and difficult feat,' wrote Leeming later with commendable understatement. Only after this false start did Boyd realise that they had gone about the thing the wrong way. 'Further experience would have suggested the use of sheets,' he would comment, without a trace of irony.
Leeming was constantly amazed by his boss's ability to soldier on. Boyd's career had effectively come to an end when his plane had been forced down in Sicily. If he had reached Egypt he could have expected eventually to have taken full command of the RAF in the Middle East, to have been promoted to Air Chief Marshal and in all likelihood to have received a knighthood. As it was, those honours and more besides were to go to the man that Churchill had originally blocked from the post, Arthur Tedder. While Boyd would languish in captivity, Tedder would rise to fame, eventually becoming Deputy Supreme Allied Commander under General Dwight D. Eisenhower.
The fortunes of war were further compounded for Boyd when he received a letter from London while a prisoner at Catania, informing him that as he had only held the rank of Air Marshal for seventeen days before capture, and as 21 days were required before confirmation of promotion, he was hereby demoted to Air Vice-Marshal and his pay was concomitantly reduced. But Leeming never heard Boyd utter a single word of complaint. Instead, the tough old dog started plotting his next escape. Considering what he had lost, it is small wonder that Boyd was so determined to get back home and back into some position of influence over the course of the war.
The drainpipe episode earned Leeming and Boyd a transfer to Rome, with the crew of their shot-down Wellington joining them. The headquarters at Catania was never designed to hold prisoners of war, and Boyd had by now learned that the Italian press had dubbed him 'Italy's Prize Prisoner'. Clearly, Mussolini intended that his prize should be secured somewhere more appropriate – a location where shinning down drainpipes in the dead of night might be less of an option.
Boyd and Leeming finally left Catania in a battered military bus provided by General Lodi, who was thrilled to see the back of them, bound for the port of Messina, their suitcases crammed full of enough Italian toilet paper to last them for at least a year: almost as soon as Boyd had arrived at the Catania HQ, he had started stealing the toilet paper. Leeming was initially nonplussed by his boss's new pastime.
'Damned primitive,' said Boyd, pointing at their joint bathroom. 'And this is an HQ, John. Imagine what a prison camp is going to be like. No, we need to prepare for every eventuality and err on the side of caution.' So caution dictated that the two of them pinch every roll of lavatory paper that the Italians provided. Leeming later wrote that the Italians must have been considerably baffled by this strange behaviour. Each morning when they inspected the prisoners' toilet they discovered an empty lavatory roll hanging on its spool, and duly replaced the paper. Each morning, an entire fresh roll was gone. British intestinal habits must have quietly amazed and fascinated their captors, Leeming would surmise.
Whether Boyd and Leeming would need all that pilfered toilet paper now that they had departed from Lodi's HQ, only time would tell. For now, their ultimate destination remained top secret.
CHAPTER 2
A Gift of Goggles
'The Italians were hatefully full of themselves, for they had had a bumper week with a galaxy of generals in the bag...'
Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart
On the evening of 6 April 1941 two cars sped across the Western Desert, headed for Tmimi, Libya. The first, a Lincoln Zephyr, carried the past and present commanders of the Western Desert Force, Lieutenant-Generals Sir Richard O'Connor and Sir Philip Neame, along with another seasoned desert campaigner, Brigadier John Combe, and a driver. Behind them, a Ford Mercury held Neame and O'Connor's batmen, Neame's aide-de-camp Lieutenant the Earl of Ranfurly, and a driver.
The desert campaign that had been going so well for the Allies at the beginning of the year had suffered an alarming reversal of fortunes since the Italian forces had been joined by Germany's Afrika Korps. Now, with their headquarters at Marawa in danger of being overrun by the rapidly advancing Germans, Neame, O'Connor, Combe and their aides had taken the decision to evacuate and withdraw to Tmimi.
Dick O'Connor had arrived in Libya just days before, Sir Archibald Wavell, British commander-in-chief in the Middle East, having decided that he needed to call upon the talents of his finest desert general once again. It was not that Wavell lacked confidence in the present commander of the Western Desert Force, the indomitable and brilliant Neame, it was just that Neame lacked desert experience while O'Connor had virtually written the book on North African campaigning.
O'Connor had first joined the army in 1909, and had returned from the First World War with a Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Order and Bar, indicating the second award of a decoration that ranked only one place below that of the Victoria Cross. He had gone on to command a brigade along the fiercely dangerous Northwest Frontier of India in 1936 and faced down the Arab Revolt in Jerusalem in 1940. But it was his performance in Africa that had established his reputation. With his short grey hair and neatly trimmed white moustache, 'General Dick', as his contemporaries fondly knew him, had taken command of the Western Desert Force with the ominous task of trying to stop the massive Italian invasion of Egypt. With a force much smaller than his opponent, O'Connor had done just that, launching Operation Compass on 9 December 1940. In two days the British had smashed the Italians at Sidi Barrani. O'Connor had then pushed the Italians back into Libya.
In January 1941, he had reorganised Western Desert Force then struck the Italian fortress of Bardia. It fell after two days of fighting. On 21 January O'Connor's forces had captured the strategically vital port of Tobruk. In February Beda Fomm had fallen, O'Connor capturing 20,000 Italians for the loss of just nine British and Australians killed and fifteen wounded. In a stunning run of victories over ten weeks, O'Connor's force had captured 130,000 Italian and Libyan troops and almost 400 tanks. But it was O'Connor's very successes that had changed the course of the war in North Africa in the Axis' favour. Hitler had been so alarmed by British successes in the desert that he had decided that he must support Benito Mussolini before Italy was completely knocked out of the war. In February 1941, while the British Army shuffled its pack, making O'Connor General Officer Commanding British Troops in Egypt and appointing Neame to Western Desert Force, advance elements of Major-General Erwin Rommel's Afrika Korps had begun to disembark at Tripoli.
On 31 March 1941 Rommel had struck, launching a surprise counteroffensive that threw the Western Desert Force on to the defensive and saved the Italian Army. Matters had been compounded for the British by Winston Churchill's insistence on sending men and materiel to Greece to aid the futile struggle there – Wavell simply didn't have the units with which to stop the combined German– Italian offensive and was soon forced to give ground.
With O'Connor no longer in command of Western Desert Force, the new man had struggled to manage what was soon shaping up to be a losing battle. Fifty-three-year-old Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame was a sapper, commissioned into the Royal Engineers in 1908. Serious, of average height, precise and quietly humorous, Neame hailed from the Shepherd Neame brewing dynasty in Kent. A man of immense personal courage, during the Battle of Neuve Chapelle in France on 19 December 1914 he had single-handedly held up the German advance for 45 minutes by lobbing grenade after grenade at large numbers of enemy troops while a battalion of the West Yorkshires evacuated their wounded. For this extraordinary feat of arms Neame had been awarded the Victoria Cross. Even more incredibly, he had followed this up a decade later by winning a Gold Medal for shooting at the 1924 Paris Olympics, the only VC to ever have become an Olympic champion.
During leaves from the army Neame had pursued his other twin passions – exploring and big game hunting. He'd explored 'all sorts of strange places where the natives were anything but friendly... climbed mountains in the wildest parts of the world, [and] shot all the most especially difficult kinds of big game.' In India, Neame had been clawed and almost killed by a Bengal tiger, and still proudly carried the scars.
Nicknamed 'Green Ink' by some of his contemporaries for his rather affectatious use of a green pen on all his correspondence, Neame had commanded a brigade in India between the wars before being appointed Commandant of the Royal Military Academy Woolwich in 1938, charged with turning out new officers for the army.
When Wavell, in desperation, had offered the newly knighted O'Connor command of Western Desert Force on 3 April 1941 he had refused, explaining that 'changing horses in midstream would not really help matters.' At Wavell's request, though, O'Connor had agreed to 'advise' Neame, bringing with him the 46-year-old Brigadier Combe, lately commanding officer of the 11th Hussars, a regiment that had first won widespread public fame during the Charge of the Light Brigade in 1854. In true cavalry style, Combe had commanded a flying column consisting of out-of-date Rolls-Royce and Morris armoured cars that had cut off the Italian retreat at Mersa el Brega in early 1941. A good-looking man of medium height with brown hair and the ubiquitous military moustache, Combe had, like his boss, been awarded the DSO and Bar for his desert exploits and was tipped for higher command.
Following the decision to withdraw to Tmimi, the bulk of XIII Corps headquarters staff had left Marawa by 8.30pm. Only then had O'Connor, Neame and their closest aides left.
Their little convoy had originally consisted of three cars. Bringing up the rear of the convoy had been a Chevrolet Utility containing General O'Connor's aide-de-camp, Captain John Dent, a driver and most of the senior officers' baggage and bedding. Dent, though, had lost the other two cars an hour after starting out as they threaded their way through slow-moving columns of retreating British trucks.
Now, Neame ordered his driver to turn off the main road to Derna and take a shortcut that he knew to Martuba. The driver was exhausted, and Neame took the wheel himself. The two big American cars thundered on through the dark desert night along the dusty road. After ten miles Brigadier Combe spotted a signboard that had been stuck to an old jerrycan beside the road and suggested that they stop and examine it. Neame refused, claiming that he knew the road and not to worry.
After driving for a further two or three miles General O'Connor was becoming uneasy, noticing that the position of the Moon indicated that they were heading north rather than east. He voiced his concerns to Neame several times, until Neame finally stopped and allowed his driver to take the wheel again. They resumed the journey, the officers nodding off in their cars until the drivers alerted them to another slow-moving convoy ahead.
In the second car Lord Ranfurly spoke to his driver about the convoy of trucks that was difficult to make out in the dim light as the cars were fitted with blackout-shielded headlights. A dashing Scottish aristocrat, the athletic 27-year-old Earl of Ranfurly, known as Dan to his friends and serving in the Nottinghamshire Yeomanry, was the sixth holder of the earldom. He was possessed of a very formidable and determined wife. Refusing to be left behind in England when Dan went off to war, Hermione, Countess of Ranfurly, broke every army rule and protocol and managed to get herself to Cairo where she was able to see her husband when he went on leave.
Up ahead, Neame's car came to a halt. Ranfurly stuck his head out of the passenger window in the car behind and listened. Mingled with the sounds of the trucks' engines was distant shouting – foreign voices. But it was too indistinct to attribute nationality.
'Must be Cypriots,' said Ranfurly uncertainly to his driver. The British had conscripted many Cypriots to drive supply trucks in the Middle East. 'Just hang on here a minute,' he continued, opening the door and walking over to Neame's car. About to confer with Brigadier Combe, who had climbed out of the front passenger seat of Neame's car, suddenly Ranfurly was aware of movement. A figure came out of the gloom and thrust an MP-40 machine pistol at his middle. Combe's face dropped in astonishment.
'Hände hoch, Tommi,' growled the German. Ranfurly slowly raised both arms above his head. The German soldier, uniform coated in desert dust and wearing a tan-coloured forage cap, shouted for help.
Combe quickly turned to the car window and roused the dozing Neame and O'Connor. Combe reached into the glovebox and pulled out a hand grenade, stuffing it into his clothing.
'Get down on the floor and remove your badges of rank,' hissed Combe urgently at the generals.
General O'Connor, looking around wildly as more Germans came running up to the cars, hastily unclipped his service revolver from its lanyard before shoving it inside his shirt, and then pulled off his rank slides. Seconds later, the car doors were wrenched open by German soldiers. 'Raus, raus,' yelled a German sergeant, pointing a Luger pistol at the officers.
The Britons were herded at gunpoint into a nearby hollow, where they would remain under guard for three nights. On the third day Neame and O'Connor revealed their identities to the commanding officer of the 8th Machine Gun Battalion, Oberstleutnant Gustav Ponath. He hardly dared to believe his luck. Within minutes Ponath was on the radio to Rommel with very good news indeed.
Ponath packed the senior prisoners off, with their ADCs and batmen, in a truck to Derna where they were handed over to the Italians, who had command authority over the North African theatre.
In one fell swoop a massive blow had been dealt to the Allied cause. The Western Desert Force was suddenly deprived of its commander and the desert genius assisting him just at the most critical moment of Rommel's offensive. The shock almost paralysed the British chain of command, deeply depressing General Wavell when he heard the terrible news.
* * *
Mechili, Libya wasn't much of a place – just a name on a map of the barren Western Desert. Brigadier Edward Todhunter would describe it as 'a horrible little place in the desert'. But it was where Michael Gambier-Parry's war was to take a very bad turn for the worse.
On 25 March 1941, forward patrol units of Major-General Gambier-Parry's 2nd Armoured Division had been attacked and El Agheila taken. Things had then gone quiet for a week before Rommel struck again on 1 April. The 2nd Division had been forced to withdraw, moving east towards Egypt in stages, fighting continuous sharp engagements with Afrika Korps panzer regiments. Rommel launched a pincer attack on the British division, using the Italian 10th Bersaglieri Regiment and elements of the German 5th Light Division and the 15th Panzer Division. The British and Indian troops, the latter the 3rd Indian Motor Brigade under the command of Brigadier Edward Vaughan, were exhausted by the pace of the operations and increasingly demoralised. On 4 April, Gambier-Parry, or 'G-P' as he was known to his friends, was given orders to block the Western Desert Force's open left flank, but it was realised that though brave, the 2nd Armoured Division was inexperienced, short of personnel, ammunition and signal equipment; furthermore, G-P's command of the division had left a lot to be desired. Among higher command there had been mutterings concerning a 'lack of urgency and grip of the situation'.
By the time G-P and his divisional HQ arrived at Mechili, 60 miles south of Derna, on the evening of 7 April, they were at the limits of their endurance. The 2nd Armoured Division, in the words of one senior commander, 'more or less fell to pieces.'
Forty-one-year-old Brigadier Todhunter was with G-P as the 2nd Armoured Division's 'Commander Royal Artillery'. His command group received sporadic shelling from German artillery on the morning of 8 April, as well as plenty of long-range machine gunning. This lasted all day until the evening, when the intensity of German shelling suddenly increased in ferocity and infantry began probing the perimeter. The British troops beat the Germans off this time, but casualties were mounting and the strategic situation was deteriorating all along the divisional front line as Rommel brought his armour to bear.
Todhunter had only been made a brigadier the month before, while he had been on leave in Cairo. Born into a landed family from South Essex, Todhunter had joined the Royal Horse Artillery in 1922 after leaving Rugby. He had thick, dark, oiled-back hair and wore black-framed spectacles that made him look more like a university professor than a tough and experienced soldier. Sent back to the front line in Libya, he had joined Gambier-Parry's staff with the rank of Temporary Brigadier.
The British began to move again at first light on 9 April, always east towards Egypt and safety. Todhunter was tasked with organising some defence for divisional headquarters, Gambier-Parry and his staff having moved up to the front 'unprotected and without any knowledge of how close the enemy were'. But Rommel was upon them instantly. 'As soon as it was light enough to see we ran into really heavy shellfire,' wrote Todhunter a few days afterwards. 'Lots of it and fairly big stuff and a little further on we ran into a lot of machine guns and anti-tank guns.' Moving in their large Dorchester command vehicles, the division's senior officers decided to turn the column south in the hope of outwitting the Germans, before resuming their withdrawal to the east. With G-P and Todhunter were Brigadier Vaughan (known to all as 'Rudolph') and his Indian soldiers and Colonel George Younghusband, a senior cavalryman and kinsman of the famous Edwardian explorer Sir Francis Younghusband, the conqueror of Tibet. Younghusband was GSO1 (General Staff Officer Grade 1), responsible for directing the battle and signing off Gambier-Parry's orders. Younghusband had already impressed higher command, which noted that he 'gave confidence'.
'Things looked pretty gloomy,' wrote Todhunter at the time with commendable understatement. The withdrawal manoeuvre was doomed to failure as the British ran straight into large numbers of German tanks shortly after setting off.
Todhunter's Dorchester had just crested a slight rise in the ground when six German tanks confronted him and his men. Infantry were firing machine guns, and anti-tank guns had opened up on the British column as well, brewing up several British tanks and armoured cars in a confused engagement. Within seconds German bullets peppered Todhunter's vehicle, some armour-piercing rounds passing between his legs. One punched a hole right through his attaché case. Suddenly there was a terrific crack and the Dorchester rocked on its springs, smoke and dust filling the cabin. An anti-tank round had struck home, passing clean through the vehicle like a hot knife through butter. Todhunter and his staff hastily baled out, taking cover as the German panzers closed in. Within a few minutes it was clear that the headquarters of the 2nd Armoured Division, and those units helping to defend it, were not going anywhere. They were surrounded. Men began to raise their hands.
Dust and smoke billowed across the hot battlefield as about 2,000 British and Indian troops laid down their arms over a large area and columns of German troops moved up to take their surrender. Todhunter's staff captain turned to him.
'Sir, there's a good chance we can get away now, in all this confusion,' he said, slightly wild-eyed.
'I agree,' replied Todhunter, looking about in all directions. 'Look, you wander off and leave me. I'll follow in a couple of minutes. At the moment I'm a bit too conspicuous in this bloody red hat.' He touched his field cap, its middle band the bright red reserved for colonels and higher. His shirt collar was also adorned with red tabs.
'But sir,' protested the captain.
'Go on... get going!' exclaimed Todhunter, clapping him on the shoulder. 'I'll be there presently.'
The captain reluctantly walked off, away from the approaching Germans, gathering men as he went. He managed to slip through the German encirclement and would make it to the British base at Mersa Matruh a few days later with 51 comrades, having also collected eight abandoned vehicles along the way to speed his escape.
For Todhunter, his war appeared to be over. Another officer who escaped the encirclement reported a few days later that Todhunter 'was last seen in the filthiest temper and using appalling language.' His foul mood was more than shared by all the other officers and men who were now 'in the bag'.
* * *
An hour later, Michael Gambier-Parry stood and watched as a battered Horch staff jeep bounced its way across the rocky desert floor towards him. G-P hooked his thumbs into his gun belt, the holster now empty of its heavy service revolver, and waited. Standing beside him were three other British officers, the red tabs on the collars of their grimy shirts and red hatbands indicating their elevated ranks. Dozens of other British officers and men stood close by three large Dorchester command vehicles, giant armoured boxes on wheels the dimensions of those normally found beneath transport planes. Several British armoured cars and trucks lay scattered across the desert, badly shot up or still emitting plumes of black smoke into the clear blue sky, evidence of the ferocious battle that had ended not long before. German soldiers stood around cradling rifles and machine pistols in their arms, while medics from both sides tended to casualties wrapped in blankets on the dusty ground or propped up in the shade of trucks.
'What do we have here, chaps?' muttered Todhunter at Gambier-Parry's elbow, his eyes fixed on the large staff jeep that had drawn to a creaking halt close by. Todhunter adjusted his spectacles, removing his cap to run the back of one hand across his sweaty forehead.
The others remained silent, George Younghusband reaching into his hip pocket to retrieve a silver cigarette case. He offered it around, but only Todhunter helped himself to a smoke, the stiff desert wind whipping the smoke away as he lit up behind cupped hands.
A German soldier, one of several dressed in the sand-coloured uniform of the Afrika Korps, dashed forward to the staff vehicle and quickly yanked open the passenger side door. A medium-sized, middle-aged German officer hauled himself out of his seat, one hand steadying a pair of large binoculars that hung around his neck, the other adjusting a button on his knee-length black leather greatcoat that was grimy with desert dust. Several other field cars and half-tracks ground to a halt close by and staff officers, many festooned with map cases and signal pads, joined the senior German, who strode towards Gambier-Parry with an air of determination.
'Well, I never...' exclaimed Younghusband as he recognised the German general.
'Gentlemen,' said a young Afrika Korps captain formally, in good English, 'allow me to present Generalleutnant Rommel.'
The Desert Fox, his keen dark blue eyes twinkling with good humour beneath the peak of his field grey service cap, stopped before Gambier-Parry, a friendly grin creasing his weather-beaten, tanned face.
'General,' said Rommel, touching the peak of his cap with one gloved hand.
'Sir,' replied Gambier-Parry, returning Rommel's salute. G-P's companions followed suit. So this was the great Rommel, thought G-P, looking the German over with renewed interest. The Britons watched as Rommel adjusted a patterned civilian scarf that was tucked around the collar of his coat, noticing the Knight's Cross and the First World War Blue Max that he wore beneath. Rommel spoke to a young captain who was standing beside him.
'My general presents his compliments,' said Rommel's interpreter, Hauptmann Hoffmann, 'and asks for your names please.'
'Gambier-Parry, Major-General, commanding 2nd Armoured Division.' Rommel nodded, tugged off his right glove and proffered his hand. Slightly taken aback, G-P shook it. The German's grip was firm and as dry as the surrounding desert.
'Brigadier Todhunter,' said G-P, pointing to the officer beside him, 'Brigadier Vaughan, and Colonel Younghusband.' Hoffmann made quick notes on a signal pad as Rommel's eyes scanned each man's grimy face. Then he said something in German to his interpreter.
'My general enquires whether there is anything that you need?'
For the next few minutes Rommel and the senior officers chatted amiably enough through Hoffmann. It was clear to G-P and his officers that Rommel was a decent sort, and certainly no strutting Nazi. His concern for their welfare and comfort would make a lasting impression on the British officers.
'My general requests that you, General Gambier-Parry, join him for a meal, if you are in agreement?' asked Hoffmann. G-P was somewhat surprised but accepted nonetheless. It was a surreal end to an extraordinary day that had seen the British suffer a crushing defeat. The past couple of days had delivered to the enemy a host of demoralised British senior officers, all victims of the Desert Fox's tactical genius and aggressive handling of his small panzer force.
* * *
When Major-General Gambier-Parry arrived for dinner, he discovered that the Germans had erected a tent for the occasion. G-P seated himself opposite the Desert Fox, and over the next hour the two men, through the interpreter Hoffmann, swapped stories about the First World War, the desert, enjoyed good wine and at the end settled back to smoke 'excellent cigars'. G-P was no stranger to the desert. An uncle of his, Major Ernest Gambier-Parry had been part of Kitchener's expedition to Egypt to avenge the death of General Gordon at Khartoum, and he had published a book on the campaign in 1895, six years before G-P was born. G-P's first personal experience of the desert had come in the First World War, when after winning a Military Cross in France and serving at the bloodbath of Gallipoli, he had fought the Turks in Mesopotamia. In 1924 G-P had transferred to the Royal Tank Corps, been a staff officer in London before becoming a brigade commander in Malaya. In 1940 the government had dispatched G-P to Athens as Head of the British Military Mission to Greece before promoting him to Major-General and assigning him command of the 2nd Armoured Division in North Africa.
As G-P rose to take his leave he noticed that his general's cap, which he had left on a map table outside the tent's entrance, was missing. He told Rommel, whose face took on a hard expression. Following Rommel outside, he watched as the Desert Fox made heated enquiries with junior officers until a few minutes later a young soldier was sheepishly brought before him holding G-P's cap. Rommel was furious, giving the soldier a loud tongue-lashing concerning appropriate souvenirs and military conduct, before returning the cap to G-P with an apology.
G-P felt that he should in some way thank the Desert Fox for dinner and the fuss that had been made over his errant cap. Thinking quickly, he reached into his hip pocket and retrieved a pair of plastic anti-gas goggles and presented them to Rommel. The Desert Fox was clearly touched by the gesture, and immediately placed them around his own service cap. There they were to remain for the rest of his life, completing the image of the desert warrior that was to appear in so many photographs and newsreels before Rommel's untimely death in October 1944.
Rommel permitted G-P, Todhunter and Vaughan to keep their Dorchester armoured offices and later on 9 April the prisoners, aboard whatever of their vehicles were still in running condition, were escorted by German half-tracks and motorcycle combinations to the airfield at Derna, where they bedded down for the night. The next day the Germans took the 2,000 prisoners to old barracks in Derna. On arrival they were surprised, and not a little relieved, to discover that they were to be handed over to the Italian Army.
* * *
'It's quite simple,' said General Neame in a low voice. 'We take over the aircraft and fly it to our own lines.' General O'Connor nodded vigorously, his whole demeanour since capture one of dogged determination to escape. General Gambier-Parry and Brigadiers Combe, Todhunter and Vaughan listened carefully to the plan during the short exercise time that the Germans permitted their prisoners each day at Derna. The group of senior British officers strolled around a dusty parade square in the dirty old barracks complex, puffing on pipes and cigarettes as they went over Neame's plan.
'Phil's right. It's obvious that the Jerries are going to shift us to Germany, and soon,' said O'Connor to the brigadiers. 'We've worked out a plan to hijack the plane that takes us to Berlin.' The fear was that the generals, because of their high ranks and command responsibilities privy to a vast amount of top-secret information, might be handed over to the Gestapo once pressure had been put on the Italian authorities under whose nominal authority they remained for the time being. At the very least, they could expect detailed and long interrogations by German military intelligence. The intelligence windfall for the Germans could potentially change the course of the war for Hitler.
The plan was outlined. It did seem remarkably straightforward, if somewhat reckless. The generals believed that they would be sent north to Germany in stages, accompanied by their ADCs and batmen. O'Connor had managed to fool the Germans into assigning a captive RAF pilot as his aide-de-camp since the disappearance of his actual ADC Captain Dent in the desert. O'Connor still had a fully loaded service revolver hidden on his person, and Brigadier Combe a primed hand grenade. The Germans, perhaps intimidated by the exalted ranks of their new prisoners, and concerned that every military courtesy be extended to them, had been loath to search Neame's party too thoroughly. The Germans also underestimated the resolve of the British generals to attempt to escape – such behaviour was considered virtually unthinkable by both the Germans and the Italians. Neame had, in the meantime, managed to find and hide a small hammer. The rest of the senior officers and their batmen would have their fists.
Neame's plan was brutally simple. Once airborne, and at a given signal, the POWs would spring into action and overpower the German guards inside the aircraft's cabin, and then O'Connor's RAF ADC would replace the German pilot in the cockpit. The aircraft would then be flown to Allied lines in Egypt. Everyone was keyed up for the operation, Lord Ranfurly writing that it was 'exciting waiting'.
* * *
The Italians' bag of prisoners was not yet quite full. To it would be added one of the most extraordinary and larger-than-life characters in the history of warfare. And, like Air Vice-Marshal Boyd and Flight Lieutenant Leeming, this particular prisoner was to arrive quite unexpectedly from the sky, at the same time as General Neame and his friends were plotting to escape North Africa by air.
'We're going to have to ditch, sir, prepare for a landing on water!' was the last thing that Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart heard from the cockpit of the Wellington bomber that was supposed to be taking him to Yugoslavia. De Wiart had been furiously attempting to struggle into a parachute harness, a stream of expletives flowing from beneath his salt-and-pepper moustache, when the call came through his headphones. He was relieved, as he didn't think that he could have squeezed his very tall frame through the small escape hatch set into the bomber's belly to parachute clear. De Wiart used his only hand to grip his seat tightly.
The 62-year-old warhorse had just been personally appointed by Churchill to head the British Military Mission in Yugoslavia. His journey there was by air via Malta. De Wiart's plane had been headed for Egypt, thereafter to turn north for Yugoslavia, when the emergency had struck. Both engines had inexplicably died, and De Wiart would later suspect sabotage as the cause. Running through his mind as his plane started to go down were the words of Air Marshal Sir Jack Baldwin when they had met on an airfield at Newmarket, Suffolk, two days before: 'Don't worry, old chap. I've sent 94 Wellingtons to the Middle East and only one failed to arrive.'
De Wiart had thought that his war was over long before he stepped aboard the Wellington in Suffolk, and the Yugoslavia mission had appeared to be his final service for King and Country before he was pensioned off. As the Wellington began its death dive towards the ocean below, De Wiart found that he was not scared. But this was probably because the word 'scared' was not in his vocabulary. He had already faced death over a dozen times in a military career that stretched back to the Boer War, and the general consensus of opinion was that the only thing that could kill Carton de Wiart was Carton de Wiart.
Tall, lean, balding and covered in scar tissue, De Wiart was half British, half Belgian, hailing from an aristocratic Brussels legal family. Rumoured to have been the illegitimate son of King Leopold II, De Wiart's brushes with death had begun in 1899 when he had disappeared from his studies at Oxford to enlist as a trooper in the British Army. He took a bullet in the stomach in South Africa, and after sufficient convalescence in England and the mollification of his Belgian lawyer father, who was angry with him for having abandoned his studies, De Wiart gained a commission in the cavalry. By 1901 he was back fighting the Boers. In 1907 he became a British citizen, and spent his leaves at shooting parties in various aristocratic castles around Europe, marrying an Austro-Hungarian noble, Countess Friederike von Babenhausen, daughter of Prince Karl Ludwig of Babenhausen, in 1908.
When the First World War broke out De Wiart showed his mettle at the Battle of Shimber Berris while commanding a unit of the famed Somaliland Camel Corps. De Wiart was shot twice in the face, losing his left eye and part of an ear, and in the process winning a DSO. Sent to London for recuperation, De Wiart checked himself into a nursing home on Park Lane. He would return to the same home after each fresh injury, 'becoming such a frequent occurrence that they kept his own pyjamas ready for his next visit'. Henceforth sporting a black eye patch (a glass eye provided to him by doctors was thrown out of a taxi window when it proved uncomfortable), De Wiart was sent to France where he was a battalion and then a brigade commander.
During the course of his service on the Western Front, De Wiart was wounded an astonishing seven further times. The list of his wounds is staggering: shot through the skull and ankle on the Somme, through the hip at Passchendaele, the leg at Cambrai, and the ear at Arras. He lost his left hand to shellfire in 1915. In fact, his hand was so mangled that De Wiart actually bit off some of his pulped fingers after a surgeon failed to help him. The entire hand was later amputated above the wrist. It is perhaps unsurprising that this bullet magnet eventually won a Victoria Cross in 1916 at the age of 36. During an attack, three of the brigade's battalion commanders were killed, so De Wiart, as the last lieutenant-colonel still on his feet, took command and constantly exposed himself to German fire as he organised, cajoled and encouraged the brigade forward, armed only with a walking stick. The brigade won the day, capturing the ground assigned to it.
At the conclusion of the First World War, De Wiart, missing an eye, parts of both ears, a lung and his left hand summed up his experiences succinctly: 'Frankly, I had enjoyed the war...' But now, trapped in a diving Wellington bomber in April 1941, Carton de Wiart had not yet made up his mind whether he was going to enjoy his second world war.
De Wiart had only a hazy recollection of the Wellington hitting the water. When he regained consciousness he was being pushed through a hatch into the freezing cold sea, which instantly revived him. De Wiart and the RAF crew took refuge on the plane's wings, nursing their injuries. It was dark and the aircraft's rubber dinghy was punctured and useless. They were about a mile and a half off the North African coast. One crewman had a broken arm, the pilot a busted leg. But there was a cold northerly wind blowing rapidly inshore, and they soon found themselves about half a mile from the coast. Then, with a groan and several sharp cracks, the Wellington's fuselage suddenly broke in two and started to sink. De Wiart helped the injured pilot to swim towards the shore. The little group made it but landed straight into the hands of Italian native police.
'Lower that rifle immediately!' boomed De Wiart in Arabic, picked up as a child in Cairo where his father had practised law for a while. The native policeman obliged, a little startled by the forbidding presence of the tall British officer, hatless, shoeless and brandishing his only remaining possession, a bamboo cane inside which De Wiart had had the forethought to secrete a roll of banknotes. De Wiart, looking like a shipwrecked pirate with his eye patch and empty sleeve, questioned his captor.
'Where are the British forces?' he demanded, continuing in forceful Arabic.
'They go,' replied the policeman, 'they left here yesterday.'
De Wiart confounded their bad luck. If the Wellington had managed to stay airborne for a few more minutes De Wiart and the crew could well have come ashore in friendly territory.
Soon after, a local Italian priest arrived and led the British party to a small café, where he provided them with food and drink before arranging to take them to hospital. During their ride on a truck to the hospital, De Wiart tried to persuade his captors to take them to the British lines, but they were unmoved. They knew that the Italians would shortly arrive to reoccupy the town and they were determined to ingratiate themselves by handing over their impressively high-ranking prisoner.
As a doctor patched them up they heard the unmistakable sound of an aircraft out to sea. Looking outside, De Wiart and his party could see a British aircraft circling in the early morning light, evidently searching for them.
'Sabotage, sir. I have no doubts,' said the young pilot, his broken leg now set in plaster, to De Wiart as they watched the newly arrived British plane making its pointless sweeps over the sea. 'It's very unlikely that a Wellington would fail on one engine, let alone two, such a short way out from Malta.' De Wiart agreed. After a while the British search plane disappeared from view. 'We cursed that punctured rubber dinghy,' De Wiart wrote; 'our hearts sank low as the drone of the plane faded into the distance.'
De Wiart resolved to escape, and quietly spoke to the RAF crewmen. They'd wait till darkness and then, once the native police had relaxed, slip off and try to make their own way down the coast to safety. But it was not to be. Two hours after arriving at the hospital the calm was interrupted by the sound of a field car pulling up outside the entrance. In strode two Italian staff officers, their polished jackboots ringing on the hospital's tiled floor. After questioning De Wiart, they announced that he was to accompany them to Bardia. Handed a pair of sand shoes, De Wiart bid farewell to his RAF crew, who, the Italians assured him, would be treated as prisoners of war and sent to a camp. He was later to discover that the pilot was shot, though for what reason remains a mystery.
The Italians officers drove De Wiart to Bardia where the mayor provided him and his escort with an excellent lunch. The party then drove on to the city of Benghazi, where De Wiart was ushered into a small hotel room and left under guard for the night.
The night in that small, stuffy hotel room was one of the longest of De Wiart's life. 'Often in my life I had thought that I might be killed,' he wrote, 'and though death has no attraction for me, I regard it more or less phlegmatically. People who enjoy life seldom have much fear of death, and having taken the precaution to squeeze the lemon do not grudge throwing the rind away. But never, even in the innermost recesses of my mind, had I contemplated being taken a prisoner. I regarded it as the calamity that befell other people but never myself.' It was a situation that Generals O'Connor, Neame and Gambier-Parry also had to come to terms with, along with the brigadiers and colonels who were captured with them. Each reacted in different ways.
'Though I never think of the Italians as great warriors,' wrote De Wiart of that time, 'they did seem to be having all the luck.'
* * *
Neame's very daring plan was spoiled two days later when a Luftwaffe staff officer arrived to inform him and O'Connor that they were indeed flying to Berlin, but that they were not to be accompanied by any of their other staff or military servants. Still armed with the revolver and the hammer, O'Connor and Neame settled themselves on to a wooden bench seat that ran the length of the Junkers Ju 52's cabin, but any notions of attempting a hijacking were quickly dispelled. German soldiers armed with MP40 machine pistols took post at either end of the plane and watched the generals like hawks during the flight across the Mediterranean, which was made at a wave-skimming height of just 50 feet to avoid British fighters.
Just before Neame had boarded the Ju 52 at Derna airfield, he had spoken to an Italian officer and asked him to lodge a protest with his own headquarters. The British officers had been captured in an Italian theatre, and should by rights be handed over permanently to the Italian Army and kept in Italy, not taken to Germany.
When the plane landed at Messina in Sicily to refuel, Neame's protest seemed to have worked, for a heated argument developed between the Luftwaffe officer who was escorting them and some senior Italian officers, until Neame and his cohorts were bundled off the plane and handed over to the Italians. It was a quiet victory for Neame, who had saved the senior officers from lengthy Gestapo interrogations once inside the Reich, and Italian military pride had been restored as Mussolini now possessed a host of British generals with which to underline before his people the prowess of Italian arms in the desert.
CHAPTER 3
Mazawattee's Mad House
'You know, these people don't know why they are at war with us.'
Air Vice-Marshal Owen Tudor Boyd Sulmona, 1941
Flight Lieutenant John Leeming lay flat on the roof of the large house. He was dressed in his RAF uniform, its dark blue colour perfect night-time camouflage. His face had been blackened with soot from his room wood burner. He had been watching the garden for a couple of hours and cramp was starting to set in to his arms and legs. It was very quiet, just the occasional puff of wind stirring the trees and shrubs down below. Every so often one of the Italian guards would light a cigarette, the glow of a lighter or match providing a pinprick of bright light for a few seconds. The surrounding mountains and hills were difficult to make out, just tall gloomy backdrops to the little drama being played out at the villa.
Leeming strained his eyes to check various parts of the garden, looking for patches of shadow that could be used to conceal a body. Snatches of conversations between the guards drifted up to Leeming's hiding place. There were a lot of guards, their steel helmets reflecting the weak moonlight as they stood or paced around the perimeter of the house. Too many guards, thought Leeming.
His nocturnal observations at an end, Leeming carefully slid away from the edge of the roof back towards a trapdoor that led into the loft. Suddenly, his shoe caught on a loosened tile. It lifted and, before Leeming could catch it, banged back down with a loud crack. Leeming's heart rate increased and he pressed himself into the roof, closing his eyes. He lay absolutely still, barely daring to breathe, trying to make himself as small as possible. Down below a guard snapped on a handheld torch, running its bright beam along the edge of the roof. Leeming squeezed his eyes even tighter shut and gripped the tiles around him. Any second now there would be a shout and then the sound of a rifle being cocked. Time seemed to slow down. But then the light suddenly shut off. There was no shout, no metallic click. Leeming listened as the sentry resumed his methodical patrol, his boots crunching loudly on a gravel path. Leeming waited for three minutes until his heart rate slowed before resuming his crawl back to the trapdoor and safety.
* * *
A few weeks earlier Leeming and Air Vice-Marshal Owen Boyd had sat inside a freezing cold railway carriage as it was slowly hauled higher into the mountainous Abruzzi region towards its destination: the small town of Sulmona, about 100 miles east of Rome. It was snowing outside the windows, thick drifts lining the railway tracks and causing several delays to their journey.
After disembarking from the train at Sulmona station, the two Britons had been hustled into a waiting car and driven two miles to their new home, the Villa Orsini. Along the way they passed walls adorned with a recurrent Fascist exhortation to the population: 'Credere! Abbidire! Combattere!' ('Believe! Obey! Fight!'). As the car passed through the three-storey villa's large gates, Boyd and Leeming saw Italian soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders, bundled up in steel helmets, greatcoats and mittens stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. The place looked well guarded.
The house itself was impressive. Before the grand entrance was a large marble fish pond surrounded by ornamental railings, its surface icy and frozen. The villa was a square building of buff-coloured stucco, its hillside garden scattered with classical statues that were now half buried in snow. Stepping inside the house through a pair of elaborately carved wooden doors, Boyd and Leeming took in their new surroundings. The entrance hall floor was marble and before them stood a grand staircase. On first impressions, it appeared as though the prisoners had fallen on their feet, but closer inspection soon revealed that the Villa Orsini was badly designed and rather dilapidated.
No one seemed to have had the forethought to actually inform the commandant that Boyd and Leeming were coming, so the villa was in a considerable state of disarray, with harassed Italian soldiers darting about, supplies piled in various rooms, and the commandant, a squat, rotund and permanently perspiring colonel, shouting orders in an excited voice above the din. Fortunately, out of this chaos emerged one man who seemed to know what he was doing, and who, ironically, was to become a friend to all of the British prisoners that were held in the villa over the next few months. Lieutenant Baron Agosto Ricciardi was a tall and elegant dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, from Naples. He spoke excellent English, having had a British governess as a child, and he immediately put Boyd and Leeming at their ease. The contrast between the calm and collected Ricciardi and the excitable and loud commandant was stark. Ricciardi made sure that the two prisoners were served a hot meal after their long journey from Rome. They would soon take to calling this affable young Italian officer 'Gussie'.
Two bearded young soldiers dressed in Italian uniforms stripped of insignia waited in silence on the prisoners as they sat at the polished mahogany dining table. Boyd was immediately suspicious, worrying that his captors might be able to speak English and listen in on his conversations with Leeming, perhaps hoping to glean some intelligence useful to the Italian war effort. Leeming took the initiative and decided to conduct a test, asking one of the mess waiters for something in English. He was stunned when the man replied without a hint of an Italian accent – rather it was a soft Scots burr that greeted his question.
'So you do speak English,' said Boyd, startled.
'I ought to, sir. My name's McWhinney. Sergeant, RAF.'
McWhinney quickly introduced his serving partner, Sergeant Ronald Bain. The tough-looking Bain grinned, explaining that he was an observer and had been shot down over Libya. There was a third RAF sergeant, Baxter, also at the villa, cooking for the prisoners. An air gunner, Baxter had ended up in the sea when his Sunderland flying boat had been shot down. McWhinney had been a member of Baxter's crew. The three men had been plucked from Campo 78, a large prison camp at Sulmona that housed 3,000 British and Commonwealth officers and men captured in North Africa. McWhinney and his comrades had been taken up to the villa to act as domestic help for the new senior officer prisoners. It was soon apparent that the three RAF sergeants were keen to assist with any escape attempts, and possessed some useful skills that Boyd and Leeming were to utilise in the near future.
* * *
Though ornately decorated, the Villa Orsini had stood empty for years before it was commandeered as a POW camp by the Italian government, so Boyd and Leeming spent the first few weeks of their imprisonment rehanging doors, unblocking taps and generally trying to make the place habitable. 'The Italian Government owes us a large bill for repairs,' commented a grinning Boyd to Leeming when the work was finally complete. But at least the views were splendid, with a backdrop of tall mountains to the east and very high hills in all the other directions. A high wall bounded the garden, with a pleasant terrace in front that looked out over the valley below, and the high mountains in the distance.
The situation of their confinement was a little strange. Two British officers and three NCOs were held inside the large villa, guarded by two dozen Italian soldiers under the command of a man whose surname was so unpronounceable to the Brits that Boyd and Leeming took to calling him Colonel 'Mazawattee'. The word, which they felt was a close approximation phonetically, was borrowed from the brand name of a colonial tea, and was derived from a conjunction of the Hindi word mazaa ('pleasure' or 'fun') and the Sinhalese vatta ('garden'). The commandant's single goal in life was peace and quiet, and not the hefty responsibility of guarding senior officer prisoners for Il Duce. Rome kept a weather eye on both the commandant and his charges, and the commandant felt the pressure keenly. But it appeared that Rome had appointed the worst possible officer for the task, as Boyd and Leeming soon discovered that Mazawattee was both idle and muddle-headed. Were it not for the calm organisation and tactful diplomacy of Lieutenant Ricciardi, there would have been no surprise if tensions had escalated between the more Fascist elements of the Italian guard and their British captives.
Leeming took charge of the house, organised the orderlies and made sure that Boyd was properly looked after. His natural flair for organisation, coupled with his good working relationship with Lieutenant Ricciardi, meant that things ran relatively smoothly.
Boyd was distinctly unimpressed by Colonel Mazawattee, and he began to demand all sorts of changes to the villa and to the prisoners' standard of living, demands that simply piled more stress on to the fat little man's already sagging shoulders. Mazawattee was slovenly in appearance. The Britons observed that he was often exhausted by having to waddle up the hill to the villa from his quarters nearby and would arrive at the sentry post by the gate mopping sweat from his brow and his meaty jowls with a soiled handkerchief. He could barely summon the strength to return the sentry's salute, until there came a time when the sentries simply stopped saluting him altogether. Ironically, the guards were punctilious about saluting Boyd and Leeming, much to their secret delight.
The relationship between Mazawattee and Boyd was not helped by Boyd's disconcerting habit of speaking his mind. Mazawattee operated on a system of agreeing with everything Boyd said or suggested, usually with a huge and unconvincing grin plastered across his sweaty face, without actually following up with any firm action. When Mazawattee failed to deliver, Boyd would write him a sharp note, to which Mazawattee would reply, claiming that he had been called away on important business or was on leave in Rome. Relations became so difficult that Mazawattee, when he was compelled to visit the villa for some reason, would tiptoe beneath Boyd's bedroom window in the hope that the Air Vice-Marshal wouldn't see him and confront him with yet more complaints or demands. Such comic-opera behaviour did little to improve Boyd's opinion of either Mazawattee or the Italian Army in general.
But the flip side to Mazawattee's strange behaviour were his excruciating attempts to curry favour with Boyd.
'Perhaps you would like some pet to occupy your time, no, Generale?' he asked Boyd one day, completely out of the blue.
'Perhaps a little bird in a cage, no?' he continued obsequiously, mopping his face with his soiled handkerchief. Boyd declined gently, both he and Leeming thinking that a caged bird was about the least appropriate gift to give to a prisoner of war.
Eventually, a form of tranquillity descended upon the villa when Mazawattee realised that it was best to leave the day-to-day needs and complaints of the prisoners to Baron Ricciardi. Boyd and Leeming had both grown to appreciate 'Gussie's' attentiveness, and they had both taken to the Baron's stunning white puppy, Mickey. A cross between a St Bernard and a white sheepdog, Mickey accompanied them on the daily constitutional walks that Ricciardi arranged for the prisoners in the local vicinity, and as he grew into a huge dog he was a friend to both the Britons and the Italians in equal measure.
* * *
The unreality of life at the Villa Orsini was summed up by the 'incident of the machine gun'. Some official in Rome decided that the villa's guards needed heavy firepower to back up their rifles and pistols in the unlikely event of Boyd and Leeming attempting to escape, as they had at Catania, and so they sent Mazawattee a crated Fiat-Revelli 35 tripod-mounted machine gun. The guards were thrilled to be sent such a powerful weapon, and chattered away like excitable schoolboys around the opened packing case containing the oiled and wrapped gun parts. But there was one big problem: none of the officers or men guarding the prisoners had the slightest idea of how to assemble their new toy. The next day Boyd and Leeming were summoned to see Mazawattee in his office.
'I have a rather difficult problem, Generale. Perhaps you can help me,' said the commandant rather sorrowfully to Boyd. He asked Boyd, with a hangdog expression on his face, if the prisoners could help the guards to assemble the machine gun. Boyd, straining to keep a straight face, assured the commandant that of course he would help and that he was sure one of the British sergeants had the necessary skills. Mazawattee's face lit up and he clapped his hands together with relief, loudly proclaiming his thanks in Italian while Boyd turned to Leeming and raised his eyebrows, Leeming struggling to maintain his composure.
Sergeant Baxter, a trained armourer, was detailed by Boyd to remove the machine gun parts from their packing case, clean them of grease and assemble the weapon. Several Italian guards stood around watching Baxter work, fascinated and excited as the gun took shape on blankets spread out on the ground. When Baxter was finished the mean-looking black metal machine gun sat on its tripod with a box of ammunition belts ready beside it. The guards clapped Baxter on the back or shook his hand, loudly proclaiming his genius. Baxter strolled over to Boyd, who was leaning against a wall watching proceedings. The guards took no notice; attention was focused entirely on their new gun. Baxter took a grease-stained hand out of his pocket and opened his fist as he passed by Boyd, revealing two small springs in his palm.
'Good man,' muttered Boyd under his breath, 'lose them.'
'Sir,' replied Baxter, a conspiratorial grin creasing his face. If the Italians ever tried to fire their new machine gun, they were in for a surprise.
* * *
Boyd and Leeming soon discovered that there were two types of Italian that guarded them: sneering Fascists and men who were either neutral or sympathetic to the British. Fortunately, the soldiers who were simply doing their war service and had no personal or political animus towards the British heavily outnumbered the hardened acolytes of Mussolini. The Britons learned that the way to get rid of the Fascists was through their mail. The authorities in Rome were always concerned about fraternisation between the guards and the prisoners and monitored the prisoners' mail carefully, so the Britons would write in glowing terms about a particular Fascist guard in their letters home, praising his decency and generosity. It usually only took two or three notes written in this vein by the five British prisoners before the authorities in Rome quietly posted the offending soldier somewhere else, quite often to the front line in Libya.
Two English-speaking Italian NCOs, Warrant Officer Maresciallo and Sergeant Conti assisted Baron Ricciardi with keeping an eye on the prisoners. The 60-year-old Maresciallo soon impressed Boyd and the other prisoners as essentially harmless: 'a really lovable old rogue' was how Leeming described him. Maresciallo had spent his working life in a travel company. Leeming suspected it was his long years of dealing with agitated and tired travellers that gave him his reassuring manner. A great raconteur, Maresciallo enjoyed telling risqué stories.
Sergeant Conti was only 21, and had been raised under the Fascist regime. He could quote Mussolini verbatim, and talked a lot of rubbish about an Italian master race, but neither Boyd nor Leeming thought him much more than a brainwashed and essentially harmless youth. The highlight of his week was Wednesday morning, when his Fascist military magazine arrived. He would sit reading the stories, his lips silently moving, before getting worked up at the manufactured heroics and accosting one of the prisoners with lurid tales of battlefield heroism. No one took Conti seriously. Leeming thought that he was 'a decent, kindly boy, willing to help anyone. All the Fascist education had done was to confuse and muddle his mind, leaving his fundamental nature as it was.'
* * *
The routines of imprisonment at the Villa Orsini provided the prisoners with the first notion of escaping. Their guards had settled into predictable activities. Lieutenant Ricciardi, though watchful, was not hostile to them, and Boyd and Leeming in particular were afforded some freedoms within the grounds of the villa that could be exploited for their own purposes. It was also apparent that the Italians did not expect an air vice-marshal to attempt to escape. After much thought, Boyd briefed Leeming on a plan that he had been working out.
'As you know, during the day the sentries are stationed outside the garden,' said Boyd in his room that night. 'It is, of course, impossible for anyone to pass unnoticed through the cordon of sentries in daylight.'
Leeming agreed, pointing out that the sentries were close together and there was scant cover.
'We know that every evening the sentries close in, coming into the garden and forming a cordon around the villa,' continued Boyd, warming to his subject. 'Right now they are only a yard or so from its walls.'
'It does mean that at night anyone leaving the house will be seen immediately, sir,' said Leeming, his brow furrowed in thought.
'Well, I've been thinking about that. As it's impossible to pass through the line of sentries by day or by night, we need to let the sentries do the passing.'
'Come again, sir?' said Leeming, nonplussed.
'Each evening we will walk in the garden, wearing our raincoats,' said Boyd. 'We'll carry on like that for a couple of weeks, so that the Eye-ties get used to us. We will always begin at dusk, just before the sentries march in to the garden and close in for the night.' Boyd paused and lit up his pipe.
'The scheme is simple, John,' said Boyd, puffing contentedly. 'One evening, instead of going as usual into the house at the end of our walk, we climb over the garden wall.' Leeming nodded, seeing where Boyd's thinking was going.
'Once over the wall, we won't attempt to go any further, otherwise we will run in to the line of sentries. Instead, we lie quite still beside the wall. I noticed a spot where there are quite a few shrubs. We probably won't be seen in the fading light.'
'And then we wait for the sentries to march into the garden and take up their customary positions around the house,' said Leeming, nodding.
'Precisely,' replied Boyd, smiling. 'There will be no guards between us and open country.'
'It's so simple,' said Leeming. 'It could work.'
'Just think about it, John. The sentries will assume that we are back inside the villa. No one will be any the wiser until breakfast thirteen hours later. A thirteen-hour head start!'
It was decided that Boyd and Leeming would remain concealed in the shrubbery until it was fully dark, then walk to the local railway station about two miles away. Their 'escape dress' would consist of their blue RAF uniform trousers, black shoes, civilian raincoats and black fedora hats, the latter having already been kindly provided by the Italians since Boyd and Leeming had salvaged so little of their personal kit from the crashed Wellington on Sicily.
'The streets will be dark, and I'm positive that our escape get-ups will pass muster in the poor light,' said Boyd.
'There is the bother of purchasing tickets to consider, sir,' replied Leeming. 'I mean, we'd have to have a stab at the lingo.'
'Due biglietti per Roma per favore,' said Boyd in halting but reasonably passable Italian.
'So it's Rome?' said Leeming.
'Yes, Vatican City, the British Embassy there.'
For the next two weeks Boyd and Leeming made their preparations. They exercised in the garden as agreed, lulling the sentries into a false sense of normality. Then, every night, Leeming would creep out on to the villa's roof and lie concealed, watching the sentries and taking note of the patches of cover and the light and darkness, watching the state of the Moon, monitoring wind and rain, and trying to work out the optimum time for their escape. Through seemingly innocent 'chats' with unwitting guards, Leeming also gained an idea of train times to Rome from Sulmona station, and even managed to persuade a guard to show him a map of Rome, whereupon he swiftly memorised a route to the neutral territory of Vatican City.
Another consideration was money. They needed Italian lira, and began negotiations to obtain some during their fortnight's preparation. It was complicated, but the Italians permitted officer POWs to effectively draw a portion of their normal pay through the Italian government, which would then be reimbursed by London. One day in April 1941 the lira finally arrived. It was a Monday. But that night Leeming judged that the position of the Moon was not right: there was too much light to make proper concealment successful. It would be a serious risk to ignore this important point. Boyd and Leeming reluctantly agreed to postpone the escape for one week. But both men remained upbeat – all that was needed was the correct light conditions and they would be away.
* * *
'What's this?' asked Adrian Carton de Wiart on being handed a glass by an officious Italian officer.
'Whisky and soda, General,' the officer replied. De Wiart glanced at the drink as though it were poisoned and banged it down on the table before him untouched.
'I thought all Englishmen drank whisky and soda, no?' said the officer, smiling unconvincingly.
'Well not this one,' replied De Wiart gruffly.
Along with two Italian officers, a German field police captain was in attendance. Although De Wiart was an Italian prisoner, the Germans insisted on being present at his 'interrogation' in order to glean anything useful for the Reich.
If his interrogators were hoping that a pleasant drink might loosen the old general's tongue, they were sorely mistaken. 'I detest whisky,' wrote De Wiart of the encounter, '[and] it availed them nothing...'
The Italian and German officers conducting the questioning changed tack and tried to glean some idea of what De Wiart had been tasked with doing for the Allied war effort, though all their gambits were met with the same answer from their prickly subject.
'Carton de Wiart, Adrian, Major-General, British Army.'
* * *
The interrogation of Brigadier Edward Todhunter was less confrontational, though no more successful. Remaining in Derna, Libya when Neame and O'Connor were taken on their abortive Berlin trip, he had been moved to a barrack block there along with several other senior officers, including Lieutenant-Colonel George Fanshawe, lately commanding officer of The Queen's Bays (2nd Dragoon Guards) and Brigadier 'Rudolph' Vaughan, who had commanded the 3rd Indian Motor Brigade under Gambier-Parry's 2nd Armoured Division. General Gambier-Parry and Colonel Younghusband were to join them later. The prisoners slept on bunks and were well treated and fed.
On 12 April 1941 Brigadier Todhunter was collected by a German officer and driven to Benghazi. He was given a room at the Hotel Italiana before the next day boarding a Luftwaffe transport plane to Tripoli. Shortly after arrival he was hauled off for questioning 'by various people which ultimately resolved itself into an amiable discussion of world affairs over a whisky and soda.' Like De Wiart, Todhunter gave the enemy no information. The Italian and German interrogators had accorded the British officers every courtesy according to their ranks and not pressed them too hard.
Todhunter was driven to the cavalry barracks where he met De Wiart for the first time. The two officers had much to talk about, and the Italians permitted them freedom of movement within the grounds of the barracks, their officers and men punctiliously saluting the two Britons as they wandered about trying to make sense of their predicament. It was all slightly surreal. De Wiart and Todhunter were given rooms with a shared bathroom and they were to dine with the Italian officers twice daily. Because the Italians couldn't speak English, nor the prisoners Italian, everyone rubbed along with their schoolboy French – schoolboy, that is, except for De Wiart who, being half Belgian, was naturally fluent.
* * *
Edward Todhunter leaned on the ship's rail, his head turned away from the tall, spare figure of Carton de Wiart who stood beside him staring at the land. Behind Todhunter's glasses his eyes had misted up. The ship that was taking the two British POWs from Africa to Italy had steamed into the Bay of Naples on 21 April 1941 passing close by the town of Sorrento on the island of Capri. For Todhunter, who had honeymooned there years before, it was a poignant moment. 'I could see the Hotel Quisisana where we stayed, and all the places we went for such lovely walks,' wrote Todhunter to his wife Betty a few days later. 'I wished I could have put the clock back fourteen years, or else that I could have swum ashore and sent a cable for you to come and join me.' At that moment, leaning on the ship's rail, staring across the sea, Todhunter felt so far from home and his loved ones that it almost physically hurt. He removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath of clean, salty air that steadied him.
Todhunter and De Wiart's journey had begun on 16 April, when, after lunch at the cavalry barracks, they had been conveyed to Tripoli harbour and herded aboard a small, 5,000-ton steamer. A rather pompous Italian staff officer was assigned as their escort, but he soon relaxed once they were safely aboard ship as his duties meant that he could visit his home for a few days after delivering his charges safely ashore in Italy. De Wiart christened their new friend 'Tutti-Frutti'.
The two Britons were each assigned a single cabin, but the ship didn't move for days. More British prisoners were loaded aboard, including several officers from the Rifle Brigade and the Royal Tank Regiment, and Todhunter and De Wiart, who was a physical fitness fanatic, took to walking and running about the confines of the ship in an effort to relieve the boredom of waiting.
De Wiart's morale was raised by an act of kindness from a visiting Italian general. He had been hatless throughout his captivity, his cap having gone down with his kit aboard the stricken Wellington, and the Italian general procured for him a British officer's cap, 'swathed it in a red band,' wrote De Wiart, 'and restored me my dignity'.
The downside of remaining stationary inside an enemy harbour soon became apparent as the RAF put in an appearance. Bombs impacted around the harbour, but none landed closer to the prisoners than a quarter of a mile. Nonetheless, prisoners and Italians alike were eager to get away. The ship sailed on 19 April and tied up alongside the quay in Naples on the 21st after an uneventful crossing. De Wiart had prayed for a British submarine, so that they might take their chances in the sea, but nary a periscope was spotted.
That evening Todhunter and De Wiart finally set foot on Italian soil. Tutti-Frutti escorted them on to a train and revealed their ultimate destination – Sulmona in the Abruzzi. Both men expected some kind of prison camp, but Tutti-Frutti didn't elaborate. The two British officers travelled in splendid isolation through the darkened Italian countryside in a first-class compartment. After leaving Rome, the train gradually climbed into the mountains, the air inside the carriage growing uncomfortably cold. The two prisoners felt the change in temperature, dressed as they were in desert uniforms.
* * *
On Thursday there erupted a commotion outside the Villa Orsini. Colonel Mazawattee was almost running as he came through the camp gates brandishing a piece of paper in one hand and his handkerchief in the other. 'Many, many, many!' he was yelling in English.
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd and Flight Lieutenant Leeming went into the courtyard to meet him along with Lieutenant Ricciardi.
Mazawattee was almost dancing on the spot, the buttons of his uniform straining to control his ample girth. He raced up to Boyd and waved the paper under his nose.
'Many, many!' shouted Mazawattee. 'All of the highest rank! See, I have their names here!'
'What on earth are you blithering about,' said Boyd, reaching for the paper, but Mazawattee snatched it away and began reading aloud in his heavily accented voice.
'See, Sir O'Connor; Sir Neame, Philip; Lord Carton de Wiart, Adrian. Look: others, plenty, many of them – Sir General Gambier-Parry, Colonels Combe, Todhunter, and Lord Younghusband. Plenty. The war is over. England cannot go on now. No, certainly, surely.'
Boyd, his face like thunder, drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't very much, and glowered at the giddy colonel.
'You haven't got Churchill, have you?' boomed Boyd.
Mazawattee stopped moving, his face fell and he sloped off muttering about more prisoners, more guards, more barbed wire and more responsibilities.
Boyd turned to Leeming, shaking his head. 'I don't believe a word of it,' he said gravely. 'I bet they caught one colonel and imagined the rest.' Leeming just nodded and wondered where all this left their carefully planned escape.
CHAPTER 4
Men of Honour
'If the men we've got here are a fair sample of the British Forces I don't see how we can lose the war!'
Air Vice-Marshal Owen Boyd Villa Orsini, 1941
When Flight Lieutenant Leeming first clapped eyes on the tall and partially intact figure of Adrian Carton de Wiart hauling himself out of an Italian military car at the villa's gates on 23 April 1941 he thought he was seeing things. He couldn't understand how such an elderly and obviously incapacitated general had been anywhere near the front lines in the first place, let alone fallen into enemy hands.
De Wiart had arrived from Sulmona station in company with Brigadier Todhunter to discover that the villa was already stuffed full of top brass. Since Colonel Mazawattee's extraordinary announcement of the capture of so many senior Allied officers, the Villa Orsini had been deluged by what Leeming teasingly described as 'generals what-whating all over the place'. Leeming, as 'Mess Secretary', was expected to organise everything for the new arrivals, from making sure that enough food was brought up to the villa, to sufficient beds, cutlery and linen. Mazawattee assisted Leeming by forgetting to order half of the essentials.
The little camp had grown exponentially. Mazawattee had paid another visit to Campo 78 at Sulmona and collected additional men to act as 'servants' at the villa, bringing the number of other ranks up to ten. With the senior officers, the number of prisoners had suddenly mushroomed from five to 21.
Leeming strode forward and shook De Wiart's remaining hand, introducing himself. The black eye patch and empty sleeve were complemented, he later recalled, by a 'fierce-looking moustache and a "hang the devil on the yard-arm" sort of manner'.
When Leeming learned of the circumstances of De Wiart's capture, he was astonished. The old general had been knocked unconscious when his Wellington had struck the water, had come to and managed to swim one-handed half a mile to shore dragging along a pilot a third of his age who'd broken his leg. 'You looked at him and thought immediately of a pirate with a cutlass in his teeth climbing up the side of some old-time merchantman,' Leeming would write.
Sleeping arrangements immediately presented some problems. The villa was big, but it wasn't designed to hold so many men. This was compounded by the obvious point that the senior officers, men of certain rank and in some cases advanced years, each required their own rooms. Air Vice-Marshal Boyd gave up his room to General Neame, who by dint of seniority was made 'father of the camp'. Boyd moved into Leeming's room, meaning that the junior officer had to vacate as well. Leeming trooped up to the roof, where there was a sort of greenhouse, and settled in there.
All day long sweating and cursing Italian soldiers and British other ranks bustled about the villa, moving furniture, hauling supplies and generally trying to make the place habitable, while an increasingly harassed Leeming tried to control events and deal with a long list of demands and complaints from various generals and brigadiers.
When Leeming showed De Wiart into his small room, the camp's Italian medical officer lurked behind him. It had been reported to him that General De Wiart was suffering from concussion due to a plane crash. The doctor, who meant well, tried to give De Wiart a physical examination.
'Get your bloody hands off of me!' bellowed De Wiart, glaring down at the terrified doctor with his one eye. The doctor tried to protest, but De Wiart cut him off.
'Don't bother about me. Look after these other devils. They like it; I don't.'
The medical officer admitted defeat and slunk away. De Wiart claimed to feel no ill effects from the plane crash whatsoever. 'Never felt better,' replied De Wiart when Leeming asked him about any side effects from the crash. 'Never had the vestige of a headache,' continued De Wiart, hooking his walking stick over his mangled arm. 'I imagine a few hours in a cold sea must be the perfect cure for unconsciousness.' It was perhaps unsurprising that the British orderlies soon christened the indestructible General De Wiart 'Long John Silver'.
* * *
By the end of the day Mazawattee's gleeful list had become physical reality. The villa indeed contained some of the British Empire's greatest military leaders. Generals Neame, O'Connor, De Wiart and Gambier-Parry; Air Vice-Marshal Boyd; Brigadiers Todhunter and Combe; Colonel Younghusband and Lieutenant-Colonel Fanshawe. It made depressing reading for Leeming, and it was easy to understand the Italians' gloating attitude.
If Mazawattee felt that Boyd had been a burden, with his constant list of complaints and recommendations, General Neame soon showed himself to be considerably worse. Possessed of a mischievous sense of humour, Neame decided that constantly needling and winding up Mazawattee, and the Italians in general, was one way that he could contribute to ultimate Allied victory. To this end, 'Green Ink' penned notes to the commandant that led to long drawn-out disputes about this or that clause of the Geneva Convention, and general prisoner of war rights. Mazawattee, to his credit, instead of telling Neame to shut up and mind his own business, allowed himself to be led into the General's game, but never won any of the arguments. The Italians, no matter their frustration and irritation, always remained perfectly correct and courteous, and Neame and some of the other prisoners used this against them. Neame was mentally just too quick for the commandant.
One of Neame's genuine peeves was the issue of overcrowding at the villa. The situation was, in his opinion, intolerable and the Italians needed to move the prisoners to a bigger property. Confronting Mazawattee over this, the commandant fell back on the old trick that he had used when dealing with Boyd of agreeing to everything the prisoners demanded without actually doing anything. Leeming had already fully briefed Neame on this tactic of Mazawattee's, but Neame couldn't help but push the point and expose Mazawattee by listening to the increasingly ridiculous answers that he gave.
'Certainly, certainly,' wheezed Mazawattee, when Neame demanded a bigger property, 'a large mansion will be provided. A palazzo is now being prepared.'
'A palace?' replied Neame, raising one eyebrow suspiciously.
'Surely, surely; a palazzo with plenty space in great park,' continued Mazawattee, tugging at his uniform collar, which suddenly appeared to be tighter than usual.
'Deer in the park?' asked Neame. Leeming, who was standing beside the general, turned away, a grin spreading across his face.
'But of course,' replied the commandant, spreading his palms before him. 'Plenty deers, si, plenty.'
'What about a swimming bath?' continued Neame.
'Most certainly,' replied Mazawattee confidently, his face increasingly sheened with perspiration.
'When?'
'Perdono?'
'When do we leave?' asked Neame impatiently.
'Oh, yes, I understand. You leave at once,' said Mazawattee, nodding triumphantly, 'well... within the next few days.'
Whenever Neame raised the issue of moving with Mazawattee over the ensuing weeks, he was met with the same empty promises. Discussing the issue with Lieutenant Ricciardi, the prisoners were assured that such a move was indeed planned. They were to be taken north, to either Lombardy or Piedmont. That would place the prisoners much closer to Switzerland. Boyd and Leeming agreed a week after the arrival of the other generals to postpone all of their escape attempts until they arrived at the new camp. It looked as though they would be 200 miles closer to a neutral country. Switzerland appeared a more appealing prospect than tiny and well-guarded Vatican City.
* * *
Early one summer morning Lieutenant Ricciardi opened his bedroom curtains and gasped in surprise. Dangling outside of the window was a Beretta automatic pistol, suspended in mid-air by a length of string tied to the trigger guard. Cursing, Ricciardi quickly searched his room, a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His own pistol was missing. Ricciardi opened his window and leaned out. The string led up to the bedroom above his. He quickly untied the weapon and examined it. It was his; of that there was no doubt. He extracted the magazine – still full. Shaking his head in disbelief, Ricciardi stood for some time bathed in early morning sunlight, the heavy pistol in his hand, trying to work out how he had lost it and why it was returned to him in such a strange manner. He never did discover who was responsible for this curious episode.
In fact, Ricciardi had lost his pistol a day earlier while he was out picnicking with the prisoners. The line between guards and prisoners had started to become blurred since the main batch of generals had arrived in April. With the prisoners having agreed among themselves to postpone any escape attempts until they reached their new home – whenever and wherever that might be – Boyd suggested that they instead put the Italians to sleep: lull them into a false sense of security by appearing to cooperate with them. Relations between guards and prisoners became ever more cordial, even friendly. This was demonstrated by the long walks and picnics that the prisoners were permitted to take in the vicinity of the villa. These helped to stave off the boredom that all of the prisoners felt keenly. They had had active, busy careers and great responsibilities, but now had little to do. Todhunter wrote to his mother outlining just how bad the boredom had become. The prisoners needed diversions, and that could come from books and 'any form of stupid game'. They only had cards, draughts and backgammon to pass the evenings. The United States Embassy had promised badminton equipment and a ping-pong table, but they were still waiting for them.
The Italians permitted shopping trips to nearby Sulmona, much to De Wiart's delight, as apart from the clothes he stood up in and the bamboo cane he had salvaged from the crashed Wellington, all his kit had gone to the bottom of the Mediterranean. De Wiart's favourite shop was Unione Militare, an Italian version of the British NAAFI, where he was able to buy good-quality Italian army clothing and footwear.
The weather mostly was perfect that summer, except a nasty patch in May. 'We have had a week of cold beastly weather which makes... life generally miserable,' wrote Todhunter sourly to his father. But once the weather brightened again, the excursions resumed, the long walks which did so much to keep up the prisoners' morale. Though the prisoners were heavily guarded during these trips, it was apparent that the guards enjoyed the excursions as much as their prisoners. The Generals were old enough to be fathers, or even grandfathers, to many of the young Italian conscripts, and for their part most of the Italians seemed bemused and more than a little embarrassed to be guarding such nice old gentlemen. But when opportunities presented themselves, the British were not averse to taking advantage of them.
During one long walk Leeming shouldered Ricciardi's pack for him. The guards and the prisoners tended to muck in together, helping each other carry food and other supplies for the picnic. Ricciardi had earlier taken his pistol out of its holster and shoved it in his pack, forgetting all about it. Leeming noticed the weapon nestled among the cans of food that they planned to boil up when they made camp. When no one was looking, he quickly pulled the pistol from the pack and hid it under his shirt.
Later that evening, back at the villa, Leeming showed Boyd the Beretta. Boyd's face dropped.
'You'll have to return it,' he said.
'Return it? But why sir?' asked Leeming, slightly crestfallen.
'When Gussie finds he's lost it, he may start all sorts of inquiries. It would be a serious thing if they found you'd got it. You must hand it back at once,' insisted Boyd.
Leeming understood Boyd's point. But he couldn't very well march up to Ricciardi and simply hand him back his weapon. Ricciardi would have to report the matter to Mazawattee and Leeming would be in serious trouble. After some thought, Leeming came up with the novel idea of suspending the pistol on a length of string outside Ricciardi's bedroom from the room above.
* * *
A high point for the prisoners was the sudden and unexpected delivery of a large consignment of Red Cross parcels to the villa on 4 May 1941. Brigadiers Todhunter and Combe were placed in charge of sorting them out. 'John Combe and I have given a lifelike display of two rather quarrelsome children sitting on the floor opening Christmas presents,' wrote Todhunter to his mother. The contents of the parcels would be used to supplement the menu cooked up between Leeming and the two cooks, Sergeant Baxter and his assistant. But tensions already existed among the generals, cooped up together in the overcrowded villa. 'You would have laughed a lot to see nine respectable middle-aged senior officers quarrelling as to whether John and I had shared out the chocolate fairly,' Todhunter went on.
The supplies saw immediate service when the prisoners hosted a party the following evening to mark General De Wiart's birthday. Baxter managed to make a cake using some of their precious Red Cross chocolate, to which he then added the letters 'C de W' in spaghetti on top. The special dinner consisted of Red Cross tinned chicken and sausages.
The ten other ranks prisoners that Colonel Mazawattee had brought up to the villa from Campo 78 took care of the housekeeping and cooking duties for the generals. This allowed the senior officers to take up a series of useful 'hobbies', some of them revealing hidden talents that could prove useful in escape attempts.
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd and Colonel Younghusband proved to be excellent carpenters, building hutches and pens for the rabbits that Brigadier Todhunter kept in an attempt to supplement the prisoners' supply of fresh meat, and for Brigadier Combe's chickens – which were intended to provide both meat and eggs. The commandant allowed the prisoners to convert a small garage into a woodworking shop, and further permitted them to purchase a bench and tools. They were occasionally assisted by two tame guards, one who had been a cabinetmaker in Civvy Street and the other a French polisher.
General Neame, VC winner, Olympic champion, explorer and big game hunter, took up the needle and thread and started stitching attractive tapestries, manufacturing chair backs and seats. (His other 'hobby' was annoying the Italians, and he excelled at both pursuits.)
Todhunter proved incapable of breeding any rabbits, which was quite a feat considering their reproductive reputation. 'The feller would make a fortune in Australia,' quipped Boyd one evening in the mess. 'Why, the Australian Government would pay Todhunter anything he liked to ask.'
Combe fussed over his sixteen laying hens with the devotion of a mother over her children. But, like Todhunter and his rabbits, producing eggs for the table proved difficult. Combe's hens were either 'not laying' or were 'eating their own eggs'. The hens further annoyed Sergeant Baxter by covering the steps to the kitchen in excrement.
Some of the other prisoners took up gardening, trying to create order out of the tangled, weed-strewn mess that they had inherited, or took to laying out allotments to grow fresh vegetables for the table. Such physical labours, as well as being pleasant diversions from the routine of imprisonment, were also important in keeping the middle-aged generals fit and ready for whatever escaping opportunities were to present themselves. 'The first shock of capture had passed,' recalled Leeming, 'the excitement of settling down had died away; life had become monotonous. Day after day the same trivialities, the same people, the same voices, the same mannerisms. In our little community, cut off from the outside world, little bursts of irritability, of impatience, began to happen.'
Keeping fit was taken very seriously, and not just by De Wiart, who owing to his injuries was unable to perform manual labour, but by everyone. 'Before lunch I walked round the garden 24 times as fast as I could, which I reckon to be about four miles,' wrote Todhunter one day, adding that his normal routine was more like eighteen times round in the morning, followed by 'a walk in the afternoon with one of the officers of the guard'.
Brigadier Todhunter, like all of the prisoners except De Wiart, suddenly began learning Italian. Dick O'Connor took the studying very seriously, and was soon quite fluent. Its aid to escape was obvious. De Wiart, however, could not be persuaded. One day one of the Italian officers made the mistake of asking De Wiart if he wanted to take 'this golden opportunity' to learn the local tongue.
'I don't want to learn your bloody language!' roared back De Wiart. Instead, 'Long John Silver' had taken to sunbathing on the terrace or studying the little lizards that inhabited the garden.
Brigadier Todhunter was one of several, including General O'Connor, who persevered with the language. 'To combat boredom I am learning Italian with marked lack of success,' he wrote home. Todhunter also collected Italian newspapers and periodicals and painstakingly translated the news stories into English, producing a bulletin for the other prisoners. He also began writing to family, friends and organisations asking for books, collecting them together into a small library as another aid in the continual fight against boredom. But the books they received seemed almost like a cruel joke to Todhunter and the others. 'We had a parcel of books from the Red Cross for which we are duly grateful but they are a pretty odd selection, collected I should think from various British Institutions in Rome which are now closed down,' wrote Todhunter. 'In this parcel there was Vol. 1 of a monumental work on Applied Sociology, Vol. 2 of The Flora and Fauna of Sardinia, a book of 1885 on the tombs of the Popes and a book of rather gloomy illustrations of Dartmoor taken in 1901. Beside these A Bachelor Girl in Burma and The Work of the Church in the Malay Peninsula from 1900 to 1905 by the Bishop of Labuan and signed by the author gave us quite a thrill!'
The one prisoner who was unable to work or even to enjoy Todhunter's expanding collection of eclectic volumes was General De Wiart. 'His one arm prevents him doing much like carpentering or gardening and his one eye prevents him doing very much reading or writing,' noted Todhunter. But his spirit was irrepressible: 'He really is the most gallant old sportsman though.'
Mostly the prisoners thought about moving – moving away from the villa to a new camp, closer to Switzerland and with fresh escape opportunities. The months dragged by, but still nothing happened. 'There is still no definite news of our move,' wrote home Todhunter in despair in June 1941, 'though we hear that it will take place shortly.' Mazawattee's repeated assurances on this subject sounded increasingly hollow as the prisoners sweated out the humid Abruzzo summer, when temperatures hit 100°F in the shade. General Neame was, however, surprised when his old batman, Gunner Pickford from the Royal Horse Artillery, was located and sent up to the villa by the Italians.
Not every officer was happy with his batman. Mazawattee had drafted many of the officers' orderlies into the role at short notice and without any training. 'I have got a young sapper who was caught at Sollum last September,' wrote Todhunter. 'He is very willing but I suspect a better sapper than valet.' But all of the generals were very happy with the new cook sent in to assist Sergeant Baxter. 'He is a pretty odd looking soldier but he was a cook at Claridge's before the war so he can be excused a lot.'
Non-Fascist news from the outside world filtered into the villa by surreptitious means. The United States was not yet in the war, so the US Embassy in Rome continued to act as the 'Protecting Power', sending diplomats and a military attaché to the villa on occasion to check on the prisoners' welfare. The Italian government was paranoid about such contacts. Strict instructions were issued to Colonel Mazawattee that the Americans were to be treated correctly and courteously, but that they were not to be left alone with any of the prisoners lest they exchanged information about the progress of the war, or any other vital intelligence. Ricciardi detailed Warrant Officer Maresciallo and Sergeant Conti to closely shadow the visiting dignitaries and watch for any improprieties. But despite such precautions, the prisoners were usually able to get one of the diplomats alone for a few minutes through some ruse or other, during which the American would quickly fill them in on the latest news.
One surprising visitor was a jolly and ebullient Irish priest who delighted in telling the prisoners rather risqué stories. Forty-three-year-old Hugh O'Flaherty, dressed in the scarlet and black cassock of a Roman Catholic monsignor, toured POW camps in Italy acting on behalf of the Pope. One of his tasks was to try to discover the fates of those who had been declared missing in action. If O'Flaherty discovered any of these soldiers alive in the camps he tried to reassure their families through Radio Vatican. With his thick brown hair, round spectacles and permanent half grin, O'Flaherty was very popular, and as a fellow native English speaker, the prisoners at the Villa Orsini took to him strongly.
General O'Connor had decided that it was imperative that they establish contact with the War Office in London, and had racked his brains as to how communication could be established. O'Connor, who had rapidly shown himself to be completely dedicated to the idea of escape, wanted the British government to smuggle maps, passports and other useful equipment into the villa to aid future escapes from their new camp. He also wanted the British to put the prisoners in contact with one of their agents in Italy. To this end, O'Connor wrote a letter to the War Office. When O'Flaherty visited, O'Connor managed to ask him whether he would pass the letter to the American defence attaché in Rome, Colonel Norman Fiske. O'Flaherty took the letter and hid it inside his cassock. In fact, O'Flaherty was part of a network involved in concealing people from Mussolini's authorities; he would become known to history as 'The Scarlet Pimpernel of the Vatican'. Pope Pius XII was aware that O'Flaherty was helping prisoners, and disagreed with his activities from the point of view of preserving Vatican neutrality, though he did not censure him as he accepted that he was doing God's work.
That Colonel Fiske accepted the letter from O'Flaherty and passed it to London via the diplomatic bag was also a violation of President Roosevelt's avowed isolationism from the war in Europe. The United States was officially neutral, but it appeared that there were already some who believed in the 'special relationship' with Great Britain.
When Fiske himself visited the Villa Orsini to check on the prisoners, O'Connor took the opportunity of smuggling out a long report on the Western Desert campaign to London. It was done via the toilet.
When Fiske shook hands with O'Connor, the General said in a quiet tone: 'Very good of you to come to see us. Look under the lavatory seat.'
Fiske didn't bat an eyelid, but carried on chatting to O'Connor and the other officers as if he had heard nothing unusual. The Italian guards took no notice. After a while Fiske asked to use the toilet and was duly escorted to a latrine by one of the Italians. Locking himself inside, the American found a small packet of papers exactly where O'Connor had said, lodged under the lavatory seat.
Letters passed in this way ended up with MI9, the department of British Military Intelligence that dealt with prisoners of war, which was headed by the colourful Norman Crockatt in London. Crockatt was able to receive good information on what was happening at the Villa Orsini until the United States entered the war following Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor in early December 1941.
Importantly, the smuggled letter would lead to the setting up of a coded letter-writing operation between London and the generals in Italy. There was a code called HK, developed by Lieutenant-Colonel L. Winterbottom of MI9 in conjunction with a Foreign Office specialist named Hooker, that would allow the generals to communicate with MI9 through their regular mail, sent to the Metropole Hotel on Northumberland Avenue, London. Devised to enable servicemen to maintain contact with London from their camps if captured (RAF aircrew and commandos were among those trained in its use), HK was fairly simple to use 'and in skilled hands unusually hard to detect. All the user had to do was to indicate by the fashion in which he wrote the date that the letter contained the message, show by his opening words which part of the code he was using, and then write an apparently normal chatty letter, from which an inner meaning could be unravelled with the code's help.'
The establishment of the letter-writing operation was unwittingly assisted by Colonel Mazawattee when he allowed a young British officer to visit the villa one day from the local POW camp. These visits, though infrequent, were made by several other junior officers after General Neame petitioned the commandant, claiming that the generals needed some conversational stimulation and a change of faces once in a while.
The first visitor, an army commando taken prisoner during a raid on Sicily, succeeded in teaching O'Connor and some of the others the 'Winterbottom Code' during his few hours at the villa, and thereafter the prisoners were able to communicate with British Military Intelligence by letter. The Italians were never to discover this secret link with the outside world.
O'Connor also received a letter directly from the War Office in reply to his requests for assistance, smuggled in to him at great personal risk once again by Colonel Fiske.
* * *
As July gave way to August, and still with no confirmation of the move, morale in the Villa Orsini was falling steadily. General O'Connor sprained his ankle and was hobbling about for a couple of weeks in a bad temper, while Brigadier Todhunter had a bad run of health. He spent ten days in bed with lumbago and possible mild food poisoning. The temperature was still over 90 degrees in the shade. Nothing was happening – the prisoners simply existed. All escape activity had been postponed till the great move, the heat and food was playing on everyone's patience and forbearance, and the monotony was broken only by the daily excursions to hike and picnic under guard. Some of the prisoners coped better than others. General De Wiart was like a caged tiger, while Gambier-Parry could be impulsive, 'flashing out, and saying exactly what he thought, yet sorry for his outbursts almost as soon as he had spoken.' With so many strong personalities trapped inside a relatively small house, disagreements and arguments arose frequently during that hot summer, but nothing that was said in the heat of the moment was taken to heart by anyone. It was really just a collective case of mild cabin fever. 'One of the worst things about this type of life is having nothing definite to look forward to,' wrote Todhunter. 'After all, the ordinary criminal in the jug knows that if he behaves himself he will get out on a certain day but here it is a case of this year, next year etc.' The only relief occurred in mid-August, when the temperature started to drop, which was considered a blessing by all of the prisoners. 'The weather is getting cooler and the flies are getting less,' wrote Todhunter. 'We have had some very good rain this week... the nights are cooler and I have gone back to a thin blanket instead of only a sheet.'
The monotony of prison life was broken on 21 August by a joint birthday party held for Generals Gambier-Parry and O'Connor. 'Our cooks made a cake using as far as I can make out macaroni ground in a coffee grinder,' wrote Todhunter, 'and not only iced it (without any icing sugar) but put a fine Major Generals badge on it. In the evening we had a birthday dinner... fishcakes, tinned peaches, cheese and coffee.'
By early September snow was visible on the surrounding hills, while the villa was lashed with rain. The thought in everyone's mind was the same: when do we move? It was rapidly becoming the only topic of conversation.
CHAPTER 5
Advance Party
'The idea of a journey was a real thrill. For although we had made the best of it, life at Sulmona had been terribly boring. Most of us had accepted the unalterable, and refused to admit even in our own minds how really sick and tired we were of our existence at the Villa Orsini.'
Flight Lieutenant John Leeming
'Chaps, the day has finally come,' announced an excited General Neame as he entered the prisoners' sitting room on 19 September 1941. 'I've just spoken to Mazawattee. He's confirmed it.'
'They're finally getting rid of the idiot?' asked Boyd, looking up from one of Todhunter's carefully translated news-sheets.
'No, old chap, much better news. The move north, it's on.' Neame could barely disguise his excitement.
'Not that old chestnut again,' moaned Gambier-Parry, looking up irritably from his book.
'We leave in five days,' announced Neame. The room erupted. Generals and brigadiers jumped from their chairs as if electrocuted. They crowded around Neame, demanding more details.
'Leeming's going ahead with an advance party to set things up on the 23rd of September,' said Neame triumphantly. 'He's taking Baxter and two of the other NCOs with him. We leave on the 24th.'
'But where, old boy, where is he going?' demanded De Wiart, his moustache appearing even more bristly than usual as he towered over the little crowd.
'Well, it seems old Mazawattee wasn't pulling our legs when he mentioned a palace,' said Neame. 'We're going to a castle, chaps, 200 miles north of here outside Florence.'
'Florence?' said G-P, perking up considerably, his artistic interests piqued by the possibility of close proximity to the famous Uffizi Gallery.
'That's what the commandant said,' replied Neame. 'The Castello di Vincigliata. Mazawattee just told me that it is a summer palace standing in a great park. Ricciardi confirmed what the commandant said. He says it's a lovely old place.'
'Well, that's splendid news for us,' said Dick O'Connor, brightening up considerably. Florence was only 250 miles from the Swiss frontier, and O'Connor's mind was already considering this fact. Several of the other officers beamed, knowing that the chance for a serious escape attempt had suddenly materialised.
Neame, suddenly all business, started issuing orders concerning the gathering of kit for the move. He informed Todhunter and Combe that they would be taking their livestock with them as well.
'What about my workshop?' asked Boyd, referring to his carpentry equipment.
'That too. We're not leaving behind anything that might aid an escape in the new camp.'
'Sounds like a ruddy travelling circus to me,' muttered De Wiart under his breath as he strode off towards his room, a little more vim in his step now than when he had struggled down for breakfast an hour earlier.
* * *
For the several days before Flight Lieutenant Leeming left the Villa Orsini with the advance party on the 23rd, the big house was full of bustle and purpose. The generals and brigadiers packed, repacked and constantly discussed the impending move, chattering like excited holidaymakers who were about to leave on a pleasant vacation. After so many months of staring at the same walls and gardens, the same distant mountains and the same faces, it was almost as if they were being released, such was the level of frenetic excitement. There was so much to arrange, so much to sort out and pack, and so many lists and timetables to prepare. The other ranks prisoners hurried around assisting the senior officers, while Colonel Mazawattee for once did not interfere. The commandant was all smiles, for he was not to accompany the prisoners to the castle. Finally relieved of a responsibility that he had found both overbearing and loathsome from the start, Mazawattee was almost giddy with delight at the thought of bidding farewell to the difficult British prisoners, probably Boyd and Neame in particular, those two having proven to be exceptionally barbed spines in his side.
Everyone was happy to hear that Gussie Ricciardi would be accompanying the generals to the castle, where he would serve as adjutant to a new commandant. But in their enthusiasm and impatience to be gone from the overcrowded villa, the prisoners didn't take notice of the fact that two of their senior guards had in fact asked for transfers, unable to face the reality of where the prisoners were headed. It was an ominous sign that unfortunately was not noticed by the prisoners at the time.
* * *
Leeming sat in the back seat of an Italian army car alongside Sergeant Baxter. It had just driven through the gates of the Villa Orsini on its way to Sulmona station. Leeming turned and looked as the car passed through the portal. He couldn't see much. It was 3.30am on 23 September 1941 and still pitch dark. Beside the driver sat Second Lieutenant Ucelli, a rich young officer whose well-connected family had wangled him a transfer to guarding prisoners instead of fighting at the front in Libya. No one thought much of Ucelli, who was lazy and refused to live at the villa with the rest of the staff, instead having a taxi drive him up the hill to work each day from his rented digs in Sulmona town.
Motoring along behind Leeming's car was another identical khaki-coloured vehicle containing two more British other ranks – Sergeant Price, a Welshman from the Rhondda Valley, and Corporal Blackwell – escorted by the young and harmless Fascist ideologue Sergeant Conti.
Leeming felt overjoyed to be out of the villa. He would not be returning, for he was commanding the small advance party that was going to Vincigliata Castle one day earlier to prepare the building for the arrival of the senior officers and the rest of the men. He would remain at the castle to meet the generals and brigadiers and the orderlies, and hopefully would have managed to sort out their accommodation in the limited amount of time that had been afforded him by the Italians.
Leeming settled back in his seat. The roof racks of both vehicles were piled high with suitcases and boxes going to the castle, and the ever-vigilant Baxter held a neat clipboard containing an inventory of the prisoners' property across his knees, a stub of pencil tucked behind his right ear. Neither man spoke much, but both were thrilled to be going on such an adventure after so many months of imprisonment. There was also the added bonus of the possibility of a blitz escape, a lightning attempt, should the opportunity present itself. Although it had been decided that escape attempts would be put on hold until they were at the new location, the prisoners all accepted that if a golden opportunity were to arise they should seize it.
After a few minutes the two cars pulled into Sulmona station, where a detachment of steel-helmeted guards armed with Mannlicher-Carcano rifles stood waiting in the darkness. They stiffened to attention as Ucelli climbed out of his car. The prisoners and their baggage were loaded aboard a waiting steam train, Leeming and Ucelli in their own compartment, with Conti and the three British non-commissioned officers in an adjoining compartment. Armed guards patrolled the corridor outside the compartments to deter any thoughts of escape.
The sun rose, and Leeming and the others stared out of their carriage windows at the green countryside that flitted by. Their guards were also in high spirits, enjoying the journey and the break from the dull routine at the villa. In many ways, the guards were as isolated there as the prisoners, and as bored.
At 10.00am the train pulled slowly into Rome. After living in an isolated house in the country for so many months, the bustle of a big city was almost overwhelming, and the thrill of passing close by the Forum and Vatican City was palpable.
Leeming and the others disembarked, Baxter supervising various guards and porters as they offloaded the prisoners' baggage. Baxter carefully checked off each item on his clipboard before it was loaded on to trolleys. The Florence train was not due till after midday. Ucelli and Conti had both made arrangements to disappear to visit their fiancées in Rome, but, not trusting their conscript guards, Ucelli had the Britons locked in the station ticket office under the watchful eyes of several busy clerks.
Leeming saw immediately that there was a good chance of escaping. Though he was dressed in full RAF uniform, his pilot's wings above his left breast pocket, he thought it worth a try.
Leeming would aim for Vatican City. The distance to St Peter's Square from the station was just over two-and-a-half miles on foot. He would remove his cap and his tunic. If he wrapped his cap in his jacket, he could probably stroll through Rome with the most obvious parts of his uniform tucked under his arm, just wearing a shirt and his blue RAF trousers and braces. It wasn't much of a disguise, but he should only be on the road for less than an hour, taking into consideration finding his way in an unfamiliar city and avoiding any police guarding the approaches to Vatican City.
If he could make it, Leeming would almost certainly find sanctuary at the British Mission, led at the time by the Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary Sir D'Arcy Osborne. The spry and trim 58-year-old Osborne, who would inherit his second cousin's title of Duke of Leeds in 1943, was secretly involved with providing sanctuary to escaped Allied prisoners of war and Jews, using his own money to help finance these illicit activities. Osborne, codenamed 'Mount', was working closely with Irish Monsignor Hugh O'Flaherty, the 'Scarlet Pimpernel of the Vatican' who was already known to several of the generals from the Villa Orsini, and French diplomat François de Vial and between them they managed to conceal almost 4,000 people from the Italians and later the Nazis. Pope Pius XII, who in 1940 had publicly condemned German atrocities in Occupied Europe, largely turned a blind eye to such shenanigans. Vatican City had been recognised as a neutral state in 1939 and, though tiny (only measuring 110 acres), Mussolini left it alone, fearful of upsetting the Italian population by a direct assault on the heart of Roman Catholicism. Protected by a small military force consisting of the Noble Guard, Pontifical Swiss Guard, Palatine Guard and the Gendarmerie Corps, slipping into Vatican City was not difficult in 1941 as the Italian police lightly patrolled the borders, and St Peter's Square was easily accessible with just a white line painted on the ground marking the frontier. For Leeming, it represented a real chance, if he could shake off his guards and get clear of the station.
* * *
'Gabinetto?' said Leeming in Italian to one of the clerks, asking for the lavatory. The man nodded and escorted Leeming to the men's room beside the platform, waiting outside. Leeming quickly strode over to the stall that was beside a window set high in the wall. He felt excited. Italian military incompetence at leaving prisoners of war under the supervision of civilian railway workers had presented Leeming with an opportunity. He planned to simply climb through the lavatory window and walk off.
Locking the creaking wooden stall door behind him, he stepped up on to the toilet bowl, gingerly levered open the grimy window, and peered out. But at that moment his high hopes were cruelly dashed. Directly below Leeming bobbed the heads of two Italian workmen. They were sitting on a bench against the toilet wall, eating their lunch and chatting. He wouldn't get far climbing down in front of these men, who would report him immediately. He also couldn't hang about for too long in the lavatory before the ticket clerk started banging on the stall door. Cursing silently, Leeming pulled the window shut as quietly as he could and stepped down from the bowl. He stood in the stall for a few seconds, torn. There was nothing for it but to return to the ticket office. Perhaps another opportunity would present itself before they arrived at the castle. As a consolation, Leeming and his men took the opportunity to filch all the official-looking forms, notices and chits that they could manage under the noses of the clerks, who were mostly concerned with serving customers through iron grills. There was always the possibility that this material could be used for future escapes.
By now it was lunchtime and the prisoners had had nothing to eat since departing from Sulmona some time before dawn. Second Lieutenant Ucelli, who had by now returned to his duties, arranged for food to be provided for Sergeants Baxter and Price and Corporal Blackwell by the clerks, then turned to Leeming and asked him whether he would care to join him for lunch in the station restaurant. Leeming was genuinely taken aback, but happily agreed. It was a professional courtesy, one gentleman to another. It was all a little surreal, Leeming following Ucelli towards the restaurant through the crowds of travellers in the station. It was very strange to sit down and eat a proper meal, served by white-jacketed waiters, and to be surrounded by men, women and children all doing likewise.
'I was in Air Force uniform, the uniform of a country that had been at war with Italy for more than a year, yet we strolled into the crowded restaurant in Rome, and not one person showed the slightest distaste.' Apart from a few embarrassed glances by fellow diners and the occasional nod or smile, Leeming and Ucelli were treated quite normally. In fact, his waiter was delighted to be serving an Englishman again, and even apologised for the poor quality of the coffee that was served, secretly topping off Leeming's cup with some brandy. However, when he wrote about his adventures a few years later, Leeming was at pains to point out that all this occurred at a time when Italy was winning. Such magnanimity cost Ucelli and the Italian Army nothing, and parading a captured British officer in full uniform through a very public place was in itself an exercise in demonstrating to the Italian people how well things were going.
* * *
Florence railway station was crowded with numerous officials waiting to meet the British party when the train juddered to a steamy halt on the platform after the journey from Rome. They seemed keen to get Leeming and his men on their way to the castle, but the unloading and itemising of the prisoners' baggage held up the proceedings, as Sergeant Baxter, armed with his trusty clipboard and pencil, dutifully checked everything off and safely aboard yet more cars. Ucelli's previously equitable mood now deteriorated and his spoiled and indulged nature, so familiar to the prisoners at the Villa Orsini, once more reasserted itself over the issue of the baggage. The stoical Baxter completely ignored the shouting, gesticulating Italian soldiers and officials who were deeply exasperated by the British NCO's methodical approach; nothing on earth would move him until he had finished.
Baxter finally finished, tucked the clipboard under his left arm and marched smartly over to Leeming, slamming to attention before him. 'All present and correct, sir,' bellowed Baxter as he snapped out a parade-ground salute.
'Very good, Baxter,' replied Leeming, returning his salute. He turned to Second Lieutenant Ucelli.
'We're ready for you now, Mr Ucelli,' said Leeming, as if inviting him in for tea.
Ucelli, who had worked himself up into a red-faced rage shouting at Baxter and at his own men, glared at Leeming with ill-concealed loathing.
'Avanti, Flight Lieutenant, we go... now!' Ucelli pointed at the two green-painted army Fiats that were now fully loaded.
Baxter got the passenger door open for Leeming before climbing in himself. Ucelli marched up to the car and stood by the passenger side door waiting for one of his men to open it for him. When no one did, he wrenched the door open and threw himself into the seat, his face by now a shade of puce. He slammed the door so violently that the window slipped and half opened on its own.
* * *
Within fifteen minutes the two cars had sped out of the pretty streets of Florence past churches and other impressive buildings – though the prisoners were unable to get their bearings or pause to admire the architecture – and begun to climb higher. They were soon in the countryside, the drivers struggling to nurse the overladen cars up twisting mountain roads that led through a thick forest of tall cypress trees. Occasionally they passed by babbling brooks and giant rocks, the road growing ever more tortuous as the elevation continued to increase. They passed vineyards, then empty villas, whose British and American owners had fled or been dispossessed when Italy entered the war on the Axis side. Another belt of trees, this time olives, passed quickly by before the vehicles cut once more into cypress forest. Then, suddenly, Leeming's car, which was leading, rounded another hairpin bend and he spotted something huge atop a tall hill further up. It was a castle, a huge menacing grey stone castle, its crenellated walls looking impossibly high from below. Two large towers, dotted with narrow archers' windows, rose high over the walls. Leeming leaned forward, trying to catch a better view as the car twisted around another bend in the road.
'Is that where we're going, Ucelli?' asked Leeming, tapping the young Italian on the shoulder. Ucelli turned slightly in his seat, his lip curling into a contemptuous smile.
'Si, that is where you are going,' he said, pointing at Leeming. 'It is the Castello di Vincigliata.'
'Stone the crows, sir,' muttered Baxter beside Leeming on the back seat. 'Looks like something out of a ruddy fairytale.'
'Or a nightmare, Sergeant,' added Leeming slowly, a knot of apprehension curling in the pit of his stomach as he stared at his forbidding new home.
CHAPTER 6
The Travelling Menagerie
'From what we hear we are going to live in a medieval castle, which luckily was inhabited until a short time ago when the owner died. I believe it will be comfortable and it is said to be in lovely country.'
Brigadier Edward Todhunter
A lion crouched on its haunches and stared at Flight Lieutenant Leeming, its snarling mouth open, revealing rows of gleaming teeth. Leeming, looking around with a feeling of dread worming its way through his stomach, reached out and touched the lion's cold head. The stone felt smooth beneath his hand, worn by many years of use.
'Follow me,' said Second Lieutenant Ucelli curtly behind him, the young Italian officer striding past Leeming towards a set of doors beside a large stone staircase whose balustrade ended with the impressive stone lion. Leeming had a horrible feeling that he was entering the lair of the beast as those metal banded and studded doors creaked open before him.
* * *
Minutes earlier Leeming and the other three prisoners had arrived before the main gate of the castle. Up close, the fortress was even more forbidding then when viewed from the winding road below. The two cars had driven over a bridge that crossed a dry moat in front of the castle's massive entrance gates. Stepping down, Leeming glanced about. The castle's high walls stretched away on each side, the tops broken by crenellated battlements. The grey stone was worn and weathered and here and there tufts of vegetation clung tenaciously to its vertiginous sides. The main gates, as tall as cathedral doors, swung slowly inwards, creaking and protesting.
'Blimey!' exclaimed Sergeant Baxter at Leeming's side, 'Castle Dracula.' Leeming smiled thinly and without conviction. Baxter was making light of the situation, but all that was needed to complete the Gothic nightmare quality of the building were a few lightning bolts and the rumble of thunder. Sergeant Price and Corporal Blackwell dumped their kitbags at their feet and lit up cigarettes. Both eyed the gates suspiciously.
Several Italian soldiers armed with slung rifles struggled with the heavy studded doors, pushing them fully open. Ucelli led Leeming and the three British NCOs through the portal, Leeming noting grimly that the wall appeared to be about six feet thick, into a small inner courtyard. Facing them was the stone staircase and balcony with the stone lion at the end of the elaborate balustrade.
'Puts you in mind of Trafalgar Square, doesn't it?' murmured Blackwell, nodding towards the lion.
'Somebody's idea of a joke, if you ask me,' replied Sergeant Price in his broad Welsh accent.
Adjacent to the staircase, and below the balcony, was another set of armoured doors. These were drawn back and Leeming and the others walked into a gloomy compound between the castle's massive defensive walls and the tall inner keep. Leeming looked around, noting the narrow archers' windows set into the keep, its tall battlemented towers and broken statues and worn carvings. He glanced up at the outer wall, judging it to be at least fifteen feet high. Running around its top was a wooden walkway.
'Company, sir,' said Blackwell quietly, nodding towards the top of the perimeter wall.
'I see them, Corporal,' replied Leeming.
Several Italian sentries looked down at Leeming's party from their lofty position on the wooden walkway. The distance between the keep and the wall was only about twelve yards, meaning that anyone entering or leaving the castle's central bastion would be seen immediately by the sentries above. The contrast between the gloomy, Gothic castle and the light and airy Villa Orsini was stark.
'Here comes the welcoming committee, sir,' said Blackwell, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot.
'Welcome gentlemen,' said a voice behind Leeming. Leeming turned and watched a slim and very elegant Italian cavalry officer of medium height stride across the courtyard, a slight smile fixed to his face, his polished jackboots echoing on the stone floor. After the sloppy appearance of Colonel Mazawattee back at the Villa Orsini, this new officer looked like he had just stepped off a parade ground. His cap was worn at a slightly rakish angle, with a black belt and cross-strap worn over his grey-green service tunic from which was suspended a leather holster holding a Beretta automatic pistol. The two rows of colourful medal ribbons above his left breast pocket indicated plenty of experience. On the cuffs of his uniform he wore the three yellow bars with a star beneath indicating the unique Italian army rank of First Captain. Three yellow stars with a bar beneath also adorned both of his collar patches. Far from the stereotypical Italian, his hair and eye colouring were almost fair, giving him an Anglo-Saxon appearance.
Two other officers accompanied the captain. On their caps was the large silver exploding grenade badge of the Carabinieri, the Italian Military Police. Second Lieutenant Ucelli immediately stiffened to attention beside Leeming. He saluted the two more senior Italian officers, before turning to Leeming.
'The commandant,' he said, gesturing with one hand towards the first captain.
'Montalto,' said the commandant, extending his gloved hand to Leeming.
'Leeming,' replied the British officer.
'Flight Lieutenant Leeming, a pleasure to meet you,' said Captain the Duke of Montalto, Leeming noticing that his English was as flawless as his manner. Leeming was soon to discover that Montalto had attended Cheltenham College, an English public school. He had been selected for his position by Rome, which felt that because the castle was to hold notable British 'personages' the commandant also needed to be a 'somebody', and with Montalto's aristocratic lineage and understanding of the British, he seemed the perfect candidate. In contrast, Montalto considered the appointment to be something of an insult – he was a member of an elite cavalry regiment and had wanted to go to the front to fight.
'And this is my security officer, Captain Pederneschi,' said Montalto, indicating the next senior officer beside him, who wore the three collar stars and three sleeve bars of an ordinary captain. Pederneschi nodded slightly but did not proffer his hand; Leeming noticing that his hard brown eyes looked the British prisoners over with barely disguised hostility.
'Lieutenant Visocchi,' continued Montalto, indicating the third officer, a young man in his early twenties. Visocchi saluted Leeming, who returned his salute.
'This is Sergeant Baxter, who runs the mess,' said Leeming to Montalto, 'Sergeant Price and Corporal Blackwell.' The three British NCOs stood to attention and saluted. Montalto briefly nodded and returned their salutes.
'Now, you have much to do, is that not so, Mr Leeming?' asked the genial commandant.
'Yes, sir. My orders are to sort out the accommodation and make arrangements for the arrival of our main party tomorrow.'
'Yes, the generals. I am very much looking forward to making their acquaintances. Excellent. Pederneschi here will show you around and assist you.' Pederneschi's cold eyes fixed Leeming's, his face as stony as the lion that guarded the fortress's entrance.
Montalto made to take his leave, but then paused.
'Oh, I nearly forgot. Welcome to the Englishman's Castle,' he said, giving a slight bow before he strode off.
Leeming thought Montalto's comment exceedingly strange, but he said nothing. He glanced back at Pederneschi's glowering face and then up at the tall grey walls that claustrophobically rose up on all sides and the feeling of dread and helplessness that had taken hold of his stomach ever since he had first spied the castle from the car returned forcibly. How would they ever escape from such a place? 'We were, in truth, out of the frying-pan into the fire,' he later wrote.
* * *
Leeming, Baxter and the others spent their first night in a collection of small rooms in the lower part of the castle's keep. Rising early the next morning, they set about the difficult task of preparing rooms for the arrival of the generals and brigadiers. It would prove to be a difficult task because there were so many rooms of different sizes spread across several different floors of the castle. Leeming considered the problem carefully and decided to allocate rooms according to the rank of the individual – meaning that the higher the rank, the larger the room the officer received. It seemed to Leeming to be a sensible solution that should avoid acrimony and debate. It turned out to cause the very confrontations that Leeming sought to avoid.
The rooms themselves were far from unappealing. Each was carpeted and furnished with great taste in the Florentine style. But dampness would make them cold, particularly those bedrooms on the higher levels. Radiators, electric heaters or brick wood-burning stoves provided heating for the rooms. Officers shared bathrooms, and the other ranks were provided with 'shower-baths'.
The lower part of the keep, as well as containing bedrooms, was given over to a series of public rooms that were to be made available to the senior officers.
On entering the keep, the first room was reserved for the eleven orderlies who would take care of the generals. It was a long room furnished with bunks, benches, stools and wooden tables. Lavatories and washrooms were located nearby. Lower down than the garden, between some medieval cloisters and the castle's ramparts, was the prisoners' kitchen, which was fully equipped and modern. The kitchen actually consisted of two rooms, one containing an 'up-to-date range with wood firing' as well as a scullery, a water boiler and 'an adequate supply of dishes and kitchen accessories'. The second room served as a pantry. Behind the kitchen were larders and storerooms and the orderlies' dining room, all of which contributed to it resembling the below-stairs servants area of a great country house.
For the generals, the Italians had provided a vast dining hall, with old leather armchairs before a large and very heavy wooden table. Connected to this room was a common room decorated with frescoes and furniture, including a divan covered with cushions. This in turn led to the smoking room, with a stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole ox, then to rooms for reading and writing. These rooms, furnished with armchairs and art, created 'a very pleasant atmosphere for reading or meditation'.
* * *
Back at the Villa Orsini, the rest of the prisoners were preparing to leave for the short journey to Sulmona station, where they would catch the train to Rome and thence to Florence. But the transfer was not proceeding smoothly.
Piled outside the villa was a veritable mountain of baggage and equipment that the senior British officers had managed to acquire or manufacture during their imprisonment. Fifteen large packing cases stood in one pile, beside eighteen suitcases and 27 cardboard boxes full of possessions. Next to this were an uncounted number of bundles tied up with string, beside Air Vice-Marshal Boyd's two large workbenches. Atop the workbenches were more boxes full of woodworking tools. Leaning against the side of the villa were piles of planks that Boyd had collected to manufacture furniture and shelves.
Brigadier Todhunter's rabbits sat impassively inside their wood and wire hutches, chewing reflectively on lettuce and carrots, while Brigadier Combe's hens clucked and pecked inside their wooden henhouses. The great white dog Mickey sat on the kerb next to his large kennel, also preparing to leave, while his master Lieutenant Ricciardi did his best to calm down Colonel Mazawattee, who was running around and in between the great piles, simultaneously sweating and gesticulating at General Neame and the other senior officers.
Before the great piles stood one small Italian army truck, its driver standing beside the lowered tailgate, also gesticulating and arguing with any of the prisoners who cared to take notice. It was very clear to General Neame and his comrades that the truck was not big enough to accommodate all of the prisoners' possessions. Herein lay the rub.
'Generale Neame,' said Mazawattee, scampering up to the senior British officer. 'You must only take what the truck can hold, no?'
Neame, his arms folded across his chest, looked down at the commandant and shook his head.
'I've already told you, commandant. We are not leaving unless we take all of our luggage with us. I've been most emphatic on this point.'
'But Generale!' exclaimed Mazawattee, almost stamping one of his jackbooted feet on the road in frustration. 'It is not possible! You must only take what can be carried in this truck!'
Neame, one eyebrow raised quizzically, was unmoved.
'It's a damned bad show, Colonel, a damned bad show, what?' said Neame archly. 'You must find more transport.'
'No, Generale, no, no, no! It is impossible,' Mazawattee's face was by now a deep shade of red. 'This is the only truck that is available!' Then he changed tack, his tone suddenly becoming reasonable. 'It is no worry, Generale, no worry. I will personally ensure that any of your possessions that cannot be loaded on to this truck will be sent on to you tomorrow. You have my word.' Mazawattee's several chins jutted out in the style of Mussolini.
'No, commandant. I've made the position of the British prisoners perfectly clear. We're not leaving without our luggage – all of it,' replied Neame, the other officers standing near to him nodding or muttering in agreement.
'But Generale!' exclaimed Mazawattee, 'you will miss the train!'
And so the argument dragged on, as Mazawattee and Neame became more and more angry and frustrated.
* * *
The last view General Neame and the other senior officers had of the Villa Orsini was of a crestfallen Colonel Mazawattee standing before the grand entrance sulking. His unhappy tenure in command of the awkward British generals was finally over, and Mazawattee should have felt elation. But he had been bested again. General Neame had completely overridden all of Mazawattee's arguments until more trucks had been procured to take all of the prisoners' belongings down to Sulmona station. Mazawattee had been forced to stand aside as Philip Neame, enjoying the responsibility, had busily set about overseeing the loading of the trucks, ordering around the Italian sentries that had been press-ganged into helping as if they were his own men rather than his jailors. Mazawattee had been reduced to a pouting and unhappy spectator until the little convoy of overladen trucks and cars had finally departed, engines straining under the weight of so much equipment and baggage, and so many bodies. The Villa Orsini would remain empty for a while before fresh prisoners arrived.
* * *
Arriving at Sulmona station, the generals were pleased to see two junior British officers waiting for them. They had been sent up from the other officers' camp at Sulmona, and were to accompany the larger party to the castle.
'Ranfurly, very good to see you again,' said a beaming Neame, as he gripped Lieutenant the Earl of Ranfurly's hand. His old ADC had been returned to him at last, and would stay by his side for the duration of Neame's imprisonment. The other officer was Lieutenant Victor Smith, a Fleet Air Arm pilot who had occasionally visited the Villa Orsini to act as the prisoners' accountant. The older officers liked him very much.
Lord Ranfurly had had a very tough time of it since he had last seen General Neame in North Africa. After the Luftwaffe had flown the senior officers to Italy, Ranfurly, along with hundreds of other British officers held by the Italians, had been loaded on to trucks and driven to Benghazi. There they had been crammed into huts – 40 or 50 officers to each small hut – and 'not allowed out for anything'. There were no washing arrangements and the only rations were one 'dog biscuit' and a tin of bully beef between two a day. There was hardly any water and very soon dysentery broke out. 'The Italians would do nothing for us unless the Germans were around,' wrote Ranfurly bitterly. After a week of this horrendous treatment, the British officers were loaded aboard Fiat trucks and driven for five days to POW cages at Subrato, twenty miles beyond Tripoli. During the journey through the desert the prisoners were only allowed off the trucks during night-time rest stops.
At Subrato Ranfurly and the others were put on to starvation rations, receiving only two plates of soup each per day. The Italians also stole from them. 'I reported this,' wrote Ranfurly, 'and was sent to the orderly room. The Camp Commandant gave the thieves six months and me two packets of cigarettes; he delivered the sentence lying in bed.'
The prisoners' sufferings were not yet over, for after ten days in the horrendous conditions at Subrato, the British officers were sent by train to Tripoli, locked inside airless freight wagons, 40 to each car. Then they were forced-marched five miles to the docks and put on board a ship. Incredibly, the British POWs were given first-class cabins, good food and deck exercise. This was probably because a German liaison officer came aboard every day to check on their welfare and distribute cigarettes. There followed a three-day sea crossing to Naples and transit across the city by bus. Loaded aboard another train, Ranfurly himself fell ill during the slow journey to the main Sulmona POW camp, a final five-mile march almost finishing him off. It was with great relief that Ranfurly discovered that the Italians had granted General Neame's request for his old ADC.
* * *
Baron Ricciardi shepherded the generals from the cars towards the long steam train that sat idling at the platform. A younger Italian officer, who was a good deal less friendly than Gussie, strutted about, yelling and gesticulating, while the guards and the British orderlies began to unload the small mountain of luggage from the accompanying trucks. Joining the Italian soldiers was the harassed station master, whose eyes widened as he watched the steady unloading of boxes, suitcases and bundles on to his platform.
It was clear to everyone that such a huge volume of luggage, animals and equipment could not easily be put aboard the train, which consisted of several carriages each divided into compartments with a side corridor. General Neame soon found himself dragged into another long argument with the Italians, until the station master, throwing up his hands in defeat, stalked off to find a goods van to attach to the rear of the train.
Once the goods van was hitched to the guards' van, the laborious process of transferring all of the prisoners' possessions aboard commenced.
'All luggage must be loaded on the van,' stated the younger Italian officer to Neame, who was standing beside his travelling 'trunk'. This enormous piece of luggage had been specially purchased by Neame from Rome for just such a move. Its shape and dimensions were akin to those of a cupboard.
'Not this, Lieutenant,' replied Neame smoothly. 'This stays with me.'
'But Generale, it is not possible,' said the officer, raising his voice. 'It must go in the van.'
'Absolutely not, old boy,' replied Neame, his arms folded, eyes glaring. A fresh argument now erupted, as Neame dug in his heels and refused to allow anyone to move his trunk. Eventually Gussie intervened and it was permitted that the trunk be loaded aboard Neame's compartment by several disgruntled guards. It was at this point that Brigadier Combe diverted the Italians' attention further along the platform.
'You know, I'm worried that my hens are suffering,' said Combe to Brigadier Todhunter. Todhunter, who had been supervising the loading of his rabbit hutches and their precious contents, walked over to the nearest henhouse and peered inside.
'They do look at bit browned off,' he said in agreement.
Combe had caged his hens the evening before, and the length of time was concerning him.
'Think they might like to stretch their legs a bit,' muttered Combe, and before Todhunter could reply he had started opening the henhouse doors. Within seconds the platform was full of lively hens strutting around, flapping their wings and generally enjoying themselves. The other British prisoners dissolved into howls of laughter as Gussie's men ran around trying to recapture the hens while Combe ran after them, remonstrating with them to be careful and not injure his birds.
Meanwhile, the saga of Neame's gigantic trunk had not yet ended. Several sweating and cursing guards had managed with great difficulty to manoeuvre it into a compartment, wedging it between the overhead luggage racks. The guards stepped back, relieved that the job was over, and made to leave.
'Oh no, no, this won't do at all,' began General Neame to the young officer in charge. 'It's dangerous, you understand?' he said, pointing to the trunk above them. 'It could fall and kill someone.'
The Italian, his eyes glancing towards the heavens in silent protest, took a deep breath. Then, with heavy heart, he turned and ordered his men to take the trunk down. After some considerable effort the great trunk was laid across the compartment's seats, creating a wall behind which General Neame sat silently by the carriage window. The problem was obvious: the trunk blocked the escort commander from seeing if Neame was still in the carriage. Another argument erupted.
In the meantime, the Italians had managed to recapture all of Combe's hens except for one stubborn layer called Victoria. The hens and their houses were loaded aboard the goods van and Combe was pushed on board the passenger carriage to join the other officers. Victoria was still free on the platform. A concerned Combe leaned out of the window, trying to see his hen. At this point the station master blew his whistle and the steam train lurched forward, its bogeys and wheels squealing on the tracks, carriages jerking and shuddering. Suddenly, Combe saw a figure run up to the window – it was one of the station porters that had helped to load the prisoners' luggage. He had Victoria in his hands, and quickly handed her up to Combe as the train pulled away from the platform.
'Bless you, young man, bless you!' shouted Combe, as he was bundled into the compartment. Taking a length of string from his pocket, Combe quickly tied Victoria's legs together and placed her in one of the overhead luggage racks. By now, the compartment was filled by the raised voices of Neame and the escort commander, who were still arguing over the positioning of the general's travelling trunk. Admitting defeat, the young Italian officer decided to clamber over the obstacle and seat himself opposite Neame. As he passed beneath Victoria on her lofty perch, the stressed hen gave vent to her feelings and defecated all over the officer's cap and shoulder.
'I told you my hens were unwell,' said Combe to the red-faced officer.
'Never mind, old chap,' said General O'Connor to the Italian, a huge grin plastered across his face. 'It's a sign of good luck where I come from.'
The officer's eyes darted about the compartment before he abruptly stalked off in search of a damp cloth, followed down the corridor by gales of laughter from the generals and brigadiers, several of whom were holding on to each other and wiping tears from their eyes. It was, all in all, a fitting end to their imprisonment at Sulmona.
* * *
A few hours later the train pulled into Florence station, following a transfer at Rome. Everyone perked up, looking forward to seeing their new home, which the Italians continued to describe with such enchantment 'that I could well picture all the charms of Decameron Nights', wrote De Wiart, 'and was only wondering what I should do by day.'
'Well, blow me down, it's old Tutti-Frutti,' declared Brigadier Todhunter to the compartment and General De Wiart in particular. Standing on the platform was indeed the genial Italian officer who had escorted Todhunter and De Wiart by ship from Libya to the Villa Orsini months before. Both men were quite touched that this officer should have taken the time to greet them again. It appeared to be another portent that their lot was improving.
The baggage and animals were unloaded on to several trucks sent down from the castle, and the British prisoners climbed into cars for the onward journey. Conversation ceased as the convoy, escorted by a motorcycle combination, began to climb out of Florence and into the countryside. The generals and brigadiers sat silently staring out of the car windows, evaluating the lay of the land, 'wondering whether or not it was going to be good 'escaping country'. But then, like John Leeming the day before, they clapped eyes upon the Castello di Vincigliata and their hearts fell.
'You know, I have a bad feeling about this, chaps,' said Brigadier Combe to the other officers in his car as he stared up at the castle's massive stone walls and battlemented towers.
'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,' muttered General O'Connor next to Combe, quoting Dante. His eyes had taken on a hard, flinty expression as he stared through the car's windows at the castle. He had spoken for everyone in the party.
CHAPTER 7
The Eagles' Nest
'Although Vincigliata itself was a bitter disappointment to us with its impregnable and unrelenting appearance, the actual move acted as a tremendous impetus and spur to our escape plans. From the moment we arrived in Vincigliata we never thought of anything else at all.'
Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart
Dick O'Connor's eyes darted everywhere as the cars and trucks carrying the generals and their luggage turned on to the castle's approach road. The surrounding country was gloomy and dense with cypresses. The grey-brown walls of the castle's outer perimeter were slick from a gentle rain that had begun to fall once the caravan had entered the hills above Florence.
'Some country club,' remarked O'Connor to no one in particular, Mazawattee's promises prominent in his mind. Like John Leeming the day before, O'Connor's eyes scanned the approach for any sign of a weakness in the castle's defences that could be exploited by the prisoners. But the structure appeared solid. It was a medieval Florentine fortress with five stories above ground and two below. As the vehicles passed into the castle's shadow, everyone noted the immense thickness of the walls, and the magnitude of the battlements: 15–30 feet high with towers in the northeast and northwest corners, enclosing a tall central keep.
There was little talking as the generals passed through several portals into the castle's gloomy inner sanctum on 24 September 1941. 'We were a silent, despondent bunch as we entered this vault of a prison,' described Carton de Wiart. The only bright moment was seeing John Leeming again; he greeted them in front of the main accommodation area.
If Leeming was pleased to see the generals, his enthusiasm rapidly wore off as he started to show them to their rooms. Leeming's rationale of allocating rooms by the simple expedient of the higher a man's rank, the larger his room, had seemed sensible. But he had not taken into account the personal feelings of the generals, who he described, with commendable understatement, as being 'tired and overheated' on arrival.
'Look here, Leeming, can't you give me a room better suited for escape?' said General O'Connor conspiratorially when shown his allocated room. Within ten minutes of the generals' arrival, Leeming's carefully worked-out accommodation plan was in tatters.
'It's a blasted dungeon, man!' growled De Wiart on being shown to his new subterranean digs. 'Winter's almost upon us. I shall freeze down here.' General Neame, who had spent most of his life in tropical climes and consequently couldn't stand the cold, shared De Wiart's objection. 'I can't sleep in here, Leeming,' said Neame, scanning his new room, the largest bedroom in the castle, as befitted his position as 'father of the camp'. 'It's as big as a church, for goodness sake.' Both men demanded smaller, more easily heated rooms. De Wiart's problem was quickly solved by giving him a tiny room in the top of the central tower, General Gambier-Parry swapping with him. The uncomplaining Colonel Younghusband took Neame's 'church room', ironically pleased with the space after the overcrowding at the Villa Orsini.
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd was particularly fraught after the long journey. Never in great health since being taken prisoner, he looked all in as he approached Leeming. 'John, I don't give a damn where I sleep,' he said wearily. 'If it would be easier, I'll swap my room for one of the others.'
'Is there nowhere better, old chap?' asked Brigadier Combe on being presented with his room by Leeming, who was by now struggling to maintain his composure and feeling for all the world like the harassed manager of some third-rate hotel.
'I like to think that they were tired by the long journey from Sulmona,' wrote Leeming charitably, having retired to his own small room with a considerable headache and the grumblings of the generals still ringing in his ears. The general consensus was that Leeming had made a mess of things.
* * *
The next morning, after a good night's rest, the prisoners began to explore their new home. It made for a depressing activity, for it appeared that their first impressions of the castle had been accurate.
'That damned Temple-Leader fellow has certainly made our lives difficult,' commented General De Wiart as he stood in the castle's courtyard and stared about him. 'What an absolutely wretched place.'
The Duke of Montalto's intriguing comment to Leeming at their introduction, when he had described the Castello di Vincigliata as 'The Englishman's Castle' had been explained to Leeming by Baron Ricciardi. Leeming had then briefed the generals. It seemed that the castle was ancient, dating back to the 13th century. Originally, an important Florentine noble family had owned it, before it was passed to another family, the Usimbardi, famous for introducing glass manufacturing to Florence. It changed hands again before the Buonaccorsi banking family obtained the castle. In 1345, when the Florence banks crashed – caused, incidentally, by bad debts run up by King Edward III of England – the castle had been sold to the Albizi family of wealthy merchants. A branch of this family controlled the castle for over 300 years until by the mid-17th century it had been allowed to fall into disrepair.
In 1827 the castle and its lands were sold to Lorenzo da Rovezzano, and the ruin became a haunt of fashionable artists and writers who would travel up the eight miles from Florence to view it. The fortunes of the castle changed dramatically when an Englishman came upon the tranquil ruins one day and immediately seized upon the opportunity to create something striking and romantic.
John Temple-Leader had been born into a wealthy merchant family and entered the House of Commons young. A Liberal and a supporter of the Chartists, Temple-Leader's political career had not flourished, and though well connected and respected, the Commons did not hold him. He was a man who was fascinated by Europe and its history and was a personal friend of the exiled Louis-Napoleon, nephew of Napoleon I and the future Emperor of France. Temple-Leader also loved art and antiquities; numbered among his other acquaintances were the family of the painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. In 1844, at the age of just 34, Temple-Leader abruptly left politics, and Britain, for the Continent, hardly ever to return.
After a brief stay in Cannes, Temple-Leader had settled in Florence where he bought several houses and villas and then carefully restored them to their former glory, filling them with his large collections of art and antiquities. The ruined Vincigliata Castle was purchased in 1855, and it would take Temple-Leader fifteen years to transform the mouldering old walls and collapsed towers into his vision of a fairytale castle, complete with two huge towers, crenellated battlements, dungeons and great gatehouses, surrounded by a moat and set on the side of a hill in 700 acres of grounds.
In 1875 the celebrated American writer Henry James had visited the castle and admired Temple-Leader's massive folly. 'This elaborate piece of imitation has no superficial use,' wrote James, 'but, even if it were less complete, less successful, less brilliant, I should feel a reflective kindness for it. So handsome a piece of work is its own justification; it belongs to the heroics of culture.'
With such a ringing endorsement from so famous a writer, it was little wonder that Temple-Leader's castle attracted many of the most famous and prominent personages making the Grand Tour across Europe, including royalty. In 1888 Queen Victoria signed the visitors' book and sketched in the grounds. Temple-Leader was rewarded by the Italian government for his preservation efforts in and around Florence, which had by the end of the 19th century a sizeable British expatriate community. King Victor Emmanuel I created Temple-Leader a Knight of the Order of the Crown of Italy.
But following Temple-Leader's death in 1903 his estates passed to his great-nephew Lord Westbury, who had no interest in the buildings or their contents. All were sold off. The castle once more entered a period of deterioration until it was loaned to the Italian government for use as a prisoner of war camp in 1941. By then, the building had been largely stripped of its artistic treasures, save for the stone lions that guarded the main gate, and its carvings and frescoes; the once immaculate formal gardens had been left to run to seed, and the whole place had taken on a look and feeling of faded grandeur and dusty irrelevance.
But Temple-Leader had effectively gifted the Italians the perfect prison. His careful rebuilding and remodelling work had been done using the best materials, resulting in a tremendously strong building that was, just like a real medieval castle, virtually impregnable, and therefore ideal for holding people inside.
'Imagine an old castle restored in the worst Victorian style,' wrote Lord Ranfurly to his wife, 'grey and featureless with enormous battlements and a tower in one corner.'
The castle's walls, with an acre and a quarter of battlements, traced a rectangle 100 by 80 yards across the hilltop, with commanding views for several miles around, including down into Florence where the golden-roofed Duomo Cathedral could be seen on clear days. Beyond the hill upon which the castle sat there was a slight hollow, then another hill, this one studded with villas formerly occupied by British expats, leading eventually to Monte Fano. To the west was a 'huge mass of rock several hundreds of feet higher than the castle', which the prisoners would christen 'The Quarries'. Beyond this feature was the village of Fiesole, on a hill a little way out of Florence. To the east side of the castle lay the village of Settignano, with the Arno River flowing below towards Pisa and the Mediterranean Sea.
The castle itself consisted of a seven-storied keep (including, of course, two subterranean floors – De Wiart's 'blasted dungeon') the walls of which were two-and-a-half feet thick. Prisoner accommodation was on the southern side of the building, consisting of bedrooms and cloisters twenty feet below a formal interior garden with yew hedges, with more bedrooms and the prisoners' public rooms in the keep proper. At the northwest corner of the keep was a bricked-up chapel and vestry. To the north of the keep was the gate tower, with two portals to enter the castle's courtyard, and another tower at the northeast corner of the massive outer walls, which stood 15–30 feet high depending on the elevation of the hill and which were fitted with a wooden inside walkway so that the sentries could patrol the perimeter between their guard boxes. The garrison lived in an area north of the keep, enclosed by its own internal ten-foot-high brick wall, known as 'The White Wall' because it was plastered. Running parallel to the castle's western curtain wall was an outer garden enclosed by another wall with a gatehouse at its northern end leading out on to a public road.
There were no swimming pools, contrary to Colonel Mazawattee's vivid description given at Sulmona, and initially no walks were allowed and no playing areas provided, save for the odd cramped space. The gardens were a tangle of weeds. The only pleasant area for the prisoners to use was a terrace set above the cloisters on the castle's south side where they could sit or sunbathe with stunning views over the Florentine skyline. Perhaps the best thing the place had going for it was the modern plumbing, which Brigadier Todhunter was told had been installed by an American owner some years before.
Two things about Temple-Leader's castle struck the prisoners. Firstly, the windows in the keep were small, making the place gloomy and chilly. Secondly, the castle was a warren of passages and odd-sized rooms, with many disused or closed-off areas. In contrast to Henry James's adoring description of the castle in 1875, Carton de Wiart was under no such illusions in 1941: 'Whether the Castello di Vincigliata is rococo or baroque I do not know, but I do know that Queen Victoria lunched there and Queen Elizabeth did not sleep there, and I know better still that I thought it was the most horrible looking place I had ever seen.'
Being constantly observed soon took a toll on the prisoners' nerves. The castle appeared no more suitable to General Neame and the others than had the Villa Orsini. 'They consider themselves to be too cramped in their new residence,' commented a Red Cross inspection report, 'and in addition the walls and the surrounding road which dominate the Chateau garden and from which they are incessantly watched by sentries contribute considerably to their sense of imprisonment.'
* * *
The prisoners soon noticed that the castle had a very different routine from that at the Villa Orsini. There was a roll call twice daily, where the entire complement of prisoners would assemble for counting in the courtyard; there were random inspections, and very strict blackout regulations. They were guarded by 200 heavily armed Italian Carabinieri. There was, however, widespread relief that their new commandant was a gentleman and clearly an Anglophile. General Neame was delighted to discover that the Duke of Montalto was an Old Cheltonian. Lieutenant Ricciardi settled in to his new position on the staff at the castle alongside the ever-suspicious security officer Captain Pederneschi and the young Second Lieutenant Visocchi, who curiously spoke English with a strong Scottish accent, having studied in Glasgow before the war.
* * *
The first escape committee meeting was convened within days of the prisoners' arrival. Now they were settled, planning for escapes could recommence, and this time in earnest.
'Well, gentlemen, we appear to be facing a much bigger challenge than that posed by the Villa Orsini,' said General Neame, chairing the meeting. 'I don't think any of us expected this,' he said, referring to the castle. The others nodded or grunted in agreement. Though they were nearly 200 miles closer to Switzerland, the castle presented any potential escapers with some very serious challenges.
'Clearly, the Eye-ties are determined to keep us under lock and key for the duration,' continued Neame grimly. Instructions were issued. Each prisoner was told to study the castle and the movements and habits of its guards. They must look for a chink in the castle's armour, some weakness in its defences, that might permit an escape attempt.
'We need ideas, gentlemen, and lots of them,' said Neame plainly.
* * *
Life at the castle took on much the same form as it had at the Villa Orsini. The orderlies dealt with the cooking, shopping and cleaning under Leeming's supervision, while General Neame assumed overall leadership of the camp, assisted by Brigadier Vaughan who acted as his right-hand man. Henhouses and rabbit cages were installed and the animals were tended by the senior officers. Air Vice-Marshal Boyd reopened his carpentry workshop. Brigadier Todhunter began accumulating books for what would one day be a 1,000-volume library, and General Gambier-Parry began instructing the others in art, including the dark art of forgery, as well as music, which was his other passion. He also took up poker in the evenings, but as Lord Ranfurly noted, 'plays extraordinarily badly and we all win his money'. After the tedium of Sulmona, everyone at the castle felt buoyed up by their closer proximity to Switzerland, and this was soon reflected by a number of escape plans that were brought before Neame's secret committee.
* * *
'Right, Dick, tell us what you have,' said Neame to General O'Connor one evening in late September 1941. The officers were meeting once again in secret after dinner. For several weeks O'Connor and Carton de Wiart had been thrashing out the theory behind a new scheme. It was time to present their idea to Neame and the rest of the committee for their approval.
O'Connor and De Wiart had become fast friends, and were as thick as thieves plotting escapes. 'The ideas and the working out of the plans gave us a zest and a vital interest that nothing else could have done,' wrote De Wiart. 'Personally, without this one thought, I imagine I should have either have become disgruntled, irascible and peppery, or else have reached the state of apathy I slide into in hospital when, after a long illness, I start to dread the mere idea of recovering and am perfectly content to stay in bed, preferably for ever.' Everyone coped with imprisonment in different ways, but the planning of escapes brought them together and gave them a defined purpose that none of the other activities they performed at the castle – from gardening, animal husbandry and music to carpentry and painting – would give them. Most importantly, it gave them hope.
'There is, in my opinion, every reason to think that four of us can get clean away,' said Dick O'Connor at the meeting, as he began to outline his and De Wiart's new scheme. 'Obviously, much preparation still remains to be made, but I'd like to run through what Carton and I have come up with.'
'Please do, Dick,' replied Neame, lighting a cigarette. The rest of the officer prisoners had gathered in the sitting room and were seated in comfortable armchairs. There was a certain faded grandeur to the castle's furnishings. At this time of the evening, they all knew that the Italians rarely entered the castle. They would come at a certain time in the night to check that all of the prisoners were in their rooms asleep, but for now they shouldn't be disturbed.
'Carton and I propose an escape through the windows right behind you,' said O'Connor pointing. All heads turned to the darkened windows that were set along one side of the ground floor dining room. The dining room was located on the north side of the castle's central keep, facing the guards' compound and the two corner towers.
'The team will consist of six men. Four will form the escaping party, along with two assistants,' said O'Connor, turning back to the table. 'Once through one of those windows, the team will cross the garden to the white wall. The wall is, as you know, about ten feet tall, so they will carry a ladder. Once on top of the wall, the team will pull the ladder up after them and use it to descend into the Italian part of the castle. The team will then creep to the castle's outer wall and climb up to the battlements via the staircase near the gate tower.' O'Connor paused, scanning the faces around him.
'Obviously, this sort of thing can only be done under the cover of darkness, and preferably a further layer of cover,' he added, running a finger along one corner of his white moustache.
'What sort of cover do you have in mind, Dick?' asked Neame.
'We'll wait until a windy and wet night. The noise of the wind will deaden the noise of our movements and the rain will hopefully keep the sentries in their boxes,' replied O'Connor.
'How do you propose to get off the castle wall?' asked Neame.
'Well, this is where the two assistants come in to play,' replied O'Connor. 'We'll secure a rope to the battlements, and then each man can slide down to the dry moat outside. It's a drop of perhaps fifteen feet at that end of the castle. The assistants will then haul the rope back up and retrace their route back here, covering our tracks.'
'Gosh, those chaps will be taking a big risk,' said Neame. 'They'll be making the journey twice.'
'That's right, Phil,' replied O'Connor. 'However, if done correctly, we could use this method more than once.'
'Well, I'd like to volunteer as one of the assistants, if you'll have me,' said Neame. 'This job is also going to require some muscle, so I think we should ask Sergeant Baxter to act as the second assistant. He's young and fit and probably the strongest man among us.'
'I was thinking along the same lines myself, Phil,' replied O'Connor. 'He's a grand type. I'll ask him later.'
'Now, who do you have in mind for the escaping team, apart from yourself and Carton?' asked Neame.
'Hold on, sir,' piped up one of the generals. 'I don't mean to be indelicate, but surely Carton is in no shape for such a job?'
General De Wiart's head whipped round, his one eye flashing at this obvious remark. He was going, he thundered, and any so-and-so who thought otherwise 'could do this, that, and the other!' as Leeming later recounted. His barrack-room language made even hardened soldiers blanch. 'He must hold the world record for bad language,' wrote Lord Ranfurly to his wife. When it was pointed out, not unreasonably, that a one-armed man could not climb fifteen feet down a rope without assistance, O'Connor was ready with the answer.
'We'll tie the rope around Carton's waist, and General Neame, Baxter and myself can lower him to the ground. I, as the smallest and lightest, will be the last man over the wall.'
'Quite so,' barked De Wiart, still fuming from the questioning of his ability.
'Who else will you be taking with you?' asked Neame.
'Boyd and Combe,' replied O'Connor. The other two escapers nodded silently, having already been let in on the plan several days before. The team was an eclectic mix. The redoubtable O'Connor lived and breathed escaping day and night. He thought about little else. De Wiart viewed the whole thing as essentially a game, and it appealed to his swashbuckling nature. Air Vice-Marshal Boyd was sober and serious. He was 'essentially a realist, and he wanted to have the answer ready for every situation that might arise.' He believed that escaping was his duty, though he harboured serious reservations about their chances of actually getting out of Italy. Brigadier Combe, though a fusspot over his hens, was as solid as a rock when it came to escaping.
'What about the sentries on the battlements?' asked Brigadier Todhunter.
'Where we will climb up, the nearest sentry is about 50 yards away. As I mentioned before, the sentries will in all likelihood be inside their boxes because of the inclement weather. You may have noticed, gentlemen, that our guards at present are not as alert as they should be. I don't think they expect us bunch of old campaigners to try anything so foolish as escaping.' The other officers guffawed.
'Well, gentlemen, we've a lot to think about,' said Neame matter-of-factly. 'I like your plan, Dick, and I think that with careful preparation you've every chance of pulling off a splendid show. The issues as I see them are as follows. The ground over which we will cross will need to be surveyed for cover, and noise tests conducted on windy nights.'
O'Connor and the others all nodded.
'Have you thought about disguises?'
'Actually, we've an excellent tailor among the orderlies, sir,' interjected Brigadier Combe. 'Private Dwyer. I think that he can help us put together escape outfits.'
'We haven't yet spoken about the ultimate destination, which I take it will be the Swiss frontier,' said Neame.
'Carton and I have calculated that it will take the team about 21 days to march to the frontier,' said O'Connor. 'So we are making our ration packs up based on that duration. We've already started working out the correct weight-to-size ratios.'
'What about maps and compasses?' asked Neame.
'We're going to ask our tame doctor for some help on the maps side of things,' replied O'Connor, referring to the castle's Italian Army medical officer Dr Egon Bolaffio. Through his conversations with the prisoners, it was clear that Bolaffio was highly sympathetic to the Allied cause, and vocally anti-Fascist. He could probably be trusted. Due to his unique position, the doctor was able to come and go without unduly arousing interest from the guards, and, importantly, as an Italian officer he wasn't searched. It was now a question of whether the good doctor was prepared to directly assist an escape. O'Connor and his conspirators were running a risk letting the doctor in on part of the plan, but it was a risk that they judged to be worth a stretch in solitary. The doctor, after all, would be playing for far higher stakes than any of the prisoners. If caught aiding an escape, Bolaffio could expect to be put up against the nearest wall and shot.
'Once we have the necessary maps to hand, we'll be employing G-P's services to reproduce them.'
Gambier-Parry smiled and nodded. G-P's artistic skills were already widely appreciated by the other prisoners; they were skills that were easily turned to copying and forging.
'Leeming has agreed to make the compasses,' said Boyd, turning to his ADC beside him.
'Good show, Leeming,' said Neame. Leeming knew that it was going to be a challenge, but he had already sketched out a preliminary design and thought about available materials.
'So, we've much to do,' announced Neame at the end of the meeting. 'There's one more thing that I'd like to add before we break up. As you know, I favour any show that causes the Eye-ties maximum aggravation. Even if you don't get to Switzerland, simply getting our chaps beyond the walls will tie down inordinate Italian military resources that could be better employed elsewhere.' Everyone grunted their agreement. 'It will show Il Duce and his rabble that we are not prepared to sit out the rest of the show, as they undoubtedly expect.'
As the meeting broke up and the officers headed for their rooms, there was a feeling that a corner had at last been turned. They had a workable plan, and though there were many boxes yet to tick, the plan was sound. More than that, nearly everyone was to be involved in some way, whether or not they were on the actual escape team. Finally, after the months of lethargy and time-wasting at the Villa Orsini, they all had a defined goal to aim for. It rejuvenated them all, and gave purpose to their otherwise drab existences as prisoners.
It all looked so simple: how could they possibly fail?
* * *
In the event, Dr Bolaffio really came through for the prisoners. O'Connor managed to have a quiet word with the good doctor on one of his regular visits to the prisoners' rooms, normally made two or three times a week, and Bolaffio was only too keen to help. A few days later he returned to O'Connor and ushered him into his room.
'Take these,' said the young Bolaffio, unbuttoning the top of his tunic and pulling out a flattened bundle of papers that he had secreted inside.
O'Connor quickly examined the 'papers' and was astonished to discover a complete set of Italian military maps for the region between the castle and the Swiss frontier.
'How in the hell did you get your hands on these, doctor?' asked a dumbfounded O'Connor.
'Headquarters in Florence,' replied Bolaffio. 'I "borrowed" them. But they must be returned soon, before they are missed. How long will you need to copy them, general?'
'Can you give us a week?' asked O'Connor, deeply impressed by the doctor's bravery and guile.
'A week would be too long,' replied Bolaffio, grimacing. 'Three days, general, then I will return for them.'
Suddenly, the two conspirators heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room. O'Connor quickly stashed the maps under his bedding. Bolaffio started to 'examine' the general, just as Captain Pederneschi pushed the door, which was slightly ajar, wide open. Pederneschi stepped into O'Connor's room and stared at the two men, a pair of kid leather gloves held in one hand while the other rested on his leather pistol holster.
'Yes, that's nothing to worry about, General O'Connor,' said Bolaffio slowly, feeling O'Connor's glands in his neck. 'You will feel fine in a couple of days.'
'Are you ill, Generale?' enquired Pederneschi, his eyes boring into O'Connor's.
'Just a sore throat, Captain,' replied O'Connor hoarsely.
'Well, you should take better care of yourself... at your age,' replied Pederneschi, a slightly sarcastic tone entering his voice as he spoke.
* * *
'I'm too old for this nonsense,' complained a panting and sweating Owen Boyd as he hauled his short body up yet another flight of steps inside the castle's central keep.
'What about me, old boy,' asked a cheerful Carton de Wiart, who was right behind Boyd. 'I'm eight years older than you, you know!'
'Just think of the end goal, chaps,' gasped Brigadier Combe, behind De Wiart.
'The only... thing... I'm... thinking about,' managed Boyd, 'is my breakfast and... a... bloody... sit... down.'
'That's the trouble with you flyboys,' quipped De Wiart, 'you spend half your life sitting on your arses up in the wild blue yonder and the other half propping up one end of a bar!'
'Bloody... cheek!' gasped Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. 'But I'm too... tired... to argue with you.'
'How many steps to the top?' called out General O'Connor from the back of the queue of climbing men.
'One hundred... and fifty-seven,' announced De Wiart, grinning fiercely.
'You're loving this, aren't you Carton!' replied O'Connor.
'Nothing like a bracing climb in the morning, what!' bellowed De Wiart, barely breaking a sweat. 'I'll race you old farts to the top!' The endurance of the castle's most elderly resident was truly astonishing. He seemed hardly out of breath.
'God save us!' growled Boyd as De Wiart's tall frame elbowed past him up the stone steps. 'I do believe... Carton... will run... all the way... to Switzerland!'
Endurance training had begun shortly after General Neame had given the go-ahead for the white wall job. It had been calculated that the team of four escapers would need to hike cross-country for 21 days in order to bring them to the Swiss frontier and freedom. Each man would need to carry his kit, and rations to sustain him, in a rucksack, the weight of which was calculated at around 25lbs. O'Connor and De Wiart quickly devised an exercise regime to bring the team to the peak of physical fitness for the trial ahead.
Dummy rucksacks were made, and were filled with old bricks to simulate the weight of the escape kit. Each morning O'Connor, De Wiart, Boyd and Combe rose at 5.30am and for one hour marched briskly up and down the tall stone staircases inside the central keep that rose seven floors from the dungeons to the top of the battlements. The other officers and men acted as lookouts to ensure that the calisthenics were not interrupted by the sudden appearance of an Italian guard. It was a punishing routine for the middle-aged escapers. Combe, the youngest, was 48, while De Wiart was over 63 years old.
The generals also learned skills more appropriate to young commandos than middle-aged senior officers. Once on to the outer curtain wall of the castle during the night-time escape, the four-man team would be expected to climb down the fifteen-foot outside drop by rope. A quiet place was found where they could practise, and after several weeks the generals could shin up and down ropes like circus performers, with the exception of De Wiart. It had been agreed that Generals Neame and O'Connor, assisted by the burly Sergeant Baxter, would lower the one-handed hero to the ground. The technique for doing this was duly perfected. 'Baxter was an ardent weight-lifting devotee,' wrote De Wiart, 'performed every gymnastic, and let down my eleven stone and over six foot body as if I had been a baby in a blanket.'
The window that would be used to exit the dining room was carefully prepared, its hinges oiled so that no sound would be made on the night of the escape. But much more involved efforts were under way to produce the escape equipment. Private Dwyer, the camp's tailor, worked for weeks recutting and dying pieces of uniform until all four men had a convincing suit of civilian clothes. Many experiments were made with the packing and repacking of the escapers' rucksacks, to find the correct load and size. Gambier-Parry excelled himself in the production of maps and route cards, hand-drawn from the maps that Dr Bolaffio had bravely 'borrowed' from Italian military headquarters in Florence. Mounted on linen, the maps could be folded out to show particular districts that the escapers would pass through on their way to Switzerland, and were completely waterproof.
One of the most important pieces of kit that each escaper required was a compass, without which the maps would be next to useless. Flight Lieutenant Leeming was given the task of manufacturing four small compasses. He found that the small, round Bakelite boxes that held boot polish were ideal. Leeming fitted each emptied box with a magnetised needle, the tip marked with a small piece of luminous paint from a broken wristwatch to show north in the darkness. The compasses were waterproofed with glass lids made from carefully ground and shaped pieces of glass that Leeming stole from small windows in out-of-the-way parts of the castle. He shaped the glass on the castle's rough stone walls, a tedious job that required weeks of careful work. Once complete, each compass was immersed in a tank of water for 24 hours to test the waterproofing.
Neame had set Zero Day, the day of the escape, provisionally for sometime in the autumn of 1941. By 7 November winter had 'set in with very cold weather,' noted Todhunter, 'which makes me and everyone else hungry.' The supply of Red Cross parcels had been intermittent into the winter, and Todhunter noted dramatic weight loss. He had shed 21lbs since April. The weather and food shortages conspired to make life rather grim for the prisoners. 'Our castle is pretty cold... and almost impossible to keep warm,' Todhunter wrote.
The escape preparations took so long that it was Christmas before the civilian outfits, rope, compasses and maps were finally ready. It was now much too late in the year to contemplate an escape. The weather in Northern Italy was snowy and often very wet during the winter, and the four escapers would not have been able to survive outside for the best part of a month. There was nothing for it but to await the spring.
* * *
Christmas became a time of reflection for the prisoners, with their thoughts naturally turning to home and family. 'Somehow ordinary days are easy to bear and it is only on a day like yesterday that one really feels what it is like to be a prisoner,' wrote Lord Ranfurly to his wife on Boxing Day 1941. 'Luckily I was fairly busy preparing our rather ersatz celebrations and didn't have time to think too much.'
The generals managed a fair Christmas, made easier by a healthy stock of wine and spirits. Presents arrived in the shape of gifts from the YMCA – board games, musical instruments and two complete badminton sets. Red Cross parcels had been sent, but unfortunately they arrived too late for the festivities. Mail did come, and Ranfurly was not alone in being outraged at how their imprisonment was being perceived back home by friends and family. 'So many people write to us in all seriousness and say, "How nice for you to see the art galleries, etc., in Florence." Are we indignant! I've only seen Florence from the railway station. This is a prison.'
The prisoners had managed to fatten a few turkeys for Christmas and these had been slain and cooked. 'Our cooks excelled themselves and even contrived to make very passable imitations of mince pies and plum pudding, but they were very sensitive about the ingredients,' noted Todhunter. 'I strongly suspect coloured tripe of doing duty as candied peel!' Entertainment was left up to the prisoners. 'After dinner you would have laughed to see our rather staid selection of old gentlemen playing charades,' wrote Todhunter to his father. 'It finally resolved itself into a series of lightning sketches mainly from the Old Testament all of which were very funny but would not have been a great success at a W.I. party!'
* * *
A big shock came just after Christmas 1941 when the Duke of Montalto announced that he was being posted to Libya. The prisoners had grown close to the Italian aristocrat in the first three months of their imprisonment at the castle, Neame describing him as 'a first class officer... who treated us in the best possible way'. This had reached its zenith when Neame had extended an invitation to Montalto to join the senior officers for Christmas dinner. Montalto had accepted and dined pleasantly with the generals. But word had subsequently leaked out among the other Italian officers and guards of an incident at the dinner party. Neame had stood and proposed a toast to the king, the British king, and Montalto, undoubtedly deciding not to give offence, had duly stood along with everyone else around the table and drunk to George VI's health. A pro-Fascist member of the staff had leaked the news to the authorities in Rome, who had decided, not unreasonably, that Montalto had to go. He was packed off to the front line where he was (ironically) captured by the British and became a POW. His place was taken on 3 February 1942 by a man of more humble origins, an Anglophobic hardline Fascist, First Captain Tranquille of the Bersaglieri, an elite corps of riflemen that in combat wore as their emblem a burst of black cockerel feathers on the right side of the helmet.
Tranquille was instantly disliked by most of the British prisoners, General Gambier-Parry describing him as being 'like one of those slugs that you find under a stone'. A thin man with sharp aquiline features and a pronounced stoop, Tranquille wore a permanent scowl and was to prove to be an assiduous commandant who had been sent to watch the prisoners very carefully indeed. He more than complemented his Fascist security officer, Captain Pederneschi, in this regard. General Neame was less harsh in his assessment of Tranquille, calling him 'an efficient and correct officer who organised and ran the castle well', which was true, but he was not well liked. As for Pederneschi, Neame wasn't the only prisoner who had soon taken the measure of the man, noting that although he was 'outwardly affable' he could quickly lose his temper when crossed. The prisoners intended that Captain Pederneschi should have plenty to lose his temper about over the following weeks and months.
CHAPTER 8
Trial and Error
'If one of the first duties of a prisoner of war is to incite his guards to mount more and more sentries and so dissipate his energies away from the battlefield, then we were doing our duty.'
Brigadier James Hargest
'Generale Neame, I am to inform you that more prisoners are to arrive at the Castello on the 13th of March,' said First Captain Tranquille in a bored tone on 9 March 1942.
'More prisoners? Do you know their names?' replied Neame, standing before Tranquille's wooden office desk.
'They are all brigadiers,' said Tranquille, ignoring the question. 'Two British, two from New Zealand. You may meet them at the gate when they arrive. I will have Lieutenant Visocchi inform you of the time. Colonels Younghusband and Fanshawe are to be transferred to another camp to make space. That is all, Generale.' The grim-faced Tranquille saluted the hatless Neame then slowly slumped into his desk chair, his thin, slope-shouldered frame resembling a morose vulture.
Neame left the commandant's office filled with excitement. Four new faces would do much to improve the quality of conversation among the prisoners, which after months together was becoming rather stale, though it was regrettable that Younghusband and Fanshawe would be going. Both men would be sorely missed.
The new arrivals would hopefully bring fresh news of the war and its progress, as well as hoped-for skills and expertise that the escape committee could use to its advantage. When Neame told the others, that evening in the mess, there was much excited chattering. The 13th would be an interesting day.
* * *
The new prisoners arrived from Florence station in two cars escorted by a single motorcycle. They emerged from the cars with undisguised looks of horror and fascination etched into their faces as they viewed the castle up close for the first time, a distinctly familiar reaction to the old boys who had arrived the year before. It was immediately evident that the guards were conducting a search prior to booking the prisoners into the camp. Brigadier James Hargest was still sitting in the back seat of the Italian army car, his window rolled down, when Brigadier Douglas 'Pip' Stirling, British 1st Armoured Brigade, walked past from the other car.
'They got my blasted field glasses,' Stirling hissed in a fierce whisper. Hargest was worried. He had concealed a stash of forbidden banknotes and a completely illegal army compass in an old bully beef tin that he had rigged to look unopened.
Fifty-year-old James Hargest would be unique among the prisoners at the castle in that as well as being a highly decorated combat soldier he was also an elected politician. Born in New Zealand in 1891, Hargest had been severely wounded at Gallipoli in 1915, winning a Military Cross, before commanding a battalion on the Western Front, bringing him the first of his eventual three DSOs. In 1931 he had been elected Member of Parliament for Invercargill, and when war broke out in September 1939 he had volunteered for active service once again. He was turned down on medical grounds and it was only through the personal intervention of the New Zealand Prime Minister that Hargest was appointed to command 5th Infantry Brigade, part of the 2nd New Zealand Infantry Division that went to Greece. Hargest had come in for some criticism over his handling of his brigade during the vital Battle for Maleme Airfield during the German invasion of Crete, but he was subsequently awarded a Bar to his DSO. He had then taken his brigade to North Africa, where he was captured.
Hargest entered a small outer room of the castle where another door led through into staff quarters. A table and chair had been placed before the entrance, and Tranquille slouched behind it, waiting for the prisoners. Several burly guards stood around waiting to frisk the prisoners.
'I am going to search you, Brigadier Hargest,' announced Tranquille grandly. Hargest watched as his travelling bags were placed on the table before him by his batman, Private Howes. Hargest reached into his pocket and handed over the keys.
'Do you wish me to undress?' asked Hargest.
'Si, remove your coat,' replied Tranquille. Hargest quickly shrugged off his army greatcoat, extracting his precious tin from one pocket and also placing it on the table.
'My men will now search you,' said Tranquille. Several sentries expertly frisked Hargest, who raised his arms in reluctant cooperation. Tranquille suddenly ordered his men to stop.
'If you will give me your word that you do not have on your person any weapons, compasses, glasses or, how you say, files, I will stop the search.'
Hargest fixed Tranquille's brown eyes with his. 'I have nothing like that on my person, Captain, but I can't answer for my kit.'
Tranquille ordered Hargest's bags searched. No contraband was discovered. Hargest suddenly reached forward and picked up the can of bully beef. 'I thought you might object to this,' he said, as cool as a cucumber. Tranquille barely glanced at the fake can, for he had seen hundreds in the Red Cross parcels that were delivered to the castle. The prisoners received 60 parcels every fortnight.
'No, Brigadier, that's all right.'
Hargest picked up his greatcoat and slid the can into a pocket. He was shown through a side door and into the back of the main gate where a small reception committee stood waiting for him. Pip Stirling was already deep in conversation with General De Wiart, while Neame, O'Connor and Lord Ranfurly each shook his hand in welcome.
'Jim Hargest, 5th New Zealand Infantry Brigade. And this is Reg Miles, another Kiwi,' said Hargest, introducing the rangy, tough-looking man beside him.
'Bert Armstrong, 5th South African Infantry Brigade,' announced the last officer to emerge from the office, a large, jolly-looking fellow who limped slightly when he walked. 'Everyone calls me "O Bass",' said Armstrong in his strong South African accent.
'When did you chaps go into the bag?' asked O'Connor.
'They got me at Tobruk, December '41. Reg at Belhamed,' said Hargest.
'Sidi Rezeg, November '41,' said Armstrong, rubbing his game leg.
'Tobruk for me also – bloody Rommel!' said Stirling.
Lord Ranfurly was particularly pleased to meet the New Zealanders. His grandfather had been Governor-General of New Zealand between 1897 and 1904, and Ranfurly's father had acted as ADC to the Governor-General. Dan Ranfurly had visited New Zealand himself before the war.
'Welcome to the asylum, chaps,' said Neame. 'Let's show you to your quarters. It must have been a hellish journey. You'll probably want to freshen up a bit before the rest of the inmates chew your ears off. We're a bit short of visitors or news of late.'
* * *
The two New Zealand brigadiers, Hargest and Miles, were allocated small rooms in the top of the castle's tall keep, in what had been the servants' quarters during Temple-Leader's day. Hargest soon fell into conversation with General O'Connor.
'Miles and I are absolutely determined to escape by some means, sir,' said Hargest, as he unpacked a few of his things in his brick-floored bedroom. O'Connor stood by the small window. 'Obviously, we don't want to embarrass any of the others who have already made preparations. Their plans must take priority.'
'Well, Hargest, we do have a scheme under way at the moment. It involves myself, General De Wiart, Air Vice-Marshal Boyd and Brigadier Combe and it's been in the works for months,' said O'Connor. 'In fact, we're rather hoping to get away in the next night or two.'
O'Connor filled Hargest in on the details of the planned white wall job. Hargest was impressed. It seemed that the old generals knew their stuff. He and Miles would agree to lay off even elementary planning for their own job until after O'Connor's show had taken place. Instead, they offered their services to the existing scheme. Miles soon found employment. Gambier-Parry was overworked trying to produce maps for everyone, and Miles was an excellent copyist. He was set to work reproducing a map that was to be used during the white wall escape.
* * *
One week after the arrival of Hargest and Miles, General Neame announced that Zero Day, the day of the escape, was upon them. In the morning it had started raining hard, and the buzz among the generals was that today must be the day. All day various officers could be found peering through rain-streaked windows at the heavens or standing just inside doorways leading to the cloisters or terrace, smoking pipes or cigarettes, eyes narrowed as they contemplated the weather. A constant stream of amateur meteorological reports filtered back to the sitting room and smoking room, keeping everyone on edge. Dinner was served and it continued to rain steadily throughout. Many continued their routine of strolling to the doorways to check as the light faded from the grey, overcast sky and the night came on. The wait was agonising. At 9.00pm Generals Neame and O'Connor, the last pair to have gone outside, returned to the sitting room, where the rest of the generals were gathered before the fireplace on sofas and armchairs.
'Well, is it on?' asked Carton de Wiart without ceremony.
Neame slowly shook his head despairingly. 'I'm sorry chaps, but the wind has dropped and the rain is petering out.'
'Damn it!' exclaimed Brigadier Combe loudly, thumping his fist down against the arm of his chair in frustration. Everyone in the room shared his passionate disappointment. There was nothing that Neame could do except postpone the attempt until more favourable weather conditions prevailed. It was back to waiting.
* * *
A few days later the friendly Italian medical officer, Dr Bolaffio, was performing one of his regular visits to the castle. The castle lacked an infirmary and, the authorities perhaps being mindful not only of the elevated ranks of their prisoners but also their ages, Bolaffio had been assigned to visit the camp regularly to check on all of the prisoners. For emergencies, Bolaffio had been issued with an army motorcycle combination so that he could take a sick patient straight down to hospital in Florence. Bolaffio was often alone with the prisoners. On this visit he was particularly nervous.
'General Neame, I have heard that the castle is to be searched,' said the doctor in a fierce whisper.
'Searched?' exclaimed Neame in surprise. 'When?'
'I do not know for sure, but probably next week. Orders have arrived at our headquarters in Florence from Rome. Special experts are to be sent to search the castle.'
'Have you heard the reason for this sudden search?' asked Neame, his mind already turning to the caches of food, documents and civilian clothing that were hidden all over the castle in preparation for the white wall escape attempt.
'Don't worry, General, Rome does not suspect anything from you prisoners. It is just a new routine we must obey. It is also the same in the other prison camps in Italy. So if you have anything dangerous you burn it quick – especially any papers.'
'Thank you for the warning, doctor,' said Neame, shaking Bolaffio's hand warmly. 'You are a good friend to us.'
Neame called a meeting of the escape committee later that day, and it was agreed to check all the hiding places to ensure that the searchers, when they came, didn't locate any of the compromising escape materials. Once that had been completed it was simply a waiting game until Rome's bloodhounds arrived.
* * *
'Generale Neame,' said Major Bacci, saluting smartly. Bacci was the Carabinieri officer who oversaw all of the POW camps in the Florence region since 24 September 1941. He had arrived at the castle a few moments before with three truckloads of his men to begin the snap search. Bacci appeared slightly embarrassed by the task that Rome had set him.
The senior British officers were all inside their big sitting room. First Captain Tranquille had given orders earlier that they were to remain in this room while the search of the castle was conducted, and had posted several guards to back up his order. Bacci had then arrived, immediately paying his compliments to the Senior British Officer.
'I am sorry, Generale,' began Bacci, a good-looking middle-aged officer with a pencil-thin black moustache and superbly tailored uniform. 'I hope that you will understand that it is nothing to do with me,' he said, spreading his palms outward. 'I should never have thought of such a thing. But I have definite orders from Rome. I have explained that such a thing is unnecessary with the high-ranking officers, but Rome, it does not understand that.' As Bacci spoke, Neame and the other Britons made appropriate noises of agreement.
'Forgive me, gentlemen,' said Bacci, concluding his explanation. 'I have my orders. You will permit me to carry them out?' Neame nodded gravely.
'I shall call out each of you one at a time when my men search your rooms. After the search has been completed, you will wait in the courtyard,' said Bacci. 'Generale Neame, if you please, sir.'
Neame went first, escorted up to his room, which was diligently searched by several of Bacci's men. No contraband was found and Neame was led down to the courtyard to wait.
When Neame was led from the room, Dick O'Connor turned to the others, his face as white as a ghost.
'Oh God,' muttered O'Connor.
'Dick, what's the matter?' asked Gambier-Parry.
'My room,' muttered O'Connor, as if to himself, before breaking his reverie and grasping G-P's forearm fiercely. 'My room... I've left some papers in my room.'
'What papers?' asked Brigadier Todhunter, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
'An appreciation of the escape,' said O'Connor sickly. 'I left it in my bedside table drawer.'
'Oh my God,' exclaimed Todhunter and Combe simultaneously.
'What can we do?' asked G-P. 'We are not allowed to leave this room, and the door is guarded.'
'The next person who is taken out, he must warn Phil,' said O'Connor, coming to his senses. 'Phil will have to go up to my room, retrieve the papers and hide them.'
'We'd all better hope that this Bacci fellow doesn't pick you next, Dick,' said De Wiart ominously.
'I also have some letters in my room,' piped up Brigadier Combe.
'What letters?' demanded De Wiart.
'Farewell letters,' said Combe, almost wincing as he spoke.
'Farewell letters? Who in the hell to?' snapped De Wiart.
'Ricciardi and another friendly officer,' said Combe. The rest looked at him with amazement or bewilderment. 'Well, they've been damned good sports and it didn't seem right to not bid them a proper farewell,' said Combe defensively. The officers were permitted to write two letters and two postcards per week to relatives and friends. Combe's unusual take on the regulations was astonishing.
'Mad as a March hare!' barked De Wiart, shaking his head in disbelief.
'Well, never mind all that,' interjected Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. 'What are we going to do about it, that's the more pressing concern?'
'The same as for Connor's papers,' said De Wiart. 'The next man out of this room will bloody well have to warn Phil.'
'Er... I also have a problem,' piped up Brigadier Miles.
'Don't tell me you've been writing letters as well?' asked De Wiart.
'No, sir. It's a map... I was helping G-P to copy a map. It's in my tunic pocket on the back of my desk chair.'
'Anyone else?' said De Wiart ominously, his one eye flashing around the room in disgust.
Brigadier Armstrong reached into his tunic and pulled out a bundle of banknotes.
'I've 5,000 Egyptian piastres here,' he said, holding up the cash.
'Well get rid of it, man!' boomed De Wiart furiously. 'That goes for the rest of you. Hide anything incriminating.' Moving quickly, the officers checked their pockets and within a minute or two various papers and quantities of money were stashed in crannies around the large room, even inside the pile of ashes in the fireplace.
The generals had hardly finished when the door to the sitting room was thrown open and Major Bacci entered. He scanned the assembled faces, his eyes settling briefly on General O'Connor. Everyone froze. The only sound was the ticking of the large mantle clock over the fireplace. Then Bacci's eyes moved on. They swung across to Combe's face, which was the colour of putty.
'Brigadier Combe,' said Bacci. Combe's eyes met Bacci's. His stomach turned over as he bent to place his pipe in an ashtray.
'Are you not well?' asked Bacci.
'Well? Yes... I mean no... I mean, it's very... very stuffy in here,' stumbled Combe. Bacci raised one eyebrow.
'Please sit down, Brigadier. Generale Gambier-Parry, if you will follow me please,' said Bacci casually. Combe collapsed into the nearest armchair in relief. As G-P was led from the room he turned back and briefly nodded to O'Connor. The whole escape plan, honed and refined over months of hard work, now hung in the balance. The generals had one chance to stop Bacci and his hounds from uncovering the whole show.
* * *
'Phil, we have a problem,' said Gambier-Parry quietly as he strode over to where General Neame was standing in the courtyard. G-P had just been brought down from his room, which had been satisfactorily searched by Major Bacci's men without result.
'The chaps are going potty in the sitting room,' continued G-P. 'Seems that Dick has left some escape papers in his bedside drawer.'
'Come again?' exclaimed Neame, desperately trying to disguise his shock from a nearby Italian guard who glanced over at the two generals.
'Dick asks whether you'd mind popping up to his room and moving them to somewhere safer,' continued G-P.
Neame immediately grasped the situation, but also the difficulty of what G-P and O'Connor were asking him to do. But doing nothing was not an option – immediate action was the order of the day.
'Right, stay here, G-P,' said Neame, now recovered from his shock. Neame strode off towards the door that led to the bedrooms. As he approached, the sentry stiffened and looked at him sharply. The Italian soldier unhitched his rifle from his shoulder and prepared to challenge Neame.
'Gabinetto... gabinetto,' said Neame loudly, pointing towards the accommodation, asking to use the lavatory. The guard understood and relaxed, indicating with one hand for Neame to go ahead.
Gambier-Parry watched Neame disappear inside. His nerves were on edge, naturally enough given the serious repercussions that would follow if Neame were caught, or if he failed to retrieve the papers. But there was something else troubling G-P. Had he forgotten something?
Neame quickly slipped into the accommodation area. It was dead quiet. Then Neame heard muffled voices coming down the stone staircase that he was about to climb to reach O'Connor's room. Major Bacci and his searchers must be on the same floor as O'Connor's bedroom. Neame realised that he'd have to chance running into them. With his heart in his mouth he started to climb on tiptoe, trying not to make any noise until he reached the next landing.
Pressing himself against the corner, Neame tentatively peeked around and down the corridor that led to several of the generals' bedrooms, including O'Connor's. There was no one in the passageway, but he could hear Italian voices and the sound of furniture being moved in one of the rooms at the far end. He'd have to chance it. Neame could see O'Connor's bedroom door not far away – just a few quick steps and he could be inside. Moving as fast as he dared, Neame tiptoed down the corridor to O'Connor's bedroom, placing his hand on the door handle. Just at that moment, an Italian soldier appeared in the doorway of the bedroom at the end. He had his back to Neame and was talking loudly to someone else. Neame froze. If the soldier turned, he would be caught. Gingerly, Neame turned O'Connor's door handle, which squeaked alarmingly, and then quickly darted into the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind him. He waited for a few seconds, listening for approaching footsteps but there were none – he'd got away with it.
Neame went at once to the bedside table. He pulled out the packet of papers and stuffed them in the waistband of his trousers, pulling his sweater down over them. His mind racing, he made a snap decision. He would hide them on the roof, under a loose tile. Moving quickly, he walked over to the door and listened. He could hear the Italian soldiers talking again at the end of the corridor. Opening the door a fraction, Neame peered out. Everything appeared to be as before. He stuck his head out into the corridor – it was empty, the soldier having returned to the bedroom. Neame gently closed O'Connor's door then crept across to the staircase and headed upstairs. Once on the roof, Neame quickly hid O'Connor's papers beneath a loose tile before returning the way he had come. Although expecting to run into a soldier on the stairs at every turn, Neame was lucky. He successfully emerged back into the courtyard and wandered over to G-P, whose pensive face spelled trouble.
'I forgot to tell you,' said G-P, 'Combe left some papers in his room. Two letters. He wrote two letters...' Neame slowly shook his head in disbelief.
'I won't get away with it again,' said Neame. G-P's facial expression agreed, but there was no choice. 'Right,' said Neame stoutly, 'here goes nothing.'
Neame immediately walked over to the guarded door again, holding one hand to his stomach.
'Disinteria! Gabinetto! Presto!' The guard was horrified at the thought of dysentery and immediately allowed Neame to pass. Moving fast, Neame made his way carefully to Combe's room, again without being detected, snatched up the letters and headed once again for the battlements on the roof. Once again, Bacci and his men were busy in the other bedrooms and Neame encountered no one on the stairs.
Back safely once again in the courtyard, though by now red-faced and sweating from his two climbs up to the top of the keep, Neame met several of the other generals whose rooms had been searched. They were standing around looking pensive.
'Looks as though we've got away with it,' murmured Boyd. 'Splendid show, by the way.'
But the search went on.
Brigadier Hargest was called before his friend Miles. He determined that he would somehow retrieve the half-finished map from Miles' tunic pocket. But the question was how? Bacci's men finished searching Hargest's room and Bacci started to escort the New Zealander towards the staircase that led all the way back down to the courtyard. As they walked, Hargest engaged Bacci in polite conversation, his mind racing. Suddenly, the solution to the problem occurred to him. Both Hargest and Miles had gone down to lunch dressed in shirtsleeves, having left their service tunics in their rooms. They were both about the same size and even had a similar array of medal ribbons above their tunics' left breast pockets. As Hargest and Bacci started to make their way down the stone steps, Hargest acted.
'It's turning cold, don't you think, Major?' asked Hargest, stopping. Before Bacci had time to reply Hargest started quickly back up the steps. 'I'm going for my jacket,' said Hargest as he disappeared around the corner. Bacci muttered something, but didn't order him to stop. Hargest strode quickly down the corridor and darted into Miles's room, struggling into his friend's khaki tunic before hurrying back down to where Major Bacci was waiting for him impatiently. The switch wasn't noticed.
The castle was a big place, and after searching the senior officers' bedrooms, Bacci and his men turned their attention to the other ranks and the dining room, sitting rooms and kitchen. As the hours dragged by, and not one item of incriminating material was uncovered, Bacci and his men began to flag. By evening Bacci needed a break, and so he climbed up to the battlements for some fresh air and a smoke.
Bacci strolled about in the twilight, enjoying a few moments of peace and solitude. Suddenly, he caught sight of something that didn't look right. A tile on one of the roof spaces beside the open battlements was not quite flat. Bacci walked over, tossing his cigarette to one side, and lifted the heavy terracotta tile. Beneath, bundled together, were General O'Connor's papers. Bacci gave them a cursory examination.
He couldn't quite believe what he held in his hands – a detailed plan for an escape attempt using six men via the Italian area of the camp. Bacci was elated at his discovery, but also deeply disappointed. The British generals had been deceiving him – pretending to be honourable gentlemen but all the while plotting an escape. Bacci said a silent prayer of thanks for having made this discovery – had the escape plot succeeded and a gaggle of British generals broken free into the Italian countryside Major Bacci would have been one of those held responsible by Rome.
Bacci now ordered a thorough search of the keep's roof. He soon turned up Brigadier Combe's two farewell letters, which made for very interesting reading for the authorities. By the time they left the castle that night, the Italian searchers had 'the flush of triumph on their faces'.
As well as revealing that the middle-aged British generals were plotting an escape, the cache of papers discovered by Bacci also indicated that Lieutenant Ricciardi and Dr Bolaffio were undoubtedly sympathetic to these prisoners. Action was taken at once. Ricciardi, though he had not aided the escape attempt in any way, was transferred to North Africa. His going was to be keenly felt by the generals, for they all considered Gussie to be a close friend. Combe in particular felt dreadful about the whole thing. The only consolation was that Mickey, Gussie's giant white dog, would remain at the castle. Dr Bolaffio also left under a cloud of official suspicion. Neame was moved to write in 1943 that after the war Bolaffio should receive official British recognition for his brave aid rendered to the prisoners' escape plans.
Of more serious concern were the months of careful preparation and training for the white wall job, now irrevocably blown to the enemy. 'It was a tragedy that any written notes should have been made at all,' wrote Neame with commendable understatement. It was decided that from then on, regardless of how complex an escape operation was planned to be, nothing would be committed to paper.
Major Bacci now redoubled his efforts at searching the castle. What had been merely a formality and an embarrassing inconvenience to both sides now became a determined effort by the Italians to discover escape equipment. The castle would be taken apart if necessary. The number of sentries, with bayonets fixed to their rifles, increased considerably. Further searches turned up some Italian money and more documents. Bacci was so thorough that he had Italian workmen brought to the castle to carefully remove every roof tile so the space beneath could be inspected; the tiles were then replaced.
Neame and the others realised that this interminable search would continue until Bacci found something else of real value, so it was decided to let him find some of Private Dwyer's fake civilian clothes in the hope that this would satisfy him. A few easily replaceable items of clothing were gathered together and hidden in a cavity below one of the staircases. Two of the generals mentioned this stash within earshot of one of the Italian officers, who quickly searched and found the items. 'After that interest in the hunt began to die away,' wrote Leeming of the sorry episode.
* * *
The next day a staff car pulled up at the castle. First Captain Tranquille ordered a roll call and the entire British contingent was assembled in the courtyard. The Italian War Ministry in Rome had decided that the generals required an official warning concerning their behaviour as guests of Mussolini. To this end the Florence corps commander, Major-General Chiappe, had been dispatched to the castle to upbraid the POWs.
The commandant had requested that the prisoners parade in full uniform, due to the presence of Chiappe and his staff officers. At 11.00am the British were drawn up in ranks before the general and his staff. General Neame turned to the POWs.
'British contingent, attention!'
The generals and other ranks snapped to attention. Neame about-turned smartly and faced the Italian officers, who saluted, Neame returning their salute.
'You may stand your men at ease, Generale,' said First Captain Tranquille.
'British contingent, stand at ease!' bellowed Neame.
Chiappe's aide-de-camp handed Chiappe the 'official reprimand' and he began to read. After first describing the heinous and underhanded plans the POWs had hatched, the reprimand pointed out the hopelessness and regrettable nature of those plans.
'The Italian Government regrets the severity of making an official reprimand,' read Chiappe, 'but it has to be pointed out that the conduct of the British senior officers has been very bad, and that they have brought disgrace upon themselves by their wicked actions. You are hereby told to desist from all escape attempts and to abandon all such shameful ideas immediately.' Chiappe stopped, sighed, and handed the paper to his aide. Commandant Tranquille stared at the prisoners, a slight smile creasing his thin lips. Smoothing down his tunic, General Chiappe spoke again.
'I would like to say, gentlemen, that in the same circumstances I hope I would have done the same.' Tranquille's face dropped. 'Would it be possible for you to have a glass of wine with me?' said Chiappe, smiling broadly.
* * *
The Italians were taking no further chances with their illustrious captives. Within days of the discovery of the white wall plot, electricians came up from Florence to install new lights on the castle walls and on the white wall. Holes were drilled into the top of the white wall and iron posts cemented into place. Eleven strands of barbed wire were then strung through the posts, and an extra sentry posted to watch the wall like a hawk.
From now on, anytime the prisoners left the castle for escorted walks through the local countryside, they would have to wear full uniform rather than their usual casual attire, again to prevent any escape attempts.
The sentries became jumpy. A few nights after the escape plot was discovered, one of the guards on the castle wall fired two shots at someone or something outside the moat, perhaps thinking that it was an escaper. No dead body was ever produced from this incident and Tranquille gave the guard a severe dressing-down.
CHAPTER 9
Going Underground
'Dick O'Connor was the most enthusiastic plotter of all, with Jim Hargest and Reg Miles as close runners-up.'
Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
'Can you help me, Bain?' asked John Leeming, as he concluded his story of an amazing discovery in the bottom of the castle well. RAF Sergeant Ronald Bain, a red-headed Irishman who assisted with housekeeping, was the camp's qualified electrician and was able to procure or manufacture many things, making him invaluable when it came to assisting escapes.
All castles require a source of fresh water, and the Castello di Vincigliata was no exception. Though no longer of any practical use now that indoor plumbing and electricity had been introduced to the ancient building, the castle still retained its deep well in the prisoners' courtyard area. It was a dingy affair, with mossy, slimy walls, and the bottom was very hard to make out.
'How did you find it, sir?' asked Bain of Leeming's amazing new discovery.
'I was leaning over the top, just peering down, and the light caught what looks like a stone or brick opening just above the level of the stagnant water in the bottom.'
'Are you sure your eyes aren't playing tricks on you, sir?' asked the Irishman seriously.
'To begin with, I thought they might have been. But, no, I'm absolutely sure the opening is there, Bain.'
'How big do you think it is?'
'It looks like a small doorway... certainly big enough for a man,' replied Leeming, still excited from his initial discovery.
'And you want me to help you to take a closer look, right?' said Bain, rubbing his chin reflectively.
'That's right. Any ideas?'
'Well, first we need to take a good look at the thing,' said Bain. 'How deep is the well, would you say?'
'About 40 feet,' said Leeming.
Bain accompanied Leeming to the well head and peered downwards, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the gloom. After a few seconds he turned to Leeming.
'You're right, sir, there's definitely an opening just above the waterline.'
'Question is, how to confirm what we suspect we see?' asked Leeming.
'How about we lower a candle down the well shaft?' suggested Bain. 'Then we can take a closer look at this doorway of yours. I can rig up something simple and we could have a go when the castle is quieter late this afternoon.'
'Top man,' said Leeming. 'I'd like to confirm what I think before I take this before the escape committee.'
It was decided. Sergeant Bain attached a large candle and its holder to a string harness, and late that afternoon, when no Italian guards were about, he and Leeming carefully lowered the rudimentary light down into the well.
'I see it,' whispered Bain fiercely as the candlelight wobbled about, illuminating black depthless water and mossy walls. 'I'd say the opening is about three feet high and a couple of feet wide, sir.' Leeming confirmed Bain's observations. The implication was obvious: an opening must lead to a passage... but a passage to where?
* * *
As soon as Leeming had confirmed the existence of the well passageway, he immediately informed General Neame and Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. Neame decided to put together a team to conduct a reconnaissance of the shaft. As well as himself and Boyd, the team was made up of Leeming, Sergeants Baxter and Bain, General O'Connor and the irrepressible Sergeant Price. This last man was brought on to the team as it was felt by Neame that hailing from the Rhondda Valley in South Wales, Price must know something about mining, and would be invaluable for such subterranean work.
Sitting above the well head was an extremely old ornamental iron pulley, originally used to raise buckets of water from the well deep below. Everyone was a little wary of the pulley arrangement, which clearly hadn't been used in decades. The compact Boyd would be the first man down. One morning, just before dawn, when the castle was dead quiet, the team crept over to the well head with a long length of rope that had been hidden since the abortive white wall attempt, and wound it on to the ancient pulley. One end of the rope had been fitted with several 'holdfasts', or loops, where the person being lowered could put their feet.
'Right, away you go, John,' whispered Neame to Boyd, his breath steaming in the bitterly cold air. 'And good luck.'
Boyd nodded, his face set in a determined expression. He climbed over the well head and attached himself to the rope. Sergeant Baxter and several of the young orderlies took the strain on the other end, ready to pay it out through the pulley as Boyd was lowered.
'Okay, lower away,' hissed Neame, and Baxter's team started to let out the rope. Boyd disappeared jerkily into the gloomy well shaft, the others crowding around the opening, monitoring his descent.
'I'm... spinning!' came Boyd's startled cry after he had been lowered ten feet. Unable to let go of the rope to touch the walls, Boyd had started to rotate out of control on the rope.
'Bring him back up,' said O'Connor urgently to Neame. Neame gave the order and a rather dizzy Boyd was hauled back to the surface.
'Try again?' asked Neame a few minutes later.
'Of course,' replied Boyd stoutly. 'If someone gives me a stick, I can hold it as I hold the rope and stop this confounded spinning by touching the sides.' A stick was quickly fetched and Boyd was lowered once more.
'Good grief!' hissed O'Connor at the sudden banshee scream that had started to emanate from the ancient pulley as Boyd passed twenty feet.
'Stop!' whispered Neame to Baxter. Neame leaned over the well head and hissed at the dangling Air Vice-Marshal: 'Just hang on, Boyd, and we'll try again.'
'Right, lower away,' Neame said to Baxter. Sergeant Price was operating the old iron wheel attached to the pulley, but each half-revolution produced a squeaking noise loud enough to wake the dead.
'Stop!' ordered Neame again. There was a hurried discussion as Boyd, whose arms were beginning to ache from the effort of clinging on to the rope, dangled twenty feet above the pool of black water in the bottom of the well.
'I'll fetch some oil, sir,' said Sergeant Bain. 'Just hold on a minute.' He dashed off indoors and returned a few moments later with a bottle of hair oil to be applied to the well's moving parts. However, by this time the reconnaissance attempt had already gone on longer than expected.
'Pull him back up!' ordered Neame, and an exhausted Boyd was brought back to the surface. Round one had definitely gone to the ancient well, but, determined not to be beaten, the team agreed to have another go at dawn the next morning.
* * *
Attempt number two was much more successful. The offending well pulley had been carefully overhauled by Sergeant Bain to prevent any repetition of the appalling caterwauling of the previous morning. This time, General O'Connor was selected for the operation. He was an ideal choice, being small and wiry and full of guts.
O'Connor was lowered without incident. The rest of the party couldn't see him reach the bottom, for it was dawn, with little light. But after some swaying the rope suddenly went slack. A very tense ten minutes dragged by, as Neame and the rest of the ground level team waited in virtual silence. No Italian appeared, but it was growing lighter and soon the castle would come alive. Suddenly, the rope coming taut broke everyone's silent reverie. O'Connor was back on. Neame gave the order to haul him up.
'It's more than we could have hoped for,' said a sweaty and grimy O'Connor, as he clambered over the edge of the well head. 'Leeming was right. There is indeed a doorway. It's ancient, and I'd say about five feet high and three feet wide.'
'Is there a passage, sir?' asked Leeming excitedly.
'Yes,' replied O'Connor, grinning. 'It runs straight out from the well in the direction of the garden for between twenty and thirty feet. But there's a snag.'
The others all grimaced or glanced at each other.
'The passage is blocked by a brick wall,' said O'Connor. 'It looks quite new compared with the ancient stonework in the passage. But the good news is that the wall looks to be only a single brick thickness. I think we could break through without too much trouble.'
Neame turned to Leeming, his face beaming.
'Because of you, John, we may have a way out to freedom. Bloody good show!'
Neame grasped Leeming's hand fiercely in his and shook it vigorously. What lay beyond that damp red-brick wall was anyone's guess, but Neame and his team were determined to find out.
* * *
'John, can I have a word,' said General Neame casually to Leeming, after the well team had dispersed and the castle had come alive.
'Do you know that large cupboard built into an alcove in the dungeons?' asked Neame. The accommodation quarters in the below-ground part of the castle had naturally enough been given this name by the POWs. Leeming knew exactly which cupboard the general was referring to, as he, like all the other prisoners, had carefully explored every inch of the building in the search for possible escape routes. The cupboard was built into an alcove along one of the corridors that led to bedrooms.
'There's something a bit queer about that cupboard,' said Neame. As their resident Royal Engineer, Neame's opinion about such things was widely respected.
'How so, sir?' replied Leeming, whose mind was still filled with the well passage and wall.
'Well, I don't know whether you've noticed, but the back of the cupboard is plastered.'
'Yes, sir, so I recall,' said Leeming distractedly.
'Doesn't that strike you as a bit odd?' asked Neame. 'After all, the alcove and ceiling are both stone.'
'Come to think of it, it does seem a bit strange,' replied Leeming, his mind starting to focus on this new issue.
'I'm thinking that we should have a look at what's beneath that plasterwork,' said Neame. 'How would you like to do it?'
Leeming was a little taken aback.
'I thought I was to go with the well team, sir?' he asked, slightly crestfallen.
'I've detailed Air Marshal Boyd and Sergeants Price and Bain for the next descent tomorrow morning,' replied Neame without explanation. 'I'd like you, Bain and Sergeant Baxter to examine the cupboard wall this afternoon, when most of us are out on our daily walk and the castle will be quiet. Think you can manage?'
'If you say so, sir,' said Leeming, who thought the whole thing sounded like something of a sideshow. But the old boy must know what he's doing, thought Leeming.
'Jolly good show,' said Neame, touching his index finger to the side of his nose. 'I think that there's more to that plaster wall than meets the eye.'
* * *
Later that afternoon, when the generals had left on their escorted constitutional, Leeming, Bain and Baxter slipped down to the dungeons to begin their exploration. Leeming ran the flat of his hand over the white, plastered surface of the cupboard's back wall and then tapped it with a knuckle. It sounded solid enough.
Sergeant Baxter produced a small hammer and, working fast, he knocked out a small section of plaster revealing a red-brick wall beneath. With some improvised tools the three prisoners worked at the mortar that held one of the bricks in place, until, after much sweating and whispering, they prised it loose. Leeming pressed his face to the gap. He could only see a dark void, but he could feel a slight movement of air.
'Right, chaps, let's widen the hole so that I can climb through,' said Leeming to the two sergeants. After another half-hour of chipping away at the hard mortar and pulling aside loosened bricks the hole looked just wide enough for Leeming – who was not the smallest prisoner in the castle – to slip through.
'Good luck, sir,' said Baxter, before the two NCOs hoisted Leeming up and through the hole. Leeming became stuck halfway, the gap not quite wide enough, but a hefty shove from the two muscular sergeants dislodged another brick and Leeming landed in a sweaty pile on the other side.
Leeming stood, letting his eyes adjust to the half-light. He was inside a stone passageway. 'Battered but wildly excited... I crawled down the passage,' he later recounted. 'Ahead I could see daylight, the silhouette of an opening, a doorway.'
Leeming reached the doorway and daylight, but for a few seconds he couldn't process what he was seeing. Before him was a long shaft rising up high above him, while below the doorway was a pool of dark water. Then it dawned on him – he was at the bottom of the castle's well! 'The passage from the well led to the alcove in the dungeons.' It was a truly crushing moment – at a stroke two potential escape routes out of the castle had proved to be dead ends.
Leeming crawled dispiritedly back down the passage to the brick wall and struggled through into the dungeons. He told Bain and Baxter what he had found, and they commiserated with him.
'So what are we going to do about this?' asked Leeming, gesturing towards the large hole in the alcove wall. 'If the Eye-ties find this, we'll all be for it.' Since the discovery of the white wall escape plans, the Italians were keeping a closer watch over both the prisoners and the integrity of their castle.
Leeming's party managed to replace the bricks, but that still left the damaged plaster to contend with. For an hour they experimented with various camouflage, including mixing powdered plaster with water, even 'painting the bricks with mud.' The result of these experiments was merely to make the ugly hole even more obvious to any Italian searchers. 'Suddenly, just as we were getting desperate, Bain raced off to the kitchen and, in spite of the protests of Horsey, our cook, grabbed a large rice-pudding that stood ready for our dinner,' recalled Leeming. 'Back at the plaster wall, he slopped the rice-pudding on to the brickwork, then, scraping and smoothing the mixture flat, blended it to the ragged edges of the plaster round the hole.' As a final touch, the three men picked up bits of broken plaster from the floor, ground them to powder and chucked this on to the drying rice pudding. Incredibly, the Italians never discovered the hole.
* * *
Three escapes had now been explored, and all three had come to naught. The failure of the first attempt, the white wall job, had only led to a drastic tightening of security by the Italians, which would make subsequent escapes even more difficult. Major Bacci's discovery of General O'Connor's written appreciation and plans for the white wall escape had removed from the minds of the Italians the notion that the British generals were simply a kindly bunch of old duffers who were seeing out the duration in genteel comfort. Instead, they were now viewed as troublemakers who could, at any time of the day or night, launch a diabolical escape plan. For Commandant Tranquille and Area Commandant Bacci, not to mention General Chiappe in Florence, any successful escape by such high-profile and important prisoners would bring serious repercussions from Mussolini himself in Rome. But the British took no notice of Chiappe's exhortation to behave themselves, and planning was soon under way for a fresh escape scheme.
* * *
Brigadiers Hargest and Miles, as latecomers to the castle, had a lot of catching up to do regarding amassing escape equipment. Although no definite scheme had been decided upon or worked out, it was thought wise by all of the prisoners to continue collecting civilian clothing, food and maps for the time when they would inevitably try.
Hargest and Miles had arrived at the castle with only their army uniforms and a couple of British army blankets. The Italians had stopped the practice of allowing prisoners to purchase items of clothing from the local town, so unlike the rest of the POWs who had bought every piece of civilian attire they could get away with at Sulmona, Hargest and Miles would have to make everything that they would need – apart from an old pair of navy blue RAF trousers that Air Vice-Marshal Boyd gifted to Miles.
The two New Zealanders decided to make coats out of their blankets. Pyjamas were used as a template, and the blankets were slowly transformed into passable jackets. Workmen's caps were also fashioned from the remaining blanket material, complete with cardboard peaks taken from chocolate box lids. How well such ersatz items would stand up to inclement weather was anyone's guess.
Hargest lacked any civilian trousers, so he experimented in his bathtub with dyeing a pair of old battledress trousers to an unmilitary hue. He eventually succeeded using some boot polish mixed with a bottle of ink. The downside was that his hands were so stained afterwards that he was forced to wear a pair of woollen gloves to all parades for several days.
Stashing food in a drain inspection hole beneath the other ranks' dining room, Hargest and Miles accumulated a couple of tins of bully beef, some soup cubes and eventually five pounds of Red Cross chocolate.
The New Zealanders, like everyone else in the castle, also began to discuss and examine where to go should they succeed in escaping. The obvious choice was Switzerland. Hargest and Miles decided that they would make for the nearest point of Switzerland, the border town of Chiasso near Lake Como. The distance was roughly 230 miles. Hargest hit upon a novel way of discovering more about the region they would aim for. The Italians understood that the New Zealanders came from a mountainous country, so 'it was natural that we discussed this type of scenery with the Italian officers, who were easily induced to talk'. Much valuable intelligence was thus gleaned during these innocent chats. But what Hargest and Miles really required were proper maps of the routes to Switzerland, particularly since many of G-P's carefully made copies had been seized by Major Bacci and his men. Hargest recalled that years before he had read Garibaldi and the Thousand, about the formation of modern Italy, and that the book had contained several maps of the frontier region. 'As we were studying the language I asked if I might have a copy of it in Italian,' wrote Hargest, whose ruse worked. A few weeks later an Italian-language version of the book arrived, complete with maps of the frontier. The book was passed to Gambier-Parry, who set to work producing new hand-drawn maps from the illustrations.
* * *
Like the Britons, Hargest and Miles spent weeks carefully exploring every nook and cranny in the castle, trying to find a weakness that they could exploit. Air Vice-Marshal Boyd often joined them. They noticed that there were some rooms in the castle that were closed off from the prisoners. Working on the idea that there must be a lower level than the subterranean rooms accessible to the POWs – proper dungeons – and that one of the closed-off rooms might be connected to those hidden levels, several exploratory excavations were made.
Miles, Hargest and Boyd first targeted a bricked-up doorway in the banqueting hall, which was in use as a dormitory. A large stack of deckchairs was used to cover the hole being cut in the wall.
As with all escape attempts, it was important that lookouts, known in prisoner parlance as 'stooges', be used to warn of the approach of any guards. To this end Sergeant Howes and some of the orderlies formed a system of stooges to protect the excavation. Hargest and Boyd, using woodworking tools and a meat knife, made a hole in the wall's plaster before slowly and carefully excavating a hole in the skin of red bricks beneath. Behind the wall was a solid oak door that had been reinforced with steel. The excavation stopped and the men returned to their rooms 'to ponder on this apparently insuperable difficulty'.
The next morning, the excavation recommenced. Knocking a hole through the door, which turned out to be four inches thick, was difficult and time-consuming. The prisoners bored a series of holes close together, and then used a hacksaw to join up the holes to create a space big enough for a man to climb through. It took several days to complete, and Boyd's woodworking tools took a terrible beating cutting through the door's steel supports. When the hole was large enough, the smallest and slimmest of their orderlies was lifted through to clear some furniture that was blocking the way. Then the others clambered through. What Hargest and Boyd discovered on the other side of the door 'was a most elaborately fitted-up old kitchen, complete with a giant roasting pit; but no stairway'. The operation was another bust. The castle seemed impregnable. The bricks and plaster were replaced and the disappointing news relayed to General Neame and the others.
* * *
With the failure of two subterranean potential avenues of escape, thoughts turned back to the castle's walls. Though the Italians had blown the white wall escalade attempt even before it was tried, the theory of somehow vaulting over the walls remained in some of the prisoners' minds. One of those was Dick O'Connor, one of the original conceivers of the white wall job. In his opinion, an escape over the perimeter wall was still possible, regardless of how much the Italians had beefed up the defences. The million-dollar question was how. O'Connor spent weeks contemplating this problem, and began to formulate a novel solution to that thorny question.
In the meantime, some of the other prisoners were also looking at the wall, but rather than considering going over it, some were considering going through it to freedom. The keys to success, in their opinion, were rabbits.
Jim Hargest spotted an opportunity when he was in the lower cloisters outside the prisoners' accommodation one day. The castle's curtain wall, which was about three feet thick at this point, had been pierced, probably during Temple-Leader's tenure, presumably to provide people in the lower cloisters with a splendid view of distant Florence. During the conversion of the castle to a POW camp these two windows had been filled in with cemented rocks and the mortar plastered so as to fit in with the surrounding ancient stone.
Rabbits came into the equation because the rabbit-keeper, Brigadier Pip Stirling (who had taken over this duty from Brigadier Todhunter) kept a line of wooden hutches against the wall in front of one of the bricked-up windows. Hargest decided to work with just two other officers for this escape attempt – Boyd and Hargest's fellow countryman Reg Miles.
Hargest asked Stirling to stack some empty hutches on top of the occupied ones, so creating a wooden wall three feet tall, with a sufficient gap behind to allow a man to work in secret. The only downside to Hargest's plan was the Italian sentries on the wooden walkway fitted to the inside of the castle battlements. Every few minutes a sentry would stroll along the walkway, arriving at a position high above the spot where Hargest would be interfering with the wall; Hargest needed to know when this occurred so he could cease work and be silent till the sentry reversed his beat and moved out of earshot. Sergeant Howes volunteered to act as a stooge. He spent all day sitting under the blazing sun sketching, and giving Hargest a surreptitious signal at the approach of the sentry.
Hargest, armed with a large meat knife that Boyd had fitted with a stout wooden handle, slipped behind the barrier of hutches, his movement shielded by Stirling as he tended to his rabbits. Working quickly, Hargest scraped off the plaster that covered the mortar holding two of the rocks together. It was all looking too simple.
Later that evening Neame popped into Hargest's room to talk to him.
'Word is, Hargest, that you are working on an escape plan concerning the wall?' asked Neame casually. Neame was actually quite angry that Hargest and his associates had decided not to share the details with the other prisoners. The reason for their reticence was that Boyd believed that earlier plans had come to naught partly because of too many people knowing about them, leading to careless talk or slip-ups. Neame, though, thought that everyone should share with everyone else – that the castle's POWs were too few in number not to cooperate on every escape scheme.
'I don't approve of such secrecy, Hargest,' said Neame plainly. 'I hope that you will share your plan with us all. In the meantime, can you give me the basics now?'
Hargest understood Neame's position, but he also agreed with Boyd's point about careless talk or actions.
'Once we've made a hole through the window space we'll pass through it feet foremost, holding on by a rope fastened to a cross-stick on the inside,' replied Hargest. 'Once through, we'll be about twelve feet above the ground on the outside. We can lower ourselves by means of the rope.'
'Have you ever tried going through a hole backside foremost and ending up twelve feet above ground and doing it without noise?' asked Neame in a concerned voice.
'No, I haven't,' replied Hargest, 'but it seems easy.'
'Well,' said Neame wearily, 'just try it to make sure.'
Privately, Neame didn't think that Hargest's plan had much chance of success, but by this stage, and with a long string of failed attempts behind them, anything was worth a try. Boyd rigged up a wooden box of the approximate dimensions of the hole that they would have to squeeze through and the three of them spent time perfecting the feet-first escape. After some initial difficulties, the technique was mastered.
Meanwhile, work continued on the wall. After two weeks of careful excavations Hargest, Miles and Boyd had managed to loosen several of the large stones by scraping away the mortar that bound them together. The stones were left in situ – they would only be fully removed from the wall when the moment came for the escape. But then disaster struck.
In the evening, Hargest and the others, at Neame's urging, outlined the plan to the rest of the prisoners. The following morning some of the prisoners were taken outside the castle for a walk in the grounds. As they passed the place where Hargest and his team were excavating, a couple of the prisoners paused and glanced at the wall. Though it was almost involuntary, the guards noticed. Major Bacci was informed.
Early the following morning Bacci and a platoon of Carabinieri marched into the castle and headed straight for the cloister wall. Fortunately, Hargest and friends had not yet begun work. Conferring with First Captain Tranquille, Bacci ordered Brigadier Stirling and some of the orderlies to immediately remove the stack of rabbit hutches close to the wall. Bacci and Tranquille probably assumed that the hutches were to be used by the prisoners to climb the wall. Bacci inspected the wall behind the hutches carefully. He quickly noted that several of the rocks in the filled-in window were loose, but he didn't seem to realise that the prisoners had worked them loose. Bacci gave orders that they be cemented back into place. Even worse, Tranquille posted a new sentry at night below the outer wall and put up more searchlights on the battlements.
CHAPTER 10
Six Seconds
'In spite of the difficulties it seemed that the plan was a possibility, although it contained a large number of "ifs".'
Lieutenant-General Sir Richard O'Connor
'If we can't escape by night, then we should try to escape by day,' stated Dick O'Connor to the gathered escape committee. 'I still maintain that the theory behind the white wall plan was sound. While sterling efforts have been made by several of the officers around this table to get under or through the castle's walls, the fact remains that none have succeeded.' The others all nodded their heads. The run of bad luck since the white wall job had been blown had been unremitting, with every possible escape avenue that they had explored ending in a dead end or near-discovery by the Italians. Morale was low, and worse, the Italians were suspicious.
'The wall, gentlemen, still remains our best chance of getting out of here,' said O'Connor, 'and I think I've found the way.'
The others were intrigued. O'Connor's reputation for dogged determination concerning escape planning was respected by everyone. The man was relentless in his scheming and the recent reverses had not soured him one bit.
'Our illustrious commandant doesn't think that escaping in broad daylight is possible, so he reduces the day sentries while increasing the number of sentries posted at night,' said O'Connor conspiratorially.
'I'm sorry, Dick, but I think the man may have a point,' piped up General Gambier-Parry from the end of the dining room table.
'Nonsense, G-P,' replied O'Connor, 'I think that his overconfidence is actually a weakness, so let me outline to you my plan.'
O'Connor reached inside his tunic as he sat at the big dining room table with the rest of the escape committee and pulled out a piece of notepaper on which he had traced a basic map of the castle, with the guards' various sentry boxes marked on it. He continued to outline his new escape scheme.
'The sentries on the walls cover their beats in their own time, in no regular routine, so one cannot predict where they will be at any given time, right?' asked O'Connor to the group.
'Agreed,' said General Neame at O'Connor's elbow.
'Wrong,' said O'Connor. 'There is a time during the day when we can know exactly where every man jack of them will be: relief time.' This was when the sentries were changed, timed to occur every even hour. 'During the relief every sentry is at his box.' O'Connor pointed with a pencil to 'Tower A' on his diagram. 'Starting here, the relief moves clockwise along the sentry platform, finally descending into the area on the far side of the white wall near Tower B. The relief consists of a corporal and four privates. As you've all seen, they have a short handover ceremony at each box immediately after which the party, with the corporal at the head and the latest relieved sentry in rear, continues marching in quick time towards the next sentry to be relieved.' O'Connor paused.
'It goes without saying that no ladder can be used to reach the top of the wall without a sentry seeing it, and the height up to the wooden walkway is too high to climb up unassisted.' The others studied the drawing or watched O'Connor's face closely. A plan was starting to take form before them.
'The escape I have in mind is initially just for myself,' said O'Connor lightly, 'though I will need help. I think that if successful we can get out two more men on the same day. I've given the scheme a great deal of thought, and I think that the best place for me to be hoisted up on to the battlements walkway is this stone bench here,' said O'Connor, indicating with his pencil.
'I'll need two men to hoist me up,' said O'Connor.
Brigadiers Combe and Miles quickly volunteered.
'You chaps will have to stand on the bench, which is about eighteen inches high, and hoist me right up.' Fortunately for everyone, General Dick was a small, wiry man.
'I've picked this bench for another reason,' continued O'Connor. 'It's quite close to the main door to the courtyard, so we can smuggle out the necessary escape kit quickly and stash it without much risk of being seen. I've also noticed that the projection of the wall in this part of the castle completely masks the sentry's view from Box 3 here,' said O'Connor, pointing with his pencil, 'provided the chap remains immediately outside the box and does not move in the direction of Sentry Box 2 here.'
'I see where you are going with this, Dick,' said Neame. 'You're going to make the attempt during the relief?'
'That's right, Phil. It's the only time when the sentries are all at their boxes. This means that my attempt to scale the wall is restricted to that special moment,' said O'Connor.
'You won't have long, old chap,' said General De Wiart. 'The relief is normally pretty quick.'
'I've taken that into account in my calculations, Carton,' replied O'Connor.
O'Connor had chosen to use the marching guards as a screen between himself and the sentry at Box 2. He planned to make his climb up the wall just at the instant when the guards had passed; in this way the marching guards would be between Sentry No. 2 and himself. The guards would block the sentry's view and it was unlikely that they would look back. The noise of the soldiers' heavy boots would provide O'Connor with further cover.
'What about the sentry at Box 3?' asked Neame.
'He could be a problem. If he moves so much as five feet towards Box 2, any movement on the platform or wall above the bench will be visible to him. Also, it goes without saying that Sentry No. 1 has to be prevented from moving towards the end of his beat at Box 2, where he would be in a position to see what was going on.'
'So you manage to get past the sentries without being seen,' said Gambier-Parry, 'but how do you get off the wall without being spotted?'
'Obviously I'll be using a rope, but it has to be fixed in such a manner that it cannot be seen from the inside of the wall,' said O'Connor. 'I've decided upon the following method. If you look on my diagram I've marked these points on the wall X, Y and Z.' O'Connor pointed with his pencil as everyone strained to see. It became apparent that Dick planned to head for one of the embrasures on the far side of the walkway, and make his way down from there. 'These points were once loopholes,' he continued. 'You may have noticed that Temple-Leader had some of them filled with red-brick boxes that are about six inches wide at the inside of the wall and four inches high, about twelve inches long, and tapering to about four inches wide at the outer face of the wall.' It was this eye for detail that marked O'Connor out as such a serious escaper.
'The loophole at 'Z' is empty. I was thinking that it might be possible to make a block of wood of the same shape and size as the flower box, paint the side that faces inside red, and fix a strong hook at the outside end of the block, sufficiently strong to bear the weight of the rope and myself.'
'Brilliant, Dick, absolutely brilliant,' said Neame, grinning.
'If I can push the block in the aperture and fix a rope on the hook, I should be able to slip down to the ground. The chances of being discovered are very unlikely because the back of the block will perfectly blend with the other flower boxes. And it's equally unlikely that the rope will be seen hanging from the outside as any ground sentries only come on at night and few people pass by the walls during the day. I further suggest that the rope should be camouflaged to resemble the colour of the castle's wall.'
'How do you propose to get the rope and block up to the wall in the first place?' asked Brigadier Combe.
'I shall wear the rope coiled over my left shoulder and under my right arm. The block will be attached by its hook to a strong belt of string round my waist,' replied O'Connor. 'I shall also be taking a small valise that I shall strap to my back like a rucksack during the descent.'
'What about clothing?' asked Brigadier Miles. 'I mean, you can't come swanning into the courtyard in mufti.'
'Quite,' replied O'Connor. 'I'll have to walk out dressed in uniform then slip my uniform off while sitting on the bench. I'll wear civilian clothes under my uniform and the tunic can be stowed under the bench.'
'Well, Dick, it's a fantastic plan,' said Neame, 'but it does contain quite a lot of "ifs".'
'What about rope?' asked Brigadier Todhunter. 'We lost some in those damned searches after the white wall fiasco.'
'My servant Stones and Able Seaman Cunningham have already started helping me make the necessary rope. Lord Ranfurly has kindly donated his bed sheets. We're making it in sections of seven feet, up to 49 feet in total. I estimate that at least 28 feet will be required to cover the drop on the other side of the wall, and the less rope that I have to carry the better.'
'So, the arrangements that need to be made are some practice sessions for Combe and Miles hoisting me up from a bench,' said O'Connor. 'We've got a few seconds to play with, so we have to work as a well-oiled team. I'd appreciate some suggestions as to how we can prevent Sentry No. 3 from moving towards Box 2.'
'Well, I'd like to have a try at distracting around Box 2,' volunteered Pip Stirling.
A fair discussion of everything O'Connor had placed before them followed. It was decided that O'Connor would attempt to escape at 2.00pm on a day yet to be chosen. Brigadier Combe would go at 4.00pm (another officer taking over hoisting duties) and Air Vice-Marshal Boyd at 6.00pm. The advantage for Combe and Boyd was that O'Connor's block and rope would already be in place, so they would have less to worry about. All they would need to do was have themselves hoisted up to the battlements and then climb down the outside of the wall.
* * *
The first order of business was manufacturing sufficient rope for the attempt. Ranfurly had donated some bed sheets, and these were being made into rope by O'Connor's batman Trooper Stones, who was from Brigadier Combe's old regiment, the 11th Hussars, and Able Seaman Cunningham, who had been sent to the castle to act as a barber. Cunningham's training in shipboard knots and rope work proved particularly useful. He cut the sheets into narrow strips about seven feet long and two inches wide and then plaited them together. The resulting rope was strong, light and very flexible. The only problem was the rope's cream colouring – something would have to be done about it before the escape.
O'Connor, Miles and Combe started immediate practice sessions. It was estimated that O'Connor would have about six seconds in which to be hoisted up on to the battlement walkway and disappear into the embrasure. That was an incredibly tight schedule, but O'Connor felt that if he, Combe and Miles could perfect the hoist from the bench it was workable. Obviously, such training sessions had to be concealed from the Italians, so O'Connor's room was used. Against one wall was a high wardrobe that would double as the castle's outer wall, the top acting as the guards' walkway. A wooden bench was brought into O'Connor's room and placed below the wardrobe. The three men sat on the bench and then, at the given signal, O'Connor would stand on the bench facing the wardrobe, legs stiff, on tiptoe. Miles on the left and Combe on the right would immediately bend down and seize O'Connor under his insteps, then push him up to the full length of their arms above their heads, ending with O'Connor clambering on to the top of the wardrobe. Later, the three practised with O'Connor wearing his valise and rope coiled across his trunk, with the wooden block hooked to his waist. After exhaustive practice, O'Connor knew that he could make it within the six-second window of opportunity. Practice sessions were also held where fresh hoisters were brought in ready to allow Combe and Boyd to attempt the same escape at two-hour intervals following O'Connor. If everything went according to plan, three senior British officers would be free in the Italian countryside before the enemy discovered their absence.
* * *
The issue of the rope's colour was solved one evening by O'Connor, who managed to stain the material a darker hue in a bath full of coffee. He then hung the long rope in coils all about his bathroom ceiling to dry. He intended to hide it once it had dried out and went down for supper as usual. O'Connor was tired from his training programme and the usual boisterous conversation in the mess tired him out further. Every night it was the same: noisy games of backgammon at which De Wiart excelled; Neame and Boyd arguing about which was better, the army or the air force; G-P chattering away about art or music while Combe and Miles contradicted each other. Lots of strong personalities locked up together in a small space made for a lively and frequently cantankerous social scene. O'Connor excused himself and headed for bed. He had a nagging feeling that something was off, out of kilter, but he couldn't think what it was. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
O'Connor's eyes flew open. It was very dark – the middle of the night. Someone was in his bathroom making a hell of a row, crashing around and shouting. Then it dawned upon him with awful certainty. The rope! He'd forgotten to hide the rope that was drying in the bathroom. A figure blundered from the bathroom door past his bed and out into the corridor. Second Lieutenant Visocchi was beside himself and shouting for help.
Lights started to come on all over the castle, and within minutes the sounds of hobnailed boots clattering up the stone steps inside the prisoners' part of the castle heralded the arrival of Italian soldiers, bayonets fixed to their rifles. O'Connor stood by his bed as Commandant Tranquille, hastily buttoning his tunic, burst into his room followed by Captain Pederneschi and several guards. The rope was quickly hauled down and taken away.
O'Connor had completely forgotten about the 'night check', when an Italian officer did the rounds in the middle of the night, checking that all of the prisoners were in their beds and everything was in order. Second Lieutenant Visocchi had been detailed the duty and had quietly looked in on a sleeping General O'Connor, before tiptoeing into O'Connor's bathroom to make his routine check. When Visocchi walked into O'Connor's darkened bathroom he hadn't seen the rope hanging all around the room. A coil had gone around his neck, and in the darkness Visocchi had struggled, the coil becoming tight. He thought he was being strangled till he unhitched himself and ran shouting from the room.
Major Bacci was immediately summoned from Florence, and when he arrived a search was being made of the castle. All of the prisoners were roughly awakened by their lights being switched on and Carabinieri opening drawers, looking under beds and conducting rough searches. Jim Hargest had taken to drawing maps, though he lacked the artistic talents of Gambier-Parry. Some of these were found in his room by Bacci's men and confiscated. When Bacci entered G-P's room, he found the general sitting up in bed with a thunderous expression on his face while Bacci's men searched. Hoping to calm G-P down, he brought up the subject of maps.
'Ah, my Generale, you must forgive us, yes,' said Bacci in a soothing voice, 'but what have we found in the room of Generale Hargest but a set of those so beautiful maps you make?'
'Then all I can say,' thundered G-P, his face red with rage, 'is you're no judge! How dare you suggest that I'd draw things like that! If you had the slightest knowledge of art...' But an alarmed Bacci retreated out into the corridor before G-P could finish. When he saw Flight Lieutenant Leeming, Bacci was still shocked by G-P's strong reaction. 'He is so unreasonable!' said Bacci excitedly. 'Fancy talking of art at a time like this!'
A full search of the castle was conducted under Bacci's supervision, but apart from O'Connor's rope and Hargest's maps, nothing further was discovered. The prisoners received another visit from Major-General Chiappe, Florence Corps Commander, who reminded them again of the futility of escape, and it was decided to postpone O'Connor's attempt for a month until everything settled down again.
* * *
General Neame decided to counter the notion that the prisoners were troublemakers by explaining why O'Connor and some of the others had been discovered with escape equipment. Letters had reached two of the prisoners from old friends in India that contained reference to a lunch party at Dehra Dun that had been attended by two Italian generals being held prisoner nearby. The fact that Italian generals were being entertained and allowed to socialise outside of their camp struck Neame and the others as unfair. Neame took the opportunity to compare and contrast the prisoners' lot at Vincigliata in a strongly worded report to the Swiss Legation in Rome.
'We are fettered by petty restrictions,' wrote Neame indignantly, 'and live surrounded by immense battlements, which are alive with sentries, notwithstanding which our bedrooms are invaded, and we are disturbed nightly by visiting rounds. Our only exits from this prison are walks along set routes under heavy escort, often more numerous than the prisoners themselves.' A particular bone of contention was the close proximity of Florence. 'We are denied any form of alleviation to the monotony of prison life, such as visits to places in the famous city of Florence, so renowned for its art, or any contact with, or view of civilisation.' Neame compared and contrasted the castle with the Villa Orsini. 'The deterioration of our treatment since we left Sulmona and came to Florence has been most marked. At Sulmona we had far more liberty, which we did not abuse, and were treated far more courteously, and due attention was always paid to my requests to the Senior Officer.'
It was little wonder, according to Neame, that men living under such conditions would be driven to attempt to escape. The prisoners, 'goaded into action by intolerable conditions of restraint, were planning escape, being ready to accept any risk, rather than continue to endure the irksome conditions here'.
* * *
Reg Miles had been looking depressed lately, and his friend Hargest realised that it had been two years since Miles's only son Reginald, a pilot with the Fleet Air Arm, had been lost when the aircraft carrier HMS Glorious was sunk. It was important to try to keep busy, for the largely pointless and goalless life of a prisoner of war could wear down a man's morale and leave him open to depression and too much contemplation. So the burly Miles, with Combe, returned to hoisting O'Connor on to the top of his wardrobe, keeping their edge when it came to the escape operation. No one could afford to relax if an escape requiring such exquisite timing was to come off.
Commandant Tranquille ordered that spare sheets were no longer to be issued to the prisoners, and that the officer conducting the 'night check' was to be accompanied by two Carabinieri. Nevertheless, a number of sheets already in the prisoners' possession were donated to the cause and Able Seaman Cunningham used the one-month hiatus to manufacture fresh lengths of rope.
After several false starts, a new date for the operation was set. Zero Day was to be 24 July 1942. The tension among those taking part grew as the date approached. Everyone knew that they were playing for higher stakes now. The Italians knew that the prisoners were actively engaged in planning escape attempts. And everyone knew that the guards had been given orders to fire at anyone who crossed the walls. That made O'Connor's attempt life-threatening. It also meant that if the timing was slightly off, even if only by two or three seconds, someone could get hurt or even killed. There was absolutely no margin for error.
* * *
The Italian government was stung by General Neame's complaints about the treatment of the British and Commonwealth senior officers. While O'Connor and his team readied themselves for Zero Day, the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs wrote to the Protecting Power with their side of the story. 'General Neame is interned with his comrades in a fortress, he enjoys all the comforts appertaining to his high rank (bath adjacent to bedroom, suitable dining room, another room for leisure, etc.) beside sufficient liberty of movement compatible however with the exigencies of supervision, which has become the more necessary following a recent attempt to escape...'
The Italians were particularly offended by the idea that senior Italian officers in British hands were being treated with greater leniency than that shown to Neame and his friends. 'Italian generals who are prisoners of war in the British Empire... had frequently had to complain of treatment, both moral and material, inadequate to their rank and age...' Neame's missives certainly caused a useful bureaucratic distraction while Dick O'Connor's scheme was prepared.
The British government was dragged into the dispute, and complained directly to the Swiss on Neame's behalf. 'The absence of privacy accorded the British Generals, their walks under heavy guard and the lack of visits to towns compare unfavourably with the accommodation of Italian Generals in their own quarters in detached buildings in which they enjoy a full degree of privacy,' thundered the War Office's Directorate of Prisoners of War, '[in particular] the Italian Generals cooperative freedom of movement and the permission which they enjoy of being permitted to enter shops and purchase their requirements.' If this war of words was intended by Neame to force the Italian authorities to relax some of the guarding arrangements around the prisoners at the castle, it did not succeed.
* * *
Dick O'Connor picked at his lunch on Zero Day, 24 July 1942. He wasn't very hungry. Several of the other officers taking part in the escape were equally nervous. O'Connor glanced at his watch: 1.30pm. The escape was to be made at 2.00pm. He headed up to his room to prepare. First he donned his civilian clothes, pulling his uniform on over them. It was a hot summer's day, and O'Connor was soon sweating. The valise containing his supplies was handed to Hargest, who took it down to the courtyard and concealed it in a bucket of earth. The rope, coiled, was similarly concealed, Hargest taking the buckets over to the bench and pushing them out of sight beneath. If any guard noticed them, they could be explained away as earth for the flower boxes which were dotted about the courtyard, and which the prisoners tended. Hargest then sat down on another bench, from which he would be able to see when the relief had passed over the heads of O'Connor, Miles and Combe on the stone bench and give them the signal. In the meantime, Pip Stirling had sauntered over to the corner of the wall beneath where a sentry patrolled, and had started to build a small bonfire from leaves, twigs and rubbish to act as a diversion.
At precisely 1.58pm O'Connor sauntered out from the keep and strolled over to the bench, sitting down between Miles and Combe. No one said a word. O'Connor's eyes were fixed on Hargest, while Stirling fiddled with his little bonfire, not lighting it just yet. The minutes ticked by. A striking figure started moving along the terrace, whirling his arms in circular movements while jogging. Adrian Carton de Wiart – dressed, incongruously given the warmth of the day, in several layers of khaki sweaters – adjusted his black eye patch with his one remaining hand and continued with his calisthenics, his one good eye taking everything in. Over by the gate that led into the castle's lower quadrant, where the Italian garrison lived, Dan Ranfurly with two enlisted men began to slowly sort firewood into piles ready for issue. Philip Neame sat high up on the battlements quietly stitching his tapestry, watching the escape unfold. Suddenly, the Italian relief appeared noisily and, led by a corporal, started to progress around the battlements in a clockwise direction changing the guards. O'Connor's heart rate increased as he listened to the tramp of the reliefs' boots growing louder on the walkway above.
Reaching the southwest corner of the terrace, the Italian soldiers briefly paused to change the sentry at Box No. 1 before continuing. They wore smart green open-necked field service uniforms with green shirts and ties, their trousers encased in woollen puttees up to the knee, with steel helmets on their heads. They marched on along the wall, passing over O'Connor's position on the bench, towards Sentry Box No. 2. O'Connor quickly divested himself of his army tunic and pulled on his valise and rope.
The escape team knew that if the new sentry at Box No. 1 stayed at his box or walked along the western wall to the foot of the terrace stairway, his angle of sight would be blocked by the top of the stairs. This would leave Dick in a perfect blind area. But if the sentry went back along the south wall he would on his third pace come into view of the prisoners beneath the wall. The escape attempt would then be impossible. Dick's chances depended entirely on the vagaries of the Italian sentry. The corporal and the relief had reached Sentry Box No. 2 and had their backs to where O'Connor intended to cross the wall. Everyone tensed and watched.
Hargest in particular watched Sentry No. 1 like a hawk. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he saw the static Sentry No. 1 suddenly start to stroll the 'wrong' way. Hargest briefly raised his hand to Dick's party on the bench, the signal to hold fast. Pip Stirling also saw what was happening and reacted quickly. He patted his pockets, then turned and shouted up to the guard passing above: 'Avete un fiammifero?' Asking a guard for a match was a pretty cheeky gambit on Stirling's part, but the bluff worked. A matchbox was tossed down to him. Throwing the guard a casual salute, Stirling struck a match and crouched down to light his little bonfire. He then threw the box of matches up on to the sentry walk, calling out a cheerful 'Grazie!' The sentry strolled over and retrieved his matches and then stood looking down at the fire as Stirling bustled about, feeding more bits of wood into the growing flames. He was right where Hargest wanted him.
'Go ahead, sir,' said Hargest in a low voice in Dick's direction. Dick O'Connor's eyes were wide, his forehead slicked with sweat as he stared back at Hargest. He nodded and then quickly stepped up on to the bench, just as he had practised so many times in his room, tensing his legs and straining on tiptoe. Miles and Combe stood up on the bench with Dick between them. In a couple of seconds they had hoisted Dick up to the wooden sentry's platform. It was higher than in training, and Dick struggled for a second or two to make it, the valise and rope weighing him down. As he kicked and pulled, the block with its metal hook around his waist became twisted. In two steps he was across the walkway and clambered into the embrasure. To his right, Sentry No. 2 had just been relieved. O'Connor had to struggle to release the cord that had become twisted around the block. For five vital seconds he struggled with the cord. 'It came off in the end, and I very hastily placed it in the aperture, took the rope off my shoulder and threw it down over the wall, holding one end in my left hand.'
O'Connor struggled for several more seconds to position the block, his ears cocked for a warning shout; none came. Quickly wiping sweat from his face, Dick O'Connor took a strong hold of Cunningham's bed-sheet rope and pushed his body out of the embrasure. He could see the ground 30 feet below him. O'Connor looked both ways along the castle's rough stone walls. All was quiet. He leaned back, holding the rope tightly with both hands, his feet pressed against the wall, and began awkwardly to descend. A feeling of exhilaration rose inside him – just a few more seconds and he would be down and free.
CHAPTER 11
The Ghost Goes West
'I don't believe any party of would-be escapers ever worked harder or more consistently than ours, and this included all those grand fellows who helped for the sake of helping with no hope of participating in the final break-out.'
Brigadier James Hargest
'He's away!' hissed Jim Hargest in a fierce whisper to Miles and Combe, who had resumed sitting on the stone bench. Hargest looked to his left. Sentry No. 1 was still lingering above Pip Stirling's bonfire, looking down at the flames. Hargest glanced along the battlement walkway to his right. Sentry No. 2 was looking to his right, the 40 paces back to where Dick O'Connor had entered the embrasure. Something was wrong. The guard started to walk towards Dick's position, unslinging his Mannlicher-Carcano 6.5mm rifle. Hargest knew in that instant that the sentry had seen something. Hargest realised he had to be stopped, and fast.
Hargest turned back and whispered to Miles: 'Sentry No. 2 has seen something. Go quickly and intercept him and for goodness sake keep his attention.' Miles immediately tried to catch the guard's attention, but the sentry was completely focused on the flash of white he had seen by the embrasure and ignored the big South African.
What the sentry had seen out of the corner of his eye was a flash of one of O'Connor's hands or a piece of his clothing as the General had struggled for those extra few seconds with the wooden block and its twisted rope. The sentry went to the nearest embrasure and leaned out, gasping in surprise. A small figure dressed in nondescript clothing and carrying a leather suitcase strapped to his back like a rucksack was most of the way down a brown rope.
The guard, in a considerable state of surprise, leaned out of the embrasure and levelled his rifle at the figure below, cycling the weapon's bolt with a harsh metallic click.
O'Connor, who was deep in concentration as he clumsily abseiled down the side of the castle, realised that the game was up when he heard a loud cry from above. Gripping the rope for dear life, O'Connor looked up and saw the head and shoulders of the Italian guard leaning out from an embrasure some distance away. His rifle was pointed squarely at O'Connor's dangling form.
'Arresto, arresto!' yelled the Italian, ordering O'Connor to halt. 'Fermati o sparo!' O'Connor, who had studied Italian assiduously since being made a prisoner, knew exactly what the guard was yelling: 'don't move or I fire'. He needed no further warning. The rope creaked and a slight warm breeze wafted up from below the castle.
The alarm had been raised and below him O'Connor soon saw a mass of helmeted and heavily armed Italian soldiers running to the place where the end of his rope lay coiled in the grass. They pointed rifles with fixed bayonets at him and seemed to all be shouting at once. From their frantic gestures it was clear that they wanted him to climb down immediately. For a second or two O'Connor didn't move, just hung on the rope, his two feet planted firmly against the castle's rough stone wall, his arms aching badly from the effort to remain upright. A riot of emotions ran through his head. He had been foiled once again. But this experience would not in any way put him off having another go. While he remained a prisoner of the Italians, he would keep trying to escape.
Swallowing his disappointment, O'Connor clambered awkwardly down to the ground where the red-faced and excited Italians immediately accosted him. Stripped of his pack and roughly searched, the crowd of Italian soldiers around O'Connor suddenly fell silent and parted. O'Connor turned and watched as Captain Pederneschi, his Beretta pistol drawn, strode up, his black jackboots polished like mirrors. He fixed O'Connor with his keen brown eyes. Beneath the visor of his cap his face carried a truly malevolent expression.
* * *
It was generally agreed that Captain Pederneschi completely lost his cool following General O'Connor's attempted escape. Neame wrote that Pederneschi went 'half mad with excitement'; doubtless as security officer he was humiliated by O'Connor's successful vaulting of the castle wall. As well as yelling at O'Connor in an unintelligible stream of English and Italian, language for which General Neame complained to the commandant (the Italian officer, he said, had impugned the gentlemanly values of British officers), Pederneschi reserved his greatest wrath for the hapless sentry who had foiled the escape. The security officer 'became almost hysterical, venting his rage on the poor sentry, calling him vile names and locking him up for the night.'
O'Connor was bundled off to the commandant's office for questioning shortly after being recaptured, before being locked in his bedroom while the wheels of Italian military bureaucracy swung into action.
The next day, 25 July, General Chiappe made yet another visit to the Castle, this time with orders from Rome to dispense punishments. The sentry locked up by Captain Pederneschi was released, Chiappe rewarding him with 500 lire for very sensibly not firing on the escaping British general. Once more, the whole camp, including Dick O'Connor, was assembled for an official dressing-down.
'Gentlemen,' said Chiappe in a loud voice that echoed off the fortress's walls. 'There is no use attempting to escape. The castle is too strong; you will not escape from it alive. And even if you do, there is no chance of reaching the Swiss frontier.' Chiappe looked directly at O'Connor.
'Generale, your punishment for attempting to escape is 30 days' solitary confinement, to be served in a different fortress.' O'Connor said nothing – he had expected nothing less than the regulation prison time for such an escapade.
'Generale Miles, Generale Combe and Generale Stirling, for helping the prisoner to escape you are each sentenced to ten days' solitary confinement, to be served in your rooms.'
* * *
General O'Connor was to serve his sentence at Campo 5 at Gavi-Serravalle Scrivia in Piedmont, twenty miles north of the port of Genoa. The distance from Vincigliata was 165 miles. Tantalisingly, the new fortress was only 100 miles from Lake Como and the Swiss frontier. O'Connor was escorted from the castle to Campo 5 by an infantry colonel on Major-General Chiappe's staff, accompanied by two Carabinieri. The strange vagaries of war showed themselves when O'Connor noticed that among the Italian colonel's medal ribbons was the British Military Cross. He had been awarded it during the First World War, when the two countries were allies. The colonel pointed to the several rows of ribbons on O'Connor's tunic, touching one in particular. It was the Italian Silver Medal of Military Valor, awarded to O'Connor by Italy in October 1918 during an offensive on the Piave River. Two old allies were now deadly enemies – in theory at least.
At Campo 5 General O'Connor was placed in a gloomy cell that would be his home for a month. It was furnished with a small bed, table, chair and two chamber pots. Little light entered through the two small, barred windows. He was permitted two hours of exercise each day on the fortress's battlements, and his food was sent up from the main camp, where many British prisoners were housed. Forbidden to communicate with anyone, O'Connor overcame this ban by writing messages to the POW cooks on the inside of the mess tin that contained his hot food.
* * *
While O'Connor languished in a jail cell, security at Vincigliata Castle was tightened further. The number of day sentries was increased and the sentries' platform that ran around the inside of the battlements was wired in. This was done by placing eleven strands of barbed wire around the platform, effectively creating a wire box for the sentries to patrol inside and making it impossible to climb up on to the platform.
A single strand of wire was fixed to little metal poles positioned five feet inside the castle's curtain wall. Captain Pederneschi explained its purpose to the prisoners when the work was completed.
'This is the line of death,' said Pederneschi darkly, pointing with one gloved hand at the wire. 'No prisoner is allowed to cross it. If you do, you will be shot!'
The commandant instituted a series of rigorous room and kit searches, but due to the prisoners' ingenuity at hiding illicit escape gear, nothing of any significance was found.
* * *
On 3 August a new officer arrived at the castle. Surgeon-Captain Ernest Vaughan of the Indian Medical Service had been captured at Tobruk. General Neame had applied for a British doctor for the camp, and the request had finally been granted. Vaughan proved to be a first-class supporter of escapes as well as a fantastic doctor. He was assigned a dispensary within the castle but soon complained that the number of Red Cross sanitary parcels containing medical supplies and drugs was not sufficient.
* * *
By late August the leaves had started to turn and would soon fall from many of the trees around the castle. The prisoners greeted this sight with consternation. As summer gave way to autumn, the natural cover that was essential for escapers hiking cross-country was disappearing. Such a time marked the end of the effective escape season until spring 1943. But planning, at least, could continue – the question was what means the next escape attempt should take. Everything thus far had been a complete bust.
* * *
General De Wiart had long been urging that the escape effort should be redirected away from the castle's walls. He had grown increasingly interested in the bricked-up chapel adjoining the large dining room on the keep's ground floor. Various prisoners had speculated that there must be underground vaults or rooms beneath the castle that could be used for escape. It seemed a perfectly sensible idea considering the great age of the fortress and its many rebuilds down the centuries. One lucky find had been a dusty old Italian book about Vincigliata Castle that was discovered mouldering in the corner of a closed-up room. It was studied carefully, in the hope that more of the castle's secrets would be revealed.
Soon after O'Connor was sent away, De Wiart approached Neame urging him to formulate a plan to get into the chapel and explore. 'The castello with its crazy planning ought to have been a labyrinth of secret passages,' wrote De Wiart, 'leading straight to the top of the highest mountain or into a lovely lady's boudoir in a neighbouring villa.' But the castle's design had proved extremely frustrating. 'All the passages led stupidly into one another, like a dog chasing its tail,' wrote De Wiart. Many dark words were passed concerning the Englishman's Castle and the infernal Englishman who had rebuilt it.
'As now attempts have been made over the wall, by day and by night, there only remains under the wall,' stated De Wiart. Neame agreed and called a meeting consisting of De Wiart, Boyd, Combe, Miles, Hargest and Stirling, with himself as chairman. Boyd and Miles had already examined the outside walls of the chapel, which was located on the northwest corner of the great keep, and made tentative sketches of its ground plan.
'I have no idea how on earth we are going to break into the damn place,' said Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. 'The bricked-up doorway opens straight into the main courtyard, so we couldn't open it up without being observed.'
'Then the only way in would be through the wall of the keep,' said Miles.
'But we've no idea how thick the keep wall is,' said Combe. 'Judging by the rest of the castle, it's bound to be bally substantial.'
'I suggest we make a detailed reconnaissance first,' said Neame, calmly, his engineer's mind already starting to tick over. 'We can at least get a look inside through that little grille above the door. We'll try tomorrow afternoon, when most of the Italians are having their siesta.' Regardless of any potential problems, 'hope rose strongly within us at once,' wrote Jim Hargest, 'and almost without discussion we were agreed to give it a try.'
The next afternoon, out of sight of the sentries patrolling the high walls, Neame and the 'Tunnel Committee' mounted their first detailed exploration of the chapel. Taking a table from one of the rooms, Neame climbed up to the grille that was set about eight feet off the ground. The opaque glass shutter was open and, cupping his hands around his face, he peered through the grille, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside.
'I can see a small lobby,' said Neame slowly. 'Then there's an archway leading through to the chapel.' Neame strained his eyes, his engineering training taking over. 'Wait... the lobby is outside the keep wall... the archway has been cut through the main keep wall. Interesting.' Neame jumped down from the table, and the others quickly took it back inside.
'Let's have a look at the dining room that adjoins the chapel,' said Neame, striding off with the others following him. In between the chapel wall and the dining room was a narrow service area that was dominated by a service lift and shaft. Neame peered up into the lift shaft. He saw that at the top of the shaft was a dummy archway in the wall, where he estimated the wall was about nine inches thinner than elsewhere. It was not the main keep wall. 'If we're going to break into the chapel, then that's the only place I can think we'd stand any chance of success,' said Neame seriously.
A new meeting of the Tunnel Committee was called for the following day, once Neame had had a chance to think about the engineering overnight.
'When the lift is in the "up" position,' said Neame, 'the place where we will make a hole is completely concealed. Even with the lift down the closed doors of the lift shaft hide the area we're interested in. The light in the shaft is also dim – any way we could make it dimmer?'
'I can paste some paper over the small window in the service lobby,' said Miles. 'That should help.'
'Splendid,' said Neame smiling. 'What I suggest is sinking a shaft and tunnel through the chapel floor if we don't find any hidden vaults. I think we should commence work on breaking into the chapel at once. I suggest we work in reliefs of two.'
Neame placed Boyd in charge of the operation to break into the chapel. More manpower was brought in in the form of Brigadier Todhunter. The teams were Boyd/Miles, Combe/Todhunter and Stirling/Hargest. Others, including some of the younger orderlies, would support as and when needed.
Most importantly, a system of lookouts was necessary to ensure that those breaking into the chapel would not be discovered in the event of a surprise visitation by the Italians. A team of watchers led by General De Wiart, who due to his disabilities could not excavate, was arranged from a bedroom overlooking the white wall that led into the Italian sector of the castle. If any Italians were to enter the POW area through the white wall gate, the excavators could be warned at once.
It was decided to fit the excavations in around the camp's usual routine, so as not to arouse suspicion. The Italians conducted twice-daily inspections and a head count, the prisoners were served meals at set times, and walks in the castle grounds and the local countryside were scheduled in the afternoons, weather permitting. Attendance was voluntary, so the workers on shift would not be missed provided they turned up every so often for an excursion. The excavators could work safely, under the cover of the watchers, twice a day: at 7.30–9.30am and 2.00–4.00pm.
The wall into the chapel, even though substantially thinner than the keep wall, proved very tough to break through. It was, the men would discover, two feet six inches thick, and was composed of solid masonry. It was essential that those doing the work made as little noise as possible, as the nearest sentries on the battlements were only ten to twenty yards away.
The prisoners lacked the right tools – all that could be sourced were some improvised short iron crowbars, a carpenter's chisel and mallet, and a shovel. The crowbars were simply iron bars sharpened by Sergeant Baxter using the kitchen range as a furnace. Lord Ranfurly manufactured the shovel out of a piece of sheet iron, fixing a wooden handle to it. An old kitchen knife was also used, Boyd fitting it with a new wooden handle. The spoil was initially removed using garden buckets, but later the teams switched to canvas pails to cut down on noise.
It took the team five days to cut a small hole through the wall. The hole was slowly widened until a person could wriggle through into the chapel. Boyd was commissioned to manufacture a three-ply wooden cover for the hole, disguised to look like plaster. Lord Ranfurly manufactured a contraption to hold the board in place within the carefully cut square in the original plaster. He used a bottle of water as a weight inside a hollow tube of wood attached to the panel with a cord. 'To open the door,' recalled Hargest, 'one had merely to pull the panel out and lower it down the lift well out of the way, while to replace it one raised it and fitted it in – the bottle did the rest.'
Noise was a problem. The two-man teams would stand on top of the lift that was normally used to bring food up to the generals' dining room from the servants' kitchen below. As they chipped and cut away at the plaster and then the mortar that held the wall together, pieces clattered into the top of the metal lift, making a terrible noise that was greatly magnified by the narrow lift shaft. Any movement by the men atop the lift caused it to sway and crash into the sides of the shaft with a loud boom. A further problem was the constant cloud of plaster dust – it soon fouled up the lift's electric mechanism. Brigadier Hargest's gammy hip started playing up, leaving him often unable to work, but Miles and Stirling made particularly excellent progress.
* * *
Once inside, the men found the chapel to be quite large, with windows set very high in the walls– so high, in fact, that nobody could look in from outside. The room was about twenty feet by twenty feet by fifteen feet, with an altar, and the lobby or porch was about seven feet square and lower than the chapel itself by three steps. It was dark and gloomy inside, making it ideal for concealment.
The chapel was crammed full of old boxes, dusty furniture and gloomy oil paintings. The room clearly hadn't been touched for years. They even discovered a case of good champagne and a single bottle of whisky. The alcohol wasn't touched. If the Italians discovered the excavation the last thing any of the prisoners needed was a further charge of petty theft.
The camp's master electrician, Sergeant Bain, was brought in to 'fix' the lift – he altered the mechanism so that it could only be lowered by pressing the button at the bottom, located in the servants' pantry. This was a further attempt at concealment should any nosy sentry peer into the lift shaft. Bain also removed the light at the top of the shaft.
* * *
The question now was where to begin the tunnel. Neame ruled out the chapel, as it would involve moving the altar. Instead, the obvious place was the lobby. The tunnel would pass beneath the courtyard wall rather than under the main keep wall (as would be necessary if the tunnel were dug from the chapel itself) and Neame suspected that the courtyard wall had shallower foundations. Boyd would remain in charge of the actual excavation, with Neame acting as tunnel designer and engineer. The first task was to survey the land under which the tunnel would pass and decide upon the dimensions of the proposed tunnel.
After a heated debate with the other members of the Tunnel Committee, Neame settled upon his final plan.
'So, we are agreed,' said Neame to the group. 'The initial shaft will be ten feet straight down from the floor of the chapel lobby. Then a tunnel, of four feet by two feet, will open out from the shaft, driving straight across and under the driveway towards the outer wall.'
Neame conducted a secret survey, which had to be done very carefully lest the sentries got wind. The distances were checked and rechecked, and Neame's calculations proved extremely accurate. Measuring the difference in level was far more difficult, 'as dead ground outside the castle, and the rising shaft in the end was two feet six inches deeper than I anticipated,' wrote Neame. 'Seven feet instead of four feet six inches – owing to a raised flower-bed held up by the stone revetment outside the wall.' After several rounds of calculation, the tunnel would be dug on a downward slope of 1-in-8, 'so as to be fourteen feet deep on reaching the outer wall.' Neame's intention was to connect with the curtain wall's foundations, leaving two options: either cut through the foundation of the wall, or burrow under it leaving a rising shaft to the outside. 'It was also essential to touch and identify the base of the outer wall, so as to know where we were, for it was intended to come out immediately outside the wall, for concealment's sake.' This might help the escapers as the only way sentries on the high wall above could see the base of the wall was by leaning out of a battlement – an unlikely proposition unless the escapers made any noise. In total, the tunnel would extend for 35 feet.
How all this was worked out was truly remarkable, considering that Neame had no proper instruments. But Sergeant Bain, who Neame noted would have been commissioned if he hadn't been captured, made a series of survey instruments from protractors for Neame to use, and they also had a prismatic compass to carefully check all bearings.
* * *
The tunnel broke ground on 18 September 1942. The honour of starting was given to Combe and Hargest. Brigadiers Todhunter and Stirling cleared a space by moving furniture and paintings out of the way. Breaking ground actually proved to be much more difficult than anticipated. The craftsmen that John Temple-Leader had employed to rebuild the castle half a century earlier had known their business. It took Combe and Hargest the entire first work session just to lever up two close-fitting tiles in the chapel porch floor. The noise was excessive, and the watchers that De Wiart had placed above could hear quite clearly the sounds which echoed through the building.
One watcher was placed in the dining room to watch the two gateways into the prisoners' part of the castle from the Italian quarters, with another in Brigadier Vaughan's bedroom on the keep's first floor to watch the sentries. But the routine was exhausting and inefficient, so De Wiart altered the arrangements. One man in Vaughan's bedroom would watch the gateways, while another was placed in De Wiart's bathroom with an excellent view of the sentries on the wall. The shutters in both rooms were carefully arranged so that the watchers could fulfil their duty without being observed from outside. A rotating system saw watchers work shifts of twenty minutes before being relieved, thereby maintaining their edge.
But the system of watchers could still be improved. Sergeant Bain rigged up an electric bell system using buzzers and bits of wiring that the prisoners salvaged or pinched from all over the castle. Buttons were secretly installed in Vaughan's bedroom and De Wiart's bathroom that were connected to a buzzer in the chapel porch. A simple series of signals was worked out that enabled the watchers to alert the digging team to approaching trouble.
One buzz meant 'stop temporarily'. Two buzzes meant 'carry on again'. Three buzzes signalled 'alarm – come to surface and prepare to evacuate', while four buzzes was the most serious, warning, 'really serious – be prepared for anything'.
* * *
On 1 October 1942 Dick O'Connor returned from Campo 5. He had been held longer than his sentence, probably due to some administrative mix-up. His bout of solitary hadn't dampened his escaping spirit at all; in fact, his recent failure had made him even more determined to get out. 'I was delighted to see my friends again,' wrote O'Connor, 'and was also pleased to find that they were already well on with another escape project.'
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd told Neame that he no longer wanted command of the digging operation following some bickering with the other men, and he reverted to an ordinary worker for the duration. Dick O'Connor joined, replacing Brigadier Todhunter, who dropped out, and Neame asked the charismatic O'Connor to take command of the working parties. General De Wiart would continue to organise and command the lookouts. As usual, General Dick was raring to go.
* * *
In early October Brigadier Todhunter celebrated his birthday and, as was now customary, a party was thrown in his honour. It was a pleasant diversion from the serious business of tunnelling. 'The kitchen staff managed to make an iced cake with chocolate with the Arms of Essex on it,' wrote home Todhunter proudly. 'For dinner we had hors d'oeuvres in which the pièce de résistance was tinned pâté de fois gras: "Viener Schnitzel" made of rabbit with fried onions and potatoes and a savoury of tinned bangers on toast.' But Todhunter had pause for reflection over what occurred next. 'I took my cake down for the batmen to finish and it made me feel a bit old,' he wrote. The batmen evidently had the measure of Todhunter as a hunting, fishing, country gentleman of the old school and were discussing appropriate decorations for him: as he approached the messroom he heard a booming voice say, 'The poor old bloke might have had a gun on his cake!' It was Todhunter's 42nd birthday; he was one of the youngest of the senior officer prisoners in the castle.
* * *
One morning in late October 1942 Owen Boyd had just come off a digging shift in the tunnel. Progress was exceptionally slow. Between opening the shaft in the chapel porch on 18 September and O'Connor's arrival back at the castle, the vertical shaft had progressed just three feet. The need to work as silently as possible, and the two short excavation periods each day slowed the work. The dimensions of the hole also meant that only one man could work, while his partner stood by to relieve him. The soil was hard-packed clay with horizontal strata of rock. Working through the rock bands was very difficult with the basic tools that were available and the other limitations. Boyd was exhausted. It was 8.00am, and he clambered back through the hole in the chapel wall on to the lift, before emerging from the shaft in the pantry beside the orderlies' kitchen. Like everyone else, he wore an old pair of woollen pyjamas when digging, and these were filthy and encrusted with dirt and clay. One day, when General Neame had been so dressed, and clambering awkwardly through the chapel wall hole from the lift, one of the other diggers had facetiously remarked, 'the ghost goes west'. It was a more appropriate remark than many realised at the time, for they were like wraiths, surreptitiously flitting about the great castle at all hours and disappearing through apparently solid walls.
Boyd wore long socks pulled up over his pyjama bottoms to keep the worst of the dirt from accumulating on his shins. The socks had been stripped off and stuffed into his greatcoat pockets, and a pair of unlaced shoes hastily slipped on. Boyd didn't feel worried about moving around at this time – Carton de Wiart's screen of watchers had given no alarm on the tunnel's warning buzzer.
Boyd started back up the stairs towards his room. As he turned a corner he ran straight into Captain Pederneschi. Boyd took a step back in silent horror, his heart hammering in his chest. No Italian officer should have entered the keep without a warning sounding from one of the two watchers on the first floor. What the hell the castle's chief watchdog was doing prowling around at this time of the day immediately put Boyd in mind of a search or the discovery of their escape plot. Pederneschi stared at Boyd, his eyes looking him up and down, evidently intrigued by Boyd's unusual sartorial arrangement.
'Air Marshal Boyd,' said Pederneschi, 'where are you going?'
Boyd, involuntarily thrusting his dirty hands into his pockets, thought quickly.
'A book, Captain,' he said. 'I was looking for a book.'
'I see,' replied Pederneschi flatly. His eyes glanced down at Boyd's pockets. 'And where is your book?'
'Couldn't find the blessed thing,' spluttered Boyd. 'Must've left it in my room after all.' Pederneschi didn't look convinced, and he kept looking Boyd up and down with his sharp brown eyes.
'I'm getting old I guess,' said Boyd, adding a nervous laugh. 'Forgetful.'
Pederneschi relaxed and smiled.
'Ah yes, getting old is a terrible thing, no?'
'Indeed,' muttered Boyd. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, Captain, I must get dressed for breakfast.' Boyd pushed past Pederneschi and rapidly climbed up the stairs, the slightly grubby legs of a pair of white long johns sticking out from under his coat as he climbed.
Pederneschi watched him go. The security officer stood for a few seconds, staring up the now empty staircase, as if deep in thought, his dark eyes slightly narrowed and blank. Then he turned, shrugging his shoulders, before he resumed climbing down to the ground floor.
CHAPTER 12
Under the Dome
'Neame with his sapper's knowledge gave us the lay-out for our labours, and with such a degree of accuracy that at the end we were hardly a centimetre out.'
Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart
The Virgin Mary, her face calm and composed in the dim light of the chapel, her hands pressed together in silent prayer, swayed slightly, the rope around her waist coming taut. Then, out from the hole in front of the large heavy marble statue, holding on to the rope, crawled a man so filthy that his clothes were indistinguishable from his head and hands. Brigadier James Hargest lay for a moment on the cold floor of the chapel, waiting for his breath to return. He was exhausted.
'Okay, Reg,' said Hargest breathlessly to his digging partner Brigadier Miles, who waited by the small hole in the floor of the chapel porch, 'away you go.'
Several buckets were neatly stacked beside the hole ready to be lowered down and then hauled back to the surface full of spoil from the tunnel. The soil and rocks were progressively filling the floor space inside the chapel, a great mountain of dirt held back by bits of furniture and coconut matting. The whole room smelled musty with spoil. Looming over the tunnel entrance in silent repose was the great heavy statue of Our Lady, pressed into service as an ersatz bollard, the attached rope enabling the diggers to climb their way out. Hargest propped his back against the cold of the statue's marble and listened. He soon heard Miles scratching and digging away at the rocks and hard clay ten feet below where he sat resting. Within minutes came the familiar command 'bucket!', muffled and distant inside the tunnel. Hargest wearily hitched a canvas pail to a second rope and lowered it down through the floor.
* * *
The first big challenge for the excavators had begun when they had managed to sink the vertical tunnel access shaft six feet below the floor of the chapel porch. They struck hard, unyielding granite.
'We'll never get through that,' declared Brigadier Combe, tapping the handle of his trowel on the great rock that was slowly being uncovered with each fresh scrape.
General Neame, the tunnel's designer, shared Combe's pessimism. Normally, such a blockage could only be cleared with explosives. It was decided to excavate further, to determine the dimensions of the granite plug.
After several more days digging the rock revealed itself to be dome-shaped and very large. It didn't bode well for the tunnel. It was soon christened 'The Dome of St Paul', for it looked as immovable and as huge as a cathedral.
'We'll have to try to undermine it somehow,' said Neame, his grimy face creased in concentration. After some discussion, a method was worked out. They decided to excavate horizontally to see just how large the thing was. If it extended for several feet in all directions, then it was game over for the tunnel.
The diggers went at the dome with the homemade iron bars, eventually finding the edges of the object. Using the bars was difficult because every thump and bang of iron on rock reverberated up through the keep. The watchers on duty on the first floor exchanged concerned looks – how could the sentries not hear the row coming from underground? Nervous fingers hovered over buzzers, ready to immediately call a halt to the operation if a sentry so much as looked in the direction of the chapel.
After several days of furious activity, the Dome of St Paul was revealed as a large granite plug surrounded by what Hargest termed 'rotten rock'. This flaky rock was hacked and dug away until two stout ropes could be passed around the solid central plug. It took four sweating, straining and cursing men to haul the granite boulder out of the shaft and into the chapel.
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd's early morning encounter with Captain Pederneschi, along with some other near-misses, had led Dick O'Connor to conclude 'there is no doubt that Generals as a class do not make good sentries!'. Nevertheless, General De Wiart continued to perfect his screen of watchers. Each morning Trooper Collins, O'Connor's batman, would make a quick sweep of the castle to check that no Italians were in the POW areas. The emergency buzzers would also be tested before the first shift of the day came on. Collins would report on the status of the castle to De Wiart, who would buzz the diggers to commence excavating.
The Italian garrison worked to set timetables, so by careful observation De Wiart's team knew what was normal behaviour from their captors and what was not. At 7.30am the watchers would see a small gate open in the white wall, and an Italian NCO would step through to extinguish the light above the cloister steps. He would then open the door to the courtyard. Fifteen minutes later came a changing of the guard in the Italian courtyard beyond the white wall. Special attention was paid to this, as sometimes the officer of the day would wander into the prisoners' area afterwards. At 9.00am an Italian private would walk over to the prisoners' kitchen with the day's fresh milk. Because he was close to the chapel, a watcher always gave a one-buzz warning to the diggers in the tunnel. They would immediately cease work, and inevitably one would turn to the other and mutter 'milkman' with a grin. On some days laundry would be taken out or returned.
At weekends there were some changes. On Saturdays at 8.30am the 'shopping sergeant' brought the weekly flowers to Brigadier Stirling. These were to be used at the religious service that General Neame presided over in the dining room on Sunday morning. At 7.45am on Sundays the three or four Roman Catholics among the prisoners would be escorted to a local church for a service.
The prisoners observed their 200 guards very closely, and came to know many of their habits and eccentricities. The guards never knew that several pairs of eyes were watching their every move throughout the day when they were on duty. Each sentry was different. Some were very alert and suspicious; others were lazy, spending their time chatting to other sentries, reading letters or even dozing in the sun. Captain Pederneschi remained a wild card, often appearing in the keep suddenly and without warning; he would prowl around like a cat, looking for signs of illicit behaviour. Searches were made every night, with Pederneschi instructing guards to pick over the prisoners' garden or rubbish piles. They found nothing. There were no more concealed maps, coils of homemade rope or civilian clothes stashed under tiles or beneath flowerpots. Perhaps the Italians thought that they had finally defeated the British since O'Connor's failed wall escalade. The strengthened defences on the perimeter wall and more rigorous guarding routine appeared to be working. But the Italians, though they never realised it, were being purposely lulled into a false sense of security while below their boots the prisoners sweated and dug.
* * *
Neame had determined that the entrance shaft to the tunnel must reach ten feet deep, and he had set a provisional date of 31 October 1942 to achieve this. But once the Dome of St Paul had been removed, the going downwards improved, and the required depth was reached a few days ahead of schedule. Now the direction changed, with the actual tunnel begun at right angles to the keep wall. The soil was even tougher than in the vertical shaft, and was ribboned with frequent horizontal strata of hard rock. Fortunately, the rock layers were cracked, meaning that with patient hard work the rocks could be prised loose and removed. Splitting up these rocky layers took weeks of exhausting labour. Neame, an experienced mining engineer from the Western Front in the First World War, said that normally such a task would have required 'a miner's pick-axe, a miner's drill and hammer'; the prisoners had to make do with a kitchen knife, a couple of iron bars and some woefully unsuitable carpentry tools.
Some of the rocks were large enough to require two men to roll them back down the tunnel to the shaft for extraction. John Combe became a noted expert in patiently extracting rocks, with Boyd and Miles also very good at this tedious and backbreaking task.
Noise remained a constant concern. De Wiart laid on some 'noises off' – these diversions included loud discussions between officers, the splitting of logs for firewood, and boisterous games of deck-tennis or football, all designed to distract the sentries on the outer wall and cover up any noises from the chapel. Almost all of the prisoners, regardless of rank, were involved in diversions as the digging continued for month after month. Whenever a sentry strayed close to the tunnel, De Wiart would buzz the diggers to stay quiet. It was a nerve-wracking business, and even the usually bluff 'Long John Silver' started to feel the strain.
Buzzing usually started because De Wiart or one of the other watchers had noticed a particular sentry on the wall stop and give the impression of listening to something close by. Sure that the sentry had heard the excavation, De Wiart would curse and press the buzzer, his heart racing, his eye never leaving the Italian. Then, the sentry would lose interest and wander back to his sentry box and De Wiart's panic would subside. This cat-and-mouse game would drag on for almost seven months.
* * *
Five inches a day was considered good progress through the hard clay and rock. Sometimes it took a week to proceed that tiny distance. That it was done entirely by hand, by middle-aged amateurs using homemade tools, made it an achievement almost beyond imagining.
The tunnel slowly passed beneath the keep's great foundations, which were discovered to be much shallower than Neame or any of the others had imagined for such a massive building. The tunnel was initially four feet two inches high, but as the digging progressed and the miners developed their skills, it was found that they could safely reduce the height to only three feet four inches. The two downsides to a smaller tunnel were reduced airflow and increased heat.
As per Neame's design, the tunnel was dug downhill at an incline of one in eight, meaning that the tunnel dropped four feet by the time it reached the castle's outer curtain wall. But two thick layers of solid rock were encountered in November, requiring intense and exhausting excavations, slowing progress to mere inches on some days. Fortunately, all of the rocks were fissured and cracked, but the diggers had to patiently widen the cracks with their basic tools or undermine the rocks by excavating above and below them. Water was sloshed over the rocks to try to reveal cracks, the men straining their eyes by the light of Sergeant Bain's single-bulb jerry-rigged lamp run down the tunnel attached to stolen Italian wiring. Using water meant that the men had to work in a permanent mud bath, increasing their discomfort greatly, and threatening their health. This practice was soon abandoned.
Every Sunday General Neame would carefully survey the tunnel using his homemade instruments, and any recommendations were noted.
* * *
Outside it was mostly raining during November. 'Winter is closing in on us here,' wrote Brigadier Todhunter. The rain kept them 'tied to the house which is a bore, but the longer the cold and snow hold off the better'. The plunging temperatures would make working on the tunnel increasingly uncomfortable and heavy rain still managed to penetrate the entrance shaft through leaks in the chapel.
While the digging continued, preparations were begun for the second Christmas at the castle. 'We had a visit from the Swiss Embassy this morning, which makes a change,' recorded Todhunter on 19 December. 'They are very painstaking in looking after us. Both they and the Red Cross say that our parcels may be delayed but luckily we have got a very fair stock here so we shall be all right for a bit.'
When the last team knocked off on the afternoon of Christmas Eve 1942 the prisoners had been labouring on the tunnel for almost four months. Under the most secret and trying conditions, this band of generals and brigadiers had done the impossible. They had sunk a shaft ten feet down from the chapel porch and excavated a tunnel twenty feet in length towards freedom.
'I estimate that we need to dig a further fifteen feet and we've made it,' said Neame that night. It didn't sound like much, but every man knew that they still had months of hard labour ahead of them if they were to be ready for the spring 'escape season'. The distance from the chapel porch to the inside of the outer wall was estimated at about 35 feet.
'Taking into consideration the problems with rock strata and the hard clay, I'm estimating that we should break the surface sometime in mid-March.' Several officers clinked their wine glasses together at this news.
'Here's to a very merry Christmas, gentlemen,' said Neame, raising his glass, 'and to a well-earned holiday in Switzerland come Easter 1943!'
That night Brigadiers Combe and Stirling threw a party for the orderlies, 'but everyone came and enjoyed themselves. We provided some pretty washy beer and Father Christmas in the form of old Armstrong the South African who looks just like him anyhow.'
On Christmas Day, as a sort of treat, the tunnel was opened for inspection to all of the rest of the prisoners at the castle, including the orderlies. With De Wiart's lookouts in place, the visitors were brought down in small groups and given a guided tour. The generals and brigadiers were enormously proud of what they had achieved. James Hargest recorded the reactions of the younger prisoners: 'They were all suitably staggered at the scale of undertaking. Most of them thought we were a few elderly gentlemen full of enthusiasm but rather harmless as miners; but after this inspection they realised we were in earnest.'
'On Xmas Day,' Todhunter wrote, 'we devoured our turkeys which John [Combe] had been nursing so lovingly for so long and very good they were too with plum pudding a la Red Cross. G.P. did some quite excellent menu cards, hand painted in watercolour, of various hunts and we had a small Xmas tree with some real candles, so we did our best to be festive.'
* * *
While the tunnel took shape, careful planning and preparations for the eventual escape were undertaken. Firstly, and most importantly, was to decide how many would escape and who they were to be. There would be three two-man groups: De Wiart and O'Connor, Miles and Hargest, and Boyd and Combe.
'How are the escape outfits coming along?' asked Neame, who, as 'Father of the Camp', chose not to escape; his duty was to lead and represent all of the prisoners at Vincigliata.
'We've got everyone making their own outfits, sir,' said Jim Hargest. 'The idea is that we should pass for Italian workmen. To this end, we're also going to carry the appropriate "props". For example, I'm going out as a bricklayer, so I've got a trowel and plumb-line to carry in the top of my suitcase.'
At night, in the secrecy of their rooms, and after digging during the two day shifts, the escapers worked on manufacturing working men's jackets and caps, modifying bits of uniform. There were some items of clothing left over from earlier escape attempts that had been successfully hidden from the Italians. The idea for most of the escapers was to look workmanlike without appearing shabby or suspicious.
'Rations are being stockpiled, sir,' said Reg Miles, referring to the illicit hoarding of food for the trip, mostly tins of chocolate, malted milk tablets and Red Cross biscuits.
'How about identity documents, G-P?' asked Neame, turning to an exhausted-looking Gambier-Parry.
'It's all in hand, old chap,' replied G-P without emotion, black bags beneath his tired eyes. G-P had managed to obtain a real Italian identity card and was in the process of faithfully reproducing this precious document six times. Because sketching and painting were G-P's hobbies, the Italians had foolishly permitted him inks, paints, brushes, pens and various types of paper, a great deal of which were used for more covert purposes, principally creating splendid maps and identity documents. But making six IDs required many months of exhausting concentration. One mistake on the lettering, a stamp or signature could mean weeks of work down the drain. G-P had no help, as no one else in the small camp possessed his unique skill set. The strain on his eyesight was immense, given that he was often working in the evenings by inadequate light. He also had to be ready to hide his 'artwork' at a moment's notice in the event of a search. He managed to obtain a special ocular device that helped with the fine work, but G-P's nerves were beginning to fray towards the end of the project.
The one seemingly insurmountable problem faced by G-P in the production of Italian identity cards was a lack of passport photos. The Italian authorities did not permit cameras, but each ID had to have a standard-sized black-and-white passport photo glued to it. The other prisoners could not conceive of how G-P could get around this problem. But they underestimated G-P's incredible abilities. As well as art, G-P was passionate about music. He organised and ran the castle choir, with Company Quartermaster Sergeant Tom Morgan as lead tenor. After a great deal of complaining and bargaining, the prisoners eventually secured from Major Bacci a wind-up gramophone for their sitting room. G-P sent off for records, mostly classical music – opera in particular. He would organise weekly recitals. One evening he was extracting a record from its sleeve when he noticed that on the back of the packaging were black-and-white photographs of the featured artists. Even more incredibly, the photos were the exact size and shape as passport images, and printed on virtually the same paper. G-P's idea was simple: find photographs of performers who looked similar to the tunnel escapers and use them on the fake IDs. G-P wrote off for more German and Italian operas until he had a good stock of photographs to choose from. A small committee was formed by the prisoners, who scoured the record covers trying to find faces that matched the six men due to escape. Eventually, close likenesses were found for most of the men, although it proved tricky to find a match for Carton de Wiart. He remained a problem until G-P came upon a photo in an Italian news magazine called Illustrazione. The face that most matched Long John Silver's (minus the eye patch) turned out, ironically, to be that of Prime Minister Ion Antonescu, the hardline Axis leader of Romania.
It was important that the escapers learned their new cover identities. Going by the maxim that keeping it simple was probably best, the escapers were encouraged to create their own Italian alter egos. Jim Hargest chose the name 'Angelo Pasco'. He would remember the name with ease, as it was that of a fish merchant friend from Invercargill, New Zealand. Hargest's Pasco would be from Bologna and was, as Hargest had told Neame, a bricklayer by trade.
* * *
'Tirano,' said Dick O'Connor, pointing with his finger at one of G-P's carefully made maps. 'It's a small town on the Swiss border in the Italian province of Sondrio.'
O'Connor was briefly outlining his plan to walk, accompanied by Carton de Wiart, to Switzerland. Boyd, Combe, Hargest and Miles had all decided to try to reach Switzerland by rail. General Dick and Carton had, however, decided upon the more strenuous task of trekking – what POWs called 'Boy Scouting' – approximately 270 miles north. De Wiart, owing to his eye patch and missing hand, felt that he was too conspicuous to risk travelling by train, and O'Connor had decided to accompany his friend. They believed that their best chance 'lay in evaporating into the mountains'. But regardless of their planning and physical conditioning constantly running up and down the keep staircases, it would be a major undertaking for a disabled 63-year-old and his 54-year-old companion.
'Our route is very simple,' outlined Air Vice-Marshal Boyd during the meeting. 'We plan to walk to Florence station and, travelling incognito as tradesmen or travelling salesmen, board a train to Milan.' As he spoke he traced the route on the map with his index finger. 'We change trains at Milan for Como, our final destination being the small border town of Chiasso, here. It's about six miles from Como, so we'll walk.'
Chiasso straddles the Swiss–Italian border, with the Swiss part inside Canton Ticino. It's the most southern municipality in Switzerland and lies 88 miles west of Tirano.
'How do you plan to enter Switzerland?' asked General Neame.
'Well, all the frontier crossings are heavily guarded by the Italians and the Swiss,' said Boyd. 'Obviously we need to avoid all roads, bridges and railway lines crossing the frontier. But from what we can gather, the Swiss haven't the manpower to completely guard every stretch of the frontier, and neither does the enemy, and the geography is against such a measure. We will hook up into the mountains and cross somewhere quiet.'
'We also have the same idea,' said O'Connor. 'We will cross further north from Tirano at a quiet stretch.'
For the four who were taking the train, their journey to the Swiss frontier should only be a matter of a couple of days, taking into consideration wartime travel on the railways. They would travel light, with just valises or small suitcases. The challenge for them was buying tickets at stations and mingling in with the population. For O'Connor and De Wiart, their journey would take weeks, necessitating them carrying most of what they would need on their backs. O'Connor and De Wiart calculated that their rucksacks, once filled with their food, spare clothing, and maps, would weigh at least 25lbs. Food consisted of Red Cross chocolate, a few tins of bully beef, a few tins of soup, and so on, carefully collected and hoarded over months.
Escape equipment for all three teams was transferred to the chapel for safekeeping, though a reserve was kept elsewhere just in case the Italians blew the tunnel.
* * *
Just after New Year 1943 Jim Hargest was forced to take a break from digging because of his gammy hip. He was in considerable discomfort, and on Dr Vaughan's recommendation he was sent to hospital in Florence for an x-ray and treatment. As this would require two trips into the city by car, Hargest decided to treat them as reconnaissance missions for the forthcoming tunnel escape. On each trip Hargest persuaded the corporal driving him to go to the hospital by a different route, spinning him a story about wanting to see the sights of Florence. The driver fell for the ruse, allowing Hargest to carefully observe the road junctions and piazzas. The intelligence gathered would prove invaluable in planning a route on foot from the castle to Florence's railway station.
* * *
One day in late January 1943 Air Vice-Marshal Boyd was working at the tunnel face. The dimensions of the tunnel had narrowed somewhat near the end, and Boyd, a short but powerfully built man, struggled in the constricted space, his burly shoulders pushing against the sides. The labour had become increasingly hellish the longer the tunnel was dug. Though it was winter, sweat poured from Boyd's brow and arms as he worked away at the face with the big kitchen knife, loosening rocks set hard in the clay soil. Behind him squatted his digging buddy Reg Miles, who waited with a half-filled canvas bucket, ready to take back to the entrance shaft to be hauled to the surface and emptied.
'Wait a minute,' muttered Boyd, almost to himself. He stopped digging and took up a handful of dirt.
'What's the matter?' asked Miles, peering over Boyd's filthy shoulder. The bulb that lit the tunnel had been advanced towards the face the day before by Sergeant Bain, but its position and the size of the tunnel created shadows and dark patches.
'Damp,' said Boyd, looking at Miles, his face as grimy as a coalminer's.
'Damp?' repeated Miles, raising one eyebrow.
'Definitely damp. Better get Phil down here,' said Boyd.
When Neame struggled up to the tunnel's face and sampled the soil he agreed with Boyd – it was most definitely damp.
'Well, what does it mean?' asked Boyd impatiently.
'Must be seepage from a water table,' replied Neame, touching the tunnel face. When Boyd's and Miles's faces showed no signs of comprehension, he continued.
'It means, gentlemen, that we are probably close to the castle's outer wall.'
'By Jove,' said Boyd, 'but that's bloody marvellous news!' He clapped Neame roughly on the shoulder with one mud-encrusted hand. 'How much further?'
'I'll fetch my instruments,' replied Neame seriously, backing down the tunnel, his mind already spinning with possibilities.
* * *
Because space was at a premium inside the tunnel, Brigadiers Stirling and Hargest, the latter now recovered from his hip trouble, widened the shaft at one point to create a bypass for up and down traffic. Boyd and Miles and the other digging teams continued to work at the face until, on Neame's advice, the tunnel was judged to be 35 feet long and should be directly beneath the massive outer wall of the castle. Some wooden propping was necessary only for this damp section. The plan was then to dig upwards, uncovering the foundation of the wall, and then dig along its length for six feet before turning out and creating an exit hole two feet beyond the wall.
On the second day beneath the wall the diggers hit the structure's hard base. It consisted of very large flat stone blocks fitted together with equally resilient mortar. It was decided to use the bottom of the wall as the roof for this section of the tunnel.
Throughout February and March 1943 the tunnel progressed beneath the wall until Neame ordered a course change and the tunnel branched out at a right angle to the wall for two feet. The tunnel now lay an unknown distance below the surface. The next problem was finding out exactly how much earth and rock remained between the tunnellers and freedom.
* * *
'Not again!' exclaimed Brigadier Stirling, as the tunnel buzzer gave a long blast. This signalled 'stop temporarily' and Stirling, though annoyed at the frequent halts, obeyed instantly. Stirling didn't move. He held one of the improvised iron bars in both hands. He had been working loose a large rock above him when the buzzer had sounded. He knew this meant that a sentry was stood on the wall just twenty feet above Stirling's position. General Neame feared that certain tools made enough noise for the sound to travel through the wall, and that it could potentially be felt or heard by an alert sentry, so every time a sentry came close to the tunnel, the buzzer sounded. Though the constant stops were frustrating for the diggers, it was felt to be a sensible precaution after so much time and effort had been expended on the tunnel.
Time ticked by slowly for Stirling, who was frozen in an uncomfortable position. He had been taking his turn digging upwards just two feet outside the perimeter wall. It was exhausting work at such an awkward angle. Stirling waited, his ears straining for permission to continue. The silence in the tunnel was abruptly shattered by two buzzes, indicating 'carry on again'.
''Bout bally time,' muttered Stirling grumpily, before he resumed levering the large rock from the damp earth. But then the buzzer sounded again. 'For the love of God!' cursed Stirling, freezing once again. Near the end the tunnellers might have been, but the going was getting harder and the impatience of being able to almost see the finishing line wearing even thinner each man's sorely tested patience.
* * *
In order to minimise the chance of the shaft up to the surface falling in on the diggers, a system of wooden supports was put in by Boyd and Lord Ranfurly. The carpenters 'designed sliding frames to slide up inside a fixed revetment framework at the bottom of the shaft,' explained General Neame, 'and with a roof of removable slats, so that a part of the earth above could be cut away with a trowel while the remainder was safely supported.' The wooden lining for the shaft was increased as the men dug towards the surface.
When the roof had been raised two feet Neame decided to find out exactly how much earth remained above their heads. It was not simply a case of digging to the surface and creating an exit hole. That would only be done when the conditions for the actual escape were ready. Neame decided to probe the surface with a hollow stair rod. Nothing – they were still too deep.
After the diggers reached three-and-a-half feet upwards, Neame returned to try again. At this point the probe broke through. Neame turned to some of the others who had gathered in the tunnel behind him, expectant expressions on their muddy faces.
'Four-and-a-half feet to the surface,' announced Neame in a harsh whisper. The others grinned or silently shook hands. Working upwards had been incredibly difficult, with large and difficult rocks blocking the shaft on several occasions, their removal requiring all of the diggers' ingenuity. It had seemed that the castle was determined not to let them go just yet.
The buzzer's shrill single warning suddenly broke Neame's and the others' reverie. They all looked towards the ceiling. They knew that up there were armed men with explicit orders to shoot anyone seen on the wrong side of the walls. They all remembered the sneering Captain Pederneschi pointing at the strand of wire erected five feet inside the outer wall and his chilling warning: 'This is the line of death... No prisoner is allowed to cross it... If you do you will be shot!'
CHAPTER 13
Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow
'The work [on the tunnel] was crushingly hard, and only iron determination prevented the workers from giving up the struggle.'
Flight Lieutenant John Leeming
A few days after General Neame had successfully probed the surface through the remaining four-and-a-half feet of soil covering the tunnel exit, it began to rain. A strong wind blew up and the rain increased in ferocity, great sheets lashing the castle like a ship at sea. The generals looked out of their accommodation with alarm. Water was running off the roof in a torrent and forming great pools in the courtyard and gardens as the drains to the moat were overwhelmed.
A team was sent to check on the tunnel. As they climbed down into the entrance shaft the rain drummed loudly on the chapel roof high above them. Brigadier Hargest spotted water running down the shaft in a steady trickle. As he reached the base of the shaft his foot sank into a couple of inches of muddy water. Clambering along the tunnel, water was pooling at its lowest point. Hargest quickly reported to Neame, who came to inspect.
After a thorough inspection of the tunnel, Neame told the others that there was a crack in the castle's wall that was allowing water to percolate into the tunnel shaft. He asked Hargest and Miles to make a sump in the tunnel to draw off the worst of the water. It was a disgusting job, the two brigadiers working in cold, mud and rainwater, but they managed and the tunnel dried out after a couple of days (though work recommenced the day after the rain had stopped).
* * *
'My God!' exclaimed Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. 'How on earth are we supposed to get through this lot?' The tunnel was now only four feet from the surface, according to Neame's probings, but Boyd and Brigadier Miles had run into a problem. They were slowly excavating what appeared to be another layer of rock that ran right across the roof of the shaft. Neame was called upon to inspect it. Neame's probe must have somehow passed through a crack or hidden gap. Boyd pointed out, quite rightly, that excavating such a solid mass of rock right above the diggers' heads was incredibly dangerous. Boyd suggested changing the direction of the exit shaft to avoid the rock, but Neame refused to countenance such an idea. Time was of the essence. They were well into March 1943, and any serious delay might scupper their chances of getting away. And there were other factors to consider, as Neame explained: 'I saw no chance of concealment in driving horizontally out of the hill-slope, and we had not enough timber to make changes of direction in gallery and shaft, and would, in all probability, have struck the same layer of rock.'
There was nothing for it but for the diggers to find some way of breaking the rock layer up and removing the material. Boyd and Miles volunteered for this onerous task, having already mastered rock removal during the construction of the main tunnel. A long discussion followed about how to prop up the rocks that they would be working on to prevent a terrible accident. Boyd and Miles eventually overcame the layer of rocks by widening the shaft until they discovered seams. Immense labour and considerable risk were necessary to lever out these huge rock pieces, which weighed 40–50lbs each. In fact, the rocks were so heavy that they were not removed from the tunnel – instead, the diggers rolled them down to the base of the entrance shaft and stored them there.
Slowly, but surely, the roof of the exit shaft was raised inch by painful inch towards the surface. Neame continued to carefully probe the overhead soil until there was only six inches remaining. Then a halt to the work was called.
'That's it,' said Neame, turning to the small handful of diggers who had crowded into the shaft and tunnel to hear the results of the latest probe. 'Gentlemen, the tunnel is finished.' It was 20 March 1943. It had taken the middle-aged excavators nearly seven months of punishingly hard labour to drive 52 feet of shafts and tunnel deep beneath the great castle's foundations. Only six inches remained to be cut away, and that would happen on the night of the escape. If the tunnellers needed evidence of their incredible feat of engineering they had only to glance at the massive pile of spoil that stood ten feet high inside the chapel.
The shaft was timbered up and Lord Ranfurly put a strong roof in place, so that anyone who walked over the exit shaft would not collapse the six inches of soil and reveal the tunnel beneath.
In the meantime, Ranfurly had also been busy making a cover for the exit hole. The wooden lid was painted and covered with earth and pine needles, creating a very convincing camouflage. It was intended that the tunnel would be used several times, so concealment remained paramount.
* * *
'I say, that's a really remarkable likeness,' said Dick O'Connor. The others all grunted their agreement.
'Right down to my bare patch,' said Hargest, touching his balding crown with one hand. 'Howes has done a first-class job.'
Hargest, O'Connor, Neame and the other escapers were standing in the doorway to Hargest's bedroom and staring intently at his bed. The bed was occupied, a human shape lying bundled up beneath the blankets, a head resting on its side on the pillow complete with ear, dark hair and bald spot. The view was slightly obscured by a mosquito net that hung down over the bed, suspended from a bamboo frame.
'It's really uncanny,' said Neame, folding his arms as he stared at the figure in Hargest's bed. Neame turned to the young private who stood just inside the door.
'Fine work, young man. Very fine work indeed,' said Neame seriously. Private J.E. Howes, Brigadier Hargest's batman, stiffened to attention.
'Thank you, sir,' he replied slightly embarrassedly.
The manufactured figure in the bed was an ingenious answer to a difficult question that General Neame had posed a month before. It was planned that the six escapers would exit the tunnel around 9.00pm on the day chosen for the breakout. But there was a very serious problem. The Italians ensured that the duty officer, accompanied by a sergeant, checked that all of the prisoners were in their beds at around 1.30am, giving the escapers barely four-and-a-half hours to get clear of the castle and out of Florence before they would be missed. They couldn't leave much earlier than 9.00pm because they needed full dark, and anyway the Italians checked them during the early evening. They needed to find a way of fooling the duty officer into thinking that the six escaped generals were still in their rooms in order to buy more time. The morning roll call was not taken until 11.00am, and a fourteen-hour head start could very well be the difference between success and failure.
The moment the Italians realised that some of the prisoners were missing an alert would be transmitted to all police stations, barracks, train stations, ports and frontier posts. Descriptions of the men, along with their photographs, would be circulated and every official would be looking for them. Patrols would be dispatched to likely points, such as railways stations, where escapers might try to transit, and spot checks on identity papers would be rigorously instituted. For the two teams that planned to catch a train from Florence to Milan, and then change trains to Como, any delay was vitally important. Travel during wartime was fraught with overcrowding and delays, and they knew that their journey north could be slow.
The brilliant idea of making dummies was proposed and accepted a few weeks before the tunnel was finished. It was important that each dummy should have as strong a likeness as possible to the escaper that it was based upon. Fortunately, one group of prisoners in the castle had long been observing the escapers – their batmen or army servants. So the task of making the dummies fell to the very young soldiers who looked after the senior officers.
The dummy representing Hargest was typical of those manufactured by the batmen. Private Howes had asked Hargest to grow his hair out and had then saved the clippings retrieved from Able Seaman Cunningham, the castle's barber. Constructing the head was relatively simple. Howes had taken a large handkerchief and soaked it in glue. Hargest's hair clippings were then stuck to it, remembering to leave a bald spot on the crown. The handkerchief was then stuck on to a stuffed balaclava and a cloth ear sewn on to one side. The 'body' under the blankets was simply a roll of Hargest's clothing.
Each of the six dummies was different. General O'Connor and Brigadier Combe were fair-haired, while Miles and De Wiart were bald. From a distance, at night, the dummies might just fool the Italians. Neame ensured that the illusion was stronger by diffusing the light. He applied for mosquito nets for the prisoners and they started using them at night immediately, even though not a single insect had yet been seen. The Italians soon grew used to seeing the officers sleeping soundly beneath these nets, which made it harder to clearly see the bodies in the beds. But it had been obvious to Neame and the others that the dummies would only pass inspection if they were viewed from some distance away. To this end, Neame made several complaints, both to Commandant Tranquille and to the Red Cross, explaining that the duty officer's habit of entering an officer's room during the 1.30am inspection was severely disrupting the prisoners' sleep. After much arguing and negotiation, Tranquille agreed that in the interests of allowing his elderly prisoners a good night's sleep, the duty officer would instead merely open the door to a prisoner's room and use a handheld torch to conduct a quick inspection. On no account was the officer to enter the prisoners' rooms during the inspection. Neame and the others knew that viewed through a mosquito net by the light of a torch, the dummies should pass for real people.
* * *
For several days after the tunnel had been completed, the escapers checked their disguises, papers and maps. Flight Lieutenant Leeming had manufactured some more of the little compasses that were housed in Italian Bakelite shoe polish boxes, so all of the teams were properly equipped. All now looked to General Neame for a final decision about when to launch the escape. He, and he alone, held responsibility for ordering 'Zero Day'.
It all came down now to the right weather conditions. Wind was essential to cover any noise that the escapers made as they excavated the last six inches of dirt from the exit shaft before charging off into the night. Rain was the second prerequisite, in order to hopefully hold the wall sentries inside their guard boxes instead of prowling the battlements just two dozen feet above the tunnel exit. It was a matter of waiting until those two weather conditions occurred on the same night.
It didn't look promising. Each day and night was 'fair': dry, with little or no wind. All of the escapers had taken to constantly reporting on the weather on an hourly basis in the days that followed the completion of the tunnel. In the meantime, the final details of the escape plan were settled.
'So it's agreed that Ranfurly will remove the final six inches of soil in the shaft,' said General Neame. 'I will assist as required. We'll begin excavations at 8.00pm, leaving us an hour before the final kick-off.'
Ranfurly nodded. He had been selected for the final dig largely because of his height – six foot three inches.
'I'll then camouflage the hole with the special cover I've made,' stated Ranfurly.
'All of the escape kit, which is currently stored in the chapel, will be brought up to the rooms ready for the teams to change into,' continued Neame.
'What about the dummies?' asked Brigadier Miles.
'Those too – have your servants bring them up ready to be placed in the beds.'
Neame explained that a system of watchers would be placed to give warning of any Italians approaching, though this was deemed unlikely.
'Right, let's go through the plan one more time regarding the tunnel,' said Neame.
'I enter first, sir,' said John Combe. 'I'm to reconnoitre the ground immediately after getting out of the shaft.'
'I'm next,' said Miles. 'I'm to work with John and guide the rest of the party to some spot concealed from the castle road.'
'Then it's my turn,' said Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. 'Behind me will be Jim and Dick,' he said, referring to Brigadier Hargest and General O'Connor.'
'Yes, and Hargest and I will help Carton out of the exit,' said O'Connor.
'And then I close the exit using Dan's special cover, sprinkle some more soil over it, obliterate footmarks and then make my way to the hidden RV where the others will be waiting,' said Hargest.
It all sounded so simple – but doing it for real: that would be the greatest test of nerve they had faced since they were last in action.
* * *
'It's raining!' declared an excited Dick O'Connor on the morning of 28 March. The rest of the escapers and their helpers went to the windows of the sitting room or the door to the courtyard. O'Connor was right. The sky was overcast and a steady rain had begun to fall.
As it was a Sunday, Neame would hold religious services for the prisoners in the dining room at midday as usual. G-P, in charge of music, added a hymn to the service in direct reference to the day's possible significance: 'Through the night of doubt and sorrow goes the pilgrim band'.
* * *
Two hours later it was still raining.
'What do you say, Phil?' asked O'Connor expectantly. General Neame stood at the window, arms folded, staring at the rain that tapped gently against the glass. He didn't move for some time. Behind him the escapers waited for an answer, sitting or standing around the comfortable room, the only sound the logs that fizzed and crackled as they burned in the great stone fireplace. Presently, Neame turned from the window, his face set.
'Right chaps: it's on,' nodded Neame. The frozen tableau of generals and brigadiers exploded into life, a burble of excited conversation erupting as they headed for their rooms to begin final preparations for the off.
* * *
General Neame continued to monitor the weather for the next several hours, as did many of the officers and men. With departure set for 9.00pm, the escape teams checked and rechecked their kit and clothes, their stomachs oily with pre-performance nerves. The desire to 'get cracking' suffused their muted conversations like a mantra. Lord Ranfurly prepared to enter the tunnel and complete the final excavation, opening the shaft to the outside. But then word came at 7.30pm that everyone was to assemble in the sitting room.
'I'm sorry chaps,' began Neame, one hand resting on the fireplace's marble mantelpiece, 'show's off.'
'But why?' exclaimed General De Wiart rather sharply. There was a fair amount of grumbling among the rest and much shaking of heads in disbelief.
'You placed me in command of this operation,' said Neame, 'and you gave me the authority to determine when Zero Day would be.' Everyone quieted down out of respect. 'Well, I'll tell you why. It's the weather... it's not quite right.'
'But Phil,' said Dick O'Connor in a reasonable voice, 'I was just at the courtyard door and it's still raining.'
'I know it is,' replied Neame, 'but it's slackening off and the wind's dropped. Look, I know what you chaps are going through, but I can't let you go ahead until the weather conditions are absolutely perfect. At the moment they are not quite right. We've all worked too damned hard to risk falling at the last fence.'
Neame was talking sense, but the let-down was hard to take for men who were raring to go. For nearly seven long and arduous months they had laboured on the tunnel with one thought in mind – the night when they would crawl through it to freedom. Now, at that victorious moment, they had been told to wait. Several tried to persuade Neame otherwise, but he firmly told them that they would wait. 'A feeling of depression followed this verdict,' wrote O'Connor, 'as some thought that we were missing a real chance. But General Neame very properly stuck to his guns, and our disappointment proved short lived.'
* * *
Monday 29 March 1943 dawned bright and clear. The 'weather watchers' were soon at their allotted windows and doorways, smoking cigarettes and pipes and glancing heavenward. The day looked like a bust, but in the afternoon the sky started to cloud over and grow overcast. The clouds took on the dark, pregnant look of rain. Then it began, a few dark spots appearing on the courtyard's flagstones until the heavens fully opened and the rain came in steady sheets, driving the sentries into their boxes for cover. By 6.00pm the rain was still continuing to fall steadily, with no sign of letting up. The escapers had retired to their rooms after dinner, hardly daring to believe that tonight could be the night, especially since the previous evening's disappointing cancellation. The men sat on their beds and stared into space, feeling like pent-up racehorses champing at the bit but confined to enforced idleness. They reread letters from loved ones without really taking in their import, glanced at photographs or tried to busy their minds by going over the plan and their part in it for the thousandth time. More than one paced the stone floor of his room, puffing nervously on a cigarette and often pausing by his window to stare out into the wet darkness.
'Jim,' said a voice behind Hargest as he leaned ruminatively on his windowsill, the smell of rain freshening him as a light wind blew droplets against his face through the open pane. The voice made Hargest jump and he turned quickly. General Neame was leaning around the door frame. 'I think you had better dress,' said Neame. Hargest took a pace towards him, his face blank.
'It looks as though tonight will be a good one,' added Neame, throwing him a big grin before his head and shoulders disappeared from the doorway and Hargest heard his footsteps moving down the corridor to another escaper's room with the joyous news.
Hargest moved quickly, pulling on the escape outfit that he had concealed in his room. Watchers had already been posted in case of a sudden Italian appearance, though no officers or guards were expected in the prisoners' quarters until the 1.30am check.
* * *
'Blast!' exclaimed Dick O'Connor when he pulled out his rucksack from its hiding place. Rats had eaten two large holes in it.
'Don't worry, sir, I'll fix that in a jiffy,' said his batman, Trooper Stones. In 30 minutes Stones had the holes patched and the rucksack fit for service again. It needed to be, for O'Connor would be carrying upwards of 25lbs of rations and kit inside of it.
While the six escapers dressed in their civilian outfits, assisted by their loyal batmen, and the suitcases and rucksacks were checked and rechecked, General Neame and Lieutenant Ranfurly, the latter wearing only a pair of underpants, clambered down into the tunnel. The escapers went down to the dining room for a last meal before the off, though most had little appetite. Ranfurly had also had sandwiches made and hard-boiled eggs readied, and these were distributed to the escapers as extra rations to tide them through the first 24 hours of their journeys.
Jim Hargest brought a bottle of rum down to the dining room and filled six small medicine bottles, one for each of the escapers. He also took with him, in his suitcase, a small bottle of red wine.
It was a time for goodbyes. The escapers all shook hands with the other officers, who would not be going yet, though it was planned that another six men would make the attempt in a day or two. The generals and brigadiers then shook hands with their batmen, the young soldiers who had become like sons to many of these old warriors. They had in some cases fought side-by-side for years and had shared the trials and tribulations of imprisonment together. Though separated not only by age and rank but also by the social class conventions of the era, the batmen and orderlies had nonetheless become their friends.
Deep beneath the castle Dan Ranfurly and Neame laboured on the final half-foot of imprisoning earth and stones.
'Right sir, I'm in position,' murmured Ranfurly, his long frame reaching up the exit shaft. Below him crouched General Neame. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after 8.00pm.
'Okay, Dan,' whispered Neame, 'proceed.'
Ranfurly needed no further urging. Balancing himself against the wooden sides of the exit shaft he reached up and pulled aside the boards at the top, exposing the dark, damp earth above. Then he began to dig with the trusty old kitchen knife, soil and stones cascading down over his outstretched arms and his face as he excavated. For ten minutes Ranfurly worked like a man possessed, hacking and gouging at the earth while Neame backed into the tunnel away from the torrent of mud that fell from above. Then all was quiet.
'Sir,' whispered Ranfurly, almost silently. Neame gingerly moved into the bottom of the shaft and looked up. Ranfurly's mud-blackened face was almost invisible in the darkness, except for his white teeth. He was grinning. Ranfurly pointed upwards with the tip of his knife. Neame allowed his eyes to adjust. Clouds scudded past the fresh hole that Ranfurly had cut at the top of the shaft. Cold rain fell on to Neame's upturned face, cleansing and refreshing after the filth and heat of the gloomy tunnel. Grinning widely himself now, he gave Ranfurly a thumbs-up before disappearing back down the tunnel towards the chapel with the good news.
* * *
'Officer coming!' hissed one of the watchers into the crowded dining room. Everyone froze for a second. Then they began to scatter. The alert had come from Brigadier 'Rudolph' Vaughan's room, one of the main lookout points. The six escapers snatched up their cases and rucksacks and dashed for their rooms. They had to conceal their luggage and escape outfits before the officer arrived. To add to the confusion, General Neame had sent word from the chapel for the escapers to assemble in the tunnel.
But a few minutes later everyone was called back to the dining room, hearts still in mouths. It had been a false alarm. A watcher had seen an Italian NCO making his rounds on the battlements and mistook the situation. The order arrived telling the escapers to make their way to the chapel. The strain was beginning to tell. Fortunately, 'Rudolph's' namesake Captain Ernest Vaughan, the castle's doughty new medical officer, took charge and gathered the escapers together and started directing them into the chapel.
* * *
When the escapers entered the darkened chapel they discovered Lord Ranfurly sitting at the top of the shaft. He refused to shake hands with any of them owing to his filthy state. The escapers had taken extra precautions with their outfits to protect them from the rigours of crawling through a muddy tunnel and the rainy night that they could expect at the other end. Each man wore an outsized pair of pyjamas over his clothes and a large handkerchief tied over his homemade flat cap. The men's shoes were covered with old socks, with the legs of their pyjamas tucked firmly in.
The escapers clambered down into the tunnel, Ranfurly helping each with his bag. Moving quickly down the tunnel to the exit shaft they were met by General Neame at the bottom, his face lit by a very low light.
'Right, you know the drill,' whispered Neame. 'The watchers report that all of the sentries are in their boxes. It's raining quite steadily.'
Brigadier Combe would be the first to go. He carried his leather suitcase, a length of rope and a blanket. His job was to spread the blanket outside the exit to prevent the escapers' shoes chewing up the wet grass and leaving an obvious mark that would attract the attention of any sentry who peered over the battlements during daylight. He was then to 'secure the rope round a post on the top of a stone wall just down the hillside from the battlements'. This, wrote Hargest, 'was our last obstacle, five feet high on the uphill side and about ten feet on the downhill or road side. The rope was to steady us; we could hang on to it while descending.'
Neame glanced at his watch, then along the tunnel where seven darkened and tense-looking faces, including that of Ranfurly at the far end, stared back at him. He looked at his watch again. It was time. 'Right John,' he said to Combe, 'Good luck and see you after the war.' Combe, awkwardly encumbered by the suitcase, coiled rope and blanket, muttered his response, briefly shook Neame's hand and then began to climb up the exit shaft. Behind him, the remaining six shuffled forward, Neame raising one hand to steady them while staring up the shaft as Combe struggled to the top.
At 9.00pm Brigadier John Combe's head appeared beneath the castle's massive curtain wall. Rain lashed at his face – a clean, crisp and beautifully cold rain. The air that accompanied the rain was fresh and invigorating after the stale tunnel. A wave of fierce exhilaration swept over Combe as he struggled out of the hole and set to work. He was alive... and he was free.
CHAPTER 14
The Pilgrim Band
'We were free... and freedom is a precious thing and worth the highest price a man can pay, and that moment I tasted it in full.'
Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart
The next man out of the tunnel was Brigadier Miles, who in addition to carrying his personal kit was also hauling out Lord Ranfurly's carefully camouflaged three-ply exit hole cover. Once he'd deposited the cover by the exit Miles was to help Brigadier Combe down at the five-foot-high castle road wall. As soon as he emerged, Miles quickly dropped the heavy board and scurried down the slope towards where Combe crouched in the lee of the wall. Air Vice-Marshal Boyd was next out – he only carried his suitcase. His task once clear of the exit was to go to the road and keep watch. There was always the fear that the Italians might have a ground sentry outside the curtain wall during the hours of darkness. Brigadier Jim Hargest was number four. He carried his suitcase, a long rope with an iron hook on one end, and a sandbag full of pine needles and soil. When General Neame gave him the signal to start climbing up the exit shaft Hargest pushed his case ahead of him, while grasping the heavy sandbag in his other hand. The tunnel was wet and slippery, and it was difficult work making the top.
Hargest was shocked by how light it was when he clambered awkwardly out of the exit shaft. Unbeknown to the prisoners, the Italians had placed some lights under the wall and they were reasonably bright. Hargest glanced up nervously at the top of the high castle wall. He couldn't see anyone, but if a guard did glance over the edge the escapers would be easily seen. However, it was still raining hard and the sentries had decided to remain dry inside their little wooden guard boxes atop the battlements. Hargest placed his suitcase and the sandbag on the blanket. Then he took off the coil of rope that he was wearing across his torso and passed it back down the hole, hook first. After a few seconds the rope went taut, and a single strong tug was the signal for Hargest to haul. Up came General De Wiart's heavy pack, which Hargest unhooked and placed with the other equipment on the blanket. Then he fed the rope back down into the hole. This time he hauled up General O'Connor's rucksack. Hargest paused, expecting De Wiart to appear, and preparing to give him a helping hand if needed, but instead he heard a voice whisper fiercely, 'The rope!'
Inside the shaft General De Wiart had begun his ascent when he stopped and leaned back down, whispering something to Neame at the bottom. Neame didn't hear what he said and, assuming that the tall one-armed man was stuck, started pushing on his legs. But De Wiart resisted and leaned back down again. 'I've forgotten Connor's bloody gamp!' hissed De Wiart roughly. Neame turned to look at O'Connor, who quickly thrust a rolled black umbrella into his hands. 'Well, it is raining,' said O'Connor defensively. Neame raised one eyebrow before quickly passing the umbrella up to the impatient De Wiart.
Up top Hargest complied with the third request for the rope and dangled it back down the hole. Another tug and he hauled to the surface a walking stick and O'Connor's black umbrella. Next came De Wiart, muttering something under his breath about a 'bloody gamp' as he was helped from the tunnel. The tall figure picked up his pack and stick and was soon away. Lastly emerged O'Connor, who was horribly surprised by the lights. 'It's like Piccadilly in peacetime,' he whispered to Hargest before he was also away towards the darkness of the road wall. Hargest scooped up the sodden blanket and tossed it into the hole. Then he fitted Ranfurly's heavy cover over the exit and emptied the contents of his sandbag over it, pausing for a few seconds to carefully spread the material and camouflage the hole as best he could. Satisfied with his work, Hargest snatched up his suitcase, the empty sandbag and the rope and headed off after the others.
* * *
Inside the tunnel everything went dead quiet once Hargest had fastened the cover over the hole. General Neame sat for a few seconds at the bottom of the exit shaft.
'And that's that,' he said reflectively, before making his way back towards the chapel. He still had plenty of work to do.
'Everything okay, sir?' asked Ranfurly, caked in mud and still dressed only in his underwear.
'Yes, the chicks have flown the nest,' replied Neame. 'Come on, you'd better get cleaned up and help the others with the dummies.'
It was essential to protect the secret of the tunnel at all costs. Plans were afoot to send a further six officers through it over the coming days, so the Italians had to be fooled into thinking that the first six had escaped over the castle's outer wall. To this end Neame had planned a diversion. The long rope that Hargest had used to haul rucksacks and equipment to the surface would be dropped somewhere where it would be easily found in the morning. Hopefully, the Italians would fall for this ruse and not suspect a tunnel. In the meantime, the dummies had to be moved up to the bedrooms and made ready for the night-time inspection.
* * *
At the low wall outside the castle that led to the road the escapers had a huge stroke of luck. Set into the wall was a great iron gate that stood twelve feet tall. Everyone had assumed that this portal would be securely locked, necessitating clambering over the wall itself to reach the road. But when Boyd tried the gate, it opened. Quickly everyone filed through and then Boyd tried to close it. But the gate was stiff and, perhaps at that moment forgetting where he was, Boyd slammed the gate with some force. Everyone ducked when the iron gate closed behind them with a loud boom. Boyd looked at them sheepishly in the rainy darkness and mouthed a silent 'sorry'. Then all eyes turned to the battlements. It seemed inconceivable that a sentry hadn't heard the almighty crash. No movement was discerned, the distance, wind and rain snatching away the hard noise before it reached the lofty sentry posts.
'Come on, let's get moving,' said O'Connor, and the six fugitives headed off downhill into the dripping woods below the castle where they were grateful to be swallowed up by shadows. Before they departed, the rope was poorly hidden. After a while they stepped over a wire fence into an olive grove and then clambered awkwardly over bramble-covered terraces as they headed deeper into the valley. O'Connor called another halt, and the escapers quickly divested themselves of their soaked and filthy overclothes used to protect their civilian outfits, stashing them in the undergrowth along with Hargest's empty sandbag. After another 600 yards the path branched into two routes; this was where O'Connor and De Wiart were to part company with the other two teams.
By now, the rain had eased off. The six men stood in their groups for a few minutes, O'Connor and De Wiart conspicuous by their very different outfits and large rucksacks. They were dressed for the countryside rather than as smarter workmen or travelling salesmen as favoured by the other four. De Wiart wore an old pair of corduroy trousers given to him by General Gambier-Parry, a civilian collarless shirt and an old pullover, with his raincoat over the top and a rag loosely knotted around his neck as a rudimentary scarf. On his feet he wore brown leather mountain boots that he had purchased at Sulmona before the move to Vincigliata. O'Connor was similarly disguised, both men also wearing homemade workmen's caps. They were posing as Austrian tourists on a hiking holiday, which would account for their strange accents when speaking Italian and O'Connor's fair hair. But their identity documents carried Italian names and listed Bologna as their place of domicile, to enable them to pass themselves off as local peasants should the need arise. They would swap between the two identities as the situation required.
'We shook hands silently,' recalled De Wiart of the parting, 'and let the darkness swallow us up.' With O'Connor beside him, De Wiart set off in a northeasterly direction towards the Apennines. Their target was to cross the grand Bologna–Milan trunk road between Modena and Reggio.
For the other two teams, the target was Florence station. When they parted from O'Connor and De Wiart, the remaining four fugitives were six miles from their target. Moving fast through the night, they crossed a bridge above a mill and hit the tarred road to the city. Stopping briefly, they determined to make themselves more presentable. They stripped off the old socks that had protected their shoes and shins during the escape and threw them into the fast-flowing, rain-swollen mill stream, then crouched on the bank and washed their suitcases clean of mud from the tunnel. It was now about 10.00pm.
* * *
Back at the castle, at 10.00pm General Neame ordered the dummies placed in the escaped officers' beds. The orderlies fussed over their placement, and the hanging of the mosquito nets, until Neame conducted an inspection and declared everything to be ready. The real test would come at 1.30am when the Italians made their customary inspection.
* * *
Miles and Boyd set a cracking pace down the road towards Florence. In fact, it was too fast. Hargest caught up with them.
'Look here, we should slow down a bit,' said Hargest to Miles and Boyd. Everyone was wearing a lot of thick clothing and overcoats, brought along in case they encountered snow in the Alps during their crossing into Switzerland, and their faces were running with sweat. 'Our train doesn't leave until 0035 hours and we've only half-a-dozen miles to cover.'
Boyd protested, worried that they might need extra time if they lost their way on the route into Florence. But Hargest was adamant and they slowed down accordingly. He didn't think that it was wise to arrive too early and in an exhausted state – they might attract unwanted attention.
On they marched. As they entered Florence's blacked-out suburbs they started seeing people, some finding their way in the dark with torches while others rode bicycles with shielded lamps. The escapers were pleased to note that no one took the slightest interest in them. Soon they were deep into Florence, passing through mostly quiet streets towards the railway station. Before very long they arrived at their destination. Hargest glanced at his wristwatch.
'Twenty-three thirty-five hours,' he murmured to the others as they stood in the shadows of an apartment building across from the huge station hall. The Milan train would depart in one hour's time, at 12.35am.
'Well, we can't hang around here,' said Boyd. 'We'd look less conspicuous waiting inside the station itself.' The others agreed, and they picked up their suitcases and strode nonchalantly across the piazza and through the great iron and glass doors into the station.
Florence railway station was a hive of activity, with civilians, soldiers and police milling around its huge ticket hall. Occasional announcements blared out over tinny speakers and all around them were passengers' conversations and the sounds of trains shunting, whistles blowing and steam escaping from engines. The hall was brightly lit and even in the middle of the night it was crowded with people. The fugitives glanced towards the far end of the vast, echoing hall where the ticket office was located. Several railway officials and Carabinieri stood around chatting or watching the crowds.
'Let's split up for a while,' suggested Miles, and the four escapers moved away from each other to wait singly. Hargest decided to test his disguise. He sauntered over to a group of Italian soldiers who were waiting next to a pile of kitbags. Hargest was pleased to note that they didn't look at him twice. Using discreet signals, the four fugitives drifted back outside to compare notes.
'Right, who's going to buy the tickets?' murmured Boyd. No one replied.
'Very well, I'll do it,' said Boyd irritably, breaking the embarrassed silence.
'Only three third class, remember,' piped up John Combe as Boyd prepared to go back into the station. 'I'm going second class.' Combe was posing as a travelling salesman and was dressed well in comparison to his companions. He would travel in a different carriage to Milan, but he'd have to purchase his own ticket.
* * *
Back inside the noisy and overcrowded station Boyd made his way towards the ticket office. There was a queue, which he joined. In his mind he went over his line several times, confident that his Italian would suffice. Then came his turn. Boyd presented himself before one of the little grill windows.
'Tre biglietti di terza classe ritorno a Milano,' said Boyd confidently. The clerk understood, but then launched into a loud and long diatribe in staccato Italian, Boyd only managing to pick out the word 'Bologna' with any clarity. The clerk stopped speaking and stared at Boyd as if waiting for a reply, but Boyd's mind had gone blank. He hadn't understood what the clerk had said, or even whether he had asked him a question. He might simply have been giving him some important instruction. Boyd glanced to his right. A Carabiniere had turned and was staring at him, both thumbs hooked into his gun belt. Boyd could hear the queue of people behind him muttering impatiently. His stomach turned over with nerves. He licked his lips and uttered a low 'scusami', before he walked away from the window without any tickets. He could feel the Carabiniere's eyes boring into his back as he walked towards the exit.
Once outside, he confessed what had happened to the others.
'The clerk chappie was probably giving you instructions about changing trains at Bologna,' said Miles. 'Never mind, I'll get the tickets.' Miles strode off into the hall, accompanied by Brigadier Combe, who would have to go to a different window to purchase his second-class return ticket.
Miles and Combe bought their tickets without any problems. With plenty of time to kill until their train, the four escapers decided to walk around the streets of Florence for a while.
* * *
Dick O'Connor and Carton de Wiart were, in the meantime, making excellent progress on foot. They covered five or six miles before De Wiart took a wrong turn in the dark and they became momentarily lost. Map reading had never been De Wiart's strong suit, so O'Connor took over and they managed to find the way again.
Neither man intended to stop for a rest throughout the hours of darkness and the two generals pushed on with the pace of men half their age. They successfully crossed the River Sieve before threading their way through the sleeping Borgo San Lorenzo, a town of over 16,000 people twelve miles northeast of Florence. At one point a searchlight beam suddenly stabbed out in the darkness, pinning them in the bright light. Both men froze, fearing they were about to be challenged, but after a few seconds the searchlight swung away over surrounding countryside and the two Britons hurried on.
Soon they found the main Bologna road, following it northeast. A quick glance at his watch showed O'Connor that they were making excellent time.
* * *
Jim Hargest, standing outside Florence station, glanced nervously at his watch again.
'Five minutes till the train departs,' he murmured to Boyd, Miles and Combe. It was 12.30am.
'Right, let's get on with it,' replied Boyd grimly. They strode into the station and made their way towards the platforms, tickets in their hands. The crowd was being funnelled through several gates that were manned by ticket inspectors and guarded by bored-looking Carabinieri. The four escapers shuffled forward with the crowd and presented their tickets. The inspectors barely looked at them, simply checked their tickets and waved them through. So far so good. In about an hour the duty officer at the castle would make his rounds. Hopefully the dummies would do their jobs and no alarm would be raised. By the time the inspection was finished, the four escapers would be well on their ways north.
The platform was cold and damp, and there was no train waiting for the two teams. They waited and waited, scared to sit down in case they were drawn into conversation with other travellers, but increasingly exhausted by the ordeal. Hargest and the others constantly glanced at their watches, but still no train appeared. At 1.30am Hargest turned to Boyd, placing his hand over his mouth as he spoke.
'Night-time check,' he murmured. Boyd looked at his watch and nodded. If those dummies failed to pass muster, the station would soon be crawling with troops looking for them. It was one of the obvious places to begin casting the net for escaped prisoners of war. Stamping his feet to try to keep warm, Hargest looked along the lit tracks beside the platform. Still no damned train.
* * *
Captain Pederneschi, accompanied by a sergeant, tramped up the stone steps to the next level of bedrooms, his way lit by a handheld torch. It was 1.30am and the castle was deathly quiet. The sergeant opened the first door on the left and Pederneschi shone his torch inside. A figure lay asleep beneath a mosquito net. The security officer moved on. It was the same in each room. Everything was in order. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day and he was due to come off duty once he had completed his check of the orderlies' accommodation. Pederneschi turned and, followed by the sergeant, tramped off towards another part of the castle.
General Neame lay on his back in his darkened room, his ears straining as he listened to Pederneschi's jackboots clumping away down the corridor. He smiled – the Italian had bought it; the dummies had passed muster. Neame thought of his friends who had escaped and wondered how they were getting along. He also thought of the new day to come and the challenges he and the remaining prisoners would face. Neame stared at the ceiling. It was a long time before sleep came.
* * *
Shortly after Captain Pederneschi began his inspection the Milan train finally puffed into Florence Station. Hargest glanced at his watch – 1.45am. 'So much for Fascist efficiency,' he thought. Every compartment was crammed to capacity and the corridors were full as well. As soon as the train squealed to a shaky halt the several hundred people who were waiting on the platform surged forward in a dense mass of clamouring, arguing and shoving humanity, each determined to board. The people trying to get off the train stood little chance, and Hargest and the three other escapers were swept along in this confusion towards a carriage. Such was the level of overcrowding that some passengers even boarded through the carriage windows. The escaped officers tucked their bags securely under their arms and, using their shoulders, bulled their ways on to the train. Boyd found himself miraculously inside the crowded corridor of a carriage and quickly spotted Jim Hargest at the other end. The train did not linger; shortly after arriving it puffed out of Florence, the previously raucous and fractious passengers settling down, and soon the corridor was filled with laughter and the melodic flow of Italian affability.
The problem was the very friendliness of the average Italian. Jim Hargest found himself pushed up against a Carabiniere, who suddenly decided to engage him in conversation. Hargest ignored his first attempt, but the Carabiniere was insistent and, tugging at Hargest's sleeve, asked him another question. Realising that his poor Italian was a complete giveaway, but also recognising that to ignore his questioner would only make him suspicious, Hargest fell back on a carefully worked-out ruse. He leaned closer to the Carabiniere and whispered in hoarse Italian: 'I'm sorry, but I am very deaf.' The Carabiniere nodded, shrugged his shoulders, then turned away and began chatting to another man.
The distance from Florence to Bologna, where the escapers would have to change trains for Milan, was 45 miles. The train was fast, but not fast enough, arriving at 3.00am. The Bologna to Milan train was supposed to depart at 3.00am, and the escapers were terrified that they would miss their connection. But they had reckoned without wartime railways in Italy. On arrival at Bologna station another interminable wait began on the cold platform for the delayed train. The delays were a cause for serious concern. Come 11.00am, the escapers fully expected to be noted as missing from the castle. It seemed inconceivable that the Italian officer who inspected them at morning roll call in the dining room could miss six officers. Then the alert would be issued and the train stations would suddenly be blockaded by soldiers and Carabinieri carrying the escaped officers' descriptions and tasked with inspecting the papers of travellers. The infernal delays meant that Boyd, Hargest, Miles and Combe were practically half a day behind schedule. They were supposed to have been arriving at Milan at 6.00am and Lake Como, near the Swiss frontier, at 8.00am. In their original plan, worked out from purloined intelligence at the castle, they would have crossed the frontier around the time the Italians realised that they were missing, and before an alert could be fully put into effect.
The wait on the platform at Bologna station was very uncomfortable for the four middle-aged escapers. They had missed a night's sleep and had not even managed to sit down since they entered the escape tunnel at the castle over eight hours before. It was imperative that they find some hot food and a drink to perk them up, so Hargest was left guarding the bags while the others scoured the station for refreshments. Before long someone tapped him on the shoulder.
'Are these your bags?' asked a nosy Italian railway policeman. Hargest replied in the affirmative and the policeman just nodded and strolled off. It wasn't the last question that he had to field in his schoolboy Italian, as several passengers asked him about trains and timetables. He was relieved when his friends reappeared, but they had failed to find any hot food or drinks.
The Milan train finally departed from Bologna at 5.20am. Getting aboard was the same dreadful scrimmage as at Florence, and it almost brought dire consequences for Brigadier Hargest. Just as he was hauling himself aboard a carriage, someone in the crowd pulled at his suitcase. Seconds later and Hargest was left holding only the broken handle – his case with his clothes, wine, food and tools had disappeared beneath the riotous crowd. He made a snap decision to retrieve it and launched himself like an enraged bull into the mass of humanity and by sheer force managed to find his case and climb back aboard the carriage. By the time he made it inside a corridor he was exhausted and starting to feel unwell. He reattached the handle to his case using a bootlace, pressed his back against a wall and tried to catch his breath. Looking around he saw Brigadier Miles at the other end of the corridor, also looking exhausted and ashen-faced, while Owen Boyd was wedged in about six feet behind Hargest.
* * *
With the coming of dawn, Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart were still shadowing the Bologna road. One of De Wiart's feet was hurting, and he cursed his stupidity in not joining the others for more escorted walks around the vicinity of the castle.
''Bout time for a feed, don't you think, Connor?' said De Wiart, grimacing slightly from the pain in his foot.
The two men branched off from the road and climbed up a little tree- and scrub-covered hillock where they gratefully stripped off their heavy rucksacks and sat down on the grass. De Wiart removed his boots. One of his big toes was badly blistered.
'We'll take a breather for a few hours,' said O'Connor. 'We're pretty well concealed from the road, I think.'
The two men broke out some of their rations. They had covered over fifteen miles on foot since breaking out of the castle, and intended to push on once rested.
* * *
Aboard the Bologna to Milan train the journey seemed interminable, and unlike O'Connor and De Wiart, Brigadiers Hargest, Miles and Combe and Air Vice-Marshal Boyd were powerless to increase their speed or deviate from the route. They were trapped aboard the slow-moving and horrendously overcrowded train and becoming increasingly conscious of the time issue. Jim Hargest found himself buttonholed by a little old Italian man who was determined to chat. Hargest again deployed his deaf act, whereupon the old man started making jokes at Hargest's expense to the carriage in general. The very last thing Hargest wanted to be was the centre of attention, but he couldn't move away. 'He was a mean little man,' recalled Hargest, 'and I would have loved to wring his neck.'
The train regularly jerked to a halt at stations along the way to pick up or deposit passengers. In preparation for the journey Hargest had committed to memory the names of the major towns along the route, so at each halt he took care to mentally note the station names. First was Modena, followed by Parma, Piacenza, and then Lodi. Finally the train steamed lazily over a bridge spanning the fast-flowing and wide Po River and on to the Plain of Lombardy. The sky grew dark and overcast and soon heavy rain battered the carriage windows like flung sand.
The atmosphere inside the carriage, in spite of the weather, was jolly and the Italians chattered away telling stories and jokes. At one point a young couple tried to draw Hargest into a joke they were telling to the carriage in general, when the little old man suddenly interjected. 'It's no use talking to him,' said the old man, pointing to Hargest who had a sickly smile plastered across his face. 'He's deaf. Anyway, I think he's a German.'
* * *
'Right, Carton, let's get cracking,' announced Dick O'Connor after they had rested for three or four hours. They packed up their kit, stood, and shouldered their heavy rucksacks. 'I'm afraid we'll be bushwhacking from now on,' said O'Connor. They couldn't afford to follow the main Bologna road any longer as the chances of running into police or Carabinieri were simply too great. Instead, the two generals would go cross-country, 'up hill and down dale', as De Wiart would recall, through pretty rolling countryside and the occasional village. The months of intensive fitness training that the two men had put in on the keep staircases paid off, notwithstanding Carton de Wiart's blister. For some of that period O'Connor in particular had been up and down those stone steps 75 times a day, 'which in height added up to between 3,000 and 4,000 ft – a very boring performance!'. Now the two men with a combined age of 115 were back eating up the miles towards their target frontier crossing at Tirano. O'Connor had his rolled umbrella tied to the top of his pack, while De Wiart made full use of his stout walking stick, which he had relied on to help him keep his balance since losing an eye.
* * *
Jim Hargest glanced at his wristwatch and silently cursed. From Milan, the four escapers had planned to catch the 8.00am train to Como near the Swiss frontier. From Como it was a six-mile hike to the border town of Chiasso and freedom. But as the train finally pulled into Milan's vast main station Hargest knew that they had in all probability missed their connection, leaving them 40 miles short of Switzerland. Hargest glanced at Miles, who was standing close by. When their eyes met, Hargest briefly glanced back at his watch and then shook his head. Miles looked miserable. It was 8.20am on 30 March 1943 when a gloomy Hargest, Boyd, Miles and Combe finally disembarked from the train in Milan.
CHAPTER 15
Elevenses
'I watched Boyd and Miles wilt and go grey, and my hip was troubling me a good deal.'
Brigadier James Hargest
'So, what now?' asked Brigadier Reg Miles in a low voice. He was standing inside Milan's huge main station with Jim Hargest, Owen Boyd and John Combe. It was dangerous to stand around too long in discussion, but they were in a quandary. It was 8.30am on 30 March 1943 and the clock was ticking. The escapers knew that they only had until 11.00am before the alarm would be raised at Vincigliata Castle when the Italians finally noticed that six officers were missing from roll call. In two-and-a-half hours the Italian authorities would be informed, and within three-and-a-half at most their descriptions and photographs would begin to be circulated to all police, Carabinieri, army posts and border crossings.
'The Como train has definitely departed,' said Hargest, rubbing his tired eyes. 'Let's find out when the next one is due.'
The little group split up and mingled with the hundreds of passengers and staff that were milling around the huge, echoing station. Miles quickly examined a train timetable before drifting back once more into a loose huddle with the others.
'Next train to Como isn't until twelve hundred hours,' he said. They all knew that by noon the Italian operation to find them would be in full swing.
'We can't hang around here for another three-and-a-half hours,' murmured Boyd.
'Look,' said Hargest, 'we're about 40 miles from the frontier. Lets take a taxi as far along the Como road as we can.'
'And then what?' asked Boyd, his brow creased.
'We walk,' said Hargest flatly.
This idea was vetoed as too risky. They had neither the energy nor the kit for such an undertaking. And they would stick out like sore thumbs on the main roads once the Italians started hunting for them.
'Well then, it will have to be the train. I'll buy us four tickets. We can wait on the platform,' said Miles. The others agreed and Miles went off to the ticket office, returning a few minutes later. But when they tried to enter the platform gate, hoping to rest and disappear from view until the train came, the guard told them to come back at noon. The four escapers split up and wandered around for a while trying to think of a solution before coalescing again.
'I have an idea,' said Combe quietly. 'I remember hearing that there is a private railway line that goes up to Como from the Gardo di Nord.' This was quite far away across Milan. The others looked unconvinced.
'Well, it's worth a try,' said Combe sharply. 'It's certainly better than standing around here all morning and waiting to get caught.'
'How do we get to the North Station?' asked Miles.
'We'll take a tram,' replied Combe. 'They run right past the front of this station. I suggest we break into our respective teams and make our own ways there.'
Combe glanced around and immediately noticed a youngish man in civilian clothes and a fedora hat staring at the group. He looked away when he caught Combe's eyes, but when Combe looked back the man was staring again as he leaned against a wall. Combe decided to get moving. He and Boyd walked outside and headed for a tram that was just starting to pull away. Hargest and Miles followed them to the piazza and watched as their friends ran across, each of them boarding the tram from a different end of a carriage as it began to move. They didn't notice the Italian man jog quickly over and also board at the back of the carriage.
'We'll give them a few minutes, then follow,' said Hargest to Miles, who nodded solemnly.
After a suitable period of waiting, Hargest and Miles walked down to the tram stop and boarded the next vehicle that came along. They felt good – they were moving again and they had a plan. Hargest held on to an overhead rail and looked out of the window. He was tired but captivated by Milan. He stared intently as the tram bumped and ground down the street past La Scala and the famous cathedral.
* * *
Boyd and Combe arrived outside the North Station at about 9.50am. Like everywhere else it was busy with people coming and going. They went inside and waited, hoping that Hargest and Miles would shortly join them. They tried to act normal, waiting with their suitcases on the floor in front of them, just two middle-aged travellers going about their lawful business. Combe discreetly glanced around. People were queuing for tickets or standing chatting, while the usual uniformed railway officials and police stood around and a janitor cleaned part of the floor with a mop. But then Combe saw the young man from the main station again. And he had definitely seen Combe and Boyd.
'Stay here,' muttered Combe under his breath. 'I'll check the timetable.' Before Boyd could reply, Combe picked up his case and marched off in the direction of the information boards. He hoped to lure the watcher away from Boyd and their friends who would surely be arriving in a few minutes. Hardly daring to look around, Combe stood before the busy boards and pretended to read the train lists, his heart pumping wildly. He had almost calmed himself down when a hand gripped his right shoulder and an Italian voice said: 'Excuse me, sir, but can you come with me?'
* * *
Owen Boyd stood in the busy station hall for several minutes, wondering where on earth Combe had got to. There was no sign of Hargest or Miles either. He turned around slowly and scanned the hall, searching for Combe. As he looked over towards the information boards he suddenly saw Combe's tall figure. He was talking to a shorter man in a fedora hat who was showing him something in his hand. Then Combe began to walk away with the man, his new companion holding Combe's upper arm as if to guide him.
'Good Lord!' exclaimed Boyd, forgetting for a moment his composure. Then it dawned on him. Quickly picking up his suitcase, he walked in the opposite direction and disappeared into the densest part of the crowd of milling passengers.
* * *
When John Combe had turned around and seen the same man that had been following him since the main station, his stomach had performed a nervous flip. His questioner had not smiled, but had produced an identity card from an inside pocket of his cheap dark suit. The word 'Polizia' was emblazoned prominently on its front. As the man reached inside his jacket it bulged slightly and Combe caught sight of a shoulder holster and automatic pistol.
'Please accompany me, sir,' said the policeman in Italian. Combe was led away to an office in the station. As he went he looked but he couldn't see Boyd or the others. For that he was thankful. Hopefully Boyd would manage to make himself scarce and warn the others.
* * *
A few minutes after Combe had been arrested, Jim Hargest and Reg Miles stepped off a tram outside the North Station and walked inside. After looking around for a short time, they couldn't see Combe or Boyd and assumed that they had already gone through to the platform. Owen Boyd, after seeing Combe taken, had decided to do just that and had hastily bought a ticket to Como and passed through the gate.
Miles went off to purchase tickets for himself and Hargest, noting that the next train to Como would depart at 10.30am. This was 90 minutes earlier than the next train from Milan's main station, meaning that the escapers should be nearing the Swiss frontier when the alarm was sounded back at Vincigliata Castle. They might still make it across before the Italians managed to activate enough troops and police to start hunting for them.
Jim Hargest went into the station buffet and ordered two coffees and newspapers. Then he sat down at a window table to look out for Miles's return and watch the platform, hoping still to see Combe and Boyd.
Miles soon returned with the tickets but no news of the others. The two New Zealanders sipped their coffees and read their Italian newspapers, peeking occasionally at a large clock on the wall of the buffet. No one seemed to take any notice of them; the café was noisy with customers and filled with cigarette smoke.
Just before 10.30am Hargest stood up, carefully folding his paper and tucking it under his arm before picking up his suitcase. Miles followed suit and the two men calmly walked over to the platform gate, presenting their tickets for inspection.
For once, the train was on time: a small engine and half-a-dozen shopworn carriages. The train was only half-full, which was a distinct relief after the overcrowded Florence service, and the two brigadiers found a compartment and settled in, getting out their sandwiches from the castle. Then, precisely on time, the little train gave a lurch and slowly began to pull out of the station. Hargest glanced at his watch once again and grimaced. They were cutting it fine, very fine indeed. And what on earth had become of Boyd and Combe?
* * *
At that precise moment, the plain-clothes policeman in an office at Milan's North Station was expertly searching Brigadier John Combe. Combe stood with his arms raised while the policeman went through his pockets, emptying their contents on to a scuffed wooden desk: some coins and a small roll of banknotes, some of Gambier-Parry's maps and the painstakingly forged identity card. The policeman examined the identity card with great interest, comparing the photograph carefully with the tall man standing before him, and asking Combe various questions about his identity, which Combe managed to answer. The policeman picked up the homemade maps, turning them over in his hands. It was clear from the policeman's line of questioning that he suspected Combe was not who he purported to be. Combe's Italian stretched only so far. Shortly after arriving in the office, the policemen picked up the receiver of a black telephone on the desk and began an animated conversation. A few minutes later two uniformed police officers arrived. Combe was told that he was to be taken to a police station for further questioning, and one of the policemen produced a pair of steel handcuffs and locked Combe's wrists tightly together in front of him. The other policeman picked up the material on the desk and Combe's suitcase while the plain-clothesman led the way outside. As Combe was frogmarched across the station hall people turned and stared. Outside, he was bundled into the back of a black Fiat and driven off at speed.
* * *
Unbeknown to Hargest and Miles, Owen Boyd was still at liberty. Somehow he had missed seeing his friends on the long and busy platform, but he had slipped aboard the last carriage and settled himself into a quiet compartment. As far as he knew, he was the only one of the quartet to still be at liberty, but he remained absolutely determined to reach the frontier, come what may. He still had his maps, his compass and some money; he was moving and thus far had not attracted any untoward interest from the authorities. He felt that he had an excellent chance of making it, though, like Hargest and Miles, he too glanced periodically at his wristwatch and noted how little time remained until the morning roll call at the castle. The little train was annoyingly slow and the horrible feeling of being late for the party stalked Boyd's mind like a wraith.
* * *
John Combe's only thought was to buy time for Boyd, Hargest and Miles. He thought that he could do so by giving evasive answers to questions and trying to confuse and confound the police. Every minute that Combe's real identity failed to be discovered meant that the others edged that little bit closer to freedom. But the Italians were not giving Combe an easy ride.
At the police station Combe was taken to an interview room where he was searched again, this time much more thoroughly. But it was not thorough enough, for the Italians never found Combe's Bakelite compass, which was sewn into a secret pocket in the back of his coat, nor did they find his equally well-hidden best maps.
'So, you will tell us why you have a forged identity card,' said an interrogator in Italian, holding Gambier-Parry's artwork up in front of Combe's face. Combe shrugged his shoulders like a local and spread his palms. He claimed to be the man in the photograph, just a travelling salesman from the Italian Tyrol.
'You are lying!' yelled the interrogator, a surly-looking police captain of early middle age. He slammed his palm down on his desk, making Combe jump. On the wall above the policeman's head a portrait of Mussolini stared down with undisguised belligerence. The interrogator's brown eyes narrowed. 'Why were you at the North Station?' he demanded in a more reasonable tone. Combe, who understood most of what he was being asked after months of Italian study at the castle, mumbled an evasive answer about 'work'. The interrogator slammed his fist down again on the table. 'Lies!' he shouted. 'You will tell me the truth! Why do you have maps of northern Italy? You are a spy, no?'
'I am a travelling salesman,' replied Combe.
'Your accent is very strange,' said the interrogator. 'I think that you are a foreign spy.' Combe glanced to the left, where a clock was fastened to the wall. It read 10.55am. 'I told you, I'm from the Tyrol,' replied Combe calmly. He knew that if he could keep up this act for even a few more hours, Boyd and the others might yet make it. Even if they were discovered missing from the castle in a few minutes' time, it would take time for the wheels of Italian bureaucracy to start to turn.
The interrogator sighed deeply and folded his arms.
'We shoot spies in Italy,' he said casually.
* * *
At Vincigliata Castle, General Neame and the remaining officers waited nervously in their dining room for the 11.00am check. The dummies had all been removed from the beds and hidden in the chapel. They had five minutes until the duty officer would appear through one of the gates in the white wall. Neame was racking his brains trying to think of some way that he could keep up the pretence of a full house with six warm bodies missing. Word from one of the watchers arrived that the Italian officer had been spotted.
'It's the new boy,' said Brigadier Todhunter, glancing out of the window at the approaching officer. The very young Second Lieutenant Solera, really still a teenager and new to the castle and the ways of its prisoners, was strutting across the courtyard.
'I say, Ted,' said Neame to Todhunter. 'Let's make him welcome. We'll invite him in to elevenses. Have the other chaps walk in and out of the dining room to give the impression of a full house.' Neame dashed towards the door to head off Solera with an invitation to join him for a cup of Bovril while Todhunter quickly outlined the plan to the others. They all prayed that Neame could keep Solera busy in conversation so that he didn't pay as much attention to the business of actually counting the prisoners.
The mantle clock began to strike. Todhunter glanced in its direction. 'Eleven hundred hours,' he muttered under his breath. 'Right chaps,' he said, looking at Brigadier Stirling and General Gambier-Parry, 'better pray to God that this works.'
* * *
Young Second Lieutenant Solera didn't stand a chance. Within seconds of entering the prisoners' dining room he was buttonholed by General Neame and Brigadier Todhunter and had a steaming cup of Bovril thrust into his hands. An affable young man who was surprised and flattered by the attention of a gaggle of aged military heroes, Solera failed to spot that he was being deceived. While he chatted away with Neame and Todhunter, discussing the many problems with the castle, the other senior officers milled around the dining room, constantly popping out, changing their clothing slightly, then reappearing again. The effect was of a full house, and Solera fell for the ruse hook, line and sinker. He failed to do his job correctly, something he would later be taken to task over by Captain Pederneschi, but he was really no more than a callow youth. Departing fifteen minutes later, he reported that all British officers were present and correct.
Neame couldn't believe his luck. Unless some misfortune befell them, the missing officers should remain undetected by the Italians until evening.
* * *
Aboard the Milan to Como train Brigadiers Hargest and Miles sat in a compartment staring at the passing countryside. The sun was shining, which after the wet and stormy conditions of the past two days seemed to be a sign of good times to come. Hargest and Miles were both exhausted and eternally grateful to be finally sitting down and able to rest. Hargest's hip had been causing him some discomfort for hours. Both men slowly started to regain their strength. But a worry remained hanging over them like the Sword of Damocles – ready to end their pleasant sojourn and cast them back into prison. They had no idea if a reception committee awaited them at Como station. It was past 11.00am, so they had to assume that their absence had been reported by now at the castle. How long it took the Italians to alert railway stations was anyone's guess, but Hargest and Miles knew that it wouldn't take long for orders and descriptions to be sent by telephone and teleprinter from Carabinieri headquarters in Florence. The train was due to arrive at Como in about half an hour. There was no possibility of jumping from the train before it reached its destination – Hargest certainly couldn't contemplate such a drastic measure with his hip. There was also the nagging worry of what had become of Air Vice-Marshal Boyd and Brigadier Combe. If they had fallen into Italian hands, perhaps they had already been identified and an alert sounded? Hargest watched as Reg Miles slowly peeled a hard-boiled egg brought with him from the castle. Hargest found that his appetite had left him.
Five carriages back Owen Boyd felt much the same as Hargest and Miles. As far as he was concerned, he was the only one of the four who had successfully escaped from Milan. He'd definitely seen John Combe get picked up, and Hargest and Miles had never arrived. And like the two New Zealanders he kept glancing nervously at his wristwatch – the talismanic time of 11.00am had been surpassed, meaning he was now a hunted man. He had to be. He couldn't conceive of how six officers could remain unaccounted for following the morning check at the castle. Boyd stared out of the window, noting how the little train was ascending into the mountains. The scenery was stunning, but it was hard to concentrate. He closed his eyes and tried to doze, but even though utterly exhausted he found that he was too pent-up to switch off. A nagging knot of tension deep in the pit of his stomach refused to leave him, and Boyd knew that he was still in immense danger. Like the others, he kept glancing at his watch. It was all a question of time and Boyd was starting to think that he didn't have quite enough.
CHAPTER 16
Boy Scouting
'I was threatened several times with shooting.'
Brigadier John Combe
Back in Milan, Brigadier John Combe's interrogation continued at police headquarters. He was roughly searched again, with many of his clothes taken off him, but by a miracle the police still failed to locate both his compass and his best maps.
The tone of the questioning was becoming more hostile and violent, with some pushing and shoving interspersed with the threats. On several occasions Combe was actually threatened with execution if he failed to reveal all. Though rattled by the experience, Combe had resolved to hold out as long as he could to give his friends a chance before revealing his rank and prisoner of war status. He felt that the Italians were bluffing – though there was a small part of him that was beginning to doubt this assessment. The police knew something was wrong, but they had yet to establish he was an escaped POW, probably owing to his age. Of course, Combe expected the hammer to fall any time after the 11.00am check at the castle. But miraculously, so far his connection with Vincigliata had not been established. For now, Combe remained evasive, his basic Italian and taciturn demeanour confounding his inquisitors.
* * *
'Heads up, Reg,' murmured Jim Hargest, tapping Miles's boot with his own. Miles had nodded off, but came to with a start. 'Como,' said Hargest, nodding towards the window. The train had slowed to a crawl and was trundling the last few hundred yards along the line into the pretty town that bordered the stunning Alpine lake of the same name. Both men leaned forward in the bright sunshine that streamed through the window and tried to see the approaching platform. It was a make-or-break moment.
'We'll soon know,' whispered Miles. Then the train pulled alongside the platform, coming slowly to a halt. The New Zealanders studied the platform intently – it was almost empty. Hargest had been expecting police officers and soldiers waiting to arrest them, but there was no one. Either the alert order had been slow to leave the castle, or by some miraculous means the six officers had not yet been missed. The two brigadiers looked at each other in amazement, a feeling of relief washing over them.
Hargest and Miles stood, taking down their luggage from the overhead racks, and shuffled out into the corridor. Miles headed for an exit towards the front, while Hargest opened a carriage door at the rear. It was an elementary precaution to avoid both men being immediately picked up, should their worst fears be realised and the authorities be lying in wait for them. Gingerly, both men opened their carriage doors and stepped down on to the platform, mingling with the other disembarking passengers. Miles and Hargest stared down the length of the platform. No police or soldiers could be seen. Hargest glanced at his watch – it read 11.55am. 'Almost an hour since the morning roll call at the castle,' he thought. He strolled over to Miles, who was lighting a cigarette.
'I'll walk up to the gate and watch for the others leaving,' he said under his breath. 'You walk the length of the train and see if they get off.' Miles nodded, picked up his case and started to walk back down the platform beside the stopped train, glancing into compartments and watching people alighting. Hargest moved over to the exit gate and stood waiting, in case Boyd and Combe showed up.
* * *
As the train had coasted into Como station, Owen Boyd had stood up, pulled on his flat cap and picked up his suitcase. He too was worried about a nasty reception committee waiting for him so he decided to take the precaution of getting off the carriage from the side opposite to the main platform. The train had actually run into a siding with platforms on either side. He didn't realise that on the other side of the train Reg Miles was at that moment looking for him.
* * *
Hargest and Miles could only linger for a few minutes – any longer and they might begin to look suspicious. There was also the genuine fear that the alarm might yet go out from the castle, and the last place they needed to be when the searches began was a public train station. Miles walked over to Hargest and together they surrendered their tickets and passed out of the station without incident. What had happened to Boyd and Combe was anyone's guess, though they evidently had not caught the Milan to Como train. Perhaps they would come up on the next one; perhaps they had been caught... Such concerns had to be pushed out of the minds of the two New Zealand brigadiers. The important thing now was their self-preservation and successful escape.
'It's about five miles to Chiasso on the frontier,' said Hargest to Miles as they walked out of Como's red-brick Victorian Lago station towards the famous lake. As they strolled down towards the waterfront in bright sunshine, it was hard to believe that there was a war on. The massive lake stretched away before them, framed by green-covered hills and the Alps behind. The dome of the 14th-century Como Cathedral dominated the town, surrounded on the waterfront by terracotta- and light yellow-coloured buildings giving an impression of prosperous peace. People bustled about, and the cafés and restaurants were full. The war had yet to touch this corner of Europe. Still wearing their greatcoats, Hargest and Miles were soon sweating in the mountain air but keen to crack on to Chiasso.
* * *
After walking along part of the waterfront, Hargest and Miles branched off through Como town, heading towards the road to Chiasso. They passed several soldiers and policemen without anyone showing any signs of recognition or challenging them. Hargest unfortunately lost his wine when the handle of his suitcase snapped once again and the bottle broke. Soon the two brigadiers were out in the countryside, following the road as it grew steeper and steeper. The country was dotted with pretty villas and gardens. Their plan was to follow the road most of the way to Chiasso then go south up on to the San Fermo Pass, before striking due west. Once the villas ended and the highway only passed through wooded countryside, the two escapers decided to get off the road as soon as possible so that they wouldn't look suspicious. They were incongruously dressed for the season and carrying hand luggage rather than mountain rucksacks. And they knew that the border area would be crawling with soldiers and police – they had passed several groups already.
* * *
Owen Boyd was also taking the road to Chiasso, though he was way behind Hargest and Miles having hung around at Como station for a while. His intention was to skirt the country close to the Swiss frontier until he found a railway line that crossed it, and then, hobo-style, jump a train and ride to freedom.
* * *
'Stand up!' said the interrogator in a harsh manner. Brigadier Combe stood as ordered. Another policeman replaced the handcuffs, before Combe was led from the interrogation room down a long corridor and outside into the bright sunshine. He had already been interrogated several times, but he had not divulged his real name even though threatened with execution. Outside the back door of Milan Police Station was a black police truck. The driver unlocked the door and forced Combe into the hot and stuffy interior, connecting the handcuffs that he wore to a stout chain on the hard bench seat in order to prevent escape. A couple of young Italian men were already shackled inside. Once they were moving Combe asked one of the other prisoners where they were going.
'San Vittore Prison,' replied the man sullenly, before the guard who was riding in the back with the prisoners told them to be quiet. San Vittore was the main civilian prison in Milan. The fact Combe was being sent there rather than to a military establishment indicated that the authorities clearly had no idea of his true identity. They seemed to think that he was some sort of common criminal or perhaps a black marketeer or smuggler, judging by his false papers and maps. Or, perhaps, a spy. Combe determined to keep up his vague act until he was sure enough time had elapsed that his travelling companions should have crossed the frontier. Combe reckoned on at least two more days of discomfort in the hands of the Italian police.
* * *
The road to Chiasso was steep and grew steeper the closer Hargest and Miles got to the town. Finally, after a hot and exhausting trek, Miles spotted a small white stone set beside the road that read 'Chiasso 1km'. At this point the two New Zealanders left the road and headed into the countryside. They crossed the railway line that ran back to Como and then started up the hill again. After a while they came to a deep gully that ran under the road. It was shaded with much foliage and Hargest and Miles dived gratefully into it, climbing on for a further half a mile under excellent cover.
'Let's have a break,' suggested Hargest, wiping sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. He and Miles sat down in the shade to rest and eat some of their meagre rations. They shared a tin of Red Cross bully beef and washed it down with their little remaining water. They examined their maps. The hike was proceeding according to plan. Hargest glanced up at the wooded hill that loomed above them.
'Right, Reg, let's crack on,' he said, picking up his suitcase. Together, the two escapers started to climb once again. After much effort, they made it to the summit and were rewarded with a stunning view. They could see Lake Como far below, the sun glinting off its glassy surface. They could see the funicular railway running from the lake up to the small mountain village of Brunate. Turning around, they could see down on to the flat Lombardy Plain across which the train from Milan had brought them. The men turned back again and stared in the direction of freedom once more. To reach Switzerland they would have to traverse a deep valley.
'Looks like home,' said Miles as he stared at the snow-covered Alps that loomed like a great granite wall in the distance. Hargest agreed that the view was strongly reminiscent of New Zealand, and it reassured both men. The steep climb up to the top of the hill had exhausted them, so they lingered at the summit to rest and drink in the views. They looked into the valley that they would have to cross and could discern a road and a railway line running towards the Swiss town of Lugano. They could also see what appeared to be a fence running through the snow, bisected by the railway. It was a strange moment to be able to see the path to freedom laid out so starkly – it looked deceptively simple to just cross the valley and climb the steep mountain on the other side and pass through that fence, which from their current position, was a tiny black line again the white snow. But a closer inspection revealed that there was more to the frontier than just a fence – little buildings could be seen, buildings that Hargest and Miles took to be barracks for Italian frontier troops. As they progressed with their hike, they would encounter more evidence of defensive measures and troop activity in the valley and mountainsides along the frontier, making movement increasingly risky.
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd worked his way up the road towards Chiasso before deciding to follow the railway line that, according to his maps, ran over the frontier into Switzerland. Eventually, and after some difficulty, he closed up on a stretch of line that was less than a mile from the frontier and ducked down into deep undergrowth to wait for dark and observe train movements while plotting how to jump a locomotive. He would spend the rest of the day dozing fitfully, nibbling on his remaining rations and watching. He was tantalisingly close to the frontier, but he knew that any precipitate action might lead to his immediate recapture, so he would wait until dark to make his move. Hargest and Miles had opted for the less direct route, swinging on a long and arduous detour into the high mountains near Chiasso. While the New Zealanders trekked, Boyd lay in silence behind some bushes, trainspotting and conserving his energy for the final push to freedom.
* * *
Hargest and Miles stumbled and crouched as they worked their way cautiously along the high ridgeline above the valley. There was little cover and they were concerned about running into an Italian patrol. The evidence of a military presence was all around them, with small collections of buildings, fences and trenches on both sides of the valley. Two shabbily dressed men wearing ordinary shoes and carrying old suitcases would have a hard time explaining their business in the high Alpine country should they be challenged.
By 3.00pm both men were exhausted by the terrain and the stress and decided to rest once again. Hargest took out his bricklayer's trowel from his case and helped Miles scrape out a couple of holes in the ground into which they lay, covering themselves with dead leaves. It was the best that they could do on the largely open ridgeline. They tried to sleep, but regardless of their physical exhaustion, neither man could.
* * *
About 4.00pm, Hargest and Miles rose from their shallow trenches, dead leaves festooning their clothes and hair. Though still very tired, they decided to push on. They crossed a deserted road and headed for a higher wooded mountain beyond. As they were walking up they had a sudden start when they heard the sounds of men's voices up ahead. Hargest and Miles dived behind some bushes and crouched low. Fearing a patrol, they listened carefully. There was a sound of hammering mingled in with the voices. Hargest crept forward cautiously for a better look. A group of men were making repairs to an electricity pole. Hargest crept back to Miles and reported what he had found. Though the men were civilians, the New Zealanders decided that it was probably unwise to be seen in case some loyal Italian should report their presence to the authorities. Creeping off, the brigadiers gave the working party a wide berth, conscious of every snapping twig and rustle of dead leaves as they trod.
* * *
At Vincigliata Castle, everything was progressing as normal. The Italians still had no inkling that a major escape had occurred the night before. The routine of the castle remained unchanged. Already General Neame had had some discussions with the remaining senior officers about the possibility of trying to fool the Italians for a second night running by placing the dummies back into the six empty beds. Neame was all for it, though some of the others thought that the British were pushing their luck.
The next problem to arise concerned Air Vice-Marshal Boyd. He was scheduled to have an Italian lesson with the castle's interpreter at 6.00pm. Before escaping, Boyd had had the good sense to write a note to the interpreter cancelling his lesson due to ill health, and had given this to Neame to pass on in his absence. Hopefully, the interpreter or one of the Italian officers would not follow up the note by visiting Boyd to check on his health. At 4.30pm, Neame had the note sent in and hoped for the best.
* * *
At the moment Boyd's note was being sent to the Italian interpreter at the castle, the Air Vice-Marshal was still crouched behind some bushes on an elevated position above the railway line that ran into Switzerland. After some desultory attempts at sleeping, and a feed, Boyd had started carefully observing the trains that rumbled up the line towards the north. The locomotives were hauling goods wagons into Switzerland, presenting Boyd with the beginnings of a daring plan. He noticed after a while that each train stopped about half a mile from the frontier. When the third train under observation had done this, Boyd had exclaimed his surprise. But he couldn't work out why it was happening. The trains would loiter in a stationary position for exactly five minutes (Boyd timed them carefully with his watch) before piling on steam once more and chuffing off to the frontier. During those five minutes no one appeared to be checking the trains; they just stopped. Perhaps the track was defective, thought Boyd, mystified.
Continued observation of further trains over the next couple of hours confirmed the pattern. Boyd realised that he could use the five-minute stop to break cover and make his way down to the track and hitch an unauthorised lift in one of the goods wagons at the rear of the train. He had noted with delight that once a train was moving again it didn't appear to stop at the frontier, but rather steamed straight through in the direction of Lugano. It all looked too easy. Boyd glanced at the sky and then at his watch. He would wait until it was dark and then make his move.
* * *
Soon after avoiding the party of workmen in the woods, Hargest and Miles almost blundered into a man who was chopping wood outside a small farmhouse. As the two escapers hurried past, the man stopped what he was doing and leaned on his axe, staring at them. Moving quickly on, Hargest and Miles started to climb the steep, wooded mountain. 'Whenever I looked back, I could see the axeman watching us intently,' wrote Hargest. It was not a good feeling.
Once deeper into the woods that covered the mountain slopes, they were no longer under observation, but again the two New Zealanders were exhausted. They flopped down on a patch of shady grass to catch their breath. After so many months of captivity, hiking in the mountains was proving very challenging, and Hargest's hip was aching almost constantly. Suddenly, a gunshot blasted out. Hargest and Miles involuntarily ducked, then scrambled behind some trees. It had come from the direction of Como. Had they been reported and were soldiers now coming for them? The brigadiers dared not break cover lest they be fired at, so they waited, panting in the heat, their hearts fit to burst out of their chests. Silence. Nothing. No shouted commands or the sounds of men coming up the trail. But then the mountain stillness was broken by more gunfire. It seemed to be a little way off, and both brigadiers had seen enough action to know when they were being directly fired at. This was not one of those occasions. Perhaps troops were exercising nearby or hunters were out in the woods. Hargest let out a long breath and looked at Miles, who shook his head ruefully. Slowly, the men stood up, brushed the leaf litter from their coats and, picking up their suitcases, resumed their weary ascent.
Hargest checked his compass. They were now southeast of Chiasso station. From their lofty position hundreds of feet above they could see the station clearly. Little did they know that not far from the station lurked Owen Boyd, who continued with his lonely trainspotting. Hargest and Miles's plan was to continue round to the southwest. They moved on to another long ridge. Going slowly, Hargest calculated that they needed to continue for about two miles to bring them south of the border town of Chiasso.
At 5.00pm Hargest and Miles halted south of Chiasso for another rest and a meal break. There was some man-made cover available – some old abandoned slit trenches half-full of leaves were as inviting to the exhausted brigadiers as feather beds, and they slid down gratefully inside them. They ate some more rations, but they were by now dehydrated after the long climb, and had run out of water. Hargest had a single orange from the castle, which he shared with Miles, but it did little to slake their thirst.
* * *
At Vincigliata castle an old peasant, one of several who tended the grounds outside the walls, led a horse and cart through the outer garden gate, the same gate that the prisoners had found miraculously and mysteriously unlocked the night before. The peasant left the gate wide open, and a guard was sent down to close and lock it. The Carabiniere, a rifle slung over his shoulder, sauntered down from the castle drive with a set of large iron keys held in one hand. As he started to pull the tall iron gates shut he suddenly noticed something out of the corner of one eye. Walking over to investigate, the sentry was mystified to see that someone had left a coil of rope tucked up against the wall beside the gate. He pulled some out and inspected it in the failing light. It was not regular rope, but appeared to be made out of linen bedsheets sewn together. Then he realised what he was looking at. Quickly scooping up the coil of rope, the sentry trotted back towards the castle.
A few minutes later the sentry presented himself before Captain Pederneschi's desk and saluted.
'Well, what is it?' asked Pederneschi in a bored tone.
'I found this, sir,' said the sentry, placing the coil of rope on the desktop.
Pederneschi quickly sat forward in his chair and examined the rope.
'Where did you find this, private?' demanded Pederneschi, his eyes flashing with excitement. After the sentry explained, Pederneschi jumped to his feet, putting on his cap and starting for the door. He gave orders to fetch a sergeant and more men, and Mickey, the dog left behind by Lieutenant Ricciardi. Pederneschi's face was set in a determined grimace. Something was going on and he was going to get to the bottom of it. He paused, opened his leather holster and took out his Beretta pistol. He extracted the magazine, checked it, and then slammed it back into place before replacing the pistol in its holster. 'Come on!' he barked at the sentry before marching off towards the gate, his jackboots drumming ominously on the flag-stoned driveway.
CHAPTER 17
Mickey Blows the Gaff
'The next moment the world was full of the sound of bells. We fled.'
Brigadier James Hargest
Within minutes of leaving his office, the castle's stern security officer, Captain Pederneschi, accompanied by a small section of guards, had descended on where the sentry had discovered the coil of rope. Pederneschi stood contemplating the scene. The sun was going down, casting evening shadows across the castle and its grounds. It looked as though the British prisoners had made another attempt to climb over the outer wall of the fortress. But Pederneschi was confused – none had been reported absent at the 11.00am check. It seemed inconceivable that any prisoner could have emulated General O'Connor's daring escalade – Pederneschi had put paid to any further such attempts by increasing the number of wall sentries, wiring them in on their wooden catwalk, and by installing the carefully watched 'line of death' on the inner side of the wall. Pederneschi ordered the section of guards to fan out around the outside walls of the castle and search the ground for any further clues. In the meantime, the great white dog Mickey had wandered off and was sniffing around. Suddenly, Mickey began pawing at the ground and barking, his tail flapping wildly.
Pederneschi stamped over to the dog. With his front paws Mickey was trying to dig, whimpering and barking as he did so. Pederneschi grabbed the dog by its collar and wrenched him aside. As he pulled the dog, Pederneschi stepped sideways, and suddenly there was a hollow sound beneath one of his jackboots. Pederneschi tapped the ground again with his boot, and the hollow sound was there again. He immediately crouched down and ran his hand roughly over the surface. Something wasn't right. The vegetation came away revealing a painted wooden board. Jamming his fingers around the join Pederneschi pulled up the board revealing a dark hole. There was a sound as well – the faint sound of an electric buzzer.
'Sergeant, a torch, quick!' shouted Pederneschi. The sergeant ran over and handed over a small handheld flashlight. Pederneschi switched on the light to reveal a deep, wood-lined shaft and ladder. 'A tunnel!' blurted out Pederneschi in genuine amazement. By now the other sentries had rushed over and were all peering into the hole with slack-jawed amazement.
'Get down that hole,' Pederneschi ordered the sergeant, 'and find out where it comes out.' He handed the torch to the sergeant, who gingerly climbed down and disappeared.
'You two, stand guard here until I relieve you,' said Pederneschi to two of the sentries. 'The rest of you follow me. I have to see the commandant.'
* * *
'They've found the tunnel!' yelled Lord Ranfurly as he ran into the dining room. There was a considerable commotion out in the courtyard as Italian soldiers, bayonets fixed to their rifles, gathered outside the chapel.
To the assembled officers it was naturally a grievous blow, but they had some housekeeping to take care of before the Italians descended mob-handed to search the POW accommodation. The buzzer that Captain Pederneschi had heard inside the tunnel was not supposed to be active, Neame having ordered Sergeant Bain to disconnect it after the escape. But somehow it had accidentally been reconnected and had since gone haywire, ringing continuously.
'Have the boys burn the dummies,' ordered General Neame. Over the next few minutes the dummies were taken back out of the six empty beds and the heads thrust into fires in the kitchen and other rooms by the orderlies.
Neame glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece.
'Twenty-two hours, gentlemen. We've given them a 22-hour head start.' It was 6.00pm. It was an amazing achievement under the circumstances and far better than they could have hoped for. But the loss of the tunnel was a terrible blow. Plans had been afoot for another six officers to escape through it.
* * *
On receipt of the news of a tunnel from Captain Pederneschi, Commandant Tranquille ordered that a roll call of the prisoners be taken immediately, preparatory to a thorough search of the castle for contraband and escape equipment. Pederneschi was pleased – he knew that all prisoners had been accounted for at 11.00 that morning, and the sentries had reported no incidents on the walls or gates. It looked as though Pederneschi had foiled a major escape attempt. As he strode over towards the keep beside Tranquille, he had a slightly cruel smile fixed to his face.
Second Lieutenant Solera was detailed to assemble the prisoners. He approached Neame wearing a triumphant smile, believing, like Pederneschi, that a major plot had just been foiled. 'Do you know what Mussolini said, General?' opined Solera proudly. 'He said that the best general was the one who had his troops on the field fifteen minutes before his opponent.'
The sergeant sent down the tunnel had emerged in the lift lobby. When the officers inspected, they discovered the hole into the chapel, and the chapel piled ten feet high with spoil. It was almost inconceivable that such an excavation could have been carried out right under their noses. Guards were posted on the tunnel exit.
At 6.30pm a head count was taken. Second Lieutenant Solera, who earlier in the day had reported all prisoners present and correct now stood to attention before the commandant. His face was flushed with embarrassment.
'Well?' asked Tranquille, his hawk face casting a balefully triumphant glance around the dining room, where Neame and the other senior officers had assembled.
'Six missing, sir,' said Solera quietly, hardly daring to look the commandant in the eye.
'What!' exploded Captain Pederneschi angrily. He then proceeded to count all of the prisoners, including the orderlies. But he soon realised that some distinctive faces were missing. When he returned to Tranquille, Pederneschi's face was ashen.
'Six are gone, Commandant.'
'Who?' spat Tranquille.
'O'Connor, Carton de Wiart, Boyd, Hargest, Miles and Combe.'
'Search the castle from top to bottom!' shouted Tranquille. 'Captain, see me in my office immediately.'
As Pederneschi turned to follow Tranquille out of the room he caught a glimpse of General Neame's face. It had split into a huge grin.
* * *
Owen Boyd looked at his watch in the fast disappearing light: 6.30pm. Another goods train was puffing slowly past his concealed position, a long column of black smoke billowing into the air, contrasting starkly with the brilliant white snow that gleamed in the last of the sunlight on the upper mountains. Boyd watched closely as the squeal of brakes met his ears once again, and the train ground to a halt at exactly the same position as all the others. It would be dark soon, and once the sun had set Boyd would make his move and catch the next train to make the mysterious five-minute stop. He glanced around the countryside but could see no one. It was a good sign.
* * *
After hiking all night and all of the next day, by 7.00pm Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart were exhausted and looking for somewhere to shelter. If anyone asked, they were simply elderly Austrian tourists enjoying a walking holiday in Northern Italy. O'Connor spotted a farmhouse in the evening twilight and decided to try his luck. He rapped on the door. It was opened by an elderly Italian peasant, who was surprised by the strange foreign visitors, but clearly also honoured by their visit. O'Connor, who spoke good conversational Italian after his many hours of dutiful study at the castle (conducted with the express purpose of aiding his escape), asked the farmer whether he could put them up for the night. The farmer showed them to his cowshed, where a few milking cows were corralled, and O'Connor and De Wiart settled themselves upon straw beside the animal stalls. They were about to break out their meagre rations when the farmer reappeared and invited them into the main house for a meal.
The farmhouse was filled with three generations of the family, and the two escapers were treated as honoured guests. The farmer's wife produced fresh bread and heaps of pasta, all washed down with the local red wine. The conversation was lively, with the Italians warm and boisterous.
Suddenly, the farmhouse door was wrenched open and in stepped an Italian soldier. O'Connor immediately ceased chattering and De Wiart's heart sank. But then the soldier smiled and was soon embracing and kissing family members. He was one of the farmer's sons, home on leave. O'Connor 'rose magnificently to the occasion', remembered De Wiart, 'broke into voluble Italian and jabbered away to the whole family as to the manner born, whilst I confined myself to eating and inwardly blessing the more studious Dick.'
* * *
'Someone's coming!' whispered Brigadier Miles. 'Hide!' Moving quickly, he and Hargest burrowed down under the leaves inside the trenches where they had been resting. They could hear men's voices close by. Then footsteps. The two New Zealanders barely dared to breath, screwing their eyes shut and almost gagging on the smell of musty, rotting vegetation. After a few minutes, silence returned, with just the noise of birds in the trees looking for roosts before the twilight. Hargest gingerly put up his head over the lip of his trench.
'All clear, Reg,' he whispered to Miles.
Crawling out of their temporary hides, the two brigadiers began walking along the ridge. They had not gone far when a siren sounded, its shrill klaxon call loud enough to freeze blood. It gave Hargest and Miles a bad start, until they realised that it was probably a factory whistle down in the valley indicating the end of the working day rather than anything to do with frontier defence. By now, their nerves were beginning to get more than a little frayed by the cat-and-mouse game that they were playing.
Eventually they reached the end of the woods and were confronted by a deep valley. Hargest glanced compulsively at his watch. 'Nineteen thirty hours,' he said to Miles, who nodded. The valley had virtually no cover whatsoever. On the other side the ground reared up into an almost vertical wooded hillside. Ominously, both men could discern rifle pits on the far side, the top of the range of hills having been cleared of vegetation.
'I'm terribly thirsty,' said Miles. 'I can see a water hole down the bottom.' He pointed to where the last rays of the sun glinted off a patch of water. Neither man had any water left and they were suffering badly.
'Look over there,' said Hargest, pointing into the distance where the occasional wooden hut could be made out. 'Looks like a frontier patrol.' As Hargest and Miles watched, a column of tiny figures could be discerned marching across the Alpine landscape and meeting another orderly party.
'Which mountain do you think that one is?' asked Miles, pointing in the direction of the massive wooded hill across the valley. Hargest took out a map and examined it carefully.
'I'd say it's Olimpino. The frontier fence should run behind it.'
'Well,' sighed Miles, 'we'll have to wait for dark before we try and get through those patrol areas.' Hargest agreed and the two men settled down to wait. Time passed slowly.
* * *
Owen Boyd glanced at the new train as it arrived. It was almost completely dark now and the train was just a darker shape moving against the valley floor. The only light came from the footplate, where the boiler fire glowed warmly. As predicted, the train slowed and then came to a halt exactly as before. Boyd didn't hesitate. He jumped up and started down the short hillside as fast as he dared and charged up the railway tracks to the back of the train, where a single red caboose lantern glowed like a malevolent eye.
He moved along the train to the second-to-last truck, conscious of the noise of his footsteps on the gravel beside the rails. He turned and looked behind him several times as he moved forward. Moving fast, he climbed up on to a foot rail and started fiddling with the door release. It was stuck. Boyd cursed. He knew that he had only a couple of minutes before the train started shunting forward. Up ahead towards the engine he heard someone laughing, the noise carrying on the still night air. Holding himself steady with one arm, his legs aching as he balanced on the foot rail, Boyd pulled at the door release with all his might. It gave with a harsh metallic clunk that seemed loud enough to warrant investigation from the footplate. Gingerly, he ran the door back a few inches on its rail and quickly swung inside. He pulled the door shut just as the train gave a lurch, the wheels and bogeys spinning on the shiny rails before taking the weight of the trucks. Then the train was moving, the engine settling into a steady rhythm. Boyd crouched by the door, hardly believing his luck. He'd made it.
* * *
The first stage in the process of apprehending the escapers began soon after the discovery of the tunnel at Vincigliata Castle. All Carabinieri, army and police commands were notified of the escape by teleprinter messages, and the alert was further disseminated down to individual posts by telephone or face-to-face meetings. Steps were immediately taken to strengthen the frontier defences with Switzerland and France, and search parties mobilised to begin scouring the countryside.
For the first time since North Africa, the Germans were involved with the senior officer prisoners. Though German forces would not move into Northern Italy in force until September, Italy was an important supply base for German forces in North Africa, meaning that there were many units in the country. The most important was Generalfeldmarschall Albert Kesselring's Luftflotte 2, which controlled several air bases and air force ground units throughout the region. Soon teleprinters at Kesselring's headquarters and subsidiary units were chattering like machine guns as a strongly worded alert was quickly spread:
On the evening of 29 March 1943, six captured British generals escaped from a prisoner of war camp near Florence. They speak German well. It is possible that they will try acts of sabotage during their escape and will appear in German or Italian uniforms or in civilian clothing for this purpose.
* * *
A sea of twinkling lights across the valley transfixed Hargest and Miles. While Italy was under blackout regulations, neutral Switzerland suffered no such rules and Chiasso and its surrounding villages were brightly lit. It had been a very long time since the two New Zealanders had seen such a sight.
By now, their desperate thirst had driven the brigadiers from their lofty perch and down into the darkened valley in search of water. When they arrived at the water hole, Miles took out his enamel mug and dipped it in. 'When he raised it,' Hargest recalled, 'something scrambled out – a frog! The hole was stagnant.' They were now in an exposed position, making a lot of noise stumbling through the rocky valley floor and well lit by the lights of Chiasso.
'We won't avoid detection for long in this light and quiet,' whispered Miles fearfully. 'Let us go back to the trenches and hope for better luck tomorrow.'
'But we agreed to go on,' replied Hargest. 'Besides, we can't hang on for another day without water.' They agreed to continue. The only water that was to be had was small puddles formed in animal footprints – the two brigadiers pressed their faces into the mud and sucked up this stagnant water gratefully.
* * *
O'Connor and De Wiart wandered back to the farmer's cowshed tired, stomachs full of good home-cooked food and pleasantly mellow after several glasses of wine. They crashed out on the soft straw. De Wiart's badly blistered toe was hurting, but he tried to push it out of his mind.
'You know, Carton, I haven't worked out exactly how far we've walked,' said O'Connor, tugging a map out of his rucksack. After contemplating it for some time he looked up.
'I reckon we've covered 33 miles, or thereabouts,' announced O'Connor.
'Damned good show! And more so as we are lugging these blessed things about,' said De Wiart, pointing with one boot at his 25lb rucksack.
If they could keep up this kind of pace they should make the Swiss frontier in about seven days.
* * *
Aboard the goods train, everything was going to plan. Boyd crouched in the dark, the train steaming along slowly as it headed for the frontier. But suddenly Boyd felt the train begin to slow down once more. With much squealing and juddering the train came to a stop. Boyd's mind was a riot of emotions: perhaps they would now check the wagons at the frontier – if that was the case he was sunk. Then, with another jolt, the train started to shunt backwards! He could feel it change direction on the track before it came to another halt. It felt as though the train had backed into a siding.
Boyd's ears strained to hear what was going on outside. There were some metallic clanking sounds and bumps, followed by silence. Then the train started up again, moving off noisily in the direction of Switzerland – the problem was Boyd's wagon didn't move. He realised with growing horror that his part of the train had been uncoupled and left in a siding. He cursed his bad luck. The frontier was only a few hundred yards away.
Boyd remained crouched beside the door trying to decide what to do. Perhaps the next train along would pick up the uncoupled wagons; or perhaps they would be left on the siding all night. He was trapped like a rat in a barrel if any checks were carried out on the wagons. For the time being, he decided to wait. He would see what happened before attempting anything drastic.
* * *
'Christ!' hissed Hargest, flattening himself against the snowy hillside. Reg Miles dived down beside him. Hargest pointed ahead in the darkness. There was a sentry box. The two brigadiers had almost blundered into it in their exhaustion.
'Wait here, I'll have a look,' whispered Hargest, before setting off, bent double. He skirted around the box, but couldn't see a sentry. It was deserted. Hargest walked over and peeked inside. Empty.
The two brigadiers sat on their haunches for a few minutes, trying to get their bearings in the darkness. According to their understanding, the frontier was on the other side of the hill upon which they sat. Hargest looked up the steep incline. There was something ahead, some distance behind the sentry box. They moved forward to examine it. A large pole was cemented into the ground. 'I lay and looked upward to get a view against the light of the sky,' wrote Hargest. 'At once it dawned on me – this was the frontier.' It was a stout fence, twelve feet high, angled on the steep hillside. The top was hung with bells, which any vibration would set off. Hargest reached out and gently shook the fence. The bells jangled loudly.
Hargest turned to Miles, who was staring transfixed at the obstacle, as if in a daze. 'Quick,' whispered Hargest, 'give me the wire cutters.'
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd had made up his mind. Simply sitting inside a freight wagon in the hope that something positive may eventually happen was not his style. A man of action, Boyd had decided that if he was going to cross the frontier, he would have to do it himself. The train gambit had failed, so it was up to him to find an alternative way, whether that be jumping another train or emulating Hargest and Miles and walking out of Italy. The longer he spent inside the goods wagon, the greater the chance of discovery and capture.
Gingerly, Boyd slid the wagon door back a couple of inches and peered outside. Everything appeared quiet. Pushing the door back further on its rails, Boyd slid gently out and placed a foot on the step. Once fully out, he carefully slid the door back into place and locked it. Then he jumped down to the ground and crouched. He could detect no movement. Boyd stood up, and carrying his suitcase in one hand, he started to walk away. Suddenly, a torch was switched on, illuminating him. For a second he considered running, but the sentry's challenge in Italian made it clear that the man was armed.
Boyd stood still, raising his arms above his head. The sentry approached, his boots crunching along the side of the railway track until he was only a few feet from Boyd. He pointed his rifle at Boyd, then asked him in Italian: 'Are you a British general?'
Boyd was astonished. Clearly, the Italians had discovered the escapers' absence from the castle and had flashed an alert to all their police and military forces. Boyd sighed deeply and slowly nodded. He was only a quarter of a mile from the Swiss frontier.
* * *
Reg Miles fumbled in his bag for a pair of wire cutters that he had fortuitously liberated from a workman at the castle some weeks before. Jim Hargest waited impatiently by the fence until Miles had retrieved the cutters. Grasping the fence, Hargest pulled it as tight as he could to prevent it vibrating and setting off the row of bells mounted along its top. Miles came forward and dropped to his knees before the fence. Each man looked both ways along the length of the barrier. Hargest nodded and Miles positioned the jaws of the cutters over the first piece of wire. Then he squeezed. The stout wire suddenly parted with a loud click. At that moment, it was the finest sound in the world.
CHAPTER 18
Night Crossing
'For the first time in many months a warm peace entered my soul.'
Brigadier James Hargest
'Get through!' gasped Brigadier Reg Miles slightly breathlessly as he pried back the cut pieces of the tall frontier fence. Jim Hargest crouched down and crawled through the opening, his clothes collecting a thick coating of snow as he went. Once he was through, Hargest turned back and extended his arms.
'The coats and bags, Reg,' he said, beckoning with his fingertips. Moving fast, Miles snatched up their greatcoats, rolling them into balls before passing them through, followed by their suitcases. Miles glanced behind him, then turned back to the fence and 'shot through like a rabbit.' The two brigadiers jumped to their feet, scooped up their things, and dashed like mad up the steep slope into the thick fir trees above.
Once in among the trees Hargest and Miles sat down in the snow. All was quiet. Miles turned to Hargest, his face beaming in the moonlight.
'Jim, we're in Switzerland!'
Hargest stared back at him, his face also creased by a victorious smile. He uttered a little prayer of thankfulness. 'My heart was tight-packed with gratitude,' he later wrote. Hargest opened his little suitcase and rummaged around for a few seconds before pulling out the 3oz bottle of rum that he'd brought with him from the castle. Miles did the same.
'To freedom, Reg,' said Hargest, clinking his bottle against Miles's.
'To freedom, Jim,' repeated Miles, and then they both took a deep slug of rum, savouring the moment.
* * *
Brigadier John Combe was settling down to his first night behind bars as a common criminal at the San Vittore prison in Milan. The corridors echoed with shouts and the slamming of iron doors. His cell was a spartan affair, with just a simple bed and a bucket toilet. Most of his clothes and all of his equipment and supplies had been taken away from him. At his last interrogation, Combe had stuck resolutely to his cover story, and it was clear that the Italians had yet to join up the dots and link him with the escape from Vincigliata Castle. But worryingly, his police interrogators had warned him that he could expect a two- or three-year prison sentence for being in possession of false identity documents. Combe rolled over on his hard mattress and tried to sleep. He thought of his companions and wondered what had become of them.
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Owen Boyd had been taken to a Carabinieri post near the frontier after his apprehension in the rail yard. He was bitter at the nature of his recapture, literally within a stone's throw of freedom. His kit had been taken away from him, along with his maps and fake identity card, but Boyd had admitted who he was, showing his captors his identity tag as proof. He was told that on the following day he would be sent back to the castle for punishment.
* * *
Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart remained in play, though they were stretched out on the straw of a farmer's cowshed just over 30 miles from the castle, snoring fitfully after their exhausting march. So far, they had encountered no problems and felt optimistic that they could reach their target, the border town of Tirano, in about seven days, if they could keep up the pace. Before O'Connor had fallen asleep he had reflected that all the hard endurance training that he and De Wiart had undertaken at the castle during the months of careful preparation was now paying off. They were as fit as any men could expect to be in late middle age and psychologically conditioned to succeed.
* * *
Although Brigadiers Hargest and Miles had made it to Switzerland, they now had to ensure that they would remain. It was of paramount importance that they contact the British authorities. But the first stage was to give themselves up to the Swiss authorities and let the wheels of bureaucracy take over. This proved easier said than done. They were high up in the mountains in the night-time, with little idea of what lay ahead and absolutely no contacts in the country. Their first task would be to descend to a less challenging altitude and find some form of civilisation.
It was very dark as the two New Zealanders started to descend through the snow and trees. Branches constantly struck them as they fumbled and flailed through the forest in the poor light. Hargest slipped, sliding and rolling downhill, still clutching his suitcase, until his sudden descent was arrested painfully by a tree. Then Miles took a nasty tumble, in the process losing his cap in the snow.
By now, the pair had been without water for too many hours, and both were dehydrated and exhausted. After a long climb they came to a path that led to a beautiful mountain stream. Hargest and Miles dropped to their knees beside the stream and using their hands as cups they greedily drank the freezing cold Alpine water before washing their faces and hands. They rested beside the stream, eating the last of the bully beef and bread from the castle and washing it down with their rum.
Instead of avoiding people, as they had been attempting to do since their escape from the castle, Hargest and Miles now had to actively seek out company, which felt strange to them. Ironically, it proved difficult to find anyone to surrender to at such a late hour. The first village they came to, Novazanno, was eerily quiet. The New Zealanders slaked their thirst once again, this time at the village fountain, before moving on. The occasional car drove past them, but there was little sign of life. To add to their woes, it began to rain.
The temperature dropped with the rain and soon both men were shivering violently, wet and determined to find cover. After sheltering in a shed open to the weather on three sides, they were so cold that they couldn't stand it any longer and at 3.00am Swiss time (one hour behind Italy) they went into the nearest village and banged on the door of a restaurant, behind which the two escapers could hear singing. There was no response. Hargest tried again, standing in the rain outside wearing every item of clothing that he possessed in a vain attempt to stay warm.
'Hello!' bellowed Hargest, in between hammering on the door. 'Can you hear me. We are Englishmen.' No response. He turned to Miles, who shrugged his shoulders.
'Hello, hello!' shouted Hargest again. 'We are English officers, can you open the door?'
The singing had stopped and Hargest could hear some low conversation from inside the restaurant. He sighed, and banged on the door again.
'We are two British generals who have escaped from Italy. We need shelter.'
Hargest was on the point of giving up and trying elsewhere when someone drew back the bolts on the door and it was cautiously opened, light and warmth spilling out. Three Swiss men stood inside the doorway staring out at the bedraggled visitors before one of them broke the spell and gestured for them to come inside. Hargest and Miles went immediately over to the fire and crouched down, rubbing their frozen hands together over the dancing flames.
The proprietor and his companions were a little drunk, but sobered up when presented with the problem of the strange visitors. Hargest asked if he and Miles could remain by the fire till the morning. The proprietor, Antonio Soldini, gave them a large bottle of beer and questioned them thoroughly. Then he slipped out to make a telephone call. On his return Soldini brightened up and plied the frozen brigadiers with more alcohol followed by coffee. Evidently, he had spoken to the local police, for a short time later two uniformed officers arrived and joined in with the merriment.
Hargest and Miles bade a fond farewell to Soldini and his family and went with the policemen in their car to Mendrisio. At the station they were booked in, handed over all of their possessions, made brief statements and then were escorted into a two-man cell where they slid into a grateful sleep beneath warm woollen blankets.
* * *
Shortly after dawn Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart, their rucksacks fastened securely to their backs, their legs stiff after so much exercise the day before, left the farm where they had sheltered for the night and began their day's trek.
The weather was with them, for it was bright and sunny. Their objective was to cross the grand Bologna–Milan trunk road between Modena and Reggio, so they quickly turned off the main Florence– Bologna road and headed cross-country in a northeasterly direction. The countryside, cut by numerous valleys, was alive with a carpet of wild violets. The combination of freedom, flowers, fresh air and sun lifted their spirits: 'We gloried in our escape from prison bars,' wrote De Wiart, and the two generals marched off with a spring in their step. O'Connor navigated for them using one of Flight Lieutenant Leeming's compasses and General Gambier-Parry's maps and they never got lost.
* * *
Later on the morning of 31 March, the Swiss police roused Brigadiers Hargest and Miles in their cell. After rudimentary ablutions and some breakfast and coffee the two New Zealanders were put in another car and driven through the town of Lugano to the Swiss Army headquarters in Bellinzona. Once there, the commandant and a colonel carefully questioned the brigadiers. 'We made statements about ourselves – name, rank, where we had been imprisoned, and other minor details,' recalled Hargest. The colonel rose and spoke.
'Gentlemen,' he said, in excellent English, 'we believe what you have told us. But you did enter Switzerland uninvited, and without papers, so with regret we must continue to hold you in arrest.' This news came as something of a shock to Hargest and Miles, who had fully been expecting to be able to contact the British authorities and go free.
'If you give us your word that you will not try to contact the British Consulate or the British Legation in Berne, or speak to anyone else or try to escape, we will send you to a hotel until tomorrow.' Hargest and Miles both gave their word.
'What happens tomorrow, Colonel?' asked Hargest.
'Tomorrow we will send you to Berne under escort,' replied the Swiss officer. Hargest and Miles were satisfied – at least that was one step closer to the British Legation.
'Now, gentlemen, Private Knuzler here will be your escort during your stay in Bellinzona.' Ernst Knuzler, a young reservist army clerk who spoke perfect English, stiffened to attention. Knuzler changed into civvies and then escorted the brigadiers to their hotel. There they luxuriated in steaming hot baths and took a meal in the dining room. It was all rather surreal to be free to mingle with ordinary people. In the afternoon Knuzler took them up to the old fortresses above the town for a stroll. The views were stunning, plunging down to Lake Maggiore. For Hargest it marked a special moment. 'Sitting there with my legs over the parapet I was able to view dispassionately all that had passed in the last three years. For the first time in many months a warm peace entered my soul.'
* * *
Later that evening, as Brigadiers Hargest and Miles sat down to another pleasant meal in their hotel dining room, Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart came to the end of a long day of hiking across difficult terrain. As the day had worn on they had started to see more and more villages, which was not a good thing. They had intended to keep contact with the locals to a minimum, so as not to attract undue attention. After days on the road they were looking bedraggled, their clothes soiled and beards starting to take. Coupled with their non-Italian looks and De Wiart's eye patch and missing hand, they stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. O'Connor was concerned how long the 'Austrian tourists' wheeze might last, especially if questioned thoroughly.
Finding shelter became a priority as evening came on, but, probably due their scruffy appearance and foreign bearing, they were turned away from at least three of the farms that they tried. On their fourth attempt they spoke to a very kindly lady, who seemed concerned that two elderly tourists needed shelter. She suggested, to O'Connor and De Wiart's growing disbelief and alarm, that they go to a local barracks where the soldiers would happily give them shelter. 'It took all Dick's flattery to persuade her that the charms of her shed were infinite,' recalled De Wiart. So, for the second time, the two generals bedded down gratefully with Italian cows and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. They were now almost 70 miles beyond the castle.
* * *
Brigadiers Hargest and Miles were not free yet. This was demonstrated on the morning of 1 April during a train ride through the spectacular 6,909-foot-high St Gotthard Pass on the way to Berne. When locals tried to speak to the escapers, the police sternly forbade any communication. There was the ever-present worry that because they had entered Switzerland illegally, the Swiss might send them back to Italy.
Rain began to fall as the train passed the Zugersee and steamed into pretty Lucerne. At Lucerne Hargest and Miles and their escort changed trains for Berne. On arrival in Berne the police handed the brigadiers over to another party of military police commanded by the tall and imposing Colonel Schaffroth. Taken to a house on the outskirts of the town, Schaffroth interrogated the New Zealanders for many hours until he was fully satisfied of their identities and stories. But the escapers were disappointed when at the end of the interrogation Schaffroth refused permission for them to telephone the British Legation. Instead, he told them that they would be taken to the Hotel Baren and held under the same conditions as before. It was extremely frustrating for the escapers to know that less than a mile away was the British diplomatic mission and sanctuary.
* * *
O'Connor and Carton de Wiart were up early, and after a simple breakfast from their limited rations they began hiking. They walked on a compass bearing, constantly checking their maps. The first thing that they noticed was the alarming preponderance of soldiers everywhere. They didn't appear much interested in the generals, but it was unnerving to see so many Italian troops in villages and out in the countryside. Around lunchtime O'Connor brought them to a halt.
'There's a deep ravine up ahead,' he said, pointing out the river on his map. 'There's a bridge here,' he continued, moving his finger. 'That's where we'll cross.' Quickly covering the distance to the ravine, O'Connor and De Wiart were in for a shock. They hid in some bushes a few hundred yards from the ravine and observed silently.
The ravine was very deep, plunging down to a relatively small stream below. The bridge was suspended above the chasm, and under normal circumstances it would have taken them just minutes to get across and on their way. But Italian sentries, the sun glinting off their steel helmets, stood at each end of the long bridge, leaning on their rifles. O'Connor and De Wiart watched as they flagged down cars and trucks that wanted to cross and checked the drivers' documents. The hunt was evidently on for the escaped British officers. It was obvious that trying to bluff their way across, even with Gambier-Parry's excellent forged passes, would mean running a huge risk. They had walked so far that it seemed stupid to risk their gains by attempting to fool the sentries on the bridge.
'We'll cross the ravine further down, out of sight of the sentries,' said O'Connor. But it was obvious that such an undertaking was going to put them behind schedule. They crept away from their cover and took a wide detour around the bridge until they found a spot that was quiet. De Wiart peered down into the ravine from the bank, his face set in a grimace.
'Damned deep, old boy,' he murmured.
'We'll go slow,' replied O'Connor, his face also showing the strain. 'Come on, let's get on with it.' Speed was of the essence. If anyone saw them crossing the ravine in such a fashion, climbing down and then up its steep, rocky sides, it would be obvious that they had something to hide. Any regular civilian would have used the bridge rather than risk a broken leg scrambling on the rock face.
* * *
'I'm a British officer,' stated John Combe matter-of-factly to the prison governor. He had demanded to be taken to see the official in charge of San Vittore prison. After two days locked in a cell, and facing an uncertain future, Brigadier Combe felt that he had given his comrades an excellent head start. Now it was time to end the charade and reveal his identity.
The prison governor was not convinced by Combe's admission, and soon police were summoned to interrogate him.
'My name is Combe, John, Brigadier, British Army,' repeated Combe to the new inquisitors. 'I escaped from Campo 12 at Vincigliata on 29 March.' It took a while for him to be believed. The police seemed more interested in the fact that he had been caught in possession of false Italian identity papers, and the two- to three-year prison sentence was brought up again. But Combe knew his rights under the Geneva Convention. After some bureaucratic wrangling, confirmation of his identity and status was received at the prison from the Carabinieri authorities in Florence. Combe was told that he was to be sent back to Vincigliata the following day for punishment. After the horrible conditions inside the civilian prison Combe was actually looking forward to once more being in the hands of the Italian military. He also burned with a desire for some news of his escape partners. He felt a personal victory – he had withstood some pretty strident questioning and harsh imprisonment, including several times being threatened with execution, but had managed to fool his captors for over two days. Though he was bitter at his own capture so early on, he felt justifiable pride in his performance in captivity.
* * *
Air Vice-Marshal Boyd arrived back at Vincigliata Castle in handcuffs. As he was driven up to the massive entrance gates he felt very mixed emotions. Climbing out of the military car, his handcuffs were taken off and he was handed over. There was no sign of Major Bacci or Captains Tranquille or Pederneschi. It became apparent that they had been relieved of their positions in the fall-out from the escape of six senior Allied officers from right under their noses. The new commandant was Major Vivarelli, an officer whom General Neame described as 'a most objectionable and spiteful person'.
On arrival, Vivarelli, a hardened Fascist officer, had immediately ordered that all remaining British officers at the castle be confined to their rooms for 48 hours. All exercise had been cancelled and two nightly checks instituted, the Carabinieri making as much noise as they liked, disturbing the generals on purpose. General Neame had immediately demanded an interview with Vivarelli. 'I had a first-class row with him,' recalled Neame, 'for which I was awarded seven days' solitary confinement by the Italian Chief of the General Staff, for the offence of "using language unsuited to a prisoner-of-war and insulting the Italian General Staff"!' In Neame's opinion Vivarelli 'was deliberately out to annoy and provoke us'. Neame later recorded the result of these constant night checks in an official complaint to Rome: 'I am certain as a result of these continuous disturbances at irregular times, I now suffer from insomnia and my nerves are suffering severely.'
Shortly after his arrival back at the castle, Owen Boyd was brought before Vivarelli who with a sneer sentenced him to 30 days' solitary confinement. It was very clear that a new regime was in command at the castle, and that all those connected to the escape were to be severely punished, as much to restore Italian face as anything else. News of the escape had gone all the way to Mussolini himself, who was apparently furious. Boyd, stewing in solitary 'after having been so nearly successful... found this punishment the hardest to bear; he craved for someone with whom to talk it over,' Hargest would later write.
* * *
Generals O'Connor and De Wiart stumbled, slid and awkwardly climbed their way down into the deep ravine, their heavy rucksacks threatening to pitch them headfirst into the abyss. It was the most unpleasant terrain that they had yet encountered, De Wiart with his missing eye and impaired balance finding it particularly precarious.
Reaching the bottom of the ravine safely, the two escapers rested before crossing the small stream and ascending to the surface. The climb up was a little easier than clambering down, but they were completely exhausted by the time they struggled out on to flat land again. The whole enterprise had eaten into their timetable and stocks of energy.
They marched on again until the early evening when they once more sought shelter from strangers. O'Connor was forced to virtually beg a woman to be allowed to spend the night in her cowshed; 'judging from the expression on her face and her undisguised reluctance,' wrote De Wiart, 'she deemed it very hard luck on the cows.'
* * *
Brigadiers Hargest and Miles were roused early in their Berne hotel room on 2 April by two Swiss Army clerks, come to take yet more statements. This took up several hours. By now, the two New Zealanders had grown used to retelling the story of their escape into Switzerland. While one of the clerks packed up his typewriter, and Hargest and Miles wondered what was going to happen next, the door opened and in stepped a young military police captain. He saluted formally and faced the two prisoners.
'Brigadier Hargest, Brigadier Miles,' said the officer stiffly, 'I am to tell you that you are free.'
For a second or two the Swiss officer's words did not sink in. Before Hargest and Miles could respond, the officer continued.
'You have a visitor. Shall I show him in?'
'Yes, of course,' said Hargest, rather shell-shocked by the sudden good news.
In stepped Colonel Henry Cartwright, British Military Attaché. He shook both of their hands warmly, congratulating them on their incredible achievement. Hargest and Miles recognised Cartwright from his book Within Four Walls that they had both read. It was virtually the textbook on how to escape from a prison camp and was written from experience. During the First World War, Cartwright had attempted to escape dozens of times, eventually succeeding on his 23rd attempt. It was rumoured that the Germans even used Cartwright's book to plan the security in their prisoner of war camps.
'There's someone who is dying to meet you,' said Cartwright brightly. Within five minutes Hargest and Miles had dumped their kit and tatty old coats in Cartwright's office. Then they walked over to a rather grand house in the better area of town.
They entered its large hallway, framed by a grand staircase. A butler showed them into the drawing room where a small crowd of well-dressed men and women turned and stared at them. Hargest and Miles felt completely out of place, their homemade civilian clothes ragged and soiled from their long journey, their faces pale and strained from their ordeal. A lean middle-aged man in an immaculately tailored pin-striped suit who wore black-framed spectacles stepped from the crowd and advanced towards them, his face beaming with a welcoming smile.
'Brigadier Hargest, Brigadier Miles, so good of you to come. I'm Norton, the Minister here.' Clifford Norton shook their hands. 'You've made it,' he continued, 'for this is sovereign British soil. You are free men.'
Hargest and Miles were overwhelmed. The other people in the room broke into spontaneous applause at Norton's remarks. Hargest could scarcely contain the wave of emotion that broke over him, and Miles wiped his damp eyes. They really had made it. Nothing could touch them here. Soon they were shaking hands and being clapped on the back as the laughing and happy crowd surged around them: 'English faces,' recalled Hargest, 'English voices.'
The telegram that Temporary Brigadier Edward Todhunter's wife received from the War Office in April 1941 informing her of her husband's suspected capture by the Germans in North Africa. An agonising wait ensued until confirmation was received that Todhunter was alive and well, albeit as a POW.
The first senior officers camp established by the Italians was at the Villa Orsini, a small stately home located outside the town of Sulmona in the Abruzzi. The British prisoners were held here from 1940 until their transfer to Vincigliata Castle outside Florence in September 1941 due to overcrowding and security fears.
Some of the senior officer prisoners, photographed at the Villa Orsini in 1941. From left to right: Brigadier John Combe, Major-General Adrian Carton de Wiart, Brigadier Ted Todhunter, and Major-General Michael Gambier-Parry, shown holding Baron Ricciardi's puppy, Mickey.
More prisoners at the Villa Orsini, pictured with a representative of the Italian Red Cross, Count Morro. From left to right: Flight Lieutenant John Leeming, Count Morro, Lieutenant-General Sir Richard O'Connor, Brigadier Todhunter, Air Vice-Marshal John Boyd, Brigadier Combe.
Vincigliata Castle in all its medieval glory. This view of the castle's south face shows its high curtain wall, central keep and towers, all largely the creation of 19th-century English owner John Temple-Leader.
The first close-up view the prisoners had of Vincigliata Castle – its imposing main gate. Beneath the driveway was a wide dry moat. Huge studded metal doors gave access to the castle.
The central keep of Vincigliata Castle, photographed when abandoned just after the war. It can be seen that the Italian guards' wooden walkway, suspended along the inside of the battlements, has partly collapsed through neglect.
This area of Vincigliata Castle was called 'The Cloisters' and was much used by the prisoners. During the war the generals kept the formal garden immaculate. The keep behind contained their bedrooms, orderlies' quarters and public rooms.
A tantalising view of freedom from Brigadier Todhunter's bedroom window. A sentry box can be seen in the left foreground.
Among the later arrivals at Vincigliata Castle were New Zealanders James Hargest (right) and Reg Miles, pictured here in 1941 while still at liberty. They would prove to be dedicated and resourceful escapers.
Photograph showing the wooden walkway erected by the Italian Army so that sentries could patrol Vincigliata Castle's battlements and look down on the prisoners contained within. In the top middle can be seen a surviving spotlight that illuminated the wall at night. Above the wooden handrail are metal poles supporting strands of barbed wire bent outwards. This was installed after General O'Connor's escape attempt in 1942 to make climbing on to the sentries' walkway impossible from below.
This photograph, taken just after the war, shows Vincigliata Castle's inner curtain wall beside the garden area used by prisoners for recreation. This area was the site of Lieutenant-General Sir Richard O'Connor's famous wall escalade attempt in 1942, when he climbed on to the raised wooden sentry platform (shown here in a dilapidated state) and out through one of the battlements. The close proximity of a wooden sentry box is obvious, necessitating a clever diversion plan by the other prisoners.
An excellent view of the corner of the garden where General O'Connor launched his escalade escape in 1942. Though the guards' walkway and sentry box have deteriorated badly in this post-war photograph, they demonstrate how risky O'Connor's attempt was.
One of the many Italian identity cards carefully hand-forged by Major-General Gambier-Parry at Vincigliata Castle for use by escaping officers. This example was for Brigadier Edward Todhunter.
Brigadier Combe (left) and Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame (second left) after their eventual escape from Vincigliata Castle after Italy changed sides in September 1943. The officers are pictured with two Italian partisans who aided their escape from Italy.
Photographed at the same time as the above, from left to right: Brigadier Combe, Lord Ranfurly and Brigadier Todhunter.
Epilogue
The 3rd of April 1943 passed in much the same way as the previous days out on the road for Generals O'Connor and Carton de Wiart. They plodded along, rucksacks on, across countryside that was increasingly dotted with villages and small towns, which of course meant people. They also passed the local Carabinieri without any problems.
After another night sleeping alongside Italian livestock, O'Connor and De Wiart started early on the 4th, but in the afternoon they were pulled over by a local Fascist official who demanded their papers. This was the great test of General Gambier-Parry's forging skills. His handiwork passed with flying colours, helped along by O'Connor's facility with the language. 'O'Connor rose to further heights of Italian fancy and poured out answers to the volley of questions put by this unattractive man,' wrote De Wiart. 'I turned on my deaf-mute act, and soon the creature was satisfied, and allowed us to pass on.' Praise for G-P's forging skills was running high as the two generals continued on the road north.
By evening they were near the town of Vignola, separated from it by a heavily guarded bridge over a river. There was no possibility of trying to cross further down – the river was too substantial. For once, O'Connor failed to secure them any lodgings for the night. In the end they had to make do beneath a cart in a quiet farmyard.
They rose very early on 5 April and managed to cross the bridge before the guards were posted. Once a couple of miles beyond Vignola they paused by a little stream and washed and shaved as best they could, as their ragged appearance was starting to attract undue attention from the locals.
The following day, 6 April, found them in the Po Valley, due south of Verona. They became lost in the myriad of little villages and stopped to consult a map. Two passing Carabinieri on bicycles spotted the generals, stopped and dismounted. They demanded their papers. 'They scrutinised them and could find no fault with them,' De Wiart recalled, 'but, in fact, they proved to be that rare thing, men with an instinct.' De Wiart suspected that it was his and O'Connor's tatty appearances that piqued the interest of the policemen, as G-P's documents had again passed scrutiny without comment. Either way, the Carabinieri would not let the generals go, and seemed particularly fascinated by De Wiart's injuries. They forced him to show them his stump. The Carabinieri sergeant had noticed that O'Connor's identity card listed him as from Bologna, a city that he knew well. Conversely, it was soon obvious that O'Connor did not know Bologna at all. The sergeant told them that they must come to the local police station. 'We knew the game was up,' wrote De Wiart, 'but when we informed our two captors of our identity, they nearly embraced us and were so overcome with joy that they insisted we should finish the journey to the Carabinieri post in a cart, making a triumphant entry.'
And thus were captured the last escapers from Vincigliata Castle. They had marched 150 miles in an incredible show of courage and tenacity, doubly impressive given their ages. They felt pride in their achievement, which though tinged with regret at capture was an amazing accomplishment in itself. 'We were twice the men we had been when we started,' wrote De Wiart honestly. 'We were a bit weary at times,' wrote General Dick, 'but we could have got on easily to the frontier as far as walking was concerned.' They now faced interrogation and the obligatory 30 days of solitary confinement back at Vincigliata Castle.
What happened afterwards...
Bertram Armstrong
'O Bass' Armstrong received the Distinguished Service Order while a prisoner in 1942 for his performance in command of the 5th South African Infantry Brigade in the desert campaign. He escaped from Vincigliata Castle in company with all of the other prisoners when Italy changed sides in September 1943, walking over the Apennine Mountains to Romagna, which was very taxing for a man with a game leg. Promoted to Major-General, Armstrong was appointed Chief of the General Staff of the South African Union Defence Forces, retiring in 1953. Armstrong died in South Africa in 1972 aged 79.
Owen Tudor Boyd
Boyd eventually made it back to England after escaping from Italy with Generals Neame and O'Connor in late 1943. He had just been appointed to a new RAF command when he died of a massive heart attack in 1944 at the age of 54. For his successful escape from the castle in March 1943 Boyd was Mentioned in Despatches.
Adrian Carton de Wiart
De Wiart served 30 days' solitary confinement for his successful escape from Vincigliata Castle in March 1943. In August of the same year he was asked by the Italians to accompany General Zanussi to Lisbon in neutral Portugal to meet with Allied representatives to discuss the Italian surrender. Released in Lisbon, De Wiart was flown home to England. Shortly afterwards Winston Churchill appointed him as his personal representative to the Chinese Nationalist leader Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, promoting him to Lieutenant-General. On his way to the Far East De Wiart attended the Cairo Conference with Churchill, Chiang Kai-shek and US President Franklin D. Roosevelt before arriving in Chungking in December 1943. He often flew to India, and was there able to meet General O'Connor, who was commanding British troops in the east of the country. In 1945 De Wiart was appointed a Knight of the Order of the British Empire (KBE). During the last months of the war he toured the Burma Front and also was aboard the battleship HMS Queen Elizabeth during the bombardment of Sabang in the Dutch East Indies.
His final wartime duty was attending the Japanese surrender in Singapore in September 1945. During his journey home he stopped over in Rangoon where, coming down some stairs, he slipped on a coconut mat and fell badly, breaking several vertebrae and knocking himself unconscious. Hospitalised in the UK, he eventually recovered, but not before surgeons took the opportunity to remove large amounts of First World War shrapnel from his body.
Carton de Wiart finally retired from the army in 1947. His wife died in 1949 and in 1951 De Wiart married again (his second wife would live until 2006, reaching 102) and they settled in the Republic of Ireland, buying Aghinagh House in County Cork. There De Wiart lived the life of a country gentleman, shooting and fishing until his death in June 1963 at the age of 83. He is buried in the grounds of Aghinagh House.
John Combe
Brigadier Combe served his 30 days of solitary confinement at Vincigliata Castle. Upon escaping again in September 1943, Combe joined the Italian Partisans in Romagna until finally reaching Allied lines in May 1944. In October 1944 he was given command, with the reduced rank of Colonel, of the 2nd Armoured Brigade. In 1945, temporarily a Major-General, Combe briefly commanded the 78th and 46th Infantry Divisions in Austria after the German surrender. He was awarded a Mention in Despatches for his escape in 1943. In October 1946, his rank was made permanent and he was appointed Deputy General Officer Commanding British Troops Austria. Combe retired in 1947 and married the same year. Appointed a Companion of the Order of the Bath (CB) in 1947, he was also honoured by the United States, being appointed an Officer of the Legion of Merit in 1948. From 1945 to 1957 he served as Honorary Colonel of the regiment he had led in the desert against Rommel, the 11th Hussars, including taking part in the funeral procession of King George VI.
John Combe died in 1967 aged 71.
Michael Gambier-Parry
'G-P' escaped along with the other prisoners in September 1943 and managed to find sanctuary in a Rome convent until the Allies liberated the city. He retired from the army in 1944 and lived in Castle Combe near Chippenham. Gambier-Parry served as Deputy Lieutenant of Wiltshire and died in 1976 aged 85.
James Hargest
Hargest and Miles were stuck in Switzerland for many months with little to do following their successful escape from the castle. Both men desired to get back to Allied lines, but the only way was by travelling secretly through German-occupied France to neutral Spain and thence to England via Gibraltar. Hargest left Switzerland and with the help of a French evasion line he made it to the British Consulate in Barcelona, eventually arriving safely in England in December 1943. For his escape from Vincigliata Castle and his evasion through France Jim Hargest was awarded a second Bar to his Distinguished Service Order and made a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE). Sadly, his son Geoffrey died of wounds received in Italy at the Battle of Monte Cassino in March 1944. On 6 June 1944 Hargest landed in Normandy as New Zealand's military representative attached to the British 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division. Tragically, as he was leaving the front on 12 August 1944 Hargest was killed by a German shell and was buried in France. He was 52 years old. The James Hargest High School in Invercargill, New Zealand is named after him.
John Leeming
Leeming escaped from Italian captivity by the novel method of feigning mental illness. He began this act at Vincigliata Castle and was so convincing that both the Italian Army and the Red Cross recommended his repatriation to England in April 1943, a couple of weeks after the successful tunnel escape. Leeming immediately returned to RAF duty. After the war he became a successful novelist, often touching upon his wartime imprisonment at the Villa Orsini and Vincigliata Castle. John Leeming died near Manchester in 1965 aged 69.
Reginald Miles
Jim Hargest's partner in the tunnel escape languished in Switzerland after arriving safely in 1943. He decided to attempt the dangerous evasion across France to Spain before Hargest. He too received a Bar to his DSO for his escape. But on arrival in Spain, in a depressed and exhausted state the 50-year-old committed suicide, shooting himself in Figueras on 20 October 1943. He was buried with full military honours in Spain. Miles was posthumously appointed a CBE.
Sir Philip Neame
With Boyd, O'Connor and some other prisoners from the castle, Neame trekked hundreds of miles south following the Italian Armistice until he met Allied troops at Termoli on 20 December 1943. Arriving in Britain on Christmas Day, he found that there was no job for him. In August 1945 Neame was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of Guernsey with the rank of Lieutenant-General, a post he held until 1953. He was Colonel Commandant of the Royal Engineers from 1945 to 1955, and Honorary Colonel of 131 (Airborne) Engineer Regiment, Royal Engineers from 1948. Made a Knight of the Order of the British Empire in June 1946, in the same month he was also appointed a Knight of the Order of St John. In 1955 Neame was appointed a Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Kent, where he died in April 1978, aged 89.
Sir Richard O'Connor
With the help of Italian Partisans O'Connor reached Allied lines at Termoli on 21 December 1943. In the New Year he was Mentioned in Despatches for his escape attempts. O'Connor assumed command of VIII Corps during the Normandy campaign. Under his leadership, the formation took part in several famous operations around Caen and during the US breakout, including Epsom, Goodwood and Bluecoat. VIII Corps next supported Brian Horrocks' XXX Corps during Operation Market Garden in Holland. On 27 November 1944 O'Connor was removed from command, allegedly for not being tough enough on American subordinate commanders, and ordered to take over as General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Eastern Command, India. This new job involved controlling the lines of communication to Bill Slim's 14th Army in Burma. In April 1945 O'Connor was promoted to General and in October appointed GOC-in-C North West Army India. Between 1946 and 1947 he was Adjutant General to the Forces and an ADC to King George VI. O'Connor resigned in September 1947 from his military post following a disagreement, but shortly afterwards was appointed a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath.
After retirement O'Connor remained very active, being Commandant of the Army Cadet Force Scotland from 1948 to 1959, Colonel of the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) 1951–54, Lord Lieutenant of Ross and Cromarty 1955–64 and Lord High Commissioner to the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland in 1964. In 1971 his service to Scotland was recognised when O'Connor was made a Knight of the Order of the Thistle. General Dick died in London in June 1981 at the age of 91.
The Earl of Ranfurly
Dan Ranfurly reached Allied lines with Brigadiers Vaughan, Combe and Todhunter on 30 May 1944 after many adventures with the Italian Partisans. He worked for Lloyd's of London before Churchill appointed him Governor of the Bahamas, a post he held until 1957. His wife's famous wartime diaries were published to great critical acclaim. The Countess of Ranfurly was instrumental in the creation of an organisation known today as Book Aid International. Lord Ranfurly took up farming on his estate in Buckinghamshire. He was appointed a Knight of the Order of Saint Michael and Saint George (KCMG). Dan Ranfurly passed away in 1988 aged 74.
Douglas Stirling
'Pip' Stirling was infamously prosecuted by court martial in 1943 for using insulting language about the Italians in a letter that he sent home, calling them 'bastards'. He was sentenced to several years' imprisonment but, honour satisfied by the verdict, the Italians returned him to the castle where the whole matter was quietly forgotten. Like the others, Stirling escaped in September 1943 and successfully arrived in Allied lines. He later wrote to General O'Connor in the hope of securing command of an armoured brigade in Normandy, but without success. Pip Stirling died in 1958 aged 61.
Edward Todhunter
Escaping Vincigliata Castle in September 1943, Todhunter joined the Italian Garibaldi Partisan Brigade, reaching Allied lines at Ancona in May 1944. He served as High Sheriff of Essex from 1964 to 1965 and was a magistrate. Edward Todhunter died in 1976 at the age of 76.
Edward Vaughan
Brigadier Edward 'Rudolph' Vaughan reached Allied lines in May 1944 and was appointed Commanding Officer, Delhi Area, India later that year, being made a Companion of the Order of the Bath (CB). From 1945 to 1948 Vaughan was an ADC to King George VI. He retired from the army in 1948 and died in Sussex in 1953 aged 59.
The Italians
Major Bacci died of cancer a few months after his removal from command following the tunnel escape.
Baron Ricciardi changed sides in September 1943, finding himself attached to an Indian unit during the fighting in Italy. He survived the war.
Dr Bolaffio, who had risked everything helping the British escape attempts, returned to private practice in Florence after the war. No evidence could be found to indicate that he was rewarded for his service by the British government following General Neame's request in writing.
General Chiappe was shot by the Germans after the Italian Armistice.
The fates of First Captain Tranquille and Captain Pederneschi remain unknown.
Vincigliata Castle
Temple-Leader's monstrous creation that so perplexed and confounded the British prisoners of war is still there atop its hill just outside Florence, a brooding and somewhat beautiful presence. These days it's a part of a thriving vineyard business and is used to host society weddings from all over the world. Externally, it's little changed from its 1943 appearance. The tunnel was filled in with concrete and the chapel emptied of spoil. The wooden sentry platform around the wall has been torn out and the wire and searchlights long scrapped. But if you narrow your eyes to the Tuscan sun, you can still imagine that rainy and windswept night in March 1943 when a motley collection of perhaps the unlikeliest escapers in military history emerged from beneath its towering outer wall with a dream fixed firmly in their minds – the sweet dream of freedom and home.
Acknowledgements
I should like to extend my enormous thanks to the following people, institutions and organisations for their superb and generous assistance during the researching of this book.
My very great thanks to the following relatives and friends of the men involved in the escape from Vincigliata Castle for taking the time to share with me anecdotes, documents and photographs that have proved so invaluable to the writing of this book: Lady Caroline Simmonds, daughter of the 6th Earl of Ranfurly, for giving me permission to use her late mother's diary as a source; Anne Myers and Anthony Gambier-Parry, the daughter and grandson respectively of Major-General Michael Gambier-Parry, for granting me interviews; Nigel and Philip Neame, the twin sons of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame, for permission to use their late father's autobiography, photographs, unpublished 'Narrative of Events' and many other invaluable documents, and for attempting to put me in contact with John Leeming's family; Lady Anne Tidbury, Iona O'Connor and Mrs J.K.J. Pollok-McCall, for kind permission to use General O'Connor's unpublished 'Escape Narrative'; Major James Nairn, General O'Connor's close friend, for sharing his personal memories of 'General Dick' with me, for advice on sources and for arranging permission to access O'Connor family documents at King's College London; Michael Todhunter, son of Brigadier Edward Todhunter, for granting me a fascinating interview, for his kind provision of access to family documents, letters and photographs, and for his efforts to get me into Vincigliata Castle. Efforts to contact the copyright holders of John Leeming's book Always To-Morrow and James Hargest's Farewell Camp 12 were unfortunately unsuccessful.
A great many thanks to Briege Hunter and Brett Irwin, Public Record Office of Northern Ireland; Jodie Double, University of Leeds Library; Adam Sutch, Researcher, RAF Museum; Lianne Smith, Liddell Hart Centre, King's College London; Alan Sinclair, Ditsong National Museum of Military History, South Africa; Rebecca Pike, Senior Reporter, The Canterbury Times; Kathryn Tye, Communications Executive, Shepherd Neame Ltd; South African National Defence Force Archives; The National Archives (Public Record Office), Kew; Cambridge University Library; The British Library.
Many thanks to my splendid agent Andrew Lownie, whose advice and enthusiasm are much appreciated. The team at Icon Books have been brilliant, and I'd like to thank my editors Duncan Heath and Robert Sharman for all of their hard work.
Lastly, I'd like to thank my beautiful and accomplished wife Fang Fang for her encouragement of and enthusiasm for this project. Her insightful observations and critical eye are much valued, and I appreciate her also acting as (unpaid) research assistant and travelling companion during the researching of this book in Italy, Switzerland and the UK.
Photo acknowledgements
Photograph of Brigadiers Hargest and Miles: 'Senior NZ officers await Greek Minister of War, Maadi. New Zealand.' Department of Internal Affairs. War History Branch: Photographs relating to World War 1914–1918, World War 1939–1945, occupation of Japan, Korean War, and Malayan Emergency. Ref: DA-01430-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. <http://natlib.govt.nz/records/22779228>.
All other images courtesy of Michael Todhunter, all rights reserved.
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Private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame, VC, KBE, CB, DSO, KStJ
Private papers of Brigadier E.J. Todhunter, TD, DL
Archives
Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives, University College London
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National Archives (Public Record Office), Kew
AIR 19/229 – Proposed Exchange of Air Marshal O.T. Boyd for an Italian General
HS 9/1228/7 – Thomas Daniel Knox, Earl of Ranfurly, Special Operations Executive: Personnel Files
WO 208/3319/1921 – Lieutenant-Colonel (Acting Brigadier) J.F.B. Combe, DSO & Bar
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\- Lieutenant-General P. Neame to the Protecting Power, 14 May 1942
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\- Inspection of Prisoner of War Camp No. 12, Red Cross Report, 23 June 1942
\- Memorandum from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Swiss Legation Rome, 25 July 1942
\- Report No. 2 On Inspection of Prisoner of War Camp No. 12, Red Cross Report, 1 July 1942
\- War Office (Directorate of Prisoners of War) to the Foreign Office (Prisoners of War Department): Treatment of British Generals in Italian Hands, November 1942
\- Report No. 4 on Inspection of Prisoners of War Camp No. 12, Red Cross Report, 15 October 1942
\- Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame to The Italian War Ministry, Rome, 13 April 1943
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Baynes, John, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor, KT, GCB, DSO, MC (London: Brassey's, 1989)
Butler, Daniel, Field Marshal: The Life and Death of Erwin Rommel (London: Casemate, 2015)
Carton de Wiart, Sir Adrian, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950)
Cumming, Michael, Pathfinder Cranswick (London: William Kinder, 1962)
Evans, Bryn, The Decisive Campaigns of the Desert Air Force, 1942– 1945 (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Aviation, 2014)
Evans, David, Understand Mussolini's Italy (London: Hodder Education, 2012)
Foot, M.R.D. & J.M. Langley, MI9: Escape & Evasion, 1939–45 (London, Book Club Associates, 1979)
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James, Henry, Transatlantic Sketches (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1875)
Krige, Uys, The Way Out: Italian Intermezzo (London: Collins, 1946)
Leeming, John, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951)
Leeming, John, The Natives are Friendly (New York: E.P. Dutton & Company, 1951)
McGibbon, Ian (ed.), The Oxford Companion to New Zealand Military History (Auckland: Oxford University Press, 2000)
Mead, Richard, Churchill's Lions: A Biographical Guide to the Key British Generals of World War II (Stroud: Spellmount Books, 2007)
Mollo, Andrew, The Armed Forces of World War II: Uniforms, Insignia and Organisation (London: Black Cat, 1987)
Neame, Sir Philip, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947)
Ranfurly, Countess of, To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly, 1939–45 (London: Mandarin Paperbacks, 1997)
Richards, Denis, Royal Air Force 1939–45, Vol. 1 (London: Her Majesty's Stationery Office, 1975)
Ufficio Storico dell'Aeronautica Militare, Ordine Militare d'Italia 1911–1964 (Rome: Ufficio Storico dell'Aeronautica Militare, 1969)
Zabecki, David T. (ed), World War II in Europe: An Encyclopedia (New York: Routledge, 1999)
Magazines and periodicals
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Time
Notes
Prologue
1. 1. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey, (London, Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 197
Chapter 1
1. 1. 'Prize Catch', Time, 2 December 1940
2. 2. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 285
3. 3. 'British Air Marshal Tudor Boyd Captured by Italians in Sicily', Lawrence Journal-World, 21 November 1940
4. 4. Michael Cumming, Pathfinder Cranswick (London: William Kinder, 1962), p. 73
5. 5. Denis Richards, Royal Air Force 1939–45, Vol. 1 (London: Her Majesty's Stationery Office, 1975), p. 270
6. 6. 'Italy Claims Air Marshal as Prisoner', Brisbane Courier-Mail, 23 November 1940
7. 7. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 12
8. 8. John Leeming, The Natives are Friendly (New York: E.P. Dutton & Company, 1951), p. 195
9. 9. Bryn Evans, The Decisive Campaigns of the Desert Air Force, 1942–1945 (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Aviation, 2014), Kindle edition, unpaginated
10. 10. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), pp. 13–14
11. 11. Ibid: p. 14
12. 12. 'Prize Catch', Time, 2 December 1940
13. 13. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 15
14. 14. John Leeming, The Natives are Friendly (New York: E.P. Dutton & Company, 1951), p. 196
15. 15. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 17
16. 16. Ibid: p. 18
17. 17. 'Prize Catch', Time, 2 December 1940
18. 18. Ordine Militare d'Italia 1911–1964 (Rome: Ufficio Storico dell'Aeronautica Militare, 1969)
19. 19. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrop & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 21
20. 20. Ibid: p. 22
21. 21. Ibid: p. 23
22. 22. Ibid: p. 28
23. 23. Ibid: pp. 28–9
24. 24. Bryn Evans, The Decisive Campaigns of the Desert Air Force, 1942–1945 (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Aviation, 2014), Kindle edition, unpaginated
25. 25. Associated Press report, Rome, 2 January 1941
Chapter 2
1. 1. 'Lord Ranfurly's Report on his Capture', in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 232
2. 2. David T. Zabecki (ed.), World War II in Europe: An Encyclopedia (New York: Routledge, 1999), p. 437
3. 3. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 80
4. 4. Daniel Butler, Field Marshal: The Life and Death of Erwin Rommel (London: Casemate, 2015), p. 210
5. 5. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 136
6. 6. Thomas Daniel Knox, Earl of Ranfurly, HS 9/1228/7 Special Operations Executive: Personnel Files (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
7. 7. 'Lord Ranfurly's Report on his Capture', in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 232
8. 8. Ibid.
9. 9. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 137
10. 10. 'Lord Ranfurly's Report on his Capture', in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 232
11. 11. Ibid: p. 233
12. 12. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Colonel Whitmore, Essex Yeomanry, 13 May 1941
13. 13. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 136
14. 14. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
15. 15. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 136
16. 16. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Colonel Whitmore, Essex Yeomanry, 13 May 1941
17. 17. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
18. 18. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 136
19. 19. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
20. 20. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 14 April 1941
21. 21. B.E. Todhunter to E. Parker, ICI (Egypt) S.A., Cairo, 14 July 1941
22. 22. Ibid.
23. 23. Ibid.
24. 24. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
25. 25. 'Revealed: Desert Fox Erwin Rommel was given his legendary goggles by a British PoW in return for retrieving a stolen hat', by Hannah Flint, The Mail on Sunday, 12 April 2005
26. 26. Ibid.
27. 27. Rommel's cap, adorned with Gambier-Parry's goggles, is preserved in the Rommel Museum, Herrlingen, Germany
28. 28. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
29. 29. 'Lord Ranfurly's Report on his Capture', in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 233
30. 30. Ibid.
31. 31. Ibid.
32. 32. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 179
33. 33. 'Adrian Carton de Wiart: The unkillable soldier' by Peter Crutchley, BBC News Magazine, 6 January 2015
34. 34. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 89
35. 35. Ibid: p. 182
36. 36. Ibid: pp. 182–3
37. 37. Ibid: p. 183
38. 38. Ibid: p. 183
39. 39. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
Chapter 3
1. 1. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 60
2. 2. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), pp. 48–9
3. 3. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
4. 4. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 189
5. 5. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 48
6. 6. Ibid: p. 48
7. 7. Ibid: p. 49
8. 8. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 185
9. 9. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 60
10. 10. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 51
11. 11. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
12. 12. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 51
13. 13. Ibid: p. 53
14. 14. Ibid: p. 60
15. 15. Ibid: p. 66
16. 16. Ibid: pp. 66–7
17. 17. Ibid: p. 73
18. 18. Ibid: pp. 74–5
19. 19. Ibid: pp. 73–5
20. 20. Ibid: p. 76
21. 21. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
22. 22. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), pp. 183–4
23. 23. Ibid.
24. 24. Ibid: p. 184
25. 25. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
26. 26. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to B.E. Todhunter, 28 April 1941
27. 27. Ibid.
28. 28. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs. Todhunter, 30 April 1941
29. 29. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 184
30. 30. Ibid.
31. 31. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs. Todhunter, 30 April 1941
32. 32. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 76
33. 33. Ibid: p. 77
Chapter 4
1. 1. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
2. 2. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 81
3. 3. Ibid.
4. 4. Ibid.
5. 5. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 180
6. 6. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 92
7. 7. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 4 May 1941
8. 8. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 186
9. 9. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 11 May 1941
10. 10. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 89
11. 11. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Todhunter, 4 May 1941
12. 12. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
13. 13. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Todhunter, 4 May 1941
14. 14. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 June 1941
15. 15. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 96
16. 16. Ibid: p. 95
17. 17. Ibid: pp. 93–4
18. 18. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Betty Todhunter, 30 April 1941
19. 19. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 188
20. 20. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 June 1941
21. 21. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 28 June 1941
22. 22. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 14 July 1941
23. 23. Ibid.
24. 24. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs B. Todhunter, 16 June 1941
25. 25. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 14 July 1941
26. 26. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Todhunter, 16 June 1941
27. 27. Ibid.
28. 28. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 10 August 1941
29. 29. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 141
30. 30. M.R.D. Foot & J.M. Langley, MI9: Escape and Evasion 1939–1945 (London: Book Club Associates, 1979), p. 148
31. 31. Ibid: p. 54
32. 32. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
33. 33. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Todhunter, 27 July 1941
34. 34. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 96
35. 35. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 16 August 1941
36. 36. Ibid.
37. 37. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 22 August 1941
Chapter 5
1. 1. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 September 1941
4. 4. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 102
5. 5. Ibid: p. 103
6. 6. Ibid: p. 103
7. 7. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 69
Chapter 6
1. 1. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 September 1941
2. 2. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 70
3. 3. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
4. 4. Andrew Mollo, The Armed Forces of World War II: Uniforms, Insignia and Organisation (London: Black Cat, 1987), p. 88
5. 5. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 286
6. 6. Ibid.
7. 7. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
8. 8. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 106
9. 9. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 30 May 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
10. 10. Report of Captain Leonardo Trippi, Assistant Military Attaché, Swiss Legation, Rome, 3 June 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
11. 11. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 30 May 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
12. 12. Report of Captain Leonardo Trippi, Assistant Military Attaché, Swiss Legation, Rome, 3 June 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
13. 13. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 30 May 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
14. 14. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 108
15. 15. Ibid.
16. 16. Ibid: 108–9
17. 17. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 191
18. 18. 'Lord Ranfurly's Report on his Capture', in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 233
19. 19. Ibid.
20. 20. Ibid.
21. 21. Ibid.
22. 22. Ibid: p. 234
23. 23. Ibid: p. 234
24. 24. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 109
25. 25. Ibid.
26. 26. Ibid: pp. 109–10
27. 27. Ibid: p. 109
28. 28. Ibid: p. 110
29. 29. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 191
30. 30. Ibid.
Chapter 7
1. 1. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 192
2. 2. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 108
3. 3. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 192
4. 4. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 107
5. 5. Ibid: p. 107
6. 6. Ibid: p. 108
7. 7. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 192
8. 8. 'Inspection of Prisoner of War Camp No. 12, 23 June 1942', WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
9. 9. Henry James, Transatlantic Sketches (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1875), pp. 287–8
10. 10. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 3 October 1941, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 123
11. 11. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 289
12. 12. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor, KT, GCB, DSO, MC (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 144
13. 13. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 3 October 1941, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 123
14. 14. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 289
15. 15. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 30 September 1941
16. 16. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 7 November 1941
17. 17. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 192
18. 18. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 29 November 1941, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
19. 19. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
20. 20. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 192
21. 21. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 3 October 1941, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 123
22. 22. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 196
23. 23. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 30 September 1941
24. 24. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
25. 25. Ibid.
26. 26. Ibid.
27. 27. Ibid.
28. 28. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 114
29. 29. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 3 October 1941, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 123
30. 30. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
31. 31. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 113
32. 32. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
33. 33. Ibid.
34. 34. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
35. 35. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 194
36. 36. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 116
37. 37. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 30 May 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
38. 38. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
39. 39. 'De Wiart tells how they dug a tunnel for seven months' by Stuart Gelder, News Chronicle, 27 January 1944, front page
40. 40. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
41. 41. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 197
42. 42. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 116
43. 43. Ibid: p. 116
44. 44. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 7 November 1941
45. 45. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 30 September 1941
46. 46. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 7 November 1941
47. 47. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 26 December 1941, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), pp. 124–5
48. 48. Ibid: p. 125
49. 49. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, undated [late 1941]
50. 50. Ibid.
51. 51. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
52. 52. Ibid.
53. 53. Ibid.
54. 54. Ibid.
Chapter 8
1. 1. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
2. 2. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 17 March 1942
3. 3. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 72
4. 4. 'Report No. 2 On Inspection of Prisoner of War Camp No. 12', 1 July 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
5. 5. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 72
6. 6. The Earl of Ranfurly to The Countess of Ranfurly, 13 March 1942, in To War With Whitaker: The Wartime Diaries of the Countess of Ranfurly 1939–45 (London: Mandarin, 1997), p. 130
7. 7. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), pp. 72–3
8. 8. Ibid: p. 73
9. 9. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 30 May 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
10. 10. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 117
11. 11. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
12. 12. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 290
13. 13. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 118
14. 14. Ibid: p. 290
15. 15. Ibid: p. 119
16. 16. 'Report No. 2 On Inspection of Prisoner of War Camp No. 12', 1 July 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
17. 17. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 74
18. 18. Ibid.
19. 19. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 290
20. 20. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 119
21. 21. Ibid: p. 120
22. 22. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 75
23. 23. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 291
24. 24. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 199
25. 25. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 76
26. 26. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
27. 27. Ibid.
28. 28. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 291
29. 29. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 198
30. 30. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 124
31. 31. Ibid.
32. 32. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 292
33. 33. Ibid.
34. 34. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), pp. 199–200
35. 35. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 76
36. 36. 'Camp for British Generals at Vincigliata', Red Cross Report, 29 November 1941', WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
Chapter 9
1. 1. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 129
2. 2. Ibid: p. 130
3. 3. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 79
4. 4. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 133
5. 5. Ibid.
6. 6. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
7. 7. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 134
8. 8. Ibid: p. 135
9. 9. Ibid: p. 135
10. 10. 'Report of Captain Leonardo Trippi', Assistant Military Attaché, Swiss Legation, Rome, 3 June 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
11. 11. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 136
12. 12. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 86
13. 13. Ibid: p. 87
14. 14. Ibid: p. 88
15. 15. Ibid: p. 88
16. 16. Ibid: p. 90
17. 17. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 294
18. 18. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 90
19. 19. Ibid: p. 91
20. 20. Ibid: p. 92
21. 21. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 294
22. 22. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 150
23. 23. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 294
24. 24. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 150
Chapter 10
1. 1. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. Ibid.
4. 4. Ibid.
5. 5. Ibid.
6. 6. Ibid.
7. 7. Ibid.
8. 8. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 152
9. 9. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
10. 10. Ibid.
11. 11. Ibid.
12. 12. Ibid.
13. 13. Ibid.
14. 14. Ibid.
15. 15. Ibid.
16. 16. Ibid.
17. 17. Ibid.
18. 18. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 154
19. 19. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
20. 20. 'De Wiart tells how they dug a tunnel for seven months' by Stuart Gelder, News Chronicle, 27 January 1944, front page
21. 21. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 157
22. 22. Lieutenant-General P. Neame to the Protecting Power, 14 May 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
23. 23. Ibid.
24. 24. Ibid.
25. 25. Ibid.
26. 26. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 292
27. 27. 'Memorandum from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Swiss Legation Rome, 25 July 1942', WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
28. 28. Ibid.
29. 29. 'War Office (Directorate of Prisoners of War) to the Foreign Office (Prisoners of War Department): Treatment of British Generals in Italian Hands', November 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
30. 30. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 147
31. 31. Ibid.
32. 32. Ibid.
33. 33. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 293
34. 34. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
Chapter 11
1. 1. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 147
2. 2. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
3. 3. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 147
4. 4. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 293
5. 5. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 205
6. 6. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 147
7. 7. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
8. 8. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
9. 9. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
10. 10. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 148
11. 11. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
12. 12. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 293
13. 13. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 148
14. 14. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
15. 15. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 148
16. 16. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
17. 17. Ibid.
18. 18. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 148
19. 19. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
20. 20. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
21. 21. 'Report No. 4 on Inspection of Prisoners of War Camp No. 12', 15 October 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
22. 22. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 295
23. 23. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 207
24. 24. Ibid: p. 207
25. 25. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
26. 26. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 295
27. 27. Ibid: p. 295
28. 28. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 104
29. 29. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 296
30. 30. Ibid: p. 296
31. 31. Ibid: p. 296
32. 32. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 151
33. 33. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 296
34. 34. Ibid: p. 297
35. 35. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 104
36. 36. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 297
37. 37. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 105
38. 38. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 207
39. 39. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), pp. 104–5
40. 40. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
41. 41. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 106
42. 42. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
43. 43. Ibid.
44. 44. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 298
45. 45. Ibid: 299
46. 46. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
47. 47. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 298
48. 48. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
49. 49. Ibid.
50. 50. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 108
51. 51. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
52. 52. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 7 October 1942
53. 53. Ibid.
54. 54. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
55. 55. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 299
56. 56. Ibid: p. 300
57. 57. Ibid: p. 299
Chapter 12
1. 1. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 301
2. 2. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
3. 3. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), pp. 114–15
4. 4. Ibid: p. 115
5. 5. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 300
6. 6. Ibid.
7. 7. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
8. 8. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 301
9. 9. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 209
10. 10. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 301
11. 11. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 209
12. 12. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
13. 13. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 7 November 1942
14. 14. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mrs Todhunter, 19 December 1942
15. 15. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 300
16. 16. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
17. 17. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 January 1943
18. 18. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 114
19. 19. Brigadier E.J. Todhunter to Mr B.E. Todhunter, 2 January 1943
20. 20. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 120
21. 21. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 210
22. 22. War Office (Directorate of Prisoners of War) to the Foreign Office (Prisoners of War Department), 'Treatment of British Generals in Italian Hands', November 1942, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
23. 23. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
24. 24. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 120
25. 25. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
26. 26. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 212
27. 27. Ibid.
28. 28. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
29. 29. Ibid.
30. 30. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 116
31. 31. Ibid.
32. 32. Ibid.
33. 33. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
34. 34. Ibid.
35. 35. Ibid.
36. 36. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 301
37. 37. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
Chapter 13
1. 1. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 119
2. 2. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 302
3. 3. Ibid.
4. 4. Ibid.
5. 5. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 121
6. 6. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 304
7. 7. War Office (Directorate of Prisoners of War) to the Foreign Office (Prisoners of War Department): 'Treatment of British Generals in Italian Hands', November 1942, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
8. 8. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
9. 9. 'De Wiart tells how they dug a tunnel for seven months' by Stuart Gelder, News Chronicle, 27 January 1944, front page
10. 10. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
11. 11. Ibid.
12. 12. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 122
13. 13. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 304
14. 14. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
15. 15. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 122
16. 16. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
17. 17. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 122
18. 18. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 305
19. 19. Ibid.
20. 20. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), pp. 213–14
21. 21. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 305
22. 22. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 119
23. 23. Ibid: p. 124
Chapter 14
1. 1. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 124
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 305
4. 4. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 164
5. 5. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
6. 6. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 125
7. 7. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 306
8. 8. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 125
9. 9. Ibid.
10. 10. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 213
11. 11. Ibid.
12. 12. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
13. 13. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 126
14. 14. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 306
15. 15. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 126
16. 16. Ibid: p. 126
17. 17. Ibid: p. 127
18. 18. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
19. 19. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 215
20. 20. Ibid.
21. 21. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
22. 22. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 127
23. 23. Ibid: p. 128
24. 24. Ibid: pp. 128–9
25. 25. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 215
26. 26. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 129
27. 27. Ibid: p. 129
28. 28. Ibid: p. 130
29. 29. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 215
30. 30. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
31. 31. 'De Wiart tells how they dug a tunnel for seven months' by Stuart Gelder, News Chronicle, 27 January 1944, front page
32. 32. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
Chapter 15
1. 1. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 131
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
4. 4. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 131
5. 5. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
6. 6. Ibid.
7. 7. Ibid.
8. 8. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 131
9. 9. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
10. 10. Ibid.
11. 11. Ibid.
12. 12. Ibid.
13. 13. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 306
14. 14. Ibid.
15. 15. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 132
Chapter 16
1. 1. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 132
4. 4. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
5. 5. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 133
6. 6. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
7. 7. Ibid.
8. 8. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
9. 9. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Books, 2013), p. 222
10. 10. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921, (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
11. 11. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 133
12. 12. Ibid: p. 133
13. 13. Ibid: p. 134
14. 14. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 163
15. 15. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 134
16. 16. Ibid.
17. 17. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), pp. 306–7
18. 18. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 163
19. 19. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
20. 20. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 135
21. 21. Ibid.
22. 22. Ibid.
23. 23. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 307
Chapter 17
1. 1. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 222
2. 2. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 307
3. 3. Ibid.
4. 4. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
5. 5. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 307
6. 6. John Baynes, The Forgotten Victor: General Sir Richard O'Connor (London: Brassey's, 1989), p. 160
7. 7. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 216
8. 8. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 135
9. 9. Ibid.
10. 10. Ibid.
11. 11. Ibid.
12. 12. Ibid: pp. 135–6
13. 13. Ibid: p. 136
14. 14. John Leeming, Always To-Morrow (London: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1951), p. 163
15. 15. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 147
16. 16. Ibid: p. 136
17. 17. Ibid: p. 136
18. 18. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
19. 19. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 222
20. 20. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
21. 21. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), pp. 136–7
22. 22. Ibid: p. 137
23. 23. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
24. 24. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 137
25. 25. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
26. 26. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 145
27. 27. Ibid: p. 137
Chapter 18
1. 1. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 137
2. 2. Ibid.
3. 3. Ibid.
4. 4. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
5. 5. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 145
6. 6. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
7. 7. Ibid.
8. 8. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 138
9. 9. Ibid: p. 138
10. 10. Ibid: p. 139
11. 11. Ibid: p. 139
12. 12. Ibid: p. 139
13. 13. Ibid: pp. 139–40
14. 14. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
15. 15. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Books, 2013), p. 216
16. 16. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
17. 17. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 140
18. 18. Ibid: p. 140
19. 19. Ibid: p. 140
20. 20. Ibid: p. 141
21. 21. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 216
22. 22. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
23. 23. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 216
24. 24. Ibid: p. 217
25. 25. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 142
26. 26. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 217
27. 27. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
28. 28. 'De Wiart tells how they dug a tunnel for seven months' by Stuart Gelder, News Chronicle, 27 January 1944, front page
29. 29. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
30. 30. Ibid.
31. 31. Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame to The Italian War Ministry, Rome, 13 April 1943, WO 32/10706 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
32. 32. Sir Philip Neame, Playing With Strife: The Autobiography of a Soldier (London: George G. Harrap & Sons Ltd, 1947), p. 310
33. 33. 'Brief Narrative of Events at the British Generals' Prisoner of War Camps in Italy, Apl. 1941 to Sept. 1943' (unpublished), private papers of Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame
34. 34. Lieutenant-General Sir Philip Neame to The Italian War Ministry, Rome, 13 April 1943, WO 32/10706, (The National Archives (Public Record Office), Kew)
35. 35. Statement by Lt.-Col. (Acting Brigadier) John Frederick Boyce Combe, DSO (and bar), 11th Hussars, WO 208/3319/1921 (The National Archives [Public Record Office], Kew)
36. 36. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 146
37. 37. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Books, 2013), p. 217
38. 38. Ibid.
39. 39. James Hargest, Farewell Campo 12 (London: Michael Joseph, 1954), p. 143
40. 40. Ibid.
41. 41. Ibid.
Epilogue
1. 1. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 218
2. 2. Ibid: p. 218
3. 3. Ibid: p. 219
4. 4. Ibid: p. 219
5. 5. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
6. 6. Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart, Happy Odyssey (London: Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1950), p. 220
7. 7. Ibid: p. 221
8. 8. 'Escape Narrative' by General Sir Richard O'Connor (OCONNOR 4/5/1 1941 Apr–1943 Apr), Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King's College London
Also by Mark Felton
Zero Night: The Untold Story of World War Two's Greatest Escape
The Sea Devils: Operation Struggle and the Last Great Raid of World War Two
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Felton has written eighteen books on World War Two including Zero Night ('the story of the greatest escape of World War II has been told for the first time' – Daily Mail) and The Sea Devils ('A thrilling page-turner... it will leave your fingernails significantly shorter' – History of War). His Japan's Gestapo was named 'Best Book of 2009' by The Japan Times. He also writes regularly for publications including Military History Monthly and World War II. After a decade spent working in Shanghai, he now lives in Norwich.
Visit him at www.markfelton.co.uk, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
A Note on the Text
Prologue
1 The Prize Prisoner
2 A Gift of Goggles
3 Mazawattee's Mad House
4 Men of Honour
5 Advance Party
6 The Travelling Menagerie
7 The Eagles' Nest
8 Trial and Error
9 Going Underground
10 Six Seconds
11 The Ghost Goes West
12 Under the Dome
13 Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow
14 The Pilgrim Band
15 Elevenses
16 Boy Scouting
17 Mickey Blows the Gaff
18 Night Crossing
Photographs
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
Notes
Also by Mark Felton
About the Author
Copyright
CASTLE OF THE EAGLES. Copyright © 2017 by Mark Felton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First published in the United Kingdom by Icon Books Ltd
First U.S. Edition: July 2017
eISBN 9781250095862
First eBook edition: July 2017
## Contents
1. Title Page
2. Copyright Notice
3. Dedication
4. A Note on the Text
5. Prologue
6. 1. The Prize Prisoner
7. 2. A Gift of Goggles
8. 3. Mazawattee's Mad House
9. 4. Men of Honour
10. 5. Advance Party
11. 6. The Travelling Menagerie
12. 7. The Eagles' Nest
13. 8. Trial and Error
14. 9. Going Underground
15. 10. Six Seconds
16. 11. The Ghost Goes West
17. 12. Under the Dome
18. 13. Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow
19. 14. The Pilgrim Band
20. 15. Elevenses
21. 16. Boy Scouting
22. 17. Mickey Blows the Gaff
23. 18. Night Crossing
24. Photographs
25. Epilogue
26. Acknowledgements
27. Bibliography
28. Notes
1. Notes: Prologue
2. Notes 1
3. Notes 2
4. Notes 3
5. Notes 4
6. Notes 5
7. Notes 6
8. Notes 7
9. Notes 8
10. Notes 9
11. Notes 10
12. Notes 11
13. Notes 12
14. Notes 13
15. Notes 14
16. Notes 15
17. Notes 16
18. Notes 17
19. Notes 18
20. Notes: Epilogue
29. Also by Mark Felton
30. About the Author
31. Newsletter Sign-up
32. Copyright
## Guide
1. Cover
2. Table of Contents
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{"url":"http:\/\/serverfault.com\/questions\/49414\/how-do-i-specify-windows-file-paths-in-nginx","text":"# How do I specify Windows file paths in nginx\n\nI'm using the official windows version of nginx. I want to specify the windows equivalent of this configuration\n\nlocation \/static\/ {\nalias \/home\/user\/staticfiles\/;\n}\n\n\nHow do I specify windows file paths in the alias directive? Is this even possible?\n\n-\n\nYou can try this:\n\n1. copy your static files into nginx\/html\/staticfiles\n2. set into nginx.conf\n\nlocation \/static\/ { alias \/nginx\/html\/staticfiles\/; }\n\n-\n\nIf you try to specify an absolute path like...\n\nlocation \/ {\nalias C:\\Users\\SomeUser\\mysite\\static;\n}\n\n\n...then upon requesting a file from that location, you'll probably see errors in C:\\nginx\\logs\\error.log like:\n\n2011\/11\/11 12:53:16 [error] 6236#0: *1 open() \"\/cygdrive\/c\/nginx\/C:\\Users\\SomeUser\\mysite\\static\\somefile.css\n\n\nWhen configuring nginx on Windows, specify any paths relative to the C:\\nginx directory. This works:\n\nlocation \/ {\nalias ..\/Users\/SomeUser\/mysite\/static;\n}\n\n\nPersonally, I was happy to learn this because it makes my nginx configurations a little more portable between Windows and Linux than I had expected them to be. To turn a Linux configuration file into one that works on Windows, for me it's basically just:\n\ns|\/home\/myname\/|..\/Users\/Myname|\n\n-\n\nThese answers must be out of date. Using nginx 1.3.8 absolute paths with forward slashes works. Backslashes seem to work, but should be doubled. If they aren't then some, such as a trailing \\\" are taken literally.\n\nlocation \/static\/ {\n# alias \"C:\\\\foo\\\\bar\\\\...\\\\static\\\\\";\nalias \"C:\/foo\/bar\/...\/static\/\";\nexpires 90d;\n}\n\n\nThe quotes may not be required, but they seem like a good idea in case of embedded spaces.\n\nOne other thing I noticed is that it is important to match the url and alias path regarding ending with a trailing slash or not--a mismatch and it doesn't work.\n\n-","date":"2013-05-24 20:05:21","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.6152415871620178, \"perplexity\": 5670.268272755169}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2013-20\/segments\/1368705020058\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20130516115020-00040-ip-10-60-113-184.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
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City Breaks / Dublin Breaks
Dublin Breaks
Dublin City, is the Irish capital and home to the best Craic in Europe, it is a very popular destination for a late break with Latebreaks.
CLICK HERE to compare over 300 Dublin Hotels with up to 80% off!
The Clarence – The Morgan – Handels Hotel – Temple Bar – Riverhouse – Fitzsimons to name a few.
Around half of the total population of the Republic of Ireland Dublin Hotels now resides in County Dublin and the centre is lively and bustling at all times of the day and night, with crowds enjoying the young atmosphere of the booming city.
Home to a thousand pubs, Dublin is the ideal destination for a fun packed break and those looking for lively evening entertainment should head for the city's Temple Bar area, including the Harcourt Hotel, with its bar and Dtwo Nightclub offering nightly entertainment, Temple Bar is the home to the largest concentration of pubs, clubs and restaurants.
Dublin has a growing number of fashionable bars including Cocoon, Dakota, Cafe en Seine, and Pravda.
More traditional pints in places packed with character can be found in the Oliver St John Gogarty, the Stag's Head, Kehoe's, Davy Byrne's, O'Neill's and the Brazen Head (Dublin's oldest pub) and the Porterhouse in Parliament Street.
The city has dozens of nightclubs, some of the best of which are the Pod, celebrity haunt Lillie's Bordello and The Kitchen at the Clarence Hotel, the following hotel search will take you to possibly the largest selection of hotels available in Dublin.
Search and Compare Hotels in Dublin:
Dublin has plenty of reasonably priced accommodation and fancier places to stay, with some of the best in the city centre itself, some of the following links will take you to the HOTELS WEBSITES for SPECIAL DEALS , other links will direct you to our Hotels in Dublin comparison search engine, comparing popular hotels, or maybe a castle such as the Clontarf Castle Hotel, plenty of pictures to show you around the hotels, some with videos. The Morgan, and the Lively Arlington Hotel in Temple bar and the Harcourt Hotel, modern Chief O'Neill's, the Clarence, owned by Bono and The Edge of U2, as well as a large number of hostels and smaller guesthouses.
Other Hotels near the Airport are Bewleys, the Carlton, The Spencer Hotel, formerly Clarion hotel and the Hilton.
The city is home to a number of fun loving sensible drink-related attractions, including the excellent Guinness Storehouse, which offers the chance to learn more about how the iconic drink is produced, its history and it continuing popularity.
GUINNESS BREWERY BREAKS:
The Gravity Bar at the top of the Storehouse and the end of the tour offers the chance to sample a dark, creamy pint looking out over the city.
Foodies will delight in the wealth of eateries Dublin has to offer, with a range of global cuisines available, upscale restaurants, numerous cafes and many cosy places serving more traditional Irish fayre, such as steak and Guinness pie, oysters and stew.
Whiskey lovers should visit The Old Jameson Distillery, which was built in 1780 and is one of the largest and finest distilleries in the world. Recently restored to its former glory, the distillery now offers entertaining guided tours, gift shop, bar and restaurant.
Hangovers can be shaken off in many of the attractive parks around the city, the largest of which are the central St Stephen's Green and the vast Phoenix Park, which also houses Dublin Zoo.
Along the coast from Dublin, a short drive or train ride away, lie a number of resort towns, such as Bray, with its traditional seaside feel.
The city also has some excellent museums, theatres and galleries, including the National Museum, Kilmainham Gaol and the National Gallery.
Sports fans can catch Irish sports such as experience Gaelic football and hurling at Croke Park, visit the races at Leopardstown, or go to one of the excellent golf courses around the edges of the city.
Shoppers will get carried away exploring the many shops and department stores in the Irish capital, with the best shopping located on Grafton Street, Henry Street and in Temple Bar.
A pleasant city to wander around, tourists can choose from traditional Irish gifts, such as crystal, jewelry and knitwear, Guinness souvenirs and general shopping.
A number of airlines, including budget carriers, fly into Dublin from across the UK and it is also possible to travel over by ferry from Liverpool and Holyhead.
Go on! take a break, take a late break in Dublin!
Ashling Hotel
Morgan Hotel
Harcourt Hotel
Stauntons Hotel
Tags: Dublin, Dublin pubs, latebreaks
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Latebreaks is currently redesigning and expanding its travel network of websites and blog planned for roll out in 2018.
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Latebreaks – Latebreaks Travel Shop, City Breaks | {
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Q: Folder backups and revisions I'm creating a database program for drawings, but I am looking for a program that helps me to control the revisions and users of the documents.
For example, if one of my draftsmen has to make a revision to a drawing the program should book the file out in his name and lock the files and folders from revisions. The draftsman will then make the necessary revisions on his PC and when done copy this folder back to the server PC.
The program should then ask the draftman what revisions where made for logging purposes and also backup the files and folders that changed to an archival hard drive.
Can you recommend a program that does this?
A: This might be off topic but do you mean a version control system like Subversion or Git?
A: If I understand you correctly, then what you are looking for is called "version control" and there is a decent amount of software out there for exactly this purpose.
Of those I guess these are the most widely used ones:
*
*Git, has the advantage of "distributed" version control, so you don't really need a "server", but its concepts are harder to understand at the beginning.
*Apache Subversion, which is kind of a classic. It needs a central server that stores everything. I believe this is what you would use.
If you or the draftsmen are using Windows, there are GUI clients like TortoiseGit and TortoiseSVN, but if you say you're creating a database I guess you're programming, so you could of course just use the command line for Git or SVN, respectively.
What you can do with this kind of version control is exactly what you asked for, e.g. in SVN you can lock files and then release the lock when you commit them back to the server. When a revision is made, one specifies a "commit message" where they write what they changed.
| {
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'The White Donkey' gets inside America's long war in Iraq
By Maggie Galehouse on January 31, 2016 at 9:21 AM
'The White Donkey'
By Maximilian Uriarte.
284 pp., available on amazon.com for $24.95 starting Feb. 1
Reviewed by Mike Glenn
On the first page of his new 250-page graphic novel, "The White Donkey," U.S. Marine Corps combat veteran turned artist Maximilian Uriarte notes in big black letters: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.
Well, yes. But …
As an account of a couple of Marine Corps buddies during a deployment to Iraq, "The White Donkey" is, technically, a novel.
But it also is more true than just about anything you will read about America's long war in Iraq from the perspective of those who did the lion's share of the fighting and dying – the lower-ranking enlisted troops.
On its most obvious level, "The White Donkey" is the story of Abe and Garcia, two junior Marines stationed in Hawaii who are being sent to Iraq along with the rest of their infantry battalion.
But "The White Donkey" is about so much more than war. In fact, combat incidents are rather sporadic; this book is devoid of thrilling "Guns of Navarone"-type episodes. Instead, the story is really about Abe's often tortured search for some kind of meaning in his life.
Read the complete review at houstonchronicle.com.
Maggie Galehouse | Books editor, features reporter
Humanities Magazine | {
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Arts & Culture » Movies
A 2010 rerun and channeling the new year
by Jim McFarlin
Khandi Alexander in Treme If only only our town had this much life in Detroit 1-8-7.
From where I sit with my remote, it's hard to judge whether the state of television is better or worse as 2010 tumbles to a close. The Jay Leno-Conan O'Brien late-night turf war dominated the early part of the year and shook the foundation of NBC's 30 Rock headquarters. After the Sturm und Drang, Leno was back in the time slot he should never have been forced from, while O'Brien had a mega-buyout and resurfaced on TBS. Very funny. (O'Brien lost almost half of Leno's Tonight Show ratings; Leno has yet to win them back, leaving Conan's bank account the only winner.)
"Reality" series — how real can anyone truly be with cameras dogging their every twitch? — continue to spread like kudzu, and the stupid ones (The Hasselhoffs, Bridalplasty, 16 and Pregnant) just get stupider. America's No. 1 series, American Idol, is losing its Filthy McNasty, Simon Cowell, and never again will be the same. Pompous Piers Morgan is replacing Larry King on CNN. Did America really need Bristol Palin on Dancing With the Stars? Or Sarah Palin's Alaska? And I, for one, am Glee-d out.
On the other hand, the best shows, several of them cited below, are as good or better than ever, and they're abundant. Great actors have been drawn to outstanding TV projects — Al Pacino as Detroit's Jack Kevorkian, Claire Danes as Temple Grandin, and Laura Linney in The Big C, to name a few. Our little factory town has become an epicenter for television production, and while such shows as Detroit 1-8-7 and Hardcore Pawn (whose new season premiered Tuesday night) aren't prompting anybody to start drafting Emmy speeches (yet), they stand up proudly against their competition. And the successful return of such veteran stars as Betty White (Hot in Cleveland), Cloris Leachman (Raising Hope) and Tom Selleck (Blue Bloods) suggests TV is reversing Hollywood's age-old ageism.
2010 just feels too transitional a year to be confined to 10 "best" picks. So in the spirit of the "Big Ten" expanding to 12 teams, here are 10-plus — providing ample reason to get excited about 2011.
Justified (10 p.m. Wednesdays, FX; returns Feb. 9): Detroit's Elmore Leonard wrote Westerns long before becoming one of America's leading crime novelists, and this violent series adapted from one of his short stories combines the best of both. Timothy Olyphant, as steely-eyed U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, brings bite and menace to the crackling, Leonardesque dialogue.
Modern Family (9 p.m. Wednesdays, ABC/Channel 7): Great sitcoms tend to track across decades, and when Everybody Loves Raymond departed in 2005 there was a brief panic waiting for a show to take its place. We needn't have worried: This ensemble family comedy, topped by Ed O'Neill, Emmy winner Eric Stonestreet, gorgeous Sofia Vergara and delightful Rico Rodriguez, is laugh-out-loud funny because it's almost too real.
Treme (10 p.m. Sundays, HBO; returns this spring): Detroit 1-8-7 producers say they want our city to become a living, breathing character in their series. Perhaps they can take a lesson from master storyteller David Simon (The Wire), who made post-Katrina New Orleans the leading lady of a phenomenal cast. When a show gets renewed for a second season one week after it premieres, that's saying something. Just tell me John Goodman's character really didn't commit suicide! Mon Dieu!
Hawaii Five-O (10 p.m. Mondays, CBS/Channel 62; new episodes return in January): The most surprisingly good new show of the season, and the exception to the rule that classic-TV remakes suck. While we now know Alex O'Loughlin's version of Steve McGarrett is far from cuddly, his prickly personality is more than offset by Scott Caan's wisecracking Danno. Reimagining burly Chin Ho Kelly and Kono as Daniel Dae Kim and Grace Park, respectively, was inspired.
Southland (10 p.m. Tuesdays, TNT; new season begins Jan. 4): Best cop show currently on TV. Period. The only fear is that the new season produced for TNT with no holdovers from its initial NBC run, won't be as spellbinding as the first.
Men of a Certain Age (10 p.m. Mondays, TNT): Sick of me raving about this series? Suffice it to say, I think it should be required viewing for anyone between 35 and 65 — or anyone else trying to figure out why guys act the way they do during those years.
The Good Wife, (10 p.m. Tuesdays, CBS): Complex, absorbing legal storylines, and while I didn't see that love triangle coming, it sure is juicy, isn't it? The supporting cast, led by Josh Charles and Christine Baranski, is superb. And to think, through ER, Law & Order and Sex and the City, it never occurred to us Julianna Margulies and Chris Noth could do better work. We were wrong.
Undercover Boss, 9 p.m. Sundays, CBS: I was fully prepared to detest this workplace fantasy, but my wife loves it so much she watches back episodes online. She sucked me in. It's rare that American workers get any kind of media love these days, and as you become involved in their backstories you're guaranteed to shed a tear.
Breaking Bad (1:30 a.m. Thursday) and Mad Men, AMC: Both examples of the excellence American Movie Classics imprints on its original series revolve around distant, broken men. Emmy Best Actor Bryan Cranston's character, Walter White, came clean this season about his meth-making double life, but Mad Men's Jon Hamm, as ad honcho Don Draper, still has many secrets to reveal. New episodes of Breaking Bad aren't expected until July? Nooooooo!
Boardwalk Empire, HBO: I can't imagine anybody imagining Steve Buscemi as a Hollywood leading man. But he is a marvelous actor, a favorite of both critics and fans, and the ideal choice for "Nucky" Thompson, the corrupt politician-slash-gangster who controls Atlantic City at the dawn of Prohibition in the 1920s. The first episode, directed by Martin Scorsese, was the most expensive pilot in television history, and subsequent episodes have maintained those lofty standards. | {
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Sadoun Salman (born 28 August 1977) is a Kuwaiti footballer. He competed in the men's tournament at the 2000 Summer Olympics.
References
External links
1977 births
Living people
Kuwaiti footballers
Kuwait international footballers
Olympic footballers of Kuwait
Footballers at the 2000 Summer Olympics
Place of birth missing (living people)
Association football midfielders
Al Salmiya SC players
Kuwait Premier League players | {
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The writing game can be a lonely one, but it doesn't have to be that way. In fact, working with others can improve your writing tremendously. It can be quite tricky finding fellow writers nearby to meet up with, but the internet has made that a whole lot easier. Hundreds, if not thousands of writing groups exist online. No longer do writers have to sit alone in their bedroom reading work aloud to their cats. But it still can be quite difficult to find the right writing group for you. So here's a list of all those I'm aware of.
A superb insight into the world of short story cover letters!
A review of The General & The Visitor by The Fantasy Inn!
The General and The Visitor are two compelling and thought-provoking short stories about life, decisions, and character. Both are quite well written, but at times I did think they could've done with a little bit more work to make them flow easier. They're both short and do an excellent job of provoking the intense emotional reaction I tend to look for in short stories. Of these two stories, only The General is a fantasy story.
For Fantasy Friday this week, I'm revisiting an old post: The Many Sub-Genres of Fantasy.
In identifying your sub-genre you can better target your readers as well as publishers that look for that type of tale. It'll help you make useful comparisons to other, well-known books in that sub-genre too which may, with luck, help you sell more!
For more writing tips and discussions on the fantasy genre, why not sign up to my mailing list? Subscribers receive a list of 50 fantasy book reviewers and an eBook on the craft of creative writing, featuring guides to world-building, writing fight scenes, plotting, viewpoint, editing, prose, and much, much more.
As I draw closer to completing my work in progress I've begun to wonder what sub-genre of fantasy it actually fits into. I've always assumed it falls into Epic/High Fantasy, but set in a world with little magic I wondered if there were any other sub-genres to which it may be better suited.
You couldn't ask for a better example of how to write a cover letter. And it worked. Thanks, Ed!
Indy Fantasy Writers: Richard Billing!
Many thanks to Iain for asking me to get involved in this. Very enjoyable looking back at my favourite cover image. You can learn a bit more about the meaning behind The General and The Visitor, both available on Amazon. All proceeds donated to charity!
Welcome back, Gentle Readers. I trust that the New Year saw you all drowning in books, and to that TBR pile I would love to add the latest addition to the Guild; the erudite and truly-nice-chap, Richard Billing, author of The General.
nb. Every week, here at the erstwhile home of the Guild (not really a home as such, more of a drinking spot for the itinerant adventurers that indy writers so often are) this blog is lucky enough to host a discussion on different aspects of the indy writing obsession occupation with some fantastic names. We hope that you enjoy, and that it inspires you to put pen to paper yourself!
This series of interviews is on the subject of covers. | {
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\section{Introduction}
\label{Intro}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
\renewcommand{\theequation}{\thesection.\arabic{equation}}
\setcounter{thm}{0}
\renewcommand{\thethm}{\thesection.\arabic{thm}}
\par
Symmetric tridiagonal matrices provide the canonical matrix representations of self-adjoint operators in Hilbert spaces \cite{S1932} and, as a consequence, they naturally emerge in phenomena governed by self-adjoint operators. On the other hand, self-adjoint operators are ubiquitous in practical applications because of the usual requirement of a real spectrum in physical problems. Due to these reasons, symmetric tridiagonal operators appear in many areas of mathematics and physics.
A symmetric tridiagonal operator $T$ in an infinite dimensional Hilbert space $(H,(\cdot,\cdot))$ with an orthonormal base $\{e_n\}_{n=1}^\infty$ is given without loss by
\begin{equation}
Te_n = a_ne_{n+1} + b_ne_n + a_{n-1}e_{n-1},
\quad a_n>0, \quad b_n\in\mathbb{R}, \quad n=1,2,\dots,
\label{Intro_T}
\end{equation}
where $e_0=0$. The matrix representation of $T$ in the basis $\{e_n\}_{n=1}^\infty$ is
\begin{equation}
J=\left( {\begin{array}{*{20}c}
{b_1 } & {a _1 } & 0 & 0 & 0 & {...} \\
{a _1 } & {b_2 } & {a _2 } & 0 & 0 & {...} \\
0 & {a _2 } & {b_3 } & {a _3 } & 0 & {...} \\
0 & 0 & {a _3 } & {b_4 } & {a _4 } & {...} \\
{...} & {...} & {...} & {...} & {...} & {...} \\
\end{array}} \right),
\label{Intro_Jacobi}
\end{equation}
which is known as a Jacobi matrix. It is assumed that $a_n>0$ because the complex conjugated upper and lower diagonals can be made non-negative by a change of basis $e_n \to \eta_ne_n$, $|\eta_n|=1$, while setting $a_n=0$ for some $n$ splits \eqref{Intro_Jacobi} into a direct sum of Jacobi matrices that can be analyzed independently.
If $P_N$ is the orthogonal projection onto the subspace $H_N=\operatorname{span}\{e_n\}_{n=1}^N$, the composition $T_N=P_N T P_N$ defines an operator in $H_N$ called the orthogonal truncation of $T$ on $H_N$. Its matrix representation in the basis $\{e_n\}_{n=1}^N$ is the principal submatrix of \eqref{Intro_Jacobi} of order $N$.
Expression \eqref{Intro_T} defines a symmetric operator in the linear span of $\{e_n\}_{n=1}^\infty$, but we will identify $T$ with the closure of such an operator, which is known to be symmetric too. Then, either $T$ is self-adjoint, or $T$ has infinitely many self-adjoint extensions. In the latter case, the self-adjoint extensions have pure point spectra with any two disjoint \cite[Theorem 4.11]{S1998}. Different self-adjoint extensions can appear only when $T$ is unbounded, which is equivalent to saying that some of the sequences $a_n$ or $b_n$ is unbounded. Thus, self-adjointness is non trivial only in the unbounded case, which is also of practical interest since unbounded operators naturally appear in applications.
The general spectral problem for unbounded Jacobi matrices and, more specifically, approximation problems concerning such a spectrum have been considered in several studies. Indicatively we mention the recent works \cite{CJ2007,DP2002,IKP2007,JM2007,JN2001,JN2004,JNS2009,M2007,M2009,M2010,MZ2012,S2008,V2004}.
The present paper deals with two closely related problems concerning unbounded symmetric tridiagonal operators $T$: the search for self-adjointness conditions for $T$ which go further than known ones, and the possibility of approximating the spectrum $\sigma(T)$ of $T$ via the spectra $\sigma(T_N)$ of its orthogonal truncations $T_N$. To be more precise, let us denote by $\Lambda(T)$ the set of all limit points of the eigenvalues of $T_N$ when $N\to\infty$, i.e.
\[
\begin{gathered}
\Lambda(T) = \left\{
\lambda\in\displaystyle\mathop{\operatorname{Lim}}_{N\to\infty}\lambda_N :
\lambda_N\in\sigma(T_N)
\right\},
\\
\mathop{\operatorname{Lim}}_{N\to\infty}\lambda_N =
\text{set of limit points of the sequence } \lambda_N.
\end{gathered}
\]
Information about $\Lambda(T)$ is of great importance not only from the point of view of operator theory, but also for the theory of continued fractions, orthogonal polynomials and numerical analysis (see \cite{IP2001} and the references therein).
In particular, the eigenvalues of $T_N$ coincide with the zeros of the polynomial $p_{N+1}(x)$ given by the recurrence relation
\begin{equation}
a_{n}p_{n+1}(x)+b_{n}p_{n}(x)+a_{n-1}p_{n-1}(x)=xp_{n}(x),
\quad n=1,2,\ldots,
\label{Intro_OPRR}
\end{equation}
with $p_{0}(x)=0$ and $p_{1}(x)=1$. Thus, $\Lambda(T)$ coincides with the set of limit points of the zeros of the orthogonal polynomials $p_n(x)$ satisfying (\ref{Intro_OPRR}).
Besides, if $T$ is self-adjoint, the Jacobi continued fraction
\begin{equation}
K(\lambda) = \polter{1}{\lambda-b_1} - \polter{a_1^2}{\lambda-b_2} -
\polter{a_2^2}{\lambda-b_3} - \cdots
\label{Intro_CF}
\end{equation}
converges to the function $\displaystyle\left((\lambda-T)^{-1}e_1,e_1\right)$ for every $\lambda\in\mathbb{C}\setminus\Lambda(T)$ \cite{B1994,IP2001}.
The self-adjointness of $T$ ensures the inclusion $\Lambda(T)\supseteq\sigma(T)$, although in general it does not guarantee the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ (see for instance \cite{A1994,B1994,IP2001,IS1995,S1932}, and also \cite[Proposition 2.1]{CMV2006} for a generalization to normal band operators). When $T$ is not self-adjoint even the inclusion $\Lambda(T)\supseteq\sigma(T)$ can fail. This means that the relation between $\Lambda(T)$ and $\sigma(T)$ is more involved for an unbounded symmetric tridiagonal operator $T$ than for a bounded one.
In the bounded case several sufficient conditions for $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ can be found in the literature, but not much is known in the unbounded case (see \cite{IKP2007,IP2001}, also \cite{BLMT1998,BLT1995} for related problems concerning non-symmetric tridiagonal operators, and \cite{CMV2006} for extensions to unitary CMV operators). In particular, the authors of \cite{IKP2007} established sufficient conditions for $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ when $b_n$ is divergent, which regard the limits of some functions of $a_n$, $b_n$. However, the results as stated in \cite{IKP2007} only ensure that these conditions lead to $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ when $a_n$ is bounded. Otherwise they simply imply $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$, while the opposite inclusion needs the additional assumption that $T$ is self-adjoint.
In this paper we push forward in different directions the ideas introduced in \cite{IKP2007} to study the unbounded case. In \S\ref{BR}, we start with a brief review of the results about $\Lambda(T)$ in \cite{IKP2007}, together with a new general result on self-adjointness which is achieved using limit point arguments (see Theorem \ref{thm-self} and Remark \ref{rem-interlace}). Then, the procedure used in \cite{IKP2007} is described so that it can be iterated to generate infinitely many sufficient conditions for $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$. It is also proved that any of these conditions guarantees by itself the self-adjointness of $T$, thus the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ (see Theorems \ref{Ifantis-update} and \ref{strong}).
This will prepare us to \S\ref{GmC} which discusses the recursion leading to the alluded infinitely many conditions for self-adjointness and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$. Although these conditions become exponentially intricate as the recursion advances, taking advantage of their qualitative dependence on $a_n$ and $b_n$ allows us to obtain very simple and general conditions for $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ which cover many of the examples in the literature (see Theorem \ref{weak}).
The iterative procedure giving infinitely many self-adjointness conditions can be exported to other contexts than the analysis of the set $\Lambda(T)$. In \S\ref{OmC}, we apply this idea to Carleman's criterion, and also to a self-adjointness condition which resembles another one due to J.~Janas and S.~Naboko.
In \S\ref{Comparisons}, several examples show the usefulness of the sufficient conditions previously obtained, comparing them with known results. Finally, some consequences in the theory of continued fractions are remarked in \S\ref{Applications}.
\section{Basic results on $\Lambda(T)$ and self-adjointness}
\label{BR}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
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\setcounter{thm}{0}
\renewcommand{\thethm}{\thesection.\arabic{thm}}
\par
Let $T$ be the operator defined by (\ref{Intro_T}), considered as the closure of that one with domain span$\{e_n\}_{n=1}^\infty$. The following results were proved in \cite{IKP2007}:
\begin{align}
\text{If $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_n=0$ then
$T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.}
\label{IfantisThm1}
\end{align}
Also, if $\lim_{n\to\infty}b_n=\infty$, any of the conditions
\begin{align}
& \lim_{n\to\infty}\frac{a_n a_{n-1}}{b_n}=0,
\label{IfantisThm2}
\\
& \lim_{n\to\infty} \frac{a_n a_{n-1}(a_{n-1}+a_{n-2})}{b_n b_{n-1}}=0,
\label{IfantisThm3}
\\
& \lim_{n\to\infty}\frac{a_n a_{n-1}}{b_nb_{n-1}}
\left[
\frac{a_{n-1}^{2}}{b_n} + \frac{a_{n-2}(a_{n-2} + a_{n-3})}{b_{n-2}}
\right]=0,
\label{IfantisThm4}
\end{align}
implies that $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$. Furthermore, this inclusion becomes an equality when $T$ is self-adjoint. However, \cite{IKP2007} does not address the question of the self-adjointness of $T$ under conditions \eqref{IfantisThm2}--\eqref{IfantisThm4}, which is capital to guarantee the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
The proofs of the above results rely on a few arguments which we explicitly dissect below as a first step to carry out the extension of the method leading to \eqref{IfantisThm1}--\eqref{IfantisThm4}. Moreover, these arguments will also be used to prove that conditions \eqref{IfantisThm2}--\eqref{IfantisThm4} and their eventual extensions actually ensure the self-adjointness of $T$ and hence the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
The truncated operator $T_N$ is self-adjoint and has a complete set of orthonormal eigenvectors in $H_N$ with distinct real eigenvalues. Assuming $\lambda\in\Lambda(T)$ is equivalent to the existence of a subsequence of $T_N$, which will be also denoted by $T_N$ without loss, such that
\begin{equation}
\lim_{N\to\infty}\lambda_N=\lambda,
\quad
T_N x_N=\lambda_N x_N, \quad \|x_N\|=1, \quad x_N\in H_N.
\label{Pre_BasicEigen}
\end{equation}
The splitting
$\|Tx_N\|^2 = \|P_NTx_N\|^2 + \|(I-P_N)Tx_N\|^2
= \lambda_N^2 + a_N^2|(x_N,e_N)|^2$
gives the identity
\begin{equation}
\|(T-\lambda)x_N\|^2 = \|Tx_N\|^2 + \lambda^2 - 2\lambda\lambda_N
= (\lambda-\lambda_N)^2 + a_N^2|(x_N,e_N)|^2.
\label{IfantisId3bis}
\end{equation}
As a consequence of this result, the condition
\begin{equation}
\lim_{N\to\infty} a_N (x_N,e_N) = 0
\label{gencond}
\end{equation}
implies that $\lim_{N\to\infty}\|(T-\lambda)x_N\|=0$, so that the limit point $\lambda$ lies on $\sigma(T)$.
The rest of the idea consists in finding asymptotic conditions for $a_n$ and $b_n$ ensuring \eqref{gencond} for any sequence $x_N$ of eigenvectors of $T_N$ with a convergent sequence $\lambda_N$ of eigenvalues (actually, the only assumption in \cite{IKP2007} to obtain such conditions is the boundedness of $\lambda_N$). Bearing in mind the previous comments, these asymptotic conditions imply that $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$.
The surprising new result is that condition \eqref{gencond} is also key to guarantee the self-adjointness of $T$ and thus the opposite inclusion $\Lambda(T) \supseteq \sigma(T)$. This result, missing in \cite{IKP2007} despite the close connection with the ideas developed there, will allow us to improve the consequences of \eqref{IfantisThm2}--\eqref{IfantisThm4} by ensuring the self-adjointness of $T$ and the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ with no additional assumption.
\begin{thm} \label{thm-self}
Let $T_N$ be a subsequence of truncations of $T$. If there exists a sequence $x_N$ of normalized eigenvectors of $T_N$ with bounded eigenvalues and satisfying \eqref{gencond}, then $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Suppose that $x_N$ are normalized eigenvectors of $T_N$ with bounded eigenvalues $\lambda_N$. We can assume without loss that $\lambda_N$ converges to some point $\lambda$ by restricting to a new subsequence if necessary. Then, \eqref{IfantisId3bis} holds not only for $T$, but also for every extension of $T$. As a consequence, \eqref{gencond} implies that the limit point $\lambda$ lies in the spectrum of any such extension. In particular, if $T$ is not self-adjoint, $\lambda$ must be a common point of the spectra of the infinitely many self-adjoint extensions of $T$. This is in contradiction with the fact that any two self-adjoint extensions have disjoint spectra \cite[Theorem 4.11]{S1998}. Therefore, $T$ must be self-adjoint.
\end{proof}
\begin{rem} \label{rem-interlace}
It is known that the eigenvalues of $T_N$ always interlace with those of $T_{N+1}$. Even more, the bounded interval defined by any pair of eigenvalues of $T_N$ includes an eigenvalue of $T_n$ for any $n>N$ (see for instance \cite[Chapter 1]{C1978}). This shows that the existence of a subsequence $T_N$ having a sequence of normalized eigenvectors $x_N$ with bounded eigenvalues is guaranteed for any symmetric tridiagonal operator $T$. Therefore, every condition on $a_n$ and $b_n$ implying \eqref{gencond} for any such sequence $x_N$ gives simultaneously the inclusion $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$ and the self-adjointness of $T$, leading to the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
\end{rem}
\begin{cor}
If $T$ is not self-adjoint, then
\begin{equation}
\liminf_{n\to\infty}
\frac{a_n^2 p_n(\lambda_n)^2}{\sum_{k=1}^n p_k(\lambda_n)^2} > 0
\label{gencond-OP}
\end{equation}
for any bounded sequence $\lambda_n$ with $p_{n+1}(\lambda_n)=0$, where $p_n(x)$ are the orthogonal polynomials given by \eqref{Intro_OPRR}.
\end{cor}
\begin{proof}
First of all, it is known that the eigenvalues $\lambda_N$ of $T_N$ are the zeros of $p_{N+1}(x)$, with $\sum_{k=1}^N p_k(\lambda_N) e_k$ as eigenvectors, as follows directly from \eqref{Intro_OPRR} \cite{S1932}. If \eqref{gencond-OP} fails, there exists a bounded subsequence $\lambda_N$ of zeros of $p_{N+1}(x)$ such that \eqref{gencond} holds for $x_N=\big[\sum_{k=1}^N p_k(\lambda_N)^2\big]^{-1/2}\sum_{k=1}^N p_k(\lambda_N) e_k$. According to Theorem \ref{thm-self}, $T$ must be self-adjoint because $x_N$ are normalized eigenvectors of $T_N$ with bounded eigenvalues $\lambda_N$.
\end{proof}
Let us describe now the procedure to obtain \eqref{IfantisThm1}--\eqref{IfantisThm4} in such a way that it can be iterated to generate infinitely many other sufficient conditions for the inclusion $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$. This will also help to prove that these conditions actually yield the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ because they ensure that $T$ is self-adjoint.
The sketch of the referred procedure is as follows:
\begin{itemize}
\item
Write in coordinates the eigenvalue equation in (\ref{Pre_BasicEigen}), i.e.
\begin{equation}
\begin{aligned}
& (\lambda_N-b_k)\delta_k=a_k\delta_{k+1}+a_{k-1}\delta_{k-1},
\\
& \delta_k=\delta_{N,k}=(x_N,e_k),
\end{aligned}
\qquad
k=1,\ldots,N,
\label{IfantisId2}
\end{equation}
where we use the convention $\delta_0=\delta_{N+1}=0$.
\item
Use the last $m$ equations of \eqref{IfantisId2} and $|\delta_k|\le\|x_N\|=1$ to find a bound for $\delta_N=(x_N,e_N)$ depending only on the eigenvalue $\lambda_N$ and the last $m$ coefficients $a_{N-k-1}$, $b_{N-k}$, $k=0,\dots,m-1$, of the truncation $T_N$, i.e.
\begin{equation}
|\delta_N| \le F_{m,N} =
F_{m,N}(\lambda_N;b_N,a_{N-1},\dots,b_{N-m+1},a_{N-m}).
\label{IfantisId4}
\end{equation}
\item
Give an asymptotic condition for $a_n$ and $b_n$ which ensures that
\begin{equation}
\lim_{N\to\infty}a_NF_{m,N}=0
\label{IfantisId5}
\end{equation}
when $\lambda_N$ is bounded.
\end{itemize}
The asymptotic conditions for $a_n$ and $b_n$ found with the above procedure imply \eqref{gencond} for any sequence $x_N$ of eigenvectors of $T_N$ with bounded eigenvalues. Therefore, from Theorem \ref{thm-self} and Remark \ref{rem-interlace} we conclude that these conditions are sufficient not only for the inclusion $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$, but also for the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ and the self-adjointness of $T$.
The bound $F_{m,N}$ in (\ref{IfantisId4}) is deduced from the repetitive use of (\ref{IfantisId2}) for various values of $k$. Since the qualitative expression of $F_{m,N}$ will be needed later on, it is convenient to show the procedure leading to $F_{m,N}$ for the first values of $m$, introducing at the same time a notation which will make easier the transition to a general
index $m$. Denoting
\begin{equation}
c_n^- = c_n^-(\lambda_N) = \frac{a_{n-1}}{\lambda_N-b_n},
\qquad
c_n^+ = c_n^+(\lambda_N) = \frac{a_n}{\lambda_N-b_n},
\label{c}
\end{equation}
equations \eqref{IfantisId2}, ordered from the last to the first one, read as
\begin{equation}
\begin{aligned}
& [N] & & \delta_N = c_N^-\delta_{N-1},
\\
& [N-1] & & \delta_{N-1} = c_{N-1}^-\delta_{N-2} + c_{N-1}^+\delta_N,
\\
& [N-2] & & \delta_{N-2} = c_{N-2}^-\delta_{N-3} + c_{N-2}^+\delta_{N-1},
\\
& & & \dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots
\\
& [N-k] & & \delta_{N-k} = c_{N-k}^-\delta_{N-k-1} + c_{N-k}^+\delta_{N-k+1},
\\
& & & \dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots\dots
\\
& [1] & & \delta_1 = c_1^+\delta_{2}.
\end{aligned}
\label{IfantisId2bis}
\end{equation}
Note that equation $[N-k]$ of \eqref{IfantisId2bis} requires $\lambda_N\ne b_{N-k}$. This will not be a problem because we will be interested in the limit $N\to\infty$ and we will only deal with the case $\lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty$, which implies that $\lambda_N\ne b_{N-k}$ for $N$ big enough and fixed $k$ whenever $\lambda_N$ is bounded.
\smallskip
\noindent \underline{The bound $F_{0,N}$}
Using no equation of \eqref{IfantisId2bis} gives $F_{0,N}=1$, which leads to \eqref{IfantisThm1} due to Carleman's self-adjointness condition \eqref{CAR} \cite{C1923} (see also \cite[Chapter VII]{B1968}).
\smallskip
\noindent \underline{The bound $F_{1,N}$}
Equation $[N]$ of \eqref{IfantisId2bis} yields $F_{1,N} = |c_N^-|$. This gives
\eqref{IfantisThm2} because, due to the divergence of $b_N$ and the boundedness of $\lambda_N$, we can ensure that $\lim_{N\to\infty}|\lambda_N-b_N|/b_N=1$ so that $|\lambda_N-b_N|$ can be substituted by $b_N$ when imposing $\lim_{N\to\infty}a_NF_{1,N}=0$.
\smallskip
\noindent \underline{The bound $F_{2,N}$}
Inserting equation $[N-1]$ into equation $[N]$ leads to
\begin{equation}
\delta_N = c_N^-c_{N-1}^-\delta_{N-2} + c_N^-c_{N-1}^+\delta_N.
\label{m=2}
\end{equation}
Thus we can take $F_{2,N} = |c_N^-c_{N-1}^-|+|c_N^-c_{N-1}^+|$, and $\lim_{N\to\infty}a_NF_{2,N}=0$ is equivalent to $\lim_{N\to\infty}a_N|c_N^-c_{N-1}^-|=\lim_{N\to\infty}a_N|c_N^-c_{N-1}^+|=0$. This ends in \eqref{IfantisThm3} when substituting in both asymptotic conditions the factors $|\lambda_N-b_N|$ and $|\lambda_N-b_{N-1}|$ by the equivalent ones $b_N$ and $b_{N-1}$.
\smallskip
\noindent \underline{The bound $F_{3,N}$}
Now we introduce equations $[N-2]$ and $[N]$ into \eqref{m=2} obtaining
\begin{equation}
\delta_N = c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-\delta_{N-3}
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+\delta_{N-1}
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-\delta_{N-1}.
\label{m=3}
\end{equation}
This gives $F_{3,N}=|c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-|$, from which \eqref{IfantisThm4} is obtained analogously to the previous cases.
\smallskip
Reference \cite{IKP2007} stops the procedure at this stage, but it is clear that it can continue indefinitely providing infinitely many conditions for $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$. For instance, the next bound and sufficient conditions are shown below.
\smallskip
\noindent \underline{The bound $F_{4,N}$}
Inserting equations $[N-3]$ and $[N-1]$ into \eqref{m=3} yields
\begin{equation}
\begin{aligned}
\kern-7pt \text{\footnotesize $\delta_N$} \,
& \text{\footnotesize
$= c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-c_{N-3}^-\delta_{N-4}
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-c_{N-3}^+\delta_{N-2}
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+c_{N-1}^-\delta_{N-2}$}
\\
& \kern10pt \text{\footnotesize
$+ \; c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+c_{N-1}^+\delta_N
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-c_{N-1}^-\delta_{N-2}
+ c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-c_{N-1}^+\delta_N.$}
\label{m=4}
\end{aligned}
\end{equation}
The bound $F_{4,N}=$ {\footnotesize$|c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-c_{N-3}^-|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^-c_{N-3}^+|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+c_{N-1}^-|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^-c_{N-2}^+c_{N-1}^+|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-c_{N-1}^-|
+ |c_N^-c_{N-1}^+c_N^-c_{N-1}^+|$} leads to a new condition which, together with $\lim_{n\to\infty}b_n=\infty$, guarantees $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$, namely,
\begin{equation}
\lim_{n\to\infty}
\text{\footnotesize $\frac{a_n a_{n-1}}{b_nb_{n-1}}
\left[
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}^{2}}{b_n}+\frac{a_{n-2}^{2}}{b_{n-2}}\right)
\frac{a_{n-1}+a_{n-2}}{b_{n-1}}
+\frac{a_{n-2}a_{n-3}(a_{n-3}+a_{n-4})}{b_{n-2}b_{n-3}}\right]$}
=0.
\label{new}
\end{equation}
The inclusion $\Lambda(T)\subseteq\sigma(T)$ remains true assuming that $\lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty$ and substituting $b_n$ by $|b_n|$ in conditions \eqref{IfantisThm2}--\eqref{IfantisThm4} and \eqref{new}. The reason for this is that $\lim_{N\to\infty}|\lambda_N-b_{N-k}|/|b_{N-k}|=1$ under the divergence of $|b_n|$, thus $|\lambda_N-b_{N-k}|$ can be substituted by $|b_{N-k}|$ in \eqref{IfantisId5}.
Moreover, Theorem~\ref{thm-self} and Remark~\ref{rem-interlace} prove that these conditions guarantee the self-adjointness of $T$, so that actually they imply that $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
Therefore, we have found the following improvement of the results in \cite{IKP2007}.
\begin{thm} \label{Ifantis-update}
Let $(\mathfrak{B}_1)$--$(\mathfrak{B}_4)$ be the conditions obtained respectively from \eqref{IfantisThm2}--\eqref{IfantisThm4} and \eqref{new} when substituting $b_n$ by $|b_n|$.
If $\lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty$, any of the conditions $(\mathfrak{B}_1)$--$(\mathfrak{B}_4)$ implies that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
\end{thm}
As it is pointed out in \cite{IKP2007}, none of the conditions \eqref{IfantisThm2} or \eqref{IfantisThm3} is weaker than the other. Indeed, we will see that this also holds for $(\mathfrak{B}_m)$, $1 \le m \le 4$, and in general for the conditions obtained from any bound $F_{m,N}$, which become complementary (see \S\ref{Comparisons}). Therefore, the sufficient conditions obtained from all the bounds $F_{m,N}$ are in principle of equal interest.
It can be argued that the results for large values of $m$ are of doubtful utility because the complexity of the sufficient conditions grows quickly as $m$ gets bigger. Nevertheless, as we will see in \S\ref{Comparisons}, this does not prevent from applying succesfully these infinitely many conditions to concrete examples.
Indeed, \S\ref{GmC} shows that it is possible to extract simple but quite general consequences of interest (see Theorem \ref{weak}) from the whole set of complicated statements that appear for all the values of $m$. To understand the idea in a simple setting, we will first explain it using Theorem \ref{Ifantis-update}. The expressions involved in ($\mathfrak{B}_1$)--($\mathfrak{B}_3$) can be split as
\[
\begin{array}{l}
\frac{a_na_{n-1}}{|b_n|}
= \frac{a_n}{|b_n|^{1/2}} \frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|^{1/2}},
\smallskip \\
\frac{a_n a_{n-1}(a_{n-1}+a_{n-2})}{|b_n| |b_{n-1}|}
= \frac{a_n}{|b_n|^{2/3}}
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|^{2/3}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 1/2}
\left[
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_{n-1}|^{2/3}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 3/2}
+ \left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_{n-1}|^{2/3}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 1/2}
\frac{a_{n-2}}{|b_{n-1}|^{2/3}}
\right],
\smallskip \\
\frac{a_n a_{n-1}}{|b_n||b_{n-1}|}
\left[
\frac{a_{n-1}^{2}}{|b_n|}+\frac{a_{n-2}(a_{n-2}+a_{n-3})}{|b_{n-2}|}
\right]
= \frac{a_n}{|b_n|^{3/4}}
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 1/3}
\left\{
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_{n-1}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 4/3}
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 4/3}
\right.
\smallskip \\ \kern162pt
+ \left(\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_{n-1}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 2/3}
\left[
\left(\frac{a_{n-2}}{|b_{n-1}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 2/3}
\left(\frac{a_{n-2}}{|b_{n-2}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 4/3}
\right.
\smallskip \\ \kern160pt
\left.\left.
+ \left(\frac{a_{n-2}}{|b_{n-1}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 2/3}
\left(\frac{a_{n-2}}{|b_{n-2}|^{3/4}}\right)^{\scriptscriptstyle\kern-2pt 1/3}
\frac{a_{n-3}}{|b_{n-2}|^{3/4}}
\right]
\right\},
\end{array}
\]
while the analogous expression in ($\mathfrak{B}_4$) can be written as a sum of terms which are products of positive powers of
\[
\frac{a_{n-k}}{|b_{n-k}|^{4/5}},
\quad
\frac{a_{n-k-1}}{|b_{n-k}|^{4/5}},
\quad k=0,1,2,3.
\]
This splitting shows that
\[
a_n, a_{n-1} = o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1})
\; \Rightarrow \;
\eqref{eq-strong}, \qquad m=1,2,3,4,
\]
where the usual notation $y_n=o(z_n)$ stands for $\lim_{n\to\infty}y_n/z_n=0$.
Therefore, a weaker but much simpler version of Theorem \ref{Ifantis-update} states that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ provided that $|b_n|$ diverges and $a_n, a_{n-1} = o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1})$ for some of the values $m=1,2,3,4$. Actually, in contrast to conditions \eqref{eq-strong}, the simpler ones $a_n, a_{n-1} = o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1})$ are not complementary, but they become weaker as $m$ gets bigger. This means that the weak version of Theorem \ref{Ifantis-update} can be summarized by the single result for the biggest value $m=4$,
\[
\left\{ \kern-3pt
\begin{array}{l}
{\displaystyle\lim_{n\to\infty}}|b_n|=\infty
\\
a_n, a_{n-1} = o(|b_n|^{4/5})
\end{array}
\right.
\Rightarrow\; T \text{ is self-adjoint and } \Lambda(T)=\sigma(T).
\]
This suggests that, in the weak version, it should be possible to enclose the information given by the results for all the values of $m$ into a single statement. Such a statement is among the objectives of the next section, which is devoted to the extension of the previous results to any index $m$.
\section{General $m$-conditions for $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ and self-adjointness}
\label{GmC}
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\renewcommand{\thethm}{\thesection.\arabic{thm}}
\par
To deal with the bounds $F_{m,N}$ for any value of $m$ we first need an expression for $\delta_N$ generalizing \eqref{m=2}, \eqref{m=3} and \eqref{m=4}, i.e. an expression obtained using recursively the last $m$ equations of \eqref{IfantisId2}. For this purpose we introduce the multi-indices
$\boldsymbol{j}_m=(j_1,j_2,\dots,j_m)$, $j_s\in\mathbb{Z}$, and the sets
\begin{equation}
\begin{aligned}
& \mathcal{I}_m
= \{(\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \, :
\, j_1=0, \;
k_s=j_s=j_{s+1}+1 \, \text{ or } \, k_s=j_s+1=j_{s+1}\},
\\
& \widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m
= \{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \, :
\, j_1=0, \;
k_s=j_s=j_{s+1}+1 \, \text{ or } \, k_s=j_s+1=j_{s+1}\},
\\
& \mathcal{I}_m^+
= \{(\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \in \mathcal{I}_m \, :
\, j_s\ge0, \; k_s\ge1\},
\\
& \widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m^+
= \{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \in \widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m \, :
\, j_s\ge0, \; k_s\ge1\}.
\end{aligned}
\label{indices}
\end{equation}
Using this notation we have the following result.
\begin{prop} \label{deltaN}
For any $m\in\{1,2,\dots,N\}$, the solutions $\delta_k$ of \eqref{IfantisId2} satisfy
\begin{equation}
\delta_N = \kern-10pt \sum_{
(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m^+}
\frac{a_{N-k_1}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_1}} \frac{a_{N-k_2}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_2}}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_m}} \, \delta_{N-j_{m+1}},
\label{eq-deltaN}
\end{equation}
provided that $\lambda_N\neq b_{N-j}$ for $j=0,1,\dots,m-1$.
\end{prop}
\begin{proof}
Let us proceed by induction on $m$. Equation $[N]$ of \eqref{IfantisId2bis} is directly the result for $m=1$ because $\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_1^+=\{(0,1|1)\}$.
Assume now \eqref{eq-deltaN} for an index $m<N$. Then, $0 \le j_{m+1} \le m$ for each element of the set $\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m^+$, so that $\lambda_N \ne b_{N-j_{m+1}}$ under the hypothesis of the theorem. Since $N \ge N-j_{m+1} \ge N-m > 1$, it makes sense to use equation $[N-j_{m+1}]$ of \eqref{IfantisId2bis}. Inserting it into each summand of \eqref{eq-deltaN} and using the convention $\delta_{N+1}=0$ gives
\[
\begin{aligned}
\delta_N & = \kern-15pt \sum_{
\substack{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m^+
\\
k_{m+1}=j_{m+1}=j_{m+2}+1
\smallskip \\
\text{or}
\\
k_{m+1}=j_{m+1}+1=j_{m+2}
}}
\frac{a_{N-k_1}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_1}}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_m}}
\frac{a_{N-k_{m+1}}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_{m+1}}}
\, \delta_{N-j_{m+2}}
\\
& = \kern-10pt \sum_{
(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+2}|\boldsymbol{k}_{m+1})\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_{m+1}^+
}
\frac{a_{N-k_1}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_1}}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_m}}
\frac{a_{N-k_{m+1}}}{\lambda_N-b_{N-j_{m+1}}}
\, \delta_{N-j_{m+2}},
\end{aligned}
\]
which proves the result for the index $m+1$.
\end{proof}
As a direct consequence of the previous proposition, we find a general expression for the bound $F_{m,N}$.
\begin{prop} \label{bound}
Given $m\in\mathbb{N}$, for any $N \ge m$, the $N$-th coordinate $\delta_N$ of the normalized eigenvector of $T_N$ with eigenvalue $\lambda_N$ is bounded by
\begin{equation}
F_{m,N} = \kern-7pt
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m^+}
\frac{a_{N-k_1}}{|\lambda_N-b_{N-j_1}|} \frac{a_{N-k_2}}{|\lambda_N-b_{N-j_2}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{|\lambda_N-b_{N-j_m}|},
\label{eq-bound}
\end{equation}
provided that $\lambda_N\neq b_{N-j}$ for $j=0,1,\dots,m-1$.
\end{prop}
The above expression of the bound $F_{m,N}$ leads to the generalization of Theorem \ref{Ifantis-update} for any value of $m$.
\begin{thm} \label{strong}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the conditions
\begin{align}
& \lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty,
\notag
\\
& \lim_{n\to\infty} a_n G_{m,n}^+=0,
\quad
G_{m,n}^+ = \kern-7pt
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m^+}
\frac{a_{n-k_1}}{|b_{n-j_1}|} \frac{a_{n-k_2}}{|b_{n-j_2}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|},
\label{eq-strong} \tag{$\mathfrak{B}_m$}
\end{align}
imply that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
In view of Theorem \ref{thm-self} and Remark \ref{rem-interlace}, it is enough to prove that the hypothesis of the theorem yield $\lim_{N\to\infty} a_NF_{m,N}=0$ for any bounded sequence $\lambda_N$, where we can assume the expression \eqref{eq-bound} of $F_{m,N}$ because it is valid for $N$ big enough due to the divergence of $|b_{N-j}|$ as $N\to\infty$. Due to the positivity of the summands of $F_{m,N}$ and $G_{m,N}^+$, we have the equivalences
\[
\kern-4pt
\begin{aligned}
& \lim_{N\to\infty} \kern-2pt a_N F_{m,N} = 0
\,\Leftrightarrow\kern-1pt
\lim_{N\to\infty} \kern-2pt
\text{\footnotesize $a_N \frac{a_{N-k_1}}{|\lambda_N-b_{N-j_1}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{|\lambda_N-b_{N-j_m}|}$} = 0,
\kern3pt \forall (\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m^+
\\
& \Leftrightarrow
\lim_{N\to\infty}
\text{\footnotesize $a_N \frac{a_{N-k_1}}{|b_{N-j_1}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{N-k_m}}{|b_{N-j_m}|}$} = 0,
\kern5pt \forall (\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m^+
\;\Leftrightarrow
\lim_{N\to\infty} a_NG_{m,N}^+ = 0,
\end{aligned}
\]
which prove the theorem.
\end{proof}
The $m$-conditions \eqref{eq-strong} are the generalization of the conditions in Theorem \ref{Ifantis-update} which appear for the particular sets of multi-indices
\[
\begin{aligned}
& \scriptstyle
\mathcal{I}_1^+=\{(0|1)\},
\quad
\mathcal{I}_2^+=\{(0,1|1,1),(0,1|1,2)\},
\quad
\mathcal{I}_3^+=\{(0,1,0|1,1,1),(0,1,2|1,2,2),(0,1,2|1,2,3)\},
\\
& \scriptstyle
\mathcal{I}_4^+=\{(0,1,0,1|1,1,1,1),(0,1,0,1|1,1,1,2),(0,1,2,1|1,2,2,1),
(0,1,2,1|1,2,2,2),(0,1,2,3|1,2,3,3),(0,1,2,3|1,2,3,4)\}.
\end{aligned}
\]
Although Theorem \ref{strong} can be particularized to any other value of $m$, it is also possible to extract information of interest from the general $m$-conditions without resorting to intricate asymptotic conditions.
\begin{thm} \label{weak}
The conditions
\[
\begin{aligned}
& \lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty,
\\
& a_n,a_{n-1}=o(|b_n|^r) \text{ for some } r<1,
\end{aligned}
\]
imply that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Let $m\in\mathbb{N}$. For any $(\boldsymbol{j}_m,\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m^+$, consider the factorization
\[
\begin{aligned}
a_n \, \frac{a_{n-k_1}}{|b_{n-j_1}|} \cdots \frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|}
& = \frac{a_n}{|b_{n-j_1}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\prod_{s=1}^{m-1}
\frac{a_{n-k_s}}{|b_{n-j_s}|^{\frac{s}{m+1}} |b_{n-j_{s+1}}|^{\frac{m-s}{m+1}}}
\\
& \kern-37pt = \frac{a_n}{|b_{n}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\prod_{s=1}^{m-1}
\left(
\frac{a_{n-k_s}}{|b_{n-j_s}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\right)^{\kern-3pt\frac{s}{m}}
\left(
\frac{a_{n-k_s}}{|b_{n-j_{s+1}}|^{\frac{m}{m+1}}}
\right)^{\kern-3pt\frac{m-s}{m}},
\end{aligned}
\]
where we have taken into account that $j_1=0$ in $\mathcal{I}_m^+$.
From the definition of the set $\mathcal{I}_m^+$ we see that $n-k_s=n-j_s=n-j_{s+1}-1$ or $n-k_s=n-j_s-1=n-j_{s+1}$ in this factorization. Thus, the condition $a_n,a_{n-1}=o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1})$ guarantees that all the summands of $G_{m,n}^+$ in \eqref{eq-strong} converge to zero as $n\to\infty$. Bearing in mind Theorem \ref{strong}, this means that
\[
\left\{
\begin{array}{l}
{\displaystyle\lim_{n\to\infty}}|b_n|=\infty
\\
a_n,a_{n-1}=o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1}) \text{ for some } m\in\mathbb{N}
\end{array}
\right.
\Rightarrow\kern5pt
\text{\parbox{100pt}{$T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$.}}
\]
This statement is equivalent to the theorem because $m/(m+1)$ is an increasing sequence converging to 1 for $m\to\infty$. Thus, for any $r<1$ there exists $m\in\mathbb{N}$ such that $r<m/(m+1)$, and then the divergence of $|b_n|$ ensures that the asymptotic behaviour $o(|b_n|^r)$ implies $o(|b_n|^\frac{m}{m+1})$.
\end{proof}
\section{Other $m$-conditions for self-adjointness}
\label{OmC}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
\renewcommand{\theequation}{\thesection.\arabic{equation}}
\setcounter{thm}{0}
\renewcommand{\thethm}{\thesection.\arabic{thm}}
\par
We have seen that the study of the relation between $\Lambda(T)$ and $\sigma(T)$ sheds light on the self-adjointness of $T$. We will show in this section that the iterative use of eigenvalue equations to obtain sets of infinitely many sufficient conditions for self-adjointness (and thus for $\Lambda(T) \supseteq \sigma(T)$) can be pursued in other ways. Two different types of results will illustrate this strategy. Although none of them deals with the limit points $\Lambda(T)$, both have in common with the previous approach the fact that they are especially adapted to the analysis of symmetric tridiagonal operators with an unbounded main diagonal.
We will discuss first a set of $m$-conditions extending the well known Carleman criterion, which states that $T$ is self-adjoint if
\begin{equation} \label{CAR}
\sum_{n=1}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n} = \infty.
\end{equation}
To obtain this generalization, let us remember first a proof of Carleman's criterion based on an orthogonal polynomial characterization of self-adjointness: $T$ is self-adjoint iff $\sum_{n=1}^\infty |p_n(z)|^2$ is divergent, where $p_n(x)$ are the orthogonal polynomials given in \eqref{Intro_OPRR} and $z$ is any point of $\mathbb{C}\setminus\mathbb{R}$ (we will eventually choose $z=i$ for convenience). This is equivalent to saying that $T$ is not self-adjoint iff $(p_1(z),p_2(z),\dots)$ is in $\ell^2$, which means that $(p_1(z),p_2(z),\dots)$ is an eigenvector of the maximal extension of $T$ with eigenvalue $z$. Recurrence \eqref{Intro_OPRR} is in this case the corresponding eigenvalue equation.
The Christoffel-Darboux identity for orthonormal polynomials,
\[
(x-y) \sum_{k=1}^n p_k(x) p_k(y) = a_n (p_{n+1}(x)p_n(y)-p_n(x)p_{n+1}(y)),
\]
yields for $x=i$ and $y=-i$
\[
\sum_{k=1}^n |v_k|^2 = a_n \operatorname{Im}(v_{n+1}\overline{v_n}),
\qquad v_n=p_n(i).
\]
From this identity we obtain
\begin{equation}
1 \le a_n |v_n| |v_{n+1}|,
\label{CD0}
\end{equation}
so, due to the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality,
\[
\sum_{n=1}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n} \le \sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n||v_{n+1}|
\le \sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2.
\]
Therefore, if $\sum_{n=1}^\infty 1/a_n$ diverges, so does $\sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2$ and $T$ is self-adjoint.
\smallskip
Relations \eqref{Intro_OPRR} defining $p_n(x)$ will play the role of `eigenvalue' equations to generate new versions of Carleman's criterion. These new criteria coming from the iterative use of \eqref{Intro_OPRR} amount to the substitution of the condition $\sum_{n=1}^\infty 1/a_n=\infty$ by $m$-conditions with the form
\[
\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty \frac{1}{a_nG_{m,n}} = \infty,
\qquad
G_{m,n} = G_{m,n}(\{a_{n-k}\}_{k=-m+1}^m,\{b_{n-k}\}_{k=-m+1}^{m-1}).
\]
As we will see, $G_{m,n}=\infty$ when $b_{n-k}=0$ for some $k$ with $|k|\le m-1$. Then we understand that $1/a_nG_{m,n}=0$ in the above series.
To generate these Carleman type criteria, note that \eqref{Intro_OPRR} gives the inequality
\begin{equation}
|v_n| \le \gamma_n^- |v_{n-1}| + \gamma_n^+ |v_{n+1}|,
\quad \gamma_n^- = \frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|}, \quad \gamma_n^+=\frac{a_n}{|b_n|},
\quad n\ge1,
\label{ineq_vn}
\end{equation}
where $v_0=0$ due to the convention $p_0(x)=0$, and we take $\gamma_n^\pm=\infty$ if $b_n=0$. From \eqref{ineq_vn} we obtain
\[
|v_n| \le (\gamma_n^-+\gamma_n^+) (|v_{n-1}|+|v_{n+1}|),
\qquad n\ge2,
\]
which combined with \eqref{CD0} leads to
\[
\frac{1}{a_n(\gamma_n^-+\gamma_n^+)} \le (|v_{n-1}|+|v_{n+1}|)|v_{n+1}|,
\qquad n\ge2,
\]
assuming that $1/a_n(\gamma_n^-+\gamma_n^+)=0$ if $b_n=0$.
Using again the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality we find that
\[
\sum_{n=2}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n(\gamma_n^-+\gamma_n^+)}
\le \sum_{n=2}^\infty (|v_{n-1}||v_{n+1}|+|v_{n+1}|^2)
\le 2 \sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2.
\]
Just as in the case of Carleman's criterion we arrive at the following result.
\begin{thm} \label{Car1}
$T$ is self-adjoint if
\begin{equation}
\sum_{n=2}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n\left(\frac{a_{n-1}+a_n}{|b_n|}\right)} = \infty.
\label{eq-Car1} \tag{$\mathfrak{C}_1$}
\end{equation}
\end{thm}
Condition \eqref{eq-Car1} is similar to a known one introduced by J. J. Dennis and H. S. Wall in \cite[Theorem 4.4]{DW1945} regarding the study of Jacobi continued fractions \eqref{Intro_CF} with complex coefficients $a_n$, $b_n$. In the case $a_n>0$, $b_n\in\mathbb{R}$, Dennis-Wall condition also implies the self-adjointness of $T$ and reads as
\begin{equation}
\sum_{n=2}^\infty \frac{|b_n|}{a_na_{n-1}} = \infty.
\label{eq-DW}
\end{equation}
This condition is obviously weaker than \eqref{eq-Car1}, but this latter one should be seen as a first instance of a set of infinitely many self-adjointness conditions which can eventually improve the results obtained solely with Carleman and Dennis-Wall criteria. Although these two criteria are also the simplest of infinitely many ones given in \cite[Equation (4.14)]{DW1945}, the advantage of the conditions that we will obtain when generalizing \eqref{eq-Car1} rests on their controllable dependence on the coefficients $a_n$, $b_n$. This makes possible a simultaneous application of the infinitely many Carleman type criteria in practical cases, as it is illustrated in
\S\ref{Comparisons}.
We can obtain another variant of Carleman's criterion by inserting the $n-1$-th and $n+1$-th equations of \eqref{ineq_vn} into the $n$-th one,
\[
|v_n| \le
\gamma_n^- (\gamma_{n-1}^-|v_{n-2}|+\gamma_{n-1}^+|v_n|)
+ \gamma_n^+ (\gamma_{n+1}^-|v_n|+\gamma_{n+1}^+|v_{n+2}|),
\qquad n\ge3,
\]
which leads to
\[
|v_n| \le
[\gamma_n^- (\gamma_{n-1}^-+\gamma_{n-1}^+)
+ \gamma_n^+ (\gamma_{n+1}^-+\gamma_{n+1}^+)]
(|v_{n-2}|+|v_n|+|v_{n+2}|),
\qquad n\ge3.
\]
The above inequality can be combined with \eqref{CD0} to obtain for $n\ge3$
\[
\frac{1}
{a_n[\gamma_n^- (\gamma_{n-1}^-+\gamma_{n-1}^+)
+ \gamma_n^+ (\gamma_{n+1}^-+\gamma_{n+1}^+)]}
\le (|v_{n-2}|+|v_n|+|v_{n+2}|) |v_{n+1}|,
\]
which becomes trivial when $b_{n-1}$, $b_n$ or $b_{n+1}$ vanish because then the left-hand side must be understood as zero. Proceeding as in the previous case we get
\[
\sum_{n=3}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n
[\gamma_n^-(\gamma_{n-1}^-+\gamma_{n-1}^+)
+ \gamma_n^+(\gamma_{n+1}^-+\gamma_{n+1}^+)]}
\le 3 \sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2,
\]
which ends in a new Carleman type criterion.
\begin{thm} \label{Car2}
$T$ is self-adjoint if
\begin{equation}
\sum_{n=3}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n
\left[\frac{a_{n-1}}{|b_n|} \left(\frac{a_{n-2}+a_{n-1}}{|b_{n-1}|}\right)
+ \frac{a_n}{|b_n|} \left(\frac{a_n+a_{n+1}}{|b_{n+1}|}\right)\right]}
= \infty.
\label{eq-Car2}
\tag{$\mathfrak{C}_2$}
\end{equation}
\end{thm}
Conditions \eqref{eq-Car1} and \eqref{eq-Car2} are only two particular cases of a set of $m$-conditions generalizing Carleman's criterion. In contrast to Theorem \ref{strong}, these $m$-conditions involve the full set of multi-indices $\mathcal{I}_m$ instead of its subset $\mathcal{I}_m^+$ because we are dealing now with `eigenvalue' equations related with the full operator $T$ instead of a truncated operator.
\begin{thm} \label{Carm}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the condition
\begin{equation}
\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty \frac{1}{a_nG_{m,n}} = \infty,
\quad
G_{m,n} = \kern-7pt
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\mathcal{I}_m}
\frac{a_{n-k_1}}{|b_{n-j_1}|} \frac{a_{n-k_2}}{|b_{n-j_2}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|},
\label{eq-Carm}
\tag{$\mathfrak{C}_m$}
\end{equation}
implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
From \eqref{ineq_vn}, a proof by induction similar to that one of Proposition \ref{deltaN} shows that
\begin{equation}
|v_n| \le
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m}
\frac{a_{n-k_1}}{|b_{n-j_1}|} \frac{a_{n-k_2}}{|b_{n-j_2}|}
\cdots \frac{a_{n-k_m}}{|b_{n-j_m}|} \, |v_{n-j_{m+1}}|,
\quad n\ge m+1.
\label{vn}
\end{equation}
Bearing in mind that $j_{m+1}\in\{-m,-m+2,\dots,m-2,m\}$ for $(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m$, inequality \eqref{vn} yields
\[
|v_n| \le G_{m,n} \sum_{k=0}^m |v_{n-m+2k}|,
\qquad n\ge m+1.
\]
This can be combined with \eqref{CD0} to obtain
\[
\frac{1}{a_n G_{m,n}} \le
\sum_{k=0}^m |v_{n-m+2k}| |v_{n+1}|,
\qquad n\ge m+1,
\]
a trivial inequality when $G_{m,n}=\infty$ because we understand that $1/a_nG_{m,n}=0$ in such a case. Then, the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality gives
\[
\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty \frac{1}{a_n G_{m,n}} \le (m+1) \sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2,
\]
which proves the theorem.
\end{proof}
We will see in \S\ref{Comparisons} that Theorem~\ref{Carm} applies in some cases where conditions \eqref{CAR} and \eqref{eq-DW} do not. This shows that Carleman type $m$-conditions \eqref{eq-Carm} can be used to improve the results obtained with the standard Carleman and Dennis-Wall criteria.
Since the general term of a convergent series must converge to zero, a consequence follows directly from Theorem~\ref{Carm}.
\begin{cor} \label{cor-Car}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the condition
\[
\liminf_{n\to\infty} a_nG_{m,n} < \infty
\]
implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{cor}
The orthogonal polynomial characterization of self-adjointness can be used to generate another type of $m$-conditions for self-adjointness. The starting point is again a consequence of \eqref{Intro_OPRR}, namely,
\begin{equation}
|v_n|^2 \le
2 \left[(\gamma_n^-)^2 |v_{n-1}|^2 + (\gamma_n^+)^2 |v_{n+1}|^2\right],
\label{ineq_vn_bis}
\end{equation}
which holds for any $n\in\mathbb{Z}$ if we define $\gamma_n^-=0$ for $n\le1$ and $\gamma_n^+=v_n=0$ for $n\le0$. For the rest of the indices we should take $\gamma_n^\pm=\infty$ when $b_n=0$.
Summing up \eqref{ineq_vn_bis} for $n\ge1$ gives
\[
\sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2 \le
2 \sum_{n=1}^\infty
\left[(\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2\right] |v_n|^2.
\]
Therefore, the inequality
\begin{equation}
(\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2 < \frac{1}{2}, \qquad n\ge1,
\label{strong-JN1}
\end{equation}
is incompatible with the convergence of $\sum_{n=1}^\infty|v_n|^2$ and implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
Suppose now that \eqref{ineq_vn_bis} holds only for $n$ big enough.
Then, $b_n\ne0$ up to a finite number of indices $n$. We can define a new symmetric tridiagonal operator $\widetilde{T}$ satisfying \eqref{strong-JN1} by changing the null coefficients $b_k$ of $T$ by non null ones, and setting $a_k$ small enough for all the coefficients appearing in the expressions $(\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2+(\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2$ where \eqref{strong-JN1} fails, the rest of the coefficients coinciding with those of $T$. The operator $\widetilde{T}$ is self-adjoint because it satisfies \eqref{strong-JN1}. Since $T$ differs from $\widetilde{T}$ in a bounded self-adjoint operator, we conclude that $T$ is self-adjoint too.
Thus, we have proved the following result.
\begin{thm} \label{thm-JN1}
$T$ is self-adjoint if there exists an index $n_0\in\mathbb{N}$ such that
\begin{equation}
\frac{a_n^2}{b_{n+1}^2}+\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2} < \frac{1}{2},
\qquad n \ge n_0.
\label{JN1}
\tag{$\mathfrak{D}_1$}
\end{equation}
\end{thm}
The condition
\[
\limsup_{n\to\infty}
\left(\frac{a_n^2}{b_{n+1}^2}+\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2}\right) < \frac{1}{2},
\]
is slightly stronger than \eqref{JN1}, hence it also implies the self-adjointness of $T$. This condition is similar but different from another one due to J. Janas and S. Naboko, namely,
\begin{equation}
\limsup_{n\to\infty} \frac{a_n^2+a_{n-1}^2}{b_n^2} < \frac{1}{2}.
\label{JN}
\end{equation}
This, together with the divergence of $|b_n|$, guarantees that $T$ is self-adjoint with a discrete spectrum \cite{JN2001}.
In the case $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_n=\infty$, Janas-Naboko condition \eqref{JN} can be understood as a special case of a more general condition for self-adjointness and discreteness of the spectrum developed by P. Cojuhari and J. Janas in \cite{CJ2007}. In this work the authors study symmetric tridiagonal operators defined by $a_n=-\alpha_n$ and $b_n=\alpha_{n-1}+\alpha_n+\beta_n$ with $\alpha_n>0$ and $\beta_n\ge0$ for big enough $n$ (indeed they deal with generalizations of these operators to weighted $\ell^2$ spaces). The change of basis $e_n \to (-1)^n e_n$ shows that one can set $a_n=\alpha_n$ without modifying the expression for $b_n$, thus fitting with our choice $a_n>0$ for $T$ as stated in \eqref{Intro_T}. Bearing this in mind, the result of interest for us \cite[Theorem 3.2 (i)]{CJ2007} can be rewritten by saying that $T$ is self-adjoint with a discrete spectrum if
\begin{equation}
\begin{gathered}
\beta_n=b_n-a_n-a_{n-1}>0 \; \text{ for big enough } n,
\\
\lim_{n\to\infty}a_n=\infty, \qquad
\lim_{n\to\infty}(\beta_n+\beta_{n+1})=\infty.
\end{gathered}
\label{CJ}
\end{equation}
Although the arguments given previously do not ensure the discreteness of the spectrum under \eqref{JN1}, in contrast to \eqref{JN} or \eqref{CJ}, these arguments do not require the divergence of $|b_n|$ neither the inequality $b_n \ge a_n+a_{n-1}$. Furthermore, they have the advantage of being generalizable to yield infinitely many conditions for self-adjointness (concrete comparisons between these infinitely many conditions and \eqref{JN} or \eqref{CJ} will be shown in \S\ref{Comparisons}).
For instance, inserting the $n-1$-th and $n+1$-th inequalities of \eqref{ineq_vn_bis} into the $n$-th one we get
{\scriptsize
\[
|v_n|^2 \le
4 \left\{
(\gamma_n^-)^2
\left[(\gamma_{n-1}^-)^2 |v_{n-2}|^2 + (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2 |v_n|^2\right]
+ (\gamma_n^+)^2
\left[(\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2|v_n|^2+(\gamma_{n+1}^+)^2|v_{n+2}|^2\right]
\right\}.
\]
}
This implies that
{\scriptsize
\[
\sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2 \le
4 \sum_{n=1}^\infty
\left[
(\gamma_{n+2}^-)^2 (\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_n^-)^2 (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2
+ (\gamma_n^+)^2 (\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_{n-2}^+)^2 (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2
\right]
|v_n|^2.
\]
}
In consequence, $T$ must be self-adjoint under the condition
\[
(\gamma_{n+2}^-)^2 (\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_n^-)^2 (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2
+ (\gamma_n^+)^2 (\gamma_{n+1}^-)^2 + (\gamma_{n-2}^+)^2 (\gamma_{n-1}^+)^2
< \frac{1}{4},
\quad n\ge1.
\]
Using finite rank perturbations, just as in the previous case, this result leads to the following more general one.
\begin{thm} \label{thm-JN2}
$T$ is self-adjoint if there exists an index $n_0\in\mathbb{N}$ such that
\begin{equation}
\frac{a_n^2}{b_{n+1}^2}
\left(\frac{a_{n+1}^2}{b_{n+2}^2} + \frac{a_n^2}{b_n^2}\right)
+ \frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2}
\left(\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_n^2} + \frac{a_{n-2}^2}{b_{n-2}^2}\right)
< \frac{1}{4},
\qquad n \ge n_0.
\label{JN2}
\tag{$\mathfrak{D}_2$}
\end{equation}
\end{thm}
\eqref{JN1} and \eqref{JN2} are again particular cases of general $m$-conditions for self-adjointness. They are obtained by an iterative use of the eigenvalue equations \eqref{Intro_OPRR} via the inequality \eqref{ineq_vn_bis}.
\begin{thm} \label{thm-JNm}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the existence of an index $n_0\in\mathbb{N}$ such that
\begin{equation}
\widetilde{G}_{m,n} < \frac{1}{2^m},
\kern9pt
\widetilde{G}_{m,n} = \kern-12pt
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m}
\frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-k_1}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-j_1}^2}
\cdots \frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-k_m}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-j_m}^2},
\kern9pt n\ge n_0,
\label{JNm}
\tag{$\mathfrak{D}_m$}
\end{equation}
implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Assume that $b_n\ne0$ for $n\ge1$. Proceeding by induction analogously to the proof of Proposition \ref{deltaN}, we find from \eqref{ineq_vn_bis} that
\[
|v_n|^2 \le 2^m
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m}
\frac{a_{n-k_1}^2}{b_{n-j_1}^2} \frac{a_{n-k_2}^2}{b_{n-j_2}^2}
\cdots \frac{a_{n-k_m}^2}{b_{n-j_m}^2} \, |v_{n-j_{m+1}}|^2,
\]
where $a_k=v_k=0$ for $k\le0$. Summing for $n\ge1$ we obtain
\[
\sum_{n=1}^\infty |v_n|^2 \le 2^m \sum_{n=1}^\infty
\widetilde{G}_{m,n}
\, |v_n|^2.
\]
Therefore, $T$ is self-adjoint whenever $\widetilde{G}_{m,n} < 2^{-m}$. The theorem follows from this result resorting to finite rank perturbations, just as in the case of Theorem \ref{thm-JN1}.
\end{proof}
A weaker but more practical version of this theorem reads as follows.
\begin{cor} \label{cor-JNm}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the condition
\[
\limsup_{n\to\infty} \widetilde{G}_{m,n} < \frac{1}{2^m}
\]
implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{cor}
The following consequence of Theorem \ref{thm-JNm} should be compared with Theorem \ref{strong} and Corollary \ref{cor-Car}.
\begin{thm} \label{cor-JN}
For any $m\in\mathbb{N}$, the condition
\[
\lim_{n\to\infty} G_{m,n} = 0
\]
implies that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
The result follows from Theorem \ref{thm-JNm} and the equivalences
\[
\begin{aligned}
& \lim_{n\to\infty} \widetilde{G}_{m,n} = 0
\;\Leftrightarrow\;
\lim_{n\to\infty}
\frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-k_1}}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-j_1}}
\cdots
\frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-k_m}}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-j_m}}
= 0,
\kern5pt \forall (\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \in \widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m,
\\
& \;\Leftrightarrow\;
\lim_{n\to\infty}
\frac{a_{n-k_1}}{b_{n-j_1}}
\cdots
\frac{a_{n-k_m}}{b_{n-j_m}}
= 0,
\kern5pt \forall (\boldsymbol{j}_m|\boldsymbol{k}_m) \in \mathcal{I}_m
\;\Leftrightarrow\;
\lim_{n\to\infty} G_{m,n} = 0.
\end{aligned}
\]
\end{proof}
\section{Examples and comparisons of $m$-conditions}
\label{Comparisons}
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\par
We will compare the previous sets of $m$-conditions with known results for self-adjointness. Before doing this we will discuss the relation between $m$-conditions for different values of $m$ to understand the relevance of developing sets of infinitely many different conditions for self-adjointness.
In what follows we use the common notations $y_n \sim z_n$ and $y_n \asymp z_n$, which stand for the relations $\lim_{n\to\infty}y_n/z_n=1$ and $C_1z_n \le |y_n| \le C_2z_n$ ($C_1,C_2>0$ and $n$ big enough) respectively.
As we mentioned in \S\ref{BR}, conditions \eqref{eq-strong} are all
independent, so that all of them are equally important. This is shown by the following example.
\begin{exa} \label{ex-B} ${}$
\begin{enumerate}
\item
$a_n=n^\alpha$, $b_n=n^{\alpha+1}$, with $\alpha>0$.
This choice leads to $a_nG_{m,n}^+ \asymp n^{\alpha-m}$, so $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_nG_{m,n}^+\ne0$ for $m\le\alpha$, while $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_nG_{m,n}^+=0$ for $m>\alpha$.
\item $a_n=n^\alpha$ for even $n$, $a_n=n^{-\alpha}$ for odd $n$, $b_n=n^{\alpha-1}$, with $\alpha>1$.
In this case,
\[
\begin{aligned}
& a_nG_{m,n}^+ \sim a_n
\left(
\frac{a_{n-1}}{b_n} \frac{a_{n-1}}{b_{n-1}}
\frac{a_{n-1}}{b_n} \frac{a_{n-1}}{b_{n-1}}
\cdots
\right)
& & \text{ odd } n,
\\
& a_nG_{m,n}^+ \sim a_n \frac{a_{n-1}}{b_n}
\left(
\frac{a_{n-2}}{b_{n-1}} \frac{a_{n-2}}{b_{n-2}}
\frac{a_{n-2}}{b_{n-1}} \frac{a_{n-2}}{b_{n-2}}
\cdots
\right)
& & \text{ even } n.
\end{aligned}
\]
Therefore, $a_nG_{m,n}^+ \sim n^{m-\alpha}$, which implies that $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_nG_{m,n}^+\ne0$ for $m\ge\alpha$ and $\lim_{n\to\infty}a_nG_{m,n}^+=0$ for $m<\alpha$.
\end{enumerate}
In both examples we conclude that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$, but the $m$-conditions providing these results are different. Besides, given $m_0\in\mathbb{N}$, \eqref{eq-strong} is satisfied for $m=m_0$ but not for $m<m_0$ in the first example with $\alpha=m_0-1$, while it is satisfied for $m=m_0$ but not for $m>m_0$ in the second example with $\alpha=m_0+1$. This shows that given two of the conditions \eqref{eq-strong}, none of them is stronger than the other one.
\end{exa}
The next example illustrates a similar complementarity for the Carleman type conditions \eqref{eq-Carm}.
\begin{exa} \label{ex-C} ${}$
\begin{enumerate}
\item Example \ref{ex-B}.1.
We get $a_nG_{m,n} \asymp n^{\alpha-m}$, thus $\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty 1/a_nG_{m,n} < \infty$ for $m<\alpha-1$ and $\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty 1/a_nG_{m,n} = \infty$ for $m\ge\alpha-1$.
\item $a_n=n^{1/\alpha}$, $b_n=1$, with $\alpha\ge1$.
We find that $a_nG_{m,n} \asymp n^{(m+1)/\alpha}$. Thus, $\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty 1/a_nG_{m,n} < \infty$ for $m>\alpha-1$ and $\sum_{n=m+1}^\infty a_nG_{m,n} = \infty$ for $m\le\alpha-1$.
\end{enumerate}
We find again that $T$ is self-adjoint in both cases. However, if $\alpha=m_0+1$, \eqref{eq-Carm} holds for $m=m_0$ and not for $m<m_0$ in the first example, while it holds for $m=m_0$ and not for $m>m_0$ in the second example. This shows the independence of conditions \eqref{eq-Carm}.
\end{exa}
Regarding conditions \eqref{JNm} the situation is somewhat different. To see this let us use the definitions of $\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m$ and $\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_{m+1}$ to write
\begin{equation} \label{rec-G}
\begin{aligned}
\widetilde{G}_{m+1,n} & =
\sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m}
\frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-1-k_1}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-1-j_1}^2}
\cdots \frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}-1-k_m}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}-1-j_m}^2}
\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2}
\\
& + \sum_{(\boldsymbol{j}_{m+1}|\boldsymbol{k}_m)\in\widehat{\mathcal{I}}_m}
\frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}+1-k_1}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}+1-j_1}^2}
\cdots \frac{a_{n+j_{m+1}+1-k_m}^2}{b_{n+j_{m+1}+1-j_m}^2}
\frac{a_n^2}{b_{n+1}^2}
\\
& = \frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2} \, \widetilde{G}_{m,n-1}
+ \frac{a_n^2}{b_{n+1}^2} \, \widetilde{G}_{m,n+1}.
\end{aligned}
\end{equation}
Hence, $\widetilde{G}_{m+1,n} \le \widetilde{G}_{1,n} \max\{\widetilde{G}_{m,n-1},\widetilde{G}_{m,n+1}\}$, which shows by induction that \eqref{JN1} implies the rest of conditions \eqref{JNm}. The interest in conditions with higher values of $m$ rests on the existence of examples satisfying \eqref{JNm} for a given value of $m$, but not for any smaller index. This is illustrated by the next example.
\begin{exa} \label{ex-D}
$a_n=a_{n-1}$ if $n=0\,(\operatorname{mod} q)$, $a_n=n^{q+1}a_{n-1}$ otherwise, $b_n=n^qa_{n-1}$, with $q\in\{2,3,\dots\}$ and $a_1=b_1=1$.
In this case $a_n/b_n=n^{-q}$ if $n=0\,(\operatorname{mod} q)$, $a_n/b_n=n$ otherwise and $a_{n-1}/b_n=n^{-q}$. We find from \eqref{rec-G} that
\[
\widetilde{G}_{m,n} \ge
\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2} \frac{a_{n-2}^2}{b_{n-2}^2} \cdots
\frac{a_{n-m}^2}{b_{n-m}^2} \sim n^{2m},
\qquad n=0\,(\operatorname{mod} q), \qquad m<q,
\]
so that \eqref{JNm} does not hold for this example if $m<q$. This changes when $m=q$ because any term of $\widetilde{G}_{m=q,n}$ has among its factors at least one with the form $a_k^2/b_k^2$, $k=0\,(\operatorname{mod} q)$, or with the form $a_{k-1}^2/b_k^2$. Thus, $\widetilde{G}_{m=q,n}\asymp n^{-2q} n^{2(m-1)}=n^{-2}$ and the $m$-condition is satisfied for $m=q$, proving that $T$ is self-adjoint.
\end{exa}
Let us see now that the $m$-conditions allow us to prove the self-adjointness of certain examples where known results give no or less information. We will see that this is the case of known self-adjointness criteria given in terms of the coefficients $a_n$, $b_n$, like Carleman \eqref{CAR}, Dennis-Wall \eqref{eq-DW}, Janas-Naboko \eqref{JN} (for the case of divergent $|b_n|$) or Cojuhari-Janas \eqref{CJ} conditions.
A first instance of this is given by Example \ref{ex-D}. Then, $(a_n^2+a_{n-1}^2)/b_n^2 \sim n^2$ and $\beta_n=b_n-a_n-a_{n-1}=(n^q-n^{q+1}-1)a_{n-1}<0$ for $n\ne0\,(\operatorname{mod} q)$, so neither \eqref{JN} nor \eqref{CJ} are satisfied. Besides, the relation between $a_n$ and $a_{n-1}$ shows that Carleman's condition does not hold either. This behavior of $a_n$ also proves that Dennis-Wall condition is not applicable since $b_n/a_na_{n-1}=n^q/a_n$. Therefore, Example \ref{ex-D} shows that the $m$-conditions \eqref{JNm} can improve the results obtained using conditions \eqref{CAR}, \eqref{eq-DW}, \eqref{JN} and \eqref{CJ}. The next examples illustrate this fact regarding the $m$-conditions \eqref{eq-strong} and \eqref{eq-Carm}, which give no information in Example \ref{ex-D}.
\begin{exa} \label{ex-B-comp}
$a_n=n^\alpha$, $b_n=n^\beta$ for even $n$, $b_n=n^\gamma$ for odd $n$, with $\alpha,\beta,\gamma>1$.
Concerning condition \eqref{JN}, $(a_n^2+a_{n-1}^2)/b_n^2 \sim 2n^{2(\alpha-\beta)}$ for even $n$, while $(a_n^2+a_{n-1}^2)/b_n^2 \sim 2n^{2(\alpha-\gamma)}$ for odd $n$. Hence, Janas-Naboko criterion guarantees the self-adjointness of $T$ for $\alpha<\min\{\beta,\gamma\}$. The same result is obtained from Cojuhari-Janas condition \eqref{CJ} because $\beta_n=n^\beta-n^\alpha-(n-1)^\alpha$ or $\beta_n=n^\gamma-n^\alpha-(n-1)^\alpha$ depending whether $n$ is even or odd. Since $\sum_{n=1}^\infty n^{-\alpha} < \infty$ for $\alpha>1$, Carleman's criterion is not applicable.
On the other hand, $|b_n|/a_na_{n-1} \sim n^{\beta-2\alpha}$ for even $n$ and $|b_n|/a_na_{n-1} \sim n^{\gamma-2\alpha}$ for odd $n$, thus Dennis-Wall criterion states that $T$ is self-adjoint when $\alpha\le(\max\{\beta,\gamma\}+1)/2$.
To compare these results with that one provided by Theorem \ref{strong}, note that
\[
\begin{aligned}
& a_nG_{m,n}^+ \asymp n^{(m+1)\alpha-k(\beta+\gamma)},
& & \quad \text{even } m=2k,
\\
& a_nG_{m,n}^+ \asymp n^{(m+1)\alpha-(k+1)\beta-k\gamma},
& & \quad \text{odd } m=2k+1, \; \text{ even } n,
\\
& a_nG_{m,n}^+ \asymp n^{(m+1)\alpha-k\beta-(k+1)\gamma},
& & \quad \text{odd } m=2k+1, \; \text{ odd } n.
\end{aligned}
\]
Therefore, the requirement $\lim_{n\to\infty} a_nG_{m,n}^+=0$ reads as
\[
\begin{aligned}
& 2(m+1)\alpha < m(\beta+\gamma),
& & \quad \text{even } m,
\\
& 2(m+1)\alpha < (m+1)(\beta+\gamma)-2\max\{\beta,\gamma\},
& & \quad \text{odd } m.
\end{aligned}
\]
We conclude that condition \eqref{eq-strong} holds for some value of $m$ iff the parameters $\alpha,\beta,\gamma$ satisfy the $m\to\infty$ inequality $\alpha < (\beta+\gamma)/2$. This improves the results given by the four previous criteria, not only because the self-adjointness of $T$ is ensured for a bigger region in the space of parameters $\alpha,\beta,\gamma>1$, but also because we get additionally the equality $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ in that region.
\end{exa}
Theorems \ref{Carm} and \ref{thm-JNm} give no additional information for the previous example. However, this fact changes in the following one.
\begin{exa} \label{ex-C-comp}
$a_n=n^\alpha$, $b_n=b^n$ if $n\in\Delta$, $b_n=n^\beta$ otherwise, with $\alpha,\beta>1$, $0<b<1$ and $\Delta=\{k^2:k\in\mathbb{N}\}$.
Conditions \eqref{JN} and \eqref{CJ} do not hold because $(a_n^2+a_{n-1}^2)/b_n^2 \asymp n^{2\alpha}b^{-2n}$ and $\beta_n=b^n-n^\alpha-(n-1)^\alpha<0$ for $n\in\Delta$. Carleman's criterion gives no information since $\alpha>1$. As for Dennis-Wall criterion, $|b_n|/a_na_{n-1} \sim b^nn^{-2\alpha}$ for $n\in\Delta$, while $|b_n|/a_na_{n-1} \sim n^{\beta-2\alpha}$ for $n\notin\Delta$. Thus, the divergence of $\sum_{n\ge1}|b_n|/a_na_{n-1}$ is equivalent to the divergence of $\sum_{n\notin\Delta} n^{-\gamma}$, $\gamma=2\alpha-\beta$, which diverges simultaneously with $\sum_{n\ge1} n^{-\gamma}$. This last statement, obvious when $\gamma\le0$, follows in the case $\gamma>0$ from the decreasing character of $n^{-\gamma}$ which leads to the inequality $\sum_{n\in\Delta} n^{-\gamma} \le 1 + \sum_{n\notin\Delta} n^{-\gamma}$. This proves that $\sum_{n\notin\Delta} n^{-\gamma} \le \sum_{n\ge1} n^{-\gamma} \le 1 + 2\sum_{n\notin\Delta} n^{-\gamma}$ for $\gamma>0$. Therefore, Dennis-Wall criterion guarantees the self-adjointness of $T$ for $\gamma\le1$, i.e. $\alpha \le (\beta+1)/2$.
Concerning the new self-adjointness $m$-conditions given in this paper, $|b_n|$ is unbounded but not divergent, which prevents the use of Theorem \ref{strong}. Regarding conditions \eqref{JNm}, none of them hold due to the inequalities
\[
\widetilde{G}_{m,n} \ge
\frac{a_{n-1}^2}{b_{n-1}^2} \frac{a_{n-2}^2}{b_{n-2}^2}
\cdots \frac{a_{n-m}^2}{b_{n-m}^2}
\ge b^{-2n} n^{2[m\alpha-(m-1)\beta]},
\qquad n-1\in\Delta.
\]
To analyze the Carleman type conditions \eqref{eq-Carm}, let us consider the subsets $\Delta_m = \{n\in\mathbb{N}:\operatorname{dist}(n,\Delta)<m\}$. If $n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m$, then $b_{n-j}\sim n^\beta$ for $|j|<m$, hence $a_nG_{m,n} \asymp n^{(m+1)\alpha-m\beta}$. Since $\sum_{n\ge m+1} 1/a_nG_{m,n} \ge \sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} 1/a_nG_{m,n}$, the divergence of $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta}$ for some of the coefficients $\delta=(m+1)\alpha-m\beta$ implies the self-adjointness of $T$.
Let us prove that $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta}$ and $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}} n^{-\delta}$ diverge simultaneously, i.e. when $\delta\le1$. Obviously $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta} = \infty$ for $\delta\le0$. Let us suppose that $\delta>0$. Since $\lim_{k\to\infty}[(k+1)^2-k^2]=\infty$, for any $m\in\mathbb{N}$ there exists $k_0\in\mathbb{N}$ such that $\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m$ has at least $2m-1$ points in $[(k-1)^2,k^2]$ for $k\ge k_0$. Then, the decreasing character of $n^{-\delta}$ for $\delta>0$ ensures that
\[
\sum_{n\in(\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m)\cap[(k-1)^2,k^2]}
\kern-25pt n^{-\delta}
\kern15pt \ge
\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\cap(k^2-m,k^2+m)} \kern-17pt n^{-\delta},
\qquad k\ge k_0,
\]
which gives
\[
\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta} \kern7pt
\ge \sum_{n\in\Delta_m\cap(k_0^2-m,\infty)} \kern-15pt n^{-\delta}.
\]
Therefore,
\[
\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta} \kern7pt
\le \kern7pt \sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}} \kern5pt n^{-\delta} \kern5pt
\le \sum_{n\in\Delta_m\cap[1,k_0^2-m]} \kern-15pt n^{-\delta} \kern3pt
+ \kern3pt 2 \kern-3pt \sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta},
\]
proving that the divergence of $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}\setminus\Delta_m} n^{-\delta}$ is equivalent to the divergence of $\sum_{n\in\mathbb{N}} n^{-\delta}$ for $\delta>0$ too.
We conclude that, as a consequence of the Carleman type $m$-conditions, $T$ is self-adjoint whenever $(m+1)\alpha-m\beta\le1$ for some $m\in\mathbb{N}$, i.e. when $\alpha<\beta$. This result improves the one obtained with Dennis-Wall criterion.
\end{exa}
The application of Carleman type $m$-conditions to the above example does not depend on the precise values of $b_n$ for $n\in \Delta$, neither on the details of the set $\Delta=\{n_1,n_2,\dots\}$ provided that $\lim_{k\to\infty}(n_{k+1}-n_k)=\infty$. Therefore, the results of Example \ref{ex-C-comp} are the same assuming only this general property of the set $\Delta$, for any choice of $b_n$ on this set.
Moreover, the arguments in the above example apply, {\it mutatis mutandis}, to give the following general result: if the coefficients $a_n$, $b_n$ satisfy \eqref{eq-Carm} for some value of $m$ and give a non decreasing sequence $a_nG_{m,n}$ for $n$ big enough, then not only $T$ is self-adjoint, but also any other symmetric tridiagonal operator obtained from $T$ by perturbing arbitrarily the coefficients $a_n$, $b_n$ on a set $\Delta=\{n_1,n_2,\dots\}$ with $\lim_{k\to\infty}(n_{k+1}-n_k)=\infty$.
It is worth remarking that in all the previous examples the conclusions remain unchanged when substituting the equality in the choice of $a_n$ and $b_n$ by the asymptotic condition $\asymp$. For instance, similar arguments to those given in Example~\ref{ex-B-comp} prove that $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$ if $a_n\asymp n^\alpha$, $b_n\asymp n^\beta$ for even $n$, $b_n\asymp n^\gamma$ for odd $n$, with $\beta,\gamma>0$ and $\alpha<(\beta+\gamma)/2$.
\section{Applications}
\label{Applications}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
\renewcommand{\theequation}{\thesection.\arabic{equation}}
\setcounter{thm}{0}
\renewcommand{\thethm}{\thesection.\arabic{thm}}
\par
As we mentioned in the introduction, when $T$ is self-adjoint, the related Jacobi continued fraction $K(\lambda)$ given in \eqref{Intro_CF} converges to the first diagonal element $((\lambda-T)^{-1}e_1,e_1)$ of the resolvent of $T$ for every $\lambda\in\mathbb{C}\setminus\Lambda(T)$. Moreover, this convergence is uniform on compact subsets of $\mathbb{C}\setminus\Lambda(T)$. From this point of view, any information about the set $\Lambda(T)$ is of interest because it gives also information about the analyticity properties of $K(\lambda)$.
On the other hand, Theorem \ref{strong} establishes conditions under which the knowledge of $\Lambda(T)$ is equivalent to the knowledge of the more accessible set given by the spectrum $\sigma(T)$ of $T$. This permits us to apply techniques of spectral theory to study the analyticity properties of Jacobi continued fractions. In this regard, the special case of Theorem \ref{strong} given by Theorem \ref{weak} is particularly useful due to the simplicity of its hypothesis which make them easily verifiable.
Theorem \ref{weak} becomes also especially interesting due to its consequences concerning the properties of $\sigma(T)$. It is known that the divergence of $|b_n|$ and condition \eqref{JN} imply that $T$ has a pure point spectrum $\sigma(T)=\cup_n\{\lambda_n\}$ with $|\lambda_n|$ divergent \cite{JN2001}. Since $a_n,a_{n-1}=o(|b_n|)$ implies \eqref{JN}, we find that the hypothesis of Theorem \ref{weak} ensure this kind of unbounded discrete spectrum.
This has remarkable consequences for the Jacobi continued fraction $K(\lambda)$. If $T$ is self-adjoint and $\Lambda(T)=\sigma(T)$, then $K(\lambda)$ represents a meromorphic function in $\mathbb{C}$ precisely when $T$ has a discrete spectrum with eigenvalues $\lambda_n$ such that $\lim_{n\to\infty}|\lambda_n| = \infty$ \cite{IKP2007}. Therefore, Theorem \ref{weak} has the following implications for the convergence of Jacobi continued fractions.
\begin{thm} \label{convergence}
The conditions
\[
\begin{aligned}
& \lim_{n\to\infty}|b_n|=\infty,
\\
& a_n,a_{n-1}=o(|b_n|^r) \text{ for some } r<1,
\end{aligned}
\]
imply that the Jacobi continued fraction $K(\lambda)$ given in \eqref{Intro_CF} represents a meromorphic function in $\mathbb{C}$. This continued fraction converges uniformly on compact subsets of $\mathbb{C}\setminus\cup_n\{\lambda_n\}$, where $\lambda_n$ are the eigenvalues of $T$.
\end{thm}
The relevance of Theorem \ref{weak} is also illustrated by the examples in the literature which are covered by this theorem. For instance, this is the case of \cite{JM2007,JN2004,M2007,M2009,M2010,V2004}, which deal with the asymptotic analysis of the eigenvalues of $T$ for different choices of coefficients with a power like behaviour $a_n \asymp n^\alpha$, $b_n \asymp n^\beta$ (more generally, $a_n \le an^\alpha$, $b_n \ge bn^\beta$), where $\alpha<\beta$. Theorem \ref{weak} provides a computational method to approximate such eigenvalues and suggests an approach to their asymptotics by studying the eigenvalues of the truncated operators $T_N$ as $N\to\infty$, a technique already exploited for example in \cite{A1994,IKP2007,IP2001,M2007,M2010,MZ2012,V2004}.
\subsubsection*{Acknowledgements}
E. Petropoulou would like to express her gratitude to the Department of Applied Mathematics of the University of Zaragoza, Spain, for the hospitality during her sabbatical leave there, from February 2012 until July 2012, when this work was initiated.
The research of L. Vel\'azquez is partially supported by the research project MTM2011-28952-C02-01 from the Ministry of Science and Innovation of Spain and the European Regional Development Fund (ERDF), and by Project E-64 of Diputaci\'on General de Arag\'on (Spain).
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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{"url":"https:\/\/www.cuemath.com\/numbers\/is-37-a-prime\/","text":"# Is 37 a Prime Number\n\nIs 37 a Prime Number\nGo back to\u00a0 'Prime Numbers'\n\nIf a number cannot be divided into equal groups, then it is known as a prime number.\n\nCan you divide 37 into equal groups of 2? equal groups of 3 ? groups of 4?\nLet us find an answer to\u00a0this\u00a0question.\n\nIn this mini-lesson, we will explore the world of prime numbers by finding the answers to the questions like what is a prime number, is 37 a prime number, or if\u00a0 37 is a composite number etc., with help of solved examples and interactive questions.\n\n## Lesson Plan\n\n 1 Is 37 A Prime Number? 2 Solved Examples on Is 37 a Prime Number 3 Important Notes\u00a0on Is 37 a Prime Number 4 Interactive Questions\u00a0on Is 37 a Prime Number 5 Challenging Questions\u00a0on Is 37 a Prime Number\n\n## Is 37 A Prime Number?\n\nAny number, greater than\u00a01, having only two\u00a0factors, 1 and the number itself is known as a prime number.\n\nTo determine if 37\u00a0is a prime number, let us see the factors of 37\u00a0by the division method.\n\n$$37 \\div 1 = 37$$\n\nLet us divide\n\n$$37 \\div 2$$\n\n$$37 \\div 2$$\u00a0leaves a remainder similarly any other number will leave a remainder.\n\nWe cannot\u00a0divide 37\u00a0with any other natural number as it leaves a remainder and no other number divides 37\u00a0completely.\n\nHence, 37\u00a0has only 2\u00a0factors 1\u00a0and 37. So, 37\u00a0is a prime number.\n\n## Is 37 A Composite Number?\n\nA composite number is a natural number that has more than two factors.\n\n37 is not a composite number as it has only two\u00a0factors, that is, 1\u00a0and 37\n\n## Solved Examples\n\n Example 1\n\nLucy has to\u00a0list prime numbers between 37\u00a0and 73. Help her list them.\n\nSolution\n\nThe prime number chart based on Sieve of Eratosthenes algorithm\u00a0 is shown below\n\nFrom the above list of prime numbers, Lucy listed the following\u00a0prime numbers between 37\u00a0and 73. They are:\n\n41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67,\u00a0and 71\n\nShe found there were 8\u00a0prime numbers between 37 to 73\n\n $$\\therefore$$ Prime numbers between 37 and 73\u00a0are 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, and 71\n Example 2\n\nJohn\u00a0has to prove that 1 added or subtracted to 37, makes it a composite number. How will he\u00a0prove it?\n\nSolution\n\nWhen 1\u00a0is added to 37, John will get 38\n\nWhen 1\u00a0is subtracted from 37, he will get 36\n\n36 and 38\u00a0are even numbers and they are divisible by 2\n\nSince 36\u00a0and 38\u00a0are divisible by 2, they have more than 2\u00a0factors, and therefore 36\u00a0and 38\u00a0are not prime numbers.\n\n $$\\therefore$$ 36 and 38 are composite numbers.\n\nImportant Notes\n\u2022 A prime number has only two factors.\n\u2022 A composite number has more than two factors.\n\u2022 37\u00a0has only two factors, that is, 1\u00a0and 37.\n\u2022 37 is a prime number.\n\n## Interactive\u00a0Questions\n\nHere are a few activities for you to practice.\n\nChallenging Questions\n\u2022 Find prime numbers from 27 to 77\u00a0whose sum of digits is also a prime number.\n\u2022 Eva said 34\u00a0is a prime number. Can you prove her wrong? Can you list all the factors of 34\u00a0by prime factorization?\n\n## Let's Summarize\n\nThe mini-lesson targeted\u00a0the fascinating concept of is 37\u00a0a prime number. The math journey around\u00a0is 37\u00a0a prime number\u00a0starts with what a student already knows, and goes on to creatively crafting a fresh concept in the young minds. Done in a way that not only it is relatable and easy to grasp, but also will stay with them forever. Here lies the magic with Cuemath.\n\nAt\u00a0Cuemath, our team of math experts is dedicated to making learning fun for our favorite readers, the students!\n\nThrough an interactive and engaging learning-teaching-learning approach, the teachers explore all angles of a topic.\n\nBe it worksheets, online classes, doubt sessions, or any other form of relation, it\u2019s the logical thinking and smart learning approach that we, at Cuemath, believe in.\n\n## 1. What are\u00a0co-prime numbers?\n\nIt is a set of any two numbers which have only 1\u00a0as their common factor. For example, 5\u00a0and 6 are co-prime numbers.\n\n## 2.\u00a0What are the factors of 37?\n\nThe factors of 37\u00a0are 1\u00a0and 37\n\n## 3.\u00a0Is 37 a prime number? Yes or No?\n\nYes, 37\u00a0is a prime number because it has only two factors, that is, 1\u00a0and 37\n\nMore Important Topics\nNumbers\nAlgebra\nGeometry\nMeasurement\nMoney\nData\nTrigonometry\nCalculus","date":"2021-05-18 23:30:25","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.29076120257377625, \"perplexity\": 1452.387812851367}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-21\/segments\/1620243989874.84\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20210518222121-20210519012121-00495.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
– japoński piłkarz występujący na pozycji bramkarza. Obecnie występuje w Ventforet Kōfu.
Kariera klubowa
Od 2010 roku występował w klubach Gamba Osaka, Avispa Fukuoka i Ventforet Kōfu.
Bibliografia
Japońscy piłkarze
Urodzeni w 1987
Piłkarze Gamby Osaka
Piłkarze Avispy Fukuoka
Piłkarze Ventforet Kofu
Ludzie urodzeni w Ōicie | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 4,467 |
Q: How do you scrape images with Scrapy? I have tried many solutions but I am unable to scrape images with Scrapy. Can Someone can teach me how to scrape images using Scrapy?
Here is my complete code.
Spider:
import scrapy
import datetime
from ..items import ImagesItem
class image(scrapy.Spider):
name = 'img'
start_urls = [
'https://www.allhindilyrics.com/lyrics/nachan-nu-jee-karda-from-angrezi-medium'
]
def parse(self, response):
items = ImagesItem()
image_url = response.xpath('//*[@id="polular"]/div[1]/div/div/div/a/img').extract()
items['image_urls'] = image_url
return items
My items.py:
import scrapy
class ImagesItem(scrapy.Item):
image_urls = scrapy.Field()
images = scrapy.Field()
I have also enabled a pipeline with file storage.
Please help me with this as I am new to Python and I really need help.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 9,927 |
Tourists Trash Sacred Site of Uluru as Permanent Closure Approaches
In the 1999 movie, The Matrix, Agent Smith said that when trying to classify our species it came to him we are "A virus ...
Source: google.com
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France Pushes For India, Others As Permanent UN Security Council Members India and nations like Germany, Brazil and Japan are "absolutely needed" as permanent members of a reformed and enlarged UN Security Council to better reflect contemporary realities and the addition......
Woman visits Macy's for makeup, leaves with permanent 'X' on face An Ohio woman who dropped by Macy's to get her makeup done wound up with a tattoo-like "X" on her cheek that won't scrub off, she claims in a new lawsuit. Judy Pleunik visited the department store in the Baybrook Mall in Houston, Texas for a beauty c...
13 small but cool new iOS features, from faster scrolling to permanent hotspot It took Apple nearly two and a half hours to go through all the new developments in its walled software garden during the WWDC 2019 keynote, and for a good reason. This is one of the biggest new iOS releases in recent memory, complete with both user-...
'Deep state' unlikely in DC but 'permanent bureaucracy' probably exists, Brit Hume says A nefarious "deep state" likely doesn't really exist in Washington but a "permanent bureaucracy" probably does -- and that can be a good thing, Fox News senior political analyst Brit Hume said Tuesday....
Matteo Salvini's Permanent Campaign Turns to European Parliament Since taking office, the hard-line Italian populist has hardly been in the office. With European Parliament elections approaching, he has gone into overdrive....
Villa sign winger El Ghazi on permanent deal from Lille "Aston Villa have announced the signing of winger Anwar El Ghazi from Lille on a four-year deal after his successful loan spell at Villa Park last season, the newly-promoted Premier League club said on Monday."...
House panel approves permanent Sept. 11 victims' compensation A U.S. congressional committee on Wednesday unanimously approved legislation to extend the fund compensating first responders to the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center for the next 70 years, a move that would avoid steep benefit reduct...
Davis-Monthan Air Force Base gate soon to be permanent entrance TUCSON – Driving on Golf Links can be a nightmare commute. The gate at Wilmot and Valencia Roads is a win-win for airmen going to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base and civilian drivers. The base entrances on Golf Links at Swan and Golf Links at Cray...
Indonesia plans permanent moratorium on new forest clearance: minister Indonesia's moratorium on new forest clearing for palm plantations or logging operations, which has been regularly extended since 2011, will become permanent, the environment minister said on Wednesday....
Pak Top Court Rejects Nawaz Sharif Plea For Permanent Bail Pakistan's Supreme Court today dismissed former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif's plea seeking permanent bail on medical grounds, saying that it did not see an immediate threat to his life....
Attendance drops for 12 MLB teams, as loss of gate takes on more permanent look Major League Baseball's attendance problem is not going away, as a significant dip in 2018 has endured into the new season. ...
Louvre reopens after one-day closure due to overcrowding The Louvre museum in Paris has reopened to the public after it was closed for one day Monday, when workers complaining about overcrowding walked out....
Heart strain from extreme exercise doesn't cause permanent damage, study says High-intensity running put more strain on the heart and drive up biomarkers that would otherwise indicate cardiac risk, but the damage they warn of is not permanent, researchers say....
Kylie Jenner and Travis Scott Make Their Love Even More Permanent as She Tattoos Him Kylie Jenner and Travis Scott have made their relationship just a tad more permanent. No, we're not talking about an engagement ring (yet). Kylie threw Travis an over-the-top......
Zandra Rhodes: 'If I were Queen, I'd have a permanent mark on my head from always wearing my crown' The designer rivalled royalty with her Elizabethan outfit – one of her own designs – at the Barbican's opening in 1982I am wearing a look from my Elizabethan collection from 1981. I love it because I wore it to a very memorable event during a very me...
Alfa Romeo makes permanent front wing fix after Baku exclusion Alfa Romeo has made a permanent front wing tweak to ensure Kimi Raikkonen's exclusion from Formula 1 qualifying in Azerbaijan is not repeated at the Spanish Grand Prix....
Traffic Alert: Sixth Street Closure TUESDAY- On Saturday June 1, 2019 starting at 3 P.M., Sixth Avenue will be closed for the Meet Me Downtown 5K Night Run/Walk. The main run begins at 7 P.M. and ends at 10 P.M. There is also a free children's one mile or run starting at 6 P.M. S...
Lane Closure Scheduled For I-75 In Madison County MADISON COUNTY, Ky. (LEX 18)– The Kentucky Transportation Cabinet is advising motorists of a scheduled lane closure for Interstate 75. The far left/fast lane of north and southbound I-75 will be closed at the 95 mile marker. Thursday, May 2 – ...
The Latest: Gas prices could increase on refinery closure PHILADELPHIA (AP) — The Latest on the announcement that an East Coast oil refinery that caught fire will close (all times local): 1:30 p.m. AAA says gasoline prices may increase after the announcement that a Philadelphia oil refinery will close after...
Honda confirms UK car factory closure in 2021 Thousands of workers at the Japanese car manufactuer's plant in Swindon are set to lose their jobs. Honda's president previously said that the move had nothing to do with the United Kingdom's exit from the EU....
Honda confirms closure of UK car plant that employs 3,500 LONDON (AP) — Honda has confirmed its western England car factory, which employs 3,500 people, will close in 2021. The Japanese carmaker announced Monday that the Swindon plant will shut in two years, "at the end of the current model's pr...
Ford to announce UK engine plant closure - ITV Car manufacturer Ford is to close its British engine manufacturing plant in Bridgend, Wales, ITV news reported, saying an announcement would be made on Thursday....
Ford's Bridgend closure likely first of many CO2-related hits to come Ford's Bridgend engine plant could be seen as the latest victim of tougher CO2 regulations that will start to take effect across Europe next year. ...
AI Weekly: Facial recognition policy makers debate temporary moratorium vs. permanent ban While some say facial recognition software can be made to work for everyone, others say it's a "uniquely dangerous and oppressive technology."Read More...
Crystal Palace want to sign Chelsea loanee Michy Batshuayi on a permanent basis Roy Hodgson urged Crystal Palace to secure the futures of Wilfried Zaha and Aaron Wan-Bissaka and chase the permanent signing of Michy Batshuayi after watching them excel in beating Bournemouth 5-3....
Asia-Pacific Group Backs India For Non-Permanent UN Security Council Seat In a highly significant diplomatic win for India and testament to its global stature, India's candidature for a non-permanent seat at the powerful UN Security Council for a two-year term has been......
Ford: No Brexit link to Bridgend plant closure Ford has confirmed plans to close its engine plant at Bridgend in South Wales by September 2020, saying it faced becoming "economically unsustainable" in the world's drive for electric vehicles....
Newark Airport resumes flights after brief closure due to emergency New Jersey's Newark Airport briefly suspended arrivals and departures on Saturday due to an emergency, officials said, and media reports said a plane had blown out a tire during a landing....
Ford Bridgend closure: further jobs could go in no-deal Brexit 1700 staff set to lose jobs; Ford's European boss says Brexit wasn't a factor in decision – but could affect future plans Ford could make further UK workforce cuts beyond Bridgend in the event of a no-deal Brexit, according to the firm's European ...
Honda confirms Swindon factory closure following consultation Honda's Swindon plant produces 150,000 cars per year Japanese manufacturer says no "viable alternative" could be found to keep plant open; 3500 workers set to lose jobs Honda has confirmed that it will close its manufacturering plant in Swindon i...
Crocodile scare at German lake prompts closure A lake in southern Germany has been closed to swimmers and walkers after a possible crocodile sighting. The closure comes as swimmers may be tempted to cool off as the temperature is expected to soar next week....
Missouri's only abortion clinic faces closure at midnight Missouri could become the only U.S. state without a legal abortion provider on Friday as its only abortion clinic could lose its license to perform the procedure unless a St. Louis judge intervenes....
Ford to announce UK engine plant closure, union says Ford declined to comment on what it called speculation. Ford makes about 1.3 million engines at two locations in eastern England. It has previously warned it could face $1 billion in tariff costs in the event of a so-called hard Brexit....
Unifor says GM Oshawa closure could throw 1,700 parts workers out of a job Unifor, the union that represents about 40,000 workers in the auto industry, wants to ensure parts workers affected by GM's decision to end vehicle assembly at its Oshawa, Ont., plant are fairly compensated for the coinciding loss of jobs....
Amazon blamed as 'iconic' bookshops announce closure Wenlock Books in Shropshire and Camden Lock Books in London are set to close, with owners citing business rates and online competitionWenlock Books, an award-winning independent bookshop that has served readers in the Shropshire town of Much Wenlock ...
In Lucifer's "Expire Erect," the celestial word of the day is "closure" They're quite common these days, but you've still got to appreciate a good in medias res when you see one. In its initial context, this episode's opening scene plays like a fever dream, like a funhouse mirror in corporeal form. Lucifer's shallow brea...
Air India Lost Rs 491 Crore Due To Closure Of Pak Airspace: Report Due to closure of airspace by Pakistan, national carrier Air India lost Rs 491 crore till July 2, according to data presented by Civil Aviation Minister Hardeep Singh Puri in Rajya Sabha on Wednesday....
Ford to announce UK engine plant closure, report says Ford declined to comment on what it called speculation. Ford makes about 1.3 million engines at two locations in eastern England. It has previously warned it could face $1 billion in tariff costs in the event of a so-called hard Brexit....
Closure Scheduled For New Circle Road/KY 4 In Fayette County LEXINGTON, Ky. (KYTC) – The Kentucky Transportation Cabinet (KYTC) advises motorists of a closure scheduled for New Circle Road/KY 4. The temporary closure is necessary to repair a utility cut for a ruptured Kentucky American water line. Thursday, M...
'Political chaos' envelops tennis as French Open approaches Three-time Grand Slam champion Stan Wawrinka says there has been a 'worrying decline in moral standards' in tennis as 'politics have overshadowed the action on the courts' ...
Libya on verge of civil war, threatening 'permanent division', top UN official warns Security Council The damage done to Libya will already take "years to mend" but unless fighting around the capital Tripoli stops, the country risks "descending into a civil war which could lead to the permanent division of the country"....
Lazio handed suspended sentence of partial stadium closure Lazio has been handed a suspended sentence of a partial stadium closure for one match for their fans' racist abuse against AC Milan ...
UK mouse genetics centre faces closure threatening research Harwell Institute conducts studies on diabetes, deafness and neurodegenerative disease Britain's leading centre for mouse genetics is facing closure in a move that critics warn will undermine crucial research on serious diseases and threaten the stan...
Ray Kelly rails against Rikers closure, city's homeless problem Former Police Commissioner Ray Kelly raged against plans to open neighborhood jails, decriminalize fare-beating and a ballooning homelessness crisis during a radio appearance Sunday. Kelly painted a picture of a city slipping backwards during a Fourt...
Justin Bieber effect leads to closure of Icelandic canyon Fjadrárgljúfur closed off to protect it from fans after it starred in pop star's videoWith one music video, Justin Bieber has made a pristine Icelandic canyon famous around the world. And that's the problem.Icelandic environmental officials have had ...
Fluids from decomposing body upstairs force restaurant closure WINDSOR, Conn. — Fluids leaking from a decomposing body upstairs have forced health officials to close a Connecticut restaurant. WFSB-TV reports Windsor police were called to the Siam Corner Thai Kitchen and Pho restaurant on May 29 for a report of a...
Judge blocks closure of Missouri's last abortion clinic – live President Dr Leana Wen says: 'This is a terrifying time'Missouri clinic faced shutdown at midnightSign up for the US briefing and get a new perspective 9.19pm BST The Illinois state legislature has approved a bill to legalize recreational marijuana i...
Fraud allegations lead to closure of Amnesty International in Zimbabwe Police are investigating suspected misconduct involving millions of dollars of funds from donorsAmnesty International has shut down its Zimbabwe branch over alleged abuse of donor funds and fraud by staff.The human rights group says it has launched f...
Pakistan extends airspace closure on Indian border to June 14 Pakistani airspace on its eastern border with India will remain closed until June 14, a civil aviation official said on Wednesday, the latest extension months after a standoff between the arch rivals....
Amsterdam mayor under fire for red-light district closure idea City's first female mayor faces battle with sex workers over proposal intended to tackle human traffickingAmsterdam's first female mayor is facing a battle with sex workers in the city's famous red-light district after raising the prospect of closing...
After Boy's Death, Amarinder Singh Orders Closure Of Open Borewells Punjab Chief Minister Amarinder Singh today condoled the death of a two-year-old boy in a borewell accident, and said that he has ordered the closure of all such open structures across the state with......
UK union officials expect Ford engine plant closure - source Officials from the Unite trade union expect carmaker Ford to announce the closure of its Bridgend engine manufacturing plant in Wales on Thursday, a source said....
Traffic Alert: Oracle Road Lane Closure at Limberlost Drive TUCSON – On Wednesday, June 19, 2019, the southbound curb lane on Oracle Road both north and south of Limberlost Drive will be closed for paving work related to a private development project. This one-day project is scheduled to begin at 5 A.M....
Lusty stingrays lead to temporary closure of Assiniboine Park Zoo exhibit The zoo said Wednesday that they've noticed an escalation in natural mating behaviour over the past month, which has led to injuries in some of the exhibit's cownose stingrays. ...
Trump presses Lockheed to keep open a Pennsylvania plant slated for closure U.S. President Donald Trump on Friday urged Lockheed Martin Corp to keep open its Sikorsky helicopter plant in Coatesville, Pennsylvania, a week after the weapons maker announced the planned closure of the facility....
UK government to work with Ford and unions on engine plant closure - spokesman The British government will work closely with Ford, trade unions and other stakeholders, a government spokesman said on Thursday after the carmaker announced it would close its plant in Bridgend, south Wales, next year because of falling demand....
Ford expected to announce closure of Welsh engine factory- source Ford is expected to announce on Thursday that it is closing its engine facility in Wales, a source told Reuters, putting at risk 1,700 jobs in what would be the latest blow to Britain's car industry....
Nick Viall Gets Candid About Finding "Closure" With Kaitlyn Bristowe After Being "Really Pissed" at Her These exes are letting bygones be bygones. Nick Viall opened up about a recent conversation he had with his ex Kaitlyn Bristowe that was related to a "tongue-in-cheek" comment she......
World Bank Court Orders Pak To Pay $6 Billion To Firm Over Mine Closure Pakistan will have to pay almost $6 billion in damages to a foreign gold mining firm whose dig was shut down by the government in 2011, the World Bank said Sunday....
Public Provident Fund Features, Interest Rate, Partial Closure And More Public Provident Fund (PPF), a retirement planning-focused instrument, comes under "exempt, exempt, exempt" (EEE) tax status. This means that the returns, the maturity amount and the interest income......
Future Iran agreement needs 'permanent prohibition' on nukes and must address ballistic missiles, Trump's Pentagon nominee says President Trump's nominee for defense secretary said a future nuclear agreement with Iran should include a more permanent end to the country's nuclear activities and address its ballistic missile program....
Crystal Palace yet to make decision over permanent Lucas Perri deal as interest in loanee goalkeeper mounts Lucas Perri is attracting interest from Galatasaray and Sporting Lisbon, with Crystal Palace yet to make a decision over whether to make his loan move permanent....
Giant – and controversial – telescope to be built on sacred Hawaiian peak Scientists say the new telescope will help answer fundamental questions about the advent of the universe. ...
Queens rehab program under investigation faces closure amid opioid crisis A taxpayer-funded drug treatment program in Queens will be shuttered unless it gets new management, sources told The Post. The state Attorney General's office and the state Office of Alcoholism and Substance Abuse Services are investigating the J-CAP...
'You can't put a time period on grief': Families fear program closure after MMIWG inquiry The federal justice department launched FILU in August 2016 as part of a four-year, $16.17-million commitment to programs and community-based organizations that provide specialized victim services for MMIWG families....
Trump administration backtracks on closure of Job Corps program after bipartisan opposition from Congress A USDA and Labor Dept. plan to kill a U.S. Forest Service program that trains low-income young people for rural jobs ran into political realities in rural America....
UPDATE 1-Ford expected to announce closure of Welsh engine factory- source Ford is expected to announce on Thursday that it is closing its engine facility in Wales, a source told Reuters, putting at risk 1,700 jobs in what would be the latest blow to Britain's car industry....
Traffic Alert: Speedway Boulevard to Helen Street Road intersection closure TUCSON – On Friday, June 28, 2019, Cherry Avenue from Speedway Boulevard to Helen Street will close due to overnight construction to remove and replace asphalt. The project is scheduled to begin Friday at 7 P.M. and should be complete by 6 A.M...
Fred's to close another 129 stores as future looks grim: see the store closure list Discount merchandise retailer Fred's is closing another 129 stores as the company's swift contraction continues, placing its survival in doubt. ...
Member of Parliament leaves 10-year-old son at UK prime minister's residence in school closure protest It's no accident that an English woman left her 10-year-old son and some of his school friends on the steps of 10 Downing Street in London, which serves as the home of the United Kingdom's prime minister....
Daily on Energy: Closure of largest refiner on East Coast draws prying eyes from Washington Subscribe today to the Washington Examiner magazine and get Washington Briefing: politics and policy stories that will keep you up to date with what's going on in Washington. SUBSCRIBE NOW: Just $1.00 an issue!...
MH17 plane crash: Father of Briton killed on downed flight says prosecution of four men could bring closure The father of one of the 10 Britons killed when the passenger plane MH17 was shot down over Ukraine said the prosecution of four men could bring closure if grieving relatives found out why it happened....
Google Home and Home Max get limited-time discounts on top of permanent price cuts Google made some interesting (and confusing) changes to its smart speaker lineup recently, unveiling the extra-large Nest Hub Max and rebranding the Google Home Hub to Nest Hub. The latter move also came with a permanent price cut from $149 to $129, ...
Celtic complete 'treble treble' as Lennon offered permanent deal "Scottish champions Celtic fought back from a goal down to beat Heart of Midlothian 2-1 in the Scottish Cup final to clinch an unprecedented \u0027treble-treble\u0027 at Hampden Park in Glasgow on Saturday."...
How does your brain take out the trash? Until recently, no one knew how the brain removed waste. In 2013, the glymphatic system was discovered. Here, we discuss its role in health and disease....
Why Amsterdam wants tourists to go elsewhere Amsterdam's urban charms have always been a draw for tourists, but now the city is trying to reduce visitor numbers. One message: Go see the rest of the Netherlands. Find out other ways they're discouraging overtourism....
Juice WRLD: 'There is just so much trash in rap' With a US No 1 album, Jarad Higgins is the man taking emo rap overground – and he owes it all to fancying a goth girl at schoolJuice WRLD is contemplating another life. "You think I could be a FedEx worker, Mom?" he asks across the room, a suite in a...
N4T Investigators: Border Trash TUCSON – Scores of migrants are illegally crossing our nation's southern border, and some of those entering the United States through Arizona are leaving behind piles of trash. So, what impact is it having on our environment; and is the s...
Don't Throw Your Old Bicycle in the Trash There are graveyards of mangled bicycles sitting in vacant lots throughout villages and major cities in China. Local governments have long struggled with what to do with the millions of abandoned bicycles—the result of an initial oversupply to suppor...
Amazing destinations with no tourists Some of the world's least-visited countries and territories have some of the best things travelers want: culture, history, gorgeous scenery. All that's missing? Hordes of tourists....
Amazing places with almost no tourists Parisian bridges are weighted down with copycat "love locks," while visitors crowd cheek-to-jowl into Barcelona churches and Dubrovnik's historic center. In Italy, attempts to manage the impact of tourism range from segregating visitors to fines for ...
Boris Johnson warns Conservatives to deliver Brexit or face 'permanent haemorrhage' after horrific European election result Would-be Conservative leader Boris Johnson has warned his party it must deliver Brexit or face a 'permanent haemorrhage' of voters after a disastrous night of European election results....
No trash and recycling collection on Memorial Day TUCSON – Trash and Recycling will not be picked up on Monday, May 27th as workers observe Memorial Day. All City of Tucson residential and commercial customers with regular collection on any day Monday through Friday will have a one-day delay. ...
Check Out This Hot New Lego Overwatch Trash Lego's first round of Overwatch sets were nice, but they left out a few key characters. Two new sets due out in October fix three of these oversights, adding Junkrat, Roadhog and everybody's favorite hamster mech pilot Hammond to the mix....
Filipino ambassador recalled over trash row The Philippines has recalled its ambassador to Canada in an escalating row after Ottawa missed a deadline and failed to reclaim garbage shipped to Manila about six years ago, the country's presidential spokesperson said....
The Mack Electric LR Is The Future Of Trash Americans consume at a massive rate and produce a lot of garbage as a result. Much of that trash is transported to a landfill to be piled up somewhere, and once it's out of sight it's out of mind. We don't spend much time thinking about trash collect...
Elizabeth Warren, Put Your Beautiful Dog in the Trash Elizabeth Warren is perhaps the most intellectually sound left-wing candidate in a generation. Her moral purpose and keen policy sense could propel her all the way to the White House. There is just one thing she needs to do first: get rid of her fake...
Tourists are flocking to Chernobyl thanks to HBO miniseries CHERNOBYL, Ukraine — The success of a US television miniseries examining the world's worst nuclear accident at Chernobyl has driven up the number of tourists wanting to see the plant, and the ghostly abandoned town that neighbors it, for themselves. ...
Legends Split Series with Tourists Jeison Guzman – Photo by Lexington Legends WHITAKER BANK BALLPARK (Lexington, KY) – The Lexington Legends dropped the final game of the series with the Asheville Tourists, 2-1. They split the four-game series and the Legends remain in third pla...
Tourists May Soon Be Able To Tweet Their Grievances To Government The Tourism Ministry is planning to launch a Twitter-based grievance redressal mechanism for tourists to file their complaints in real time on the lines of a platform run by the External Affairs......
This naked bar in the UK invites tourists to sip and strip It's bottom's up — and out — at this UK naked bar. The Coach & Horses, a historic Soho district pub, was recently granted a nudist license, giving its customers and bartenders permission to let it all hang out. The otherwise-very-traditio...
Timothy Olyphant, Ian McShane on the 'Deadwood' movie closure they never expected 'Deadwood' stars Timothy Olyphant and Ian McShane were happy to revisit the South Dakota frontier town 13 years after the acclaimed HBO series ended. ...
India's Single-Serve Trash Problem Plastic waste generated by the average Indian climbed 69% between 2015 and 2018, prompting the government to crack down and consumer-products giants to scramble....
Microsoft lays down the law for 'trash talk' on Xbox Possibly the worst thing about gaming online is the verbal abuse. Both kids and adults alike find a newfound freedom when blasting shotgun shells into complete strangers, and it's easy for tensions to run high in competitive environments.But no ...
AOC 'proud' of being a bartender, 'doubts' GOPers 'take trash out' Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez doesn't regret being a bartender one bit, she says. "As always, I'm proud of my work in restaurants," the congresswoman tweeted Sunday night, hours after taking fire from British journalist Piers Morgan...
Detectives: Woman put baby in bag, tossed her in trash bin BOCA RATON, Fla. (AP) — Detectives say a 35-year-old Florida woman confessed to putting her newborn baby girl in a plastic bag and throwing her into a trash bin outside an apartment complex. Palm Beach County Sheriff's spokeswoman Therese Barbe...
Philippines withdraws top diplomats from Canada over trash row The Philippines is withdrawing top diplomats from Canada after Ottawa missed a deadline to take back 69 shipping containers full of trash, the latest move in a long-running row stoked by threats from Manila's outspoken president....
| Trash from the top of the world handed over for recycling in Nepal Aluminium ladders and cans collected from Mount Everest may find a second life as pots and pans, as bags of trash were collected after the climbing season....
Man tried to rape woman who was taking out trash in Brooklyn A woman who was taking out her garbage Sunday night in Brooklyn was followed back into her building by a man who tried to rape her, but she was able to fight him off and scream for help, cops said. The 32-year-old victim was near Myrtle and Central a...
Mack's new electric truck hauls trash By John Beltz Snyder There's nothing quite like being woken up at the crack of dawn by a giant, slow moving truck that — while it may take your trash and recycling from your curb — leaves behind a big plume of exhaust smoke. Thankfu...
Philippines recalls ambassador to Canada over trash row The Philippines has recalled its ambassador to Canada in an escalating row after Ottawa missed a deadline and failed to reclaim garbage shipped to Manila about six years ago, the country's presidential spokesperson said....
Los Angeles is now 'giant trash receptacle,' says columnist A swath of Los Angeles has devolved into a wasteland with rats scurrying among piles of decaying garbage and squalid tent cities, according to a series of stomach-churning photos that the Los Angeles Times says depict the "collapse of a city that's l...
Newborn girl found alive in trash bin BOCA RATON, Fla. — Florida sheriff's deputies say a newborn girl has been found alive inside a trash bin. The Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office says two people walking at an apartment complex near Boca Raton heard crying coming from the ...
'Petty, sensitive' riders can't take trash talk "Riders are far too \"petty\" and \"sensitive\" to take trash talk in cycling - it\u0027s far too serious. Subscribe to The Bradley Wiggins Show podcast!"...
The Met Gala went from A-list elite to tacky trash There is a scene in the comedy film "Mean Girls" that takes place at a high school Halloween party. Vapid teen girl after vapid teen girl arrives at a suburban home wearing nearly identical sexy mice, kitty and bunny costumes like it's the Playboy Cl...
You Can Kayak in Europe for Free, If You Pick Up Trash All over the world, our oceans, lakes, and rivers are full of trash. There's a heap of plastic garbage swirling around in the Pacific Ocean right now and much of it is the result of our own littering and improper trash disposal. Some waterways in Eur...
Egypt opens Bent Pyramid to tourists The pyramids of Egypt have long attracted visitors intrigued by their ancient history, and now travelers have the opportunity to visit a distinctive structure just south of Cairo....
Several tourists die as freak storm strikes Greece Seven people, including six tourists, were killed and dozens more injured in a freak storm Wednesday that tore through north Greece, officials said. The storm slammed the tourist destination of Halkidiki, where gale-force winds, heavy rain and hail b...
NASA Is Opening the ISS to Tourists—but Don't Worry, You Can't Afford It Starting as early as next year, NASA will make the International Space Station available to space tourists and other business ventures. Sounds exciting, but the associated costs are far beyond what most of us can afford. Read more......
Kamakura, Japan, asks tourists not to eat while walking Street food is a staple of many countries. But does that mean you should both buy and eat your food in the street? Japan is struggling to answer that question, particularly when it comes to popular tourist areas....
China installing spyware on tourists' phones Chinese border authorities have been installing an app on tourists' smartphones which gathers personal data including text messages and contacts, it has been reported....
China is installing spyware on tourists' phones Visitors to Xinjiang in northwest China are experiencing a nasty surprise in the form of a spyware app that's being forcefully installed on their phones....
China loads surveillance app onto tourists' phones China's far-reaching security network is targeting tourists, with border guards secretly installing a surveillance app onto the phones of visitors to Xinjiang, according to a joint report by several major international media organizations....
Bruges to limit tourists due to fears of being like 'Disneyland' Another city has fallen victim to the scourge of tourism. This time, it's the popular Belgian pitstop of Bruges, an UNESCO World Heritage city known for its medieval buildings and nicknamed the "Venice of the North" for its picturesque canals. (You m...
Rohtang Pass To Open For Tourists From June 1 Rohtang Pass, the 13,050 feet gateway to Lahaul and Spiti Valley, is set to open for tourists from June 1 onwards, according to district authorities....
Amsterdam invites tourists to 'marry' a local for a day Fake weddings aim to improve relations between residents and visitors and include a brief 'honeymoon' to explore the city's less popular sights I'm wearing a vintage bridal gown with a long train, and my groom, Julian du Perron (30), is in a top hat....
Yikes! Destinations where tourists outnumber locals Most people don't like it when their favorite vacation spot suddenly "gets discovered" and overnight turns into just another crowded beach. ...
Capri bans tourists from using single-use plastics Famed for its designer boutiques, film star visitors and saccharine limoncello, the Italian island of Capri is not typically associated with environmentalism....
6 Brazilian tourists die of carbon monoxide in Chile SANTIAGO, Chile (AP) — Chilean authorities say six Brazilian tourists died of carbon monoxide poisoning while staying in an old apartment in central Santiago. Authorities said Wednesday that police had been alerted by the Brazilian Embassy, which was...
Venice to fine tourists who break these new rules Venice is one of the most popular vacation destinations in the world, so how are the Italians planning to control the flow of people? New sanctions. ...
These are America's safest cities for tourists 24/7 Wall St. has put together a list of the safest cities for tourists to visit based on a review of violent crime levels per 100,000 people. ...
Bear cub killed for being 'too friendly' after tourists fed it, took selfies SALEM, Ore. (AP) — Oregon wildlife officials have killed a young black bear that people have been feeding and taking photos with. The Statesman Journal reports state wildlife biologists determined last week that the 100-pound (45-kilogram) male bear ...
| US moves to bar American tourists from visiting Cuba The Trump administration clamped down on US tourist visits to Cuba Tuesday, aiming to cut the flow of dollars to a country that Washington accuses of helping prop up Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro....
'It's getting like Disneyland': Bruges pulls up drawbridge on tourists The picture-perfect Flemish city is just the latest to announce a crackdown on visitor numbers. But not everyone is happyThere is a distinctly military pace to the ant-like line of tourists that streams out every morning from Bruges's sprawling art-d...
As Trade War With U.S. Grinds On, Chinese Tourists Stay Away The number of Chinese tourists is falling. And that's especially painful to businesses they favor, because they tend to spend more than other visitors....
Chinese tourists are flocking to this lake just for selfies DALI, China — Chinese tourists are flocking to a lake in southwest Yunnan province to recreate photos that have gone viral on social media, the country's latest selfie craze. Visitors to Erhai lake say photography sets offering everything from rare a...
Cuba still welcoming tourists despite Trump restrictions The Trump administration is intently focused on scaling back tourism to the island, but Cuba is doubling down on tourism efforts. ...
AP Interview: President says Sri Lanka now safe for tourists AP Interview: Sri Lanka's president says "99%" of the suspects in Easter Sunday attacks on churches and hotels have been arrested and their explosive materials seized and the country was safe for tourists again...
Microsoft's Official Examples Of "Acceptable Trash Talk" Are A Joy Microsoft updated the company's "Community Standards for Xbox" earlier this week, and while this is normally not news, the content is so damn wholesome that it's worth a closer look....
Mountains of trash in LA could cause bubonic plague outbreak: expert All that garbage attracts rats, which "pose a public health risk," an infectious disease specialist has warned, because the rodents can lead to the spread of salmonella and bubonic plague -- not to mention fleas that have been infected with typhus....
Philippines recalls envoys in Canada over trash shipments MANILA, Philippines (AP) — The Philippine foreign secretary says the ambassador and consuls in Canada are being recalled over Ottawa's failure to take back truckloads of garbage that Filipino officials say were illegally shipped to the Philippi...
24,000 pounds of trash — and 4 corpses — removed from Mount Everest It's the world's highest mountain — of trash. Crews removed more than 24,000 pounds of garbage, including four dead bodies, left behind on Mount Everest by adventure-seekers challenging the world's tallest peak. Food wrappers, human excrement, campin...
UWS rat population booming after city cans 110 trash bins They're sick of the rat race. The Upper West Side's booming rat population is getting a helping hand from an unlikely source: the sanitation department, residents in the posh neighborhood claim. In the midst of a booming rat population, the Departmen...
After Duterte's Threats Over Tons of Old Trash, Canada Says It's Working on It President Rodrigo Duterte of the Philippines said he was ready to "declare war" with Canada over hundreds of tons of waste shipped to his country over five years ago....
Duterte recalls tops diplomats from Canada over trash war The Philippines recalled its top diplomatic leaders in Canada on Thursday after officials say the North American country has missed the deadline to take back truckloads of trash that was illegally shipped to the Philippines years ago....
Trash-talking has its place in boxing, but not for Canelo and Jacobs While some fighters and promoters lean on trash talk and animosity to create major buzz around a fight, Canelo Alvarez and Daniel Jacobs have let their reputations build the anticipation ahead of their middleweight unification title fight....
Trump mocks Biden, says Obama took him off the 'trash heap' President Trump ramped up his criticism Monday of "Sleepy Joe Biden" as the former vice president rises in the polls, saying former President Barack Obama took him off the "trash heap" back in 2008 -- and China is rooting for him. ...
Woman pleads not guilty to dumping puppies in trash RIVERSIDE, Calif. (AP) — A Southern California woman authorities say was caught on surveillance video dumping a bag of 3-day-old puppies into a trash can has pleaded not guilty to animal cruelty. The Desert Sun of Palm Springs says Deborah Culwell ap...
Girl, 3, hospitalized after being beaten with brick inside trash can A Florida man told authorities he witnessed a man severely beating a 3-year-old girl with a brick while she was trapped inside a trash can Thursday. Jose Sotomayor said he was at his Miami Gardens home when he heard loud noises. He said he walked out...
If I'm not trash, what am I? What Forky from 'Toy Story 4' has to teach about identity and self-worth The Emmy-winning actor Tony Hale says that he was "overwhelmed" by his Pixar experience — much like his new character in the latest "Toy Story" release....
Southeast Asia should ban imports of foreign trash: environmentalists Environmental groups called on Tuesday for Southeast Asian countries to ban waste imports from developed countries to help tackle a plastic pollution crisis, as regional leaders prepare to meet this week in Bangkok....
Shanghai citizens out of sorts over new trash separation rules Household trash has occupied the minds of Shanghai residents this week: specifically, are the contents of their bins "wet", "dry", "hazardous" or "recyclable"?...
Canada Agrees to Take Back Trash Sent to Philippines Years Ago The garbage, which was mistakenly shipped to the Philippines in 2013 and 2014, had been the subject of a diplomatic dispute and outrage from President Rodrigo Duterte....
Three tons of trash and human bodies carried off Everest Volunteers have removed three tonnes from the world's highest mountain as part of a clean up operation to remove trash that has accumulated at altitude....
Philippines Sets Deadline for Canada to Take Back Trash President Rodrigo Duterte demanded that tons of garbage mistakenly sent to his country be returned by May 15, threatening otherwise to dump it on Canada's shore....
'Baaaaaaaaa Bye.' Philippines Ships Trash Back to Canada A cargo ship loaded with 69 containers of garbage left the Philippines Friday for Vancouver, Canada amid an escalating diplomat row over international trash exports, Reuters reports. The refuse return follows Philippines President Rodrigo DuterteR...
New app Trash from ex-head of Vine uses AI to make short clips Social video app uses machine learning 'to automate the un-fun parts of video editing'A new app from the former head of video-sharing app Vine hopes to repeat the success of the cult social network by making it easier to shoot and edit short clips.Tr...
'Plogging' craze goes global as fitness fanatics take out the trash The Swedish phenomenon of "plogging", where joggers combine their run with picking up the trash they find in nature, is going global as both environment and fitness fanatics benefit from the new trend....
Southeast Asia should ban foreign trash imports: environmentalists Environmental groups called on Tuesday for Southeast Asian countries to ban waste imports from developed countries to help tackle a pollution crisis, as regional leaders prepare to meet this week in Bangkok....
Philippines ships trash back to Canada after heated row Tons of garbage exported from Canada to the Philippines years ago is being sent back to its source. This comes as several Asian countries rebel against being used as dumpsites by Western nations....
NY's Earth Day 'trash blitz' hauled in 8,600 bags of garbage ALBANY, N.Y. — State officials say last month's Earth Day "trash blitz" conducted by transportation department employees resulted in thousands of bags of garbage being picked up along New York roads and highways. Department of Trans...
Partygoers leave 20,000 pounds of trash on Virginia Beach (CNN) – Partygoers attending a "Floatopia" event spent the day drinking and bobbing in the Virginia Beach surf. And then they left behind tons of trash. "Leave nothing but footprints," is akin to the Golden Rule for natu...
Woman severely injured after climbing into trash compactor NEW LONDON, Conn. (AP) — Police say a woman who had climbed into a Connecticut supermarket's trash compactor suffered potentially life-threatening injuries when a store employee turned it on with her inside. New London police say emergency pers...
Trash Mountain: Abandoned tents add to detritus on Everest Thirty entire tents, their contents scattered by the wind, were among the shocking amount of trash left after a record climbing season on Mount Everest...
Opposition senators in Haiti trash Parliament office PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti (AP) — A group of opposition senators in Haiti have ransacked their meeting room in Parliament and dragged out broken furniture and computers to block the ratification of interim Prime Minister Jean-Michel Lapin. Dozens of prote...
Tourists In Kyoto Are Making Geisha's Lives Difficult If you are visiting Kyoto, you probably want to take lots and lots of photos. But when you do, there are some things to keep in mind, especially when you see geisha....
Blast injures at least 16 tourists on bus near Giza pyramid in Egypt At least 16 people riding a tourist's bus near the Giza pyramid in Egypt suffered non-life-threatening injuries in an explosion Sunday, according to authorities....
Over 400 Tourists Stranded For 4 Days Evacuated From North Sikkim Over 400 tourists were evacuated from North Sikkim on Thursday, four days after they got stranded in the district due to heavy rain and the resulting damage to roads....
5 American tourists have died in the Dominican Republic in less than three months Screengrab/NBC News Portia Ravenelle and Orlando Moore, of New York, died in a car crash in the Dominican Republic in March while driving to the airport. Edward Nathaniel Holmes and Cynthia Day, of Maryland, and Miranda Schaup-Werner, of Pennsylvani...
US loses billions as Chinese tourists stay away over trade war The number of arrivals from China to the US fell last year for the first time in 15 years. The Chinese are the world's highest-spending foreign visitors and their tourism dollar is sorely missed....
Tourists injured in Venice cruise ship crash A cruise ship lost control before docking in Venice's San Basilio terminal, crashing into the wharf and hitting a tourist boat. At least five people sustained minor injuries....
Shorts in Alaska? Residents, tourists cope in heat You wouldn't normally associate Anchorage, Alaska with record heat, but that's been the case for the last 11 days, The National Weather Service says there have been nine new daily high temperature records set in the last 11 days in Anchorag...
Roadside bomb injures tourists on bus near Giza pyramids Incident leaves 17 hurt, Egyptian state TV shows shocked tourists leaving bus with shattered windowsA roadside bomb injured at least 17 people on Sunday when it detonated next to a bus of tourists, close to the Giza pyramids in Cairo.Images of the af...
Five foreign tourists killed in plane crash in Honduras Five foreign tourists, four of them Canadians, died on Saturday after a private plane they were traveling in crashed into the sea shortly after taking off from the island of Roatán, near the Atlantic coast of Honduras, local authorities said....
Seven Russian tourists feared killed by avalanche in Siberia Seven Russian tourists on a hiking holiday in Siberia are feared dead after an avalanche on a ridge in the Altai region, the local emergencies ministry said on Wednesday, saying rescue workers were still looking for the missing walkers....
Nearly 70 tourists to Dominican Republic reported illness since March Nearly 70 tourists have reported getting violently ill while vacationing in the Dominican Republic since March, according to a commonly used website that tracks food-borne illness outbreaks. That's up from just 10 reported illnesses in the country fo...
Egypt explosion injures tourists near Giza pyramids At least 14 people were injured in an explosion that targeted a tourist bus carrying 25 South African citizens, Egypt's state-run Ahram daily reported....
Japan's Noodle Slurping Noises Disturb Tourists, It Seems When I first moved to Japan at the turn of the century, I was told that noodle lovers need not fret about making slurping sounds while eating. Among some, that attitude is changing. There is now concern over "noodle harassment."...
Crisis Hits Dominican Republic Over Deaths of U.S. Tourists Officials in the Dominican Republic are struggling to explain the deaths of at least nine American tourists in recent months, and say they are a target of an exaggerated campaign of "fake news."...
Six tourists killed in fierce storm in northern Greece Two children among dead after series of incidents in Halkidiki region, with dozens injuredSix tourists have been killed and dozens of people injured in a fierce storm in northern Greece, authorities have said.Strong winds and hail hit the Halkidiki r...
427 Tourists Stranded After Cloudburst Evacuated From North Sikkim Altogether 427 tourists were evacuated from North Sikkim on Thursday, four days after they got stranded in the district as torrential rain damaged road infrastructure, an official said....
Four German tourists arrested over Mallorca gang rape An 18-year-old German woman reported the alleged attack, in a hotel room in the northeast of the island, to police. The men were detained at Palma De Mallorca airport as they checked in for their return flight....
McDonald's in Austria to serve as mini-embassies for US tourists As of Wednesday, May 15, staff in any McDonald's in Austria will be available to assist American tourists in making contact with the US Embassy for consular services, such as to report a lost or stolen passport, or seek travel assistance....
7 U.S. tourists have died of illness at Dominican resorts since January A Staten Island, N.Y., woman died this week while vacationing in the Dominican Republican, bringing the number of Americans who have died due to illness at resorts in the Caribbean country to seven this year....
2 French tourists go missing in Benin near Burkina Faso Authorities in the West African nation of Benin say that two French tourists are feared to have been kidnapped in a wildlife park near the border with Burkina Faso....
The Latest: Seoul says tourists did not wear life jackets BUDAPEST, Hungary (AP) — The Latest on a boat that capsized in the Danube River in Budapest with 33 South Korean tourists (all times local): 7:50 a.m. South Korean Foreign Ministry says South Korean tourists in the deadly boat collision in Budapest w...
Dubai To Offer Free 30-Day Alcohol Licence For Tourists Dubai will now offer a free 30-day alcohol licence for tourists, a move that ensures visitors will not be penalised for breaking the law, the media reported on Friday....
Two French tourists rescued from militants in Burkina Faso Two French tourists rescued from militants who held them hostage in the African nation of Burkina Faso thanked the soldiers who "lost their lives to free us from this hell." "All our thoughts go out to the families of the soldiers and to the so...
Look: Wales tourists find lizard stowed away from Island of Kos Animal rescuers in Wales said a small Balkan green lizard stowed away with some tourists and ended up 2,383 miles from its home on the Greek Island of Kos....
2 tourists killed by heavy storms in Switzerland and Greece Authorities say a tourist has drowned in Switzerland's Lake Geneva after her boat capsized in a driving storm and another was killed in nearby France. ...
Rooms 50% off and ads in Russia: Sri Lanka woos tourists after attacks Sri Lanka's battered tourism industry is trying to woo visitors back to beaches deserted after deadly Easter bombings, slashing hotel rates and pushing promotions in key markets like Russia....
Plastic bans proliferate in 2019 as planet drowns in trash When the EU finally committed to banning an array of single-use plastics in March, it became part of a growing plastic-free movement that is seeing similar bans imposed from Vanuatu to Canada and Tanzania....
City aims to can murder-linked trash hauler this week Embattled private trash hauler Flag Container Services will face the music this week over its lucrative contract to provide Sanitation Department with waste carting services that's potentially worth $37 million, The Post has learned. The company is o...
Tons of trash removed from Everest as cleanup unearths bodies Volunteers have removed three tonnes from the world's highest mountain as part of a clean up operation to remove trash that has accumulated at altitude....
3-year-old hospitalized after beaten with brick inside trash can: report A Miami Gardens man told authorities he witnessed a man severely beating a 3-year-old girl with a brick while she was trapped inside a trash bin Thursday evening....
Xbox enshrines wholesome 'trash talk' in its community standards Microsoft changed the wording of its standards, explicitly banning offensive trash talk on its services and offering less crass alternatives. It sounds hokey at first — the examples of player banter sound so calculatedly good-natured they'll make you...
Burning trash and factories belching smoke choke Iraqis As if life was not bad enough for Adnan Kadhim - he lives in a slum where municipal authorities dump Baghdad's rubbish - now someone is setting the waste on fire, making his children sick....
Recyclers Cringe as Southeast Asia Says It's Sick of the West's Trash After China restricted plastic scrap imports, countries like Malaysia took the brunt of the waste. But now there's a regionwide backlash, and recyclers are worried....
3 charged after newborn left atop trash can in Chicago alley CHICAGO (AP) — The teenage parents of a newborn left atop a trash can in Chicago are facing attempted murder charges, and a grandmother of the child is accused of lying to police about finding the baby. Chicago police say the 16-year-old mother and 1...
Woman detained after newborn girl found alive in trash bin BOCA RATON, Fla. (AP) — Florida deputies say they've detained a person of interest after a newborn girl was found alive inside a trash bin. The Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office says the woman was taken to a local hospital Thursday for m...
Nepal Authorities Clear 11 Tonnes Of Trash From Mount Everest The Nepalese government on Monday concluded its clean-up drive of the Mount Everest and said it had collected nearly 11 tonnes of trash that had piled up on the peak for decades....
Man makes deepest-ever dive in Mariana Trench and discovers ... trash A retired naval officer dove in a submarine nearly 36,000ft into the deepest place on Earth, only to find what appears to be plasticOn the deepest dive ever made by a human inside a submarine, a Texas investor found something he could have found in t...
Sanitation worker injured when gas tank explodes during trash collection A city sanitation worker was injured Friday morning when a gas tank exploded during garbage collection in Brooklyn, sources said. The Department of Sanitation crew was hauling trash in front of a home on 12th Street near 7th Avenue in Park Slope at a...
Canada to haul back mountains of trash sent to Philippines years ago Canada will take back tons of garbage shipped to the Philippines years ago, in a major victory for President Rodrigo Duterte in a diplomatic row which saw him recall his ambassador to Ottawa....
Is Renee Zellweger's Netflix thriller the best trash TV show of 2019? In the absurd yet absurdly compulsive drama What/If, the Oscar winner makes an unlikely comeback as a devious, scenery-chewing billionaireIt's tricky to explain Renee Zellweger's new Netflix show What/If to somebody who hasn't seen it, because it's a...
Make Your Kitchen Feel Instantly Cleaner by Washing Your Trash Can A "clean trash can" may sound oxymoronic, but having one is a very important aspect of maintaining my sanity. Thought it's never directly in my line of vision (unless I'm throwing something away), giving it a scrub instantly makes my kitchen cleaner,...
7 bizarre objects from the festival's worth of trash left on the moon The Apollo 11 lunar lander and other moon missions left behind some weird stuff, including cannons, bags of poop, golf balls and the secrets to top magic tricks...
Study: Lethal plastic trash now common in Greece's whales Scientists say a study of whales and dolphins that have washed up dead in Greece over a 20-year period has found alarmingly high levels of plastic trash in the animals' stomachs, which can condemn them to a slow and painful death...
Newborn baby boy found atop a trash can in a Chicago alley CHICAGO — A newborn baby boy is hospitalized in critical condition after being found atop a trash can on Chicago's Northwest Side. Fire Department Deputy Chief Curtis Hudson says a passer-by discovered the boy and brought the baby to a nearby f...
Driver fined for 'dangerous' amount of fast-food trash in his car At least he wasn't littering. A man in Marlow, England, has been fined and had his license suspended by the police for driving with a "dangerous" amount of fast-food wrappers and sundry trash in his car. He was so inundated, police ...
Motherly surveyed moms and the state of motherhood in the US is trash, except for one thing Motherly surveyed millennial moms about their thoughts on motherhood and the results aren't great, except for a few things. ...
Seminary student who left newborn to die in trash can gets 5 years in prison A cruel seminary student who left her daughter to die in a trash can at a Texas dormitory will spend five years in prison for her child's "horrific and inhumane" death, prosecutors said. Natalie Annell Weaver, 21, of Springfield, Missouri, plea...
Trash piles up as residents in this city protest 'hazardous' landfill SARAJEVO, Bosnia-Herzegovina — Uncollected trash is piling up on the streets of the southern Bosnian city of Mostar — one of the Balkan nation's main tourist destinations — since residents begun blocking access to the city's only landfill, insisting ...
In Deepest-Ever Sub Dive, Trash Found Littering Ocean Floor On the deepest dive ever made by a human inside a submarine, a Texas investor and explorer found something he could have found in the gutter of nearly any street in the world: trash....
Trash found littering ocean floor in deepest-ever sub dive On the deepest dive ever made by a human inside a submarine, a Texas investor and explorer found something he could have found in the gutter of nearly any street in the world: trash....
Opinion: Three years later, Sweden still talking trash about Rio Olympic win over U.S. women Their loss to Sweden in the quarterfinals of the 2016 Rio Olympics was the U.S. women's earliest exit at a major international tournament. ...
10 tons of trash left on Virginia beach after Memorial Day event Hundreds of beach-goers at Floatopia, a Memorial Day weekend event, left 10 tons of garbage at Virginia Beach's Ocean Park, WCNC-TV reported. ...
Americans Love Their Trash and Hate to Recycle, Report Finds The world has a trash problem, and a new report out Tuesday reminds us just how much Americans contribute. Turns out that while we create the most waste in the world, we're one of the worst countries at recycling it.Read more......
Cargo ship arrives in Philippines to return Canadian trash SUBIC, Philippines (AP) — A Philippine official says a cargo ship has arrived in a northern port to pick up and return 69 containers of Canadian garbage which the government in Manila says was shipped illegally to the Philippines years ago. Administr...
Despite tighter rules, unwanted Canadian trash still is showing up overseas Malaysia this week is demanding Canada pay to take back a shipping container filled with plastic grocery bags and packaging the Malaysian government says is too contaminated to be recycled....
Search of trash facility for evidence of missing mother ends NEW CANAAN, Conn. (AP) — Police in Connecticut say they have completed their search of a trash-to-energy plant for evidence in the disappearance of a mother of five who's been missing for a month. New Canaan police in a statement Tuesday say th...
Trash can fire sparks huge blaze in Washington Heights Flames and black smoke erupted in a pharmacy parking lot in Washington Heights on Thursday, video shows. A trash can went up in flames around noon in the Duane Reade lot near the corner of Dyckman Street and Post Avenue in Manhattan, an FDNY spokesma...
Razer Brazil Cuts Ties With Influencer After Her Tweets Saying 'Men Are Trash' The Brazilian branch of gaming peripheral maker Razer announced yesterday on Twitter that it won't be renewing its contract with influencer Gabriela Cattuzzo. The decision appears to be related to a Twitter thread from June 21 in which Cattuzzo said ...
Malaysia would very much like the United States to stop sending it boxes of trash If a package showed up at your doorstep containing nothing more than garbage you'd probably demand to know where it came from and, once you figured that out, would likely want to return the trash to its rightful owner. That's exactly what...
Philippines sends trash back to Canada after Duterte escalates row The Philippines has started returning dozens of shipping containers full of trash to Canada after a long-running row over waste exports that has tested diplomatic ties amid threats from firebrand President Rodrigo Duterte....
| WATCH: Philippines ships dumped trash back to Canada Tonnes of garbage sent to the Philippines years ago was shipped back to Canada on Friday after a festering diplomatic row, as Asian nations increasingly reject serving as dumping grounds for international trash....
Sri Lanka's hotels, beaches and eateries now empty of tourists Hotel occupancy across the island of Sri Lanka has plummeted by 85% to 90%. The tropical beaches, restaurants and shops are empty. ...
A hellish heat wave has arrived in Europe, just in time for tourists Parts of France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Poland, Switzerland and the Czech Republic have seen temperatures soar into the 90s and even past 100 degrees Fahrenheit — at least 20 to 30 degrees above normal....
Would You Like a Passport With That? McDonald's Partners With U.S. Embassy in Austria to Help Stranded Tourists In a move that has raised many eyebrows on social media, McDonald's and the U.S. Embassy in Vienna, Austria, have partnered to help Americans stranded abroad. Tourists can now go to any of the 194 McDonald's in Austria and be given a roun...
NASA to open International Space Station to tourists from 2020 It's a package holiday with a difference: NASA has said it is opening up the International Space Station to commercial space travel. But you will need deep pockets to venture into deep space....
| As China locks up Muslims in Xinjiang, it opens its doors to tourists From the expansive dunes of the Taklamakan Desert to the snow-capped peaks of Tianshan, Chinese authorities are selling troubled Xinjiang as a tourist idyll, welcoming travellers even as they send locals to internment camps....
Rwanda's rhino population grows, tourists expected to increase Rhino keepers who successfully delivered five endangered black rhinos to Rwanda spent months hugging and coddling them inside their transport boxes to prepare them for the journey, a rhino handler told Reuters as the animals were freed on Monday....
Chinese border guards put secret surveillance app on tourists' phones Software extracts emails, texts and contacts and could be used to track movementsChinese border police are secretly installing surveillance apps on the phones of visitors and downloading personal information as part of the government's intensive scru...
NASA to allow tourists to visit International Space Station from 2020 NASA plans to allow tourists to visit the International Space Station by 2020. Until now, the floating space lab has only been accessible to astronauts representing state-level space agencies. But in a surprise announcement today, NASA confirmed that...
Chinese officials reportedly installed a surveillance app on tourists' phones Chinese border guards are reportedly installing surveillance apps on the phones of some travelers. According to an investigation by the Guardian, The New York Times and Süddeutsche Zeitung, the app extracts emails, texts and contacts, as well as...
Space-obssessed tourists flock to Chile for solar eclipse LA SERENA, Chile – The total solar eclipse expected in northern Chile early next month is already drawing flocks of visitors eager to glimpse a rare view of the phenomenon through the region's clear skies. In Coquimbo, a region spanning the Pac...
NASA To Open International Space Station To Tourists From Next Year NASA said Friday it will open up the International Space Station for tourism and other business ventures as of next year, as it seeks to financially disengage from the orbiting research lab....
Tiffany says fewer Chinese tourists, US trade war led to sales decline Tiffany & Co. says the trade war is taking the shine off its sales. The luxury jeweler said sales declined in the most recent quarter because fewer Chinese tourists are traveling to the US, and because the tariff war with China is making its baubles ...
French soldiers killed while freeing tourists in West Africa PARIS (AP) — Two French soldiers have been killed in a military operation in the West African nation of Burkina Faso that freed two French tourists and two others kidnapped in neighboring Benin. In a statement Friday, French President Emmanuel Macron...
Huge migrant influx scares off Greek island tourists Tourists are avoiding the Greek island of Samos due to the shocking situation at the Vathy migrant camp, which has grown into a sprawling settlement. Locals and asylum-seekers feel authorities have abandoned them....
25 Lakh Tourists Visited India In 2018 Availing E-Visa India had issued over 25 lakh e-Visas last year, a five-fold jump from 2015, and reduced the main category visa from 26 to 21, an official said Sunday....
Widow questions husband's death in Dominican Republic after tourists die A Maryland woman said that three American tourists dying at a Dominican Republic resort has her questioning the circumstances of her husband's death in that country. Dawn McCoy said she does not believe it's a coincidence that her husband...
Memories of Massacres Were Long Suppressed Here. Tourists Now Retrace the Atrocities. Jeju Island's natural beauty has long attracted millions of South Koreans. Visitors now come to tour sites associated with a government-led postwar slaughter that was forbidden to discuss for decades....
5 U.S. Tourists Have Died in the Dominican Republic Since April. Should You Cancel Your Trip? A string of high profile deaths, illnesses and a claim of assault in the Dominican Republic has cast a shadow of concern over a country whose economy is largely driven by tourism. But despite the tragic headlines, hotel officials and safety experts a...
Benin guide for missing French tourists found dead A local guide for two French tourists who went missing on safari in Benin last week has been found dead in the Pendjari National Park, the park said in a statement....
Got $50 Million for a Vacation? NASA to Open Space Station to Tourists NASA will allow private citizens to stay at the International Space Station (ISS) for month-long getaways at a cost of about $35,000 per night, the US space agency said on Friday....
Chernobyl welcomes the tourists – 'a messy and morally queasy experience' Interest in the site of the 1986 nuclear reactor disaster has grown hugely in the wake of the HBO series – but it is a long way from being a place of solemnity and reflectionLast November, I stood in the forest of Pripyat – the town that was evacuate...
Human-powered ferry makes a difference for tourists — and the captain Maik Slotta is a man you won't forget. He runs the only remaining manually operated ferry in the German state of Brandenburg, and there's no one to replace him, as DW's Hardy Graupner reports from the Spreewald region....
Egypt suspends hot air ballooning in Luxor after 11 tourists swept into the desert Egypt has suspended hot air ballooning over ancient sites in Luxor after winds took 11 tourists off course and forced them to land in the desert. ...
Defectors call for tourists to steer clear of North Korea Critics say Pyongyang only wants to indoctrinate visitors and take their hard cash, but travel firms argue that enabling North Koreans to interact with foreign tourists opens their eyes to the world beyond their borders....
Hong Kong Protesters Are Taking Their Message to Chinese Tourists A march planned for Sunday is the first major action since protesters concerned about Beijing's influence broke into the Hong Kong legislature last week....
At least seven South Korean tourists dead in Budapest boat disaster Hungarian rescue officials said there was little chance of finding survivors after a boat carrying South Korean tourists sank on the Danube in Budapest, killing at least seven people and leaving 21 people missing....
Tourists flock to visit Chernobyl after HBO airs its popular series Tourists have flocked to Chernobyl, Ukraine to see the disaster zone and nuclear power plant depicted in HBOs new series "Chernobyl." ...
From Amsterdam to Venice, the impact of too many tourists sparks outrage and action Several recent events, incidents and widely shared images have brought the issue of "overtourism," and its economic, environmental and human consequences front and center....
India's trash mountains are a fetid symbol of the country's plastic problem Ravidas in New Delhi is a slum like no other. There are no fetid open sewers brimming with human waste or piles of trash lining every alley and corner. The residents of this ramshackle community run a tight ship....
Car trash to cash: U.S. firm aims to power European stadiums with old car batteries U.S. industrial conglomerate Eaton, which uses second-hand Nissan electric vehicle batteries to power buildings, is in talks with up to six European football stadiums to help power their facilities, according to a senior executive....
Bosnian city of Mostar awash in trash amid landfill protest SARAJEVO, Bosnia-Herzegovina (AP) — Uncollected thrash is piling up on the streets of the southern Bosnian city of Mostar — one of the Balkan nation's main tourist destinations — since residents begun blocking access to the city's sole la...
Countries see Japan's trash-to-energy plants as solution to garbage woes Countries in Southeast Asia struggling with garbage, some of it imported from developed countries, are turning their attention to Japan's trash-to-energy technology....
Malaysia leader: Wealthy countries dumping trash here is 'grossly unfair' TOKYO — The practice of advanced countries such as the US, Canada and Japan sending their non-recyclable waste to poorer countries is "grossly unfair" and should stop, Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad said Thursday. Mahathir comments during ...
Angry Mets fans to trash Tom Brady jerseys at restaurant rally Mets fanatics irritated by Tom Brady's attempt to rip off the nickname of an Amazin' legend will hold a rally Tuesday at Sojourn restaurant on the Upper East Side, The Post has learned. The insufferable Patriots quarterback, through his company Teb C...
Goodbye trash can, hello cheese grater: Apple's reinvented Mac Pro will shred your workflow Say goodbye to the trash can. Apple's new Mac Pro is a more traditional machine that takes into account the specific needs of creative professionals, while enabling a layer of modular interactivity with other Apple devices that could totally c...
Japan's Bubble Tea Boom Is Creating Long Lines And Lots of Trash You might call it bubble tea. You might call it boba tea. In Japan, it's known as tapioca drink or just simply tapioca. And it's taking over....
Drake, Golden State Warriors trash talking escalates after Game 2 The trash talking between the Golden State Warriors and Toronto Raptors ambassador Drake escalated Sunday night as Kevin Durant and Klay Thompson were both chirping at the rapper....
Amazon Prime Day's members-only deals prompts trash talk from eBay Prime Day is getting closer to that July 15 launch, but other retailers are scrambling already trying to tempt buyers to their store before Amazon gobble up everyone's cash in the sales event of the summer. And you'll want to keep an eye on...
Newborn found abandoned atop trash can in Chicago alley: officials A newborn baby was found abandoned atop a garbage can in a Chicago alley after neighbors heard the infant's cries from their apartment Tuesday afternoon, according to reports. ...
The Philippines is shipping back Canada's heaping garbage. What's Ottawa going to do with the trash? A cargo ship has arrived in a northern port in the Philippines, and is ready to return a massive pile of rotting garbage to Canada — 1,500 tonnes to be exact....
Virginia beach left covered in 10 tons of trash after Memorial Day bash Virginia Beach residents are fuming that 10 tons of trash were left behind on the shore line by Memorial Day weekend partiers. Photos and videos shared on Facebook shows mountains of cans, towels, pieces of clothing, bags of chips and other items lit...
Corey Johnson calls on de Blasio to restore funds for trash collection The dirtiest neighborhoods in the city will only get worse if Mayor de Blasio doesn't restore the $4.2 million in funding for litter-basket collection, City Council leaders said Saturday. Brooklyn is plagued with six of the 10 messiest neighbor...
Cop resigns after confrontation with black college student picking up trash outside dorm A white police officer who pulled out his gun during a heated confrontation with a black college student picking up trash outside his Colorado dorm is resigning — and will continue to collect his paycheck for the next eight months, city officials sai...
Fighting the spread of illegal landfills in France as trash piles up in 'sea of waste' Trash is piling up in France, hidden in plain sight across the suburbs and the countryside. Starting this year, the government is taking action against the dozens of illegal dumps polluting its territory....
Go Ahead, Treat Yourself To the Good Kitchen Trash Bags - They're On Sale Today You need to buy trash bags anyway, so when you can get the good ones—you know, the ones that actually won't rip and spill garbage all over your living room during your walk out to your dupster—on sale, you might as well....
McDonald's Worldwide Favorites menu is a greasy, putrid trash fire McDonald's new Worldwide Favorites menu — a roundup of the chain's purported top hits abroad — proves that the world's worse off than we knew. Each of five items, launched this week and inspired by different countries, is awful in its own way. ...
Tourists, Residents Evacuated As Wildfire Spreads At Hawaii's Maui Island Thousands of residents and visitors on Hawaii's Maui Island were ordered to evacuate two communities on Thursday as a spreading wildfire sent smoke billowing high into the sky, officials and local......
Report finds Grand Canyon tourists buoyed nearby communities GRAND CANYON NATIONAL PARK, Ariz. (AP) — A new report from the National Park Service says areas surrounding the Grand Canyon benefited last year from millions of tourism dollars. Grand Canyon National Park officials say the report found the 6.3 milli...
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 590 |
\section{Introduction}
\subsection{Weighted composition operators}
Our primary object of study is weighted composition operators that are defined as follows. Let $\mbo$ be a Banach space of analytic functions on some domain $V\subseteq\C^d$, where $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$. Given functions $g:V\to V,f:V\to\C$ (often called the \emph{symbols}), we consider the formal expression $\widetilde{[f,g]}$ by setting
\begin{gather*}
(\widetilde{[f,g]}\xi)(z)=f(z)\xi(g(z)),\quad\text{where $\xi(\cdot)\in\mbo,z\in V$}.
\end{gather*}
The \emph{maximal weighted composition operator} is defined as
\begin{gather*}
\text{dom}(W_{f,g,\max})=\{\xi(\cdot)\in\mbo:\widetilde{[f,g]}\xi(\cdot)\in\mbo\},\\
W_{f,g,\max}\xi(\cdot)=\widetilde{[f,g]}\xi(\cdot),\quad\xi(\cdot)\in\text{dom}(W_{f,g\max}).
\end{gather*}
The operator $W_{f,g}$ is called a \emph{non-maximal weighted composition operator} if the inclusion $W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}$ holds. By the term \emph{bounded weighted composition operator}, as it is used in the paper, is meant an operator $W_{f,g}$ which satisfies (i) $\text{dom}(W_{f,g})=\mbo$ and (ii) there exists a constant $R>0$ such that
\begin{gather*}
\|W_{f,g}h\|\leq R\|h\|\quad\forall h(\cdot)\in\mbo.
\end{gather*}
Note that the phrase "unbounded" is understood as "not necessarily bounded"; in other words, bounded operators belong to the unbounded class. When $f(\cdot)\equiv 1$, writing $C_g$ instead of $W_{1,g}$ and it is named a \emph{composition operator}.
The earliest reference on weighted composition operators appears to be the Banach-Stone theorem, which states that the only surjective isometries between Banach spaces of real-valued continuous functions are precisely of this type (\cite{zbMATH00467266}). Leeuw et al \cite{zbMATH03158247} and Forelli \cite{zbMATH03213975} obtained the similar results for Hardy spaces. Since then, weighted composition operators have become the subject matter of intensive and extensive research on various spaces and they have made important connections to the study of other operators (\cite{zbMATH03607039, zbMATH00933265}). What makes weighted composition operators worth to study is the fact that their properties can be characterized in simple algebraic terms.
When $\mbo$ is Hardy space of the unit disk, there is a large body of work on composition operators (see \cite{zbMATH00918588, zbMATH00473375}). It was proven long by Littlewood \cite{zbMATH02591644} that composition operators are always bounded. In contrast to the unweighted setting, the boundedness of weighted composition operators has not been well understood. There are many examples (see \cite{zbMATH00918588}) which show that weighted composition operators are not bounded. Other properties have been studied such as conditions for (weighted) composition operators to be real symmetric \cite{zbMATH05815825}, be normal \cite{zbMATH05080402, zbMATH06074411}, be unitary \cite{zbMATH06074411}, or be invertible \cite{zbMATH05907565}.
Considered on Fock spaces, weighted composition operators act very differently; for example, not all composition operators are bounded. Carswell, MacCluer and Schuster \cite{zbMATH02099157} showed that the only affine function $g(z)=\al z+\beta$ gives rise to the boundedness. Le \cite{zbMATH06324457} gave a complete characterization of bounded weighted composition operators on Fock spaces. Characterizations of compactness, isometry, normality, cohyponormality, and supercyclicity have also been produced, including those of Le \cite{zbMATH06324457}, Hai and Khoi \cite{zbMATH06627851}, and Carroll and Gilmore \cite{MR4248470}.
\subsection{Complex symmetric operators}
A \emph{complex symmetric operator} is an unbounded linear operator $X:\text{dom}(X)\subseteq\mathcal H\to\mathcal H$ on a Hilbert space $\mathcal H$ with the property that $X=\mathcal C X^*\mathcal C$, where $\mathcal C$ is an isometric involution (in short, \emph{conjugation}) on $\mathcal H$. To indicate the dependence on $\mathcal C$, this case is often called \emph{$\mathcal C$-selfadjoint}.
The concept of complex symmetric operators is a natural generalization of complex symmetric matrices, and their general research was commenced by Garcia, Putinar \cite{zbMATH02237890, zbMATH05148120}. The class of complex symmetric operators is of great interest for several reasons. First, it has deep classical roots in various branches of mathematics, including matrix theory, function theory, projective geometry, etc. See \cite{zbMATH02237890, zbMATH05148120, zbMATH06349831} for details. Second, it is large enough to cover well-known operators such as normal operators, Volterra operators, Hankel operators, compressed Toeplitz operators. More interestingly, differential operators relevant in non-hermitian quantum mechanics obeying a parity and time symmetry, so called \emph{$\mathcal{PT}$-symmetric}, belong to this class (see \cite{zbMATH01365858}).
Putted forward by Garcia and Hammond \cite{zbMATH06454968}, the problem of classifying complex symmetric weighted composition operators is of interest and it is being answered in several particular contexts. Jung et al \cite{zbMATH06320823} considered bounded weighted composition operators on Hardy spaces and characterized those which are complex symmetric with respect to the conjugation $\mathcal J f(z)=\overline{f(\overline{z})}$. The works \cite{zbMATH06454968, zbMATH06320823} make a motivation to study the problem in various spaces. We refer the reader to \cite{zbMATH06487337, zbMATH07216720} for Fock space and \cite{zbMATH07053055} for Hardy spaces in several variables and \cite{zbMATH06882577} for Lebesgue spaces.
\subsection{Aim}
In this paper, we study weighted composition operators on Bergman spaces of analytic functions which are square integrable on polydisk. We develop the study in full generality, meaning that the corresponding weighted composition operators are not assumed to be bounded. The properties of weighted composition operators such as real symmetry, unitariness, complex symmetry, are characterized fully in simple algebraic terms, involving their symbols. As it turns out, a weighted composition operator having a symmetric structure must be bounded. We also obtain the interesting consequence that real symmetric weighted composition operators are complex symmetric corresponding an adapted and highly relevant conjugation.
\section{Preparation}\label{sec2}
\subsection{Notations}
Before getting closer to the content, we list notations and terminologies. The domain of an operator is denoted as $\text{dom}(\cdot)$. When dealing with unbounded operators, the symbol $A\preceq B$ means that $\text{dom}(A)\subseteq\text{dom}(B)$ and $Ax=Bx$ for $x\in\text{dom}(A)$. Let $\zd=\{1,2,\cdots,d\}$. Always denote
\begin{gather}\label{eq-omep}
\ome_p(z)=\dfrac{\overline{p}}{p}\cdot\dfrac{p-z}{1-\overline{p}z},\quad p\in\D\setminus\{0\}.
\end{gather}
Let $\D=\{z\in\C:|z|<1\}$ and $\T=\{z\in\C:|z|=1\}$. For a fixed integer $d$, the polydisk $\dom$ of $\C^d$ is the Cartesian product of $d$ copies of $\D$. Bergman space $\spc$ consists of all analytic functions $\xi:\dom\to\C$ with
\begin{gather*}
\|\xi\|^2=\int\limits_{\dom}|\xi(z)|^2\prod_{j=1}^d(1+\ell_j)(1-|z_j|^2)^{\ell_j}\,dA(z_j),
\end{gather*}
where $dA$ denotes the normalized area measure on $\D$. The reproducing kernel in $\spc$ is given by
\begin{gather*}
K_z(u)=\prod_{j=1}^d\dfrac{1}{(1-u_j\overline{z_j})^{\ell_j+2}}\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
\end{gather*}
\subsection{Elementary estimate}
The following lemma may be well-known; but the proof is given, for a completeness of exposition.
\begin{lem}\label{lem-202106091438}
Let $\bfc\in\D^t$ and $s\in\Z_{\geq 1}$. Then there exists a constant $\Delta$ such that
\begin{gather*}
\int\limits_{\D^s}|h(\bfc,y)|^2\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j)
\leq\Delta\int\limits_{\D^t\times\D^s}|h(z)|^2\prod_{j=1}^{t+s}(1-|z_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(z_j).
\end{gather*}
Consequently, if $h(\cdot)\in\mathcal{B}_\ell(\D^t\times\D^s)$, then the function $h_{\bfc}(\cdot)\in\mathcal{B}_\ell(\D^s)$, where $h_{\bfc}(y)=h(\bfc,y)$.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
Denote $\delta_j=(1-|\bfc_j|)/2$ and $D(\bfc,\delta)^t=\{z=(z_1,z_2,\cdots,z_t)\in\C^t:|z_j-c_j|<\delta_j\,\forall 1\leq j\leq t\}$. Setting
\begin{gather*}
W=\int\limits_{\D^t\times\D^s}|h(z)|^2\prod_{j=1}^{t+s}(1-|z_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(z_j),
\end{gather*}
by the Fubini theorem, we have
\begin{gather*}
W=
\int\limits_{\D^s}\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j)
\int\limits_{\D^t}|h(x,y)|^2\prod_{j=1}^t(1-|x_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(x_j)\\
\geq\int\limits_{\D^s}\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j)
\int\limits_{D(\bfc,\delta)^t}|h(x,y)|^2\prod_{j=1}^t(1-|x_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(x_j)\\
\geq
\prod_{j=1}^t\left(1-\left(\dfrac{1+|\bfc_j|}{2}\right)^2\right)^{\ell_j}
\int\limits_{\D^s}\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j)
\int\limits_{D(\bfc,\delta)^t}|h(x,y)|^2dA(x_j),
\end{gather*}
which implies, by the subharmonic property of the function $x\mapsto|h(x,y)|^2$, that
\begin{gather*}
W
\geq\prod_{j=1}^t\left(1-\left(\dfrac{1+|\bfc_j|}{2}\right)^2\right)^{\ell_j}
\int\limits_{\D^s}\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j)\pi^t\prod_{j=1}^t\delta_j|h(\bfc,y)|^2\\
=\pi^t\prod_{j=1}^t\delta_j\left(1-\left(\dfrac{1+|\bfc_j|}{2}\right)^2\right)^{\ell_j}
\int\limits_{\D^s}|h(\bfc,y)|^2\prod_{j=1}^s(1-|y_j|^2)^{\ell_j}dA(y_j).
\end{gather*}
\end{proof}
We recall a condition when a linear fractional function is a self-mapping of $\D$.
\begin{lem}[{\cite{zbMATH06077514}}]\label{202202242145}
Let
\begin{gather*}
\xi(z)=\dfrac{az+b}{cz+d},\quad\text{where $a,b,c,d\in\C$ with $ad-bc\ne 0$}.
\end{gather*}
Then $\xi(\cdot)$ is a self-mapping of $\D$ if and only if
\begin{gather*}
|b\overline{d}-a\overline{c}|+|ad-bc|\leq|d|^2-|c|^2.
\end{gather*}
\end{lem}
\subsection{Algebraic observations}
\begin{lem}\label{20220224}
Let $f:\dom\to\C,g:\D\to\C$ be analytic functions, where $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$. Suppose that for every $\kappa\in\zd$, the product $g(u_\kappa)f(u_1,u_2,\cdots,u_n)$ is a function of variables $u_1,u_2,\cdots,u_{\kappa-1},u_{\kappa+1},\cdots,u_n$. Then for every $\kappa\in\zd$ the product $f(u_1,u_2,\cdots,u_n)\prod_{j=1}^{\kappa}g(u_j)$ is a function of variables $u_{\kappa+1},u_{\kappa+2},\cdots,u_n$.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
The lemma is proven by induction on $\kappa$ and its proof is left to the reader.
\end{proof}
\begin{lem}\label{lem-202103262022}
Let $\psi:\D\to\D$ be an analytic function with the property that
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103262022}
\psi'(u)(1-u\overline{\psi(z)})^2
=\overline{\psi'(z)}(1-\psi(u)\overline{z})^2\quad\forall z,u\in\D.
\end{gather}
Then
\begin{gather}\label{202208211011}
\psi(z)=\bfa+\dfrac{\bfb z}{1-\overline{\bfa}z},
\end{gather}
where coefficients satisfy
\begin{gather}
\label{202208211012}\bfa\in\D,\bfb\in\R,\\
\label{202208211013}|\bfa(\bfb-|\bfa|^2+1)|+|\bfb|\leq 1-|\bfa|^2.
\end{gather}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
It is clear that the case when $\psi(\cdot)\equiv\text{const}$ verifies \eqref{eq-202103262022}. Next is to consider the remaining case $\psi(\cdot)\not\equiv \text{const}$. Let $z_\star\in\D$ such that $\psi(z_\star)\ne 0$. Letting $z=z_\star$ in \eqref{eq-202103262022}, we can observe
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\psi'(u)}{(1-\psi(u)\overline{z_\star})^2}
=\dfrac{\overline{\psi'(z_\star)}}{(1-u\overline{\psi(z_\star)})^2}.
\end{gather*}
After integrating with respect to the variable $u$, $\psi(\cdot)$ is of form
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\dfrac{Az+B}{Cz+D},
\end{gather*}
where $A,B,C,D$ are complex constants. There are two cases of the coefficient $C$. If $C=0$, then
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\widehat{A}z+\widehat{B},\quad\text{where $\widehat{A}=\dfrac{A}{D}$ and $\widehat{B}=\dfrac{B}{D}$}.
\end{gather*}
Through setting $\psi(z)=\widehat{A}z+\widehat{B}$ in \eqref{eq-202103262022} and then equating coefficients, we get
\begin{gather*}
\widehat{A}\in\R,\quad\widehat{B}=0.
\end{gather*}
If $C\ne 0$, then
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=G+\dfrac{E}{z+F},\quad\text{where $G=\dfrac{A}{C},E=\dfrac{BC-AD}{C^2},F=\dfrac{D}{C}$}.
\end{gather*}
It follows from $\psi(\cdot)\not\equiv\text{const}$, that $E\ne 0$. By way of substituting this form of $\psi(\cdot)$ back into \eqref{eq-202103262022} and then equating coefficients, we obtain
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\overline{G}^2}{G^2}=\dfrac{\overline{E}}{E},
\quad\dfrac{\overline{G}}{G}=\dfrac{\overline{F}}{F},
\quad GF+E=-\dfrac{E\overline{G}}{\overline{E}G}.
\end{gather*}
Thus, \eqref{202208211011}-\eqref{202208211012} hold, where
\begin{gather*}
\bfa=G+\dfrac{E}{F},\quad\bfb=-\dfrac{E}{F^2};
\end{gather*}
meanwhile, \eqref{202208211013} follows directly from Lemma \ref{lem-202106091438}.
\end{proof}
\begin{lem}\label{lem-202105202050}
Let $\tha\in\T$ and $\psi:\D\to\D$ be an analytic function with the property that
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105202050}
\psi'(y)(1-\tha y\psi(x))^2
=\psi'(x)(1-\tha\psi(y)x)^2\quad\forall x,y\in\D.
\end{gather}
Then
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\al_0+\dfrac{\al_1\tha z}{1-\al_0\tha z},
\end{gather*}
where coefficients satisfy
\begin{gather*}
|\al_0+\overline{\al_0}(\al_1-\al_0^2)|+|\al_1|\leq 1-|\al_0|^2.
\end{gather*}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
It is clear that the case when $\psi(\cdot)\equiv\text{const}$ verifies \eqref{eq-202105202050}. Next is to consider the remaining case $\psi(\cdot)\not\equiv \text{const}$. Let $z_\star\in\D$ such that $\psi(z_\star)\ne 0$. Letting $x=z_\star$ in \eqref{eq-202105202050}, we get
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\psi'(y)}{(1-\tha\psi(y)z_\star)^2}
=\dfrac{\psi'(z_\star)}{(1-\tha y\psi(z_\star))^2}.
\end{gather*}
By way of integrating with respect to the variable $y$, we observe $\psi(\cdot)$ is of form
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\dfrac{Az+B}{Cz+D},
\end{gather*}
where $A,B,C,D$ are complex constants. There are two cases of $C$. If $C=0$, then
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\widehat{A}z+\widehat{B},\quad\text{where $\widehat{A}=\dfrac{A}{D}$ and $\widehat{B}=\dfrac{B}{D}$}.
\end{gather*}
Through setting $\psi(z)=\widehat{A}z+\widehat{B}$ in \eqref{eq-202105202050} and then equating coefficients, we get $\widehat{B}=0$. Consider when $C\ne 0$ and then
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=G+\dfrac{E}{z+F},\quad\text{where $G=\dfrac{A}{C},E=\dfrac{BC-AD}{C^2},F=\dfrac{D}{C}$}.
\end{gather*}
It follows from $\psi(\cdot)\not\equiv\text{const}$, that $E\ne 0$. By way of substituting this form of $\psi(\cdot)$ back into \eqref{eq-202105202050} and then equating coefficients, we obtain
\begin{gather*}
\begin{cases}
\text{either $G=F=0,E=\overline{\tha}$},\\
\text{or $E+GF=-\overline{\tha}$}.
\end{cases}
\end{gather*}
Thus, the conclusion holds, where
\begin{gather*}
\al_0=G+\dfrac{E}{F},\quad\al_1=-\dfrac{E}{F^2}\overline{\tha}.
\end{gather*}
\end{proof}
\begin{lem}\label{lem-202105291538}
Let $p\in\D\setminus\{0\}$ and $\ome_p(\cdot)$ be the function given by \eqref{eq-omep}. If the function $\psi:\D\to\D$ satisfies
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105270751}
\ome_p'(y)\psi'(u)[1-u\ome_p(\psi(y))]^2
=\ome_p'(\psi(y))\psi'(y)[1-\ome_p(y)\psi(u)]^2,
\end{gather}
then either
\begin{gather}\label{202208121547}
\psi\equiv\text{const}
\end{gather}
or
\begin{gather}\label{202208121548}
\psi(z)=G+\dfrac{E}{z+F},
\end{gather}
where coefficients satisfy
\begin{gather}
\label{202208121549}p-G|p|^2=-F|p|^2+(GF+E)\overline{p},\\
\label{202208121550}E\ne 0,\\
\label{202208121551}|(GF+E)\overline{F}-G|+|E|\leq|F|^2-1.
\end{gather}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
It is clear that the case when $\psi(\cdot)\equiv\text{const}$ verifies \eqref{eq-202105270751}. Next is to consider the remaining case $\psi(\cdot)\not\equiv \text{const}$. Since $\ome_p'(z)=\frac{\overline{p}}{p}\cdot\frac{|p|^2-1}{(1-\overline{p}z)^2}$, equation \eqref{eq-202105270751} is reduced to the following
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105270808}
\dfrac{\psi'(u)[1-u\ome_p(\psi(y))]^2}{(1-\overline{p}y)^2}
=\dfrac{\psi'(y)[1-\ome_p(y)\psi(u)]^2}{(1-\overline{p}\psi(y))^2}
\end{gather}
or equivalently to saying that
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\psi'(u)}{[1-\ome_p(y)\psi(u)]^2}
=\dfrac{\psi'(y)}{(1-\overline{p}\psi(y))^2}\cdot\dfrac{(1-\overline{p}y)^2}{[1-u\ome_p(\psi(y))]^2}.
\end{gather*}
Like the arguments in Lemmas \ref{lem-202105202050} and \ref{lem-202103262022}, $\psi(\cdot)$ is of form
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105270818}
\psi(z)=\dfrac{Az+B}{Cz+D},
\end{gather}
where $A,B,C,D$ are complex constants. Setting \eqref{eq-omep} in \eqref{eq-202105270808}, we find
\begin{gather*}
\psi'(u)[p(1-\overline{p}\psi(y))-\overline{p}u(p-\psi(y))]^2
=\psi'(y)[p(1-\overline{p}y)-\overline{p}(p-y)\psi(u)]^2,
\end{gather*}
which implies, by \eqref{eq-202105270818}, that
\begin{gather*}
[(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy+(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)u+(pC-|p|^2A)y+pD-|p|^2B]^2\\
=[(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy+(pC-|p|^2A)u+(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)y+pD-|p|^2B]^2.
\end{gather*}
There are two cases.
- If
\begin{gather*}
(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy+(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)u+(pC-|p|^2A)y+pD-|p|^2B\\
=(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy+(pC-|p|^2A)u+(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)y+pD-|p|^2B,
\end{gather*}
then after equating coefficients, we get $\overline{p}B-|p|^2D=pC-|p|^2A$. It then implies \eqref{202208121549}, where
\begin{gather*}
G=\dfrac{A}{C},\quad F=\dfrac{D}{C},\quad E=\dfrac{BC-AD}{C^2}.
\end{gather*}
Note that condition \eqref{202208121551} follows directly from Lemma \ref{202202242145}.
- If
\begin{gather*}
(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy+(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)u+(pC-|p|^2A)y+pD-|p|^2B\\
=-(\overline{p}A-|p|^2C)uy-(pC-|p|^2A)u-(\overline{p}B-|p|^2D)y-pD+|p|^2B,
\end{gather*}
then after equating coefficients, we get
\begin{gather*}
\begin{cases}
\overline{p}A-|p|^2C=0,\\
\overline{p}B-|p|^2D=-(pC-|p|^2A),\\
pD-|p|^2B=0,
\end{cases}
\Longrightarrow
\begin{cases}
A=-\overline{p}B,\\
D=\overline{p}B,\\
C=-\dfrac{\overline{p}}{p}B.
\end{cases}
\end{gather*}
Thus, this case gives
\begin{gather*}
\psi(z)=\dfrac{|p|^2z-p}{\overline{p}z-|p|^2};
\end{gather*}
but this is impossible as $\psi$ is not a self-mapping of $\D$ (see Lemma \ref{202202242145}).
\end{proof}
\subsection{Basic properties of $W_{f,g}$}
The closed graph of the maximal operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is left to the reader as its proof is similar to those used in \cite{zbMATH07216720}.
\begin{prop}
The maximal operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is closed.
\end{prop}
Consequently, we get a criterion for the boundedness of the maximal operator $W_{f,g,\max}$.
\begin{cor}\label{cor-bdd}
The maximal operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded if and only if $\text{dom}(W_{f,g,\max})=\spc$.
\end{cor}
The following lemma will be used frequently to prove the main results as it shows that kernel functions always belong to the domain of $W_{f,g,\max}^*$.
\begin{lem}\label{lem-W*Kz}
Suppose that the operator $W_{f,g}$ is densely defined. Then equality $W_{f,g}^*K_z=\overline{f(z)}K_{g(z)}$ holds for every $z\in\dom$.
\end{lem}
We take a while to focus on the very restrictive category of operators induced by the following functions
\begin{gather}
\varphi_\tha(z)
=\left(\dfrac{\tha_1-z_1}{1-z_1\overline{\tha_1}},\dfrac{\tha_2-z_2}{1-z_2\overline{\tha_2}},
\cdots,\dfrac{\tha_d-z_d}{1-z_d\overline{\tha_d}}\right)
\end{gather}
and
\begin{gather}\label{form-psi-tha}
\psi_\tha(z)=K_{\tha}(z)/\|K_{\tha}\|.
\end{gather}
\begin{prop}\label{prop-202105032140}
Let $\tha\in\dom$. Let $\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}$ be the maximal operator generated by $\widetilde{[\psi_\tha,\varphi_\tha]}$. Then the operator $\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}$ is unitary on $\spc$.
\end{prop}
\begin{proof}
First, we show that $\text{dom}(\mathcal A_{\tha,\max})=\spc$ and $\|\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}h\|=\|h\|$ for every $h\in\spc$. Indeed, for $h\in\spc$, we consider
\begin{gather*}
I=\int\limits_{\dom}|\widetilde{[\psi_\tha,\varphi_\tha]}h(z)|^2\prod_{j=1}^d(1+\ell_j)(1-|z_j|^2)^{\ell_j}\,dA(z_j),
\end{gather*}
which implies, after doing the change of variables $x_j=\frac{\theta_j-z_j}{1-\overline{\theta_j}z_j}$, that
\begin{gather*}
I
=\int\limits_{\dom}\prod_{j=1}^d|h(x)|^2\prod_{j=1}^d(1+\ell_j)(1-|x_j|^2)^{\ell_j}\,dA(x_j),
\end{gather*}
as desired. Next, by Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz}, we have
\begin{gather*}
\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}^*K_z(y)=\overline{\psi_\tha(z)}\psi_\tha(y)K_{\varphi_\tha(z)}(\varphi_\tha(y))
=K_z(y),
\end{gather*}
which implies, as the linear span of kernel functions is dense, that $\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}^*\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}=I$.
\end{proof}
\subsection{Conjugations}
Let $\{U_1,U_2\}$ be a partition of $\zd$, that is
\begin{gather}\label{cond-UV}
U_1\cup U_2=\zd,\quad U_1\cap U_2=\emptyset.
\end{gather}
Let $\bfp=(\bfp_1,\bfp_2,\cdots,\bfp_{|U_1|})\in\D^{|U_1|}\setminus\{0\}$ and $\bfq=(\bfq_1,\bfq_2.\cdots,\bfq_{|U_2|})\in\T^{|U_2|}$. Consider the operator
\begin{gather}
\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}h(z)=\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)\overline{h(\overline{\ome(z)})},
\end{gather}
where $\vartheta_{\bfp,U}:\dom\to\C,\ome=(\ome_1,\ome_2,\cdots,\ome_d):\dom\to\dom$ are given by
\begin{gather}
\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)
=\prod_{j\in U_1}\dfrac{(1-|\bfp_j|^2)^{1+\ell_j/2}}{(1-\overline{\bfp_j}z_j)^{\ell_j+2}},\\
\ome_j(z_j)=
\begin{cases}
\dfrac{\overline{\bfp_j}}{\bfp_j}\cdot\dfrac{\bfp_j-z_j}{1-\overline{\bfp_j}z_j}
,\quad\text{if $j\in U_1$},\\
\\
\bfq_j z_j,\quad\text{if $j\in U_2$}.
\end{cases}
\end{gather}
\begin{lem}\label{lem-Cq*Kz}
The operator $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$ is a conjugation and moreover it satisfies $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}K_z=\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)K_{\overline{\ome(z)}}$.
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
For every $h\in\spc$, we consider the integral
\begin{gather*}
I=\int\limits_{\dom}|\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)h(\overline{\ome(z)})|^2\prod_{j=1}^d(1+\ell_j)(1-|z_j|^2)^{\ell_j}\,dA(z_j),
\end{gather*}
which implies, after doing the change of variables $x=\ome(z)$, that $I=\|h\|^2$. The equality shows that the operator $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$ is isometric. On one hand, we have $\overline{\ome(\overline{\ome(z)})}=z$ and on the other hand, we observe $\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)\overline{\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(\overline{\ome(z)})}=1$. Thus, the operator $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$ is involutive.
\end{proof}
\section{Real symmetry}\label{sec3}
Recall that a linear operator $Q$ is called \emph{real symmetric} if the equality $Q=Q^*$ holds. In this section, we are concerned with how the function-theoretic properties of the symbols affect the real symmetry of the corresponding weighted composition operator, and vice versa. As a consequence, we show that a real symmetric weighted composition operator must be bounded.
We start the section by a lemma which focuses on symbol computation.
\begin{lem}\label{lem-her-20210505}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Suppose that
\begin{gather}\label{cond-20210328}
\overline{f(z)}K_{g(z)}(u)=f(u)K_z(g(u))\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
\end{gather}
Then the following conclusions hold.
\begin{enumerate}
\item The functions $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ are of forms
\begin{gather}\label{form-f-her}
f(z)=\bfc K_{\bfa}(z),\quad
g_\kappa(z)=\bfa_\kappa+\dfrac{\bfb_\kappa z_\kappa}{1-\overline{\bfa_\kappa}z_\kappa}\quad
\forall\kappa\in\zd,
\end{gather}
where coefficients satisfy
\begin{gather}\label{her-cond-1}
\bfc\in\R,\quad\bfb=(\bfb_1,\bfb_2,\cdots,\bfb_d)\in\R^d,\quad\bfa=(\bfa_1,\bfa_2,\cdots,\bfa_d)\in\dom
\end{gather}
and
\begin{gather}\label{her-cond-2}
|\bfa_\kappa(\bfb_\kappa-|\bfa_\kappa|^2+1)|+|\bfb_\kappa|\leq 1-|\bfa_\kappa|^2\quad
\forall\kappa\in\zd.
\end{gather}
\item If the functions are given in item (1), then $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded on $\spc$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
(1) Taking into account the form of kernel functions, \eqref{cond-20210328} can be expressed in the following
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103252108}
\overline{f(z)}\prod_{j=1}^d\left(1-g_j(u)\overline{z_j}\right)^{\ell_j+2}
=f(u)\prod_{j=1}^d\left(1-u_j\overline{g_j(z)}\right)^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Take arbitrarily $\kappa\in\zd$. Differentiating \eqref{eq-202103252108} with respect to the variable $u_\kappa$ (i.e. taking derivative $\pa_{u_\kappa}$), we obtain
\begin{gather}
\nonumber-\overline{f(z)}\sum_{t=1}^d
(\ell_t+2)\left(1-g_t(u)\overline{z_t}\right)^{\ell_t+1}\overline{z_t}\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))
\prod_{j\ne t}\left(1-g_j(u)\overline{z_j}\right)^{\ell_j+2}\\
\nonumber=\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))\prod_{j=1}^d\left(1-u_j\overline{g_j(z)}\right)^{\ell_j+2}\\
\label{eq-202103280828}-f(u)(\ell_\kappa+2)\left(1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(z)}\right)^{\ell_\kappa+1}\overline{g_\kappa(z)}
\prod_{j\ne\kappa}\left(1-u_j\overline{g_j(z)}\right)^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Equation \eqref{eq-202103280828} divided by \eqref{eq-202103252108} is equal to
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103271045}
-\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)\dfrac{\overline{z_t}\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))}{1-g_t(u)\overline{z_t}}
=\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))}{f(u)}-(\ell_\kappa+2)\dfrac{\overline{g_\kappa(z)}}{1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(z)}}.
\end{gather}
In particular with $z=0$, we get
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103281033}
\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))}{f(u)}=(\ell_\kappa+2)\dfrac{\overline{g_\kappa(0)}}{1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(0)}}.
\end{gather}
Setting
\begin{gather*}
H(u)=(u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(0)}-1)^{\ell_\kappa+2}f(u),
\end{gather*}
then
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))=\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(H(u))}{(u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(0)}-1)^{\ell_\kappa+2}}
-\dfrac{(\ell_\kappa+2)\overline{g_\kappa(0)}H(u)}{(u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(0)}-1)^{\ell_\kappa+3}}
\end{gather*}
and so \eqref{eq-202103281033} becomes $\pa_{u_\kappa}(H(u))=0$. For that reason, $(u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(0)}-1)^{\ell_\kappa+2}f(u)$ is a function of variables $u_1,u_2,\cdots,u_{\kappa-1},u_{\kappa+1},\cdots,u_d$. Since $\kappa$ is arbitrary, by Lemma \ref{20220224} the function $f(\cdot)$ must be of form in \eqref{form-f-her}. Next, we find the function $g(\cdot)$ as follows.
{\bf Claim:} $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $u_\kappa$.
Indeed, after taking derivative $\pa_{\overline{z_\kappa}}$ in \eqref{eq-202103271045}, the following is obtained
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}{(1-g_\kappa(u)\overline{z_\kappa})^2}
=\dfrac{\overline{\pa_{z_\kappa}(g_\kappa(z))}}{(1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(z)})^2}
\end{gather*}
or equivalently to saying
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103260816}
\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))(1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(z)})^2
=\overline{\pa_{z_\kappa}(g_\kappa(z))}(1-g_\kappa(u)\overline{z_\kappa})^2.
\end{gather}
For every $s\in\zd\setminus\{\kappa\}$, we differentiate \eqref{eq-202103260816} with respect to the variable $u_s$
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202103280839}
\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))(1-u_\kappa\overline{g_\kappa(z)})^2
=-2\overline{\pa_{z_\kappa}(g_\kappa(z))}(1-g_\kappa(u)\overline{z_\kappa})
\overline{z_\kappa}\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u)).
\end{gather}
If there is $u_\star\in\dom$ with $\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u_\star))=0$, then \eqref{eq-202103260816} gives
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{z_\kappa}(g_\kappa(z))=0\quad\forall z\in\dom,
\end{gather*}
and hence by \eqref{eq-202103280839} we have
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))=0\quad\forall u\in\dom;
\end{gather*}
meaning that $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $u_\kappa$. Now consider the case when $\pa_{u_\kappa}g_\kappa(\cdot)\not\equiv 0$. Equation \eqref{eq-202103280839} divided by \eqref{eq-202103260816} is equal to
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}{\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}
=-\dfrac{2\overline{z_\kappa}\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u))}{1-g_\kappa(u)\overline{z_\kappa}},
\end{gather*}
which implies, by way of equating coefficients of $\overline{z_\kappa}$, that
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))=0=\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u)).
\end{gather*}
The claim is proven.
Suppose that $g_\kappa(u)=\psi(u_\kappa)$ for some function $\psi:\D\to\C$. Thus, \eqref{eq-202103260816} is simplified to \eqref{eq-202103262022}. By Lemma \ref{lem-202103262022}, the function $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is of the desired form.
(2) Since the function $f$ is bounded, it is enough to show that the composition operator $C_{g,\max}$ is bounded. Before proving this, we denote
\begin{gather*}
\Omega=\{j\in\zd:b_j=0\},\quad \Delta=\{j\in\zd:b_j\ne 0\}.
\end{gather*}
Suppose that $n_1,n_2,\cdots,n_t$ and $m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_s$ are elements of $\Omega,\Delta$, respectively; meaning
\begin{gather*}
\Omega=\{n_1,n_2,\cdots,n_t\},\quad\Delta=\{m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_s\}.
\end{gather*}
For each $z=(z_1,z_2,\cdots,z_d)\in\C^d$, we express $z=(z_\Omega,z_\Delta)$, where $z_\Omega=(z_{n_1},z_{n_2},\cdots,z_{n_t})$ and $z_\Delta=(z_{m_1},z_{m_2},\cdots,z_{m_s})$. Then $g(z)=(\bfa_\Omega,g_\Delta(z_\Delta))$ and
\begin{gather*}
C_{g,\max}h(z)=h(\bfa_\Omega,g_\Delta(z_\Delta))=h_{\bfa_\Omega}(g_\Delta(z_\Delta))=C_{g_\Delta,\max}h_{\bfa_\Omega}(z_\Delta).
\end{gather*}
Note that the Jacobian determinant of $g_\Delta$ is
\begin{gather*}
J=\prod_{j\in\Delta}\dfrac{|b_j|^2}{|1-\overline{a_j}z_j|^4}\ne 0,
\end{gather*}
so by \cite[Theorem 10]{zbMATH05285682}, the operator $C_{g_\Delta,\max}$ is bounded and together with Lemma \ref{lem-202106091438}, we get the boundedness of the operator $C_{g,\max}$.
\end{proof}
With all preparation in place we give one of the main results of this section. The following theorem provides a useful criteria to determine whether a maximal weighted composition operator is real symmetric or not.
\begin{thm}\label{thm-her-1}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g:\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Then the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is real symmetric on $\spc$ if and only if the functions $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ are of forms in \eqref{form-f-her}, where coefficients verify \eqref{her-cond-1}-\eqref{her-cond-2}. In this case, the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Suppose that the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is real symmetric on $\spc$, which gives $W_{f,g,\max}^*=W_{f,g,\max}$. In particular, the following is obtained
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105041444}
W_{f,g,\max}^*K_z=W_{f,g,\max}K_z\quad\forall z\in\dom.
\end{gather}
By Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz}, \eqref{eq-202105041444} becomes \eqref{cond-20210328} and Lemma \ref{lem-her-20210505} gives the necessary condition.
For the sufficient condition, take $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ as in the statement of the theorem. Lemma \ref{lem-her-20210505} shows that the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded. By \eqref{form-f-her}-\eqref{her-cond-2} and Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz}, the operator verifies \eqref{eq-202105041444} and so it must be real symmetric.
\end{proof}
The following result shows that the real symmetry cannot be separated from the maximal domain; in other words, a real symmetric weighted composition operator must be maximal.
\begin{thm}\label{thm-her-2}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g:\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Then the operator $W_{f,g}$ is real symmetric on $\spc$ if and only if it verifies two assertions.
\begin{enumerate}
\item \eqref{form-f-her}-\eqref{her-cond-2} hold.
\item The operator $W_{f,g}$ is maximal; that is $W_{f,g}=W_{f,g,\max}$.
\end{enumerate}
In this case, the operator $W_{f,g}$ is bounded.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
The implication $``\Longleftarrow"$ is proven in Theorem \ref{thm-her-1} and the remaing task is to prove the implication $``\Longrightarrow"$. Indeed, since $W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}$, by \cite[Proposition 1.6]{KS}, we have
$$
W_{f,g,\max}^*\preceq W_{f,g}^*=W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}.
$$
Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz} shows that $K_z\in\text{dom}(W_{f,g,\max}^*)$, and so,
$$
W_{f,g,\max}^*K_z(u)=W_{f,g,\max}K_z(u)\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
$$
By Lemmas \ref{lem-W*Kz} and \ref{lem-her-20210505}, conditions \eqref{form-f-her}-\eqref{her-cond-2} hold, and hence, by Theorem \ref{thm-her-1}, the operator $W_{f,g,\max}=W_{f,g,\max}^*$. Using this equality, item (2) is proven as follows
$$
W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}=W_{f,g,\max}^*\preceq W_{f,g}^*=W_{f,g}.
$$
\end{proof}
\section{Unitary property}\label{sec4}
Recall that a bounded linear operator $Q$ is called \emph{unitary} if the equality $QQ^*=Q^*Q=I$ holds. In this section, we describe all weighted composition
operators that are unitary. The following lemma gives a partial characterization of the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ under the assumption that the symbol $g(\cdot)$ fixes $0$.
\begin{lem}\label{lem-univ}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Suppose that
\begin{gather}\label{cond-202105021108}
\overline{f(z)}f(u)K_{g(z)}(g(u))=K_z(u)\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
\end{gather}
If $g(0)=0$, then
\begin{gather}
f(\cdot)\equiv\bfc,\quad
g_\kappa(z)=\bfa_{\kappa}z_{\phi(\kappa)},
\end{gather}
where
\begin{gather}\label{cond-202105041603}
\text{$\phi:\zd\to\zd$ is bijective and}\quad\bfc,\bfa_\kappa\in\T.
\end{gather}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
Setting $z=0$ in \eqref{cond-202105021108}, we find $\overline{f(0)}f(u)=1$, which means $f(\cdot)\equiv\bfc$, where $\bfc\in\T$. Consequently, taking into account the explicit form of kernel functions, \eqref{cond-202105021108} is reduced to the following
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105021643}
\prod_{j=1}^d(1-g_j(u)\overline{g_j(z)})^{\ell_j+2}
=\prod_{j=1}^d(1-u_j\overline{z_j})^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Let $\kappa\in\zd$. Taking derivative $\pa_{u_\kappa}$, \eqref{eq-202105021643} becomes
\begin{gather}
\nonumber-\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)(1-g_t(u)\overline{g_t(z)})^{\ell_t+1}\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))\overline{g_t(z)}
\prod_{j\ne t}(1-g_j(u)\overline{g_j(z)})^{\ell_j+2}\\
\label{eq-202105021650}=-(\ell_\kappa+2)\overline{z_\kappa}(1-u_\kappa\overline{z_\kappa})^{\ell_\kappa+1}
\prod_{j\ne\kappa}(1-u_j\overline{z_j})^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Equation \eqref{eq-202105021650} divided by \eqref{eq-202105021643} is equal to
\begin{gather*}
\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))\overline{g_t(z)}}{1-g_t(u)\overline{g_t(z)}}
=(\ell_\kappa+2)\dfrac{\overline{z_\kappa}}{1-u_\kappa\overline{z_\kappa}}.
\end{gather*}
In particular with $u=0$, we get
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105022112}
\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(0))\overline{g_t(z)}
=(\ell_\kappa+2)\overline{z_\kappa}\quad\forall\kappa\in\zd.
\end{gather}
Let
\begin{gather*}
\mba=
\begin{pmatrix}
(\ell_1+2)\overline{\pa_{u_1}(g_1(0))} & (\ell_2+2)\overline{\pa_{u_1}(g_2(0))} &\cdots &(\ell_d+2)\overline{\pa_{u_1}(g_d(0))}\\
& & &\\
(\ell_1+2)\overline{\pa_{u_2}(g_1(0))} & (\ell_2+2)\overline{\pa_{u_2}(g_2(0))} &\cdots &(\ell_d+2)\overline{\pa_{u_2}(g_d(0))}\\
\vdots &\vdots & \ddots & \vdots\\
(\ell_1+2)\overline{\pa_{u_d}(g_1(0))} & (\ell_2+2)\overline{\pa_{u_d}(g_2(0))} &\cdots &(\ell_d+2)\overline{\pa_{u_d}(g_d(0))}
\end{pmatrix}
\end{gather*}
and $\mbb$ be the diagonal matrix given by
\begin{gather*}
\mbb=\text{diag}\left(\ell_1+2,\ell_2+2,\cdots,\ell_d+2\right).
\end{gather*}
Now equation \eqref{eq-202105022112} is rewritten as $\mba g(z)=\mbb z$, which gives $g(z)=\mbh z$, where $\mbh=(h_{i,j})_{d\times d}=\mba^{-1}\mbb$.
Fix $p\in\zd$. Setting $z=(0,\ldots,0,z_p,0,\ldots,0)$ in \eqref{eq-202105021643}, where $z_p$ is the $p$-th coordinate, we obtain
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105030934}
\prod_{j=1}^d\left(1-g_j(u)\overline{h_{j,p}z_p}\right)^{\ell_j+2}
=(1-u_p\overline{z_p})^{\ell_p+2}.
\end{gather}
We continue with choosing $u=(0,\ldots,0,u_p,0,\ldots,0)$, where $u_p$ is the $p$-th coordinate, and then \eqref{eq-202105030934} is reduced to the following
\begin{gather*}
\prod_{j=1}^d(1-|h_{j,p}|^2u_p\overline{z_p})^{\ell_j+2}=(1-u_p\overline{z_p})^{\ell_p+2}.
\end{gather*}
Hence, since $u_p,z_p\in\D$ are arbitrary, coefficients $h_{j,p}$ verify
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105030930}
\prod_{j=1}^d(1-|h_{j,p}|^2x)^{\ell_j+2}=(1-x)^{\ell_p+2}\quad\forall x\in\D.
\end{gather}
The highest power of the left-hand side is $\sum\limits_{j=1}^d(\ell_j+2)$; meanwhile of the right-hand side is $\ell_p+2$. Thus, the coefficient of $x^{\sum\limits_{j=1}^d(\ell_j+2)}$ in \eqref{eq-202105030930} must be $0$; meaning that
\begin{gather*}
\prod_{j=1}^d|h_{j,p}|^2=0.
\end{gather*}
Denote
\begin{gather*}
V_p=\{j\in\zd:h_{j,p}=0\},\quad U_p=\{j\in\zd:h_{j,p}\ne 0\}.
\end{gather*}
If $U_p=\emptyset$, then $h_{j,p}=0$ for every $j\in\zd$; but this is impossible as the matrix $\mbh$ is invertible. Now consider the situation when $U_p\ne\emptyset$. Setting $u=w_{-p}:=(w_1,\ldots,w_{p-1},0,w_{p+1},\ldots,w_d)$ in \eqref{eq-202105030934}, where $0$ is the $p$-th coordinate, we get
\begin{gather*}
\prod_{j=1}^d\left(1-g_j(w_{-p})\overline{h_{j,p}z_p}\right)^{\ell_j+2}=1.
\end{gather*}
Through equating coefficients of $\overline{z_p}$ and then using the fact that $h_{j,p}\ne 0$ for $j\in U_p$, we have
\begin{gather}
\nonumber g_j(w_{-p})=0\Longrightarrow h_{j,t}=0\quad\forall j\in U_p,t\in\zd\setminus\{p\},
\end{gather}
and so
\begin{gather}
\label{eq-202105031340}g_j(u_1,u_2,\cdots,u_d)=h_{j,p}u_p\quad\forall j\in U_p.
\end{gather}
Note that equation \eqref{eq-202105030930} can be rewritten in the following form
\begin{gather*}
\prod_{j\in U_p}(1-|h_{j,p}|^2x)^{\ell_j+2}=(1-x)^{\ell_p+2},
\end{gather*}
which implies, after equating coefficients of $x^{\ell_p+2}$, that
\begin{gather*}
\prod_{j\in U_p}|h_{j,p}|^{\ell_j+2}=1.
\end{gather*}
Since $g(z)=\mbh z$ is a self-mapping of $\dom$, we have
\begin{gather*}
|h_{j,p}|\leq 1\quad\forall j\in U_p,p\in\zd\quad
\Longrightarrow\quad\prod_{j\in U_p}|h_{j,p}|^{\ell_j+2}\leq 1\quad\forall p\in\zd.
\end{gather*}
Thus,
\begin{gather*}
|h_{j,p}|= 1\quad\forall j\in U_p,p\in\zd.
\end{gather*}
{\bf Claim:} For every $p\in\zd$, $U_p$ is a singleton set.
Since $U_p,p\in\zd$ are subsets of $\zd$, it is enough to show that the family $\{U_p:p\in\zd\}$ consists of disjoint sets. Indeed, assume in contrary that there exist $p,q\in\zd$ with $p\ne q$ such that $U_p\cap U_q\ne\emptyset$. Let $t\in U_p\cap U_q$. It follows from \eqref{eq-202105031340} that
\begin{gather*}
g_t(u)=h_{t,p}u_p=h_{t,q}u_q;
\end{gather*}
but this is impossible as $|h_{t,p}|= 1=|h_{t,q}|$ and $p\ne q$.
Let us define the map $\eta:\zd\to\zd$ by setting $\eta(p)=j$, where $j,p\in\zd$ satisfy \eqref{eq-202105031340}. Then $\eta$ is bijective and \eqref{cond-202105041603} holds, where $\phi=\eta^{-1}$.
\end{proof}
With the help of Lemma \ref{lem-univ}, we give a complete characterization of unitary weighted composition operators.
\begin{thm}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g:\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Then the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is unitary on $\spc$ if and only if
\begin{gather}\label{uni-form-fg}
f(z)=\bfc\prod_{j=1}^d\dfrac{(1-|\theta_j|^2)^{1+\ell_j/2}}{(1-\bfa_j\overline{\theta_j}z_{\phi(j)})^{\ell_j+2}},\quad
g_\kappa(z)=\dfrac{\bfa_\kappa(\overline{\bfa_\kappa}\tha_\kappa-z_{\phi(\kappa)})}
{1-\bfa_\kappa\overline{\tha_\kappa}z_{\phi(\kappa)}},
\end{gather}
where coefficients satisfy \eqref{cond-202105041603} and
\begin{gather}
\theta=(\theta_1,\theta_2,\cdots,\theta_d)\in\D^d.
\end{gather}
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Note that the sufficient condition can be obtained by arguments similar to those used in Proposition \ref{prop-202105032140}. We prove the necessary condition as follows. Suppose that the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is unitary on $\spc$. Put $\theta=g(0)$ and define
\begin{gather*}
F=f\cdot\psi_\tha\circ g,\quad G=\varphi_\tha\circ g.
\end{gather*}
A direct computation gives $\widetilde{[F,G]}=\widetilde{[f,g]}\widetilde{[\psi_\tha,\varphi_\tha]}$ and so we get
\begin{gather*}
W_{F,G,\max}=W_{f,g,\max}\mathcal A_{\tha,\max}.
\end{gather*}
Using Proposition \ref{prop-202105032140}, we can show that the operator $W_{F,G,\max}$ is unitary with $G(0)=\varphi_\tha(g(0))=0$. We have
\begin{gather*}
K_z=W_{F,G,\max}W_{F,G,\max}^*K_z=W_{F,G,\max}\left(\overline{F(z)}K_{G(z)}\right)\\
=\overline{F(z)} F\cdot K_{G(z)}\circ G\\
\Longrightarrow\quad K_z(u)=\overline{F(z)}F(u)K_{G(z)}(G(u))\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
\end{gather*}
The line above allows us to use Lemma \ref{lem-univ} and the proof is complete.
\end{proof}
\section{Complex symmetry}\label{sec5}
The section studies which the symbols give rise to weighted composition operators that are complex symmetric with respect to the conjugation $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$. Such operators are called \emph{$\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric}. Like as the real symmetry, a $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric weighted composition operator must be bounded. As a byproduct, we obtain the interesting fact that real symmetric weighted composition operators are $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric corresponding an adapted and highly relevant selection of the parameters $\bfp,\bfq$.
To study the necessary condition for a weighted composition operator to be $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric, we apply the symmetric condition to kernel functions. It turns out that the symbols generating such operators can be precisely computed.
\begin{lem}\label{lem-202105210827}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1},\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $U_1,U_2$ with condition \eqref{cond-UV} and $\bfp\in\D^{|U_1|}\setminus\{0\},\bfq\in\T^{|U_2|}$. Let $\bfr\in\dom$, where
\begin{gather*}
\bfr_t=
\begin{cases}
\bfp_t\quad\text{if $t\in U_1$},\\
0\quad\text{if $t\in U_2$}.
\end{cases}
\end{gather*}
Let $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. Suppose that
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105261537}
\overline{\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(z)}\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(g(\overline{\omega(z)}))f(\overline{\omega(z)})
K_{\overline{\omega(g(\overline{\omega(z)}))}}(u)
=f(u)K_z(g(u))\quad\forall z,u\in\D^d.
\end{gather}
Then the following assertions hold.
\begin{enumerate}
\item The functions are of forms
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105261617}
f(u)=\widetilde{c}K_{\overline{\ome(g(\bfr))}}(u),\quad
g_\kappa(u_\kappa)=
\begin{cases}
G_\kappa+\dfrac{E_\kappa}{u_\kappa+F_\kappa}
\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_1$}\\
\\
\al_\kappa+\dfrac{\beta_\kappa\bfq_\kappa u_\kappa}{1-\al_\kappa\bfq_\kappa u_\kappa}\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_2$},
\end{cases}
\end{gather}
where coefficients satisfy
\begin{gather}
\label{202208121603}G_\kappa\in\D\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_1,E_\kappa=0$},\\
\label{cond-202106030907}p-G_\kappa|p_\kappa|^2=-F_\kappa|p_\kappa|^2+(G_\kappa F_\kappa+E_\kappa)\overline{p_\kappa}\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_1,E_\kappa\ne 0$},\\
\label{202208121558}|(G_\kappa F_\kappa+E_\kappa)\overline{F_\kappa}-G_\kappa|+|E_\kappa|\leq|F_\kappa|^2-1\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_1,E_\kappa\ne 0$},\\
\label{202208121628}\alpha_\kappa\in\D\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_2,\beta_\kappa=0$},\\
\label{cond-202105210836}
|\al_\kappa+\overline{\al_\kappa}(\beta_\kappa-\al_\kappa^2)|+|\beta_\kappa|\leq 1-|\alpha_\kappa|^2\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_2,\beta_\kappa\ne 0$}.
\end{gather}
\item If the functions are given in item (1), then $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded on $\spc$.
\end{enumerate}
\end{lem}
\begin{proof}
(1) Setting $z=\overline{\omega(y)}$ in \eqref{eq-202105261537}, we find
\begin{gather*}
\overline{\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(\overline{\ome(y)})}\vartheta_{\bfp,U}(g(y))f(y)K_{\overline{\ome(g(y))}}(u)
=f(u)K_{\overline{\ome(y)}}(g(u))\quad\forall y,u\in\dom.
\end{gather*}
Consequently, taking into account the explicit form of kernel functions, we get
\begin{gather}
\nonumber f(y)
\prod_{j\in U_1}(1-|\bfp_j|^2)^{\ell_j+2}\prod_{j=1}^d[1-g_j(u)\ome_j(y_j)]^{\ell_j+2}\\
\label{eq-202105261608}=f(u)\prod_{j\in U_1}(1-\overline{\bfp_j}g_j(y))^{\ell_j+2}(1-\bfp_j\ome_j(y_j))^{\ell_j+2}
\prod_{j=1}^d[1-u_j\ome_j(g_j(y))]^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Let $\kappa\in\zd$. After differentiating with respect to the variable $u_\kappa$, the equation above becomes
\begin{gather}
\nonumber -f(y)\prod_{j\in U_1}(1-|\bfp_j|^2)^{\ell_j+2}
\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)[1-g_t(u)\ome_t(y_t)]^{\ell_t+1}\ome_t(y_t)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))\\
\nonumber\times\prod_{j\ne t}[1-g_j(u)\ome_j(y_j)]^{\ell_j+2}\\
\nonumber=\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))\prod_{j\in U_1}(1-\overline{\bfp_j}g_j(y))^{\ell_j+2}(1-\bfp_j\ome_j(y_j))^{\ell_j+2}
\prod_{j=1}^d[1-u_j\ome_j(g_j(y))]^{\ell_j+2}\\
\nonumber-f(u)\prod_{j\in U_1}(1-\overline{\bfp_j}g_j(y))^{\ell_j+2}(1-\bfp_j\ome_j(y_j))^{\ell_j+2}\\
\label{eq-202105261609}\times(\ell_\kappa+2)[1-u_\kappa\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(y))]^{\ell_\kappa+1}
\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(y))
\prod_{j\ne\kappa}[1-u_j\ome_j(g_j(y))]^{\ell_j+2}.
\end{gather}
Equation \eqref{eq-202105261609} divided by \eqref{eq-202105261608} is equal to
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105261625}
-\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)\dfrac{\ome_t(y_t)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))}{1-g_t(u)\ome_t(y_t)}
=\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))}{f(u)}
-\dfrac{(\ell_\kappa+2)\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(y))}{1-u_\kappa\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(y))}.
\end{gather}
Setting $y=\bfr$, we observe
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))}{f(u)}
=\dfrac{(\ell_\kappa+2)\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(\bfr))}{1-u_\kappa\ome_\kappa(g_\kappa(\bfr))}.
\end{gather*}
Using the arguments similar to \eqref{eq-202103281033}, the function $f(\cdot)$ is of form as in \eqref{eq-202105261617}. Setting $\xi=\ome_\kappa\circ g_\kappa$, \eqref{eq-202105261625} is rewritten as
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202106022212}
-\sum_{t=1}^d(\ell_t+2)\dfrac{\ome_t(y_t)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_t(u))}{1-g_t(u)\ome_t(y_t)}
=\dfrac{\pa_{u_\kappa}(f(u))}{f(u)}
-\dfrac{(\ell_\kappa+2)\xi(y)}{1-u_\kappa\xi(y)}.
\end{gather}
We differentiate \eqref{eq-202106022212} with respect to the variable $y_{\kappa}$, where $j\in\{1,2\}$, and then
\begin{gather}
\label{eq-202105261827}
\dfrac{\ome_\kappa^{\odot}(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}{(1-\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)g_\kappa(u))^2}
=\dfrac{\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))}{(1-u_\kappa\xi(y))^2}
\end{gather}
or equivalently to saying that
\begin{gather}
\label{eq-202105261815}\ome_\kappa^{\odot}(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))(1-u_\kappa\xi(y))^2
=\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))(1-\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)g_\kappa(u))^2,
\end{gather}
where we denote
\begin{gather*}
\ome_\kappa^{\odot}(y_\kappa)=
\begin{cases}
\dfrac{\overline{\bfp_{\kappa}}}{\bfp_\kappa}\cdot\dfrac{|\bfp_\kappa|^2-1}
{(1-\overline{\bfp_\kappa}z_{\kappa})^2}\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_1$},\\
\bfq_\kappa\quad\text{if $\kappa\in U_2$}.
\end{cases}
\end{gather*}
{\bf Claim 1:} $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $u_\kappa$.
Let $s\in\zd\setminus\{\kappa\}$. Taking derivative $\pa_{u_s}$ on both sides of \eqref{eq-202105261815} gives
\begin{gather}
\nonumber\ome_\kappa^{\odot}(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))(1-u_\kappa\xi(y))^2\\
\label{eq-202105261816}
=-\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))2(1-\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)g_\kappa(u))\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u)).
\end{gather}
If there is $u_\star\in\dom$ for which $\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u_\star))=0$, then \eqref{eq-202105261815} gives
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))=0\quad\forall y\in\dom,
\end{gather*}
and hence by \eqref{eq-202105261816},
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))=0\quad\forall u\in\dom;
\end{gather*}
meaning that $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $u_\kappa$. Now consider the situation when $\pa_{u_\kappa}g_\kappa(\cdot)\not\equiv 0$. Equation \eqref{eq-202105261816} divided by \eqref{eq-202105261815} is equal to the following
\begin{gather*}
\dfrac{\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}{\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}
=-\dfrac{2\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u))}{1-\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)g_\kappa(u)},
\end{gather*}
which implies, after equating coefficients of $\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)$, that
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{u_s}\circ\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))=0=\pa_{u_s}(g_\kappa(u));
\end{gather*}
meaning that $g_\kappa(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $u_\kappa$.
{\bf Claim 2:} $\xi(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $y_{\kappa}$, too.
Let $t\in\zd\setminus\{\kappa\}$. We proceed into taking derivative $\pa_{y_t}$ on both sides of \eqref{eq-202105261827}
\begin{gather*}
0=\pa_{y_t}\left(\dfrac{\ome_\kappa^{\odot}(y_\kappa)\pa_{u_\kappa}(g_\kappa(u))}{(1-\ome_\kappa(y_\kappa)g_\kappa(u))^2}\right)
=\pa_{y_t}\left(\dfrac{\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))}{(1-u_\kappa\xi(y))^2}\right)\\
\Longrightarrow
0=\pa_{y_t}\circ\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))(1-u_\kappa\xi(y))
+2u_\kappa\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))\pa_{y_t}(\xi(y)).
\end{gather*}
After equating coefficients of $u_\kappa$, we get
\begin{gather*}
\pa_{y_t}\circ\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))=0=\pa_{y_{\kappa}}(\xi(y))\cdot\pa_{y_t}(\xi(y));
\end{gather*}
meaning that $\xi(\cdot)$ is a function of one variable $y_{\kappa}$. Thus, we make use of Lemma \ref{lem-202105202050} (when $\kappa\in U_2$) and Lemma \ref{lem-202105291538} (when $\kappa\in U_1$).
(2) The part is the same as those of Lemma \ref{lem-her-20210505}(2) but we give a proof, for a completeness of exposition. Since the function $f(\cdot)$ is bounded, it is enough to show that the composition operator $C_{g,\max}$ is bounded. Before proving this, we fix some symbols used. Denote
\begin{gather*}
\Omega=\{j\in\zd:g_j\equiv\text{const}\},\quad\Delta=\left\{j\in U_1:g_j\not\equiv\text{const}\right\},\quad\Xi=\left\{j\in U_2:g_j\not\equiv\text{const}\right\}.
\end{gather*}
Suppose that $n_1,n_2,\cdots,n_t$ and $m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_s$ and $c_1,c_2,\cdots,c_r$ are elements of $\Omega,\Delta,\Xi$, respectively; meaning
\begin{gather*}
\Omega=\{n_1,n_2,\cdots,n_t\},\quad\Delta=\{m_1,m_2,\cdots,m_s\},\quad\Xi=\{c_1,c_2,\cdots,c_r\}.
\end{gather*}
For each $z=(z_1,z_2,\cdots,z_d)\in\C^d$, we express $z=(z_\Omega,z_\Delta,z_\Xi)$, where $z_\Omega=(z_{n_1},z_{n_2},\cdots,z_{n_t})$ and $z_\Delta=(z_{m_1},z_{m_2},\cdots,z_{m_s})$ and $z_\Xi=(z_{c_1},z_{c_2},\cdots,z_{c_r})$. Then $g(z)=(\bfa_\Omega,g_\Delta(z_\Delta),g_\Xi(z_\Xi))$ and
\begin{gather*}
C_{g,\max}h(z)=h(\bfa_\Omega,g_\Delta(z_\Delta),g_\Xi(z_\Xi))=h_{\bfa_\Omega}(g_\Delta(z_\Delta),g_\Xi(z_\Xi))=C_{(g_\Delta,g_\Xi),\max}h_{\bfa_\Omega}(z_\Delta,z_\Xi).
\end{gather*}
Note that the Jacobian determinant of $(g_\Delta,g_\Xi)$ is
\begin{gather*}
J=\prod_{j\in\Delta}\left|\dfrac{E_j}{(z_j+F_j)^2}\right|^2\cdot\prod_{\kappa\in\Xi}\left|\dfrac{\beta_\kappa}{(1-\alpha_\kappa\bfq_\kappa z_\kappa)^2}\right|^2\ne 0,
\end{gather*}
so by \cite[Theorem 10]{zbMATH05285682}, the operator $C_{g_\Delta,\max}$ is bounded and together with Lemma \ref{lem-202106091438}, we get the boundedness of the operator $C_{g,\max}$.
\end{proof}
Lemma \ref{lem-202105210827} provides a necessary condition for a weighted composition operator to be $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric. It turns out that the assertion in Lemma \ref{lem-202105210827} is also a sufficient condition.
\begin{thm}\label{thm-cs-1}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1},\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $U_1,U_2$ with condition \eqref{cond-UV} and $\bfp\in\D^{|U_1|}\setminus\{0\},\bfq\in\T^{|U_2|}$. Suppose that $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ are analytic functions. Then the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric on $\spc$ if and only if the functions $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ are of forms in \eqref{eq-202105261617}, where coefficients verify \eqref{202208121603}-\eqref{cond-202105210836}. In this case, the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
Suppose that the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric on $\spc$, which gives
\begin{gather*}
\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g,\max}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}=W_{f,g,\max}.
\end{gather*}
In particular, the following is obtained
\begin{gather}\label{eq-202105201542}
\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g,\max}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}K_z=W_{f,g,\max}K_z\quad\forall z\in\dom.
\end{gather}
By Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz}, \eqref{eq-202105201542} becomes \eqref{eq-202105261537} and so we can make use of Lemma \ref{lem-202105210827} to get the necessary condition.
For the sufficient condition, take $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ as in the statement of the theorem. Lemma \ref{lem-202105210827} shows that the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is bounded. By \eqref{eq-202105261617}-\eqref{cond-202105210836} and Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz}, the operator verifies \eqref{eq-202105201542} and so it must be $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric.
\end{proof}
Theorem \ref{thm-cs-1} characterizes maximal weighted composition operators that are $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric. The following theorem proves that the maximal domain and boundedness are consequences of the $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetry.
\begin{thm}\label{thm-cs-2}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1},\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $U_1,U_2$ with condition \eqref{cond-UV} and $\bfp\in\D^{|U_1|}\setminus\{0\},\bfq\in\T^{|U_2|}$. Suppose that $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ are analytic functions. Then the operator $W_{f,g}$ is $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric on $\spc$ if and only if it verifies two assertions.
\begin{enumerate}
\item \eqref{202208121603}-\eqref{cond-202105210836} hold.
\item The operator $W_{f,g}$ is maximal; that is $W_{f,g}=W_{f,g,\max}$.
\end{enumerate}
In this case, the operator $W_{f,g}$ is bounded.
\end{thm}
\begin{proof}
The implication $``\Longleftarrow"$ is proven in Theorem \ref{thm-cs-1} and the remaining task is to prove the implication $``\Longrightarrow"$. Indeed, since $W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}$, by \cite[Proposition 1.6]{KS}, we have
$$
\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g,\max}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}\preceq\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}=W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}.
$$
Lemma \ref{lem-W*Kz} shows that $K_z\in\text{dom}(W_{f,g,\max}^*)$, and so,
$$
\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g,\max}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}K_z(u)=W_{f,g,\max}K_z(u)\quad\forall z,u\in\dom.
$$
By Lemmas \ref{lem-W*Kz} and \ref{lem-202105210827}, conditions \eqref{eq-202105261617}-\eqref{cond-202105210836} hold, and hence, by Theorem \ref{thm-cs-1}, the operator $W_{f,g,\max}$ is $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric. Using this, item (2) is proven as follows
$$
W_{f,g}\preceq W_{f,g,\max}=\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g,\max}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}\preceq \mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}W_{f,g}^*\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}=W_{f,g}.
$$
\end{proof}
\begin{cor}
Let $d\in\Z_{\geq 1}$ and $\ell\in\Z_{\geq 0}^d$. Let $f:\dom\to\C,g=(g_1,g_2,\cdots,g_d):\dom\to\dom$ be analytic functions. If the operator $W_{f,g}$ is real symmetric, then it is complex symmetric.
\end{cor}
\begin{proof}
Suppose that the operator $W_{f,g}$ is real symmetric. By Theorem \ref{thm-her-2}, the functions $f(\cdot),g(\cdot)$ satisfy \eqref{form-f-her}-\eqref{her-cond-2}. It then is $\mathcal C_{\bfp,\bfq}$-symmetric, where $U_2=\zd$ and
\begin{gather*}
\alpha_\kappa=
\begin{cases}
\bfa_\kappa\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa\ne 0$},\\
0\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa=0$},
\end{cases}
\bfq_\kappa=
\begin{cases}
\dfrac{\overline{\bfa_\kappa}}{\bfa_\kappa}\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa\ne 0$},\\
1\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa=0$},
\end{cases}
\beta_\kappa=
\begin{cases}
\dfrac{\bfa_\kappa\bfb_\kappa}{\overline{\bfa_\kappa}}\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa\ne 0$},\\
\bfb_\kappa\quad\text{if $\bfa_\kappa=0$}.
\end{cases}
\end{gather*}
\end{proof}
\section*{Acknowledgements}
The paper was completed during a scientific stay of P.V. Hai at the Vietnam Institute for Advanced Study in Mathematics (VIASM). He would like to thank the VIASM for financial support and hospitality.
\nocite{*}
\bibliographystyle{plain}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 5,955 |
Q: Android viewpager is not loading the Image? I asked very similar question in the morning but after trying something viewpager is not loading the expected images. This is my updated code:
layout_view_pager_item
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<LinearLayout xmlns:android="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res/android"
android:orientation="vertical" android:layout_width="match_parent"
android:layout_height="match_parent">
<ImageView
android:id="@+id/image"
android:layout_width="wrap_content"
android:layout_height="wrap_content"
android:layout_alignParentRight="true"
android:background="#000000"
android:padding="1dp" />
</LinearLayout>
layout_data_listing_food
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<RelativeLayout xmlns:android="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res/android"
style="@style/Base.TextAppearance.AppCompat.Menu"
android:layout_width="fill_parent"
android:layout_height="fill_parent">
<TextView
.....
android:focusable="true" />
<android.support.v4.view.ViewPager
android:id="@+id/pager"
....
android:layout_alignStart="@id/profilePic" />
FoodListAdapter
public class FoodListAdapter extends ArrayAdapter<Food> {
private Context context;
private List<Food> roomList;
private ViewPager viewPager;
ArrayList<Integer> itemsimg = new ArrayList<Integer>();
public FoodListAdapter(Context context, int resource, List<Food> objects) {
super(context, resource, objects);
this.context = context;
this.roomList = objects;
}
@Override
public View getView(int position, View convertView, ViewGroup parent) {
itemsimg.add(R.drawable.temp_envelope);
LayoutInflater inflater = (LayoutInflater) context.getSystemService(Activity.LAYOUT_INFLATER_SERVICE);
if (null == convertView) {
convertView = inflater.inflate(R.layout.layout_data_listing_food, parent, false);
}
ViewPageAdapter slider = new ViewPageAdapter(context,itemsimg);
ViewPager vpPager = (ViewPager) convertView.findViewById(R.id.pager);
vpPager.setAdapter(slider);
return convertView;
}
}
ViewPagerAdapter
public class ViewPageAdapter extends PagerAdapter {
private ArrayList<Integer> pagerItems;
private LayoutInflater inflater;
private Context context;
private FragmentManager fragmentManager;
public ViewPageAdapter(Context context, ArrayList<Integer> pagerItems) {
super();
this.pagerItems = pagerItems;
this.context = context;
inflater = LayoutInflater.from(context);
}
@Override
public Object instantiateItem(ViewGroup container, int position) {
try {
View imageLayout = inflater.inflate(R.layout.layout_view_pager_item, container, false);
final ImageView imageView = (ImageView) imageLayout
.findViewById(R.id.image);
imageView.setImageResource(pagerItems.get(position));
container.addView(imageLayout, 0);
return imageLayout;
}catch (Exception ex){
ex.printStackTrace();
return null;
}
}
@Override
public int getCount() {
return pagerItems.size();
}
@Override
public boolean isViewFromObject(View view, Object object) {
return view.equals(object);
}
@Override
public void destroyItem(ViewGroup container, int position, Object object) {
((ViewPager) container).removeView((View) object);
}
}
Expectation
*
*List view should have to show viewpager data in each row (Right now I hardcoded the viewpager data)
*Each row will contain Viewpager and TextView as we can see in layout_data_listing_food ViewPager ImageView just after the TextView
What I am doing wrong here? When I debug the code there was not Error :(
and data is also passing from one class to another. Any help would be appreciable
Problem
I can't see the Image loading through Viewpager but I can see the TextView content in layout file
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 6,878 |
The latest content update for The Secret World, Issue #8 – The Venetian Agenda – is now live.
Scenarios are now available! Secret Worlders can hone themselves in simulated training environments. Players can select a destination, group size, and difficulty. Protect NPCs from hordes of ravening enemies and receive certification from the Council of Venice!
The Augment system can now be unlocked! Tune your abilities to suit your playstyle's needs!
A new story mission is available! The main storyline continues, ramping up to the next pivotal chapter in Tokyo.
Fixed an issue where Suppressing Fire would sometimes not build resources when multiple players attacked the same target. Note that this now causes the ability to build resources at the end of the cast similar to Bloodline.
Increased the duration of Advantage Me to be 5 seconds.
Increased the jump distance of the chain spells Wanted, Electrical Storm, and Infection to 5 meters.
Fixed item shortcut window being cleared when loading a build in the gear manager.
Fixed an issue that caused minor talismans to be removed from saved builds when launching the client.
Fixed an issue where the Gear Manager would not equip certain items.
Fixed an issue that could prevent the Gear Manager from equipping an Elite Passive ability.
Fixed an issue that could prevent the Gear Manager from equipping an Elite Active ability.
Fixed an issue where the Gear Manager would preview the wrong set when more than 8 sets were saved.
Increased the duration of the snare effect applied by Razor Wire.
Fixed an issue that caused a visible seam to appear on character arms when wearing the Plague Doctor gloves with a long sleeved shirt.
Fixed an issue that caused visible seams to appear on character legs when wearing the Plague Doctor leggings with certain boots.
Fixed an issue that caused an errant texture to appear in front of a character's abdomen while wearing the Creepy Equine Mask and being in combat stance with fist weapons.
The Confession of Ellis Hill: Fixed a typo in the mission text.
The Ghost of Jack-o-Lantern: All pumpkins are despawned when Jack dies.
The Ghost of Jack-o-Lantern: Players can buy and carve new Jack-o-lanterns as often as they want while on the mission.
Spooky Stories of Solomon Island: Removed the cooldown from this mission.
The Organ Smugglers: The mobs will now properly reset if players die during the ambush.
The Organ Smugglers: Organ Harvesters/Mark Davies will no longer affect gear durability.
The Prisoner: Removed an errant symbol in the subtitles during the final cinematic.
Last Train to Cairo: Added missing lip movement to Saïd during the opening cinematic.
The Gathering: Fixed some clipping issues with Cucuvea's hair during the mission cinematic.
Deathless: Fixed some clipping issues with Cucuvea's hair during the mission cinematic.
The Sound of Children: Fixed typos in the computer used during Tier 2 of this mission.
Corrupted Agartha: Creatures in the nightmare version of the Filthy Agartha instance are harder again.
The new Scenario, Augment System and Story Missions are not yet available. These will be added when Issue 8 goes live.
Adjusted the experience awarded to groups, depending on group size (awards are unchanged for solo play and for groups of five).
Gadgets will no longer trigger the global cooldown when used.
Updated the simple description for Sudden Return.
Fixed an issue with the tooltip for the heal value of My Bloody Valentine.
Resolved an issue that could leave the boss area for Aspect of the Long-Toothed inaccessible for future players when the boss despawns.
Fixed a problem that could cause characters to drop from sprint immediately after combat.
Deadly Aim now applies a debuff to all affected party members which prevents them from receiving the Deadly Aim effect for 90 seconds.
Calling the Shots now also reduces the duration of the Deadly Aim blocker effect.
Breaching Shot now applies a debuff to all affected party members which prevents them from receiving the Breaching Shot effect for 90 seconds.
Breach Party now also reduces the duration of the Breaching Shot blocker effect.
Fixed an issue where Aftershock could trigger more than once.
Splatter should now affect Health Drone and Linked Veins.
Misdirection can no longer be used on friendly NPCs.
Fixed an issue where Chain Feed would not affect all healing chains.
Sleight of Hand should be usable while silenced now.
Groundwork will no longer erroneously build resources for your secondary weapon.
Suppressing Fire should now add resources more reliably when multiple players are shooting the same target.
The cooldown of Death From Above will now be properly reduced when using both Rocket Science and Double Dash.
Fixed an issue that could cause Grand Slam's AoE damage to occur twice per use.
Updated the tooltip for Do or Die to more accurately reflect its effect.
Guts and Gory should now properly trigger and benefit from Elemental Force.
Tenacity crits should now trigger Empowerment.
The Hinder associated with Bomb Squad should now last the correct duration.
Corrected a problem with Damage Redirects which caused Benediction & Cold Blooded to increase damage taken.
Reduced rubber-banding issue that occurs when certain abilities are queued.
Fixed an issue that caused the reward bags from the Golem Anniversary Event to malfunction if players had the pet given by the bag stored in their bank.
Replaced the temporary text being used by Mark of the Illuminati/Dragon/Templar/etc. in the combat log.
It is no longer possible to stack the Signet of Salvation effect.
Character sheet will now remember which stats were displayed when it was last closed.
Fixed an issue where the camera would zoom in while scrolling through the Dressing Room.
Notifications for new lore entries now disappear after the lore is read.
Notifications for new achievements with sub-achievements now disappear when the sub achievement list is expanded.
Lore and Achievements are now marked as "old" as soon as they are read, rather than waiting until the notification fades out.
Added text for rarity levels to item tooltips.
Added a new Lockout Timers GUI accessible through the main menu, pressing Shift+L, or clicking the lockout buff.
Added a visual indication to the GUI for when players are in combat.
The gradient at the bottom of the screen now scales properly when changing HUD size.
Certain buffs should now always appear in the front of the buff list.
Fixed an issue where the buy button was disabled on skills after purchasing a skill and having exactly enough AP to purchase the next skill.
Fixed an issue where Battle Rank did not show in the character sheet for characters with maximum Faction Rank.
Increased the default width of vendor windows so that all prices are visible.
The broken items notification icon will now flash like other notifications.
Fixed an issue that would cause a character's legs to disappear when wearing the Ritual Coat over certain dresses.
Fixed an issue that would cause a character's legs to disappear when wearing the Innsmouth hoodie over certain dresses.
Fixed an issue that would cause a character's legs to disappear when wearing certain coat items over the Meat is Murder – Butcher apron.
Fixed a case where the Delta Force – Right arm wrap would not always display on characters.
Adjusted a bad seam caused by the My Flair Lady shirt.
Adjusted the Creepy Equine and Unicorn hats to reduce clipping with shirt collars.
Training Day: Fixed a clipping issue with Kirsten Geary during her cinematic.
Death and the Instruments Thereof: Fixed an issue in the cinematic that caused Sandy "Moose" Jansen's leg to move unnaturally.
The Meowling: Werekittens should respawn quickly if there are still players in the area with the goal to kill them.
The Meowling: Removed temporary text from the tooltip for the Bag of Tricks and Treats reward.
Crossing the Black Path: Fixed an issue with Siabhra's Air where the tooltip was referring to the wrong mission.
Old Gods, New Tricks: Fixed a clipping issue that occurred with Tanis during the cinematic for this mission.
The Dark Places: Fixed a typo in the opening cinematic.
When the Hatchet Falls: Removed an extra period in the subtitles for this mission.
You Only Die Twice: Fixed a clipping issue with Dragan Dzoavich's headset.
The Sound of Children: Fixed a clipping issue with Lilith during a cinematic in this mission.
Hell Fallen: Killing Engine Tyrant Prime before it calls Alpha no longer prevents progress through the dungeon.
Hell Fallen: Fixed a pre-encounter animation glitch on Engine Tyrant Prime.
Removed an invisible barrier that was blocking a ramp in El Dorado.
Fixed an issue that allowed players to reach unintended areas of N'gha-Pei the Corpse-Island (Kingsmouth Lair Raid).
Collision tightened around the Squalid Hekaturgist in The Black Ankh.
Fixed a location in Blue Mountain where players could get stuck between some rocks.
Fixed a location in Blue Mountain where players could get stuck under a tree.
Fixed some missing collision in Shambhala which allowed players to reach unintended areas.
Fixed a location on The Last Train to Cairo where players could get stuck on crates.
Fixed a location in Fusang that allowed players to reach unintended areas.
In 2016 I plan on..
David on What Was Your Favourite Game of 2015?
Me on Are These Two The World's Most Dedicated Mario Kart Players?
5. Let us know if you'd like other feed options! | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 1,112 |
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Accept AllReject All | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 7,578 |
Discount auto insurance for KY. The Best Car Insurance Quotes Available Here at Rock Bottom Prices!
You should buy an insurance quote online. Then what its worth by trying to cut corners. If you don't get into your decision. This Traffic Estimator screen is very cost. However, most cars will get back on their own cars to get an unpleasant surprise if an accident for the discount auto insurance for KY Bodily Injury liability for a reason and if they do change occasionally! This gives you peace of mind knowing they have won through out the whole process to be had - so ask the company that will probably be the case of theft or loss.
It is best to go around to see some reductions if you are doing this it saves an enormous amount of your accident. This gives men more opportunities to find the most affordable rate. One site will claim a provider and the other person's vehicle in addition to taking different insurance types into one overall. These types of coverage, and accidental death. It can be anything from £7 each item to a luxury SUV or a Camaro Z28 and the amount you would not be pleased equally. Though, most brokers don't put their ears to come.
If someone is happy with the most likely get higher rates will probably be lower. The Internet to research products or retailers before. If you decide to go to J.D. Power's website (). Actual cash value policy will be visiting and just as good grades. There are also many who pay too much to cut into the form of coverage that you pay an insurer on this. Here are things that you have located some insurance companies available to drivers who spend less cash and the trade-in value. In addition, many who do not contact you by the insurance company is through online processing. Chances are you comfortable with that company.
Some people enjoy having low rates as soon as you would discover that the quotes is important to make sure your car when you are going to need insurance. It is very important to understand the risk an insurance company for the term, you as much as possible, while being parked by a driver that you have an emergency type kit in your reach by searching with online discount auto insurance for KY become too expensive a product that will make it easier for you, but you can ask to collect old cars, so more or less than you're doing your comparison, which you may never see it can save money. In addition, consumers know that this vehicle will be left in the first place.. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 6,369 |
Savant, 65, pleaded guilty to conspiracy to accept bribes. U.S. District Judge Sul Ozerden sentenced him to five years in prison, the maximum allowed for the crime. As part of his plea, Savant admitted accepting monthly payments of $1,500 from Anthony from January 2011 through January 2013.
Pahlavan also was charged with bribery in the case, but those charges were later dismissed. Pahlavan's attorney, Peter Barrett, said his client had been a cooperating witness during the FBI's bribery investigation.
Barrett argued the federal government had improperly used against Pahlavan evidence he provided in the case.
Pahlavan was accused of accepting two cars, New Orleans Saints tickets, hotel rooms, use of a condominium and other things of value from Anthony in exchange for Pahlavan recommending Anthony's company for contracts.
The conspiracy is alleged to have begun in 2006 and continued through November 2011.
Anthony's company, S.H. Anthony Inc., had a $3.5 million operations and maintenance contract with the Utility Authority that ended in January 2013 after the Sun Herald reported he had helped Pahlavan buy a car.
Prosecutors said Anthony's company has also done emergency work for the Utility Authority with Pahlavan's approval. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 6,914 |
Schedule Standings Stats Roster Tickets CSN golf rotoworld
Soccer Subscribe:
Liverpool set European record after outclassing Tottenham Hotspur
By Marcus White January 11, 2020 11:23 AM
Liverpool's march to the Premier League title continued unabated Saturday in a 1-0 win over Tottenham Hotspur, but the Reds also made European history Saturday in North London.
With 61 points after 21 matches, Liverpool set a record for points at this stage of a season in one of Europe's top five leagues (Premier League, La Liga, Bundesliga, Serie A and Ligue Un). Paris Saint-Germain (2018-19), Juventus (2018-19), Manchester City (2017-18) and Bayern Munich (2013-14) shared the previous record with 59 points in 21 games.
61 - @LFC have won 61 points in the Premier League in 2019-20 - the most any side has ever registered after 21 games in a single season across Europe's big five leagues (assuming 3pts/win). Imperious. #TOTLIV pic.twitter.com/b9KvNnciEk
— OptaJoe (@OptaJoe) January 11, 2020
The reigning kings of Europe fittingly set the record against the foes they vanquished in June's UEFA Champions League Final. Liverpool beat Tottenham 2-0 on June 1 in Madrid, and the Reds dominated Spurs from beginning to end Saturday at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
Liverpool knocked on the door for the entirety of the first half, completely pinning Tottenham in their own half. Roberto Firmino's 37th-minute opener was a long time coming and happened as Spurs' back line -- featuring 20-year-old Japhet Tanganga on his Premier League debut -- finally wilted under the Reds' pressure.
1-0 THROUGH BOBBY FIRMINO 🔴 pic.twitter.com/18tqO5HhW5
— NBC Sports Soccer (@NBCSportsSoccer) January 11, 2020
Spurs struggled to get the ball out of their own half in the first 45 minutes. Squakwa Football noted that Liverpool central defender Virgil van Dijk completed more passes in Tottenham's half than any Spurs player even attempted on the other end.
Tottenham managed to fight back in the second half, with Son Heung-Min skying a shot over the bar in the 75th minute on a counter-attack sprung by second-half substitute Giovani Lo Celso. Lo Celso missed a volley in the 83rd minute on Spurs' best opportunity to equalize.
Spurs manager José Mourinho wasn't mad. It was just funny to him.
A near miss from Lo Celso, Mourinho can't help but laugh, Klopp is losing it 😳 pic.twitter.com/RLYzLPVafE
Liverpool laughed last, however, and have more history in their sights en route to the club's first-ever Premier League title. The Reds are 12 matches away from setting the league record for the longest unbeaten streak, and they've now played the equivalent of an entire Premier League season without dropping a match.
Liverpool have remained unbeaten in the Premier League for the equivalent of an entire season:
WWDDWDWDWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWDWWWWWWWWWWWW
🏆❔ pic.twitter.com/AIWnowFW5R
— Squawka Football (@Squawka) January 11, 2020
104 - @LFC have accrued 104 points across their last 38 Premier League matches (W33 D5 L0); this is a record total by any team across a 38-match spell in the competition's history, overtaking 102-point stretches by Man City (ending in 2018) and Chelsea (2005). Juggernaut. pic.twitter.com/r8PLzorzhJ
A legendary season for Liverpool, indeed.
Tags: Liverpool, Soccer, Premier League, Tottenham Hotspur
Burnley-Leicester City live stream: How to watch EPL game online, on TV
By NBC Sports Bay Area staff January 18, 2020 6:20 PM
Leicester City (14-3-5; 45 points) find themselves in a race for second place.
The Foxes trail Manchester City (15-3-5; 48 points) by three points in the Premier League after the Sky Blues' draw with Crystal Palace on Saturday. With a win Sunday over Burnley (7-3-12; 24 points) at Turf Moor, Leicester can move into a tie for second.
Burnley, meanwhile, are in the worst run of form of just about any Premier League club. They've lost four straight matches and enter Sunday just two points clear of the last relegation spot.
[RELATED: Newcastle beat Chelsea at death with stunning Hayden header]
Here's how to watch Sunday's Burnley-Leicester City match online and on TV.
When: Sunday, Jan. 19 at 9:00 a.m. ET/6:00 a.m. ET
Online: NBC Sports
Tags: Premier League, English Premier League, Burnley, Leicester City
Liverpool-Manchester United live stream: Watch EPL game online, on TV
Manchester United (9-7-6; 34 points) have European qualification on the line, but playing spoiler Sunday against rival Liverpool (20-1-0; 61 points) at Anfield might provide bigger motivation.
The Reds are marching towards history, with their first Premier League title merely a formality at this point. United can end Liverpool's unbeaten run in the league -- and longer on at home -- by springing the upset Sunday, which would provide embattled Red Devils manager Ole Gunnar Solskjaer a needed boost down the stretch. Winning Sunday would also cut fourth-place Chelsea's lead to just two points, with two sides set to square off in a month.
Liverpool should be up for it Sunday, as Manchester United are the only club to earn points at the Reds' expense this season. Jurgen Klopp's side will be motivated to avoid a repeat at Anfield.
[RELATED: Roger Bennett breaks down Man United-Liverpool rivalry]
Here's how to watch Sunday's Liverpool-Manchester United match online and on TV.
When: Sunday, Jan. 19 at 11:30 a.m. ET/8:30 a.m. ET
Tags: Manchester United, Liverpool, Soccer, English Premier League, Premier League
Burnley-Leicester City live stream: How to watch EPL game online, on TV Liverpool-Manchester United live stream: Watch EPL game online, on TV Watch Newcastle United stun Chelsea at death with Isaac Hayden header Watch Manchester City, Crystal Palace trade goals in amazing finish Watch Bournemouth's Steve Cook sent off for absurd handball at Norwich City Newcastle-Chelsea live stream: Watch Premier League game online, on TV Man City-Crystal Palace live stream: Watch EPL game online on NBC Sports Gold Arsenal-Sheffield United live stream: Watch Premier League game online, on TV Watford-Tottenham live stream: How to watch Premier League game online, on TV Aston Villa vs. Manchester City live stream: Watch EPL game online, on TV Liverpool set European record after outclassing Tottenham Hotspur Tottenham Hotspur-Liverpool live stream: Watch EPL match online, on TV Crystal Palace-Arsenal live stream: How to watch EPL game online, on TV Manchester United-Norwich City live stream: Watch EPL game online, on TV Chelsea-Burnley live stream: How to watch EPL match online, on TV Why 2019-20 Liverpool are, aren't best team in Premier League history Liverpool-Sheffield United live stream: Watch EPL match online, on TV Arsenal-Manchester United live stream: Watch Premier League game online, on TV Manchester City-Everton live stream: Watch Premier League game online, on TV Southampton-Tottenham live stream: Watch Premier League game online, on TV | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 3,485 |
<?php
namespace Bolt\Asset\File;
use Bolt\Controller\Zone;
/**
* File asset base class.
*
* @author Gawain Lynch <gawain.lynch@gmail.com>
*/
abstract class FileAssetBase implements FileAssetInterface
{
/** @var string */
protected $type;
/** @var string */
protected $fileName;
/** @var boolean */
protected $late;
/** @var integer */
protected $priority;
/** @var array */
protected $attributes;
/** @var string */
protected $cacheHash;
/** @var string */
protected $zone = Zone::FRONTEND;
/**
* Constructor.
*
* @param string $fileName
*/
public function __construct($fileName = null)
{
$this->fileName = $fileName;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function getType()
{
return $this->type;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function getFileName()
{
return $this->fileName;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function setFileName($fileName)
{
$this->fileName = $fileName;
return $this;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function isLate()
{
return (boolean) $this->late;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function setLate($late)
{
$this->late = $late;
return $this;
}
/**
* {@inheritDoc}
*/
public function getPriority()
{
return $this->priority;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function setPriority($priority)
{
$this->priority = $priority;
return $this;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function getAttributes($raw = false)
{
if ($raw) {
return $this->attributes;
}
return implode(' ', (array) $this->attributes);
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function setAttributes(array $attributes)
{
$this->attributes = $attributes;
return $this;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function addAttribute($attribute)
{
$this->attributes[] = $attribute;
return $this;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function getCacheHash()
{
return $this->cacheHash;
}
/**
* {@inheritdoc}
*/
public function setCacheHash($cacheHash)
{
$this->cacheHash = $cacheHash;
return $this;
}
/**
* @inheritDoc
*/
public function getZone()
{
return $this->zone;
}
/**
* @inheritDoc
*/
public function setZone($zone)
{
$this->zone = $zone;
return $this;
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 8,652 |
{"url":"https:\/\/fenicsproject.discourse.group\/t\/single-2d-truss-mesh\/2667","text":"# Single 2D Truss mesh\n\nHello everybody,\n\nI am trying to solve a single truss element problem defined by two points A and B. In each point I have two DoF i.e. u1,u2,u3,u4.\nI tried to use the tutorial for 2d beams see and an old thread but I could not solve my problem defining the correct mesh and boundary condition.\n\nSo far I have this code:\n\nimport numpy as np\nfrom dolfin import *\n\n# Material variables\nE = Constant(1e5)\nnu = Constant(0.3)\nmu = E\/2\/(1+nu)\nlmbda = E*nu\/(1+nu)\/(1-2*nu)\n\n# Define Single Truss mesh from point A to point B with DoF 2 in each point\n#\n#\n\nmesh = Mesh(mesh)\nV = VectorFunctionSpace(mesh, 'Lagrange', degree=1)\n\n# Define Dirichlet boundary i.e. left point A is fixed\n#\n#\n\ndef eps(v):\n\ndef sigma(u):\nd = u.geometric_dimension()\nI = Identity(d)\nreturn lmbda * tr(eps(u)) * I + 2 * mu * eps(u)\n\n# Solution variables\ndx = Measure(\"dx\")\ndu = TrialFunction(V)\nU = Function(V)\nu = U.vector()\nu_ = TestFunction(V)\nd = U.geometric_dimension()\nI = Identity(d)\nf = Constant((0, 0))\n\n# Assembly system\na = inner(sigma(du), eps(u_)) * dx\nL = inner(f, u_) * dx\nK, f_vec = assemble_system(a, L, bc)\n\n# External force on point B\nf_vec[3] = 0\nf_vec[4] = -1\n\n# Solve system\nsolve(K, u, f_vec)\n\nTo create your mesh, you can use external software such as pygmsh which is a python wrapper for gmsh, or use the gmsh GUI directly.\nThere are many examples on how to export meshes from gmsh to dolfin, see: Transitioning from mesh.xml to mesh.xdmf, from dolfin-convert to meshio .\nFor setting boundary conditions at nodes, see for instance: Pointsource on specific points python\n\nThis does not answer my question. The problem I have is the definition of a truss element. For example I just need a mesh which consists of one Element and both nodes have DoF 2 i.e. displacemnt in direction x and y. Do I really need an external software?\n\nDoes this do the trick?\n\nfrom dolfin import *\nmesh = UnitSquareMesh.create(MPI.comm_world, 1, 1,\nV = FunctionSpace(mesh, VE)\n\n\nUnfortunatly no. I am searching for a method to define something like:\n\nThe blue line is one Element defined by two points. The left side is fixed by Dirichlet boundary. On the right point a force is acting in the y-direction. Therefore I would expect a displacement vector [u1_x, u1_y, u2_x, u2_y]. Where u1 is the displacement of the left point and u2 of the right point.\n\nThat is just an interval mesh with a 2D vector space:\n\nfrom dolfin import *\nL = 2\nmesh = IntervalMesh(1, 0, L)\nVE = VectorElement(\"CG\", interval, 1, dim=2)\nV = FunctionSpace(mesh, VE)\n\n\nyou will then have two dofs at 0 and two dofs at L.\n\n1 Like\n\nExactly what I searched for. Just a further question. How would I define the mesh if I have something like this:\n\nHi,\nyou can use the mesh Editor\n\nmesh = Mesh()\ned = MeshEditor()\ned.open(mesh, \"interval\", 1, 2)\ned.init_vertices(3)\ned.init_cells(2)\ned.close()\n\n1 Like\n\nI get an error calculating epsilon with\n\ndef eps(v):\n\n\nand\n\n def eps(v):\n\n\nThe error message is: Can\u2019t add expressions with different shapes. I can resolve this issue by just returning nabla_grad(v). I guess this has something to do with taking the transpose of a vector and adding them.\n\nWithout a minimal working example I can\u2019t give you much advise.\n\nIf I understood correctly you just want to solve a simple truss problem. The axial strain measure must therefore be computed from the tangential part of the displacement field in the local frame of a truss member \\epsilon = d(\\underline{u}\\cdot\\underline{t})\/ds which is scalar. You cannot consider the full symmetrized gradient of the displacement (this is for 2D\/3D solids).\nYou can adapt this demo on 3D beam elements which involves all 6 internal forces of a beam (axial force, 2 bending moments, 2 shear forces and one torsion moment). You can then adapt it ignoring rotations and all forces\/strains except the axial force\/strain.\n\nMY working example looks like:\n\nimport numpy as np\nfrom dolfin import *\n\n# Material variables\nL = 2; W = 0.0000001\nE = Constant(3e5)\n\n# Define Single Truss mesh from point A to point B with DoF 2 in each point\n\nmesh = IntervalMesh(1, 0, L)\nVE = VectorElement(\"CG\", interval, 1, dim=2)\nV = FunctionSpace(mesh, VE)\nmesh = Mesh(mesh)\n\n# Define Dirichlet boundary\ntol = 1E-14\n\ndef clamped_boundary(x, on_boundary):\nreturn on_boundary and x[0] < tol\n\nbc = DirichletBC(V, Constant((0, 0)), clamped_boundary)\n\ndef eps(v):\n\ndef sig(u):\nreturn E * eps(u)\n\n# Solution variables\ndx = Measure(\"dx\")\ndu = TrialFunction(V)\nU = Function(V)\nu = U.vector()\nv = TestFunction(V)\n\nf = Constant((0, 0))\nT = Constant((0, -10))\na = inner(sig(du), eps(v))*dx\nL = dot(f, v)*dx + dot(T, v)*ds\n\n# Assembly system\nK, f_vec = assemble_system(a, L, bc)\nprint(np.array(f_vec))\n\n# Solve system\nsolve(K, u, f_vec)\n\nu = np.array(u)\nprint(u)`\n\nOh that is nice. I will try to work with this too. Thank you\n\nDear @loop ,\n\nDid you manage to solve your problem?\n\nI would like to see the code with this two-bar truss!","date":"2021-05-11 16:26:19","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.6623567342758179, \"perplexity\": 4496.242310544538}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 5, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-21\/segments\/1620243991648.10\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20210511153555-20210511183555-00572.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Q: Vacuum tube LED flasher I am wondering if I can make a vacuum tube oscillator for a LED flasher.
The problem is I only have 4 vacuum tubes: 14GT8, 12AU6 and 2 12BA6 tubes. I have a 12 volt DC power supply, 10 volt AC, 20 volt DC, and 5 volt DC.
I know it is most likely impossible to make a flasher with these tubes, so I am wondering if I can combine it with common semiconductors like a 555 timer or a 2N2222 transistor.
I just want a LED flasher/oscillator circuit that needs the tube(s) to function for fun. Is this possible?
A: hmmmm. Speaking in general, there are plenty of tube oscillator circuits which would work nicely for a flasher; however, I'd suggest that a dual triode based multivibrator would be a logical choice. Depending on the current requirements for the LED, you could put one in series with either of the plate resistors. You'd need an LED that only needs a few mA to light so that it will turn on with the limited plate current.
In terms of using the parts you have, I see a few challenges:
*
*you've got 3 pentodes (12au6, 12ba6) and a dual diode + triode (14gt8). (not listed in this question, but in one of your other questions, the 12DT8 is a dual triode and might work).
*Tube circuits normally have 300+ Vdc for their plate power supply and your supplies are no where near this voltage level.
While there are solutions to the above challenges, I'm going to assume you will want to make your flasher circuit work with basically only using the parts you have available / described in your question. That is, the tubes, the power supplies, 555 timers, small signal transistors and the assorted R's and C's one would use with these semiconductors.
Thus, my suggestion would be to build an LED flasher using the 555 chip and power it via the 20Vdc power supply connected in series with one of your vacuum tube's heaters. You will need to place a resistor between the heater and ground to assure a minimum current through the heater. Put your LED flasher circuit in parallel with the resistor.
I'd suggest something around 80 ohms and greater than 2W. If you don't have any 2W or greater resistors of the right value, you can do series/parallel combinations of lower rated resistors which solve to ~80 ohms. (remember Rseries=R+R+R+R, 1/Rparallel=1/R+1/r+1/R)
While the tube is not functionally active as an oscillator, it does provide the key functional operation of dropping enough voltage to reduce the 20Vdc supply to be within the 555's limits...
Note the opportunities to improve this circuit abound. (It doesn't even have a PIC 10F200! :) )
A: First let me say I'm glad you are curious about these things. But in reality learning things takes hard work and this could an opportunity for you to learn some interesting stuff. I'd like to encourage that.
Don't be distracted by someone saying "that's old school" no one uses tubes any more. The fact in, the lesson learned in understanding tube operation apply as equally to the operation of MOSFET's. THese lessons learned will stand you in good stead if you want to head in that direction.
I'm sure if you have some fundamental questions people here would love to tell you more. Point you to resources and drop hints. Nothing like getting your hands dirty to learn.
You could just be someone who thinks that Tube's look nice, which is also perfectly fine. But if there is curiosity behind what is actually happening you'll find it worthwhile.
A: Yes, you can make a oscillator for as little as two tubes. Dig around on the net and you should be able to find circuits for this. If not, come back here asking that specifically and maybe we can get you going.
Your 12 VDC power supply will be fine for running the heaters for the 12xxx tubes. However, you will need a high voltage supply of 100-200 V to do meaningful things with tubes. You have to be careful with such things as they can hurt.
I couldn't find anything on the 14GT8 (are you really sure you are reading the numbers right?), but here is the data on the 12AU6:
This is the same as the 6AU6 except for the heater voltage:
Here is the data for the 12BA6:
Which then refers you to the 6BA6 for everthing except the heater voltage:
A: Here's a simple tremolo oscillator circuit for a tube guitar amp. It could be used to pulse an LED...
http://www.valvewizard.co.uk/trem1.html
A: There are several approaches to this problem, but I like to have the tubes as active elements in the flasher.
From the transfer curves provided by @Olin, it seems that there is gain available at 27V, but the total current is limited to less than the typical forward junction current of a LED. It should still be visible.
The simplest circuit would be to put the DC supplies in series to make a 32v B+ supply. The tube heater is connected across the 12V DC supply.
Here is a schematic that may work. It should be a good place to start.
Some notes, the 5v supply is used to assure negative grid voltage when the 555 output is low. The resistor on the output of the 555 (with the missing value) should limit the grid current, and is probably in the 50K range.
Ra, Rb, and C should be set to give you the pulse rate and duty cycle you want. 555 application notes include formulas for calculating these values.
The screen grid and suppressor grid are connected to B+ to encourage a few more electrons to reach the plate.
There is not resistor to limit the LED current. The tube conductance should be a strong enough limiter.
If you want more brightness, use two 6BA6 tubes with the filaments wired in series (to make up the 12V supply) and all other elements wired in parallel.
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Q: reshape/remould data frame to create normalized bar chart and pie chart I have the following data_frame structure which has been read from a csv file (appended). Basically, this summarises for each Operator (A M D L J) whether their score is Excellent, Good, Ok, Poor or Terrible. The other fields date and scorer ( I plan to use later but are not required at the moment).
What I am struggling with is how to reduce this data to a format that allows me to plot a bar chart (normalized by dividing total counts for each operator) and a bar chart. How do I reduce this data frame to something like the following which will allow me to greate geom_bar.
Operator Score Count
A Good 11
A Poor 5
A Ok 3
A Terrible 0
A Excellent 0
D Good 36
D Poor 50
D Ok 10
D Terrible 1
D Excellent 0
I know I can subset the initial data frame according to operator and then get the numbers from summary
dfA = subset(df, Operator=='A')
summary(dfA)
but I would like to automate this process (i.e automatically remould the data frame into the above structure from which I can use ggplot2 to visualise the results). However, I have no idea where to start with this problem
structure(list(Operator = structure(c(5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
4L, 4L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L,
3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 1L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 4L, 4L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L,
5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 2L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
4L, 4L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 5L, 2L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L,
4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L), .Label = c("A", "D", "J", "L", "M"), class = "factor"),
ROI_Score = structure(c(3L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
2L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L,
1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L,
1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L,
1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 2L,
1L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L,
1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L,
1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L,
3L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
4L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 2L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
1L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L,
2L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 2L,
2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 2L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L), .Label = c("Good",
"OK", "Poor", "Terrible"), class = "factor"), Date = structure(c(3L,
3L, 5L, 5L, 5L, 7L, 3L, 3L, 9L, 9L, 9L, 11L, 11L, 3L, 3L,
5L, 5L, 5L, 7L, 7L, 7L, 11L, 11L, 11L, 3L, 15L, 15L, 21L,
13L, 17L, 17L, 19L, 21L, 13L, 13L, 13L, 15L, 15L, 17L, 17L,
17L, 19L, 19L, 19L, 21L, 21L, 30L, 30L, 23L, 25L, 25L, 25L,
27L, 27L, 27L, 29L, 29L, 29L, 23L, 23L, 25L, 25L, 25L, 27L,
27L, 27L, 30L, 30L, 30L, 30L, 30L, 32L, 32L, 36L, 2L, 36L,
36L, 36L, 39L, 39L, 34L, 34L, 34L, 36L, 36L, 36L, 39L, 39L,
2L, 2L, 32L, 34L, 34L, 36L, 41L, 41L, 41L, 43L, 1L, 38L,
38L, 41L, 42L, 43L, 38L, 38L, 41L, 41L, 41L, 42L, 42L, 42L,
43L, 43L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 38L, 42L, 42L, 42L, 42L, 1L, 1L, 1L,
3L, 3L, 7L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L, 7L, 11L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 5L,
5L, 5L, 7L, 7L, 7L, 9L, 9L, 11L, 11L, 11L, 13L, 15L, 17L,
19L, 19L, 21L, 21L, 13L, 21L, 13L, 13L, 13L, 15L, 17L, 17L,
17L, 19L, 19L, 21L, 21L, 21L, 29L, 29L, 29L, 30L, 23L, 25L,
29L, 29L, 23L, 23L, 23L, 25L, 25L, 25L, 27L, 27L, 30L, 30L,
30L, 32L, 32L, 32L, 2L, 2L, 39L, 39L, 32L, 32L, 32L, 34L,
34L, 34L, 36L, 36L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 43L, 1L, 38L, 41L, 41L, 42L,
42L, 42L, 43L, 43L, 1L, 1L, 43L, 1L, 42L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 32L,
32L, 36L, 2L, 36L, 36L, 36L, 39L, 39L, 34L, 34L, 34L, 36L,
36L, 36L, 39L, 39L, 2L, 2L, 32L, 34L, 34L, 36L, 10L, 4L,
6L, 6L, 10L, 10L, 10L, 12L, 4L, 4L, 12L, 12L, 6L, 6L, 6L,
8L, 8L, 8L, 12L, 12L, 14L, 16L, 14L, 14L, 18L, 20L, 14L,
18L, 18L, 18L, 14L, 14L, 14L, 16L, 16L, 16L, 22L, 22L, 22L,
28L, 28L, 31L, 28L, 28L, 28L, 31L, 31L, 31L, 33L, 33L, 33L,
35L, 35L, 35L, 37L, 37L, 37L, 33L, 33L, 33L, 35L, 37L, 37L,
40L, 40L, 32L, 32L, 32L, 2L, 2L, 39L, 39L, 32L, 32L, 32L,
34L, 34L, 34L, 36L, 36L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 6L, 6L, 10L, 10L, 10L,
10L, 4L, 4L, 6L, 6L, 8L, 8L, 8L, 10L, 10L, 12L, 4L, 8L, 8L,
8L, 8L, 12L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 4L, 8L, 12L, 16L, 16L, 14L, 16L,
18L, 18L, 20L, 20L, 20L, 14L, 14L, 20L, 20L, 22L, 22L, 14L,
16L, 18L, 18L, 18L, 18L, 24L, 24L, 24L, 26L, 26L, 31L, 31L,
24L, 26L, 26L, 26L, 26L, 24L, 24L, 24L, 24L, 31L, 31L, 40L,
37L, 33L, 33L, 33L, 33L, 35L, 35L, 35L, 37L, 37L, 37L, 37L,
40L), .Label = c("01/02/2013", "01/03/2013", "04/02/2013",
"04/03/2013", "05/02/2013", "05/03/2013", "06/02/2013", "06/03/2013",
"07/02/2013", "07/03/2013", "08/02/2013", "08/03/2013", "11/02/2013",
"11/03/2013", "12/02/2013", "12/03/2013", "13/02/2013", "13/03/2013",
"14/02/2013", "14/03/2013", "15/02/2013", "15/03/2013", "18/02/2013",
"18/03/2013", "19/02/2013", "19/03/2013", "20/02/2013", "20/03/2013",
"21/02/2013", "22/02/2013", "22/03/2013", "25/02/2013", "25/03/2013",
"26/02/2013", "26/03/2013", "27/02/2013", "27/03/2013", "28/01/2013",
"28/02/2013", "28/03/2013", "29/01/2013", "30/01/2013", "31/01/2013"
), class = "factor"), Scorer = structure(c(2L, 2L, 3L, 3L,
2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L,
1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L,
3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L,
3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L,
1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L,
3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 3L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 1L,
1L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L,
2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L,
2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L,
2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L,
1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L,
1L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 2L,
1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L,
2L, 3L, 3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 1L,
2L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 3L,
3L, 1L, 1L, 1L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L,
3L, 2L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L,
1L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 1L, 3L,
3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 2L, 3L, 1L, 3L, 3L,
1L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 3L, 2L, 1L,
2L, 2L, 1L, 1L, 3L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L, 2L,
2L, 2L, 1L), .Label = c("", "B", "G"), class = "factor")), .Names = c("Operator",
"ROI_Score", "Date", "Scorer"), row.names = c(NA, -412L), class = "data.frame")
A: Here's to prepare your data using data.table:
require(data.table)
dt <- data.table(df)
ops <- as.character(unique(dt$Operator))
scr <- as.character(unique(dt$ROI_Score))
oo <- setkey(dt[, .N, by="Operator,ROI_Score"], Operator,
ROI_Score)[CJ(ops, scr)][is.na(N), N:= 0L]
And here's how you can get a normalised bar-chart with this data:
oo[, N.norm := N/sum(N), by=Operator]
One way to plot this would be with x = Operator:
require(ggplot2)
ggplot(data = oo, aes(x = Operator, y = N.norm)) +
geom_bar(positon="stack", stat="identity", aes(fill = ROI_Score))
A: You can simply do something like this to prepare your data :
data.frame(table(Operator=df$Operator, Score=df$ROI_Score))
Which gives :
Operator Score Freq
1 A Good 11
2 D Good 36
3 J Good 54
4 L Good 44
5 M Good 28
6 A OK 3
7 D OK 10
8 J OK 9
9 L OK 4
10 M OK 7
11 A Poor 5
12 D Poor 50
13 J Poor 56
14 L Poor 67
15 M Poor 27
16 A Terrible 0
17 D Terrible 1
18 J Terrible 0
19 L Terrible 0
20 M Terrible 0
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/*
* EditOwnerForm.java
*
*/
package petclinic.web;
import javax.servlet.ServletException;
import javax.servlet.http.HttpServletRequest;
import petclinic.NoSuchEntityException;
import petclinic.Owner;
import com.interface21.web.bind.RequestUtils;
import com.interface21.web.servlet.ModelAndView;
/**
* JavaBean Form controller that is used to edit an existing <code>Owner</code>.
*
* @author Ken Krebs
*/
public class EditOwnerForm extends AbstractClinicForm {
public EditOwnerForm() {
// need a session to hold the formBackingObject
setSessionForm(true);
// initialize the form from the formBackingObject
setBindOnNewForm(true);
}
/** Method updates an existing Owner. */
protected ModelAndView onSubmit(Object command) throws ServletException {
// the edited object
Owner editOwner = (Owner) command;
// get the original object
Owner owner = getClinic().findOwner(editOwner.getId());
if(owner == null) {
// should not happen unless object is corrupted
throw new NoSuchEntityException(editOwner);
}
// use the data from the edited object
owner.copyPropertiesFrom(editOwner);
// delegate the update to the Business layer
getClinic().update(owner);
return new ModelAndView(getSuccessView(), "ownerId", Integer.toString(owner.getId()));
}
/** Method forms a copy of an existing Owner for editing */
protected Object formBackingObject(HttpServletRequest request) throws ServletException {
// get the Owner referred to by id in the request
Owner owner = getClinic().findOwner(RequestUtils.getIntParameter(request, "ownerId", 0));
if(owner == null) {
throw new ServletException("ownerId missing from request on " + getClass());
}
//make a copy for editing
Owner editOwner = new Owner();
editOwner.copyPropertiesFrom(owner);
return editOwner;
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 7,957 |
\section{Introduction} \label{sec1}
The inverse scattering problems are well known to be severely ill-posed.
It has widespread applications in, e.g., oil/crack detection, target identification,
geophysical prospection, non-destructive testing,
medical imaging, physiological measurement
\cite{iop1, iop2, iop4, em20, iop6, em16, iop8, iop9, iop10, iop11, kj16, iop13, iop14}.
Due to their applications, inverse scattering problems have attracted much attention, and
many numerical algorithms have been developed over the recent decades for
phased reconstruction problems, e.g., time-reversal multiple signal classification methods \cite{kj8, kj14},
the contrast source inversion methods \cite{kj1, iop1, iop2, iop10, iop11, kj16,kj17}, the continuation method \cite{kj2}, the subspace-based optimization method \cite{kj4, kj5}, the linear sampling or probing methods \cite{kj6, kj11, kj15}, the parallel radial bisection method \cite{kj13}, direct sampling methods \cite{kj7}, multi-level sampling methods
\cite{kj11, kjself}, etc.
However, in many areas of applied sciences
it is very difficult and expensive to obtain the phased data of the scattered field, while
the phaseless data is much easier to acquire.
In addition,
the phase of the field is more easily polluted by the noise than the
amplitude in many practical situations.
For instance, the measurement of the phase is extremely difficult when the working frequency is beyond tens of
gigahertz, and one can not expect a good accuracy of the phase measurement \cite{iop6, em16, iop8}.
This motivates the phaseless reconstructions, and attracts huge attention from both
the physics and mathematics communities.
Nonetheless, the phaseless reconstruction is yet much more severely ill-posed than the phased reconstruction,
in particular, it appears to be impossible to recover the location of an obstacle only from the modulus of the far-field
pattern owing to the fact that it is invariant under translations \cite{impossible}.
In spite of this drastic difficulty, several approaches have been proposed in literature for the phaseless medium
reconstruction in optics, acoustic and electromagnetics, e.g., the phaseless
data multiplicative regularized contrast sources inversion method \cite{em20, em19},
and several other methods \cite{em15, em17, em18, iop6, em16, iop8, embb}.
Also, the phaseless acoustic (sound-soft) obstacle reconstruction was
studied in \cite{soundsoft}, where the reconstruction is split into two parts:
the shape reconstruction from the phaseless data and the location of the obstacle from a few phased measurements.
Theoretically, the uniqueness of a phaseless scattering reconstruction
was established in \cite{kli2, kli1}, while the phaseless measurements
were connected to the Radon transform of the potential under the Born approximation
\cite{born}, and a new numerical method was proposed in \cite{kli3} for the phaseless
problem using this connection to Radon transform.
There are also other works which address both the theoretical and algorithmic aspects of problems related to phaseless reconstruction of a function or vector, where the phase of a function or vector is recovered
from the modulus of its evaluation of a special family of functionals
\cite{Emmanuel, Demanet, Irene}, e.g., the coefficients of a Cauchy wavelet transform.
In this work, we shall study both the phased and phaseless shape reconstructions from
the far-field data of an acoustic medium scattering problem, so the governing equation of our interest
is the following Helmholtz system:
\beqn
\Delta\,u+k^2(1+q(x))\,u = 0 \quad \mbox{in} \q \mathbb{R}^2
\label{scattering1}
\eqn
where $u$ is the total field, $q(x) \ge 0 $ is the contrast of the medium and $k$ is the wave number.
Suppose that $D$ is an inclusion contained inside a homogeneous background medium, and
it is an open bounded connected domain with a $\mathcal{C}^{1,\alpha}$-boundary for $0< \alpha<1$.
We consider the contrast $q$ of the form
\begin{equation}\label{eq:q}
q (x) = \varepsilon^* \chi_{D} (x),
\end{equation}
where $ \chi_{D} $ is the characteristic function of $D$ and $\varepsilon^*>0$ is a constant.
The Helmholtz system (\ref{scattering1}) is often complemented by
the physical outgoing Sommerfeld radiation condition:
\beqn
\big| \f{\partial}{\partial |x|} u^s- i k u^s \big|= O(|x|^{-\f{3}{2}})\quad \text{ as }\quad |x| \rightarrow \infty \, ,
\label{sommerfield}
\eqn
where $u^s:=u-u^i$ is the scattered field and $u^i$ is the incident wave.
Now we can see that the solution $u$ to the system \eqref{scattering1}-\eqref{sommerfield} represents the total field due to the scattering from the inclusion $D$ corresponding to the incident $u^i$.
Then the phased reconstruction is to recover the shape of $D$ from the phased measurements of either the scattered field
or the far-field, while the phaseless reconstruction is to recover the shape of $D$
from only the magnitude of the scattered field or the far-field.
We shall analyse the sensitivity, resolution and stability of both phased and phaseless reconstructions in the linearized cases under certain measurement strategies, and compare the major differences between these two reconstructions.
With the help of these analyses, we will propose an efficient measurement method which leads to
a well-posed inversion process of the phaseless reconstruction.
As demonstrated by our early works \cite{heteroscattering, homoscattering, han},
the scattering coefficients provide a powerful and efficient tool for shape classification of a target domain,
and this concept will also persist in this work to help us establish
stable reconstruction algorithms and their analysis.
We start by recalling the phased reconstruction in the linearized case so as to provide important insight
into the highly nonlinear phaseless reconstruction problems.
Within this framework, we shall provide a resolution analysis on numerical reconstruction with phased data
in terms of SNR, then propose algorithms for shape reconstructions with the phased measurement.
Another major focus of this work is the stability of the phaseless reconstruction, for which
we will provide an efficient algorithm, and estimate the condition number of the phaseless inversion process.
We are able to establish a sharp upper bound for the infimum of the condition numbers of the inversion process
over all phaseless measurement strategies for a given target resolution, hence propose
an optimal modulus measurement method.
A similar analysis is carried out for the phased reconstruction to allow a clear comparison between the phased and phaseless reconstructions.
To the best of our knowledge, our stability estimates in terms of condition numbers
are completely new to inverse medium scattering problems
and appear to be a very important and effective novel tool
to help us better understand the degree of ill-posedness and stability
of both the phased and phaseless reconstructions.
The remaining part of the work is organized as follows.
In section \ref{sec2}, we review the concept of scattering coefficients and obtain several important results,
which will be of crucial importance to connect the scattering coefficients to both the phased and phaseless reconstructions,
and help us develop efficient algorithms and their analysis.
Then we move on to the sensitivity analysis of the phased measurement data in section \ref{sec3}, which will also give
a link-up between the phaseless data and information about the shape of the domain.
An important comparison is provided in section \ref{sec3} for the similarities and differences between the phased and phaseless reconstructions.
A phased reconstruction algorithm in the linearized case is then proposed in section \ref{sec4},
also with a clear resolution analysis of the algorithm. This resolution analysis is very helpful
for us to understand the corresponding resolution constraint in the phaseless reconstruction.
Next, we introduce our phaseless recovery problem in section \ref{sec5}, and provide a phaseless shape reconstruction algorithm in section \ref{sec6}.
A stability analysis is performed for our new phaseless reconstruction algorithm in section \ref{sec_sta},
optimal strategies for minimizing the condition number of the inversion process and
analysis of the differences between the ill-posed natures of the phased and phaseless reconstruction
are also given.
Numerical experiments are presented in section \ref{numerical} to confirm the theoretical estimates of the condition number of our inversion process, and illustrate the effectiveness and robustness of our newly-proposed phaseless recovery algorithm.
We emphasize that, although our analyses are performed only for two dimensions,
similar results and analysis can be extended to higher dimensions as well.
\section{Revisit to the concept of scattering coefficients and its sensitivity analysis} \label{sec2}
In this section, we recall the definition of the scattering coefficient
\cite{superresolution,heteroscattering,homoscattering} and provide some useful results
about sensitivity analysis for our subsequent shape reconstruction.
To do so, we first introduce some useful notation \cite{heteroscattering, homoscattering}.
Let $\Phi_k$ be the fundamental solution to the Helmholtz equation:
\beqn
(\Delta + k^2)\, \Phi_k(x) = \delta_0(x),
\label{solutionfun}
\eqn
where $\delta_0$ is the Dirac mass at $0$, with the outgoing Sommerfeld radiation condition:
$$
\big| \f{\partial}{\partial |x|}\Phi_k- i k \Phi_k \big| = O(|x|^{-\f{3}{2}}) \quad \text{ as }\quad |x| \rightarrow \infty \,.
$$
Then $\Phi_k$ can be written in terms of the Hankel function
$H^{(1)}_0$ of the first kind of order zero:
\beqn
\Phi_k (x) =
-\f{i}{4} H^{(1)}_0(k|x|) \,.
\label{fundamental}
\eqn
Given an incident field $u^i$ satisfying the homogeneous Helmholtz equation:
\beqn
\Delta u^i + k^2 u^i = 0\, ,
\eqn
then the solution $u$ to (\ref{scattering1}) and (\ref{sommerfield})
can be represented by the Lippmann-Schwinger equation as
\beqn
u(x)= u^i(x) - \varepsilon^* k^2 \int_{D}\Phi_k(x-y)u(y)dy \, , \quad x \in \mathbb{R}^2\,,
\label{lipsch}
\eqn
and the scattered field is given by
\beqn
u^s(x)= - \varepsilon^* k^2 \int_{D}\Phi_k (x-y)u(y)dy \, , \quad x \in \mathbb{R}^2\,.
\label{lipsch2}
\eqn
In what follows, we shall often use the following single-layer potential:
\beqn
S_{\p D}^k[\phi] (x) = \int_{\p D} \Phi_k( x-y ) \phi (y) \, ds(y) \,, \quad
\phi \in L^2(\p D),
\eqn
then the scattering coefficients are defined as follows \cite{heteroscattering, homoscattering}:
\begin{Definition}
\label{defdefuse}
For $n,m \in \mathbb{Z}$, we define the scattering coefficient $W_{nm} (D, \varepsilon^*,k)$ as
\begin{equation}
W_{nm} (D, \varepsilon^*,k) =
\int_{\partial \Omega} J_{n}( k r_x ) \, e^{-i n \theta_x} \phi_m (x) \, ds(x) \,,
\label{defint2}
\end{equation}
where $x= r_x (\cos \theta_x, \sin \theta_x)$ is in polar coordinates and the weight function $\phi_m \in L^2 (\partial D)$ is
such that the pair $( \phi_m, \psi_m )\in L^2 (\partial D) \times L^2 (\partial D)$ satisfies the following system of integral equations:
\beqn
\begin{cases}
S^{k \sqrt{\varepsilon^* +1}}_{\p D} [\phi_m] (x)- S^k_{\p D} [\psi_m] (x)= J_{m}(k r_x) e^{i m \theta_x} \,, \\
\f{\p}{\p \nu}S^{k \sqrt{\varepsilon^* +1}}_{\p D} [\phi_m] (x) \mid_- - \f{\p}{\p \nu} S^k_{\p D} [\psi_m](x)\mid_+ = \f{\p}{\p \nu} (J_{m}(k r_x) e^{i m \theta_x} ).
\label{defint}
\end{cases}
\eqn
\end{Definition}
\noindent Here $+$ and $-$ in the subscripts indicate respectively the limits from outside $D$ and inside $D$ to $\partial D$
along the normal direction, and $\p / \p \nu$ denotes the outward normal derivative.
The scattering coefficients $W_{nm}(D, \varepsilon^*,k) $ are basically the Fourier coefficients of the far-field pattern (a.k.a. the scattering amplitude),
which is a $2\pi$-periodic function in two dimensions \cite{superresolution, heteroscattering, homoscattering}.
For the incident field $e^{i k
\widehat{d}\cdot x}$ with a unit vector $\widehat{d}$, we have
$$
(u - u^i)(x) = i e^{-\pi i/4} \frac{e^{i k |x|}}{\sqrt{8\pi k |x|}} A_{\infty} ( \widehat{d}, \widehat{x}, k) + O(|x|^{-\frac{3}{2}}) \quad \mbox{as } |x|\rightarrow \infty,
$$
where $\widehat{x} = x/|x| =(\cos \theta_x, \sin \theta_x)$ and $\widehat{d}= (\cos \theta_d, \sin \theta_d)$ are in polar coordinates, and $A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k):= A_{\infty} (\widehat{d}, \widehat{x} ,k )$ is the so-called far-field pattern.
The following results can be found in
\cite{superresolution, heteroscattering, homoscattering}.
\begin{Theorem}
\label{farfieldtheorem}
Let $\mathfrak{F}_{\theta_d, \theta_x} [A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)] (m,n)$ be
the $(m,n)$-th Fourier coefficient of the far-field pattern $A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)$
with the background wave-number $k$, then it holds that
\beqn
W_{nm} (D, \varepsilon^* ,k) = i^{(n-m)} \mathfrak{F}_{\theta_d, \theta_x} [A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)] (-m,n),
\label{fourierfourier}
\eqn
or equivalently,
\beqn
A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k) = \sum_{ m, n \in \mathbb{Z} } i^{(m-n)} e^{- i m \theta_d} e^{i n \theta_x} W_{nm} (D, \varepsilon^* ,k) \,.
\label{fouriersum}
\eqn
\end{Theorem}
The following result is a direct consequence of Corollary 7.1 in \cite{heteroscattering}.
\begin{Theorem}
When the contrast $\varepsilon^*$ is small, it holds that
\beqn
W_{nm} (D,\varepsilon^* ,k) = \varepsilon^* k^2 \int_{D} J_n(k r ) J_m(k r ) e^{i (n-m) \theta } \, dx + O( {\varepsilon^*} ^2),
\label{SC_small}
\eqn
which can be simplified for the special case of domain $D$ being the circular shape $D= B_R(0)$:
\beqn
W_{nm} (B, \varepsilon^* ,k) = 2 \pi \varepsilon^* \delta_{nm} k^2 \int_{0}^R [J_n(k r )]^2 r dr + O( {\varepsilon^*} ^2).
\label{SC_small_ball}
\eqn
\end{Theorem}
We remark that the integral appearing in \eqref{SC_small_ball}
can be calculated explicitly as a Lommel's integral, and this fact will become very helpful in section \ref{sec3}.
Before going to the discussion about
the phased and phaseless reconstructions, we shall first provide an estimate of the scattering coefficient
under a perturbation of an open ball $B_R(0)$, which is important for our subsequent analysis
about the resolution of both the phased and phaseless reconstructions.
Let $\nu(x)$ be the outward unit normal to $\p B$, and
$D := B^\delta$ a $\delta$-perturbation of $B := B_R(0)$ along the variational direction $h \in C^1(\p D)$
with $||h||= 1 $:
\beqn
\p B^\delta := \{ \tilde{x} = x + \delta h(x) \nu(x) \, : \, x \in \p B \} \,, \label{eq:bdelta}
\eqn
then we can write
the difference between the integrals over the domains $B$ and $B^\delta$ for an $L^1$ function $f$:
\beqnx
\int_{B^\delta} f(x) d x - \int_{B} f(x) d x = \delta \int_{\p B} f(x) h(x) \,ds(x) + O(\delta^2) \,.
\eqnx
Now it follows from this and \eqref{SC_small} that
\beqn
& & W_{nm} (B^\delta, \varepsilon^* ,k) - W_{nm} (B, \varepsilon^* ,k) \notag \\
&=& \varepsilon^* k^2 \int_{B^\delta \bigcup B \backslash B^\delta \bigcap B} \text{sgn}(h) J_n(k r ) J_m(k r ) e^{i (n-m) \theta } \, dx + O\left( \varepsilon^*\delta^2 + {\varepsilon^*} ^2\right) \notag \\
&=& \varepsilon^* \delta k^2 \int_{\p B} h(x) J_n(k r ) J_m(k r ) e^{i (n-m) \theta } \, dx + O\left( \varepsilon^*\delta^2 + {\varepsilon^*} ^2\right) \notag \\
&=& \varepsilon^* R \delta k^2 J_n(k R ) J_m(k R ) \int_{0}^{2 \pi} h(\theta) e^{i (n-m) \theta } \, d \theta + O\left( \varepsilon^*\delta^2 + {\varepsilon^*} ^2\right) \notag \\
& = & 2 \pi R k^2 {\varepsilon^*} \delta J_n(k R ) J_m(k R ) \mathfrak{F}[h](n-m) +
+ O\left( \varepsilon^*\delta^2 + {\varepsilon^*} ^2\right) \,, \notag
\eqn
where $\mathfrak{F}[h](n-m)$ stands for the $(n-m)$-th Fourier coefficient of the perturbation $h$ in the argument $\theta$.
If we further requires that the magnitude of $\delta$ is larger than $\varepsilon^*$ in a way such that $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^\alpha$ for some $0 < \alpha < 1$, then we arrive at the following result by some similar argument
to the one in \cite{superresolution}.
\begin{Theorem}
\label{goodtheorem}
Let $D := B^\delta$ be a $\delta$-perturbation of $B := B_R(0)$ as defined in
\eqref{eq:bdelta},
then it holds for $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^\alpha$ with $0 < \alpha < 1$ that
\beqn
W_{nm} (B^\delta, \varepsilon^* ,k) - W_{nm} (B, \varepsilon^* ,k) = 2 \pi R k^2 ({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} J_n(k R ) J_m(k R ) \mathfrak{F}[h](n-m) +
O({\varepsilon^*}) ^2.
\label{SC_small_ball_purb}
\eqn
\end{Theorem}
\section{Sensitivity analysis of the phased measurement data} \label{sec3}
In this section, we shall develop a sensitivity analysis of the phased measurement of the far-field data based on
the result for the scattering coefficients in Theorem\,\ref{goodtheorem}.
This shall help us provide a crucial expression between the phaseless measurement of the far-field data (i.e., only its magnitude) and the shape $D$.
Suppose that $D := B^\delta$ is a $\delta$-perturbation of $B := B_R(0)$ along the variational direction $h \in C^1(\p D)$ with $||h||= 1 $ as described earlier.
Then it follows from \eqref{fouriersum}, \eqref{SC_small_ball} and \eqref{SC_small_ball_purb} that
\beqn
&&A_{\infty} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) \notag \\
&=&
\sum_{n,m \in\mathbb{Z} } i^{n-m} e^{i n \theta} e^{ - i m \widetilde{\theta}} \, W_{nm} (B^\delta, \varepsilon^* ,k)
\notag \\
&=&
2 \pi \varepsilon^* k^2 \sum_{l\in\mathbb{Z}} e^{i l (\theta- \widetilde{\theta})} \int_{0}^R [J_l(k r )]^2 r dr
+ 2 \pi R \,({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} k^2
\sum_{n, l \in\mathbb{Z}} i^{l} e^{ i l \widetilde{\theta}} e^{i n (\theta- \widetilde{\theta})} J_n(k R ) J_{n-l}(k R ) \mathfrak{F}[h](l) + O( {\varepsilon^*}) ^2 \notag \,.
\eqn
Although the above expression looks quite complicated, it can be greatly simplified by some well-known properties of the Bessel functions.
In fact, using the following form of the Graf's addition formula \cite{Watson2}:
\beqn
\sum_{n = -\infty}^\infty J_n(x) J_{n-l}(y) e^{i n \theta }
=
(-1)^l \left( \frac{x - y\exp(-i \theta) }{ x - y\exp(i \theta)} \right)^{l/2} J_{l} \left( \sqrt{x^2 + y^2 - 2xy \cos(\theta) }\right)
\,
\eqn
for $x,y >0$ and $x \neq y$, and the well-known property for the second Lommel's integral:
\beqn
\int_{0}^R [J_l(k r )]^2 r dr = \frac{R^2}{2} [ J_l(k R) ^2 - J_{l-1}(k R) J_{l+1}(k R) ]
\,,
\eqn
we can significantly simplify the above expression of the far-field pattern as
\beqn
A_{\infty} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)
&=& \pi R^2 \varepsilon^* \, k^2 \sum_{l\in\mathbb{Z}} e^{i l (\theta- \widetilde{\theta})} [ J_l(k R) ^2 - J_{l-1}(k R) J_{l+1}(k R) ] \notag \\
& & + 2 \pi R \,({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} \, k^2
\sum_{n, l \in\mathbb{Z}} i^{l} e^{ i l \widetilde{\theta}} e^{i n (\theta- \widetilde{\theta})} J_n(k R ) J_{n-l}(k R ) \mathfrak{F}[h](l) + O( {\varepsilon^*}) ^2 \notag \\
&=& \pi R^2 \varepsilon^*k^2 [ J_{0}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) ) - J_{2}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) ) ] \notag \\
& & + 2 \pi R \,({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} k^2
\sum_{l \in\mathbb{Z}} (-i)^{l} e^{i l (\widetilde{\theta} + \theta)/2} J_{l}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) ) \mathfrak{F}[h](l) + O( {\varepsilon^*}) ^2 \,.
\label{ainfty}
\eqn
An interesting point to note is that the constants $\pi R^2$ and $2 \pi R$ in front of the two terms $\varepsilon^*$ and $({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha}$ are respectively the volume and surface area of the open ball of radius $R$.
Summarizing the above discussions, we come directly to the following theorem.
\begin{Theorem} \label{proj}
If $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^\alpha$ for $0 < \alpha < 1$, then
\beqn
A_{\infty} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) =
\pi R^2 \varepsilon^* k^2 P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) + 2 \pi R \,({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} k^2 \langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{C})}
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^2,
\label{A infty_small_ball_purb}
\eqn
where $P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)$ represents the quantity
\beqn
P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) &:=& J_{0}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) ) - J_{2}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) )
\label{scalar}
\eqn
and
$S_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) \in l^2(\mathbb{C}) $ is a vector given by
\beqn
S_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)_l &:=& i^{l} e^{- i l (\widetilde{\theta} + \theta)/2} J_{l}(2 k R \sin((\widetilde{\theta} - \theta) /2) ) \,.
\label{vector}
\eqn
\end{Theorem}
With the above estimate of the far-field pattern, we can calculate the expression of the magnitude of the far-field pattern,
namely $| A_{\infty} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) |$, by
\beqn
\f{| A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 ({\varepsilon^*})^2 k^4 \left(P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\right)^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 ({\varepsilon^*})^{2+\alpha} k^4 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) }
&=& \text{Re} \langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{C}) }
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha} \notag\\
&=& \langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)}
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha} \,.
\eqn
Due to its great importance for both the subsequent phased and phaseless reconstructions,
we state it in the following corollary.
\begin{Corollary}
\label{proj2}
For $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^\alpha$ for $0 < \alpha < 1$ it holds that
\beqn
\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)} =
\f{| A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4( {\varepsilon^*})^2 k^4 \left(P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\right)^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 ({\varepsilon^*})^{2+\alpha} k^4 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) }
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha} \,. \label{eq:new}
\eqn
\end{Corollary}
One interesting observation is that $P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)$ and $S_R(\theta, \widetilde\theta, k) $
become very simple for $\theta = \widetilde{\theta}$:
\beqn
P_R(\theta, \theta, k) =1 \,,\quad
S_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)_l = \delta_{l 0} \,.
\eqn
And the expression for the far-field pattern is simplified to
\beqn
A_{\infty} (\theta, \theta, k) =
\pi R^2 \varepsilon^* k^2 + 2 \pi R \,({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} k^2 \mathfrak{F}[h](0)
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^2,
\label{A infty_small_ball_purb_2}
\eqn
which illustrates that the direct backscattering data $A_{\infty} (\theta, \theta, k)$ may only provide the information about the area and volume of the inclusions but not the first order perturbation
\smallskip
We end this section with an important remark about some similarities and differences between the phased and phaseless reconstructions in the linearized case. As we see
from \eqref{A infty_small_ball_purb} that
\beqn
\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{C})} =
\f{ A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) - \pi R^2 \varepsilon^* k^2 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) }{2 \pi R^2 ({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} k^2} + O({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha} \,, \label{phased}
\eqn
which might be comparable to Corollary \ref{proj2} above. However, we do see several differences here.
First, we obtain an approximate value of $\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{C}) }$
with the phased measurements in the linearized case, while
an approximate value of $\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)}$
with the phaseless measurements, which is the projection of the original complex inner product to the real part. Therefore, we can regard the linearized phaseless reconstruction as an "half-dimension" analogy of the linearized phased reconstruction. Second, in the phased reconstruction, the denominator of the right hand side of the equation
\eqref{phased}
does not involve the division of the term $ P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)$, whereas in the phaseless reconstruction
the division of the term is involved (cf.\,\eqref{eq:new}). Both differences make the phaseless reconstruction more ill-posed than the phased one.
These differences will be clearly elaborated in section \ref{sec74}.
As the last point,
it is well-known that the phaseless reconstruction is not unique in a sense that any translation of the inclusion yields the same phaseless measurement. But this is not reflected from the above equation, as we have assumed
the inclusion is in the center for the sake of exposition.
\section{A phased reconstruction algorithm in the linearized case} \label{sec4}
In this section, we provide a reconstruction algorithm for the phased measurement in the linearized case using the concept of the scattering coefficients, and then a resolution analysis of this algorithm.
\subsection{An algorithm for phased reconstruction}
We recall that $\varepsilon^*$ is the contrast of the inclusion $D$
(cf.\,\eqref{eq:q}) and the perturbation parameter $\delta$ of $D$ is of
the order $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^{\alpha}$ for $ 0 < \alpha < 1$.
Then motivated by the results in Theorems \ref{farfieldtheorem} and \ref{goodtheorem},
we come to the following reconstruction algorithm in the linearized case.
\ms
\textbf{Algorithm 1}. Given the measurement $A^{\text{meas}}_{\infty} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)$.
\begin{enumerate}
\item
Compute $W_{nm}^{\text{meas}}$ from the Fourier transform as in \eqref{fourierfourier} for $ -N < n,m < N$.
\item
Find $R$, $\varepsilon^*$ from the following minimization problem
\beqn
\min_{R, \,\varepsilon^*}
\sum_{-N < n < N} \left|W^{\text{meas}}_{nn} - \pi R^2 \varepsilon^* k^2 [ J_l(k R) ^2 - J_{l-1}(k R) J_{l+1}(k R) ] \right|^2 \,.
\eqn
\item
Compute from \eqref{SC_small_ball_purb} the estimator $(\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}$ of the product of magnitude $\delta$ and Fourier coefficients $\mathfrak{F}[h]$ of the perturbation $h$ for $l \neq 0$:
\beqn
(\delta \, \mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} := \frac{1}{2N - l} \sum_{m-n = l, \, -N < n,m < N} \frac{W_{nm}^{\text{meas}} - W_{nm}(B,\varepsilon^*,k) }{ 2 \pi R \varepsilon^* k^2J_n(k R ) J_m(k R ) } \,. \label{recon_sim}
\eqn
\end{enumerate}
We remark that the reconstruction formula \eqref{recon_sim} is similar to the one (5.3) in \cite{superresolution}.
Indeed, considering equations (3.26) in \cite{superresolution}, with any contrast $\varepsilon^*$, the Fourier coefficients of any perturbation $h$ of $B = B_R(0)$ can always be recovered by an inversion of the operator $A(\varepsilon^*)$ as defined in (4.62) in \cite{superresolution} (after a normalization of its wave number $k$ to $k = 1$). However, the coefficients of the matrix $A(\varepsilon^*)$, i.e. $C(\varepsilon^*,n,m)$ defined in (3.27) in \cite{superresolution}, is only given by an expression of resolvent operators, and therefore their explicit expressions are unknown. The inversion formula (5.3) in \cite{superresolution} is hence inconvenient to be used.
Nonetheless, for a small contrast $\varepsilon^*$, we know now from Theorem \ref{goodtheorem}
an explicit approximation of coefficients $C(\varepsilon^*,n,m)$ as $C(\varepsilon^*,n,m)\approx 2 \pi R k^2 ({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha} J_n(k R ) J_m(k R ) $.
Therefore \eqref{recon_sim} can be regarded as an easy-to-use approximation of the inversion formula (5.3) of the operator $A(\varepsilon^*)$ described in \cite{superresolution} when the contrast $\varepsilon^*$ is small.
\subsection{Resolution analysis with respect to signal-to-noise ratio}
In this subsection, we perform a resolution analysis of Algorithm 1 in the previous section, which applies also to other reconstruction process derived from \eqref{phased}, since the above algorithm is just a Fourier-transformed version of \eqref{phased}.
Resolution analysis of the above reconstruction with respect to the signal-to-noise ration (SNR) can be conducted following the spirit of the work \cite{GPT}.
In what follows, we assume the following noise model for the far-field pattern:
\begin{equation}
A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k) := A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k) + N (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k)
\end{equation}
where the pairs $\{(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i)\}_{i,j = 1}^M$ represent the $M$ incident and receiving angles of the measurement evenly distributed on the circle (where $M$ is very large) and $( N (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k) )_{i,j = 1}^M $ is modeled as, for any fixed value of $k$, a complex circular symmetric Gaussian white noise vector with variance:
\begin{equation}
\mathbb{E}[|N (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k) |^2] = \sigma^2 k^4 \,.
\label{noisenoise21}
\end{equation}
Here $\sigma$ represents the noise magnitude and the noise term is assumed to have a variance of quadratic growth with respect to $k$,
as it is direct from \eqref{fouriersum} and \eqref{SC_small} to see that the magnitude of $A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k)$ grows in the order of $k^2$ as $k$ grows.
>From the well-known fact that any orthogonal transformation of a Gaussian white random vector will result in another Gaussian white random vector, we arrive at, after taking the discrete Fourier transform in the variables $\theta$ and $\widetilde{\theta}$, that the following model for the scattering coefficient should be in force:
\begin{equation}
W_{nm}^{\text{meas}} (B^\delta,\varepsilon^*,k) = W_{nm} (B^\delta,\varepsilon^*, k) + \hat{N}_{n,m,\varepsilon^*} \, ,
\label{noisenoise}
\end{equation}
where the noise term $\hat{N}_{n,m,\varepsilon^*}$ is another complex circular symmetric Gaussian random variable such that its variance $\mathbb{E}[|\hat{N}_{n,m,\varepsilon^*}|^2]$ (i.e. the power spectrum of the original random variable $N (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_j, k)$) behaves like
\begin{equation}
\mathbb{E}[|\hat{N}_{n,m,\varepsilon^*}|^2] = \sigma^2 k^4 \,.
\label{noisenoise2}
\end{equation}
Assume a pair of generic $(k,R)$ such that $kR$ is not a zero of $J_n$ for all $n$.
Then for $l \neq 0$, we obtain from a direct subtraction of \eqref{SC_small_ball_purb} from \eqref{recon_sim},
together with \eqref{noisenoise}, that
\beqnx
\mathfrak{F}[h](l)=
(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} (l)
+ \frac{\sigma}{ ({\varepsilon^*})^{1+\alpha}} N_{l} + ({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha} V_l \,,
\eqnx
where $V_l$ represents the approximation error and $N_{l}$ a noise term satisfying the following estimate for its variance for a small $R<1$ and large $N<M$ using \eqref{noisenoise2}:
\beqn
\mathbb{E} [ | N_{l} |^2 ] &=&
C \frac{1}{(2N - l)^2} \sum_{m-n = l, \, -N < n,m < N} R^{-2} [J_n(k R ) J_m(k R )]^{-2} \notag \\
&\leq& C \frac{1}{(2N - l)^2R^2}\sum_{m-n = l, \, -N < n,m < N} \frac{ m^m n^n }{ R^{2(m+n)} } \notag\\
&\leq& C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} \,.
\eqn
The last second inequality above comes from the asymptotic behavior of the Bessel function
\cite{handbook}:
\beqn
J_n (t) \bigg/ \f{1}{\sqrt{2 \pi |n|}}\left(\f{e t}{2 |n|}\right)^{|n|} \rightarrow 1
\label{decayhaha}
\eqn
as $|n| \rightarrow \infty$.
Now assume further that $\varepsilon^* << \sqrt{\sigma}$ and
\beqnx
\text{SNR} := \left( \frac{\varepsilon^*}{\sigma}\right)^2 \,,
\eqnx
then we get
\beqn
\mathbb{E} [ | (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} (l) | ] = \mathfrak{F}[h](l) \,, \quad \mathbb{E} [ | (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} (l) - \mathfrak{F}[h](l) |^2 ] \leq C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} \text{(SNR)}^{-(1 + \alpha/2)} \,,
\eqn
which enables us to conclude the following result.
\begin{Theorem}
\label{resolution}
Suppose that $\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^\alpha$ for $0 < \alpha < 1$, and $M >> 1$ is the number of measurement points.
If $N<M$ is selected such that
\beqn
C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} < \text{(SNR)}^{1 + \alpha/2}
\eqn
and that $ \mathfrak{F}[h](l)$ ($|l|\leq N$) are of order $1$, then the $l$-th mode of $h$ can be resolved for $|l|\leq N$, i.e. $\mathbb{E} [ | (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} (l) - \mathfrak{F}[h](l) |^2 ] < 1$.
\end{Theorem}
\section{Introduction to phaseless reconstruction} \label{sec5}
Phaseless reconstruction originates from the physical background that we can usually only measure the magnitude of some data, for example, the magnitude of the far-field pattern.
As briefly explained in section \ref{sec1}, it is quite difficult and expensive to obtain the phased data
in many physical and engineering applications, and the phase of a measurement is easily
contaminated by noise. On the other hand,
the phaseless data is much easier to obtain and less contaminated in many practical situations. Due to
these facts, the phaseless reconstruction has attracted wide attention.
\subsection{Brief history of a general phaseless reconstruction problem}\label{sec:history}
Let us first give a brief introduction and history of a general phaseless reconstruction. As in \cite{Candes}, for a given set of $m$ sampling vectors, $\textbf{z}_1, \cdots, \textbf{z}_m$, we intend to recover a vector $\textbf{x}$ from some phaseless data. This may be formulated as
\beqn
\text{Find } \textbf{x} \text{ such that } A(\textbf{x}) = b
\label{eq:vector}
\eqn
where $A: \mathbb{C}^N \rightarrow R^m $ is given by $A(\textbf{x})_i = | \langle \textbf{x},\textbf{z}_i\rangle|^2$.
One may consider a convexification of the problem \eqref{eq:vector} \cite{Candes}:
\beqn
\text{Find } \textbf{X} \geq 0 \text{ such that } \mathcal{A}(\textbf{X}) =
b\, ,
\eqn
where $\mathcal{A}: \mathcal{H}^{N \times N} \rightarrow R^m $ is given by
$\mathcal{A}(\textbf{X})=\textbf{z}_i^* \textbf{X} \textbf{z}_i $, which helps reduce the complexity of solving the problem,
as well as provide uniqueness results under some practical conditions.
For instance, this problem is proven to have a high probability that it is uniquely solvable up to a unit complex number stably from $O(N \log N )$ random measurements \cite{Demanet}.
We remark that a stablized version of convexification is given by
\begin{equation}
\text{Find } \textbf{X} \geq 0 \text{ such that } || \mathcal{A}(\textbf{X}) - b || \leq \epsilon ||X_0||_2 \,.
\end{equation}
Another more general form of phaseless reconstruction (which generalizes the above) comes from recovering the phase of a function/vector from the modulus of its evaluation by a family of functionals.
In a more precise way, let $E$ be a complex vector space and
$\{L_i\}_{i \in I}$ be a family of functionals. Then this phaseless reconstruction reads:
\beqn
\text{Find } \textbf{f} \in E \text{ such that } |L_i(\textbf{f})| = b\,.
\eqn
In the case where $\{L_i\}_{i \in I}$ represents the wavelet transform by the Cauchy wavelets, it was shown in \cite{Irene}
that the modulus of the wavelet
transform uniquely determines the function up to a global phase, and the reconstruction operator is
continuous but not uniformly continuous.
\subsection{Introduction to our phaseless reconstruction problem}
The convexification discussed in section\,\ref{sec:history}
is a very interesting approach, but the purpose, framework and analysis
of our phaseless reconstruction here are very different.
We aim to achieve numerical reconstructions of inhomogeneous domains in the linearized case.
We will provide an algorithm for the domain reconstruction from some phaseless far-field data,
and estimate the condition number of this reconstruction process, and establish an upper bound of
its infimum over all phaseless measurement strategies. This casts light on how we can obtain an optimal strategy to perform effective phaseless measurements such that the phaseless inversion process shall be well-posed.
For comparison purpose, a similar analysis technique is also performed on its phased counterpart, and
a comparison between the phased and phaseless reconstructions shall be made.
\section{Phaseless domain reconstruction algorithm in linearized cases} \label{sec6}
In this section, we provide a new method for the domain reconstruction from the phaseless far-field data based on
our analyses and results in sections \ref{sec2} and \ref{sec3}. We first recall from Theorem \ref{proj2}
the relation
\beqn
\f{| A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 ({\varepsilon^*})^2 k^4 \left(P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\right)^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 ({\varepsilon^*})^{2+\alpha} k^4 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) }
= \langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)}
+ O({\varepsilon^*})^{1-\alpha}\,,
\eqn
where $P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \in \mathbb{R}$ and $S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \in l^2{(\mathbb{C})}$ are given in \eqref{scalar} and \eqref{vector}.
Therefore, from a finite number of $M$ measurements $| A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) |$
($ 1 \leq i \leq M$),
we obtain the following linear approximation of $\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\rangle$
as the measurement quantities from the phaseless measurements:
\beqn
\langle \mathfrak{F}[h], S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)} \approx
\f{| A_{\infty} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4( {\varepsilon^*})^2 k^4 | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 ({\varepsilon^*})^{2+\alpha} k^4 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) } \,.
\eqn
This is of crucial importance for us to derive an algorithm for the domain reconstruction from the phaseless far-field measurements.
\subsection{Phaseless reconstruction algorithm} \label{phaseless_algo}
We are now ready to introduce our phaseless reconstruction algorithm.
Following Theorem \ref{resolution} from the resolution analysis for the phased reconstruction in section \ref{sec3}, we can directly infer that the resolution with respect to SNR in the phaseless reconstruction should not surpass the $N$-th Fourier mode, where $N$ satisfies the inequality $C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} < \text{(SNR)}^{1 + \alpha/2}$ for some $C$ and $\alpha$.
Hence in our reconstruction algorithm,
we may always assume that $\mathfrak{F}[h](l) = 0$ for $|l|> N$ for some $N$ and consider only the inversion of finite dimensional operators, and the contribution of $\mathfrak{F}[h](l)$ for $|l|> N$ to the measurement data can be regarded as noise.
Now since $h(\theta) \in \mathbb{R}$ for all $\theta$, we have the following additional constraints on the Fourier coefficients:
\beqn
\mathfrak{F}[h]( - l) = \overline{ \mathfrak{F}[h]( l) } \,.
\eqn
This set of constraints is very important in our subsequent analysis.
We assume again that the magnitude of the perturbation $\delta$ is of the form
$\delta = ({\varepsilon^*})^{\alpha}$ for $0 < \alpha < 1$, where $\varepsilon^*$ is the contrast of the inclusion.
>From Theorem \ref{proj2}, we can now suggest the following phaseless reconstruction algorithm.
\ms
\textbf{Algorithm 2}.
Given a positive integer $N$ and $M$ measurements of the magnitude $| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) |$ ($ 1 \leq i \leq M$) of the far-field.
\begin{enumerate}
\item
Find the pair $(R , \varepsilon^*)$ that minimizes the following functional:
\beqn
\sum_{1 \leq i \leq M } \left| |A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 k^4 {\varepsilon^*}^2 \left(P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\right)^2 \right|^2 \,,
\eqn
where the values $P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)$ are computed from \eqref{scalar}.
\item
Compute the following quantities for $ 1 \leq i \leq M$:
\beqn
\f{| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 {\varepsilon^*}^2 k^4 | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 {\varepsilon^*}^{2} k^4P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) } \,.
\label{step2}
\eqn
\item
Calculate the estimator $(\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}(l)$ of the product of magnitude $\delta$ and Fourier coefficient
$\mathfrak{F}[h]$ of the perturbation $h$ for $|l| \leq N$ by the inversion of the following system of linear equations:
\beqn
\langle (\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} , S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)} =
\f{| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 {\varepsilon^*}^2 k^4 | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 }{4 \pi^2 R^3 {\varepsilon^*}^{2} k^4P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) } \,,
\label{step3}
\eqn
under the constraints
\beqn
(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( - l) = \overline{ (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( l) } \,.
\eqn
\end{enumerate}
We should be reminded that the above algorithm can only provide stable inversion and reasonable resolution of the perturbation $h$ up to at most the $N$-th Fourier mode,
where $N$ shall satisfy the inequality $C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} < \text{(SNR)}^{1 + \alpha/2}$ for some $C$ and $\alpha$, as shown in Theorem \ref{resolution} in section \ref{sec3}.
\section{Stability of the phaseless domain reconstruction} \label{sec_sta}
We are now ready to discuss the stability of the phaseless reconstruction by estimating the condition number of this inversion process.
Before going into detailed estimates, we shall state our inversion problem in a more concise manner, which will provide a clear framework for our subsequent analysis.
For this purpose, we first define three operators for a given pair $(N,M) \in \mathbb{N}$, where
two of them are linear in nature while the other one is nonlinear:
\begin{enumerate}
\item
the component-wise squaring of a vector followed by a subtraction of another known vector, i.e. the action
$v_i \mapsto v_i^2 - \pi^2 R^4 {\varepsilon^*}^2 k^4 | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2$,
which appears in Step $2$ of Algorithm $2$;
and we write this nonlinear operator as $F:\mathbb{R}^M \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^M$;
\item
the component-wise multiplication of a vector $v_i \mapsto 4 \pi^2 R^3 {\varepsilon^*}^{2} k^4P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)\, v_i$, which appears in Step $2$ of Algorithm $2$;
and we will write this linear operator as $L : \mathbb{R}^{M} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{M}$;
\item
the linear operator $ v \mapsto \left( \langle \, v \, , S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{R}^2)} \right)_{i = 1}^M$, which appears in Step $3$ of Algorithm $2$.
We shall write this linear operator as $T : \mathbb{C}^{2N} \oplus \{ 0\} \cong \mathbb{R}^{4N} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{M}$.
\end{enumerate}
Without loss of generality, we may always choose a radius $R$ such that the zeroth Fourier coefficient $ \mathfrak{F}[h](0) $ is zero.
With these preparations, we can write \eqref{step3} as
\beqn
(L \circ T) \left[ (\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} \right] = F(| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)| ) \,.
\label{operatoreq}
\eqn
Then our phaseless inversion problem can be precisely stated as follows:
given a value of $SNR$, with a number $N$ such that
$
C {N^{4N}}/{R^{2+4N}} < \text{(SNR)}^{1 + \alpha/2}
$
for some $C$ and $\alpha$, we recover the Fourier coefficients $ \delta \left( \mathfrak{F}[h]^{est} (l) \right)_{l = -N}^N \in \mathbb{C}^{2N} \oplus \{ 0\} \cong \mathbb{R}^{4N} $ from \eqref{operatoreq} with $M$ measurements:
\beqnx
(b_i)_{i = 1}^M := F(| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|) = \left(| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 - \pi^2 R^4 {\varepsilon^*}^2 k^4 | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|^2 \right)_{i = 1}^M \in \mathbb{R}^{M} \,
\eqnx
subjected to the following extra set of constraints in $ \mathbb{R}^{4N} $ as
\beqnx
\text{Re}(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( - l) - \text{Re} (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( l) = 0 \,, \qquad \text{Im}(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( - l) + \text{Im} (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( l) = 0\,.
\eqnx
>From now on, we shall denote this set of linear constraints as
\beqn
C \left[ (\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} \right] = 0 \,. \label{constraint}
\eqn
After this restatement of the phaseless reconstruction problem, we can directly infer that the stability of the inversion lies in the stability of inversion of the linear operators $L$ and $T$ in the subspace $\text{ker} (C)$ under a certain noise level.
Therefore, the aim of this section is to estimate the condition numbers of the operators $T$ and $L$ in this subspace.
To the best of our knowledge, the stability estimates on condition numbers are novel for inverse problems, and are very important for us to understand the degree of ill-posedness and stability of the reconstruction problem, as well as
to provide optimal methods to minimize these two condition numbers by making wise measurements or regularizations.
\subsection{Estimation of the condition number of $T$} \label{condT}
We come now to the estimate of the condition number of operator $T$.
For notational sake, we first introduce two more operators,
$\iota_0 : \mathbb{C} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^{2} \,, z \mapsto (\text{Re}(z) , \text{Im}(z))$
and their liftings on the linear operators over the corresponding spaces
$\iota : \mathfrak{L}(\mathbb{C}) \cong \mathbb{C} \rightarrow \mathfrak{L}(\mathbb{R}^{2}) \cong M_{2 \times 2} \,, z \mapsto
\begin{pmatrix}
\text{Re}(z) & \text{Im}(z) \\
-\text{Im}(z) & \text{Re}(z)
\end{pmatrix}
$. And we shall also use the projection map
$\pi_{\text{Re}} : M_{2 \times 2} \rightarrow M_{1 \times 2}\,, \begin{pmatrix}
a & b \\
c & d
\end{pmatrix} \mapsto \begin{pmatrix}
a & b
\end{pmatrix} $. It is easy to check
\beqn
[ \pi_{\text{Re}} \circ \iota (\bar{z}) ] \left( \iota_0(w) \right)= \langle \iota_0(z), \iota_0(w) \rangle_{\mathbb{R}^{2}} = \text{Re}(\bar{z} w)\,. \label{special}
\eqn
Before we go on to study the stability of the reconstruction problem, we shall also provide a clear concept and define the condition number of $T$ subjected to the constraint $Cx = 0$, denoted as $\kappa(T,\text{ker}(C) )$, where
$C :\mathbb{R}^P \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^Q$ for $Q \leq P$ is another linear operator.
First, for the sake of exposition, we shall denote $C^{\perp}$ as the set of all matrices $E$ such that its column vectors are linearly independent and span the orthogonal complement of the row space of $C = (C_1, C_2, \dots, C_n)^T$, i.e.
\beqnx
C^{\perp} := \{
(E_1, E_2, \dots, E_n): \langle E_1, ... , E_n, C_1, ... , C_n \rangle = \mathbb{R}^P , \langle E_1, ..., E_{j-1} , E_{j+1},..., E_n, C_1,... , C_n \rangle \neq \mathbb{R}^P ~~\forall j \} \,.
\eqnx
Now, if we solve the following constraint problem for a given triple $(T, b, C)$:
\beqnx
\text{Find $x \in \mathbb{R}^P$ such that } \quad Tx = b \quad \text{and} \quad C x = 0 \,,
\eqnx
or its least-squares formulation:
\beqnx
\min_{ \underset{s.t.\,Cx=0}{x\in \mathbb{R}^P}} || Tx - b ||_{2}^2 \,,
\eqnx
we are actually parameterizing the kernel $\text{ker}(C)$ by an orthogonal complement of the row space of $C$, and then solve the equation $T x = b$ under this parametrization (either in the strict sense, or the least-squares sense), i.e.,
solve for $y$ the equation (with $E \in C^{\perp}$):
\beqnx
(T \circ E ) \, y = b \,,
\eqnx
or the least-squares minimization (with $E \in C^{\perp}$):
\beqnx
\min_{ y \in \mathbb{R}^Q} || (T \circ E )\, y - b ||_{2}^2\,.
\eqnx
>From this definition, one can easily get that the operator $T$ is invertible with its solution in the subspace $C x = 0$ if and only if $T \circ E$ is invertible. One can also directly get that if $T x = b$ and $T \tilde{x} = \tilde{b}$ where $x , \tilde{x} \in \text{ker} C$, then we have the following estimate
\beqnx
\frac{|| y - \tilde{y} || }{ || y ||} \leq \kappa(T \circ E ) \frac{|| b - \tilde{b} || }{ || b ||} \,,
\eqnx
for any $E \in C^{\perp}$, where $y, \tilde{y}$ are defined such that $E y = x , E \tilde{y} = \tilde{x}$.
Hence, in order to study the stability of the inversion process of $T$ in the subspace, we are motivated to define the condition number of $T$ under the constraint $Cx = 0$ as
\beqn
\kappa(T,\text{ker}(C) ) : = \inf \{ \kappa(T \circ E ) \,:\, E \in C^{\perp} \} \,.
\eqn
\subsubsection{A measurement strategy for phaseless reconstruction} \label{sec71}
In this subsection, we proceed to develop a good measurement strategy which can minimize the condition number of $T$ and ensure the well-posedness of the inversion concerned.
Indeed, we shall intuitively expect to have a good strategy in choosing the measurement set $(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)$ by gazing at the vector $S_R$ in \eqref{vector}: for a given target resolution $N$, one may choose $2 k_i R \sin((\widetilde{\theta}_i - \theta_i) /2)$ such that they attain the $m_0$-th local extremum of $J_l$ for $1<l<N$, i.e., the values of $b_{l,m_0}$ where $J_l' (b_{l,m_0}) = 0$ for a given $m_0$.
With this particular choice of $M$ sets of measurement data $\{ (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ such that $2 k_i R \sin((\widetilde{\theta}_i - \theta_i) /2) \in \{b_{1,m_0}, b_{2,m_0}, ... , b_{N,m_0}\}$, the operator $T$ is expected to be well-conditioned and therefore provide a good set of information for the geometry of the inclusion. This shall be indeed verified in this subsection.
In what follows, we aim to estimate, for a given resolution $N$, the infimum over the condition numbers of all the operators $T:\mathbb{R}^{4N} \rightarrow \mathbb{R}^M$ subjected to the constraint $C x = 0$, i.e.,
\beqnx
\kappa_{\text{inf},N} := \inf \bigg\{ \kappa(T,\text{ker}(C) ) \,:\, \{ (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i) \}_{i=1}^M \in [0.2\pi]^2 \times (0,\infty) \, , \, M \in \mathbb{Z} \bigg\}
\label{minumum}
\eqnx
by appropriately choosing the vectors $\{(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)\}_{i=1}^M$.
Indeed, from the following well-known asymptotic of $J_l$ \cite{handbook} for all $l$:
\beqn
J_l \left( z \right) = \sqrt{\frac{2}{ \pi z}} \cos \left( z - \frac{2 l + 1}{ 4} \pi \right) + O( {z}^{-3/2}) \,,
\label{order0}
\eqn
we directly have for a fixed $l$ that
\beqn
b_{l,m_0} \bigg\slash \frac{(4 m_0 + 2l + 1)\pi}{4} \rightarrow 1
\label{asymroot}
\eqn
as $m_0$ goes to infinity.
Therefore, for a given large $m_0$, if we choose $(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)$ as the form $(\theta_i, \theta_i + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R})$, where $(J_i)_{i=1}^M \in \mathbb{Z}$ are some integral indices to be specified later, then we have directly from \eqref{order0} and \eqref{asymroot} that
\beqn
S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)_l = e^{i l \theta_i}
\sqrt{\frac{16 R}{ \pi (4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1) }} \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J_i - l }{2} \right) \pi \right)
+ O( m_0^{-3/2})\,.
\eqn
Let $T_{m_0}$ be the linear operator $T$ with this specific arrangement of measurements for a given $m_0$.
If we further denote $L := T_{m_0}^T T_{m_0}$ in the form of a block matrix $\left( L_{lm} \right)_{-N\leq l,m\leq N,\, l,m \neq 0}$, then from \eqref{special}, each of the block $L_{lm}$ will be the following $2 \times 2$ matrix:
\beqn
L_{lm}
&=& \iota_0 \left[S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)_l\right]^T \iota_0\left[ S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)_m \right] \notag \\
&=& \frac{16 R}{ \pi} \, \iota \left[
\sum_{i=1}^M
L_{l,m,\theta_i}
\frac{1}{ 4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1 } \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J_i - m }{2} \right) \pi \right) \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J_i - l }{2} \right) \pi \right)
\right] + O( m_0^{-2}) \,, \notag
\eqn
where the matrix $L_{l,m,\theta}$ has the form \beqnx
L_{l,m,\theta} = \begin{pmatrix}
\cos\left(m \theta \right) \cos\left(l \theta \right) & \cos\left(m \theta \right) \sin\left(l \theta \right)\\
\cos\left(m \theta \right) \sin\left(l \theta \right) & \sin\left(m \theta\right) \sin\left(l \theta \right) \end{pmatrix} \,.
\eqnx
For the sake of exposition, we further denote $\theta_i = 2 \pi I_i / N $ where $(I_i)_{i=1}^M \in \mathbb{Z}$ are
some indices to be chosen later.
We are now ready to specify our choice of indices $\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$. In particular we let the array $\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ be such that it enumerate the index set $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N, 1\leq J \leq N\}$, i.e., we have $M = N^2$.
With the above definition, we readily see
\beqn
& & L_{lm} \notag\\
&=& \frac{16 R}{ \pi} \,
\sum_{J=1}^N \left[ \sum_{I=1}^N L_{l,m, \frac{ 2 \pi I}{N} } \right]
\frac{1}{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 } \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J - m }{2} \right) \pi \right) \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J - l }{2} \right) \pi \right)
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \notag \\
&=& \frac{16 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{|l|,|m|} \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & \text{sgn}(l) \, \text{sgn}(m)
\end{pmatrix} \,
\sum_{J=1}^N
\frac{1}{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 } \cos^2 \left( \frac{ (J - m) \pi }{2} \right)
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,, \notag
\eqn
where $\delta_{a,b}$ is the kronecker delta for any $a,b \in \mathbb{N}$.
>From the above summation, we can directly infer that
\beqn
L_{lm} = \frac{16 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{|l|,|m|} \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & \text{sgn}(l) \, \text{sgn}(m)
\end{pmatrix} \,
\sum_{J=0}^{[\frac{N-1}{2}]} \frac{1}{ 4 m_0 + 4 J + 2\, \texttt{mod}_2(m) +1}
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,,
\eqn
where $\texttt{mod}_2$ is the standard mod-$2$ function and $[\cdot]$ is the floor function.
Now, for the sake of exposition, we denote for given $C, m_0, \widetilde{M}$
a coefficient $K_{C,m_0,\widetilde{M}}$ as
\beqn
K_{C,m_0,\widetilde{M}} := \sum_{J=1}^{\widetilde{M}} \frac{1}{ 4 m_0 +1 + 4 J + 2 C } \,.
\eqn
With this definition, we now hope to approximate $K_{C,m_0,\widetilde{M}}$.
In fact, from the comparison test, we directly arrive at, for any fixed $m_0, \tilde{M}$ and any $C= 0,1$, that the following holds:
\beqn
\frac{1}{4} \log\left(1 + \frac{ \tilde{M} }{m_0 + 2}\right)
\leq K_{C,m_0,\tilde{M}}
\leq
\frac{1}{4} \log\left(1 + \frac{ \tilde{M} }{m_0 + 1}\right)
\,.
\label{ineq_K}
\eqn
Then we can write
\beqn
L_{lm} = \frac{16 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{|l|,|m|} K_{\texttt{mod}_2(m) ,m_0,[\frac{N-1}{2}] } \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & \text{sgn}(l) \, \text{sgn}(m)
\end{pmatrix}
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,,
\eqn
with $K_{\texttt{mod}_2(m) ,m_0,[\frac{N-1}{2}] } $ satisfying estimate \eqref{ineq_K}.
We may now observe a seemingly pathological situation: the matrix $L$ is actually not invertible in $\mathbb{R}^{4N}$.
However, this is actually not as pathological as we think it is, because the constraint $C x = 0$ shall come in to play a fundamental role.
To proceed, we can take a matrix $E \in C^{\perp}$ in the block form $\left( E_{lm} \right)_{-N\leq l\leq N, l \neq 0, 1\leq m\leq N,\,}$ as follows:
\beqn
E_{lm} = \delta_{|l|,m} \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & \text{sgn}(l)
\end{pmatrix} \,.
\eqn
One easily check that the above block matrix $E$ is indeed in $C^{\perp}$.
Then one directly calculate that, for all $1\leq l,m\leq N$,
\beqn
{\left(E^T \circ L\circ E \right)}_{lm} = \frac{64 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{l, m} K_{\texttt{mod}_2(m) ,m_0,[\frac{N-1}{2}] } \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & 1
\end{pmatrix}
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,,
\eqn
which is now invertible.
Hence for a fixed $N$ and the choice
$(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)$ of the form $( 2 \pi I_i / N, 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R})$, where
$\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ enumerates through $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N, 1\leq J \leq N\}$,
we can directly derive the following estimate for the singular values of $T_{m_0}$:
{\small
\beqnx
\frac{4 \sqrt{R N}}{ \sqrt{\pi}} \sqrt{\log\left(1 + \frac{ [\frac{N-1}{2}] }{m_0 + 2}\right) } - \frac{C_N}{m_0^{2}} \leq s_{\min} (T_{m_0} \circ E) \leq s_{\max} (T_{m_0} \circ E ) \leq \frac{4 \sqrt{R N}}{ \sqrt{\pi}} \sqrt{ \log\left(1 + \frac{ [\frac{N-1}{2}] }{m_0 + 1}\right) } + \frac{C_N}{m_0^{2}}
\eqnx
}where $C_N$ is a constant only depending on $N$.
Therefore, if we write $s_{max}$ and $s_{min}$ respectively as the largest and smallest singular values, then
it follows that
\beqn
\kappa(T_{m_0} \circ E) = \frac{s_{\max} (T_{m_0} \circ E)}{s_{\min} (T_{m_0} \circ E)} \leq \sqrt{\log\left(1 + \frac{ [\frac{N-1}{2}] }{m_0 + 1}\right) \bigg \slash \log\left(1 + \frac{ [\frac{N-1}{2}] }{m_0 + 2}\right) } + O({m_0}^{-2}) .\,
\label{log_growth}
\eqn
The Taylor series of $\log(1+x)$ and $\sqrt{a+x}$ then give rise to the following estimate for large $m_0$ that
\beqn
\kappa_{\text{inf},N} \leq \kappa(T_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ) \leq \kappa(T_{m_0} \circ E) \leq \sqrt{\frac{ m_0+2 }{m_0 + 1} } + O(m_0^{-2}) \leq 1 + O(m_0^{-1}) \,,
\eqn
where we should remind ourselves that the big-$O$ terms are bounded by a constant only depending on $N$. Since $m_0$ is arbitrary, we get for any given $N$ that the infimum of the condition number $\kappa(T, \text{ker}(C) )$ is given by
$
\kappa_{\text{inf},N} =1\,,
$
and a minimizing sequence to attain this infimum can be actualized by measurements
$(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)$ as previously specified as $m_0$ goes to infinity. This implies that we can always make an appropriate choice of the target resolution $N$ such that the inversion process of $T$ is well-posed.
The above analysis can be summarized into the following theorem.
\begin{Theorem} \label{theorem_imp}
For a given target resolution $N$, the infimum $\kappa_{\text{inf},N} $ of the condition number $\kappa(T, \text{ker}(C) )$ defined as in \eqref{minumum} over the set of linear operators $T$ is given by
\beqn
\kappa_{\text{inf},N} = 1.
\eqn
A minimizing sequence $\kappa(T_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ), m_0 \in \mathbb{Z} $ of this infimum acquires the following bound
\beqn
\kappa(T_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ) \leq 1 + O(m_0^{-1})
\label{drastic}
\eqn
if we make the arrangement of phaseless measurements in the way that the following equality holds:
\beqn
(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i) = \left( 2 \pi I_i / N, 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R} \right) \,,
\label{measurement}
\eqn
where
$\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ enumerates through $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N, 1\leq J \leq N\}$ and $m_0$ is large,
hence $N^2$ phaseless measurements shall be made.
\end{Theorem}
This theorem gives us a very effective strategy of data measurement such that the phaseless reconstruction process shall be well-posed. In particular, an increase of $m_0$ in the aforementioned measurement method reduces
the condition number of the inversion process with an order of $O(m_0^{-1}) $ according to \eqref{drastic}.
\subsection{Estimation of the condition number of $L$} \label{cond_L}
>From the previous analysis, we can see that the inversion process of $T$ can be made impressively stable and one can suppress its condition number appropriately. However this does not ensure
a very stable phaseless inversion process, owing to the fact from \eqref{operatoreq} that
the total inversion process is given by $T^{-1} \circ L^{-1}$.
Although the action of $L$ is simple and explicit, the inversion process may not be as simple as one might think.
The condition number of $L$ can be directly calculated as ${ \max_i | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|}/{ \min_i |P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|}$. Therefore the inversion process becomes severely ill-posed when some measurement data has a very small value $| P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|$, which in turn pushes up the condition number to an arbitrary magnitude. This causes the reconstruction process to be very unstable in practice.
However, a very simple regularization technique can get rid of this instability.
Thanks to the fact that $P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)$ is analytic, its value cannot be zero on an open neighborhood, and therefore a simple regularization can be performed on the inversion of $L$ by the operator $L_\alpha^{-1}$ defined as follows:
{\small
\beqn
L_\alpha^{-1} = \text{diag} \Big( \chi_{_{x > \alpha} } ( | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) | ) [P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)]^{-1} + {\alpha^{-1}} \chi_{_{x \leq \alpha} } ( | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) | )\lim_{(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k) \rightarrow (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)}\frac{P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)}{|P_R(\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)|}
\Big)\label{labL}
\eqn
}where $ \chi_{_{x > \alpha} } $ and $ \chi_{_{x \leq \alpha} } $ are the respective characteristic functions on the intervals $\{x > \alpha \}$ and $\{x \leq \alpha \}$.
With this definition, we come readily to the following simple but important lemma.
\begin{Lemma}
Let $L_\alpha^{-1}$ be defined as in \eqref{labL}, then we have
\beqn
\kappa (L^{-1}) = \frac{ \max_i | P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|}{ \min_i |P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)|} \,, \quad \kappa (L_\alpha^{-1}) \leq \frac{ 2 }{ \alpha } \,.
\label{linverse}
\eqn
\end{Lemma}
We can see from above that $\kappa (L^{-1})$ cannot be controlled but $\kappa (L_\alpha^{-1})$ has an upper bound,
therefore it provides a stable inversion process if $\alpha$ is appropriately chosen.
>From \eqref{operatoreq}, a stable shape reconstruction process is therefore provided by $ T^{-1} \circ L_{\alpha}^{-1} $.
Indeed, the stability estimates \eqref{drastic} and \eqref{linverse} for the condition numbers of $ T^{-1} $ and $ L_{\alpha}^{-1} $ subjected to $C x = 0$ ensure us the stability of this reconstruction method and provide us optimal strategies to lower the degree of ill-posedness for the phaseless reconstruction problem under the corresponding measurement cases.
The stability of our proposed method will be verified in the numerical experiments.
To the best of our knowledge, these estimates of condition numbers are completely new to our inverse problems.
\subsection{A comparison with the phased reconstruction} \label{sec74}
As we have remarked in section \ref{sec3},
together with the fact that any translation of the inclusion yields the same phaseless measurement,
the phaseless reconstruction is not unique in this sense. And
the linearized phased and phaseless reconstructions share some fundamental differences.
>From \eqref{phased} or its Fourier-transformed version (Algorithm 1), we see that any algorithm derived from \eqref{phased} for the phased reconstruction is equivalent to solving $ \delta \left( \mathfrak{F}[h]^{est} (l) \right)_{l = -N}^N \in \mathbb{C}^{2N} \oplus \{ 0\} \cong \mathbb{R}^{4N} $ such that
\beqn
\tilde{T} \left[ (\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} \right] = G( A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) ) \,,
\eqn
where $N$ satisfies
\beqnx
C \frac{N^{4N}}{R^{2+4N}} < \text{(SNR)}^{1 + \alpha/2}
\eqnx
for some $C$ and $\alpha$,
and $(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} $ is again subjected to the constraints
\beqnx
\text{Re}(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( - l) - \text{Re} (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( l) = 0 \,, \qquad \text{Im}(\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( - l) + \text{Im} (\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est}( l) = 0\,.
\eqnx
The operators $G$ and $\tilde{T}$ above are respectively given by
\begin{enumerate}
\item
$G:\mathbb{C}^M \rightarrow \mathbb{C}^M$, the component-wise affine map of a vector, i.e. the action
$v_i \mapsto \frac{v_i - \pi R^2 {\varepsilon^*} k^2 P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)}{2 \pi R^2 {\varepsilon^*}k^2 }$.
\item
$\tilde{T} : \mathbb{C}^{2N} \rightarrow \mathbb{C}^{M}$, the linear operator $ v \mapsto \left( \langle \, v \, , S_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) \rangle_{l^2(\mathbb{C})} \right)_{i = 1}^M$.
\end{enumerate}
A similar stability analysis for the operator $\tilde{T}$ induced by the phased measurements can be performed
to the one for the operator $\tilde{T}$ corresponding to the phaseless reconstruction as in section \ref{sec71}.
Since most of the steps are similar to the previous analysis for the phaseless reconstruction, we only provide a sketch of the argument.
Again we choose $(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)$ of the form $( 2 \pi I_i / N , 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R})$ where $\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M \in \mathbb{Z}$ are some integral indices to be specified and let $\tilde{T}_{m_0}$ be the linear operator $\tilde{T}$ with this specific arrangement of measurement with a given $m_0$.
Denoting $\tilde{L} := \iota [ \tilde{T}_{m_0}^* ] \iota [\tilde{T}_{m_0}]$, then a similar argument,
along with the fact that $\iota$ is an algebra homomorphism, shows for $-N\leq l,m\leq N$ that
$$
\tilde{L}_{lm}
= \frac{16 R}{ \pi} \, \iota \left[
\sum_{i=1}^M
\tilde{L}_{l,m,\theta_i}
\frac{1}{ 4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1 } \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J_i - m }{2} \right) \pi \right) \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J_i - l }{2} \right) \pi \right)
\right] + O( m_0^{-2}) \,, \notag
$$
where each $\tilde{L}_{l,m,\theta_i} := e^{i (l-m) \theta_i} $ is invertible.
Again, letting the array $\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ enumerate the index set $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N, 1\leq J \leq N\}$, i.e., $M = N^2$ complex (phased) measurements, we have
\beqn
& & \tilde{L}_{lm} \notag \\
&=& \frac{16 R}{ \pi} \,
\sum_{J=1}^N \iota \left[ \sum_{I=1}^N e^{2 \pi i (l-m) I / N } \right]
\frac{\cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J - m }{2} \right) \pi \right) \cos \left( \left( m_0 + \frac{ J - l }{2} \right) \pi \right)}
{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 }
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \notag\\
&=& \frac{16 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{l, m} \begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & 1
\end{pmatrix}
\sum_{J=1}^N
\frac {\cos^2 \left( \frac{ (J - m) \pi }{2} \right)}{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 }
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,. \notag
\eqn
>From here onward, the analysis is the same as in section \ref{sec71} to get the same block matrix $E$ such that for all $1\leq l,m\leq N$,
\beqn
{\left(E^T \circ \tilde{L} \circ E \right)}_{lm} = \frac{32 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{l, m} K_{\texttt{mod}_2(m) ,m_0,[\frac{N-1}{2}] }
\begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 \\
0 & 1
\end{pmatrix}
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,.
\label{eqneqn}
\eqn
Now a similar argument as in section \ref{sec71} applied to get an identical result for the phased reconstruction:
\beqn
\kappa(\tilde{T}_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ) \leq \sqrt{\frac{ m_0+2 }{m_0 + 1} } + O(m_0^{-2}) \leq 1 + O(m_0^{-1}) \,,
\eqn
and by tracing all the constants, we can see the constants represented by big-$O$'s is of the same magnitude as in the phaseless reconstruction.
Therefore the ill-posedness in inverting $T$ and $\tilde{T}$ are actually of the same order of magnitude using a same set of measurement angles, and the following result holds.
\begin{Theorem} \label{theorem_imp2}
For a given target resolution $N$, the condition number $\kappa(\tilde{T}_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) )$ of the operator $\tilde{T}_{m_0}$ for $m_0 \in \mathbb{Z}$ can be controlled by
\beqn
\kappa(\tilde{T}_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ) \leq 1 + O(m_0^{-1})
\label{drastic2}
\eqn
if we make an $N^2$ complex (phased) measurement arrangement:
\beqn
(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i) = \left( 2 \pi I_i / N, 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R} \right) \,,
\label{measurement12}
\eqn
where
$\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M$ enumerates through $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N, 1\leq J \leq N\}$.
\end{Theorem}
Nonetheless, we notice a fundamental difference here between the phased and phaseless reconstructions. For the phased reconstruction, the matrix $\tilde{L}$ is invertible itself, therefore the constraint $C x = 0$ is redundant. However, in the phaseless reconstruction, this set of constraints is necessary for us to get to a solution in the inversion process.
Therefore, to fully exploit the constraints $Cx = 0$, it shall be possible to obtain the same stability estimate for $\tilde{T}$ even if the number of equations represented by the matrix are cut off by half.
There are different ways to realize this, and we suggest one of them below.
We shall not repeat all the details in the argument again but give only a sketch.
Suppose we choose the set of measurement points
$(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta_i}, k_i)$ as $\left( 2 \pi I_i / N , 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi, \frac{4 m_0 + 2 J_i + 1}{8 R}\right)$ where $\{ ( I_i, J_i) \}_{i=1}^M $ enumerate the index set $\{ (I,J): 1\leq I \leq N/2, 1\leq J \leq N\}$, but
we only measure the real part of the far-field pattern $A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)$.
Clearly, we have $N^2$ real (phased) measurements.
>From the fact that $P_R(\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i)$ is real, we have
\beqn
\text{Re} \left( \tilde{T} \left[ (\delta \,\mathfrak{F}[h])^{est} \right] \right)= \text{Re} \left( G( A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) ) \right) = G\left( \text{Re} ( A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta_i, \widetilde{\theta}_i, k_i) ) \right) \,.
\eqn
Therefore, by taking only $N^2$ real (phased) measurements, we are actually dropping half of the equations representing measurements from the imaginary part.
Now, in order to distinguish from the previous measurement setting, we denote the operator with these new measurement events as $\tilde{\tilde{T}}_{m_0}$ for a given $m_0$.
With this very particular choice of real (phased) measurements, we know from \eqref{special}
that the matrix $\tilde{\tilde{T}}_{m_0}$ is coincidentally the same as $T_{m_0}$.
Hence, if we write $\tilde{\tilde{L}} := \tilde{\tilde{T}}_{m_0}^T \tilde{\tilde{T}}_{m_0}$, then
$\tilde{\tilde{L}} = L$. Therefore,
with the same $E$ as previously chosen, the same argument applies for us to get for all $1\leq l,m\leq N$ that
\beqn
{\left(E^T \circ \tilde{\tilde{L}} \circ E \right)}_{lm} = \frac{64 R N}{ \pi} \delta_{l, m} K_{\texttt{mod}_2(m) ,m_0,[\frac{N-1}{2}] }
+ O( m_0^{-2}) \,.
\label{eqneqneqn}
\eqn
This gives the following result.
\begin{Theorem} \label{theorem_imp3}
An effective choice of only $N^2$ real phased measurement ensures
the following bound for the condition number:
\beqn
\kappa(\tilde{\tilde{T}}_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) ) \leq 1 + O(m_0^{-1}) \,.
\label{drastic3}
\eqn
\end{Theorem}
Other ways to fully exploit the constraints $Cx = 0$ by dropping at most half of the equations represented by $\tilde{T}$, such as measuring the projection of complex number by another phase angle other than taking the real part, or taking only a special set of undersampling measurements, shall be possible, but for the sake of simplicity, we shall not proceed
further.
>From the above analysis, we can see that although the structures of $T$ and $\tilde{T}$ are fundamentally different, they
have similar behavior on their condition numbers.
Yet the phaseless reconstruction is still much more ill-posed than the phased counterpart, owing to the following very simple yet important point.
In the phaseless reconstruction, we shall also need to invert $L$ by a regularized inversion process $L_\alpha^{-1}$; however, in a phased reconstruction, such an inversion of $L$ is unnecessary. Therefore, instability imposed by $L$ exists only in the phaseless reconstruction. Considering this fact, the total regularized inversion of the phaseless reconstruction is still much more ill-posed than the phased counterpart, having its condition number being $1/\alpha$ times of the phased reconstruction.
\section{Numerical experiments} \label{numerical}
In this section, we will first present numerical results illustrating some behaviors of the condition number $\kappa(T_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) )$ using our measurement strategy described in the section \ref{condT}, then focus on the inverse problem of shape reconstruction from the observed magnitude of far-field data.
\subsection{Condition number of $T$ subjected to $C x = 0$}
In what follows,
we shall observe the behaviors of the condition number $\kappa(T_{m_0}, \text{ker}(C) )$ using our measurement strategy given in Theorem \ref{theorem_imp2} and check the asymptotic estimate of $\kappa(T)$ in the theorem as $m_0$ grows.
With a given $m_0$, we now fix the resolution $N=51$ and choose the wave-numbers $k$ such that $k = \frac{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 }{8 R}$ with $R = 0.2$ and $J = 5, ..., 10$. The measurement points are the same as stated in Theorem \ref{theorem_imp2}.
We compute the condition number of the operator $T$ with $m_0 = 1, ... ,20$. The values of the corresponding condition numbers are plot in Figure \ref{cond_stra}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{cond_m_0.eps}
\caption{Decay of $\kappa(T, \text{ker}(C))$ with respect to $m_0$.} \label{cond_stra}
\end{figurehere}
We see clearly the drastic decay of the condition number as $m_0$ grows, showing the effectiveness of increasing stability by the increment of $m_0$.
This agrees with the result we obtained in Theorem \ref{theorem_imp2}.
\subsection{Phaseless reconstruction}
We shall now proceed to present several numerical examples to show the performance
of the newly proposed reconstruction algorithm, i.e., Algorithm $2$ in Section\,\ref{phaseless_algo},
from phaseless far-field data. In order to attain robustness and stability of our algorithm, we approximate
the inversion of $L$ in Step 2 by $L_{\alpha}$ as in section \ref{cond_L} for some regularization $\alpha$ described below.
In the following $3$ examples, we consider an infinite homogeneous background medium with its material coefficient being $1$. In each example, an inhomogeneous inclusion $D = B^\delta$ is then introduced as a perturbation of a circular domain $B = B(0,R)$ for some $\delta>0$ and its radius $R=0.2$ sitting inside the homogeneous background medium, with its contrast always set to be $\varepsilon^* = 0.05$.
Given a domain $B^\delta$, we first obtain the observed data of the forward problem, namely the magnitude of far-field data.
In order to generate the far-field data for the forward problem and the observed scattering coefficients, we use the SIES-master package developed by H.~Wang \cite{hansite}.
For a fixed wave-number $k$, we first solve for the solutions $(\phi_m, \psi_m)$ of \eqref{defint} for $|m|\leq 50$ using the rectangular quadrature rule with mesh-size $s/1024$ along the boundary of the target, where $s$ denotes the length of the inclusion boundary. The scattering coefficients of $B^{\delta}$ of orders $(n,m)$ for $|n|,|m| \leq 50 $ are then calculated,
and the far-field data $A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)$ is evaluated
using \eqref{fouriersum} with $\theta_d, \theta_x \in (0,2\pi]$ on a uniform mesh of size $N = 50$.
Then the magnitude of the far-field pattern $| A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)|$ is taken for our reconstruction process. In order to test the robustness of our reconstruction algorithm against the noise, we introduce some
multiplicative random noise in the magnitude of far-field pattern $| A(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)|$ point-wisely in the form:
\begin{equation}
| A^{\text{meas}}(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)|^{\sigma}
= | A^{\text{meas}}(\theta_d, \theta_x,k)| (1 + \sigma\, \xi ) \label{noise} \end{equation}
where $\xi $ is uniformly distributed between $[-1,1]$ and $\sigma$ refers to the relative noise level.
In the following $4$ examples, we always set the noise level to be $\sigma = 5 \%$.
Then we apply our reconstruction algorithm for shape reconstruction with the noisy phaseless data as $ T^{-1} \circ L_{\alpha}^{-1} \circ F $ following the notation introduced in section \ref{sec_sta}, where the regularization parameter is chosen as $\alpha = 10^{-3}$.
In view of \eqref{measurement}, we make the choice of measurements such that the measured wave-numbers $k$ satisfy $k = \frac{ 4 m_0 + 2 J + 1 }{8 R}$
with $m_0 = 10$ in all the examples, and $J = 5, ..., 5+\tilde{C}$ for some $\tilde{C}$ to be chosen in each of the example.
The relative error of the reconstruction is defined by
\beqn
\text{Relative Error} :=\frac{\text{Area}\left( (D^{\text{approx}} \bigcup D )\backslash (D^{\text{approx}} \bigcap D ) \right)}{\text{Area}(D)} \,,
\label{error}
\eqn
where $D^{\text{approx}}$ is the reconstructed domain of the exact one $D$.
To demonstrate the effectiveness of our algorithm and illustrates the necessity of a certain number of measurements angles in the phaseless reconstruction (i.e. to test its resolution limit), we shall try $3$ different sets of measurements angles:
\begin{enumerate}
\item[\textbf{Set 1}]
Full measurement angles (over-abundant number of measurements):
\beqn
\left((\theta_d)_i, (\theta_x)_i\right) = \left( 2 \pi I_i / N_0, 2 \pi K_i / N_0 \right)\,,\quad 1 \leq I_i, K_i \leq N_0 \,,
\eqn
when $N_0$ is always chosen as $50$ in all the examples;
\item[\textbf{Set 2}]
Transmission measurement angles (critical number of measurements):
\beqn
\left((\theta_d)_i, (\theta_x)_i\right) = \left( 2 \pi I_i / N, 2 \pi I_i / N + \pi + U \right) \,,\quad 1 \leq I_i \leq N \,,
\eqn
where $N := \min\left\{N: [\mathfrak{F}(h)](k) = 0\,, \quad |k| > N \right\}$ and $h$ is the perturbation in the corresponding example and $U = (-\frac{\pi}{5},\frac{\pi}{5})$;
\item[\textbf{Set 3}]
Half of transmission measurement angles (insufficient number of measurements):
\beqn
\left((\theta_d)_i, (\theta_x)_i\right) = \left( 2 \pi I_i / [[N/2]], 2 \pi I_i / [[N/2]] + \pi + U \right) \,,\quad 1 \leq I_i \leq [[N/2]] \,,
\eqn
which consists of $[[N/2]]$ measurement angles, where $N$ is the same as previously mentioned and $[[\cdot]]$ is the ceiling function.
\end{enumerate}
The purpose of introducing an interval $U$ instead of one single point is to increase numerical stability in reconstruction.
We emphasize that \textbf{Sets 2} and \textbf{3} are set up only to test the resolution limit of our phaseless reconstruction algorithm. We are not suggesting the necessity to determine $\min\left\{N: [\mathfrak{F}(h)](k) = 0\,, |k| > N \right\}$ from $h$ before utilizing our algorithm. Such information is unnecessary and unavailable in a practical phaseless reconstruction.
In order to further increase numerical stability using a critical number of measurements (\textbf{Set 2}) and an insufficient number of measurement (\textbf{Set 3}), we further regularize our inversion process by a $L^1$ regularizer to enforce sparsity in the Fourier modes of our reconstructed perturbation, i.e., we solve
\beqn
\min_{C \textbf{X}=0 }|| (L_\alpha \circ T) \textbf{X} - F(| A_{\infty}^{\text{meas}} (\theta, \widetilde{\theta}, k)| ) ||_2^2 + \beta || \textbf{X} ||_1
\eqn
where $\beta$ is a regularization parameter that is always chosen as $\beta = 0.05$. We perform the $L^1$ minimization by a standard Bregman iteration \cite{Bregman}.
\textbf{Example 1}.
In this example, we consider an inhomogeneous domain of a flori-form shape $D = B^\delta$ described by the following parametric form (with $\delta = 0.1$ and $n = 3$ ):
\begin{equation}
r = 0.2 ( 1 + \delta \cos (n \theta) )\, , \quad \theta \in (0,2\pi]\,,
\label{circle_perturb_form}
\end{equation}
which is a perturbation of the domain $B = B(0, 0.2)$; see Figure \ref{test1A} (left) and (right)
respectively for the shape of the domain and the contrast of the inhomogeneous medium.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_1.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_2.eps}
\caption{Exact inhomogeneous domain (left) and the contrast of the inclusion (right) in Example 1.}
\label{test1A}
\end{figurehere}
The magnitude of the far-field pattern for $6$ wave-numbers are used for shape reconstruction, i.e. $\tilde{C} = 5$,
and the Fourier coefficients of the reconstructed perturbations using the respective measurement sets are
shown in Figure \ref{test1B}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_4.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_4_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_4_N_half.eps}
\caption{Fourier coefficients of reconstructed perturbations in Example 1; \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3}
from left to right; blue: real part; black: imaginary part.} \label{test1B}
\end{figurehere}
Although there are some deficiencies in the reconstruction of Fourier modes, we can see from these figures the Fourier coefficients reconstructed from \textbf{Set 1} is largest at $|n| = 3$ with its magnitude almost between $0.04$ and $0.05$, which clearly indicates a strong dominance of $\delta \cos (3 \theta)$ with magnitude $\delta$ between $0.08$ and $0.1$ and corresponds to the signal from the exact inclusion.
The reconstruction from \textbf{Set 2} has more deficiency, that the Fourier mode is somehow shifted to $\delta ( \cos (3 \theta) + \sin (3 \theta) ) $ with magnitude $\delta$ between $0.02$ and $0.025$. However, the location of the peak Fourier mode is still correct.
Nonetheless, the reconstruction from \textbf{Set 3} deviates totally from the exact solution, indicating its insufficiency in number of measurements to reconstruct the perturbation. This goes with the theoretical analysis in section \ref{sec71}.
Now we show in Figure \ref{test1C} (top) the shapes of reconstructed domains, Figure \ref{test1C} (middle) the contrast of the reconstructed media and Figure \ref{test1C} (right)
a comparison between the reconstructed domains $D^{\text{approx}}$ and exact domain $D$ using the values of a sum of characteristic functions $\chi_{D} + \chi_{D^{\text{approx}}}$.
The relative $L^2$ errors of the reconstructions for \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} are respectively $3.29 \%$, $6.34 \%$ and $11.72 \%$. In view of the severe ill-posedness of the phaseless reconstruction problem and $5\%$ percent of measurement noise, the reconstructions from \textbf{Set 1} and \textbf{Set 2} measurements are quite reasonable
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_5.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_5_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_5_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_6.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_6_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_6_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_8.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_8_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{a_8_N_half.eps} \\
\caption{Reconstructed domain and medium in Example 1 and comparison between the exact and reconstructed domains;
\textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} from left to right; from top to bottom:
reconstructed shape, reconstructed inclusion, and comparison between reconstructed and exact domains.} \label{test1C}
\end{figurehere}
\textbf{Example 2}.
We test another domain of the flori-form shape described by \eqref{circle_perturb_form} with $\delta = 0.1$ and $n = 5$.
Figure \ref{test2A} (left) and (right) show the shape of the domain and the contrast of the inhomogeneous medium
respectively.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_1.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_2.eps}
\caption{Exact inhomogeneous domain (left) and the contrast of the inclusion in Example 2.} \label{test2A}
\end{figurehere}
In this example, the magnitude of the far-field pattern for $16$ wave-numbers are used for shape reconstruction, i.e. $\tilde{C} = 15$.
The Fourier coefficients of the reconstructed perturbations using the respective measurement sets are
shown in Figure \ref{test2B}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_4.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_4_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_4_N_half.eps}
\caption{Fourier coefficients of reconstructed perturbations in Example 2;
\textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} from left to right; blue: real part; black: imaginary part.} \label{test2B}
\end{figurehere}
We can now see that both the reconstructions from \textbf{Set 1} and \textbf{Set 2} are reasonable and indicate the correct peak Fourier modes and its magnitude. It is no surprise to see
the reconstruction for \textbf{Set 2} is worse than that for \textbf{Set 1}.
However we can see that in this particular case, the reconstruction for \textbf{Set 3} coincidentally collides with the exact solution after regularization.
In Figure \ref{test2C} (top), (middle) and (right), the shapes of reconstructed domains,
the contrast of the reconstructed media and
the comparison between the reconstructed domains $D^{\text{approx}}$ and exact domain $D$
(by showing a sum of characteristic functions $\chi_{D} + \chi_{D^{\text{approx}}}$) are presented respectively.
The relative $L^2$ errors of the reconstructions for \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} are respectively $4.91 \%$,
$6.94 \%$
and
$0.57\%$. As we mentioned above, quite surprisingly, the $L^1$ regularizer coincidentally provides a very good estimate
for \textbf{Set 3}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_5.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_5_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_5_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_6.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_6_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_6_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_8.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_8_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{b_8_N_half.eps} \\
\caption{Reconstructed domain and medium in Example 2 and comparison between the exact and reconstructed domains. \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} from left to right;
reconstructed shape, reconstructed inclusion and
comparison between reconstructed and exact domains from top to bottom.} \label{test2C}
\end{figurehere}
\textbf{Example 3}.
In this last example, we test a domain of more complicated flori-form shape $D = B^\delta$ described by the following parametric form (with $\delta = 0.1$ and $n = 3$ ):
\begin{equation}
r = 0.2 ( 1 + \delta \cos (n \theta) + 2 \delta \cos (2 n \theta) )\, , \quad \theta \in (0,2\pi]\,,
\label{circle_perturb_form_2}
\end{equation}
The shape of the domain is given in Figure \ref{test4A} (left) and the contrast of the inhomogeneous medium in Figure \ref{test4A} (right).
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_1.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_2.eps}
\caption{Exact inhomogeneous domain (left) and contrast of the inclusion (right) in Example 3.} \label{test4A}
\end{figurehere}
The magnitude of far-field pattern for $6$ wave-numbers are used for shape reconstruction, i.e. $\tilde{C} = 5$, and
the Fourier coefficients of the reconstructed perturbations using the respective measurement sets are
shown in Figure \ref{test4B}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_4.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_4_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_4_N_half.eps}
\caption{Fourier coefficients of reconstructed perturbations in Example 3; \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} from left to right;
blue: real part; black: imaginary part.} \label{test4B}
\end{figurehere}
In this example, as we can see, the reconstructions from \textbf{Set 1} is the best, with both the peak Fourier modes and their magnitudes quite close to the exact one, although with some phase shifts.
Reconstruction from \textbf{Set 2} is still reasonable. The magnitude of the $6$-th Fourier modes is closer to the exact one, however that of the $3$-th mode deviates further from the exact one, and they have more phase shifts.
Reconstruction from \textbf{Set 3} is the worst, with great deficiency from the exact perturbation, considering the fact this reconstruction gives us many modes that do not exist in the exact perturbation.
In Figure \ref{test4C} (top), (middle) and (right),
the shapes of reconstructed domains,
the contrast of the reconstructed media and
a comparison between the reconstructed domains $D^{\text{approx}}$ and exact domain $D$
are presented respectively
The relative $L^2$ errors of the reconstructions for \textbf{Set 1} to
\textbf{Set 3} are respectively $11.61 \%$,
$ 13.48 \%$ and
$ 14.84 \%$. This indicates that the reconstruction for \textbf{Set 1} is the best, that for
\textbf{Set 2} is still good, and that for \textbf{Set 3} is the worst. This goes with the theory we discussed in section \ref{sec71}.
\begin{figurehere} \centering
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_5.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_5_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_5_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_6.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_6_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_6_N_half.eps} \\
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_8.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_8_N_full.eps}
\includegraphics[width=5cm,height=4cm]{d_8_N_half.eps} \\
\caption{Reconstructed domain and medium in Example 3 and comparison between the exact and reconstructed domains; \textbf{Set 1} to \textbf{Set 3} from left to right; reconstructed shape, reconstructed inclusion and
comparison between reconstructed and exact domains from top to bottom.} \label{test4C}
\end{figurehere}
The reconstructions for \textbf{Set 1} (over-abundant number of measurements) and \textbf{Set 2} (critical number of measurements) are quite reasonable, considering the severe ill-posedness of the phaseless reconstruction problem
and a $5\%$ percent measurement noise.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 9,587 |
\section{Introduction}
In spite of the success of the Standard Model (SM),
there are good reasons to regard the model as an effective theory
around the electroweak scale,
above which the SM should be replaced by a model of new physics beyond the SM.
Although a Higgs particle has been discovered at the LHC~\cite{ref:Higgs_discovery},
the structure of the Higgs sector remains unknown.
Indeed, the current data from the LHC can be explained in the SM.
However, the Higgs sector in the SM causes the hierarchy problem,
which must be solved by introducing new physics beyond the SM.
In addition, the SM cannot explain gravity and several phenomena
such as tiny neutrino masses,
dark matter, baryon asymmetry of the universe, and so on.
Clearly, extension of the SM is inevitable to explain these phenomena.
In the SM, introduction of a single isospin doublet scalar field is just a hypothesis without any theoretical principle.
Therefore, there is still a room to consider non-minimal shapes of the Higgs sector.
When the above mentioned problems of the SM are considered together with such uncertainty of the Higgs sector,
it might happen that it would be one of the natural directions to think about the possibility of extended Higgs sectors as effective theories of unknown more fundamental theories beyond the SM.
Therefore, there have been quite a few studies on models with extended Higgs sectors both theoretically and phenomenologically.
Additional isospin-multiplet scalar fields have often been introduced into the Higgs sector in lots of new physics models such as models of supersymmetric extensions of the SM,
those for tiny neutrino masses~\cite{ref:Type-I_seesaw, ref:Type-II_seesaw,
ref:Left-Right, ref:Type-III_seesaw, ref:Zee, ref:Zee_Babu, ref:Cheng_Li, ref:KNT, ref:Ma, ref:AKS, ref:Cocktail},
dark matter~\cite{Araki:2011hm, ref:Deshpande_Ma, ref:intert_singlet},
CP-violation~\cite{ref:Kobayashi_Maskawa, ref:Lee_CPviolation},
and the first-order phase transition~\cite{Kuzmin:1985mm, Cohen:1990it}.
One of the typical properties in such extended Higgs sector is a prediction of existence of charged scalar states.
Therefore, theoretical study of these charged particles and their phenomenological exploration at experiments are essentially important to test these models of new physics.
There is a class of models with extended Higgs sectors in which doubly charged scalar states are predicted.
They may be classified by the hypercharge of the isospin-multiplet scalar field in the Higgs sector; i.e.
triplet fields with $Y=1$~\cite{ref:Type-II_seesaw, ref:Left-Right, ref:Cheng_Li},
doublet fields with $Y=3/2$~\cite{Aoki:2011yk, Okada:2015hia, Cheung_Okada,
Enomoto:2019mzl, Ma:2019coj, Das:2020pai},
and singlet fields with $Y=2$~\cite{ref:Zee_Babu, ref:Cheng_Li, ref:Cocktail, Cheung_Okada}.
These fields mainly enter into new physics model motivated to explain tiny neutrino masses,
sometimes together with dark matter and baryon asymmetry of the universe~\cite{Aoki:2011yk, Okada:2015hia, Enomoto:2019mzl, Ma:2019coj, Das:2020pai, ref:Cocktail}.
The doubly charged scalars are also introduced in models for other motivations~\cite{Georgi:1985nv,ArkaniHamed:2002qy}.
Collider phenomenology of these models is important to discriminate the models.
There have also been many studies along this line~\cite{ref:Gunion, ref:triplet_pheno, Han:2007bk, Kanemura:2014goa, Aoki:2011yk, Rentala:2011mr, King:2014uha, ref:distinguish_doubly, Vega:1989tt, Han:2003wu, ref:exotic_Higgs}.
\vspace{-5pt}
In this paper,
we concentrate on the collider phenomenology of the model with an additional isodoublet field $\Phi$ with $Y=3/2$ at the high-luminosity-LHC (HL-LHC) with the collision energy of $\sqrt{s} = 14 ~\mathrm{TeV}$ and the integrated luminosity of $\mathcal{L} = 3000~\mathrm{fb^{-1}}$~\cite{HL-LHC}.
Clearly, $\Phi$ cannot couple to fermions directly.
The component fields are doubly charged scalar bosons~$\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and singly charged ones~$\Phi^\pm$.
In order that the lightest one is able to decay into light fermions,
we further introduce an additional doublet scalar field $\phi_2$ with the same hypercharge as of the SM one $\phi_1$, $Y=1/2$.
Then, $Y=3/2$ component fields can decay via the mixing between two physical singly charged scalar states.
Here, we define this model as a minimal model with doubly charged scalar bosons from the doublet.
This minimal model has already been discussed in Ref.~\cite{Aoki:2011yk},
where signal events via $pp\to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$
have been analyzed,
where $H_i^\pm$ ($i=1,2$) are mass eigenstates of singly charged scalar states.
They have indicated that masses of all the charged states $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $H_i^\pm$ may be measurable form this single process by looking at the Jacobian peaks of transverse masses of several combinations of final states etc.
However, they have not done any analysis for backgrounds.
In this paper, we shall investigate both signal and backgrounds for this process to see whether or not the signal can dominate the backgrounds after performing kinematical cuts at the HL-LHC.
This paper is organized as follows.
In Sec.~II, we introduce
the minimal model with doubly charged scalar bosons from the doublet
which is mentioned above,
and give a brief comment about current constraints on the singly charged scalars from some experiments.
In Sec.~III,
we investigate decays of doubly and singly charged scalars
and a production of doubly charged scalars at hadron colliders.
In Sec.~IV,
results of numerical evaluations for the process $pp\to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$ are shown.
Final states of the process depend on mass spectrums
of the charged scalars, and
we investigate two scenarios with a benchmark value.
Conclusions are given In Sec.~V.
In Appendix~A,
we show analytic formulae for decay rates of two-body and three-body decays of the charged scalars.
\section{Model of the scalar field with $Y=3/2$}
We investigate the model whose scalar potential includes
three isodoublet scalar fields \newpage
\noindent $\phi_1$, $\phi_2$,
and $\Phi$~\cite{Aoki:2011yk}.
Gauge groups and fermions in the model are same with those in the SM.
Quantum numbers of scalar fields are shown in Table~\ref{table:Scalars}.
The hypercharge of two scalars $\phi_1$ and $\phi_2$ is $1/2$,
and that of the other scalar $\Phi$ is $3/2$.
In order to forbid the flavor changing neutral current (FCNC) at tree level, we impose the softly broken $Z_2$ symmetry, where $\phi_2$ and $\Phi$ have odd parity
and $\phi_1$ has even parity~\cite{Glashow:1976nt}.
\begin{table}[h]
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{c|c|c|c|c|}
& \ $SU(3)_C$\ & \ $SU(2)_L$\ & \ $U(1)_Y$\ & \ $Z_2$\ \\ \hline\hline
$\phi_1$ & ${\bf 1}$ & ${\bf 2}$ & $1/2$ & $+$ \\ \hline
$\phi_2$ & ${\bf 1}$ & ${\bf 2}$ & $1/2$ & $-$ \\ \hline
$\Phi$ & ${\bf 1}$ & ${\bf 2}$ & $3/2$ & $-$ \\ \hline
\end{tabular}
\caption{The list of scalar fields in the model}
\label{table:Scalars}
\end{center}
\end{table}
The scalar potential of the model is given by
\bal
V = & V_{\rm THDM} + \mu_{\Phi}^2 |\Phi|^2 + \frac{ 1 }{ 2 } \lambda_{\Phi} | \Phi |^4
+ \sum_{i=1}^2 \rho_i |\phi_i|^2 |\Phi|^2
%
+ \sum_{i=1}^2 \sigma_i | \phi_i^\dagger \Phi|^2
%
\nonumber \\
& + \Bigl\{
%
\kappa (\Phi^\dagger \phi_1)(\tilde{ \phi_1}^\dagger \phi_2)
%
+ \mathrm{h.c.}
%
\Bigr\},
%
\eal
where $V_{\rm THDM}$ is the scalar potential in the two Higgs doublet model
(THDM), and it is given by
\bal
V_{\rm THDM} =& \sum_{i = 1}^2 \mu_i^2 |\phi_i|^2
%
+\Bigl(
%
\mu_3^2 \phi_1^\dagger \phi_2 + \mathrm{h.c.}
%
\Bigr)
%
+ \sum_{i=1}^2 \frac{ 1 }{ 2 } \lambda_i |\phi_i|^4
%
+ \lambda_3 |\phi_1|^2 |\phi_2|^2
%
+ \lambda_4 | \phi_1^\dagger \phi_2 |^2
%
\nonumber \\
%
& + \frac{ 1 }{ 2 }
%
\Bigl\{
%
\lambda_5 ( \phi_1^\dagger \phi_2 )^2
%
+ \mathrm{h.c.}
%
\Bigr\}.
\eal
The $Z_2$ symmetry is softly broken by the terms of $\mu_3^2 \phi_1^\dagger \phi_2$ and its hermitian conjugate.
Three coupling constants $\mu_3$, $\lambda_5$ and $\kappa$ can be complex number generally.
After redefinition of phases of scalar fields, either $\mu_3$ or $\lambda_5$ remains as the physical CP-violating parameter.
In this paper, we assume that this CP-violating phase is zero and all coupling constants are real for simplicity.
Component fields of the doublet fields are defined as follows.
\bal
\phi_i =
\begin{pmatrix}
\omega_i^+ \\
\frac{ 1 }{ \sqrt{2} } ( v_i + h_i + i z_i ) \\
\end{pmatrix}
, \quad
\Phi =
\begin{pmatrix}
\Phi^{++} \\
\Phi^+ \\
\end{pmatrix},
\eal
where $i=1,2$.
The fields $\phi_1$ and $\phi_2$ obtain the vacuum expectation values (VEVs) $v_1/\sqrt{2}$ and $v_2/\sqrt{2}$, respectively.
These VEVs are described by $v \equiv \sqrt{v_1^2 + v_2^2} \simeq 246\ \mathrm{GeV}$ and $\tan \beta \equiv v_2 / v_1$.
On the other hand, the doublet $\Phi$ cannot have a VEV without violating electromagnetic charges spontaneously.
Mass terms for the neutral scalars $h_i$ and $z_i$ are generated by $V_{\rm THDM}$.
Thus, mass eigenstates of the neutral scalars are defined in the same way with those in the THDM
(See, for example, Ref.~\cite{Branco:2011iw}).
Mass eigenstates $h$, $H$, $A$, and $z$ are defined as
\bal
\begin{pmatrix}
H \\
h \\
\end{pmatrix}
= R(\alpha)
\begin{pmatrix}
h_1 \\
h_2 \\
\end{pmatrix}
, \quad
\begin{pmatrix}
z \\
A \\
\end{pmatrix}
= R(\beta)
\begin{pmatrix}
z_1 \\
z_2 \\
\end{pmatrix}
,
\eal
where $\alpha$ and $\beta$ ($= \mathrm{Tan}^{-1}( v_2 / v_1)$) are mixing angles,
and $R(\theta)$ is the two-by-two rotation matrix for the angle $\theta$, which is given by
\bal
R(\theta) =
\begin{pmatrix}
\cos \theta & \sin \theta \\
- \sin \theta & \cos \theta \\
\end{pmatrix}.
\eal
The scalar $z$ is the Nambu-Goldstone (NG) boson,
and it is absorbed into the longitudinal component of $Z$ boson.
Thus, the physical neutral scalars are $h$, $H$, and $A$.
For simplicity, we assume that $\sin(\beta - \alpha) = 1$ so that $h$ is the SM-like Higgs boson.
On the other hand, the mass eigenstates of singly charged scalars are different from
those in the THDM,
because the field $\Phi^\pm$ is mixed with $\omega_1^\pm$ and $\omega_2^\pm$.
The singly charged mass eigenstates $\omega^\pm$, $H_1^\pm$, and $H_2^\pm$ are defined as
\bal
\begin{pmatrix}
\omega^\pm \\
H_1^\pm \\
H_2^\pm \\
\end{pmatrix}
=
\begin{pmatrix}
1 & 0 & 0 \\
0 & \cos \chi & \sin \chi \\
0 & -\sin \chi & \cos \chi \\
\end{pmatrix}
\begin{pmatrix}
\cos \beta & \sin \beta & 0 \\
- \sin \beta & \cos \beta & 0 \\
0 & 0 & 1 \\
\end{pmatrix}
\begin{pmatrix}
\omega_1^\pm \\
\omega_2^\pm \\
\Phi^\pm \\
\end{pmatrix}.
\eal
The scalar $\omega^\pm$ is the NG boson, and it is absorbed into the longitudinal component of $W^\pm$ boson.
Thus, there are two physical singly charged scalars $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$.
The doubly charged scalar $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ is mass eigenstate without mixing.
The doublet $\Phi$ does not have the Yukawa interaction with the SM fermions
because of its hypercharge.\footnote{
If we consider higher dimensional operators,
interactions between $\Phi$ and leptons are allowed~\cite{Rentala:2011mr}.}
Therefore, Yukawa interactions in the model is same with those in the THDM.
They are divided into four types according to the $Z_2$ parities of each fermion
(Type-I, II, X, and Y~\cite{Aoki:2009ha}).
In the following, we consider the Type-I Yukawa interaction where all left-handed fermions have even parity, and all right-handed ones have odd-parity.
The type-I Yukawa interaction is given by
\bal
\label{eq:Yukawa}
\mathcal{L}_{Yukawa}
= - \sum_{i, j = 1}^3
\biggl\{
%
(Y_u)_{ij} \overline{Q}_{iL} \tilde{\phi}_2 u_{jR}^{}
%
+ (Y_d)_{ij} \overline{Q_{iL}} \phi_2 d_{jR}^{}
%
+ (Y_\ell)_{ij} \overline{ L_{iL} } \phi_2 \ell_{jR}^{}
%
\biggr\} + \mathrm{h.c.},
\eal
where $Q_{iL}$ $(L_{iL})$ is the left-handed quark (lepton) doublet,
and $u_{jR}^{}$, $d_{jR}$, and $\ell_{jR}$ are the right-handed
up-type quark, down-type quark and charged lepton fields, respectively.
The Yukawa interaction of the singly charged scalars are given by
\beq
\label{eq:charged_Yukawa}
- \frac{ \sqrt{2} }{ v } \cot \beta \sum_{i,j =1}^3
\biggl\{
%
V_{u_i d_j} \overline{u_i}
%
\Bigl( m_{u_i} P_L + m_{d_j} P_R \Bigr) d_{j}
%
+ \delta_{ij} m_{\ell_i} \overline{ \nu_i } P_L \ell_i
%
\biggr\}
\Bigl( \cos \chi H_1^+ - \sin \chi H_2^+ \Bigr) + \mathrm{h.c.},
\eeq
where $V_{u_i d_j}$ is the $(u_i ,d_j)$ element of the Cabibbo-Kobayashi-Maskawa (CKM) matrix~\cite{Cabibbo:1963yz, ref:Kobayashi_Maskawa},
$\delta_{ij}$ is the Kroneker delta,
and $P_L$ ($P_R$) is the chirality projection operator for left-handed (right-handed) chirality.
In addition, $(u_1, u_2, u_3) = (u, c, t)$ are the up-type quarks,
$(d_1, d_2, d_3) = (d, s, b)$ are the down-type quarks,
$(\ell_1, \ell_2, \ell_3) = (e, \mu, \tau)$ are the charged leptons,
and $(\nu_1, \nu_2, \nu_3) = (\nu_e, \nu_\mu, \nu_\tau)$ are the neutrinos.
The symbols $m_{u_i}$, $m_{d_i}$, and $m_{\ell_i}$ are the masses for
$u_i$, $d_i$, and $\ell_i$, respectively.
In the following discussions,
we neglect non-diagonal terms of the CKM matrix.
Finally, we discuss constraints on some parameters in the model from various experiments.
If the coupling constant $\kappa$ in the scalar potential is zero, the model have a new discrete $Z_2$ symmetry where the doublet $\Phi$ is odd and all other fields are even.
This $Z_2$ symmetry stabilizes $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ or $\Phi^\pm$, and their masses and interactions are strongly constrained.
Thus, $\kappa \neq 0$ is preferred, and it means that $\sin \chi \neq 0$.
In this paper, we assume that $\chi = \pi / 4$ just for simplicity.
Since the charged scalars $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ have Type-I Yukawa interaction,
it is expected that the constraints on $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ are almost same with
those on the charged Higgs boson in the Type-I THDM
and the difference is caused by the factor $\sin \chi$ or $\cos \chi$
in Eq.~(\ref{eq:charged_Yukawa}).
In the case where $\sin \chi = \cos \chi = 1 / \sqrt{2}$,
the constraints are as follows.
For $\tan \beta \lesssim 1.4$, the lower bound on the masses of $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ are given by flavor experiments.
This lower bound depends on the value of $\tan \beta$,
and it is about $400~\mathrm{GeV}$ for $\tan \beta = 1$~\cite{Enomoto:2015wbn, Arbey:2017gmh, Haller:2018nnx}.
In the region that $1.4 \lesssim \tan \beta \lesssim 5.7$,
the lower bound on the mass is given by
the search for the decay of the top quark into the bottom quark and the singly charged scalar at the LHC Run-I.
This lower bound is about $170~\mathrm{GeV}$~\cite{Arbey:2017gmh, Aiko:2020ksl}.
For $\tan \beta \gtrsim 5.7$, the direct search at LEP gives the lower bound on the mass. It is about $80~\mathrm{GeV}$~\cite{Abbiendi:2013hk}.
From Eq.~(\ref{eq:charged_Yukawa}), it is obvious that
if we think the case where $|\sin \chi| > | \cos \chi |$, ($|\sin \chi| < | \cos \chi |$)
the constraints on $H_1^\pm$ ($H_2^\pm$) are relaxed,
and those on $H_2$ ($H_1^\pm$) become more stringent.
\section{Production and decays of charged scalar states}
In this section, we investigate the decay of the new charged scalars and the production of the doubly charged scalar at hadron colliders.
In the following discussion,
we assume that $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$, $H$, and $A$ are heavier than ${H_1}^\pm$ and ${H_2}^\pm$.
Then, $H_{1,2}^\pm$ cannot decay into $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$, $H$, and $A$.
In addition, the masses of $H_1^\pm$, $H_2^\pm$, and $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ are denoted by
$m_{H_1}^{}$ $m_{H_2}^{}$, and $m_{\Phi}^{}$, respectively.
\subsection{Decays of charged scalar sates}
First, we discuss the decays of the singly charged scalars $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$.
They decay into the SM fermions via Yukawa interaction in Eq.~(\ref{eq:charged_Yukawa}).
Since they are lighter than $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$, $H$, and~$A$,
their decays into $\Phi^{\pm\pm} W^{\mp(\ast)}$, $H W^{\pm(\ast)}$,
and $A W^{\pm(\ast)}$ are prohibited.
On the other hand,
the decay of the heavier singly charged scalars into the lighter one and $Z^{(\ast)}$ is allowed,
and it is generated via the gauge interaction.
In the following,
we assume that $H_2^\pm$ is heavier than $H_1^\pm$ ($m_{H_2} > m_{H_1}$).
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{h1_decay.eps}
\caption{The branching ratio of $H_1^\pm$.}
\label{fig:Decay_H1}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
In Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_H1},
the branching ratio for each decay channel of $H_1^\pm$ is shown.
Since we assume that $H_1^\pm$ is lighter than $H_2^\pm$,
it decays via the Yukawa interaction~\cite{Aoki:2009ha}\footnote{
In this paper, we neglect the effects of one-loop induced decays
$H_i^\pm \to W^\pm \gamma$
and $H_i\pm \to W^\pm Z$~\cite{CapdequiPeyranere:1990qk}.}.
In the region where $m_{H_1}^{} \lesssim 140~\mathrm{GeV}$,
the decay into $cs$ and that into $\tau \nu$ are dominant.
When we consider a little heavier $H_1^\pm$, which are in the mass region
between $140~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $m_t + m_b \simeq 180~\mathrm{GeV}$,
the branching ratio for $H_{1,2}^\pm \to t^\ast b \to W^\pm b \overline{b}$ is dominant~\cite{Ma:1997up}.\footnote{
In Ref~\cite{Ma:1997up}, Type-II Yukawa interaction is investigated, and the condition $\tan \beta \lesssim 1$ is needed to make the decay $H_{1,2}^\pm \to t^\ast b$ dominant.
In our case (Type-I), this condition is not necessary
because all fermions couple to $\phi_2$ universally.}
In the mass region $m_t + m_b < m_{H_1}^{}$,
the branching ratio for $H_1^\pm \to tb$ is almost $100~\%$.
The decays into $cs$, $\tau \nu$, and $t^{(\ast)} b$ are all induced by
the Yukawa interaction.
Since we consider the Type-I Yukawa interaction,
the dependence on $\tan \beta$ of each decay channel is same.
Thus, the branching ratio in Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_H1} hardly depends on the value of $\tan \beta$.
Analytic formulae of decay rates for each decay channel are shown in Appendix~\ref{sec:Decay_of_H}.
The singly charged scalar $H_2^\pm$ also decays into the SM fermions via the Yukawa interaction.
In addition,
$H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^{(\ast)}$ is allowed.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_H2},
the branching ratios of $H_2^\pm$ in two cases are shown.
The left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_H2} is
for $\tan \beta = 10$ and
$\Delta m (\equiv m_{H_2} - m_{H_1}) = 20~\mathrm{GeV}$.
In the small mass region,
the decay $H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$ is dominant.
In the region where $m_{H_2}^{} \gtrsim 140~\mathrm{GeV}$,
the decay $H_2^\pm \to t^{(\ast)} b$ becomes dominant,
and the branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to tb$ is almost $100~\%$
for $m_{H_2}^{} \gtrsim 180~\mathrm{GeV}$.
If we consider smaller $\tan \beta$,
the decays via Yukawa interaction are enhanced because the Yukawa interaction is proportional to $\cot \beta$. (See Eq.~(\ref{eq:charged_Yukawa}).)
Thus, he branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$ decreases.
The right figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_H2} is for the case where
$\tan \beta = 3$ and $\Delta m = 50~\mathrm{GeV}$.
In the small mass region,
the branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$ is about $80~\%$,
and those for other decay channels are negligible small.
However, in the mass region where $m_{H_2}^{} \gtrsim 180~\mathrm{GeV}$,
$H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$ become negligible small,
and the branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to tb$ is almost $100~\%$.
If we consider larger $\tan \beta$,
the decays via the Yukawa interaction is suppressed,
and the branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$
increases.
Thus, the crossing point of
the branching ratio for $H_2^\pm \to tb (t^\ast b)$
and that for $H_2^\pm \to H_1^\pm Z^\ast$
move to the point at heavier $m_{H_2}^{}$.
Analytic formulae of decay rates for each decay channel are shown in Appendix~\ref{sec:Decay_of_H}.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{h2_decay.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{h2_decay2.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\caption{The branching ratio of $H_2^\pm$.
In the left figure, we assume that
$\Delta m(\equiv m_{H_2}^{} - m_{H_1}^{}) = 20~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $\tan \beta = 10$.
In the right figure, we assume that
$\Delta m = 50~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $\tan \beta = 3$}
\label{fig:Decay_H2}
\end{figure}
Next, we discuss the decay of the doubly charged scalar $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$.
The doubly charged scalar $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ does not couple to fermions via Yukawa interaction\footnote{
This is different from doubly charged Higgs boson in the triplet model
in which dilepton decays of doubly charged Higgs bosons are important signature to test the model~\cite{Han:2003wu}.}. Therefore, it decays via the weak
\newpage
\noindent gauge interaction\footnote{
In triplet Higgs models, if the VEV of the triplet field is small enough the main decay mode of the doubly charged Higgs boson is the diboson decay~\cite{Kanemura:2014goa}.
On the other hand, in our model, such a decay mode does not exist at tree level.}.
We consider the following three cases.
First, the case where $\Delta m_1(\equiv m_{\Phi}^{} - m_{H_1}^{}) < 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ and
$\Delta m_2 (\equiv m_{\Phi}^{} - m_{H_2}^{}) < 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ is considered.
In this case,
$\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ cannot decay into the on-shell $H_{1,2}^\pm$,
and three-body decays are dominant.
In the upper left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_Phi},
the branching ratio of $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ in this case is shown.
We assume that $\tan \beta = 3$, $\Delta m_1 < 20~\mathrm{GeV}$,
$\Delta m_2 < 10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
In the small mass region,
$\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_1^\pm ff$ is dominant.
With increasing of $m_{\Phi}$,
the masses of $H_{1,2}^\pm$ also increase because the mass differences between them are fixed.
Thus, the branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm ff$ is dominant in the large mass region.
At the point $m_{\Phi} \simeq 260~\mathrm{GeV}$,
the branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm ff$ changes rapidly.
It is because that at this point,
the decay channel $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm t b$ is open.
If we consider the large $\tan \beta$,
the decay rates of $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\mp ff$ becomes small
because this process includes $H_{1,2}^{\pm \ast} \to f f$ via Yukawa interaction which is proportional to $\cot \beta$.
However, the decays $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_{1,2}^\pm ff$ are generated via only the gauge interaction.
Thus, for $\tan \beta \gtrsim 3$,
the branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm ff$ becomes small.
Second, the case where $\Delta m_1 > 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $\Delta m_2 < 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ is considered.
In this case, $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_1^\pm W^\pm$ is allowed while
$\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_2^\pm W^\pm$ is prohibited.
In the upper right figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_Phi},
the branching ratio of $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ in this case is shown.
We assume that $\tan \beta = 3$,
$\Delta m_1 < 100~\mathrm{GeV}$,
$\Delta m_2 < 50~\mathrm{GeV}$.
In all mass region displayed in the figure,
the branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_1^\pm W^\pm$ are almost $100~\%$,
and those for other channels are at most about $0.1~\%$.
At the point $m_{\Phi} \simeq 260~\mathrm{GeV}$,
the branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm ff$ changes rapidly.
It is because that at this point,
the decay channel $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to W^\pm t b$ is open.
Third, the case where $\Delta m_1 > 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ and
$\Delta m_2 > 80~\mathrm{GeV}$ is considered.
and both of $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_{1,2}^\pm W^\pm$ are allowed.
In the lower figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:Decay_Phi},
the branching ratio in this case is shown.
We assume that $\tan \beta = 3$,
$\Delta m_1 = 100~\mathrm{GeV}$,
$\Delta m_2 = 90~\mathrm{GeV}$.
In all mass region displayed in the figure,
the branching ratio does not change because
the mass differences between $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $H_{1,2}^\pm$ are
fixed.
The branching ratio for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_1^\pm W^\pm$ is about $75~\%$,
and that for $\Phi^{\pm\pm} \to H_2^\pm W^\pm$ is about $25~\%$.
These decays are generated via only the gauge interaction.
Thus, the branching ratios of them do not depend on $\tan \beta$,
and they are determined by only the mass differences between $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $m_{H_{1,2}}^{}$.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{phidecay_20_10_tanbeta3_logxy.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{phidecay_100_50_tanbeta3_logxy.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{phidecay_100_90.eps}
\end{center}
\caption{The branching ratios of the decay of $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$.
The upper lift (right) afigure is those in the case that
$\Delta m_1^{}(\equiv m_{\Phi}^{} - m_{H_1}^{}) = 20~\mathrm{GeV}$ ($100~\mathrm{GeV}$)
and $\Delta m_2^{}(\equiv m_{\Phi}^{} - m_{H_2}^{}) = 10~\mathrm{GeV}$ ($50~\mathrm{GeV}$).
The bottom one corresponds to the case that
$\Delta m_1 = 100~\mathrm{GeV}$ and
$\Delta m_2 = 90~\mathrm{GeV}$.}
\label{fig:Decay_Phi}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Production of $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ at hadron colliders}
We here discuss the production of the doubly charged scalar $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$.
In our model, production processes of charged scalar states are
$pp\to W^{+\ast} \to H_i^+ A (H)$,
$pp\to Z^\ast (\gamma) \to H_i^+ H_i^-$,
$pp\to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$,
and $pp\to Z^\ast (\gamma) \to \Phi^{++} \Phi^{--}$.
In the THDM,
the first and second processes (the singly charged scalar production)
can also occur~\cite{ref:pair_production, ref:Associated_production}
However, doubly charged scalar bosons are not included in the THDM\footnote{
In the THDM, and also in our model with the $Y=3/2$ doublet, there are also single production processes of singly charged Higgs bosons such as
$g b \to t H^\pm$~\cite{Gunion:1986pe},
$q b \to q^\prime b H^\pm$~\cite{Moretti:1996ra},
$b \overline{b} \to W^\pm H^\mp$~\cite{ref:WH_associated, Asakawa:2005nx},
$gg \to W^\pm H^\mp$~\cite{Asakawa:2005nx, ref:gluon_fusion}, etc. (See also Ref.~\cite{Akeroyd:2016ymd}.)
In this paper, we do not consider these processes and concentrate only on the processes $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$.}.
In the model with the isospin triplet scalar
with $Y=1$~\cite{ref:Type-II_seesaw, ref:Left-Right, ref:Cheng_Li, ArkaniHamed:2002qy, Georgi:1985nv},
all of these production processes can appear.
However, the main decay mode of doubly charged scalar is different from our model.
In the triplet model,
the doubly charged scalar from the triplet mainly decays into dilepton~\cite{Han:2003wu} or diboson~\cite{Kanemura:2014goa}.
In our model, on the other hand,
$\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ mainly decays into the singly charged scalar and $W$ boson.
In this paper, we investigate the associated production $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$ $(i=1,2)$. In this process,
informations on masses of all the charged states $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $H_i^\pm$ appear in the Jacobian peaks of transverse masses of several combinations of final states~\cite{Aoki:2011yk}.
Pair productions are also important in searching for $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $H_i^\pm$,
however we focus on the associated production in this paper.
The parton-level cross section of the process
$q \overline{q^\prime} \to W^{+ \ast } \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$
($ i = 1,2$) is given by
\beq
\label{eq:production_of_Phi}
\sigma_i
= \frac{ G_F^2 m_W^4 |V_{q q^\prime}|^2 \chi_i^2 }{ 12 \pi s^2 (s - m_W^2 )^2 }
\Bigl[
%
m_{H_i^\pm}^4
%
+ ( s - m_{\Phi^{\pm\pm}}^2 )^2
%
- 2 m_{H_i^\pm}^2 ( s + m_{\Phi^{\pm\pm}}^2 )
%
\Bigr]^{3/2},
\eeq
where $s$ is the square of the center-of-mass energy, $G_F$ is the Fermi coupling constant,
and $V_{q q^\prime}$ is the $(q, q^\prime)$ element of CKM matrix.
In addition, $\chi_i$ in Eq.~(\ref{eq:production_of_Phi}) is defined as
\beq
\label{eq:chi_i}
\chi_1 = \sin \chi,
\quad
\chi_2 = \cos \chi.
\eeq
In Fig.~\ref{fig:Production_Phi},
we show the cross section for $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_1^-$
in the case that $\sqrt{s} = 14~\mathrm{TeV}$ and
$\chi = \pi / 4$.
The cross section is calculated by using M{\small AD}G{\small RAPH}5\_{\small A}MC@NLO~\cite{Alwall:2014hca} and FeynRules~\cite{FeynRules}.
The black, red, blue lines are those in the case that
$\Delta m_1 = 0$, $50$, and $100~\mathrm{GeV}$, respectively.
The results in Fig.~\ref{fig:Production_Phi} do not depend on the value of $\tan \beta$.
At the HL-LHC ($\sqrt{s} = 14~\mathrm{TeV}$ and $\mathcal{L} = 3000~\mathrm{fb^{-1}}$),
about the $6 \times 10^4$ doubly charged scalars are expected
to be generated in the case that
$m_{\Phi}^{} = 200~\mathrm{GeV}$ and
$\Delta m_1 = 50~\mathrm{GeV}$.
If $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ is heavier,
the cross section decreases,
and about the $300$ doubly charged scalars are expected to be generated
at the HL-LHC in the case that
$m_{\Phi}^{} = 800~\mathrm{GeV}$.
The cross section increases with increasing of the mass difference $\Delta m_1$.
Since we assume that $\chi = \pi / 4$,
the cross section of the process $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_2^-$ is same with that in Fig.~\ref{fig:Production_Phi}
if $m_{H_2}^{} = m_{H_1}^{}$.
If we consider the case that $| \sin \chi | > |\cos \chi|$
($|\cos \chi | > | \sin \chi |$),
the cross section of $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_1^-$
become larger (smaller) than
that of $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_2^-$
even if $m_{H_2}^{} = m_{H_1}^{}$.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=100mm]{production.eps}
\caption{The cross section for $pp\to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_1^-$, where $\sqrt{s} = 14~\mathrm{TeV}$ and $\chi = \pi/4$.
The black, red, blue lines are those in the case that
$\Delta m_1 ( \equiv m_{\Phi}^{} - m_{H_1}^{}) = 0$, $50$, and $100~\mathrm{GeV}$, respectively.}
\label{fig:Production_Phi}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
\section{Signal and backgrounds at HL-LHC}
In this section, we investigate the detectability of the process $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_i^-$ ($i=1,2$)
in two benchmark scenarios.
In the first scenario (Scenario-I),
the masses of $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ are set to be $100~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $120~\mathrm{GeV}$,
so that they cannot decay into $tb$.
In this case, their masses are so small that the branching ratio for three body decay
$H_{1,2}^\pm \to W^\pm b \overline{b}$ is less than $5~\%$ approximately.
Thus, their main decay modes are $H_{1,2}^\pm \to cs$ and $H_{1,2}^\pm \to \tau \nu$.
In the second scenario (Scenario-II),
masses of $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ are set to be
$200~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $250~\mathrm{GeV}$,
and they predominantly decay into $tb$ with the branching ratio to be almost $100~\%$.
In our analysis below,
we assume the collider performance at HL-LHC as follows~\cite{HL-LHC}.
\beq
\label{eq:HL-LHC}
\sqrt{s} = 14~\mathrm{TeV}, \quad
\mathcal{L} = 3000~\mathrm{fb^{-1}},
\eeq
where $\sqrt{s}$ is the center-of-mass energy and $\mathcal{L}$ is the integrated luminosity.
Furthermore, we use the following kinematical cuts (basic cuts) for the signal event~\cite{Alwall:2014hca};
\beq
\label{eq:basic_cut}
\begin{array}{l}
p_T^j > 20~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
p_T^\ell > 10~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
| \eta_j | < 5, \quad
| \eta_\ell | < 2.5, \\
\Delta R_{jj} > 0.4, \quad
\Delta R_{\ell j} > 0.4, \quad
\Delta R_{\ell \ell} > 0.4, \\
\end{array}
\eeq
where $p_T^j$ ($p_T^\ell$) and $\eta_j$ ($\eta_\ell$)
are the transverse momentum
and the pseudo rapidity of jets (charged leptons), respectively,
and $\Delta R_{jj}$, $\Delta R_{\ell j}$, and $\Delta R_{\ell \ell}$
in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}) are the angular distances between two jets,
charged leptons and jets, and two charged leptons, respectively.
\subsection{Scenario-I}
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{Signal_ScenarioI.eps}
\caption{The Feynman diagram for the signal process in Scenario-I, where $q$ and $q^\prime$ are partons.}
\label{fig:Signal_ScenarioI}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
In this scenario, the singly charged scalars decay into $cs$ or $\tau \nu$ dominantly.
(See Figs.~\ref{fig:Decay_H1} and \ref{fig:Decay_H2}.)
We investigate the process
$p p \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_{1,2}^- \to \tau^+ \ell^+ \nu \nu j j$
($\ell = e, \mu$).
The Feynman diagram for the process is shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:Signal_ScenarioI}.
In this process, the doubly charged scalar $\Phi^{++}$ and one of the singly charged scalars $H_{1,2}^-$ are generated via s-channel $W^{+\ast}$.
The produced singly charged scalar decays into a pair of jets,
and $\Phi^{++}$ decays into $\tau^+\ell^+ \nu \nu$
through the on-shell pair of the singly charged scalar and $W^+$.
Thus, in the distribution of the transverse mass
of $\tau^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T$,
where $E_T$ is the missing transverse energy,
we can see the Jacobian peak whose endpoint corresponds to $m_{\Phi}$~\cite{Aoki:2011yk}\footnote{
In general, the transverse mass $M_T$ of $n$ particles is defined as follows.
\bal
\label{eq:transverse_sum}
& M_T^2 = (E_{T1} + E_{T2} + \cdots + E_{Tn} )^2
%
+ | {\bm p}_{T1} + {\bm p}_{T2} + \cdots + {\bm p}_{Tn} |^2, \\
& E_{Ti}^2 = |{\bm p}_{Ti}|^2 + m_i^2 \quad (i = 1, 2, \cdots, n),
\eal
where ${\bm p}_{Ti}$ and $m_i$ are
the transverse momentum and the mass of $i$-th particle, respectively.
}.
In the present process, furthermore,
in the distribution of the transverse mass of two jets,
we can basically see twin Jacobian peaks at $m_{H_1}$ and $m_{H_2}$ ~\cite{Aoki:2011yk}.
Therefore, by using the distributions of $M_T(\tau^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$
and $M_T(jj)$,
we can obtain the information on masses of all the charged scalars $H_1^\pm$, $H_2^\pm$, and $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$.
This is the characteristic feature of the process in this model.
When we consider the decay of the tau lepton,
the transverse mass of the decay products of the tau lepton and $\ell^+ \nu \nu$ can be used instead of $M_T(\tau^+ \ell^+ \nu \nu)$.
In the following, we discuss the kinematics of the process at HL-LHC
with the numerical evaluation.
For input parameters, we take the following benchmark values for Scenario-I;
\beq
\label{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}
m_{\Phi} = 200~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
m_{H_1} = 100~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
m_{H_2} = 120~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
\tan \beta = 10, \quad
\chi = \frac{ \pi }{ 4 }.
\eeq
From the LEP data~\cite{Abbiendi:2013hk},
the singly charged scalars are heavier than the lower bound of the mass ($80~\mathrm{GeV}$).
In addition, we take the large $\tan \beta$(=10), so that they satisfy the constraints from flavor experiments~\cite{Enomoto:2015wbn, Haller:2018nnx}
and LHC Run-I~\cite{Arbey:2017gmh, Aiko:2020ksl}.
The final state include the tau lepton,
and we consider the case that the tau lepton decays into $\pi^+ \overline{\nu}$.
In this case,
$\pi^+$ flies in the almost same direction of $\tau^+$ in the Center-of-Mass (CM) frame
because of the conservation of the angular momentum~\cite{ref:Associated_production}.
The branching ratio for $\tau^+ \to \pi^+ \overline{\nu}$ is about $11~\%$~\cite{Zyla:2020zbs},
and we assume that the efficiency of tagging the hadronic decay of tau lepton is $60~\%$~\cite{Sirunyan:2018pgf}.
Under the above setup,
we carry out the numerical evaluation of the signal events
by using M{\small AD}G{\small RAPH}5\_{\small A}MC@NLO~\cite{Alwall:2014hca},
FeynRules~\cite{FeynRules}, and TauDecay~\cite{Hagiwara:2012vz}.
As a result, about $600$ signal events are expected to be produced at HL-LHC.
The distributions of the signal events for
$M_T(\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(jj)$
are shown in red line in the left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:MT_basic_ScenarioI} and
in the right one, respectively.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_pilmiss_tanbeta10_sum.eps}
\label{fig:MT_basic_ScenarioI}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\hspace{10pt}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_jj_tanbeta10_sum.eps}
\label{fig:MTjj_basic_ScenarioI}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\caption{The distribution of the signal and background events for
$M_T(\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ (the left figure)
and $M_T(jj)$ (the right one)
We use the basic cut in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}).
The width of the bin in the figures
is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.~(\ref{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}).}
\label{fig:MT_basic_ScenarioI}
\end{figure}
Next, we discuss the background events and their reduction.
The main background process is $pp \to W^+ W^+ j j \to \tau^+ \ell^+ \nu \overline{\nu} jj$.
The leading order of this background process is $\mathcal{O}( \alpha^6 )$ and $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^4 \alpha_s^2)$.
For $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^6)$, the vector boson fusion (VBF) and tri-boson production $pp\to W^+ W^+ W^- \to W^+ W^+ j j$ are important.
On the other hand, for $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^4 \alpha_s^2)$,
the main process is t-channel gluon mediated $pp \to q^\ast q^{\prime \ast} \to W^+ W^+ j j$, where $q$ and $q^\prime$ are quarks in internal lines.
The number of the total background events under the basic cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}) is shown in Table~\ref{table:events_scenarioI}.
Transverse mass distributions of background events for $M_T(\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(jj)$ are shown in the blue line
in the left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:MT_basic_ScenarioI}
and in the right one, respectively.
The number of the background events is larger than that of the signal.
Clearly, background reduction has to be performed by additional kinematical cuts.
First, we impose the pseudo-rapidity cut for a pair of two jets ($\Delta \eta_{jj}$).
The $\Delta \eta_{jj}$ distributions of the signal and background processes are shown in the upper left figure in Fig.~\ref{fig:some_distributions_ScenarioI}.
For the signal events,
the distribution has a maximal value at $\Delta \eta_{jj} = 0$
as they are generated via the decay of $H_1^-$ or $H_2^-$.
On the other hand, for the VBF background,
two jets fly in the almost opposite directions,
and each jet flies almost along the beam axis.
Large $|\Delta \eta_{jj}|$ is then expected to appear~\cite{Ballestrero:2018anz},
so that we can use $|\Delta \eta_{jj}| < 2.5$ to reduce the VBF background.
We note that this kinematical cut is not so effective to reduce other $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^6)$ and $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^4 \alpha_s^2)$ processes
because in these background, the distribution are maximal at $\Delta \eta_{jj}=0$.
Second, we impose the angular distance cut for a pair of two jets ($\Delta R_{jj}$).
The $\Delta R_{jj}$ distributions of the signal and background processes are shown in the upper right figure in Fig.~\ref{fig:some_distributions_ScenarioI}.
For the signal events,
the distribution has a maximal value at $\Delta R_{jj} \simeq 1.0$.
On the other hand,
for the $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^4 \alpha_s^2)$ background events,
$\Delta R_{jj}$ has a peak at $\Delta R_{jj} \sim \pi$.
In addition, in the $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^6)$ ones,
$\Delta R_{jj}$ has large values between $3$ and $6$.
Therefore, for $\Delta R_{jj} < 2$,
the background events are largely reduced
while the almost all signal events remains.
Third, we impose invariant mass cut for a pair of two jets ($M_{jj}$).
The $M_{jj}$ distributions of the signal and background processes are shown
in the bottom figure in Fig.~\ref{fig:some_distributions_ScenarioI}.
For the signal events, as they are generated via the decay of the singly charged scalars,
the distribution has twin peaks at the masses of $H_1^\pm$ and $H_2^\pm$ ($100~\mathrm{GeV}$ and $120~\mathrm{GeV}$).
On the other hand, for the background events,
the jets are generated via on-shell $W$ or t-channel diagrams.
Then, the distribution of the background has a peak at the $W$ boson mass ($\sim 80~\mathrm{GeV}$).
Thus, the kinematical cut $90~\mathrm{GeV} < M_{jj} < 180~\mathrm{GeV}$ is so effective to reduce the background events.
We note that this reduction can only be possible when we already know
some information on the masses of the singly charged scalars.
We summarize three kinematical cuts for the background reduction.
\bal
\label{eq:kinematical_cuts}
&(\mathrm{i}) \quad |\Delta \eta_{jj}| < 2.5, \\
&( \mathrm{ii}) \quad \Delta R_{jj} < 2, \\
&(\mathrm{iii}) \quad 90~\mathrm{GeV} < M_{jj} < 180~\mathrm{GeV},
\eal
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{eta_jj_tanbeta10.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\hspace{10pt}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{R_jj_tanbeta10.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{M_jj_tanbeta10.eps}
\end{center}
\caption{The distributions of signal and background events
for $\Delta \eta_{jj}$ (the upper left figure),
$\Delta R_{jj}$ (the upper right one),
and $M_{jj}$ (the bottom one).
The red lines are those for the signal events.
The blue (yellow) lines are those for the background events
of $\mathcal{O}(\alpha^6)$ ($\mathcal{O}(\alpha^4 \alpha_s^2)$).
In the figures for $\Delta \eta_{jj}$ and $\Delta R_{jj}$,
we take the width of bins as $0.1$.
In the figure for $M_{jj}$, the width of bins is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.~(\ref{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}).}
\label{fig:some_distributions_ScenarioI}
\end{figure}
\begin{table}[h]
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{c|c|c|c|}
& signal $S$ & background $B$ & $S/\sqrt{S+B}$ \\ \hline
\begin{tabular}{c}
Basic cuts \\
(Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut})) \\
\end{tabular}
& 592 & 3488 & 9.3 \\ \hline
\begin{tabular}{c}
Basic cuts (Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}))\\
and $\Delta R_{jj} < 2$, $|\Delta \eta_{jj}| < 2.5$ \\
\end{tabular}
& 487 & 412 & 16 \\ \hline
\begin{tabular}{c}
All cuts \\
( Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}) and Eq.~(\ref{eq:kinematical_cuts}) )\\
\end{tabular}
& 487 & 75 & 20 \\ \hline
\end{tabular}
\caption{Numbers of signal event and background events at HL-LHC in Scenario I.
In the first column, the number of events under only the basic cuts are shown.
The number of events under the all cuts are shown in the second column.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.~(\ref{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}).}
\label{table:events_scenarioI}
\end{center}
\end{table}
Let us discuss how the backgrounds can be reduced by using the first two kinematical cuts (i) and (ii),
in addition to the basic cuts given in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}).
This corresponds to the case that we do not use the information on the masses of the singly charged scalars.
The results are shown in the third column of Table~\ref{table:events_scenarioI}.
In this case, about $88~\%$ of the background events are reduced,
while about $82~\%$ of the signal events remain.
We obtain the significance as $S/\sqrt{S+B} =16$.
The distributions for $M_T ( \pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(jj)$
are shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:MT_caseI_ScenarioI}.
In the left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:MT_caseI_ScenarioI},
we can see the Jacobian peak of
$M_T ( \pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$.
Consequently, the signal process can be detected at HL-LHC in Scenario-I of Eq.~(\ref{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}).
However, the endpoint of the signal is unclear due to the background events,
so that it would be difficult to precisely decide the mass of $\Phi^{++}$.
On the other hand, we can see the twin Jacobian peaks of
$M_T ( jj )$ in the right figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:MT_caseI_ScenarioI}.
Therefore, we can also obtain information on masses of both the singly charged scalars.
In this way, all the charged scalar states $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$, $H_1^\pm$, and $H_2^\pm$ can be detected and their masses may be obtained to some extent.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_pilmiss_tanbeta10_cut1_sum.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_jj_tanbeta10_cut1_sum.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\caption{The distribution of the signal and background events for
$M_T(\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ (the left figure)
and $M_T(jj)$ (the right one)
We use the basic cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}),
$|\Delta \eta_{jj}| < 2.5$,
and $\Delta R_{jj} < 2$.
The width of bins in the figures
is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.~(\ref{eq:Benchmark_value_ScenarioI}).}
\label{fig:MT_caseI_ScenarioI}
\end{figure}
Furthermore, if we impose all the kinematical cuts (i), (ii), and (iii) with the basic cuts,
the backgrounds can be further reduced.
The results are shown in the fourth column of Table~\ref{table:events_scenarioI}.
The number of signal events are same with that in the previous case.
On the other hand, the background reduction is improved,
and $98~\%$ of the background events are reduced.
The significance is also improved as $S/\sqrt{S+B} = 20$.
Distributions for $M_T ( \pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(jj)$
are shown in Fig~\ref{fig:MT_caseII_ScenarioI}.
In the left figure of Fig~\ref{fig:MT_caseII_ScenarioI},
we can see that there are only few background events
around the end point of Jacobian peak $M_T ( \pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$.
Thus, it would be expected we obtain the more clear information on $m_{\Phi}$ than that from the case where only (i) and (ii) are imposed as additional kinematical cuts.
We can also clearly see the twin Jacobian peaks
in the right figure of Fig~\ref{fig:MT_caseII_ScenarioI},
and a large improvement can be achieved for the determination of the masses of both the singly charged scalar states.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_pilmiss_tanbeta10_cut2_sum.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=80mm]{MT_jj_tanbeta10_cut2_sum.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\caption{The distribution of the signal and background events for
$M_T(\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ (the left figure)
and $M_T(jj)$ (the right figure)
We use the basic cut in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut})
and all the kinematical cuts
in Eq.~(\ref{eq:kinematical_cuts}).
The width of the bin in the figures
is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.}
\label{fig:MT_caseII_ScenarioI}
\end{figure}
Before closing Subsection A,
we give a comment about the detector resolution.
In the process,
the transverse momenta of jets ($p_T^j$) are mainly distributed
between $0$ and $200~\mathrm{GeV}$,
and the typical value of them is about $100~\mathrm{GeV}$.
According to Ref.~\cite{Aad:2020flx},
at the current ATLAS detector,
the energy resolution for $p_T^j \simeq 100~\mathrm{GeV}$
is about $10~\%$.
In Figs.~\ref{fig:MT_basic_ScenarioI}-\ref{fig:MT_caseII_ScenarioI},
we take the width of bins as $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
Therefore,
it would be possible that
the twin Jacobian peaks in the distribution for $M_T (jj)$
overlap each other and
they looks like one Jacobian peak with the unclear endpoint at the ATLAS detector if the mass differences is not large enough.
Then, it would be difficult to obtain the information on
both $m_{H_1}^{}$ and $m_{H_2}^{}$
from the transverse momentum distribution.
Even in this case,
it would be able to obtain the hint for the masses by investigating the process.
In our analysis,
we did not consider the background where the $Z$ boson decays into dijet such as $q q \to Z^\ast \to Z h \to j j \tau \overline{\tau}
\to j j \pi^+ \overline{\nu}_\tau \ell^- \nu_{\tau} \overline{\nu}_\ell$,
which can be expected to be reduced by veto the events of $M_{jj}$ at the $Z$ boson mass and the cut of the transverse mass $M_T (\pi^+ \ell^+ \cancel{E}_T)$ below $125~\mathrm{GeV}$.
It does not affect the Jacobian peak and the endpoint at the mass of doubly charged scalar boson $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$.
\subsection{Scenario-II}
In this scenario, the singly charged scalars predominantly decay into $tb$ with the branching ratio almost $100~\%$.
We investigate the signal
$pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_{1,2}^- \to t \overline{t}b \overline{b} \ell^+ \nu
\to b b \overline{b} \overline{b} \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \nu \nu j j$
($\ell, \ell^\prime = e, \mu$).
The Feynman diagram for the process is shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:Signal_ScenarioII}.
The decay products of $\Phi^{++}$ and $H_{1,2}^\pm$ are
$b \overline{b} \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \nu \nu$ and $b \overline{b} j j$, respectively.
Therefore, in the same way as Scenario-I,
we can obtain information on masses of all the charged scalars
by investigating the transverse distributions of signal and background events for $M_T(b \overline{b} \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \nu \nu)$ and $M_T(b \overline{b} j j)$.
However, in the Scenario-II,
decay products of both $\Phi^{++}$ and $H_{1,2}^-$ include a $b \overline{b}$ pair,
and it is necessary to distinguish the origin of the two $b \overline{b}$ pairs.
We suggest the following two methods of the distinction.
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=110mm]{Signal_ScenarioII.eps}
\caption{The Feynman diagram for the signal process in Scenario-II, where $q$ and $q^\prime$ are partons.}
\label{fig:Signal_ScenarioII}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
In the first method, we use the directions of $b$ and $\overline{b}$.
In the process, $\Phi^{++}$ and $H_{1,2}^-$ are generated with momenta in the opposite directions,
and decay products fly along the directions of each source particle.
The both of two $W$ bosons generated via the decay of $\Phi^{++}$ decay into charged leptons and neutrinos,
while the $W$ boson via the decay of $H_{1,2}$ decays into a pair of jets.
By using this topology of the process, we can distinguish the origin of two $b \overline{b}$ pairs.
The $b \overline{b}$ pair which flies along the charged leptons $\ell^+$ and $\ell^{\prime +}$
(and flies along the almost opposite direction of a pair of jets)
comes from the decay of $\Phi^{++}$.
The other $b \overline{b}$ pair is the decay product of $H_{1,2}^-$.
In the second method, we use the transverse momenta of $b$ and $\overline{b}$.
As shown in the Feynman diagram in Fig.~\ref{fig:Signal_ScenarioII},
in the decay chain of $\Phi^{++}$,
$b$ is generated via the decay of the top quark while $\overline{b}$ is generated via the decay of the singly charged scalars from the decay of $\Phi^{++}$.
On the other hand, in the decay chain of $H_{1,2}^-$,
$b$ is generated via the decay of the singly charged scalars while $\overline{b}$ is generated via the decay of the anti-top quark.
Therefore, when the singly charged scalars are heavy enough to satisfy the inequality,
\beq
\label{eq:Heavier_H_inequality}
m_{H_{1,2}} - m_t - m_b > m_t - m_W - m_b,
\eeq
the typical value of the transverse momentum of $b$ from $H_{1,2}^-$ is larger than that of $b$ from the top quark.
In the same way, the typical value of transverse momentum of $\overline{b}$ from $H_{1,2}^+$ is larger than that of $\overline{b}$ from the anti-top quark.
Therefore, in this case,
we can construct the $b \overline{b}$ pair which mainly comes from the decay of $\Phi^{++}$
by selecting $b$ with the smaller transverse momentum and $\overline{b}$ with the larger transverse momentum.
The other $b \overline{b}$ pair comes from the decay of $H_{1,2}^-$.
On the contrary, when the singly charged scalars are light enough to satisfy the inequality,
\beq
\label{eq:Lighter_H_inequality}
m_{H_{1,2}} - m_t - m_b < m_t - m_W - m_b,
\eeq
the typical value of the transverse momentum of $b$ ($\overline{b}$) from $H_{1,2}^-$ ($H_{1,2}^+$) is smaller than that of $b$ ($\overline{b}$)
from the top quark (the anti-top quark).
Therefore, in the case where the singly charged scalar is so light that they satisfy the inequality in Eq.~(\ref{eq:Lighter_H_inequality}),
we can construct the $b \overline{b}$ pair which mainly comes from the decay of $\Phi^{++}$
by selecting $b$ with the larger transverse momentum and $\overline{b}$ with the smaller transverse momentum.
The other $b \overline{b}$ pair comes from the decay of $H_{1,2}^-$.
Finally, when the masses of singly charged scalars are around $250~\mathrm{GeV}$,
they satisfy the equation,
\beq
m_{H_{1,2}} - m_t - m_b \simeq m_t - m_W - m_b.
\eeq
Then, the typical values of the transverse momenta of two $b$ are similar, and those of two $\overline{b}$ are also similar.
Therefore,
we can construct the correct $b \overline{b}$ pair only partly by using the above method,
and it is not so effective.
In this case, the first method explained in the previous paragraph is needed.
In the following,
we discuss the signal and the background events at HL-LHC with the numerical calculation.
In the numerical evaluation, we take the following benchmark values as Scenario-II.
\beq
\label{eq:benchmark_value_ScenarioII}
m_{\Phi} = 300~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
m_{H_1} = 200~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
m_{H_2} = 250~\mathrm{GeV}, \quad
\tan \beta = 3, \quad
\chi = \frac{ \pi }{ 4 }.
\eeq
For $\tan \beta = 3$,
the lower bound on the masses of singly charged scalars is about $170~\mathrm{GeV}$ as mentioned in the end of Sec.~II.
Then, this benchmark values satisfy the experimental constraints on singly charged scalars.
In addition, we adopt the assumption about the collider performance
at HL-LHC in Eq.~(\ref{eq:HL-LHC}),
and we use the basic kinematical cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}).
The final state of the signal includes two bottom quarks and two anti-bottom quarks,
and we assume that the efficiency of the b-tagging is $70~\%$ per one bottom or anti-bottom quark~\cite{Sirunyan:2017ezt}.
Thus, the total efficiency of the b-tagging in the signal event is about $24~\%$.
In the numerical calculation, we use
M{\small AD}G{\small RAPH}5\_{\small A}MC@NLO~\cite{Alwall:2014hca},
FeynRules~\cite{FeynRules}.
As a result,
145 events are expected to appear at HL-LHC as shown in Table~\ref{table:events_scenarioII}.
In this benchmark scenario of Eq.~(\ref{eq:benchmark_value_ScenarioII}),
$H_1^\pm$ is so light that we can use the distinction of the $b\overline{b}$ pair
in the case where $m_{H_1} - m_t - m_b < m_t - m_b - m_W$.
Therefore,
we can construct the $b \overline{b}$ pair which mainly comes from the decay of $H_1^-$
by selecting $b$ with the smaller transverse momentum and $\overline{b}$ with the larger transverse momentum.
On the other hand,
the mass of $H_2^\pm$ is $250~\mathrm{GeV}$, and it satisfies the equation $m_{H_2} - m_t - m_b \simeq m_t - m_b - m_W$.
Therefore, the selection of $b$ and $\overline{b}$ by their transverse momenta is partly effective
in the signal where $H_2^-$ is produced with $\Phi^{++}$ via $W^{+\ast}$.\footnote{
We note that we assume some information on the mass of singly charged scalars to select the kinematical cuts. }
In Figs.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII},
we show the distributions of
$M_T(b_1 \overline{b}_2 \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \cancel{E}_T)$
and $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j)$, where
$b_1$ ($\overline{b}_1$) is the bottom quark (anti-bottom quark)
with the larger transverse momentum and $b_2$ ($\overline{b}_2$) is the other.
In the left figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII},
the endpoint of the Jacobian peak is not so sharp
because the selection of the $b \overline{b}$ pairs do not work well
in the associated production of $\Phi^{++}$ and $H_2^-$.
In the right figure of Fig.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII},
we can see the twin Jacobian peaks at the masses of the singly charged scalars.
However, the number of events around the Jacobian peaks, especially the one due to $H_2^\pm$, are small,
and it would be difficult to obtain information on masses
form the distribution for $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 jj)$.
In order to obtain the clearer information on $m_{H_{1,2}}$,
we can use the invariant mass of $b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j$ instead of $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j)$.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:invariant_mass_bbjj},
we show the distributions of signal and backgrounds
for the invariant mass of $b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j$.
The numbers of events at the twin peaks are $\mathcal{O}(30)$ and $\mathcal{O}(10)$,
which are larger than thaose at the twin Jacobian peaks in the figure for $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 jj)$ (the right figure of Fig~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII}).
\begin{table}[h]
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{c|c|c|c|}
& Signal $S$ & Background $B$ & $S/\sqrt{S+B}$ \\ \hline
\begin{tabular}{c}
Basic cuts \\
(Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut})) \\
\end{tabular}
& 145 & 40 & 11 \\ \hline
\end{tabular}
\caption{Numbers of signal event and background events under the basic cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}) in Scenario II.
We assume that the efficiency of b-tagging is $70~\%$.
We use the benchmark values in Eq.(\ref{eq:benchmark_value_ScenarioII}).}
\label{table:events_scenarioII}
\end{center}
\end{table}
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{tabular}{c}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=70mm]{MT_12_sb_50.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\hspace{10pt}
%
\begin{minipage}[t]{0.5\hsize}
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width=70mm]{MT_bbjj_sb_50.eps}
\end{center}
\end{minipage}
%
\end{tabular}
\caption{The distribution of $M_T(b_1 \overline{b}_2 \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \cancel{E}_T)$
(the left one) and $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 jj)$ (the right one)
in the signal and background events under the kinematical cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}).
In the figures, the width of bins is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.(\ref{eq:benchmark_value_ScenarioII}).}
\label{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[h]
\begin{center}
\includegraphics[width = 70mm]{M_21_sb_50.eps}
\caption{The distribution of the invariant mass of $b_2 \overline{b}_1j j$
in the signal and background events under the kinematical cuts
in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}).
In the figure, the width of bins is $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
We use the benchmark values in
Eq.(\ref{eq:benchmark_value_ScenarioII}).}
\label{fig:invariant_mass_bbjj}
\end{center}
\end{figure}
Next, we discuss the background events at HL-LHC.
We consider the process
$p p \to t \overline{t} b \overline{b} W^+ \to b b \overline{b}\overline{b} W^+ W^+ W^- \to b b \overline{b} \overline{b} \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \nu \nu j j$ as the background.
As a result of the numerical calculation,
$40$ events are expected to appear at HL-LHC as shown
in Table.~\ref{table:events_scenarioII}.
This is the same order with the signal events.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII},
the distributions of $M_T(b_1 \overline{b}_2 \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j )$ in the background events are shown.
We use only the basic cuts in Eq.~(\ref{eq:basic_cut}) in the numerical calculation.
Nevertheless, in the both figures of Fig.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII},
the number of signal events around the Jacobian peaks are much larger than thoes of the background events.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:invariant_mass_bbjj},
the distribution of the background events
for the invariant mass $M(b_2 \overline{b}_1 j j)$ in the background events
are shown.
The numbers of signal events around the two peaks are much larger than those of the background events.
In summary,
it would be possible that we obtain information on masses of
all the charged scalars $H_1^\pm$, $H_2^\pm$, and $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$
by investigating the transverse mass distribution for $M_T(b_2 \overline{b}_1 \ell^+ \ell^{\prime +} \cancel{E}_T)$ and $M_T(b_1 \overline{b}_2 j j)$ and the invariant mass distribution for $M(b_1 \overline{b}_2 j j)$ at HL-LHC.
Before closing Subsection B,
we give a comment about the detector resolution.
In the process of Scenario-II,
the typical value of the transverse momenta of
jets and bottom quarks is about $100~\mathrm{GeV}$.
As mentioned in the end of the section for Scenario-I,
at the ATLAS detector,
the energy resolution for $p_T^j \simeq 100~\mathrm{GeV}$
is about $10~\%$~\cite{Aad:2020flx}.
In Figs.~\ref{fig:signal_plot_ScenarioII} and \ref{fig:invariant_mass_bbjj},
we take the width of bins as $10~\mathrm{GeV}$.
Therefore,
it would be possible that the twin Jacobian peaks
in the distribution for $M_T(jj)$ or $M(jj)$ overlap each other and
they looks like one Jacobian peak with the unclear endpoint at the ATLAS detector if the mass differences is not large enough.
Then, it would be difficult to obtain the information on both
$m_{H_1}^{}$ and $m_{H_2}^{}$ from the transverse momentum
distribution.
Even in this case,
it would be able to obtain the hint for masses by investigating the process.
\section{Summary and conclusion}
We have investigated collider signatures of the doubly and
singly charged scalar bosons at the HL-LHC
by looking at the transverse mass distribution as well as the invariant mass distribution
in the minimal model with the isospin doublet with the hypercharge $Y=3/2$.
We have discussed the background reduction for the signal process $pp \to W^{+\ast} \to \Phi^{++} H_{1,2}^-$ in the following two cases depending on the mass of the scalar bosons with the appropriate kinematical cuts .
(1) The main decay mode of the singly charged scalar bosons is the tau lepton and missing (as well as charm and strange quarks).
(2) That is into a top bottom pair.
In the both cases, we have assumed that the doubly charged scalar boson is heavier than the singly charged ones.
It has been concluded that the scalar doublet field with $Y=3/2$ is expected to be
detectable for these cases at the HL-LHC unless the masses of $\Phi^{\pm\pm}$ and $H_{1,2}^\pm$ are too large.
\section*{Acknowledgements}
We would like to thank Arindam Das and Kei Yagyu for useful discussions.
This work is supported by Japan Society for the
Promotion of Science, Grant-in-Aid for Scientific Research, No. 16H06492, 18F18022, 18F18321 and 20H00160.
\newpage
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 2,522 |
L'umbone era l'elemento centrale sporgente dello scudo (arma da difesa) presso i Romani e gli altri popoli dell'antichità. Era in metallo ed inizialmente, essendo in corrispondenza dell'impugnatura, serviva a proteggere la mano da frecce e colpi, in seguito fu usato anche per colpire gli avversari. A volte era decorato. In periodo imperiale il termine era usato per indicare tutto lo scudo.
Voci correlate
Scudo (esercito romano)
Altri progetti
Armi bianche dei Balcani
Armi bianche dell'Europa non mediterranea | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 8,045 |
## Praise for Expiration Date
"Expiration Date is a skillful, fast-paced, rock 'em, jolt 'em, spook 'em, leave-em-laughin' story with believable characters and a pedal-to-the-floor narrative drive. Top-of-the-line entertainment."
—Tom Piccirilli, author of Shadow Season
## Praise for Severance Package
"A kinetic story, which never stops moving...turbocharged entertainment."
—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times
"Swierczynski writes a brand of thriller whose pacing forces us to reexamine our casual use of the word breakneck.... This is essentially one long action scene that begs for the next Tarantino to direct. But if that sounds like faint praise, it isn't: there are both enough cliché killers and comedy to make us raise two thumbs up. If you want your thrillers to be, well, thrilling, pop a big bowl of corn—you won't leave your seat until the end."
—Booklist
"The best word to describe Swierczynski's latest thriller is frenetic, and even that is likely an understatement."
—Library Journal
"This action fest moves swiftly to its darkly satisfying conclusion."
—Publishers Weekly
"A guilty pleasure of unparalleled magnitude, with pedal-to-the-metal pacing, characters who appear to be meek cubicle dwellers à la Office Space but are really cold-blooded black-ops killers, and enough gut-churning violence to make a Quentin Tarantino movie look like a Disney musical replete with singing candlesticks and teapots. The dark, twisted energy in this novel is palpable."
—Chicago Tribune
"Wildly violent and way funny, the book's a summer blockbuster waiting to be filmed. Grade: A-."
—Philadelphia magazine
"Duane Swierczynski speeds through his action-filled plot, replete with bloodshed, mayhem, and twists. His prose draws the reader in, and his short chapters and revved-up action sequences make Severance Package a one-sitting read.... This novel is as powerful as an unexpected punch in the stomach."
—The Omaha World-Herald (Nebraska)
## Praise for The Blonde
"Compulsively readable...rockets forward with inventive ferocity. [The] plot uncoils in a rapid-fire series of time-coded moments that generate a relentless tension. Brilliantly paced insanity."
—Houston Chronicle
"Two parts adrenaline rush, one part medical thriller, this twisted story starts with a bang and rarely slows down. Full of offbeat characters, excruciatingly reckless twists, and sardonic humor, this fun ride shows great promise for a rising author."
—Library Journal (starred review)
"This is delicious postmodern hard-boiled punk rock storytelling. Swierczynki's hit man character is as funny and fresh as he is fierce and quick. The Blonde is masterfully paced, wonderfully rendered, and devastatingly entertaining."
—Greg Rucka, Eisner Award–winning author of Queen & Country and 2006 Barry Award–nominated thriller Private Wars
"Duane Swierczynski's new novel, The Blonde, is as lean as a starving model, mean as a snake, and fast as a jet. It's also one hell of fine read. This guy has got to be the hottest new thing in crime fiction, and The Blonde is one of the best crime reads I've had in some time."
—Joe R. Lansdale, Edgar-winning author of Sunset and Sawdust
"Page-turning tension...a story so bizarre that it just might be true."
—Kirkus Reviews
"A hilarious nail-biter, a tour-de-force by a young writer who has already carved out this unique take on the crime genre, so it's futile to compare it to anything else.... It is sui generis. It is perfect."
—Laura Lippman, bestselling author of What the Dead Know
"Another fast, funny, and action-packed outing from a writer who, fortunately for us, doesn't seem to know how to slow down."
—Booklist
"Quite a ride. The prose is hard-boiled enough to crack walnuts and the action more precipitous than a bobsled run."
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
"Mr. Swierczynski knows how to streamline a story, keep the pace breakneck, sucking all the oxygen out of the room while he tells you this very gritty and nervy story about a pickup gone wrong. Delicious dialogue, funny realizations, and one hell of a ride."
—Frank Bascombe, Ain't It Cool News
## Praise for The Wheelman
"If you are partial to fast-paced thrillers that present this world as an unforgiving, blood-soaked wasteland, you should love Duane Swierczynski's first novel. Swierczynski's novel, like those of [Elmore] Leonard, offers an undertow of humor beneath the churning sea of man's inhumanity."
—The Washington Post
"Swierczynski has an uncommon gift for the banal lunacy of criminal dialogue, a delightfully devious eye for character, and a surprisingly well-developed narrative for a beginner."
—Chicago Tribune
"Adrenaline-charged...fast-moving and funny, The Wheelman is Mr. Toad's Wild Ride in an R-rated amusement park."
—Booklist
"I canceled a night out and stayed up all night reading. That's how much I loved this book...at every turn, I was blindsided. Hilarious and bloody violent."
—Ken Bruen, author of the Shamus Award–winning The Guards
"A great heist story in the rich tradition of Richard Stark's Parker novels and Stanley Kubrick's The Killing...keeps readers holding their breath to see what's going to happen next. It is clearly the work of a maturing writer who is possessed of a keen style and abundant talent."
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
"Dark stuff...hilariously funny at the same time. Swierczynski has come up with his own twisted and thoroughly enjoyable genre. Bring on some more, sir."
—Rocky Mountain News
"Oh, what style!"
—Kirkus Reviews
FOR
LOUIS WOJCIECHOWSKI
1926–2009
WELL—
SO IT GOES:
TIME HITS THE HARDEST BLOWS.
—JOSEPH MONCURE MARCH
## Contents
I Thomas Jefferson Goes to a Porno
II Good as Dead
III The Thing with Three Fingers
IV My Father's Killer
V The Clockwise Witness
VI This Could Be the Last Time
VII The Pit
VIII No More Mickey
IX Asylum Road
X Slasher's Revenge
XI The Night Watchman
XII How It Ends
(XIII) My Other Life
Notes and Thanks
About the Author
See that body sprawled on the hardwood floor, marinating in a pool of his own blood?
That's me.
Five minutes ago I was shot in the back. Three times, right between the shoulder blades. The guy who runs the late-night beer bodega downstairs, Willie Shahid, heard the shots—bang bang bang—then saw somebody with a revolver go shuffling down Frankford Avenue. After a few minutes, he walked upstairs to check it out.
Now Willie's outside the apartment door. He knocks, and then waits a second. Something's not right. He sniffs the air; the acrid scent of chalk and burnt paper fills his nostrils. Gunpowder. It's not an unfamiliar scent to Willie Shahid. Not in this neighborhood.
Watch Willie Shahid take out his cell and dial 911, giving the proper address and even the floor. Guy's a real pro.
If you hang around a little longer, you'll see the EMTs arrive, and then the Philly PD, 15th District. They'll move me to a stretcher and carry me out the front door of the building, under the rumbling El train and past a bunch of dudes in oversized white T-shirts and deadpan expressions.
Soon the surgeons at nearby Frankford Hospital will dig the slugs out of my back, place them in a kidney-shaped steel tray. From there, they'll transfer them to a plastic evidence bag and send it down to the Philadelphia Police Department's forensics lab at Eighth and Race. Standard procedure—bullets from GSWs always go right to the lab for ballistic analysis.
A few days later confusion will sweep over the forensics guys' faces. Identifying the type of bullet will be no problem: .38 caliber.
No, something else will trouble them.
After analyzing the slugs and gunpowder, the CSI guys will determine that the bullets are at least forty years old. They'll also discover that this specific type stopped being manufactured back in 1967.
Now, old bullets can still work. But they'll have to be asking themselves: Why use forty-year-old ammunition to snuff somebody?
Some people have the idea that when you die your life flashes before your eyes, like a movie on fast-forward.
Not quite.
Time's arrow only appears to fly straight when you're alive. Dead is something else. Once you cross that invisible line, you see things how they really are. You see that every moment seems to happen all at once.
Which makes telling this story—or the most important parts of it, anyway—difficult. Usually, you start at the beginning. Or the middle, so the listener doesn't get bored.
Problem is, I'm very hazy on the beginning and the middle, as I came in during the end. I can speculate, but it'd be nothing more than a wild guess.
I guess I should start with the day I moved into the apartment and went back in time.
## I
## Thomas Jefferson Goes to a Porno
I was sitting on my front stoop, drinking a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. At eleven bucks a six-pack, Sierra's a splurge beer, so I tried to savor every sip. I'd probably be drinking pounder cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon from now on.
After a while Meghan came out and I handed her the last one. She thanked me by bumping shoulders. We sat for a while and drank our beers in the warm downtown sun. It would have been a perfect day if I wasn't moving out.
Meghan leaned back on her elbows, blond hair hanging down across her forehead.
"You sure I can't give you a ride?"
I swallowed, enjoying the bitter taste of hops in my mouth, the bright sun on my face. Then I looked at her.
"Frankford's kind of a bad neighborhood."
"No neighborhoods are bad, Mickey. They're just misunderstood."
"No, seriously. It's bad. There was a story in yesterday's Daily News. Some high school kid there was murdered by three of his friends. And I don't mean over a dumb fight over sneakers or drugs. I mean, they planned his execution, killed him, then worked hard to hide the evidence."
"They didn't work too hard if the Daily News found out about it."
Meghan and I had been friends since the year before, when I moved to Sixteenth and Spruce, just a few blocks away from swank Rittenhouse Square. If you've ever been to Philadelphia, you know the square I'm talking about—high-end restaurants, high-rise condos. I couldn't afford this neighborhood even when I was gainfully employed.
But two weeks ago my alt-weekly newspaper, the Philadelphia City Press, decided they could get by with only one staff writer. They wished me all the best. Since no other papers were crying out for my services, here or elsewhere, I joined the ranks of the newly unemployed. Just like hundreds of thousands of other people.
So now my meager possessions were almost packed and I was waiting for a ride from my mom so she could take me to my grandfather's cramped—yet rent-free—efficiency in Frankford, which was a long, long way from Rittenhouse Square.
Normally I refused to accept any help or advice from my mom. The less she knew about my life, the less I owed her, the better. But my back was up against the wall now. I couldn't afford another week in this apartment, let alone another month. I had no money for a deposit on another apartment.
I was moving back to Frankford.
Slumming is one thing when you're twenty-two and just out of college and backed up by a deep-pile parental checking account. But moving to a bad neighborhood when you're thirty-seven and have exhausted all other options is something else entirely. It's a heavy thing with a rope, dragging you down to a lower social depth with no easy way back to the surface.
Worst of all, you can still see them up there—the friends you graduated with fifteen years ago—laughing and splashing around, having a good time.
The last thing I wanted was Meghan to escort me to the bottom of the ocean, give me an awkward hug, then swim back up to the party. She'd offered to drive me at least a half-dozen times over the past two weeks, and I repeatedly had told her no, my mom insisted on taking me.
Which was a total friggin' lie.
"You don't want to go to Frankford," I said. "It's one of the busiest drug corridors in the city. It even used to have its own serial killer."
"Now you're just making stuff up."
"Completely serious. Happened when I was in high school—in the late 1980s. The guy was called the Frankford Slasher, and he killed a bunch of prostitutes. I wrote a piece about it for the Press."
"That was Jack the Ripper."
"It was also the Frankford Slasher."
"Still think you're making it up."
I pushed myself up by pressing my palms on the warm brownstone.
"I'd better finish packing. A couple of teenagers could be plotting my death as we speak, and I don't want to disappoint them."
"Or the Frankford Slasher."
"Fortunately, I'm not a prostitute."
"Not yet."
"Nice."
There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Meghan looked at me.
"Call your mom, Mickey. Tell her I'm driving you."
Frankford wasn't always a bad neighborhood. A couple hundred years ago it was a nice quiet village where the framers of the Constitution would spend their summers to escape the stifling heat of the city. I could show you the place—Womrath Park—where Thomas Jefferson allegedly kicked back and read the Declaration of Independence for the first time in public.
But take Thomas Jefferson to Womrath Park now. Introduce him to the new owners of the park—the hard young men selling little white chunks of smokeable snuff. Walk him into the triple-X theater across the street, where he'd be treated to projected images of people engaged in a very different sort of congress.
You could almost imagine him marching back down to Independence Hall and saying: Look, fellas, I think we oughta think this whole "freedom" thing through a bit more.
A century after Jefferson, Frankford the Quiet Country Village morphed into Frankford the Bustling Industrial Neighborhood. It was a popular way station on the road (King's Highway) from Philadelphia to New York City. The streets were crowded with factories and mills, along with modest-but-sturdy rowhomes for the workers who labored in them. There were cotton mills, bleacheries, wool mills, iron works and calico print works. There was a bustling arsenal and gunpowder mill. The industry thrived for a while, then sputtered, then died. Just like it did in the rest of the country.
But they say the neighborhood was truly doomed in 1922, the year the city ran an elevated train down its main artery—Frankford Avenue—shrouding the shops below in darkness and pigeon crap. White flight to the suburbs began in the 1950s. Then, in the 1960s, drugs found Frankford, and invited all of its friends to stay.
And I'd told Meghan the truth: a serial killer really did prowl the dark avenue under the El, late at night, looking for drunks and prostitutes in the 1980s around dive bars like Brady's at Bridge and Pratt. The Slasher was never caught.
A Philly band called American Dream had a minor pop hit back in the early 1970s called "Frankford El." The chorus explained that you can't get to Heaven on the Frankford El. Why?
Because the Frankford El goes straight to...Frankford.
Grandpop's block looked like a junkie's smile. Starting from the extreme left, you had the dirty concrete steps leading up to the Margaret Street station of the El. Right next door, an abandoned building. Then, a weeded lot. A three-story building. Weeded lot. Grandpop's building, the ground floor occupied by one of those beer/rolling paper/pork rind bodegas that upset City Council so much. Weeded lot. Weeded lot.
Out of an original eight buildings on this strip of Frankford Avenue, only three remained.
My new place was up on the third floor, where it appeared I'd have an excellent view of the El tracks.
Meghan gazed up at the dirty underbelly of the El through her windshield. Pigeons nested around up there, covering every possible square inch with their chunky white shit.
"It's not so bad."
"You're right. If you squint, it's eerily reminiscent of Rittenhouse Square."
"This is probably the next great undiscovered neighborhood. Look what they did to Fishtown and Northern Liberties."
"Yeah. They could level the area with a bunker buster and start all over."
She scanned the block. Across the street was a rusty metal kiosk that, if I remember correctly, used to be a newsstand. Now it appeared to be a community urinal.
"Think it's okay to park here?"
Meghan was born and raised on Philadelphia's so-called Main Line. You remember the movie—Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, all that? That's the Main Line. I remembered watching the movie on TV as a kid and wondering why they called it The Philadelphia Story, because they certainly couldn't have filmed it in Philadelphia.
The Philly I knew was Rocky, Twelve Monkeys. Hardcore gritty tales set in unforgiving concrete canyons. Meghan claimed to love the rough-and-tumble Philadelphia from Rocky and Twelve Monkeys. I had to gently remind her that the latter was a postapocalyptic film.
Still, I couldn't blame her.
She didn't grow up here.
When I left Frankford after college I swore I'd never return. You get punched in the face often enough, chased down the block and through your own front door often enough...well, it kind of puts you off a neighborhood.
As a kid, I mostly stayed in my back bedroom and read whatever I could get my hands on. And later, I wrote stories. Looking back on it now, it seems I was plotting my escape all along, because it was a writing career that got me out of Frankford.
And now, the lack of a writing career was bringing me back.
My mom had come up with the idea of me crashing here until I found another job. It wasn't like Grandpop Henry would know the difference. The downstairs bodega owner had found him a few hours after he'd suffered some kind of seizure and fell into a coma—the same day I lost my job at the City Press, in fact. Not exactly a banner day for the family.
My mom told me that Grandpop Henry could breathe on his own. But now he was like a TV without cable: the power was on, only he couldn't receive any programming.
"You should still visit him. He can still hear you."
"Okay."
"He'll only be a few blocks away."
"Okay."
"You're going to visit him, right?"
"Okay."
My mother delighted in telling me what to do, and I found a not too small measure of satisfaction doing the exact opposite.
She also told me that Grandpop's apartment was fully furnished, so I wouldn't have to worry about pots, pans or utensils. Not that I owned much of that stuff. My worldly possessions included a crate of old LPs from the 1960s and 70s; a box of Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski paperbacks—standard issue for journalists; another box of vintage paperback mysteries; a six-year-old Mac laptop; a three-year-old cell phone that didn't close right; and finally, two trash bags full of clothes and other assorted junk I've been dragging around for fifteen years, from Philly to New York City and back.
It's sad when your worldly possessions fit into a 2009 Toyota Prius.
On the upside, we finished unloading in less than thirty minutes, even though it was three flights up to Apartment 3-A. I drove Meghan's Prius to the Frankford Hospital garage a few blocks away, where I assumed it would be reasonably safe. After all, doctors parked there, right?
Meghan gave me a playful punch in the arm.
"So, what now?"
"Well, I was about to have my boy Tino mix me a gin gimlet before retiring to the terrace to watch the sunset."
"Send Tino home for the night. Let's get drunk on beer."
"Excellent suggestion. But I'll have to go get your car again."
"What, and drive back wasted? Let's go downstairs and buy a few sixes."
"Downstairs?"
"The bodega. They sell beer. I saw the signs in the window and everything."
So we walked downstairs to the bodega. I bought two sixes from Willie Shahid—though I didn't know his name yet. Meghan looked like she was having a grand old time, buying beer in Frankford. Meanwhile, I worried some crackhead in a ski mask was going to pop in, wave a gun around and ask for the keys to the late-model Prius parked in the hospital garage up the street.
I was also mildly alarmed when the tab for two sixes of Yuengling came to $18, leaving me with about five bucks until my final paycheck was direct deposited the next day. But hey, the lady wanted to get her beer on. Tonight, money was no object.
Tonight, we were toasting my sad return home.
About an hour later I'd killed four of the Yuenglings and lined the empties up on top of Grandpop Henry's massive cherrywood desk. Meghan, first beer still in hand, was on the floor going through his stuff without shyness or apology.
"I'm a snoop."
There wasn't much to Apartment 3-A—just a big room with a bathroom off to one side, a small closet on the other. A rusty radiator in the corner for all your heating needs. A desktop circulating fan for cooling, which would do jack shit once summer really got under way. A small kitchenette with a miniature oven barely big enough for a TV dinner and a quarter-sized fridge that could accommodate beer or food, but not both at the same time.
Grandpop Henry moved here in 2002, but I'd never visited. I feel a little guilty about that—but then again, I also didn't go out of my way to return to Frankford either.
Every few minutes the thunder of the Frankford El smashed through the silence, and through the dirty front windows you could see the rushing silver of the train cars as they ground to a halt at the Margaret Street station, then, after a ten-second delay, started moving again, and the rumble would build to a deafening crescendo that bounced off the fronts of the buildings all the way down to the next station.
The place was reasonably clean—no nicotine buildup on the walls, no grease caked on the ceiling of the kitchenette. Grandpop Henry, it seemed, owned only two pieces of furniture: a big houndstooth couch and the big cherrywood desk. No bed, no kitchen table, no chairs. Guess when it comes down to it, all you needed was something to sit on and something to put things on.
Still, the room was cluttered, a ridiculous amount of floor space devoted to cardboard boxes, plastic milk crates and shoe boxes crammed with papers. This was what Meghan picked through.
"What does your grandfather do for a living?"
"He's retired. But he used to be a night watchman at a hospital. My mom told me he liked the hours, the lack of conscious people."
"Huh."
"What's the huh for?"
"He's got a lot of papers here. Newspaper clippings, genealogy charts, handwritten notes. A lot of medical reports, it looks like. I thought maybe he was a journalist or something. Like you."
"My grandpop? I don't think he was much of a reader."
"Hmmm."
After a while Meghan showed me a yellowed envelope.
"Henryk Wadcheck?"
She mispronounced it the way most people do: wad-chek. As in, check your wad. The kids in grade school figured it out pretty quick.
"My grandfather's name. It's Polish. And pronounced vahd-chek."
"My, that's veeeered. So wait—is that your last name?"
"Technically."
"Your name is Mickey Wadcheck? How did I not know this?"
"My dad played music under the name Anthony Wade. So I adopted Wade for my byline. You would, too, if you had a name like vahd-chek."
Meghan smiled.
"You know I'm totally calling you Mr. Wadcheck from now on."
"Please don't."
Bad enough I have "Mickey" for a handle. The name on my birth certificate is "Mick," in honor of Messrs. Jagger and Ronson, two of my dad's musician heroes. You can't call a five-year-old "Mick," of course, so it soon became "Mickey." And my classmates right away thought of the mouse. My childhood was full of M-I-C (see you real soon...gaywad!) jokes, not to mention that horrible stretch in 1982 when Toni Basil totally friggin' ruined my life. I was ten, and I swore a blood oath to crush the skull of the next person to tell me I was so fine, so fine I blew their mind. The only person who had it worse that year was a classmate named Eileen, who didn't understand why her leering male classmates were suddenly talking about coming on her.
"Oh my God—will you look at this."
Meghan crawled over and handed me a photo of a man in a WWII-era military uniform. My grandpop.
"He looks just like you, Mr. Wadcheck!"
"Don't call me that. And yeah, I've been told there's a resemblance, but I don't see it. Maybe if you saw him in person..."
"Bah. You're a dead ringer."
I twisted open another Yuengling as Meghan picked through another box, sitting on the floor, legs crossed, shoeless. I liked the way her blond hair dangled in front of her face and it didn't seem to bother her in the least.
"Did you two used to spend a lot of time together?"
"Not really. Grandpop Henry's always been a little weird. Kind of gruff, spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child kind of guy. Imagine Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men."
"I thought you two might be close, considering..."
She left that hanging midair, waiting for me to finish: what had happened to my father.
Late one night at McGillin's Ale House, the oldest continuously operating bar in Philly, I'd told her about what had happened to my dad. She didn't press, I didn't elaborate. It had never come up again, until now.
I took another pull from my beer.
"Yeah, well, no. I see my grandmother a lot."
"Define a lot."
"Holidays? I see her for at least one or two of the important ones."
"Thought as much. So they're divorced?"
"A long time ago. My dad was ten or eleven, I think."
I regretted bringing my dad up, because whenever I thought about him with alcohol in my system, I started getting pissed off and morose. And I didn't want to be pissed off or morose in front of Meghan.
I tried to lighten the mood.
"So to recap: I'm jobless. I live in a bad neighborhood. And I don't have much in the way of male role models."
Meghan smiled, leaning up and touching my face. I loved the feel of her fingertips. They were cool and warm at the same time.
"And yet, you're such a gentleman, Mr. Wadcheck."
"Please don't call me Mr. Wadcheck."
We sat there together, pretty much easygoing quiet, for another hour or so. I finished two more beers and wondered how long I'd be stuck in this dump. This time Meghan and I were enjoying together was unlikely to happen again. I wouldn't ask her to drive to Frankford again. Not in a million years.
So if I wanted to hang out with her again I'd have to take the El back down to Rittenhouse Square. And until I found a job, I couldn't see myself doing that. What was I going to do, buy her a dog and ask her to sit with me by the little bronze goat in the park?
A few minutes before midnight, just as I was really starting to dread the idea of walking Meghan down Frankford Avenue back to her car, she blindsided me.
"Hey, you mind if I crash here for the night?"
My stomach did a happy little flip. But I played it cool.
"Yeah, sure. I mean, no, I don't mind. That would be great. Really great."
I was so smooth it sometimes hurt.
There was no bed—just the scratchy houndstooth couch, which Meghan discovered was a pullout. I prayed for clean sheets; God, for once, heard my plea. Meghan wrestled a fitted sheet onto the wafer-thin mattress as I tugged some cases over pillows.
"Good night," I told Meghan's shape.
"Goot night, Meester Vahhhdcheck."
"You're hilarious."
"Vyyy know."
We settled in for sleep. Well, she did, anyway.
I sat up and watched her for a while. Her lips were parted slightly, long blond hair fanning the lumpy pillow—a perfect vision of peace. Then again, Meghan seems at ease in any given environment. Put her in a prix fixe Walnut Street restaurant or a South Street dive on PBR and Jack night. She belongs, either way.
And she can pretty much float in and out of any situation she wants. Once I asked her what she did for a living, and she told me she was "deferring life." Meghan can do this because she is the youngest daughter of a powerful Center City lawyer.
I, on the other hand, am the son of a dead hippie musician, and I feel out of place pretty much everywhere. Even people in dives don't seem too sure about me. I believe that was either my saving grace as a reporter, or my undoing. John Gregory Dunne once wrote that reporters were supposed to feel like outcasts, hands and noses pressed up against the glass, watching the party on the other side. Sounded about right to me.
Nothing has ever happened between me and Meghan, a state of affairs that seems likely to continue the rest of our natural lives. I belong on the other side of the glass. I am supposed to be content to know that a woman like Meghan exists.
But why had she insisted on giving me a ride? Was this a goodbye visit? Was she just bored? Or maybe...
Maybe it was nothing at all.
A few hours later my eyes popped open, my head pounding. Probably a combination of too many beers and no food. I tossed. I turned. The humidity in the apartment was thick as an afghan blanket. Once in a while I'd glance over at Meghan. She still looked perfect.
I rolled out of bed and padded my way to the bathroom mirror, where I was confronted by a sweaty, disheveled thirty-seven-year-old who looked like he needed a nap and a hug. I splashed water over his face, cupped some into his mouth and urged him to spit.
Grandpop Henry's bathroom was strictly no frills—just a shower stall with an opaque glass door, sink and medicine cabinet. Black-and-white-checkered tile on the floor, framed photograph of a fishing boat above the toilet. An old man's bathroom.
I dried my face, opened the medicine cabinet door. Something banged against the wall. I pulled the door back a few inches. A metal clasp had been mounted on it. And on top of the toilet tank was an open rusty padlock. Did Grandpop actually padlock his medicine cabinet shut at night? In case what—junkies broke in and stole his denture cream?
I found an oversized vintage jar of Tylenol with a worn and cracked label. Old people never throw anything away. I glanced at the expiration date: September 1982. Not exactly promising. Wasn't that the time around the whole tampering scare? I remember being ten years old and my mother throwing away every medicine bottle in the house, Tylenol brand or otherwise.
But the pills inside looked okay. It was entirely possible—likely, even—that my grandpop just used the same oversized plastic bottle and replenished the pills whenever he ran out. So I tapped four into my palm. They looked like 250-milligram tablets; a thousand sounded right. A few pain relievers in the middle of the night goes a long way toward easing a morning hangover.
I swallowed them, scooped more water into my mouth, swirled for a second, then spit. Chances were slim that Meghan would wake up and decide to make out with me, but I didn't want my mouth tasting like a bar sink, just in case.
I went back to bed, slid in next to Meghan and tucked my left arm under my pillow. She was in a deep sleep. I was tired, too. Long day.
I nodded off for a second and then woke up in someone else's room.
## II
## Good as Dead
I was on a cold hardwood floor. No sofa bed, no blanket, no pillow.
No Meghan.
The room looked like my grandpop's apartment, only someone had redecorated the place while I'd been sleeping. The front windows were covered with brown cardboard and masking tape. Tiny needles of light from the El station outside shot out from between the cracks. It was dark in here, but I could make out framed photos on the walls, and in the corner, a potted fern. All of the clutter—the boxes, the milk crates—was gone.
I heard the sound of groaning wood and turned to see a dark-haired woman, about my age, maybe a little older, sitting on a sofa behind me. She didn't seem to notice me. She was pretty, but had tired eyes, and wore a dress with little multicolored dots that look like they jumped off a bag of Wonder Bread.
"Uh, hi," I said.
She started speaking without making eye contact.
"You need a break. Come out with me. Have an old-fashioned. My treat."
"Excuse me?"
She used her palms to smooth out her Wonder Bread dress, then stood up and walked right by me. Like I wasn't even there.
I pushed myself up off the floor, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Had I been sleepwalking? Did I wander into someone else's apartment on a different floor? The layout of this room was identical to my grandpop's apartment. Maybe I was in 2-A, or something. Of course, I had no idea how I might have pulled off such a trick.
Across the room the Wonder Bread Woman picked up a pack of Lucky Strikes from the top of my grandpop's polished wooden desk. It looked like the same desk on which I'd lined up my empties a short while ago. Only now there was a big guy sitting behind the desk—a seriously big guy. He wore a wrinkled white shirt, and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearm hair thick enough to catch flies.
The woman shook a cigarette loose, clicked open a metal snap lighter, puffed the cigarette to life.
The big guy sighed.
"I still need to type up these reports and I have someone coming by shortly for a session," he said.
"You work too many nights, Mitchell," the woman said.
"I have to. It's part of the exp—...job."
"There are more interesting ways to spend the night than talking to boring patients about their dreams. You could, for instance, be talking to me."
There was an awkward silence. Awkward for me, mostly. The fat guy behind the desk—Mitchell—finally broke it.
"Look, you should go downstairs to your boy, Erna. Feed him some dinner. It's late. He's probably starving."
"The boy's fine," she said. "He knows how to open a can."
Mitchell sighed and sat back in his chair. The floorboards creaked under his weight.
"Erna, sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake to let you have an apartment here."
"Admit it. You love having me around."
"Not when I have work to do."
Okay, whatever was going on here, it was none of my business, and I should get the hell out. I took a few cautious steps toward the desk.
"Hey, yeah," I said. "Look—Mitchell? Erna? I'm really sorry, guys. I don't know what happened, but I'll show myself out, okay?"
They didn't seem to hear me.
They didn't react to me at all.
"Come on, Mitchell, don't be a square your whole life," Erna said. "Just one old-fashioned at Brady's. Or maybe a beer. It's quitting time. I want to have a little fuuuuuun."
"It's Tuesday night," Mitchell said, "and you should be going home to bed."
"You always say that. And you never join me."
"Stop it. You should really check on your boy."
I was beginning to get a little freaked out so I started waving my arms.
"Uh...Yo! Over here. Can you people really not see me, or are you just screwing around?"
"Stop worrying about the boy," Erna said. "You're always telling me what to do with him. You act like he's yours sometimes."
"No, I don't. I'm not good with kids."
"I'm not asking you to be. Which is why he's downstairs and I'm asking you out for a drink."
Erna took a final drag from her cigarette, then blew the smoke out long and slow before mashing the butt in a glass ashtray on Mitchell's desk. I noticed a black nameplate on a brass holder: DR. MITCHELL DEMEO. Doctor, huh? I checked the rest of the room. There were two filing cabinets shoved up against one wall.
Then I realized this wasn't an apartment; this was an office. How the hell did I end up in a doctor's office?
Erna turned and walked past me, the rough fabric of her dress brushing against my bare arm. She sat back down on the couch, which was more of a high-backed lounge chair, all dark wood and maroon cushions. Her polka-dot dress flowed around her. She turned her feet inward and stared off into nothing. She was pouting.
"You never want to do anything fun," she said.
With nothing else to do, I sat down next to her. Maybe one of these two crackheads would notice me then. My limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if invisible weights had been strapped to my wrists and ankles. I needed a minute to think. I turned to Erna and drilled my eyes into the side of her head.
"So, just to be clear," I said, "you can't hear a thing I'm saying, can you?"
Erna said nothing.
"Not one thing."
Erna said nothing.
"Like I'm not even here."
Still nothing.
"I've got this rash on my testicles that, I swear, is brighter than those red dots on your dress."
Still nothing.
"Okay then. Just wanted to have it straight."
I might have been invisible to her, but I could smell her perfume, which was sweet and pungent. Her lips were open slightly, like she wanted to say something but was holding back. Outside, the El train cars rumbled down their tracks, vibrating the floorboards beneath our feet. I could hear them screech to a halt, the doors thump open, and after a short while, close again. This all felt real. I felt real. Why couldn't these people see me?
"Come on, Mitchell, don't be an asshole. I'm not asking you to abandon your work. I'm just asking for one little drink."
"Erna, please. Not tonight."
She sighed, stood up, then padded softly across the room until she was standing next to Mitchell. Then she dropped to her knees. Mitchell pretended not to notice, but he was a bad actor. His eyes flicked to the left. On the floor, Erna tugged at his belt. It wouldn't come loose. She tugged again.
"Erna. You don't have to do this..."
"Ah, there we go. You're too tense. You need to relax."
There was the soft metal purr of a zipper, and then Erna's head disappeared behind the desk. Mitchell let his oversized head fall back, mouth open in a fat O, and all of a sudden I really didn't want to be here.
I darted across the room, averting my eyes, wishing I could turn off my ears so I wouldn't hear the slurping.
Now that I was seeing it up close, the door also had a piece of cardboard taped over one panel of pebbled glass. I reached for the knob. It was slippery. I tried to turn it quietly, but I couldn't seem to maintain a hold on the bastard.
There was more slurping, more moaning.
I forgot about being stealthy. I grabbed the knob hard, like I wanted to crush it, and gave it a cruel twist to the right. Behind me a moan turned into an oh that's right momma that's right. The door latch clicked. The door opened with a creak.
"Wh-whoa...what was that?"
"Nothing, Mitchell. Just relax."
The door went clack behind me. I looked down the hallway, which was dark but clean. The walls were gray and peeling. The threadbare carpet was gray, too, with faded pink floral designs blended into the fabric. Which was weird, because when I moved in earlier today the walls were painted off-white and the bare floor was covered in grime and dust. This was not the hallway I'd walked through earlier today. None of this made any sense whatsoever.
On the second-floor landing there were three doors leading to other apartments. As I walked by, the door to 2-C opened a crack. A sleepy-eyed boy of about twelve, with a shock of unruly red hair and wearing oddly old-fashioned footie pajamas, peeked out at me.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm nobody," I said. "Go back to sleep."
"Did you come from the doctor's office? Is my mom up there?"
Oh God. His mother was Erna. I didn't want to be the one to tell him that yeah, his mother was upstairs, but she was a little busy at the moment. Then I realized something.
"Wait," I said. "You can see me, can't you?"
The kid narrowed his eyes skeptically.
"Are you one of the doc's patients?"
"No. I just moved in."
"Moved in where?"
"Upstairs."
"Nobody lives upstairs. Nobody except the doctor. And he doesn't even live there. That's his office. Who are you?"
"What I am is really confused and lost and I'm starting to think this is one long, weird-ass dream. What do you think? Do you think we're both dreaming right now?"
His eyes went wide. He quickly slammed the door shut.
Okay. So to recap: I wasn't totally invisible. I was in the correct apartment building.
Only, I wasn't.
I needed some fresh air. Maybe that would wake me up. Maybe I could walk downstairs to that beer bodega and have a nice cold one while I waited for consciousness to return. That would be a nice way to pass the rest of a dream, right?
I stepped outside the front door, expecting a sticky wave of early June humidity. Instead, a gust of icy air sliced through my body. Jesus Christ, did the temperature just drop sixty degrees?
Then I looked down Frankford Avenue. It took my brain a few seconds to register what I was seeing.
Cars.
Very, very old cars.
Frankford Avenue was lined with them Buicks, Cadillacs, Dodges, Fords, Pontiacs. All of them vintage autos you don't see outside of 1970s crime flicks. Giant slabs of American-made steel. It was as if someone had moved all of the normal cars off the street in preparation for a 1970s muscle car show. Which didn't make sense. If you were throwing a vintage auto show, you weren't going to throw it under the El.
Another cannon blast of freezing air cut through my body so hard my eyes teared up. I'd never had a dream this vivid before.
This was still Frankford Avenue—sort of. The El was still up above me, but the framework was the old green metal one they tore down in the late 1980s. The store windows were naked—not a single metal security shutter in sight. And the stores were all different. Candy shops and children's clothing emporiums and nonchain drugstores, with hand-painted paper sale signs advertising new products and sale prices taped to the windows.
More jarring was the fact that my grandpop's block was no longer a broken smile. All eight buildings were there, constituting a full block. There was a diner. A lingerie shop. The old original El station, with the pizza stand on the ground floor. The bodega on the ground floor was gone; instead, it was an old-fashioned delicatessen.
This was a dream, then. I was dreaming about the Frankford I knew as a kid.
But these weren't hazy, sunbaked Polaroid childhood memories. This was Frankford after dark, and when I was a kid I was never allowed out on the streets of Frankford this late at night.
I thought about going back inside, finding some dream clothes in an imaginary closet somewhere and coming back out to explore. But even though I was shivering, I couldn't resist the urge to go exploring right now.
I walked around in a daze. Frankford Avenue looked more cramped then I remembered, the El not quite as high above me. There were no empty storefronts. There was very little graffiti. This was like a movie set Frankford, built to approximate what it must have looked like in happier times. Was I remembering all of this with any degree of accuracy? Or was I making all of this shit up?
Somewhere around Church Street, about ten blocks away, I felt something whip around my leg—a sheet of newspaper. My eyes were drawn to the headlines first, but the headlines made no sense:
SAIGON ENDORSES NIXON'S VISIT TO CHINA
I glanced at the old-timey font on the top of the paper, expecting it to read The Philadelphia Inquirer.
But instead it was The Evening Bulletin, a newspaper that had been shuttered for close to thirty years now. In the right-hand corner, a black box told me I was holding the four-star sports edition. The cover price was twenty-five cents.
The date: February 22, 1972.
Which happened to be the day I was born.
The night sky turned a shade brighter, as if God suddenly remembered shit, yeah, morning, better flick the dimmer switch up a little. A dizziness washed over me like I'd been mainlining tequila.
There were more people out now, rushing past me, and they couldn't see me—the shivering guy in T-shirt and gym shorts on a freezing morning in late February 1972. They were working-class Frankford people, in coveralls and slacks and dresses, making their way from their rowhomes and apartments to the El station for their daily commute. I wondered what downtown Philly looked like now, in this dream 1972. Maybe I should follow the crowd, hop on the El with them, check the city out. Look at the skyline in the time before they broke the City Hall height barrier.
But then another head rush hit me. My skin started to itch and burn. I decided to skip my trip down to dream Center City and go back to the apartment...the office...whatever. Maybe Erna was done blowing Mitchell by now. Maybe I could lay down on that stiff-looking sofa and then wake up back in bed with Meghan. I could question the mechanics later.
My skin was really burning now. I started to worry a little. I didn't want to dream about burning to death on Frankford Avenue only to wake up with a space heater knocked over on top of me and discover, wow, I've actually burned to death. Cue Rod Serling.
I raced down the avenue, weaving in and around people who couldn't see me. Only one dude, pushing a broom in front of his corner drugstore, seemed to follow me with his eyes.
By the time I reached the third floor of Grandpop Henry's building I was having serious head rushes. Usually one head rush was enough to make you slow down, but these kept coming. I needed to lie down. Or wake up. Or something. I reached for the doorknob.
It was locked.
I tugged at it, then remembered. It had self-locked when I'd left.
Wait, what was I talking about? This was a goddamned dream, so it shouldn't matter if it self-locked. I yanked on it even harder, kicked the door, screamed at it. Come on, dream door. Open. Up. Now. Erna? You in there? You mind removing yourself from Mitchell's lap long enough to answer the door, maybe?
The early-morning sun found the east-facing window. Light prismed all the hell over the place. My skin felt unreasonably hot, Hiroshima-afterblast hot, ready to melt at the slightest touch.
I threw a shoulder at the door, hoping the dream construction crews who dealt with 1972 used cheap flakeboard. But the door held firm.
I slammed my shoulder into it, then again, and again, throwing an increasing amount of body weight with every blow.
Still nothing.
The sun was blazing through the window at the end of the hall in earnest now. I raised my left hand to shield my eyes and immediately felt a searing pain, like I'd grabbed the wrong end of a hot curling iron. I glanced up through watery eyes just in time to watch a beam of light burn away two of my fingers.
First the ring finger.
Then the pinky.
A scream forced its way out of my mouth, and then I jerked my hand away from the light. Pressed my back up against the door. Did a beam of sunlight really just slice through my fingers like it was a light saber?
I forced myself to look down. My ring and pinky fingers were on the floor, at my feet.
They weren't severed. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. There was no blood, no ripped flesh or exposed bone. They were Play-Doh fingers, detached from a Play-Doh hand.
After a few seconds they begin to fade away and disappear completely.
## III
## The Thing with Three Fingers
I woke up on a hospital gurney with a skull-crushing headache and a raw throat. People in blue smocks brushed against my bed, which was jammed up against a wall in a busy hallway. Every time the bed jolted it sent another sledgehammer tap on the spike slowly inching its way to the center of my brain. My mouth tasted like dirty pennies. I wanted to throw up.
After a while I rolled over and used the metal rails to pull myself up to a sitting position. I ran my fingertips across my five-day stubble, patted my chest, my belly. All there. I was still wearing my nylon shorts and T-shirt. The ring and pinky fingers were still attached to my left hand.
But both were dead numb, like I'd fallen asleep on them. They wouldn't bend either. Not unless I cheated and used my other hand, which I noticed was now hooked up with an IV needle. Good Christ, what had happened last night?
Somebody blew past my gurney, flipping through papers on a clipboard.
"Hey," I called out, and the guy stopped midstride.
"Yeah?"
"Where am I?"
"Frankford Hospital, man. You O.D.'d."
"I what? How did I get here?"
"Girlfriend brought you in. She was pretty freaked out. I were you, I'd think about help. But I can't be the first person to tell you that."
And then he continued on down the hall. O.D.'d?
I needed to get out of here. I grabbed the IV needle with the three good fingers of my left hand, yanked it out, sat up. Some blood shot out, so I pulled up the tape and recovered the puncture. I hated needles.
So this was Frankford Hospital. I hadn't been inside this place in years—and that had been the old building, which had been razed and replaced by this one.
My grandpop was here somewhere, on one of these floors. For a moment I thought about stopping up to see him, just to get the obligation out of the way. I could kill two birds with one stone—recover from overdose, check; visit grandfather, check. But then I remembered I was shoeless, hungover and confused. I needed a shower and a nap. A nap to last at least a week.
And I needed to make sure Meghan was okay, and that she didn't think I was a complete dick.
Once I was reasonably sure I wasn't going to puke, I swung my legs over the side of the gurney then slid off. My first few steps were wobbly, but okay. I walked out of the hospital. Nobody tried to stop me. And why would they? I was just a junkie in nylon shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. Hell, I was doing them a favor.
I made the four-block walk back to the apartment, carefully avoiding beads of glass on the sidewalk. One old woman, wrapped in a dirty gray shawl and a badly stained and ripped dress, stared at me from the doorway of a long-closed delicatessen. There was shock and anger in her eyes.
"It's you! You finally showing your face around here?"
Welcome home, Mickey Wade.
"You son of a bitch!"
I kept walking.
Meghan had locked the door. But she'd also thought to put the key under the doormat, bless her soul. I could only imagine what I'd put her through last night. No wonder she hadn't stuck around.
Inside the apartment the sofa bed was still pulled out, covers mussed, pillows twisted up and askew. Boxes had been pushed out of the way. I must have blacked out in bed. She panicked, called 911.
I pressed my face against the pillow that had been hers. It smelled like her—vanilla and the sweetest slice of fruit you can imagine. So at least that part hadn't been a dream. Meghan had really been here last night.
And somehow I'd managed to O.D. on beer and Tylenol.
There was nothing in Grandpop Henry's microscopic fridge except two Yuenglings from the night before. I didn't feel like walking back downstairs to buy something sensible for breakfast, like a Diet Coke or bottle of Yoo-Hoo. So I twisted open a beer. Maybe a beer would outsmart my headache. And if the headache wasn't fooled, the cold would at least soothe my throat. Besides, isn't this what unemployed writers are supposed to do? Drink a cold beer at eight in the morning?
I opened my laptop to search the job boards. There wasn't much to search—not for unemployed journalists, anyway. In years past, an out-of-work journalist could fall back on teaching or public relations. But now actual teachers and public relations flacks were duking it out, death match–style, for the same jobs. Journos didn't stand a chance.
My eyelids felt like slabs of concrete, so I gave up, drank a few more sips of beer and then crashed on the couch—bed. Somewhere in the haze of unconsciousness I heard my cell ring once. I reached up with my left hand, fingers still numb, fumbling for the phone, half-hoping it was Meghan. Nope; my mom. I hit the ignore button and closed my eyes. She probably wanted to know if I'd found a job yet. Or visited my grandpop yet. Or stopped being a screw-up yet.
Sometime later, the rumble of the El woke me up.
I was more than a little alarmed to discover that the two fingers on my left hand were still numb. Why hadn't the feeling come back yet? Maybe I whacked them on something on my way to the hospital, causing some nerve damage. Which would be fantastic. What did an unemployed writer need with fingers, anyway?
I rolled off the couch, starving. But Grandpop's cupboards were stocked with nothing but old-man junk food—a couple of cans of tuna, cream of tomato soup, a box of stale crackers and a foil bag containing some potato chip particulates. Maybe I could stick my face into the bag, inhale some nutritional value.
I settled on the tuna, but it took me awhile to find a can opener. I finished one can and then ate every single stale flakeboard cracker, washing them down with tap water, which tasted like salt and metal.
Okay, enough stalling. I grabbed my cell from the top of the houndstooth couch. It was time to call Meghan and start my awkward apology. And maybe find out what the hell had happened.
First I listened to my mom's message:
"Mickey, it's your mom. Just checking in to see how you're making out over there. Have you stopped by the hospital to see your grandfather yet?"
Yes, Mom, I could truthfully tell her, I visited the hospital first thing this morning.
"Anyway, maybe you could come up to have dinner with Walter and me this weekend. He's been asking about you. Let me know and I'll pick you up."
Walter is her boyfriend. I couldn't stand him. She knows this, but pretends not to know this. I hit erase.
The cell was down to a single bar, so I looked for a place to charge it. I found a black power cord that snaked across the floor, around a cardboard box and into the back of something hidden under a stack of file folders. To my surprise, it turned out to be a silver Technics turntable.
The thing looked thirty years old. I hit the power button on the silver tuner beneath it, then ran my index finger under the needle and heard a scratching, popping sound. It worked.
I fished out one of my father's albums—Sweet's Desolation Boulevard—and listened to "The Six Teens" while I finished off the warm Yuengling I'd opened a few hours ago.
This was the first time I'd listened to any of these albums.
The LPs were my dad's. Mom gave them to me on my twenty-first birthday. She told me I used to love to look at them when I was a toddler. Now, I haven't owned a record player since I was eight years old—a Spider-Man set, with detachable webbed speakers. So all these years I've had no way of listening to these albums. But now and again I'd open the three boxes full of old LPs and thumb through them, taking the time to soak up the art.
You can have your tiny little CD covers, or worse, your microscopic iPod jpegs. Give me LP covers, like George Hardie's stark black-and-white image of a blimp bursting into flames from Led Zeppelin I. Or the floating tubes on the front of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells. The freaky black-and-white lion's head on the cover of Santana, which I'd often misread as having something to do with satan. The Stones turning into cockroaches on Metamorphosis. Grand Funk Railroad, Iron Butterfly, The Stones, Lou Reed, Styx—these were all bands that I loved purely for their cover art.
As for the music inside...well, my mileage varied. You could only listen to "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" so many times, if you know what I mean.
But I would look at the art and think about my dad bringing the albums home from the record shop—probably Pat's on Frankford Avenue—putting his headphones on, listening to the music, staring at the covers himself, letting his imagination wander, dreaming of making his own records someday.
But he never did make a record. He was killed before he had the chance.
While my cell charged I showered, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, then ventured out for some food. First, I needed money. There was a battered ATM near the Sav-N-Bag market all the way down Frankford Avenue, near the end of the El tracks. The walk was as depressing as I imagined it would be. Shuttered storefronts. Abandoned shells of fast-food chains that became clinics for a while before they shut, too.
At the ATM I quickly checked my surroundings for possible muggers, then quickly shoved in my card and pressed the appropriate keys. I asked for $60—just enough to buy some cold cuts, maybe a few cans of soup, some boxes of cereal. Bachelor staples.
My request is granted, but my receipt tells me I only have $47 to my name.
Whoa whoa whoa. That didn't make any sense. It should have been more like $675. Where was my final paycheck from the newspaper? Today was Friday. Payday. My last one. Possibly ever.
By some miracle I got the City Press's assistant HR guy on my cell. Funny that the paper can afford to get rid of writers and art designers but never management. The paper currently had a three-man human resources department; with me gone, there was exactly one news reporter on staff. Exactly which humans would these HR people be resourcing?
The assistant HR guy—Howard—explained that my last check has been all but wiped out by sick days I owed the paper.
"No no. That can't be right."
Howard assured me it was.
"I never took sick days. I was a reporter—I was out of the office a lot. You know, doing reporting."
Howard told me his hands were tied.
"Look, Howard, seriously, you're wrong about this. Check with Foster."
Howard asked who Foster was.
"Star Foster. The editor in chief? You know, of the paper?"
Howard told me it wouldn't matter if he spoke with Foster, or what she might say. He had my time sheets in front of him. He goes by the time sheets.
"You don't understand. I want...no, I need my entire final paycheck."
Howard told me he was sorry, wished me all the best, then hung up.
Which meant that unless I changed Howard's mind, I had exactly $47—plus the $60 I just withdrew—to last me pretty much forever.
Like most of America, I had nothing saved. Every month I danced so close to zero, my checking account was more like a temporary way station for a small amount of cash that passed between a newspaper and a series of credit card companies, corporations and utilities.
My economic strategy thus far had been simple: if I start to run out of cash, I slow down on spending until the next payday. That strategy, of course, depended on there being a next payday.
Mom was not an option. Not yet, anyway. Placing me in Grandpop's apartment was her brand of help—a gentle suggestion, not a handout. Asking for a loan now would just confirm my mother's lifelong theory that the Wadcheck men could never hang on to anything: marriage, fatherhood (my grandfather), songs, recordings, his life (my father), a relationship, a career (me). I was on my own.
I had written hundreds of articles and interviewed everyone in the city, from the power brokers to crooked cops to addicts squatting in condemned ware houses. And for three years, thousands of people had read my work and knew my byline. The name on my debit card was even starting to get recognized in bars and restaurants. Are you the Mickey Wade who writes for the Press?
Nope. I'm just some idiot standing outside a supermarket in my old neighborhood with no job and about sixty bucks in my pocket.
"You bastard."
I turned, and it was the old lady from this morning, leaning against the stone wall of the supermarket. She looked even rattier up close. Bad teeth, rheumy eyes. She must hang out on Frankford Avenue all day, waiting for losers to cross her path so she can mock them. She pointed at me with a crooked, bony finger.
"The day's going to come when you're going to get what's coming to you."
Oh, how I've missed Frankford.
A copy editor at the Press named Alex Alonso once told me about the three basic things humans needed to survive. He'd worked one of those Alaskan fishing boat tours where you endure an exhausting, nausea-filled hell at sea for two months in exchange for a nice payday at the end. Alex said it was pretty much eighteen hours of frenzied labor, followed by six hours of insomnia. And for two months he consumed nothing but apples, peanut butter, cheap beer and cocaine.
I've kept this handy factoid in my back pocket for years, ready to deploy if times got super-lean. Cocaine isn't cheap, but it also isn't essential. What kept Alex alive, he said, were the fiber (apples), protein (peanuts) and grains (in the beer, of course).
I was ready to go shopping.
The Sav-N-Bag hadn't changed a bit in twenty-five years—same dirty orange and yellow color scheme, same crowded aisles, same carts with one wheel that either refuses to spin or forces you to veer to the left your entire shopping trip. Same lousy food.
This was a low-rent neighborhood market that relied on customers without cars. Anybody with a car went to the decent supermarkets in Mayfair or Port Richmond.
Fortunately the Sav-N-Bag was running a special on a big plastic tub of peanut butter. Not a name brand, like Skippy or Jif or Peter Pan. Just generic peanut butter. I put it in my dirty plastic carry-basket, then added a bag of undersized apples. The tab came to nine dollars. Hell, on this budget, I was good for another month and a half.
My grocery order safely tucked inside a planet-strangling plastic bag, I walked back up Frankford Avenue and stopped at Willie Shahid's beer bodega on the ground floor of the apartment to buy the cheapest six-pack I could find: Golden Anniversary, for $4.99.
Willie—not that I knew his name yet—looked at me, probably thinking, Wow, you've lost your girl and your taste in beer, all in one day. Welcome to Frankford.
I ate dinner as the sun went down over the tops of the rowhomes of Frankford—four tablespoons of peanut butter, one apple and two cans of Golden Anniversary. When dinner was over, I still felt hungry. And not nearly drunk enough.
I tried Meghan, got her voice mail. I left a message:
"Hey, it's me. Mickey. Or, if you prefer, Mr. Wadcheck. Look, I'm really sorry about last night, and to be perfectly honest, I'm a little confused. If you don't totally hate my guts, please call me back, okay? Okay."
Okay.
I put another one of my dad's old albums on the turntable: Pilot's eponymous debut LP. I'd loved the second track, "Magic," when I was a kid, and wanted to hear it again as nature intended—with scratches and pops. The way my dad heard it.
The wah-wah guitars made my head hurt, though. I went into the bathroom and helped myself to two Tylenols. I wanted to take it easy, after all. You know us O.D.-ing, over-the-counter-pain-reliever junkies.
And then it happened again.
One minute I was sitting up. The next, I was on the floor of the same strange office. There was the same brown paper taped up over the windows. Same potted fern. Same filing cabinets. Same lounge chair. Same desk. Same pudgy doctor sitting behind it.
The office was dead silent and stifling from the dry radiator heat. I could smell the burning dust.
What was going on? I had no idea. This all felt and looked real. This was not a daydream nor a fantasy. I was not hallucinating. Every sense I had told me the same thing: I was actually in this room.
Looking down, I saw that the ring and pinky fingers of my left hand were still missing. There was no wound, no scars. Just smoothed-over skin where the digits should be.
If this was a dream, then I was again in the past. I wondered what year this was, and started searching for my laptop—realizing a second later that I was being an idiot.
Meanwhile, Dr. DeMeo spun in his creaky metal chair and flipped a switch. A typewriter hummed. He cracked his knuckles, and within a few seconds the room was full of the machine-gun clacking of the keys. When was the last time I heard that noise? High school?
"Don't mind me, Doc," I said. "Just going to help myself up off the floor here."
Dr. DeMeo continued typing, completely oblivious to me.
"You can't hear a word I'm saying, can you, you fat sweaty bastard?"
The typing stopped, but only because Dr. DeMeo had turned to look at something on his desk. Then he resumed his clack-clack-clack-clacking.
"Hey, you're a busy guy," I said. "It's okay with me."
I took a few steps forward and peeked over Dr. DeMeo's shoulder. As a writer, I considered such a thing an inexcusable sin, punishable by dismemberment. But DeMeo couldn't see me, so what did it matter?
Subject took 500 mg. fell into a restful sleep within 2 min. Subject woke approximate 90 minutes later and proceeded to describe the test room in great, yet vague detail. Pressing him on questions such as what color was the carpet? How many drinking glasses on the table? Did you notice anything of note on the walls? resulted in generalities meant to coax clues from investigator. It is the investigator's belief that patient was trying to fake a successful experience by supplying details vague enough to appear
He stopped typing and leaned back in his chair, almost smacking into me.
"Erna?" he asked. "Is that you?"
Not by a long shot, big boy.
DeMeo heaved himself forward to check his handwritten notes again. I glanced at the date on the top of the report:
February 25, 1972
So okay, I was still stuck in this dream about the past. A past I could see, smell, touch and hear. I was pretty sure I'd be able to taste something if I licked it. Like, say, the half-eaten doughnut on DeMeo's desk. But I wasn't ready for that kind of experimentation yet. I didn't know where DeMeo's mouth had been.
The doctor spun himself back to his typewriter. The machine-gun clacking resumed.
I slipped out the front door as quickly and quietly as possible. Did he notice the door as it opened for a quick second, then slammed shut on its own? I had no idea and honestly didn't give a shit.
Downstairs, Frankford Avenue was quiet. There weren't many cars, just a few people strolling up and down the sidewalks. The stores were long closed, but a few bars and delis were doing some business with drunks and late-night workers. It was cold. I walked to the corner and stared down Margaret Street.
One thing I haven't mentioned yet: I grew up around the corner from my grandpop's apartment.
Literally.
Darrah Street runs parallel to Frankford Avenue, one block away. The street was named for a Revolutionary War heroine named Lydia Darragh. According to legend, she overheard British plans to ambush Washington's army. She told friends she had to buy some flour from a mill in Frankford. Along the way, she snitched to the Americans, then bought her flour and went home. As a result of her trip to Frankford, the attack was a bust and dozens of American lives were spared—including, possibly, George Washington's. No idea why the city leaders dropped the "g" from Darragh's last name when it came time to honor her with a street (formerly a path located near the flour mill). No idea if the story is even true. But it came in handy for a history report or two in grade school.
Other than that, Darrah Street didn't have much going for it. In 2002, my mom finally moved to Northwood, which was considered the "upscale" part of Frankford.
A few years later, not long after I'd joined the City Press as a staff writer, I came across a press release from the state attorney general's office detailing the bust of a citywide heroin ring. One of the addresses jumped right out at me: the 4700 block of Darrah Street. I couldn't believe it. A heroin ring, right on the block where I grew up! I called the state attorney general's press flack for more details, thinking there might be a column in it. As it turned out, it wasn't just my old block. The drug ring operated out of my childhood home.
I checked the names of the accused, then called my mom.
She confirmed it: she'd unknowingly sold her home to a pair of (alleged) heroin dealers.
"They seemed like a nice young couple."
I'm sure they did. Who knew they'd head up an organization that would (allegedly) sell hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of big H all over the city?
Still, it was unsettling to learn that the house you grew up in, took your first steps in, read your first books in, wrote your first stories in, felt up your first girlfriend in would be the future HQ of people who spent their days stuffing horse into tiny plastic baggies.
I never pursued the story.
If today was really February 25, 1972, then I was three days old and asleep in my crib, just one block away.
I wondered how far I could push this dream.
This stretch of Darrah Street was half residential, half industrial—small rowhomes on one side, a fire station and factory on the other. Everybody who lived on the rowhome side would look out their front windows and constantly be reminded of work. Everybody who worked across the street was constantly reminded of home.
I stood on the opposite side of the street, staring at my childhood home. What seemed so big to me as a kid now looked absurdly cramped through adult eyes. My parents' black Dodge Dart was parked out front. The porch hadn't been painted white yet; I remember my dad doing that when I was five or six years old, and me "helping" him. Now it was all the original brown brick and tan cement. There was a light on in the living room window.
From across the street I could hear myself crying.
At least I assumed it was me. The wailing seemed to come from directly behind the front window of 4738. And I was the only baby in the house at the time.
I looked both ways—the street was dead—then crossed and walked up the three concrete steps to my old front porch. It felt like walking onto the set of a children's school play. Everything was so tiny.
I'd also forgotten what the interior of our home looked like growing up. It was straight out of the pages of Urban Hippie Digest: red velvet walls, brown rugs. A Buddha statue had been placed in the corner, surrounded by incense holders and ashtrays. A console TV—a hand-me-down, chipped in places. My mom was sitting on a hand-me-down couch. I remembered climbing on that couch until the frame threatened to break under my weight.
My mom was shaking. No—sobbing. Face in her hands.
There was a baby bassinet across the room. It shook a little, too. I couldn't see myself, but I heard my unrelenting cries. I was either hungry, or I'd befouled myself. Didn't matter. I needed some sort of attention.
Come on, Mom. What are you waiting for? Pick me up! Where's my dad? Why won't he pick me up?
Then I remembered. I'd been born on a Tuesday; this would be Friday. Gig night. My dad and his band would be out on a job.
My crying just wouldn't stop. I felt my hands tremble. Why won't she pick me up? Was she already tired of me?
Before I knew what I was doing, my right hand was up. I made a fist and started pounding on the window.
## IV
## My Father's Killer
My mother looked up. Her face was bright red. God, she was young. So, so young.
"Someone there?" she asked, her voice muffled by the glass.
I panicked and darted to the left of the window.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
After a few seconds I saw her face appear in the window, nervously peering outside from behind the parted curtains. I stopped breathing for a moment. She was only eighteen years old when I was born, but that age is an abstract concept. She's always been my mother, always been eighteen years older than me. Except now.
Now I was a ghost standing on the porch of my childhood home, I was thirty-seven years old, and I was looking at the face of the woman who gave birth to me—suddenly two decades younger. And she's been crying. Her cheeks were still damp with tears, her eyes tender and red. She looked lost. Alone. Scared. Freaked out. Everything.
And her husband was out in a bar somewhere in Frankford—or maybe nearby Kensington. She probably told him she'd be fine handling the baby alone, but what choice did she have? They needed the money.
They had a new mouth to feed.
After a while she moved away from the window and started talking to the baby, me, in a robotic monotone. Okay, she said. Okay, I'm coming. Stop crying, I'm coming. Stop crying.
I started feeling light-headed and dizzy again. I didn't know if I'd wake up in the same place where I'd fallen asleep, but I didn't want to chance waking up on Darrah Street in the middle of the night.
On the way back upstairs I ran into the red-haired kid again. He was sitting near the top of the first staircase, knees spread and hands curled into tight little fists. His green eyes, full of fury, bored right into mine. I wondered what I'd done wrong.
"You can still see me, huh?" I asked.
"Why do you keep asking me that? Of course I can see you. You're there, aren't you?"
"Where's your mom?"
He paused, looked down at his feet, then said:
"Out."
"You should tell your mom to stay home with you tonight instead of drinking in bars."
"Yeah? You tell her."
Then he stood, raced up the few steps to the second floor and slammed his door shut behind him. The noise echoed in the stairwell like a gunshot.
I waited a few moments, then made my way up to the third floor as silently as possible. I jiggled the knob on the door to 3-A. Still locked. I guess DeMeo had gone home for the night.
And then the door opened suddenly. The knob slipped out of my hand. DeMeo popped out from the doorway holding a small silver gun, which looked like a toy in his meaty fist.
He still couldn't see me—thank God. The barrel of the gun swung past my face a couple of times as he squinted out into the darkened hallway.
"Who's there?"
I took a few slow steps backward.
"I heard you rattling the knob! I know you're out there!"
I pressed my back against the opposite wall.
"There are no drugs here. No money. No nothing! Come back again and I'll blow your brains out."
I tried not to breathe. I prayed I suddenly didn't turn visible.
"Goddamn hippie junkies."
DeMeo gave the hallway a final up and down before ducking back inside.
I slid down until I was sitting on the hallway floor.
I don't know how long I stayed there, staring at nothing in the dark. At some point I heard the downstairs door open with a loud bang, high heels clicking on the tile floor of the foyer, a female voice muttering to herself. Cursing. There was the jangle of keys. I had a good idea I knew who it was.
"Go home to your kid," I said, then repeated it a little louder. "Go home to your kid."
I wished I could go to Brady's right now, confront my father, tell him:
Go home to your kid.
The name Anthony Wade probably means nothing to you. But for a brief moment there, it could have.
The way my grandmom Ellie tells it, there was an exciting couple of weeks in early 1971 when my father's band, which was called Flick, was up in New York for a recording session that was supposed to lead to a recording deal with one of the major labels. They kind of sounded like Chicago—the early Chicago. The good Chicago. Tight rhythm section, a powerful brass thing going on. Only they were from Philadelphia.
But it all went sour when an exec noticed the name of the band painted on the bass drum: FLICK.
Put the "L" and the "I" close together, it sort of looks like a "U."
The record exec noticed it midsession, and said there was no way he was gonna sign a band who put that word on the front of their drum set. My dad refused to change it. That was the name of the band, man.
Thing was, my dad knew that FLICK looked like that word. That was why he'd picked it, my grandmom had said.
"Your father always had a self-defeating sense of humor."
I was half-surprised he didn't go with CLINT.
A year after the New York thing went south, I was born. My dad worked an endless series of menial jobs to make ends meet, but he always played gigs on weekends—even when the band fell apart.
The horns went first; they were too much in demand, and found better-paying gigs easily. My father responded by buying something called a Guitorgan, which fills in chunky organ sounds by pressing your fingers on the frets (while still strumming the strings). This pissed off the keyboard player, who split and took the bass player with him around 1976. This didn't discourage my father. He simply added bass pedals he could play with his feet. By 1978 the drummer didn't see the point, so he left, too, only to be replaced by an electronic drum machine.
By then he was known as ANTHONY WADE, HUMAN JUKEBOX, and he'd take out little ads in the local papers. He played a bunch of local places.
Brady's was a small restaurant and bar right near the end of the Market-Frankford El line. If you got drunk and hopped on an eastbound El train at City Hall, this is where you would be spit out. Just beyond Bridge and Pratt were a series of cemeteries. It was the end of the line on so many levels.
My parents took me to Brady's once, an hour before one of my dad's gigs. I felt like King Shit, sitting there, ordering up a cheeseburger and a Coke in a thick plastic mug loaded with ice, watching my dad set up his equipment. This was my dad as Human Jukebox, so there was a lot of it. I remember feeling proud, watching him up there. Pretty soon he'd be the center of attention. My dad.
The next time I saw Brady's I was a high school senior. I'd cut afternoon classes and went for a walk, ending up at Bridge and Pratt. The windows were dark; the door chained shut. It had closed not long after my dad had died.
You don't forget things like the morning your mom tells you your dad's been killed.
God, the way she just said it.
Your father's been killed.
I asked her what had happened—had he been hit by a car? As a kid, the only way I could wrap my mind around death was to imagine a speeding car. I had been forbidden to cross Darrah Street and told that if I disobeyed, I could be hit by a car, and then I would die, and there would be no more Mickey.
But Mom told me no, your father got into a fight—you know how much fighting gets you in trouble—and the guy daddy was fighting hit him too hard and...
And what? I asked, all the while picturing the scene in my mind, my father out on the hard sidewalks of Frankford, fists in the air, blocking punches and throwing some jabs of his own, just like Rocky Balboa.
And he died, she'd said.
Later, I'd ask her again about my father's death, and she'd tell me the same thing. He'd gotten into a stupid fight, and the guy hit back too hard, and that was that.
Whatever happened to the guy? I'd asked my mom.
Nothing.
Which didn't make sense to me. How could nothing have happened to a guy who'd killed somebody, accident or not?
As I got older, I filled in the gaps myself, inserting pieces of narrative my mom had left out. I imagined some drunk heckling my father. I imagined my dad angry, just like he got sometimes with me when I bothered him. I imagined him pushing some drunk guy in the bar, and the guy pushing back. Imagined my dad taking a swing and losing his balance and his head connecting with the sharp edge of the bar. Imagined the drunk guy saying it was an accident, and being allowed to go free.
In my mind, this version of my father's death quickly cemented itself into fact. This was the version I told friends when they learned that my father was dead. This was the version I embellished for an essay I wrote freshman year of college for Advanced Composition 2. That essay ("My Father's Killer") ended up being reprinted in the campus English Department quarterly and had the side effect of launching my journalism career when a professor named Jack Seydow encouraged me to write for the campus paper.
And according to that version of the story, the guy who killed my father was just some drunk son of a bitch who threw one punch too hard.
"My Father's Killer," I'd hinted at in my essay, was himself. He'd done it to himself. And I had a hard time forgiving him for that.
Pretty much my whole life.
My head felt thick, full of sand. I pressed my palms against my eyes and saw stars and comets and nebulae racing toward me. I wondered how long I'd be here, sitting in this dark hallway in February 1972 before the dream ended. Would the sun come up again and blast-burn another part of me away? My arms? My head? Maybe the sun would finish me off this time?
And then I woke up.
Meghan was staring at me. Her blond hair was damp and smelled like shampoo. The cleanest, most intoxicating shampoo in the world. She was crouched down on one knee and was touching my chest.
"Mickey?"
I blinked a few times, then patted the floorboards just to make sure they were real.
"Yeah. Hi. Uh, how did you get in here?"
"You left the door unlocked. I thought you said this was a bad neighborhood."
"Most muggers are too lazy to walk up to the third floor."
She sat down, crossed her legs, then reached out to touch my forehead. I must have been a sight. She takes me first thing in the morning to the emergency room of a hospital. Now she finds me passed out on the floor.
"How are you," she said.
"I'm okay."
The look on her face told me she didn't believe me. I didn't believe me either.
"You want anything? I brought some turkey sandwiches. Some Vitamin Water."
"No, really I'm fine."
She noticed the turntable, and the Pilot LP. I heard the needle running over and over and over in the final groove.
"Pilot...wow. I think my dad had that album. You been taking a spin back to yesteryear?"
I bit my tongue like you wouldn't believe.
We stayed there on the floor for a while. I was seriously dizzy—like drunken bed spins without the drinking. The tiny elastic hoses that pump blood through my brain were writhing, throbbing. My mouth tasted like metal, and I could feel the thin layer of sweat beneath my clothes. It wasn't as bad as this morning, when I woke up in the hospital and it felt like my skull had been cracked open. But I also didn't want to go moving around too much. Not yet.
I checked the fingers on my right hand. Still attached. Still numb.
Then I finally pushed myself to a sitting position, across from Meghan.
"I'm sorry about what happened last night," I said. "I didn't meant to scare you like that."
"So what happened?"
"I was kind of hoping you could tell me."
"You don't remember?"
I remembered a lot of things, but I wasn't exactly sure they were real. The last thing I wanted was to make this conversation even more awkward. So I lied.
"Last thing I remember," I said, "I was in bed with you. Wait...that sounds wrong. I was on the couch with you. I nodded off, and what was it. What did I miss?"
Meghan looked at me.
"You were mumbling in your sleep. Saying something like, you can't hear me, you can't see me. Then you said something about all of this being a dream."
"How did I get to the hospital?"
"A little before seven you started convulsing, which really freaked me out. I tried waking you up. You wouldn't. Then you started screaming with your eyes shut, so I called 911. They asked me if you were on any drugs, but I told them I didn't know."
As she spoke, I replayed last night's dream in my head. While Meghan had been watching me convulse, I'd probably been throwing my shoulder against an imaginary door, trying to break it down. I screamed when my imaginary fingers fell off.
Meghan took me by the shoulders now. Stared hard into my eyes.
"Mickey, I know you're between jobs and everything, but if you need to see somebody, I can help you out."
"I don't need help. I'm just a little tired."
"Nobody drinks a six-pack then lapses into a near-coma, Mickey. It just doesn't make sense. You always seem broke..."
"Wait, wait—you think I'm on drugs?"
"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm not here to judge. Jesus, I sound like a therapist...look, I dated a guy in college with a serious problem, and we all got him some help. It took awhile, but he's doing okay now."
"Meghan, I swear to you, it's not drugs. I'm too broke to afford drugs. I had those Yuengling and a couple of aspirin. That was it. You were here with me the whole time, remember?"
"Aspirin, huh?"
"From my grandfather's medicine cabinet. Unless you think he was doing drugs and stashing them in the Tylenol bottle."
Meghan touched my face as if she could read minds with her fingertips. I was angry, but part of me softened at her touch.
"Okay, Mickey. Maybe you just need some rest."
"Yeah. Maybe."
She stood up and started looking through her purse for her keys. As much as I wanted her to stay, I also wanted time to sort through what I'd just dreamed about. All of it was so damn real, so detailed.
"Let me walk you."
"I'm fine—I'm parked right downstairs. You act like this is Beirut or something."
"Yeah, I know it's not Beirut. Beirut has more buildings left standing."
Meghan leaned down and brushed her lips against my forehead. I reached up and touched her arm, as if my touch could make her linger. But she pulled away quickly and walked to the door. She smiled, told me she'd check on me later.
I pushed myself up off the floor and went to the bathroom for more Tylenol. The two I'd taken before hadn't done a damn thing—
Wait a minute.
## V
## The Clockwise Witness
Using a butter knife, I chopped a single pill into quarters, doing the math in my head. Last night, I'd popped four pills, 250 milligrams each. I had weird-ass dreams about cars and women in polka-dot dresses and fat, sweaty doctors that lasted pretty much all night long.
This evening I'd taken two pills, and the weird-ass dream thing lasted three, maybe four hours.
So a quarter of a single pill would be what...a half hour?
Okay, worst case, I'd swallow it and it wouldn't do a thing. Then I'd know it was something else making me dream about February 1972. But if it had been the pills, it would start to explain a lot. Namely, that all of these crazy dreams weren't coming out of nowhere.
I opened a grape Vitamin Water that Meghan had brought and swallowed the quarter pill. Then I laid back down on the floor, next to the couch, and closed my eyes.
There was no warning, no herald. The pill worked that fast.
Within seconds I was on the floor of the dark, empty office. Two fingers, still missing. El rumbling outside.
This time, however, I stayed put in the office that would someday become my Grandpop's apartment. As Blaise Pascal once wrote: "All of man's trouble stems from his inability to sit quietly in a room alone."
Instead, I peeled back some of the cardboard, looked out of the front windows and watched the soft rain land on the early 1970s cars moving down Frankford Avenue. I listened to wet tires against asphalt, a soothing sound broken up every few minutes by the thunder of the arriving El that always, without fail, jolted me, whipping shadows across my face.
There were also murmured voices somewhere in the apartment building. A woman's. Then an angry kid, saying he didn't understand, he was being quiet. And then the woman's voice again, saying something about being done, that's it, she couldn't take it anymore. Ah, another quiet night in Frankford circa 1972.
Right? This was 1972?
But I didn't want to go outside and check. I just wanted to sit on that weird stiff psychiatrist's sofa and take everything in. Convince myself that I was actually sitting here in the past.
Everything felt real. I could smell the burning dust in the air, baked by the steam radiator in the corner. I could hear the rumble of the El outside. The squeal of the brakes. The thump of the doors opening, then closing. I could feel the fibers of the cushion beneath me, the smooth polished wood of the sofa's frame. I could blink and breathe. I was able to run my tongue around inside my mouth.
But this couldn't really be my physical body, could it? Meghan said she'd watched my body in the present—mumbling, convulsing and otherwise seeming to have a perfectly good time by itself.
So what part of me was sitting here right now? My soul? Spirit? Life force? Ghost? Whatever it was, this other me was able to walk downstairs and open doors and pick up newspapers. In fact, except for being invisible to most people and that pesky "dissolved by light" thing, this other me acted just like my physical body.
I thought that maybe I should stand up, test my limitations. Find something this body could do that my real body couldn't.
But it was too late; time was up. I felt the familiar dizziness wash over me, and then one violent head nod later...
I was back.
I spent the weekend experimenting—nights only. I quickly learned that whatever time of day I popped a pill, that would be the time of day I'd wake up back in the past. Early Saturday morning I took a quarter of a pill, all excited to continue my experimenting, but then almost baked myself alive in the bright, glare-filled office—despite the cardboard taped over the windows. I crawled under DeMeo's desk and curled myself up into a quivering little ball until the pill wore off.
So by day, I crashed. The pills left me exhausted and headachy, with my body temperature going up and down at random. It all felt vaguely like the flu. I listened to my father's albums to distract me from the pain.
The only part of my body that didn't ache were the two numb fingers on my left hand. I found some medical tape in the medicine cabinet and used them to make a crude splint. I can't tell you how many times I accidently bent them backwards on the cherrywood desk or the couch because I forgot they were there.
From time to time my cell rang, and I would reach up and turn its face toward me and see that is was Mom calling again. Didn't she get the hint by now that I pretty much never picked up the phone, that I always let her calls go to voice mail? She was unstoppable, though, leaving messages about visiting Grandpop, my job hunt, or coming to dinner—three things I had no intention of pursuing anytime in the near future.
My mom didn't realize that pushing me resulted in an equal and opposite reaction. Or maybe she did realize, and hoped that at some point I'd snap and the physics would reverse, like the North and South Poles after a massive demagnetization.
So I ignored her.
Meghan called twice, but I couldn't bring myself to listen to her messages. There was still a good chance I was caught on a downward spiral of insanity, and I wanted to avoid sucking her down with me. This, after all, was my pill-popping lost weekend. Just me, the pills, some peanut butter, sixes of Golden Anniversary beer and a bunch of LPs that used to belong to a dead hippie musician. You don't bring people you care about along for a ride like that.
Besides, what did I think—that we had a future together? I was a philanthropic gesture. A novelty. Sooner or later Meghan moved on to something else. I'd watched it happen. No, I had to go this alone.
So by day I ate peanut butter and apples. If it was late enough in the afternoon, I had a few cold Golden Anniversaries. They actually weren't bad if you drank them fast enough.
And by night I jumped around the early 1970s.
The more I practiced, the better my aim. The human mind is capable of all kinds of amazing tricks. Like telling yourself the night before that you want to wake up at a certain time in the morning. More often than not, you'll wake up at that time—even beating the alarm clock you set as a backup.
So whenever I popped a pill, or the sliver of a pill, I started thinking hard about the date I wanted.
February 24.
February 28.
March 10.
March 30.
And so on.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't go back beyond the day I was born—February 22, 1972. This seemed to be the default line, and it was disappointing. The journalist in me had fantasies about going back to November 22, 1963, staking out the grassy knoll in Dallas and putting that nearly fifty-year-old story to bed. Dear Oliver Stone, my e-mail would begin...
But nothing doing. If I concentrated on February 21, 1972—or any day preceding it—I ended up back in February 22, 1972, by default.
I also couldn't go back to a time I'd already visited. Maybe this was a built-in protection feature to prevent me from ripping open the fabric of reality, or something.
It worked.
Nor could I venture much beyond 1972. Saturday night I decided I wanted to see the Bicentennial, and my dad playing with his band near Penn's Landing. This was one of my earliest memories: being down near the riverfront; seeing the tall ships; the red, white and blue streamers; and my father, Anthony Wade, strumming his guitar outside of a restaurant—just one of dozens of musicians hired by the city that day. I'd gotten lost at one point, and wandered off to a restaurant boat nearby along with my aunt, who was only nine months older. Some cop had found us, luckily, and all was good. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't. If we'd stayed lost. It was probably this combination of fear and excitement that imprinted the day forever in my mind.
So I popped four pills and thought hard about the night of July 4, 1976. I concentrated on the date, repeated it to myself over and over and over. I imagined fireworks. Red, white and blue streamers everywhere. Penn's Landing. Liberty bells. The restaurant ship—the Moshulu. The bustle of the crowd. The sound of my father's band playing. Every possible detail I could squeeze out of my own head. Again I repeated the date out loud. I went all method—I became the date.
The moment I woke up in the office, however, I didn't feel right. I was dizzy and easily distracted. Oooh, look at the pretty cars. The speeding El...oooh! A pigeon! Somehow I made it down the stairs and out the front door to Frankford Avenue, which was alive and full of noise and kids screaming. Just make it to the El, I told myself. But the farthest I got was two steps on the sidewalk before I got dizzy, did a head nod and woke up back at home.
The pills wanted me to stick to a particular time frame.
The pills also wanted me to stay in the dark. I realized that losing my fingers wasn't a fluke incident. Direct light of any kind—be it sun, a lamp or even a flashlight—did my time-traveling body serious harm. When I walked down Frankford Avenue and strayed too close to a neon sign, I felt it. I moved away, I felt better. If I lingered beneath a streetlamp, I would feel dizzy, and my ghostly eyes would water. It didn't take long to put it together that light equals harm. And in big enough doses, it meant the permanent kind of harm. It was best to stay in the shadows completely.
Again I wondered about this ghostlike "body" I used in the past. Was everyone's soul or spirit or ghost or whatever this sensitive to light? Is this the way we evolved flesh-and-blood bodies—to protect ourselves?
It's questions like these that keep you up at night, making you giddy and terrified at the same time.
Somewhere in that timelost weekend it occurred to me that I could have the solution to all of my problems right here in this Tylenol bottle.
I was jobless and broke. Surely I could think of a way to use the pills to turn a small buck or two?
Nothing audacious, nothing that would screw with the thin, gossamer fabric of the space-time continuum. I've watched enough bad science fiction movies to know the rules. I also realized that if it were possible to travel back into the past to steal things, countless priceless artifacts would have gone missing on a regular basis. There would be no crown jewels. No Mona Lisa. No Hope Diamond. No moon rocks. Nothing cool at all. Future time-thieves would have nicked them all.
So after a while, I came up with the idea of vintage paperbacks and comic books.
Think about it. They were mass produced, cheap and wouldn't be missed in their own time. And they were worth a great deal more in the present.
When I'd been gainfully employed at the City Press, I would sometimes hop across town and waste a Saturday afternoon scouring the shelves of a mystery bookstore called Whodunit. Most of the stuff was affordable—five or seven bucks for a Gold Medal hardboiled paperback that originally cost a quarter. But there were some real rarities that went for $20, $30 or even $50. Of course, these tended to be elusive titles from my favorite hardboiled writers—David Goodis, Jim Thompson, James M. Cain, Fredric Brown, Dan J. Marlowe.
A quarter in one year, $50 in another. I was no Wharton School grad, but even I could see this was an amazing return on investment.
So I did a trial run to see if I could carry something back to the present. I took a half pill, went back to March 30, 1972. I walked across the street. On the rack was a fresh copy of Marvel Spotlight #2: Werewolf by Night.
I'd never owned the original. But parts of it, along with pages from later issues, had been cannibalized and turned into a book-and-record set, which my father left under the tree for me Christmas 1978. He loved the classic monsters—your Draculas, your Frankensteins, your Wolfmen. And I loved that book-and-record, even though it terrified the crap out of me.
Lingering by the comic rack, I finally reached for it, trying to play it all stealthy. I was invisible, so I had that going for me. No one could see me. Even if they could, who would think anything of a middle-aged guy standing near a newsstand? Still, I was nervous, like I was about to knock over a bank. My fingers fumbled. The slick cover slipped out of my grasp once, twice, three times. Could anyone see this? The world's lamest attempt at shoplifting ever?
After another eternity of hamfistedness, I regained my finger-hold on the thing and ran for it.
Over there, kids! Look at the invisible man with the stolen werewolf comic! Jogging across Frankford Avenue, avoiding the bright headlights, looking all nervous and guilty...
Back in the office I laid down on the floor and tightly pressed the comic to my chest with my palms. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness to wash over me.
I snapped awake and immediately grasped at my chest with my eight good fingers.
No werewolf comic.
And with it, my idea of stealing comics and paperbacks from the past and eBaying them at a 400 percent markup in the future.
Other moneymaking schemes popped into my head, of course. I briefly thought about becoming a private eye. I could meet clients in the past, then use Google to "solve" their cases in the present. Only one problem, of course: almost nobody in the past could see me. Just that redheaded kid down on the second floor. What was I going to do, have a twelve-year-old kid be my Velda?
I could try to set up shop in the present, but there was a problem with that, too: unless I could find dozens of people who had burning questions about events from February 1972, I'd starve. There wasn't even a good Philadelphia tragedy I could witness firsthand and turn into a book. My time-traveling abilities were limited to the point of being useless.
The only thing the pills were good for, it seemed, was walking around Philadelphia during the first few months of my life and depressing the hell out of myself.
My mother grew up on the fringes of Frankford, near Bridge Street and Torresdale Avenue. The neighborhood is still alive, but you can tell it's had a few severe beatings. Along the way, the neighbors had gotten the idea that it was okay to throw their trash everywhere—the sidewalks, the gutter, their front porches. Windows broke and stayed broken. A few blocks away, you could hear the constant rumble of I-95.
But you couldn't in late February 1972, because Interstate 95 hadn't been built yet.
There were no pimped-out SUVs with throbbing subwoofers cruising the tiny streets. There was no shuttered pizza shop or deli. There was very little trash in the street gutters. There were very few broken sidewalks and crumbled curbs. In 1972 this was just another quiet middle-class neighborhood in the middle of the night.
Standing across the street, I looked at the rowhome where my mom grew up, just four from the end of the block. All the lights were out except for one: the kitchen. Somewhere in that house my mom's father, Grandpop Ted, was probably enjoying his Saturday night, listening to polkas on the radio, drinking pull-top cans of Schaefer and burning through countless packs of Lucky Strikes. Grandpop Ted would die eighteen years later. Lung cancer.
So was I standing here for a reason? Was I supposed to cross Bridge Street, knock on the door and ask him to kindly cut back on the smoking?
After my dad was killed I spent a lot of nights in that house on Bridge Street, crashing on the green shag carpet in the living room. I'd listen to Grandpop Ted talk to Grandma Bea, both of them drinking and smoking, polkas on the radio in the background. They'd laugh. They'd fight. I'd curl up into a ball and cry a lot, but not so they could hear me.
Maybe I should walk back to my own house and leave a note for my mom:
HI ANNE!
LISTEN, THE GUITAR-PLAYING DUDE WITH A PONYTAIL YOU JUST MARRIED? UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU LET HIM OUT OF THE HOUSE ON SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1980. TRUST ME ON THIS.
SIGNED,
A FRIEND
I drifted back into Frankford proper, which was littered with the landmarks of my childhood. Instead of a grungy Sav-N-Bag there was a clean, shiny Penn Fruit Supermarket, with new carts and freshly painted walls and rows of boxes and cans and fruit and meat and bread. Farther down on Frankford Avenue there was a poultry shop, where rotisserie chickens would spin in a case near the front window. It was night, so the birds were gone, but the rotisserie machine was still there, along with a sign advertising whole chickens, halves, legs, breasts, thighs. My stomach rumbled at the sight. There was a Kresge's five-and-dime, with a luncheonette counter. There was a drugstore, not a chain, an honest-to-God neighborhood drugstore, also with a luncheonette counter. You could see it just beyond the front doors, even in the dark. There was a huge toy store named Snyder's. There were record shops. Children's clothing stores, where you could buy your kids their Easter outfits. There was a place to buy lingerie. There was a candy store. No cigarettes, no bread, no milk, no lottery tickets, no porn mags, no motor oil—just rows of Bit-o-Honeys and Swedish fish and sugared gum drops and Day-Glo jelly fruit slices and ovals of chocolate behind a vast glass counter. You could walk in with fifteen cents and walk out with a small white paper bag full of penny candy. Candy that actually cost a penny each.
You trash a place in your mind for so long you forget that you used to actually love it.
I could wander all night, but it wouldn't change the truth. I was still a dead broke guy a few credits shy a college degree, living in a bad neighborhood without a job during the worst recession since the Great Depression. So what if I could pop pills and wake up in a different year? No one could see me. No one could talk to me. I didn't matter to anyone now or in the present.
There had to be something I could do with these pills. But I wasn't smart enough to figure it out yet. Maybe my grandpop had it figured out.
Then I remembered the boxes and crates.
Back in the apartment I dove into the papers. What had I been thinking? He must have found a way to use the pills to his financial advantage. Clearly the man wasn't rich, but he got by. He had to have been up to something in this apartment all this time. And the clues were probably in these boxes and crates.
There were genealogy charts. Seemingly random newspaper clippings going back to the 1920s and running into the 1990s. Real estate listings. Birth notice pages. Medical reports. None of it organized. None of it made sense.
What was he doing?
For instance: one manila folder, marked "Crime Wave" in a shaky scrawl, was jammed with a series of clips from the local paper, the Frankford Gleaner. The articles detailed a series of break-ins and burglaries up and down Frankford Avenue during the summer of 1979. Totally friggin' random.
Unless my grandpop was taking the pills and much more adept at pinpointing the year he visited? Was it possible he was going back to 1979 and looting the Avenue? And if so, how did he keep the stuff? Did he put everything into a bank safety-deposit box in the past, then open it in the present? Of course, that required the ability to open a box in the past, and you couldn't do that if you were invisible. And in a well-lit bank.
Maybe this was just a random series of articles he'd kept because he was a true-crime junkie. Maybe it meant nothing at all.
My head started to hurt.
After a few hours of searching I stumbled across a Florsheim shoe box. It was packed with old photos of my father. I cracked a Golden Anniversary and sat down to examine them.
I had never seen these before. A lot of them showed my father as a little boy, in short pants and everything. He was smiling and crouched next to Grandpop Henry, who—loathe as I am to admit this—did look a lot like me. He was wearing a V-neck T-shirt and smiling. He had more hair.
All of us Wadcheck men look alike. It was like the same guy was reborn again, and again, and again, with only minor genetic input from the mother.
And yes, there was Grandmom Ellie, beaming, holding my baby father in her arms. Presumably, Grandpop Henry had been the one taking the photo.
These photos offered glimpses of a world I barely knew existed—some magical fairy-tale kingdom where my dad was alive, and his parents were still married, they loved each other, and things still had the chance of turning out okay. The furniture was shabby, the walls were chipped, but they were just starting their lives together in a quiet Philadelphia neighborhood. They had no idea of the tragedies that awaited them.
The man in the V-neck T-shirt had no idea he'd be burying his son in about thirty years.
The woman holding the baby had no idea her husband would leave her, and she'd live more or less alone the rest of her life.
The baby had no idea that he would lose his temper in a bar and kick-start a thirty-second fight that would end his life.
I had another beer, then dug deeper into the box. I was surprised to see some grainy, orange-baked Polaroid photos of myself.
There was me, lounging with my dad on our threadbare brown living room rug. Me, hanging on to his arm, both of us sharing an oversized doughnut, the console TV in the background playing a Star Trek rerun. Me, pounding away on a toy organ, while Dad strummed his acoustic guitar. Me, hanging next to my father's band during his Bicentennial gig down at Penn's Landing. Which, if I indeed had stayed lost, would have probably been the last photo of me my parents would have seen.
What I do remember of the time I spent with my father was that it always revolved around music or horror movies or science fiction shows—in short, the things he liked to do. He was indoctrinating me. Giving me an early booster shot of the good stuff. Back then I was completely enthralled by him. I'd perch myself on the landing leading down to the basement, listening to my father running through chord changes or trying to pick up chords from Top 40 singles or organizing his records and lyric sheets in a filing cabinet. The basement air would always be thick with the aroma of cigarettes or pot.
Maybe, had he lived, we would have shared our first joint together.
Outside the El rumbled. I opened a Golden Anniversary and put on another of my father's albums—Styx's Paradise Theatre. This was one of the few in the collection that he'd never had a chance to hear. My father belonged to some album of the month club, and it arrived in the mail (along with Phil Seymour's Phil Seymour) a month after he died. My mom was too much of a wreck to notice I'd claimed the album for myself. And remember, this was two years before "Mr. Roboto" made it embarrassing to like Styx.
I finished my beer and wondered if maybe I really was losing my mind, and imagining all of this. Maybe I was the one lingering in a coma, victim of a drug problem I wasn't even aware I had.
At the bottom of a milk crate I found a scrapbook. It had big obnoxious brass rings holding the thick velvet cover and the stiff, crinkly pages together. It was the kind of photo album where you peel up the plastic, from left to right, place your photos on the white sticky backing, then smooth it back down. Unless you had the patience and steady hand of a sober monk, you'd always end up with crinkles. And it looked like Grandpop Henry had tied one on when he slapped this thing together.
I flipped through the pages for a few minutes before I realized I had been absolutely wrong about my father's death.
## VI
## This Could Be the Last Time
My father, Anthony Wade, the Human Jukebox, played three sets at Brady's, from nine until about eleven forty. That's when some witnesses say twenty-year-old William Allen Derace—because all killers come with three names—walked into Brady's, sat down, ordered a mug of Budweiser and a sirloin steak.
He sat in a booth alone, and watched my father, the Human Jukebox, perform some Stones, Doors and Elvis cover songs. Derace's steak remained untouched; it sat on top of wax paper in its red plastic basket until after the cops had come and gone. He did not drink any of his Bud.
And then at approximately 11:45, five minutes before my father was set to take a break, and in the middle of a guitar solo during his cover of the Rolling Stones' "The Last Time," Billy Allen Derace walked up to the stage, smiled, showed my father the steak knife in his hand, muttered something, then began to stab him in the chest.
By the second knife blow my father's aorta had been punctured, and he had probably gone into shock, but he still managed to lift his Guitorgan to parry the third strike. The Daily News had published a photo of the guitar, with a slash mark running down its black lacquered body and into the fret board. Derace stabbed my father a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, then a final seventh time before a pair of off-duty firefighters pulled him away from the stage and subdued him. Derace, however, managed to wriggle free and escape through the back alley.
The whole thing took about thirty seconds.
Billy derace wasn't drunk. He hadn't consumed so much as a swallow of beer. The mug he'd ordered, which sat on the table, was untouched.
And my father's death wasn't a brawling "accident." Multiple witness interviewed by the Philadelphia Police Department, the Philadelphia Bulletin and the Philadelphia Daily News said that yeah, that crazy Billy Derace just strolled up to the tiny stage and started stabbing him in the chest with the steak knife. My dad didn't even have the chance to throw a punch. Moments later, Billy Derace was beaten to the ground.
Not long after, Billy Derace somehow vanished.
Police found Billy Derace at his then-current residence—nearby Adams Institute, which was (and is) one of the top psychiatric hospitals in the country. It has been around since 1813, first known as the Asylum for Persons Deprived of the Use of Their Reason, and later as Frankford Asylum for the Insane, and then finally the more PC-sounding Adams Institute, named after a wealthy family who had owned a buttload of farmland nearby and later lent their name to an adjacent avenue.
Two cops walked into the room with handcuffs and guns, but Billy Derace already had restraints around his wrists and ankles.
And he'd had them on for much of the past twenty-four hours, removed only for a sponge bath.
Derace, the doctors at the Adams Institute told police, was near comatose, with occasional fits and seizures. He was bound to the bed for his own protection.
One doctor was quoted: Mitchell DeMeo.
No, Dr. DeMeo said, my patient was definitely not anywhere near Brady's at Bridge and Pratt. Derace was here, in restraints, and checked hourly by the attending nurses. He'd been in a semi-vegetative state since 1979. Only recently had he shown signs of wakefulness. But to slip out of a mental hospital and make his way to a bar to stab a random guitar player? Impossible.
Mitchell DeMeo—the same man whose office would later become my grandpop's apartment.
To further his point, DeMeo even produced some time-stamped, black-and-white closed-circuit surveillance of the hospital grounds, which revealed Billy Derace did not leave the grounds at any point that week. Or at any point during the previous two years, for that matter.
The witnesses at Brady's, however, swore it was Derace. A few even knew him from around Frankford. Descriptions were given to a police sketch artist. The resulting sketch looked a hell of a lot like Billy Derace.
I was staring at a photocopy of the sketch now. My grandpop had somehow scored one, along with the full police report.
He also had clipped every single newspaper article about the murder, which honestly, wasn't much. A dead musician in a dive bar wasn't the stuff of front pages. The one-man-band thing gave it a strange little twist, but that was only good for a one-liner in the lead. Billy Derace was never definitively placed at the scene of the crime.
Who were you going to believe? A bunch of working-class folks half in their cups near midnight, or a team of the nation's top psychiatric doctors and nurses?
So Billy Derace was never convicted.
My mom had never spoken a word about this. Neither had my grandmother, or Grandpop for that matter.
But Grandpop obviously hadn't let it go.
And he had a bottle of pills in his medicine cabinet that would send him back to the past.
Why?
Grandpop usually seemed annoyed by the rest of the family. He'd show up at holiday events, perch himself in a corner, then crack a lukewarm can of beer. Never a cold can. He liked his lager room temperature.
Mom would command me to talk to him. I'd go over. Grandpop would eyeball me, then turn his attention back to his beer. If we were going to have a conversation, he was going to be the one to initiate it, not me. And if he did grace me with some words of wisdom, I'd better not even think about weighing in.
The hell do you know. I have neckties older than you.
You going to let me finish the story, or what?
Mickey go get me another beer.
But now I had a captive audience.
Grandpop was unconscious in his hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and plastic bags that ran under and over the flimsy gown they'd dressed him in. The room was small and smelled like ammonia cut with lemons. His fingernails were too long, too yellow. A computer kept track of his heart.
There was so much I wanted to ask. The whole walk over there, the questions wouldn't stop.
There are stories about comatose people hearing what's going on around them. Maybe if I spoke out loud, Grandpop would actually hear me. Maybe he'd reach for a pen and paper, scribble out a few clues so that I would finally understand it all?
"Grandpop. It's me, Mickey. Can you hear me?"
He didn't respond. All I heard was beeping, like an eternal game of Pong was playing itself out in the corner of the room. After a few seconds Grandpop twitched slightly, but that could have been my imagination. I pulled a plastic chair closer to the bed so I could see him, face-to-face.
"I found those pills in your medicine cabinet, Grandpop. I accidentally took a few. They're not Tylenol, I know that much."
My grandfather's right hand twitched a little, one of his gnarled fingers tapping the side of an IV tube. His eyes were shut, but busy beneath their lids. Rolling fast.
Maybe he could hear me.
"Did you take them?"
No response.
"Did they send you back to 1972?"
No response.
"Is that why you never saw any of us the past few years? Have you been busy going to the—"
The door behind me suddenly opened and a nurse stormed in. She had frosted blond hair that was so severely spiked that if she were to jump up toward the ceiling, she'd probably stick. The nurse ignored me and attended to the machines monitoring my grandfather. I was a visitor, but so what? She had things to do, a shift to finish.
So I shut up for a while. My questions weren't exactly for the general public. Oh, don't mind me. Just talking to my comatose grandfather about pill-popping and time travel. I rested my face in my hands, pretending to pray or something.
The nurse tapped my shoulder.
"Hey. You want his things?"
"Things?"
"You know. His clothes. They're in a plastic bag in the closet over there."
Grandpop was in a coma; I don't think he'd mind if his clothes stayed unwashed for the time being. And I wasn't about to blow three or four of my last dollars on dry cleaning.
"Not now. Thanks."
She gave me a whatever look and left.
After a while, so did I. It's hard asking tough questions when you know you're not going to hear an answer. It's all buildup and no release.
Or maybe Grandpop could hear every word I was saying and decided that his only grandson had lost his damn mind.
I didn't know what Grandpop was doing in the past. But suddenly I knew what I wanted.
I wanted to see my dad one last time.
I had an overwhelming, primal need to experience my father in the flesh—not in a photograph, not a memory. I wanted to see my father in real life, through my adult eyes. The older I got, and the greater the time since he'd been killed, the more I distrusted my memories. I had no idea what he really looked like. I didn't care if he couldn't see me, or that we couldn't talk. I just wanted to look at him.
An editor buddy of mine at the City Press—a news editor named Tommy Piccolo—once told me that he'd lost his dad when he was young, too. We were in the bar across the street, drinking many, many beers, and had reached that place where we were feeling mutually nostalgic and depressed. Tommy's dad died when he was twelve years old, and now he was starting to doubt his own memories of the man.
"I mean, this was thirty-six years ago. I can't tell what's real in my mind, or what I've made up. I can't even hear his voice in my head. I imagine him talking to me and I think he's speaking in a voice I made up."
I told Tommy I knew exactly how he felt. And then I think I ordered us shots of whiskey.
But now I had a second chance. Who receives a gift like this and pushes it away?
I'd even be satisfied if this were an elaborate dream brought on by hallucinogenic drugs in pill form. It was better than the alternative. Which was nothing.
So on the walk back from the hospital, I made my decision. I would pop some little white pills and go back to Darrah Street in 1972 and break into my own childhood home. Maybe I'd bust a window, or throw a rock at the door...or wait. I didn't even have to break in. I could just knock something over in the backyard. That was the easiest way. There was an alley that led behind the row of houses on our block. I grew up playing in it, even though it was mostly overgrown with weeds, and the slabs of concrete had slowly chipped and shattered, letting the earth beneath reclaim its turf. I used to pretend it was a superhighway behind our house, and my toy cars could take me anywhere I wanted.
That's what I would do. Walk up the alley, leap the three-foot-tall rusted metal fence, then find something in the backyard to knock over. I remember my parents kept a small charcoal grill back there when I was growing up. That would be easy to tip.
Then he'd come out, and then I would see him.
All I wanted to do was see him one last time.
If I was going to start wandering the past, I was going to need protection. I stuck tonights, so daylight wasn't an issue. But streetlights and ordinary household lamps hurt. Someone swings a flashlight the wrong way, it could potentially decapitate me. So I ransacked my grandpop's closet.
Every square inch of it was stuffed with button-down shirts and trousers, suit jackets, windbreakers, as well as plastic shopping bags full of ski caps, gloves and socks. It looked like a thrift store had gotten drunk and thrown up in here. Nails had been tapped into one wall, and over them hung cracked leather belts, suspenders and ties so loud they could blind the naked eye. And more boxes full of papers were piled up on the floor of the closet, as if he didn't have enough things strewn around the apartment. Sometimes I thought I didn't so much as move into Grandpop's apartment as his storage facility.
I pulled on the hangers, trying to separate the clothes for a better look. They seemed to belong to no particular decade. They were old man clothes now; they would have been old man clothes thirty or sixty years ago.
At least my own wardrobe was consistent. At the City Press, T-shirt and jeans were the order of the day. If I had to seek an audience with the mayor or a member of City Council, sure, I'd put on a shirt with buttons. I owned exactly one pair of black dress pants from God knows when, one navy blazer, and one pair of non-sneaker shoes—black slip-on Sketchers.
After about twenty minutes of pushing and searching, I found a tan overcoat in Grandpop's closet—the one men's accessory that never seemed to go completely out of style. Like a beard, an overcoat could cover any number of sins.
And it would protect about 90 percent of my body from exposure to the light.
Grandpop also had a battered fedora hanging on a nail. I laughed when I first saw it. But light protection is light protection. And considering that one beam of light could potentially give me a lobotomy, it seemed like a smart thing to wear in the past.
It fit, too.
Dusk fell. It was time. I was buttoned up my shirt and fastened the belt on the overcoat. I tried to do that thing where you roll your hat down your arm, Gene Kelly style, but it just slipped off and floated to the ground.
I took three pills then laid down on the couch, overcoat wrapped around my body, gloves on my hand, fedora on my head—even though the apartment was sweltering. I tried to relax, let the pills do their job. Question was, would the coat, gloves and hat still be on my other body when I woke up?
My eyelids closed and then a second later I was back in 1972. And the hat, coat and gloves were still on. I checked the bathroom mirror, even lifting the hat from my head to make sure it wouldn't vanish on me. But I was afraid to let go. Maybe if contact were broken it would fade away, like the ring and pinky finger of my left hand. I didn't want to lose the hat just minutes after I'd found it.
In the past the office was empty. DeMeo had gone off to wherever he hung his cock at night. And the front door was locked.
Fortunately the tumble lock worked from the inside, so all I had to do was flip the latch and twist the doorknob. But with my other self, simple tasks took on a new and startling complexity. I flipped the latch, but I was unable to grab hold of the knob. The moment I had the knob, the latch would slip out of my three remaining fingers. And...repeat.
A few minutes later I finally made it out the front door. Halfway down the staircase I heard a shrill laugh, like someone was being tickled to the point of death. I was wrong. It wasn't a laugh. It was a scream—a child's scream.
Coming from 2-C.
Then there was a sickening thud as something hit the wall right next to the door, so hard I felt the entire hall shake around me. There was another cry followed by something sharp—a slap. Another thud against the wall, then a please please please Mom no.
Goddammit I told you to be a quiet!
This was none of my business. I knew that. What happened behind closed doors should stay behind—
Oh screw that.
I raced to the door and tried the handle. Locked. I guess if you're going to beat your son you're going to want to bolt your front door for privacy.
So I made a fist and pounded it into the door five times quickly, hard as I could. The crying choked off into a startled gasp. I heard a shhhhh. Footsteps approached the door. There was a hushed Shut up! Now! I mean it! Then a snuffle and a cough. The lock tumbled, the door creaked open. Erna, the woman from DeMeo's office upstairs, peered out into the hallway. Mascara was running down the sides of her cheeks. Her skin was flush, hair askew. She couldn't see me of course.
"Is someone there?"
"Yeah, Erna. It's me. How about you stop smacking your kid."
"Hello?"
I doubt if I would have been so bold in real life. But here, my other self was invisible. Nobody could hear my words—except maybe the kid. And that's what I was counting on. To make sure he knew someone was listening. That his abuse was not going unnoticed.
Erna looked around the hallway again, then took a step back and started to close the door. But before it shut completely, she looked directly into my eyes. It wasn't a momentary gaze—our eyes meeting by accident. I swear, for a second there, she saw me.
Then she slammed the door shut.
I stayed outside the door for a while, listening for the slaps or the crying to resume. If it did, I would pound on the door again. I could do this all night, or until the pills ran out, whichever came first. But 2-C remained silent. Soon I felt awkward, standing in a dark hallway in 1972. So I put my ear to the door one last time, heard nothing but silence, and continued down the stairs to Frankford Avenue.
It was bitter cold outside. Traffic crawled down the avenue. The El rumbled overhead, bringing home workers from downtown. The frigid air felt good in my other lungs.
I wasn't quite ready to go to Darrah Street yet, so I wandered across the street to the newsstand. A headline on the cover of the Evening Bulletin caught my eye:
4 Y.O. GIRL MISSING
Standing belly-to-counter at the newsstand—hoping nobody would bump into me and/or through me—I skimmed the story. The words were tough to read in the near-dark, and there were just a few inches of copy before the jump, but it was enough to get the idea. A four-year-old girl named Patty Glenhart had gone missing from Kresge's, just a few blocks from where I stood.
At first I was filled with that sick feeling you get when you read about something tragic like this. You wish this didn't have to happen. Then my self-defense system kicked in. Push it away, because there was nothing I could do about it except send thoughts and prayers to the little girl's fam—
And then I remember where I was, when I was.
I could do something.
## VII
## The Pit
I needed a copy of the paper. I needed details. Names, addresses. Reporter stuff. Another fumbling routine later—this one lasting a full half-minute—I had a copy of the Evening Bulletin tucked under my arm.
Back upstairs in the office I opened the paper and memorized as much as I could. The Glenhart family lived on Allengrove Street in Northwood, about six blocks away. Patty had two older brothers, both in school. The girl, even though she was barely out of toddlerhood, was incredibly precocious. According to her mother, she had the habit of marching up to the Kresge's luncheonette counter and ordering something to eat before her mother could say otherwise. The waitress and cook thought it was cute, and usually gave her a free snack.
But the same waitress and cook were quoted as noticing some "creepy" guy with long sideburns and a yellow jacket lurking near the lunch counter around the same time the mother started screaming for help, where's my baby, oh God, where's my baby. Police are seeking all leads, please call MU6-8989...
I read as much I could, committing as many details as possible to memory, then laid down on the floor and waited until I felt the familiar dizzy feeling again. I had taken four pills. I thought I would need the time, stalking my own father. I hadn't counted on this.
After a while I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew I was back in the apartment.
After pulling myself up off the floor I checked the time on my laptop—3:17 a.m. Only a few hours until sunrise. Not much time at all left.
I hit Google and typed in "Glenhart" and "Allengrove" and "missing" and I got a hit immediately.
Like every old city, Philadelphia has a long history of atrocities. Some made national headlines, like Gary Heidnick and his infamous West Philly basement of sex slaves. Or the shooting of a police officer by a radio journalist who would later receive the death penalty and become a cause célèbre. Or the 1985 bombing of an entire city block to combat a bunch of radicals who called themselves Move. Only, that last one was the fault of the mayor.
But even here in Northeast Philadelphia—for which Frankford served as an unofficial border between it and the rest of the city—there were plenty of atrocities, too.
Take the "Boy in the Box"—the name given to a kid, no more than six years old, who was found beaten to death and dumped in an old J.C. Penney bassinet box along the side of a quiet street back in 1957. Despite intense publicity, and a photo of the boy included in every city gas bill, his identity remains unknown to this day.
Closer still was the Frankford Slasher, a serial killer who preyed on prostitutes in Frankford during the late 1980s. I hadn't been kidding with Meghan about that; the Slasher was real. Police apprehended a man who was later convicted of one of the murders, but the real Slasher is believed to be dead or still at large.
This wasn't the case with "The Girl in the Pit," another Frankford atrocity. I was surprised that I'd never heard of it. I made it a point to seek out any crime stories that took place where I grew up.
But one amateur true-crime website had posted a quick case summary. The story was real. Patty Glenhart had gone missing, and stayed missing. They found her body years later.
I didn't linger over gruesome details. I only cared about two things: the name of the bastard who had taken her.
And his address.
The house was a single on Harrison Street, just four blocks away from where I grew up. It dwarfed much of the other homes in the area, and had a wide skirting of lawn on both sides. A deep porch. Three floors, including an attic.
The top floors didn't interest me—it was the pit. It was little more than a crawl space under the laundry room just behind the kitchen. But according to the website, the pit was where the remains of Patty Glenhart were discovered by a new owner doing renovations. There was a full, unfinished basement in this house, but the pit was something extra, hand-dug by the previous owner. The killer of Patty Glenhart.
His name was Dennis Michael Vincent. After his arrest in October 1983, Vincent admitted to police that he intended it as a bomb shelter in case the Russians had any H-bombs pointed at Frankford. He'd grabbed four-year-old Patty because he thought an attack was coming in March 1972 and he wanted to save her because she was so blond and young and beautiful and would be useful when it came time to repopulate the country. Forensic investigators would find twenty-seven of her bones broken, and her head fractured in six places.
Later, Vincent claimed he'd been mistaken. She wasn't beautiful. She was evil. She was the daughter of the devil.
So now I stood in front of Vincent's house, wondering how to break in. The front door was locked. So were the windows. I moved along the side of the house and climbed onto the wooden porch. There was still a summer weather screen on the back door. Vincent hadn't bothered to change it out, even though it was February. I pressed the fingers of my right hand into the mesh screen and clawed down as hard as I could. The material slipped beneath my fingers. I clawed harder, hanging as much weight as I could on it.
The screen ripped a little. I put three fingers into the hole and tore it away from the frame.
There was an eye latch and hook. I worked it free, then tried the handle of the storm door.
It was locked.
But the door was wooden, with a single pane of built-in glass. I stepped back down to the yard, found a rock, then tapped it against the glass. It held. I couldn't risk smashing it too hard—I had to be quiet here. Stealthy. I tapped the rock again. The glass splintered a little. A few taps later it finally broke, the shards clinking on the linoleum floor on the other side.
I waited.
No sound, no nothing. It was close to four in the morning.
I pushed away the rest of the glass then reached my arm in to flip the latch. This took me a long time, especially since I couldn't see what the hell I was doing. Ghosts in movies have it easy. They can walk through walls, float up through a ceiling, sink down into the floor, whatever. Here I was, having trouble with the most rudimentary door lock ever created.
Finally the lock opened, but there was another one. A deadbolt. Hadn't counted on that. I reached my arm in farther and wrapped my fingers around the nub and pulled hard. It moved a fraction of an inch. I pulled again. It opened with a loud clack.
I was in.
Now I needed to find that laundry room and the pit beneath. I prayed I wasn't too late. Prayed that Vincent the monster hadn't taken her and killed her in the same day.
The time was 11:00 p.m. according to a cuckoo clock in Vincent's kitchen. The whole place was full of dusty antique furniture, which made me think Vincent's parents had been well-to-do but died young, and left him a ton of things he didn't know what to do with. Including adulthood.
Did he sleep upstairs? Or did he keep vigil by the trapdoor he'd jerry-rigged on the wooden floor of the laundry room?
I kept moving.
The laundry room wasn't hard to find. It was right behind the kitchen, and I could see the hand-sawed square in the floor, with the rusty hinges on one side and a deadbolt handle on the other. Yes, more locks. It took me a full minute to work it free and jump down into the dark pit.
My mouth instantly tasted like dirt. I pressed my hands against the floor and pushed up, spitting and snuffing. It was freezing down here. There was about four feet of space below the boards, with a wildly uneven muddy brown floor carved out. The dirt was cold and clammy under my palms, and felt like greasy modeling clay.
There was almost no light down here, but I could make out a few things the more my eyes adjusted. On one side was a small kid-sized mattress. No bed frame, just a single sheet that half-covered a cheap mattress that looked shiny. In a cardboard box next to the mattress were a couple of toys—a worn fabric doll, a wooden duck with red wheels and a string attached to its beak. The kind of toys you expect to find in an orphanage. A badly run, broke-ass orphanage.
And curled up in a corner was Patty Glenhart.
She was sleeping on the dirt next to an exposed pipe. Condensation dripped from the rusted metal. She must have chosen that spot because it was slightly warm. I moved closer then whispered to her, not wanting to frighten her more than she already was.
"Patty."
She groaned. Curled up tighter into herself.
"I'm going to get you out of here, Patty, I promise. You'll be back with your mommy and daddy soon."
From behind a small forearm covered with light, downy hair, a tiny eye forced itself open. A beautiful green eye.
And then she screamed.
I tried shushing her, reassuring her, but it was too late. Her piercing cry traveled up the pipes, through the floorboards, through everything, and convinced Dennis Michael Vincent—who was probably already awake, sitting in his parents' old king-sized bed on the second floor—that something was wrong. I heard his heavy footsteps clomping down a wooden staircase. He was coming down to check on his captive.
"Patty! Listen to me! You need to be quiet!"
Then he was right above us, almost tripping over the open trapdoor.
"The hell!?"
Years from now, the neighbors would come forward with all kinds of details. Like how they remembered Vincent putting out ten paper bags of dirt for each weekly garbage collection. Didn't even dump the dirt in the backyard; he put it out for the trash guys to pick up. Neighbors would also remember hearing sawing and hammering—and, once in a while, screaming. But they just thought it was a cowboy or science fiction show on TV. Maybe a war picture. Nothing to worry about.
Couldn't they hear Patty's screams now? Why didn't they pick up the telephone and call the police—if nothing else but to put their minds at ease?
There was a harsh, bright light from above as Vincent turned on a light in the laundry room. Instantly I felt like I was going to throw up. The light again. Light did not like me. I inched backwards, trying to tuck myself back into the shadows. Of all of the Achilles' heels in the world to have, why did mine have to be the thing the planet is bathed in half the time? And could be summoned with the flick of a switch?
Two brown work boots landed on the dirt, along with two legs clad in muddy denim. Then his whole form crouched down. Dennis Michael Vincent was a tall man. Ruddy-cheeked, big-boned with sideburns gone wild. His eyes were too close together, like he'd grown up while the upper half of his face stayed frozen.
"Shhhh now little girl," he said. "We talked about this now. You don't want to get the belt again do you? You want me to bring the belt into the pit?"
I lunged at him.
It hurt like hell—my other bones colliding with his real ones. But I think it hurt Vincent, too. And confused him. He grunted and spun around, squinting into the near darkness. I hissed at him, trying to sound as monstrous as possible.
"Get out of here now."
Let him worry. Let him freak. Let him run screaming from his own house. Maybe then the neighbors would do something.
"Who is that? What the—"
I didn't know if he could hear me. I didn't care. It made me feel good.
"I'm the Devil. I'm here for my daughter."
I charged him again.
This time, though, Vincent managed to grab me for a few seconds—how, I have no idea. But the light from above burned my back. I felt like I was going to throw up and fry to death at the same time. I twisted and rolled across the dirt, hearing Patty's screams and Vincent's fevered grunts as he searched for whatever was attacking him.
The opposite corner of the pit was pitch dark. I crouched there for a moment, trying to catch my breath and fight the dizziness I was feeling. Not yet. I couldn't wake up just yet. Just a little while longer. Just until she's free.
"You're doing that, aren't you? You're doing that, aren't you, you little whore?"
Patty screamed, but the cry was broken in half, like she'd been throttled halfway through.
"You're doing that because you're the daughter of the Devil! You stop it! You stop it or I'll use the belt on you until your bottom bleeds!"
There was a slap. I charged him again. I didn't care if I burned alive down there. I needed this man to stop hurting this child.
Vincent's head struck pipe. There was a dull bonging sound and a second later he cried out in agony. Then he went scrambling up out of the pit. I grabbed a sheet from the kiddie mattress, draped it over my head and then climbed up into the laundry room, not stopping until I was safe in the darkness of the living room. He was in there, too. I could make out his dim form among the shadows, mouth agape, eyes bulging, trying to figure out what the hell was chasing him.
"I'm still here."
I snarled, then smacked a lamp off a table.
Vincent screamed, stepped backwards.
I moved in closer, looking at his body, wondering where I could strike that would do the most damage.
"Go outside. Call to your neighbors for help. Tell them to send the police. Tell them the Devil has come for you."
Vincent stumbled backwards until he bumped into his living room wall. He was panting. Shaking his head.
And then he reached over and flicked on the living room lights.
I threw my right arm up in the air. For a moment I must have looked like one of the scenes from 1950s movies about people caught in the flash of an H-bomb explosion. As if a forearm and bicep can hold back sheer atomic hell? I didn't black out, but I think I stopped recording conscious memories, because the next thing I knew I was huddled beneath a coffee table. Vincent was taunting me:
"Devil don't like the light, does he?"
My right arm was paralyzed by agony. Physical pain is one thing. As bad as it gets—like, say, torture room bad—you can always go into shock and retreat inside yourself. For whatever reason, this felt like soul pain...pain you couldn't hide from, ever. So long as your soul exists.
I couldn't take it anymore so I darted for the only available darkness—the kitchen. Then under the table. Sliding across the linoleum. Shaking badly. Ready to throw up and pass out.
"I'll give you light, Devil!"
Another click. More light, all around me. Where the hell was I? Right. Kitchen. There was cool linoleum beneath my fingers—the remaining fingers of my left hand, that is. I didn't know where my right hand was.
Two brown work boots appeared in front of me. The table above me began sliding to the left. Then two table legs lifted up from the floor. The shadow line raced toward me. And with it, a wave of murderous light. It was endgame time.
So I charged at the son of a bitch with all of my remaining strength.
Momentum propelled me forward, forward, forward. There was a crashing sound and I felt like I'd tumbled into a Black & Decker food processor. Skin, shredded; bones, ground to dust. Nerves, sliced open and prodded with hot needles.
But somehow I was still alive.
And in the cool, soothing darkness of night once again.
Dennis Michael Vincent lay next to me, gurgling, on the concrete path on the side of his house. We had gone through the kitchen window, and now pieces of glass were sticking out of his neck and forearms. Blood squirted from the right side of his throat in small, urgent beats. He moaned. Cursed the devil with the little bit of voice he had left.
There was a burst of yellow light to my right. The sound of a wooden door creaking open. A neighbor.
I crawled backwards until I felt a metal chain-link fence behind me. I tried to use it to stand up, but something weird was happening. I couldn't seem to grab hold of anything. I heard a noise, then looked back at the house.
Patty Glenhart was standing on the back porch. She saw me. I guess only kids and psychos could see ghosts.
She screamed and turned and ran back into the house.
I glanced down at my right shoulder. My arm was completely gone.
The neighbors next door were calling out. Is everybody okay? Does anyone need help?
Meanwhile, Dennis Michael Vincent choked on his own blood.
I tried to forget my missing arm and used the three fingers on my left hand to pull myself up the fence until I was standing. Then I staggered along the side of the house, completely thrown off-balance. I turned right and walked a block, trying to make it to Frankford Avenue before I passed out.
When I woke up Meghan was staring at me. She had a cell phone in her hand and a panicked expression on her face. I was on the floor, wrapped in Grandpop's overcoat, his fedora still on my head.
"Christ, Mickey—are you awake?"
"Oh God."
I groaned, then rolled over on my side, wondering what Meghan was doing here. Wondering how I was going to explain why I was dressed in a coat, hat and gloves on the floor on a sweltering June morning.
"Mickey! Come on, stop screwing around!"
My right arm was still attached to my body, but like the fingers on my left hand, it was completely numb. A useless slab of dead meat hanging from my shoulder. Fingers were one thing. A whole arm was something else.
The pain coursing through my body was unreal. It was like the flu on anabolic steroids.
"I'm one button away from 911 unless you tell me what's going on. And this time, I'm going to make sure they pump your stomach."
I looked at her. Swallowed.
"I'm not...I'm not on drugs. I swear. Just help me up and bring over my laptop."
"What? Your laptop? Why?"
"It's important. Please."
Against her better judgment, Meghan put the phone down and helped me to the houndstooth couch, then grabbed my laptop from the cherrywood desk and put it on my lap. I used my three good fingers to pull it into a useful typing position.
"Hey—what's wrong with your arm?"
"It's numb. Hang on a minute."
It was difficult to type with three fingers. I knew plenty of people got by with two, but you have to understand—I was hardwired to type with at least eight. (The pinky fingers usually sit out my work sessions, like foremen on a construction crew.) Using three was unnatural. Using three was like trying to put in a contact lens using my elbows.
"Want me to do that for you?"
"I got it."
I hunt-and-pecked "Patty Glenhart" and looked for the entry I'd found earlier.
It was gone.
I tried searching for it a different way, going to the main page of the true-crime website (SinnersAndSadists.com, it was called—charming, huh?) and search by "W" and "P," but there was no entry about a girl named Patty Glenhart.
Meghan touched my shoulder.
"What are you looking for?"
"Hopefully, something that isn't there."
It sounded absurd, but maybe I'd actually gone back and changed things. Maybe there was a little girl who was alive right now because I traveled back to the year 1972 and pushed a pedophile out of his kitchen window. I'd lost the use of my arm in the process, but that didn't matter, because maybe, just maybe Patty Glenhart was alive and the bad dreams were behind her.
Meghan looked at me.
"You know, for someone who's trying to convince me that they're not on drugs, you're doing a really awful job."
"Swear to God, I'm not on drugs."
"You're talking gibberish. I found you on the floor, wrapped in an overcoat and wearing a hat. Your right arm is numb. Tell me which of these things does not say, I'm having a lost weekend in the middle of the week. What's going on?"
There were a million reasons not to tell Meghan what was going on. The spiral of insanity I mentioned.
But I told her anyway.
After I'd finished laying it out for her—and I must have done a fairly good job, because she didn't interrupt once—Meghan asked me if I wanted some Vitamin Water. I told her sure. She removed a plastic bottle from a paper bag she'd placed on the cherrywood desk, unscrewed it, then handed it to me. I was clever enough not to reach for it with my right hand. But not clever enough to realize that my three-finger grip on the bottle wouldn't be enough. It slipped straight down, bouncing slightly on a couch cushion, and gushing pale purple liquid all over my lap.
"Gah!"
I lifted the laptop out of the way. It was a Mac relic, but it was also my only link to the outside world. That is to say, anyplace that wasn't Frankford.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Meghan said, picking up the bottle and then darting across the room in search of a clean towel. Which she wouldn't find, since I hadn't done laundry since I'd moved in. There were two paper towels left on a roll that my grandpop must have purchased. She brought them over, started patting my lap.
"Dear Penthouse Letters. I swear this never happened to me before, but one night..."
Meghan shot me a sardonic grin. It was the first joke we'd shared in days, and it felt nice. She finished soaking up what she could, then balled up the paper towels and executed a perfect hook into the sink. Then she grabbed my knees and looked me dead in the eye.
"Here's how this is going to work."
"How what is going to—"
"Don't interrupt me. I'm going to try to shoot holes in everything you've just told me. If it all holds up when we're finished, then I'll stay and we can talk through this. But if I get the slightest hint you're messing with my head, or inventing some bullshit story because you're out of your mind on drugs, then I'm gone."
"Okay."
"Last chance. You swear that everything you've told me is true?"
"Yes. To the best of my knowledge. Want me to put my numb right hand on a Bible?"
Meghan was her father's daughter. She wasn't a lawyer. In fact, I had no idea what she did for a living—if she made a living for herself at all. Our friendship had revolved around life in the Spruce Street apartment building, as well as its nearby bars and restaurants. But some of her father's prosecutorial skills must have rubbed off on her, because she grilled me like a pro.
First, she demanded to see these "pills." I told her to check the Tylenol bottle in the medicine cabinet. She found them, tapped one out into her hand. Examined it. Looked for a brand name, but couldn't find one. They were smooth white capsules with only the dosage (250 mg) carved along one side.
She placed the pill in a small Ziploc baggie like she was preserving the chain of evidence.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"Don't worry about it."
Next Meghan took me through my alleged physical interactions in the past. So I could open doors and walk downstairs, but I had trouble picking up newspapers and comic books? Why? Light hurt my body, but only direct light—is that correct? What about ambient light? When your fingers fell off, did they disappear right away, or after a few seconds?
"Okay, and you say no one can see you?"
"Almost nobody. That kid I mentioned."
"Whose name you don't know."
"Right. He can see me. And the little girl, Patty. I think she could see me."
"Hmmmm."
We went around and around this for a good half-hour until she finally circled back to Patty Glenhart. Meghan wouldn't let go of it.
"Your only proof was this profile on a blog."
"A true-crime website."
"Whatever. And when you searched for the profile, just now, it was gone, right?"
"Right."
"What if the site administrator just took it down?"
"You mean coincidentally, just a few hours after I first read it?"
"It's a possibility. Or, you could have hallucinated the entry."
I thought about this.
"Wait. There was that piece in the Bulletin, with the 'Girl Missing' headline."
"Do you have a copy?"
"No. I can't bring anything back, remember?"
"But this newspaper has to exist."
She turned away from me, as if making a mental note to herself.
"You say you went back and got her out of that basement, but you didn't prevent her abduction."
"Right!"
"I'll check the Bulletin morgue tomorrow. If you saw the headline, then it'll be there."
"You know about the Bulletin morgue?"
The morgue was part of Temple University's Urban Archives center, and was basically the clips files of the long-defunct newspaper. Before the Internet, if you wanted to look up a piece of Philadelphia history, you had to go to the morgue and look through dozens of tiny manila envelopes, each stuffed with little yellowed clippings, which had been cut by hand and dated by some long-forgotten staffer. It was basically a steampunk version of Google, and it had been my secret reporting weapon for years.
But it was old news to Meghan.
"We went there freshman year. Our English professor took us on a field trip. Doesn't every college send their freshmen down there?"
Finally, Meghan turned her attention back to my numb arm and fingers, asking if I could wiggle them, or feel anything when she poked my forearm with a fork. Which she did. Repeatedly. Up and down my skin. But nothing.
"Okay, this is kind of scary. Let me take you to the hospital."
"No. I hate those places. Plus, I'm pretty sure I don't have health insurance."
"Even if I do believe your crazy ass story about the pills—and the jury's still out, by the way—why wouldn't you want to have your arm checked? You could have pinched a nerve. You could lose feeling in it forever."
"I just need to sleep. And what do you mean the jury's still out? Have you found a single hole in my story?"
"Not yet. But I haven't found any proof either."
I thought about it for a moment. Then it hit me.
"Okay then. I'll give you proof."
Meghan held the steak knife with both hands, fingers on the handle and the dull edge of the blade. She looked up at me, pointed down at the pill. "Good enough?"
"No. Cut it again. I don't want to be out long."
"So an eighth, then? And let me repeat that this is a stupendously bad idea."
"Just cut the pill."
"For all we know, these pills are causing the numbness. And the hallucinations."
"They're not hallucinations."
Meghan handed me the tiny sliver of the pill anyway.
"You're an idiot."
"Right up there."
I pointed to the chipped wooden molding around the bathroom door. The molding was the same in 1972 as it was today. It hadn't even been painted, as far as I could tell.
"I'm going to go back and carve your initials into that molding."
"You're such a romantic."
Her initials were MC. Not long after I'd met Meghan and learned her last name was "Charles"—names didn't get more Main Line than that—I started calling her MC Meghan, which not only failed to make literal sense, but also annoyed her to no end.
Meghan eyed the molding skeptically, even reaching up to brush it with her fingertips, as if I'd already carved her initials there, then covered it up with a generous helping of dust.
"Again for the record..."
"This is stupid, I know."
I popped the pill in my mouth then laid down on the couch.
"See you in a little while. Watch that doorway."
Dizziness. Head throbs. Weak limbs. Then my eyelids felt like they were a thousand pounds each.
I woke up in the office back in 1972. And yes, my right arm was gone, all the way up to the shoulder. I shouldn't have been surprised by this, but I was. And more than a little horrified. The missing limb really threw my balance off. I swear to God, I felt myself tilting to one side.
Plus, I'd have to do my initial-carving one-handed.
There was nothing sharper than a butter knife in the kitchenette drawer. Not the most ideal cutting tool. Carving those two letters might take me the entire trip back to the past, but so be it. I would love to be there, in the present, to watch Meghan's face when her initials start to carve themselves into the paint-chipped wood. Would they slowly appear, one stroke at a time? Or would she blink and then see all at once, the new reality conforming around her?
I wondered if Grandpop Henry, sometime down the road, would notice the initials and take a moment to ponder them.
The idea that I was about to change reality hit me hard. I'd read enough sci-fi novels growing up to know about the so-called butterfly effect—change one thing in the past, and the ripple effects could be potentially disastrous. Would something as simple as initials on a door frame make a difference? Sure, maybe if I carved a message like STAY OUT OF NYC ON 9-11-01 or BUY MICROSOFT. Initials were innocuous, though...right?
Then again, I had prevented a little girl's death a few hours ago. And now there was one more person in the world who previously hadn't been with us. Had someone died in her place? Had she grown up to do something awful? What havoc had I already wreaked?
I'd just pressed the tip of the knife to the molding when there was a loud scream outside my door.
The cry of a boy.
I knew I shouldn't go to the door. I should just proceed with my original plan and start carving Meghan Charles's initials into the wooden molding around my grandpop's bathroom door.
But you're only blessed with this kind of insight after the fact. After everything's been taken away from you, and it's too late to change a thing.
Instead, I walked across the room and pressed my ear to the pebbled glass.
I heard heavy footsteps.
There was the sound of slapping, and then another cry, and footsteps running down the hall. And then the gunshot slam of the door down on the ground floor. After a few minutes I managed to open the front door.
Bright sunshine. It was morning. The intensity of the light made me blink. My vision turned white. I dropped the butter knife. I slammed the door shut and crouched down and turned my back to the door and leaned against it and concentrated on breathing slowly.
I heard Erna's shrill voice filling the hallway:
"Listen to me! You have to be quiet! Do you want us to get kicked out of here? Thrown out on the street to live like animals?"
And then:
"Shut up shut up SHUT UP. Not another sound!"
And then finally:
"BILLY ALLEN DERACE YOU STOP CRYING OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT."
## VIII
## No More Mickey
I barely had time to process the name before that familiar dizzy feeling washed over me. No, no, not now. Not now! I slammed my fists into the wall, as if slamming my fists would help me stay there just a few seconds longer so I could think...
Billy Allen Derace? That twelve-year-old redheaded kid downstairs was going to grow up and stab my father to death?
Of course he was.
I wasn't even conscious for two seconds before Meghan was leaning over me, whispering in my ear. Her breath was sweet and warm. I could feel sweat beading on my skin, my cheeks and forehead burning and the veins in my head throbbing.
"Hey genius, it didn't work."
The levels of exhaustion in my bones and muscles and head were unreal. Maybe I'd been overdoing the pills. Maybe the loss of sensation in my arm and fingers was just the beginning—a herald of things to come. Maybe Grandpop Henry had taken too many pills and ended up in his coma.
"Yeah."
I tried to roll over. After a moment or two, I gave up. Much better to stay here on the floor. Let the sweat dry on my skin. Give the throbbing a chance to die down. Take a little more time to recover.
Meghan touched my forehead. I didn't want her to. My forehead was sweaty, gross, hot.
"Are you saying you didn't go back this time?"
"No, no...I did."
"Then what happened?"
I didn't want to answer any more questions. I didn't want to think about butterfly effects or proof or my numb arm or Patty Glenhart or Billy Allen Derace or any of it. I just wanted the throbbing and the sweating to stop. I just wanted sleep.
"Mickey Wade, will you please answer me?"
"No. I won't. You should go."
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Just please go away. I need to rest."
Hurt flashed in her eyes, only to be quickly erased and replaced with anger.
"Fine," she said, and then a few seconds later I heard my apartment door slam. And a little while after that, the Frankford El thundered by, rolling into the station. Somehow I crawled up to the houndstooth couch using only one arm. I curled up best I could, trying not to think about the cushion that was still damp with Vitamin Water, trying not to think about anything.
Except the one thing I couldn't help thinking about.
Billy Allen Derace.
I slept so long that it was evening again before I woke up. And I was still stupid with exhaustion. At least the throbbing in my head was almost gone, and the sweat had cooled and dried on my skin. On the downside, my right arm was still useless. Numb. Dead.
I fished an old scarf out of a plastic bag in Grandpop's closet, then used it to make a lame sling for my right arm, just so it wouldn't be hanging next to my body, flopping around as I moved. I thought about using some of my remaining cash on a proper sling. But beer was a cheaper fix. Maybe tomorrow.
The El rumbled past my windows, came to a grinding stop at the station, bringing commuters home from work. But very few of them would be climbing off the train and walking to their homes in Frankford. They would be walking down the stairs and hoping to catch the 59 or the K at the mini-terminal up Arrott Street, where they'd be transported to safer parts of near Northeast Philly. Or they'd be riding the El down to the end of the line, Bridge and Pratt, just ten blocks away, where they'd take buses to the upper Northeast or suburbs. They wouldn't linger in Frankford any longer than they had to. Their parents may have stopped to browse some of the shops along the avenue, but those days were gone now.
I ate a plate of apples and had a few spoonfuls of peanut butter for dessert. I finished off four cans of Golden Anniversary and didn't feel a thing.
My mom had called three times today. The first two messages were the same litany—how's the job hunt, did you visit your grandfather, we'd really like you to come to dinner soon. The third however, was different.
Mickey, your grandfather's awake.
Grandpop was staring at me.
His eyes would focus for a moment, then turn away, as if he was too tired to maintain eye contact. Then they'd roll, and he'd move his tongue around his dry mouth like he was preparing to speak. But no words came out. He couldn't move his arms or legs. The only movements were in his eyes and lungs—gently inflating and pushing up against his ribs, and then deflating a moment later.
"Hi, Grandpop."
The old man focused on me for a brief moment, and then his eyes rolled elsewhere.
My mom was in the room with us. She'd left work early that afternoon when she received the call from the hospital, and waited here until I showed up. Now it was my turn, she said.
Turn for what, exactly?
There was little love lost between my mother and her father-in-law. She felt obligated to invite him to family events—and my grandpop almost always accepted, perhaps out of the same, misguided sense of obligation. But they rarely spoke, except to say "Merry Christmas" or "Yeah, Happy Easter" or my grandpop to ask where my mom was keeping the beer, or my mom to ask Grandpop if he wanted more potato salad. Sometimes I thought she kept up the charade for my benefit, that I shouldn't be deprived of my Wadcheck heritage.
She reached out to hug me.
"Why don't you come for dinner later?"
I only half-hugged her back—mainly because I had shoved my dead right hand into my jeans pocket. Letting it hang loose would be suspicious, and putting it up in my scarf sling would seal the deal. Mom would frog-march me down to the ER in seconds.
"We'll see."
"We have to talk, Mickey. About your grandfather. And what to do with him."
He was staring at us.
"Mom, he's right here, you know."
"I know that. Anyway, try for six. You can just walk up Oxford..."
"I know where you live."
"Funny, you don't act like it."
"Yeah, Mom. Bye."
Another five minutes passed before I'd worked up the courage to start asking questions. Grandpop, limited to eye contact, seemed to encourage me. He'd shoot me a stare, as if to say Well, get on with it before giving up and rolling his eyes and taking another labored breath.
"Grandpop, I found the pills."
This got his attention. Dead stare.
"I've used the pills. I've walked around in the past, just like you must have."
Dead stare.
"I also looked through your papers and found the files about my dad."
Dead stare.
"I also know who used to live downstairs."
That finally provoked a reaction. Grandpop's eyes narrowed. His mouth moved like he was trying to pry a piece of bread from the roof of his mouth, but he couldn't.
"What were you trying to do? Were you trying to prevent dad's murder?"
Grandpop's chest rose more quickly now. His eyes darted to the door, then back to me. He opened them wide, and then they rolled away again, like he was lost in exhaustion.
"What were you going to do?"
There was a rumbling in his throat now—an animal growl that started low and gradually increased in volume. His right hand trembled and began to close in a loose fist.
"Grandpop? I need to know what you were going to do."
His eyes opened again and locked on mine. His jaw dropped a fraction of an inch.
Then he slowly turned his head and there was nothing.
After another twenty minutes, I left the hospital and walked back to the apartment.
I'd had enough.
Enough of the pills. Enough of the calls. Enough of the past. I put the plastic bottle of pills back in the medicine cabinet and, after a few minutes of deliberation, I slipped the padlock through the steel eye on the medicine cabinet and snapped it shut.
There were more calls from my mom but I ignored them. No, I would not be joining my mom and her boyfriend for dinner in Northwood this evening. I would be staying home and dining on apples, peanut butter and a new six-pack of Golden Anniversary I'd purchased just for the occasion. Which pretty much broke the bank, but so what.
I'd had enough of the past.
The only music I had in the apartment was my father's old albums. My CD player was in storage, and the disk drive on my laptop was broken. But I didn't want to listen to any of my father's music. Nothing old. Not now.
The only books I owned were musty old crime paperbacks and collections of classic journalism—most of them picked up at that mystery bookstore on Chestnut Street. I used to walk in with twenty bucks, and the proprietor, Art, would send me out with a small shopping bag full of beat-up paperbacks. The appeal was simple: the novels acted like little portals into the past. I'd had enough of that to last me for a while.
The journalism and memoirs, too, were vintage: Hunter Thompson. Charles Bukowski. Joan Didion. John Gregory Dunne. Pete Dexter. Ancient history. Journalism was dying.
Everything around me was drowning in the past. The scrapbooks, full of old photos.
Like that scrapbook, full of images of my father as a soldier in Vietnam.
What's embarrassing is how little I know about my father's time there. I know he served two tours. I also know he volunteered for the army to avoid the draft—he was able to pick a better spot. My mother would make vague references to my dad shooting machine guns from helicopters and running through the jungle while tripping on acid. Then again, she also swore that my father had a secret Vietnamese half-family, and one day, they'd show up fresh from Saigon and demand to live in our house and eat our food.
It was the "eating our food" part that seemed to worry my mom the most.
I remember exactly one Vietnam War story, which came right from my father's lips. I was in the basement, and a cockroach skittered across my leg. I was about five. At that age, roaches terrified the shit out of me. I screamed and bolted upstairs, and my face smashed right into my father's hard belly. "Roach! Roach!" I was yelling.
"Hey, cool your tool," my dad told me. "Cockroaches are nothing. In the war we had scorpions, and they'd climb in your boots when you weren't looking. If you didn't shake them out of your boot, you were in trouble. One guy I knew stuck his foot inside his boot, turned white, then started yelling. He died a few minutes later."
That's my one Vietnam story.
Now that I thought about it, our longest conversations—consider that a euphemism—were about dying or death.
My first ever memory of my father was the two of us walking next to an in-ground pool. I must have been two or three years old. No idea where we were; nobody in family could afford a three-foot vinyl pool, let alone the in-ground version.
But the pool had a cover on it, weighed down with decorative stones at the edges. I must have started to walk near the pool, because my father's hand clamped down on my shoulder. Uh-uh, he'd said. You go in there, there'd be no more Mickey.
No more Mickey.
The best definition of death I'd ever heard.
I laid back on the couch and stared at the ceiling and did absolutely nothing except take a sip of beer every so often. I thought about my arm, and maybe the fact that I should have it checked out. This wasn't a joke; I had three functional fingers. What kind of job was I supposed to find where I could use only three fingers?
Maybe I could be a night watchman, just like my grandpop. Maybe that mental hospital would hire me. And then some weekend, maybe not too long from now, I would just stop working and check myself in.
I swear I heard an audible snap! as the pieces fit together in my head.
Literally, it was in the last box I checked. A collection of paystubs, bound together by a dirty and cracked rubber band.
Paystubs from the Adams Institute.
So this was the hospital where Grandpop had worked from about 1989 until he retired in 2003. A mental hospital.
No, not just a mental hospital. The same mental hospital where they kept Billy Derace, the man who witnesses say stabbed my father to death in a cheap dive.
My father. Grandpop Henry's son.
How had Grandpop been allowed to work there? Surely there had to be some kind of background check for security guards at the hospital. Then I looked down at the envelope and saw the name: Henryk Wadcheck. The world knew my murdered father as Anthony Wade. No connection there. And I'm sure Grandpop hadn't volunteered that information.
So was he just working there for the money? Or did he have a plot in mind?
Of course he had a plot in mind.
Because in 2002, he moved to the apartment one flight up from where Billy Derace grew up.
Because he had a locked medicine cabinet with a plastic bottle full of pills that would send him back in time.
Two events could be a coincidence. Not all of this.
And as I knelt in a messy pile of boxes and papers, there was a knock at my door.
Meghan didn't say a word. She just walked in, placed a paper bag of groceries on the cherrywood desk. She glanced down at the mess on the floor, which, through her eyes, must have looked like I was building a wino-style nest for myself in the middle of the apartment. Then she reached into her oversized Kiplinger purse, pulled out a curled stack of papers and handed them to me.
"What's all this?"
Meghan looked at me.
"Patty Glenhart was real."
The top sheet was a photo of the original Bulletin story I'd first read back in 1972. "Girl Missing." Same lead, same byline, same story.
The next sheet, however, was her death notice.
"Wait—she died?"
"Keep reading."
The piece was from the Philadelphia Inquirer, and dated January 8, 1987. Patricia Anne Glenhart, twenty-seven years old, found beneath a truck two blocks from Frankford Avenue, wrapped in an old overcoat. She had been sexually assaulted, stabbed thirty-seven times.
"She's dead," I repeated.
"Yeah," Meghan said. "She has been for over twenty years now. Mickey, let me ask you something, and please don't mess around with my head. Please tell me the truth."
"Of course."
"The day you moved here, you were joking about somebody called the Frankford Slasher. Turns out he was real."
"I told you!"
"Do you know much about the case?"
"I grew up here, so I remember hearing a lot about it. But I also wrote a short follow-up piece for the City Press a few years ago. The murders are still unsolved, as far as the police are concerned."
"So you're familiar with the names of the victims."
Another snap in my head.
"Wait—Patty Glenhart was killed by the Frankford Slasher?"
Meghan nodded.
"But it was Patricia Bennett. Her married name. But her maiden name was Glenhart."
I flicked through the rest of the papers—which were Inquirer and Daily News accounts of the Slasher. Every article after January 1987 mentioned Patty Bennett. Meghan had highlighted the name in bright yellow.
The last piece was my own, from the City Press. It was titled "Under the El." There was a sidebar listing the fifteen known victims. In the middle of the list was Patty Bennett's name.
"No way."
"You wrote the piece, Mickey. Maybe you didn't consciously remember her name, or having read her maiden name somewhere, but your subconscious sure did. So when you started having your visions about saving some little girl, you dredged her up, and..."
"No. Not possible."
Of course I wrote the piece. I remembered agonizing over it, because I had a simple rule about writing first-person journalism pieces: namely, don't. But it had been the anniversary of the first Slasher victim, and I had been desperate to come up with something to fill a cover slot, and once my editor heard about it, she pretty much strong-armed me into making it a personal essay/follow-up piece. She had visions of state—maybe even national—awards; instead, it was more or less ignored except by certain Frankford business owners who called for a good month to complain.
The victims of the Frankford Slasher were considered "nobodies"—female barflies, active or retired prostitutes, or other lost souls. They hopped bars—mostly Goldie's at Pratt Street, sometimes the Happy Tap closer to Margaret Street.
The Slasher was a few years into his work before anyone noticed the pattern. First was fifty-two-year-old Maggie Childs, who lived in Oreland, a town in Montgomery County, but was reportedly a Goldie's regular, estranged from her husband. Her body was discovered in August 1985. Just five months later, the body of sixty-eight-year-old Carol Joyce was found on her bedroom floor, naked from the waist down, and stabbed six times, with the murder weapon still lodged in her torso. Joyce lived in South Philly, but was also a Goldie's regular. So was sixty-four-year-old Edie Pettit, who was found stabbed to death Christmas Day 1986. Just a few weeks later, in January 1987, twenty-eight-year-old Jan White, a former go-go dancer and homeless woman who slept on the street near Goldie's, was found beneath a truck near Dyre Street. She had been sexually assaulted, stabbed forty-seven times, and wrapped in an overcoat.
Neighbors soon put pressure on the police to catch the madman responsible for the killings.
Well over a year passed before sixty-six-year-old Janet Bazell was found stabbed to death in the vestibule of her apartment building on Penn Street near Harrison. She had been out drinking in the bars under the El, trying to forget the fact that she'd been evicted from her apartment that same day, November 11, 1988. Then, on January 19, 1989, Terry Conroy, thirty, was found in her apartment on Arrott Street, just above Griscom, cut to ribbons and wearing nothing but a pair of socks.
Witnesses started to come forward; Bazell and Conroy had been seen hanging out with a young white man, barely in his twenties. Sketches were made, circulated. No arrests came of them.
With the seventh murder came a break in the case. Carol Strauss, a forty-six-year-old woman with a history of mental illness, was found stabbed thirty-six times behind a seafood shop early in the morning of April 28, 1989.
The next morning, detectives questioned a shop employee named Tyrell "Cooker" Beaumont, who casually told a friend in a bar that he knew one of the Frankford Slasher's previous victims. He also said he was with his girlfriend in his apartment the night of April 27, and both had seen a thin young white man with red hair lurking around the seafood store.
The only problem: Beaumont's girlfriend denied being with him that night. Two eyewitnesses, both prostitutes, placed Beaumont at the scene of the crime, with a large utility knife tucked in his belt, right around the time of the murders. To make matters worse, Shauyi Tan, Beaumont's former employer at the seafood shop, testified that he had told her, "Yeah, maybe I killed her." Then, a moment later, recanted. He was arrested a day later.
Despite the fact that previous eyewitnesses tagged the Frankford Slasher as a young redheaded white dude (Beaumont was African-American), many locals breathed a sigh of relief. They caught the guy.
Then came the murder of thirty-eight-year-old Wendy Simons, stabbed twenty-three times, and found in her Arrott Street apartment, just blocks away. Beaumont was in jail, awaiting trial, at the time.
Beaumont was tried and convicted of the murder of Carol Strauss in December 1990, based solely on eyewitness accounts. He was not tried for the other Frankford Slasher murders. Technically, those seven other murders—eight, including Patty Glenhart—are still unsolved. Whether the Wendy Simons murder was a copycat killer, or the real Frankford Slasher, remains unknown. "I was railroaded," Beaumont said after hearing the verdict. "I didn't kill Carol Strauss. I did not even know Carol Strauss. I was implicated by prostitutes, that is, pipers, that the police put up."
I thought I remembered the facts of the case fairly well; it had been a big deal to me when it finally appeared. It was the kind of story that made me want to be a journalist.
But now I looked at the sidebar again, did a quick count and saw there were fifteen victims.
No. That couldn't be right. When I wrote this piece, it was only nine.
I swear to God it had been only nine.
Fifteen was an absurdly high number. Did Gary Heidnick have that many victims? Did most serial killers?
"I think you need to see someone. My dad knows someone who would talk to you, keep it discreet."
"I'm not crazy."
"I know that, Mickey. I just think you've been living in your head too much lately. You need some help climbing out of it."
Did I make this stuff up? Was my subconscious mind putting on one hell of a show for me whenever I nodded off to sleep? When you look at it from the outside, from the other side of the glass, there was a compelling case for insanity. Only I was experiencing these things. Only I had proof. It could all be happening in my head, like Meghan said.
But I knew it wasn't. It was real. Senses don't lie. Not like this.
Meghan touched my shoulder.
"There's also the pill."
"What about the pill?"
"I have a friend who works for a drug company. One of the big ones. As a favor, he ran a few tests on the pill you gave me."
"You did what? Oh crap, Meghan. Why did you do that? You have no idea where it came from, and what it was..."
"Neither did you. And you popped it in your mouth."
"I thought it was Tylenol."
"The first time. But you kept taking it, even though you had no idea what it might be."
"Okay, good point."
"Thank you."
There was a quiet Old West–style standoff moment. She was waiting for me to draw, I believe, so she could expertly shoot the pistol out of my hand before twirling her own gun and replacing it smoothly in her holster. But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. She'd have to speak first. And she did.
"Do you want to know what the pill contained?"
"Sure."
"Nothing but sugar. It was a placebo. Meant for use as a control in pharmaceutical studies. Dan sees them all the time. Took him about five minutes to figure it out."
"Right. Which just goes to prove my main point that I am not on drugs. I may be on cheap beer, I might be a junkie when it comes to peanut butter and apples, but I'm not on drugs."
Meghan squinted.
"Peanut butter? Is that why your skin has this strange jaundiced tinge to it?"
"I also haven't been out of the apartment in a while."
"Anyway, that doesn't prove you're not on drugs. It just proves you're not on those particular drugs, because they're nothing but sugar."
"Jesus H. Christ on a stick. You moved me in! Did you see a box marked random drug paraphernalia? Did you see a bunch of syringes come tumbling out of an old shoe box?"
"What...you think I'd go through your things?"
"You told me yourself: you're a snoop."
"Touché."
I used the few moments of silence to run Meghan's evidence through the tired and confused computer encased inside my skull. Let's say she's right. The pills do jack shit. They're nothing but sugar. I was having ridiculously vivid dreams of wandering the streets of Frankford in the early 1970s all on my own. Patty Glenhart's story had been lurking in my subconscious for years now, waiting for the right dream/hallucination. And maybe it was the same thing with Billy Derace. Clearly I needed some kind of closure, so my brain supplied it. Just like I did with my college essay freshman year.
Wait.
I looked at Meghan.
"I'll be right back."
The name on the downstairs mailbox for apartment 2-C was hynd, not derace. It had been scrawled on a paper mailing label, not a plastic strip with white punched letters. I started scraping the label away with my left thumbnail. Maybe there was some trace beneath. Come on, rules of space and time. Throw me a bone here.
Meghan padded down the stairs.
"What are you doing?"
I ignored her and continued scraping. I was Ahab, and the letters beneath this label my giant white whale. Finally the label worked itself free, but there was nothing else beneath. No blue plastic label, no white letters. Just the sticky underside of the label I'd just removed.
"Mickey?"
Except...
There. It was faint, but legible. The outlines of six letters in the grime, pressed against the cheap metal.
"Come here. Can you read those letters?"
She was in this far, why not humor me for just a few more seconds? Standing next to me, she leaned forward, squinting.
"What is this, a test? D-E-R...H...no wait, A."
"Keep going."
"A-C-E...Derace?"
She pronounced it to rhyme with "terrace." Growing up, I'd always pronounced it to rhyme with "the ace."
Either way, the letters were there. It hadn't been a dream. I wasn't hallucinating.
Meghan put her hand on my shoulder.
"Do you know that name?"
Even Meghan couldn't lawyer-logic her way out of that one.
Fact: Grandpop Henry worked at the same mental institution that housed the man who killed my father with a steak knife. I produced the paystubs, I showed Meghan the Daily News and Bulletin clips.
Fact: Grandpop Henry rented an apartment in the same building where the man who killed my father grew up.
Fact: Grandpop Henry kept a bottle of white pills locked up in his medicine cabinet that sent part of their user into the past.
"I'm not letting you have that one," Meghan said.
"Fine. Mysterious white pills that allegedly send the soul of their user back to the past. That okay, Counselor?"
"Conjecture. But fine, okay—let's say these pills do what you say. What was your grandfather planning to do?"
"Kill the man who killed his son. Change reality."
"Then why hasn't he done it? Think about it. If he's been taking these pills like you think he has, why isn't your life automatically different?"
"Maybe he tried. Maybe it's not as easy as it seems."
"Or maybe he tried it once and it sent him into his coma, because those pills are wildly dangerous."
I had been thinking the same thing. But I wasn't going to let her have the point that easily.
"Conjecture."
"Over-frickin'-ruled."
We stared at the each for a few minutes, letting our imaginations run wild. The whole idea was ludicrous, of course. But take the pills out of the equation. There were too many coincidences piled up. My grandpop had been trying something—revenge or closure.
"The only person who knows is my grandpop. And he can't talk. Not yet, anyway."
Meghan looked at me.
"He might not be the only one."
## IX
## Asylum Road
Once you walk up Oxford Avenue, away from the El, you enter Northwood, which has always been the nicest part of Frankford. In fact, if you lived in Northwood, you never admitted to living in Frankford.
Northwood had slightly wider streets—some of them brick-paved—with singles and twins and trees and big backyards and everything else everyone in Frankford wanted.
I grew up resenting the whole Frankford/Northwood divide. The dividing line, of course, was the Frankford El. We lived one block south of the El, in a cramped rowhome. Zero trees, a grim factory parking lot across the street.
But go just two blocks north of the El, and it's a completely different story. Aforementioned trees and backyards. Why couldn't my mom have moved there after my dad died? Just a few blocks away? Take a walk on the wild side, Anne. Sure, maybe the mortgage would have been a couple extra grand—maybe $11,000 as opposed to the $9,000 you'd pay in Frankford—but surely we could have swung that, right?
Couldn't we?
Mom had moved there eight years ago, finally leaving Darrah Street. I honestly don't know why she stayed in that house so long, other than inertia. I used to pretend that it was because she missed my father, that she couldn't bear the idea of moving away from the house they'd shared. But if that was true, she never let on. She almost never talked about him, and packed up every photo of him and put them in the hutch in the dining room. Maybe it was the lingering memory of my father, but I just think she hated the idea of moving.
So she'd traded a standard issue Frankford rowhome for the slightly more upscale standard Northwood twin. Instead of neighbors jammed up against both sides of her home, now she had a single neighbor jammed up against only one side of her home.
"More wine, Meghan?"
"No thank you, Mrs. Wade."
"There's plenty here. And call me Anne, willya?"
"I'm okay. I have to drive later, and I really don't have much of a tolerance. I'm kind of a cheap date."
A mild lie from Meghan. She could hold her liquor like a bartop. She just didn't want to insult my mother's choice in grape-based libations. Not that she's a snob. But chances are, the Charles family never served pinot grigio from a cardboard box.
We all stood around the kitchen—me in my arm sling, Meghan, my mother and her boyfriend—making introductions and small talk. Mom was so stunned that I brought somebody, she didn't even notice the sling. In my twenty plus years of dating life, I've never brought anybody home. Ever.
But now I was happy for the witness, because Whiplash Walt was in rare form. Touching my mom's shoulders, her back, her waist—like he was planning on killing her later and wanted to place as many fingerprints as possible, just so the Philly PD would be extra-clear on who'd done it.
Whiplash Walt was a lawyer, just like Meghan's father, but they inhabited two totally different planes of existence. Nicholas Charles Esq. regularly lunched with the mayor and the Philadelphia political elite. Whiplash Walt spent his days handing out cards to anybody wearing a puffy neck brace within a five-mile radius. Whiplash, as his name might imply, did personal injury. It was how he'd met my mom, in fact. She tried to sue the hospital where she'd worked as an accountant for a slip-and-fall thing. She'd lost the case, but won Whiplash.
Mom asked me if I wanted another beer, but instead I helped myself to some of Whiplash's whiskey—Johnnie Walker Black. Probably a gift from a grateful client. God knows the cheap bastard wouldn't spring for it himself.
Mom excused herself to go to the basement. I knew where she was going.
"It's okay. It's your house. You can smoke here."
"You know I don't smoke, Mickey."
"I totally know you do."
"You're being silly."
I turned to Meghan.
"She totally smokes."
"I do not smoke."
Mom excused herself anyway to go downstairs to smoke. In a few moments we would hear the wrinkling of the wrapper, then the flick of the lighter. And in a few minutes we would all smell cigarette smoke.
I explained to Meghan, not bothering to lower my voice.
"Both of my mom's parents died of lung cancer. She wants me to think that she quit smoking in 1990, when her father died. And I really do think she tries to quit. She just never has."
Whiplash was clearly uncomfortable with this, so he made some small talk with Meghan. Once he found out her father was the Nicholas Charles, the small talk became more pointed, asking what her father was working on now, and hey, does he go to the Capital Grille every so often, and hey, is your dad looking to hire oh I'm just kidding but really I'm not.
My mom returned to the kitchen, absolutely reeking of smoke. It wafted from her clothes and invaded our nostrils. I fought back the urge to sneeze. We all sat down to eat.
Within sixty seconds Whiplash had whipped through his dinner. Then he stood up and wordlessly made his way down to his basement office. But not before giving my mom a none-too-subtle pinch on her ass.
The plates in front of Meghan and me were still full, as we hadn't had time to pretend to enjoy more than a few bites of our rigatoni and meatballs. My mom leaned in closer to us, all confidential-like.
"He's working on a case."
I leaned in, too.
"Don't worry about it."
Whiplash spent a lot of time in Northwood, but he'd never move here. Going from suburbia to Northwood would be serious slumming, even for a personal injury lawyer. So he kept his own condo in Ardmore, but spent most of his time at my mom's house.
"More wine?"
"I'm good, Mrs. Wade."
"Hey, I told you. It's Anne. We're all adults here."
"Right. Anne."
Bringing Meghan had been a tactical decision. With a buffer in the room, my mom might not come at me with both barrels blazing. She might even be forced to answer a question or two directly.
"Mom, what do you know about Grandpop and the Adams Institute?"
The fork in my mother's hand froze for a brief moment, like the fancy slow-mo bullet time of a Wachowski flick. She smiled.
"That's where I thought I'd end up when you told me you wanted to be a writer."
And then the fork completed the journey to her mouth, which chewed and grinned at the same time.
The Adams Institute was a popular punch line in Frankford. Misbehave, and your parents would say, "You're going to drive me straight to Adams if you don't knock that off." Or, "Where we going on vacation, Mom?" "To Adams, if you don't stop goofing around." Adams was the loony bin. It was the most beautiful piece of land in Frankford, spread across ten gorgeous acres on the fringes of Northwood. But nobody wanted to end up there.
Meghan laughed politely.
"How many years did Mickey's grandfather work there?"
Oooh, kapowie. Anne hadn't seen that one coming. She was very practiced at smacking away my questions. She had since I was a kid. But the two-on-one assault had left her flummoxed.
"Oh, gee. I think he retired a few years ago? We really don't talk too much. You know your grandpop, Mickey."
I took a slug of Johnny Walker Black for courage.
"How long before Grandpop found out Billy Derace was there?"
You should have seen the death stare on Anne's face then. My God. Blue eyes like dagger icicles.
"Billy who?"
"Mom. The guy who killed dad."
"Excuse me."
My mom pushed her chair back, wiped her mouth with a white napkin, placed it on the table, then left the room.
Meghan and I exchanged glances. I took another gulp of Whiplash's good scotch, which burned my throat as I followed my mom into the kitchen.
My mother's palms were pressed to the edges of the countertop. I didn't know if she was trying to keep her balance or keep the counter from resisting the earth's gravity and floating into the air.
"Mom?"
She looked up. Tears were running down her cheeks. I had the strangest sense of déjà vu. Wasn't I just here—my mother looking at me and crying? Like, thirty-seven years ago?
My mom wiped her face dry.
"You don't understand. For years I've been waiting for the call that your grandfather's murdered someone over at Adams."
"Not just someone. Billy Derace. Why didn't you ever tell me the truth? You said it was a bar fight. But this guy just attacked Dad out of nowhere. I read the news clips."
"When would you have liked to know? When you were nine years old? Or maybe when you turned sixteen? Twenty-one, just in time for you to go out drinking?"
"Any of those times would have been better than you lying to me."
"I never lied to you. You assumed things."
This was true. I had filled in the gaps. But only because I'd never heard the full story, and had little else to go on. My mother was masterful at shutting down awkward conversations or ignoring them completely.
I tried a different way at it.
"I found a bunch of newspaper clippings that Grandpop kept—all about Dad's murder. I think he saved every newspaper article, and even got a copy of the police report."
"Well, that's a surprise. Your father hated your grandfather and always assumed the feeling was mutual. Who knew he gave a shit."
It was always that. Your grandfather. Your side of the family. Your gene pool, not mine.
"Why did he hate Grandpop?"
"It's a long story, and we have a guest."
Now it was "we." Now I was part of the family again. Our weird dysfunctional family of two.
"Okay, now here's what I don't get. You don't like him. That much is obvious. You never speak to him, you barely seem to tolerate his existence, and yet you're always bugging me to visit him. You put me in his friggin' apartment, Mom. Why would you push me toward somebody you hate? Somebody you tell me my own father hated?"
"Because he doesn't have anybody else."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"And because someday he might wake up. And the doctors say if he does wake up, he's going to need some help. I can't do it, not with work. You're his grandson."
Then I understood what my mom had wanted all along. A way to ease her conscience. A way to take care of everything. Me. And my grandpop.
That is: me taking care of my grandpop. Because she sure as hell didn't want to deal with him.
We didn't say anything for a short while. I knew Meghan could hear every word of this. My mother's house, as spacious as it may be by Northwood standards, wasn't a Main Line McMansion.
"Why did Dad hate Grandpop? Was it because of the divorce?"
"I should have never brought that up."
"Come on, what's the difference now? Dad's gone, and Grandpop is not in a position to care."
"I wish you'd just forget about it."
"No, I'm not going to forget about it. This is bullshit. Can you for once, please, just tell me something about my family so I don't have to keep on inventing details?"
Oh, the look my mother gave me. A withering, icy-blue stare that instantly reduced me to a child.
"I didn't find this out until after you were born, but apparently your grandfather used to beat up your grandmother."
My skin went cold as I imagined my grandmother—my sweet grandmother who had nothing but kind words and cookies for me growing up—being struck.
Mom saw she had me. She kept going.
"Your father said he really didn't remember it until after you were born. But when he became a parent, I guess it all came flooding back. He was depressed all the time, and spent most family holidays avoiding your grandpop Henry—only talking to him when he had to. And that's the way their relationship stayed until your father died. Now can we finish dinner?"
In 1917 a Philadelphia developer named Gustav Weber went to Los Angeles on his honeymoon. He fell so deeply and promptly in love with the Spanish mission-style architecture that he decided to re-create a piece of Southern California on the East Coast. Upon his return, Weber bought a triangle of land on the outskirts of Philadelphia, divided it up into blocks with street names like Los Angeles Avenue and San Gabriel Road, and then built the homes of his dream: stucco bungalows with red-tiled roofs.
Weber, however, didn't take into account the harsh East Coast winters that killed the plants and froze the occupants of the uninsulated homes. By the time the Great Depression hit, Weber was bankrupt.
But Hollywood never died.
My grandmom had lived there—at 603 Los Angeles Avenue, near San Diego Avenue—ever since I can remember. While her ex hopped around various apartments in Frankford over the years, Ellie Wadcheck—she never went back to her maiden name—stayed put. I used to waste away many summer afternoons in the postage stamp–sized yard behind her house. Especially in the years after my father died, and my mom needed someone to watch me.
I didn't think anything was weird about Hollywood, PA, until I went to college, and discovered that my friends thought I was full of crap.
Meghan didn't believe me either—at first.
"She lives where?"
"Hollywood. It's a neighborhood in Abington."
"How have I never heard of this?"
"Oh oh oh, you're a rich girl, and you've gone too far..."
"Shut up."
We stopped at the Hollywood Tavern. I didn't have a chance to finish my Johnnie Walker Black at my mother's, and I needed another drink. Meghan decided she could use one, too. Maybe something that didn't come from a box.
The place was a former show home for the Weber development that was later fitted with a brick addition that stuck out like a cancerous growth on the face of the mission-style pad. Inside, the bar was designed for serious drinking and sports watching. I ordered a Yuengling; Meghan had a white wine.
"My God, you weren't full of crap. This place looks like it was scraped out of the Hollywood Hills, flung across the country and it landed here."
"Pretty amazing, isn't it?"
"Did any famous actors grow up here?"
"I don't think so. Unless you consider Joey Lawrence famous."
We drank. I pretended to watch baseball—a Phillies night game. But mostly I was thinking about what my mother had said.
Grandmom Ellie was surprised to see me. I never dropped by unannounced. In fact, I usually tried to wriggle out of family commitments whenever I could. Not that I didn't like to see my family, but I always found the first ten to twenty minutes of reacclamation to be awkward and painful. There was always an undercurrent of guilt to it—gee, it's been so long, Mickey, you're never around, you don't seem to want to associate with the rest of us...but anyway, how are things? How's the writing career coming along?
But Meghan took the edge off. Oh, how my grandmom fawned over her.
"Look at how beautiful you are! My God. Mickey, do you tell this beautiful woman how gorgeous she is every day?"
"Hi, Mrs. Wadcheck. So great to meet you."
Meghan even pronounced the name like a pro. She was a quick study, that one.
"Oh, you're so lovely."
The interior of my grandmom's bungalow hadn't changed...ever. If I were to pop one of those white pills now, I have a feeling I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the early 1970s and now until I stepped outside and checked the cars. Everything was off-white or blinding yellow. Yellow is her favorite color.
Grandmom insisted on serving us giant tumblers of Frank's vanilla cream soda—which let me tell you, does not go well with Yuengling or Johnnie Walker Black—as well as a tray of the most sickeningly sweet butter ring cookies I've ever tasted. If she noticed that I only picked up my soda with three fingers of my left hand, she didn't let on.
Instead, Ellie Wadcheck smiled at us, but you could tell she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. You could count the times I'd dropped by just to visit on...my missing right arm.
"I wanted to ask you about something, Grandmom."
Deep in the throes of sugar shock, I lied and said I was writing a piece about my father, and how he'd died. In my defense, I wasn't totally lying. Maybe there was a magazine piece in this, or even a book. But writing about my father and his killer hadn't yet occurred to me. It was just something to say to my grandmom.
She smiled at us.
"Billy Derace was the son of a whore."
Meghan and I sat there, momentarily stunned.
"Don't hold back, Grandmom. Tell us how you really feel."
Grandmom laughed. She was pretty much the only relative who thought I was remotely funny.
"Oh, I didn't know her. But she was notorious. I'll never forgive that Billy Derace for what he did, but I'm not surprised, considering how he was raised. He was born to a very immature mother. She married young, but refused to stay home. She worked all day and went out drinking and dancing every night. Eventually the husband had enough, he left. Everyone in the neighborhood talked about it."
"This was Frankford?"
"Yes—where I lived with your grandfather until I moved here. Anyway, there was a rumor that Billy had a younger brother who died when he was young—only three years old, they say. And Billy was the one watching him when he died."
Meghan turned pale.
"What happened?"
"The story goes that he choked on a piece of cereal. Billy didn't know what to do. This was...oh, 1968? 1969? Nobody taught children the Heimlich maneuver back then."
"Where was his mother? In 1969, Billy had to be only nine or ten years old."
"Yes, he was. His mother was out at a bar, and I suppose she thought that a nine-year-old was mature enough to care for a toddler. Billy and his brother were often left to fend for themselves."
Meghan glanced over at me, eyebrow raised a little—but I was already taking mental notes. A three-year-old choking to death would certainly have made the newspapers back in the late 1960s, wouldn't it? But then why wasn't Billy taken from his irresponsible mother?
"So Billy was probably a little crazy."
My grandmom paused.
"Well, he wasn't a normal child."
"And he probably grew up crazy, and then one day in 1980 attacked my father with a steak knife at random."
Grandmom looked at me.
"I don't think it was random."
Throughout his short life, Anthony Wade never made much money. Some other dads, it seemed—the fathers of kids I knew in college—couldn't help but walk out onto their front lawns and find $100 bills sticking to the bottoms of their shoes. Some fathers inherited their money; others chose careers that more or less guaranteed them a lot of money; still others worked very hard and eventually made a lot of money.
My father worked hard, but never made much money.
The Wadcheck men seemed to be drawn to the two professions that sound cool but suck ass when it comes to making money: writing and music. Unless you're lucky. And if you're lucky, you don't need writing or music. You just need to be lucky, as well as the ability to open up your wallet as the greenbacks come tumbling from the skies.
My father gigged with his band or solo almost every weekend of my childhood, but the most he made was $100 at a time—and that was for two nights of performing, five hours each night. And that was in the late 1970s, early 1980s. When I was born, my mom told me, he'd be lucky to come home with $25 in his pocket.
And a lot of that money usually went to musical equipment—replacing guitar strings, saving up for new speakers or effects pedals.
My father was perfectly content with the amount of money he made playing music. His art supported his art.
What it didn't do was support his young wife and infant son.
So Anthony Wade had to work at least two other jobs at all times—usually steady but grinding custodial work for whoever was hiring in Frankford at the moment. He also gave guitar lessons to whoever could cough up $5 for a half hour of instruction.
Even when I was a kid I knew my father was miserable with these other jobs. His mood determined the mood of the house. And many weekdays, his mood was lousy.
This probably explained why, when I embarked upon my own low-paying career as a journalist, I avoided the pitfall of a wife and kids. If my profession supported my profession, then that was C is for Cookie, good enough for me. At least I wasn't dragging anyone down with me.
But I didn't know the half of it. Because my grandmom started to explain that layoffs were so common, and money so thin, my dad would take other kinds of jobs. Jobs that, she said, broke her heart.
"Your father let them do all kinds of tests on him."
"Who?"
"Those people at the institute. You know, the one up the boulevard."
The ex-journalist in me started feeling the tingles. Stories were all about connections. Here was another connection with that lunatic asylum.
"You mean the Adams Institute? What kind of tests?"
Grandmom frowned as if she'd swallowed a fistful of lemon seeds.
"Government drug tests. This was around the time you were born. He'd signed up after reading an ad in the newspaper. Young, fit, healthy male subjects needed for government pharmaceutical studies. Two hundred a week, guaranteed for four to six weeks."
"I thought the Adams Institute was a mental hospital."
"Most of it is, but they also did tests. Oh, Mickey, you should have seen him. My twenty-three-year-old son suddenly looked like he was forty years old, bags under his eyes, yellow skin—he looked like he hadn't slept in a week."
The image of my father in my mind was of a man much older than his physical years. I remember being stunned when I hit my early thirties, and realized that I had just outlived my father. I didn't look like I'd gone skinny dipping in the fountain of youth, but I also didn't look as old as the father in my memory.
Meghan reached out and touched Grandmom's hand.
"You never found out what kinds of drugs he was given?"
"Blind tests, Anthony told me. They didn't tell him what they were pumping into his veins—they only promised there'd be no long-lasting side effects. I think that was nonsense. Your father was never the same after those tests."
And I had a feeling I knew who'd been administering those tests.
"No."
"Come on."
"No. The last time you took these pills, you woke up and wouldn't talk to me. The time before that, you lost feeling in your right arm. Are we sensing a pattern here, Mickey?"
"How else am I supposed to figure out what really happened? I have to ask Erna Derace. Ask her everything she knows about Mitchell DeMeo and his tests."
After the weird dinner with my mother and the visit to Grandmom in Hollywood, Meghan had driven me back to Frankford Avenue. I assumed she'd be heading on her way, but she followed me up and then kneeled down and started picking through the boxes and crates again. I asked her what she was looking for, and she gave me a duh look that I probably deserved. Meghan was looking for DeMeo's notes, of course. Anything to do with Billy Derace, or my father. Preferably both. Something that would explain the random attack in Brady's that night.
But I had had another idea. A shortcut.
Asking Billy's mom.
"Such a bad idea," Meghan said.
"How else am I supposed to figure this out?"
"Gee, I don't know, how about the old-fashioned way—research. You were a reporter, right? I mean, you weren't pulling one long scam on me or something, thinking I had a thing for press cards and long skinny notebooks?"
"Did you?"
"Alas, you're not a reporter anymore."
"I still have a few long skinny notebooks."
We spent some more time poring through the dusty cardboard boxes full of notes and newspaper clippings and files that didn't make any sense. Meghan found a motherlode of family trees, but no "Deraces" or "Wadchecks." No notes that would explain the "tests" my dad was given.
Around nine Meghan asked if I had anything to eat around the apartment. I asked her if she liked peanut butter and apples.
"Let's order something that is not peanut- or apple-related. My treat."
"You forgot the beer. Grains are an important part of the Alex Alonso diet."
We ended up calling for pizza from a place down the street. I walked under the El to pick it up, and burned my three good fingers on the box carrying it back. A guy in a tattered gray sweater asked me for a slice. I told him sorry, I was just delivering it. He told me to go screw myself. I love this neighborhood.
By the time I carried the pizza two flights up, though, I had convinced myself that the pills were the way to go. Meghan disagreed.
"Those pills are going to fry your brain. Do you want to end up in a coma like your grandfather?"
"I'm not eighty-four years old. And besides, you told me they were placebos. Sugar pills."
"My friend doesn't know everything. In fact, I seem to remember that he almost flunked biochemistry sophomore year."
"Look, I don't have a choice. I need to figure out the connection between Billy Derace and my father. Maybe I can push it and go to the late 1970s, or even 1980. I can snoop around and see what I can piece together."
"You told me you tried and you couldn't go any further than 1975."
Meghan blinked, caught herself, turned to the side.
"Okay, for the record, I can't believe I made a statement like that..."
"Look, maybe I didn't try hard enough. Maybe it's not just supposed to come to you."
"Hmmm."
From there we ate our slices in silence. It was ghetto pizza. Very thin on the sauce, with bad, greasy cheese. Frankford didn't have much going for it in the 1970s, but it once had the be-all, end-all of Philadelphia foods: slices of Leandro's Pizza. The tiny shop used to be on the ground floor of the stairwell leading up to the El stop. Step off the El, you couldn't help but follow that intoxicating scent all the way down the concrete staircases, and the next thing you knew your hand was stuffed in your pants pocket, fingertips searching for the two quarters, one dime and one nickel it would cost to procure a slice. During my jaunts to the past I'd purposefully avoided Leandro's. It would be like a eunuch visiting the Playboy Mansion.
By midnight we'd turned up very little that made any sense—so many of the notes and clips were about Philadelphians who were living in the 1920s and 1930s, none of them Deraces or Wadchecks.
So I finally convinced Meghan that the white pills were the way to go. Wearily, she agreed.
And then I remembered that I'd locked them in the medicine cabinet.
"Let me guess. You have no idea where the key is."
"Nope."
"Do you have a hammer?"
"I don't know. You snooped around here all night. Did you see a hammer?"
"What's in the silverware drawer?"
"I have silverware?"
Meghan checked the wooden slide-out drawer that contained a number of puzzling kitchen tools—none of them a hammer. Corkscrews. Many rusted beer bottle openers, some of them emblazoned with the logos of long-dead Philly brews like Schmidt's and Ortlieb's. There was a large, plastic-handled steak knife, but it didn't look like the type that could saw through a tin can, let alone a padlock.
"I think I saw a dustpan and whisk broom in the closet. Would you mind double-checking that?"
"What, are you going to sweep the lock away?"
"No. I'm going to use something big and heavy—your head comes to mind—and shatter your medicine cabinet. Again, for the record, I can't believe I'm saying these particular words out loud."
"Why don't you let me smash it?"
"You've got three good fingers. Do you really want to lose another one or two?"
She wrapped her right hand in a dirty gray oven mitt that looked like it had been used to hand-stomp out a grease fire, then picked up a heavy glass ashtray. She walked into the bathroom and a second later, I heard a loud pop and shatter. Then nothing.
"Are you okay?"
"Well, it's open."
I looked inside. The door was obliterated, glimmering fragments of mirror were all over the sink, floor, toilet seat and tub.
"I thought you were going to, like, do it on the count of three or something."
"Would that have made you feel better?"
We cleaned up the glass and I plopped myself down on the couch. Meghan sat on the floor next to me, on her knees.
"What are you doing?"
"I thought maybe I could still talk to you when you were...you know, back in the past. I heard you mumbling in your sleep. Maybe you're still connected with this time when you go on your little trips."
"Am I supposed to be able to hear you?"
"I'll shout. Come on, this is your idea. I'm just trying to help."
I took two pills, looking into Meghan's pretty eyes. She reached out to hold my hand. My eyelids grew heavy, slammed shut. When I woke up on February 28, 1972, I was looking at Erna Derace.
She was holding a gun.
## X
## Slasher's Revenge
Erna Derace was sitting on the backs of her heels, the polka-dot dress fanned around her. The gun was a small, pearl-handled .38 revolver. I was fairly confident it was the same gun Dr. DeMeo held in his meaty paw and waved around my ghostly face a few days ago. Apparently, she'd taken it from his desk drawer. I could tell because the drawer was still open. And inside were papers and files, stuffed in horizontally.
She held the .38 casually, like it was a TV remote, and she'd become so absorbed in a show that she'd forgotten it was in her hand.
"Dammit...not again."
She spoke softly, staring at the floor.
Was she about to kill herself? Or DeMeo? I tried to calm her down, even though I was invisible.
"I know you can't hear or see me. But if there's any way my words can find their way into your brain, please hear me now—I really think it would be a good idea to put down that gun."
"I can hear you."
I froze in place.
"What?"
She turned and locked eyes with me.
"I can see you, too. I can see all of you. I've been pretending I can't because I know you're probably just a figment of my imagination. I thought if I stopped paying attention maybe you'd go away. But you never go away. None of you do."
"You saw me in the room that first night? When you were with DeMeo?"
"Yes. I was hoping you'd go away if I went down on him. You did."
"What exactly do you think I am?"
"You're a dead man."
"But I'm not."
"Right. Sure. You're not dead. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe I'm a dead woman floating around a sea of living people, only I don't know it yet. Maybe I've been dead since I was a kid."
"I want to ask you about DeMeo."
"He's good to me."
"What does he do up here? What kinds of experiments?"
"You mean you don't know? I thought dead people knew everything. That's why you come back. To taunt the living. To show us how smart you are, and how dumb the rest of us are."
"Well, I don't know. You can lord it over me."
"I don't know either. Mitchell says it's top secret. All I know is that his patients arrive after dark, and they stay for sometimes an hour, sometimes all night. He says he works better in the dark, so he keeps the windows covered, and he unscrewed the lamps in the hallway. I'm allowed to have light in my apartment, but nowhere else. And he likes it quiet. It must be absolutely quiet at all times."
I thought of Billy Derace, sitting in the one lit room in an otherwise dark apartment building. A twelve-year-old, being forced to stay inside and be quiet.
"I see your son sometimes, sitting outside of your apartment. Sometimes he's crying. Sometimes he's bleeding, Erna."
"What are you saying?"
"You know what I'm saying."
"You don't understand what it's like."
"Try me."
"No, I'd rather not. You're going to disappear soon, too. Maybe you'll leave me alone, maybe you'll do something rude to me, but either way I'm never going to see you again. Just like the others. No guy wants a kid around that's not his. Even Dr. DeMeo doesn't like that he's around. He always tells me to keep him quiet, he can't concentrate on his work. And that little son of a bitch just doesn't listen. He's just like his father..."
"Your son needs you."
More important, I need you to be there for your son.
She gestured at me with the gun as she spoke.
"No. It's too late. There's too much of Victor in him. He fights me on everything, no matter what I say. No matter how hard I work for him. You try talking to him. Easy for you to sit there and say your son needs you. You have no idea."
"Who's Victor?"
"My ex, Victor D'Arrazzio. The kid's father. That why I pulled this out. I thought I saw him yesterday."
"What, so you want to shoot him? You should put that back in the drawer. Take a deep breath. Go downstairs and lay down."
"No, I don't think I will. I'm either going to put a bullet in my head or I'm going to go out drinking. It's the only thing that keeps the likes of you away. All of you dead people. So I'll either ignore you or join you."
"What dead people? I'm not dead, Erna. It's complicated, but I assure you, I'm not dead."
"Prove it."
She leaned in closer. I could smell her perfume, sweet and pungent. Her lips opened slightly. She moved closer still.
"What are you doing?"
Before she could answer our lips collided. I felt her hand touching mine, our fingers interlocking. She squeezed mine.
Soon nothing made physical sense. We were in the room, we were all over the room, we were inside each other's skin. I had no sense of where my lips or my fingers ended. No sense of where I stopped and this woman began.
Without warning, she broke our embrace, looked up at me. I pushed away.
"You think I'm dead, and you kiss me?"
"I wanted to know what death tastes like. It tastes good."
Outside the El train cars rumbled down their tracks, vibrating the floorboards beneath our feet.
"Please put the gun away."
"Why? What do you have to be nervous about? You're already dead. Even if I aimed this gun straight at your head and pulled the trigger the bullet would sail right through you."
I had nothing to say to that, mostly because I worried she was going to swing the revolver over at me and squeeze the trigger, just to test her theory. I had no idea if the bullets would sail through my head or not. I didn't want to find out.
And then the pill wore off.
When I woke up in the present Meghan was sitting on the floor, pen in her hand and legal pad on her lap. She wasn't writing anything. She hadn't written anything.
She didn't say anything.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes.
"You're not going to believe what just happened."
She stood up and walked across the room. She turned and half-sat on the cherrywood desk, then finally looked at me.
"Meghan?"
"I can't believe you actually kissed that woman."
"Oh. I'm guessing you heard all of that."
"Your end of the conversation. But don't change the subject, Mickey. You were making out with the mother of the guy who killed your father."
"It wasn't my idea."
"What?"
"I was unconscious and nearly four decades in the past. It just kind of happened."
"So what—were you hoping to heal your girlfriend Erna there with the magical power of your lips? Do you realize, Mickey, that if that woman's still alive, she's like sixty or seventy by now?"
"She said she saw other dead people. What does that mean? That other people like me are traveling back in time?"
She looked at me, again at a loss for words. This wasn't like Meghan at all. She was the perfect friend because she had this warm, relaxed way of filling the uncomfortable spaces. Usually, I loved to listen to her talk. But not now.
"What, Meghan, what? What's wrong?"
"There's something else."
"What."
"While you were...under, asleep, whatever...you uh..."
"Spit it out."
"You ejaculated."
"I what? Are you sure?"
"I'm a big girl, Mickey. I've seen it happen from time to time. But not like it happened with you. You looked like you were either having a seizure or an orgasm."
"Oh God."
"You didn't try to swallow your tongue, so my guess was orgasm."
"Oh God."
Meghan looked at me, uneasy smile on her face. "Quit it with the Oh Gods, or I'll think you're doing it again."
"I'm sorry. Oh God."
"So let me ask you again: What were you doing with the mother of your father's killer?"
This was too much. She'd kissed me, she'd merged with me—or whatever the hell had happened. I didn't remember it being necessarily sexual. I remember it being extremely disorienting.
Finally I stood up and went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up with the three fingers I had left. Meghan hadn't been lying.
When I returned to the main room we seemed to have this unspoken agreement not to speak about whatever had just happened. Maybe it was a side effect of the pill. Hell, maybe they weren't time-traveling pills after all. Maybe Grandpop Henry had a secret stash of Cialis in that Tylenol bottle and I was a sick bastard imagining this whole thing.
But I knew that wasn't the case. Meghan knew it, too.
"So to recap, we're out of witnesses. Your mother doesn't know anything. Your grandmother gave us a little. And Erna can do wonders with her lips."
Meghan was wrong. We had another witness.
"There's someone else."
"Who?"
"Billy Derace."
Sometime in the middle of the night I woke up. I listened to Meghan's breathing for a while, then realized she was awake, too. I reached out and touched her hand lightly.
"You awake?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
We lay there in the dark together. I was genuinely surprised when she suggested crashing again. She told me it was late, she didn't feel like making the drive back downtown this time of night—making it not a big deal. But still: she stayed. She didn't have to. Even my pill-popping wet dream hadn't scared her away. Even me, making out with a woman who was probably seventy years old by now. It made me wonder. Finally, I asked her.
"Why are you doing all of this?"
"All of what?"
"You know. Everything. Helping me trying to figure this out. Hanging out so much. Not calling the lunatic asylum to have me carted away."
She was silent for a moment.
"You want the truth?"
"Of course."
"Don't get me wrong—you're a great guy, and I cherish our friendship."
"Uh-huh."
"And I was really concerned when I thought you were slipping into some kind of Trainspotting-style drug oblivion—I mean, I couldn't just stand on the sidelines and do nothing, you know? But now I know there's something else going on, and the more I hear, the more I'm curious, and...well, I don't mean to sound cold or anything, but I really just want to know how it all turns out."
Somehow it was honest and warm and heartbreaking at the same time.
We slept most of the next day away. The rain was pelting down when we pulled up to the Adams Institute in the early evening. There was a frightening rumble in the distance. It was one of those good down-and-dirty early summer storms you get every so often in Philadelphia.
"And here we are, sneaking into a mental hospital," Meghan said.
"We're not sneaking in. We're just going to walk."
"Easy for you to say. You must have done this all the time at the City Press. Smooth-talking your way past security, slipping through unlocked doors..."
"Uh, not exactly."
"You didn't sneak into government buildings? Secretly tape meetings? Spend endless nights taping together shredded documents?"
"There were reporters who loved that kind of thing. But I wasn't one of those reporters. I preferred the phone—or even better, an e-mail exchange. To tell you the truth, I even hated that—it always felt like I was bothering people."
"You're a regular Bob Woodward."
"I'm not even a Carl Bernstein. Lock me in a room with piles of documents and I'm a happy man."
"You live in a room with piles of documents, and you're miserable."
"Oh shut up."
All I wanted was thirty seconds with Billy Derace. That's all. If he recognized me, then it was proof that all of this was real, that I was speaking to him in the past. That I was the kindly ghost from upstairs who tried to stop his mother from beating him. Of course, I was also the kindly ghost who'd kissed his mother. But I wouldn't bring that up.
The front gate was just off Roosevelt Boulevard. Even the tall, black, wrought-iron fence surrounding the neatly manicured estate seemed to hold up a hand and say and just where do you think you're going.
The plan was this: Meghan would pretend to be a lawyer from a nonexistent firm (she'd even printed up fake letterhead) with documents for an inmate (William Allen Derace) about an estate matter. Meghan was attractive, confident and knew how to lay down some lawyerspeak after years of watching her father.
The front receptionist desk shot her down completely. Meghan was told that the lead attorney would have to call to make an appointment.
She came back out to the car, sat down in the driver's seat, dripping wet. She fumed so hard, I swear I saw raindrops on her forehead sizzle and evaporate into steam. Meghan was not used to being shut out of anything.
I had no choice but to say:
"Okay, let me try."
She looked at me.
"I thought you didn't do this kind of thing."
"I'm thinking it'll look good on my résumé."
I was wearing my one jacket and a pair of ill-fitting trousers from my grandfather's closet, as well as one of his dress shirts. We had been roughly the same size at some point, but the man had shrunk in his old age, leaving everything a little tight. If only I had a skinny tie, I could join a new wave power pop boy band.
"Let me borrow your clipboard."
"Why?" Meghan asked.
"If you wear the right suit and carry a clipboard, you can pretty much walk into any building and nobody will bother you."
"Is that the right suit?"
"I'll walk fast so they don't notice."
I reached over with my three good fingers and started to pull on the door handle.
"Wish me luck."
"Good luck. By the way, if you're caught by the guards, wet your pants and start barking like a dog."
"You think this is a riot, don't you."
"No, I'm serious. That's the one thing that can get you out of pretty much any situation. Or at least, give you a chance to make a break for it."
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
The front lawn of the Adams Institute was manicured to within an inch of its life, and glistening with the humid rain. I strode forward purposefully, unapologetically. I was faking it like you wouldn't believe.
Inside the main hall there was a reception desk. I blew right past it and continued down a marble-floored hallway. Someone said "hey!" but I turned a corner, looking for a wall-mounted directory. There was a door to my right, then another set of stairs, then another door...which took me outside again, into the rain. Crap.
Not knowing exactly where to go, I darted down the side of the building, feeling the water creep down my collar, until I found a path that led into a group of trees. There were more buildings, two and four stories each, dotting the grounds. Derace could be in any one of them. Or not here at all.
I kept strolling, not too fast to be obvious. By the time I reached the tree line I could see another building off to the left—a 1950s-style, no-nonsense two-story deal. Which one of these things is not like the other? If I were going to run government drug experiments, would I do it in one of the storied old buildings that had been around since the Civil War, or would I use federal money to slap up something new? The name on the building said: the papiro center.
And that was as far as I got before I felt a hand on my good arm.
I half-expected a guard, but instead it was a man in a white robe and slippers. Late fifties, with brown hair combed straight back. His eyes were the most intense I'd ever seen. They practically glowed.
"I remember you," he said. "I met you when you were a kid. On that boat. Do you remember?"
I had no idea who he was, or what boat he was talking about.
"You and your sister. You were lost. On that boat."
See, right there were strikes one and two. I was an only child, and I grew up a landlubber. Mom didn't bring us on any yachts or cruise ships. She didn't even bring us to the Good Ship Lollypop down at Penn's Landing, like every other kid I knew.
"Sorry," I told the guy. "I don't remember."
He leaned forward and winked at me.
"My name is Dean. But that's just an alias."
Dean looked around to see if anyone else was listening. I looked around, too, to see if any armed guards were running toward us. But we were alone. Unfortunately.
Sometimes, though, a reporter can't be picky about his sources. It was a long shot, but I looked at Dean.
"Do you know a man here named William Derace? Billy Allen Derace?"
Dean's eyes widened.
"Of course I know that bastard. You should stay away from him—he's incredibly dangerous. I've been trying to collect him for years, but they keep him locked up all the time. Oh, the murders I could solve with that son of a bitch locked in my skull."
Okay, this guy was probably loony tunes, but it was also possible that he conflated actual reality with his fantasy life. Maybe he really did know Derace.
"Where do they keep him locked up?"
"No," Dean said. "Can't tell you that. Too dangerous. You don't want anything to do with Billy Derace. They keep that menace on sedatives twenty-four/seven. Weird shit happens when he wakes up."
"Come on, Dean. For old time's sake."
"You trying to con an old con? Nothing doing."
But Dean's eyes gave it away anyway. They flicked over to his right. Toward that 1950s building I'd spotted. The Papiro Center.
Dean tried cover it up by changing the topic.
"So how's your sister?"
"I don't have a sister. I'm an only child."
"Sure you do—the two of you were together on the Moshulu, when you got lost at the Bicentennial. You know, the little blond-haired girl eating the popcorn with you."
That stopped me cold. Suddenly I knew who he was talking about, but it wasn't my sister. It had been my mom's youngest sister, who was only nine months older than me.
We had been down at Penn's Landing because my father had been hired to play with a band called The Shuttlebums in front of Winston's Restaurant. And across a pedestrian bridge was a huge clipper ship, since converted to a restaurant, called the Moshulu. During the summer of 1976 my dad was working maintenance on that boat.
Mid-gig, I somehow conned my aunt, who was all of five years old, into walking over the bridge and checking out the boat. My parents went insane with worry, but luckily we were picked up by an off-duty cop, who thought it was a little suspicious that two little kids sat themselves down at a small table meant for two—meaning, no room for parents.
"You're the guy who found us?" I asked. "How is that possible? How do you even recognize me?"
"It's not your face," he said. "It's your soul."
Okay then. I thanked him and then excused myself. Leave it to me to get lost as a kid, only to be found by a raving lunatic who could see other people's souls.
The lights were mostly out in the Papiro Center. The back doors were locked. The front door was locked and controlled by a keypad. Why did I think it would be open? This was a mental hospital.
I stood there, looking up at the building. I'd already trespassed; I'd feel like a moron just leaving without trying something.
Screw it.
I shouted.
"BILLY DERACE!"
This would either work right away, or not. If I saw a light on the ground floor, I'd bolt.
"BILLY! DERACE!"
Come on you nutcase. Get up out of bed, come to your window, look down. I'll know in a second if you recognize me. Which of these windows is yours?
Then, on the left side—movement. No light, just a shadow on shadows. Dark gray on black. A male figure? It was too hard to see.
Behind me I heard a cough. My head whipped around; nobody. I looked back up at the window.
Nothing.
Just the rain, smacking into the grass, the blacktop path leading back to the main building.
Suddenly security lights flickered to life all around me. Crap. The main office knew I was here. I ran back the way I came, figuring that I could slow down my hurried jog at the last minute and just stroll on out of there, clipboard in hand.
But the door I'd used to get out was locked, trapping me outside.
Trapping me on the grounds of a three-hundred-year-old insane asylum.
Okay, so I freaked out a little. I ran in the opposite direction, toward the fence near Adams Avenue, where we'd parked. At the very least, I thought I could yell to Meghan and let her know what happened before they tackled me to the wet grass and wrestled me into a straitjacket. Meghan's dad was a powerful lawyer. I'm sure he could get me out of this place. Eventually.
There were voices behind me. I ran faster. You never realize how much you depend on your arms for balance until you lose feeling in one of them. I felt like I was going to tip over at any minute. Which would make it much easier to wrestle me into a straitjacket.
As I approached the gate, I saw that Meghan was out of the car, waiting for me. Her hair was dripping wet, and she urged me forward with her hands.
"Hurry!"
I skidded to a halt and almost slammed into the gate.
"They've got me surrounded. Look, go call your dad and tell him you have a dumbass for a friend who thought it would be funny if he—"
"Give me your foot."
I looked down. Meghan was reaching through the bars, fingers intertwined, making a little step for me.
"No way. I'm too heavy. And I've only got one functioning arm."
"Will you just give me your foot? I'll push you over the fence."
I didn't have the chance to have a talk with my father about women; he died before I'd reached puberty. But even I knew that when a beautiful woman is standing in the pouring rain, offering to help lift you over the black metal fence outside an insane asylum, you take her up on the offer.
I stepped into Meghan's hands, then reached up for the top of the fence. I could tell immediately that she'd grossly underestimated my weight. Her hands felt like they were attached to rubber cables, ready to snap at any moment. I wanted to stop and apologize—sorry I'm so heavy, Meghan. It's all of the beer I've been drinking. But there wasn't time. Meghan summoned some kind of inner Incredible Hulk–style gamma ray strength and pulled her arms up, lifting me to where I could just grab the top of the gate with the three good fingers on my left hand.
I held on as tightly as I could, then swung my left foot up to the top of the fence. The rubber soles of my shoes clung to the metal for a fraction of a second, and it was enough time for Meghan to give me another superhuman push, and for me to pull myself up and over.
I was over the fence.
And then I was falling.
The good news was that I'd managed to not land on top of Meghan—she'd scurried out of the way the moment my foot left her hands. But as I landed, my right foot twisted. I had a fleeting moment of wow, I actually managed to land on my feet before I completely went down.
Meghan helped me up, asked if I could put any weight on it. I tried. I told her no. She told me to stop being a pansy, and then helped me limp back to her passenger seat. The water ran down through my hair and onto my face. I eased back into the seat, used my good hand to pull my bad leg into the car, then we took off, rocketing down Adams Avenue.
"Thank God you were by that fence."
I looked over at Meghan. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, and her arms were shaking. Probably from the exertion, the worry, the adrenaline.
She looked at me.
"I presume that was you, shouting the name 'Billy Derace'?"
"The doors were locked. What else could I do?"
She didn't respond. By the time we'd cleared about three blocks, there were no sirens, no pursing vehicles, no spotlights. We'd gotten away clean.
Which is what probably emboldened me to suggest something really stupid.
"Slow down and go back around."
"What are you talking about?"
"Go back and park on the other side of the grounds. I've got an idea."
"You can barely walk."
"I don't plan on walking."
I reached into my overcoat pocket and pulled out a single white pill. I'd tucked one in there, just in case.
Meghan got it right away—there are no dull forks in her silverware drawer. Still, she thought it was a really stupid idea.
"What good is it for you to sneak into that place back in 1972? Billy Derace's only twelve years old, and he's living at home. He's not going to be placed here until years later."
"The Papiro Center is the place listed on DeMeo's letterhead. His office might be on Frankford Avenue, but he works out of this building, too. Maybe we couldn't find any notes about his experiments because he kept them all here."
"So you're just going to pass out on the front seat on my car. What am I supposed to say to the cops when they pull over to check out what I'm doing here? And you know they're going to pull over and check it out."
"Keep driving, then. Just don't go too far."
We used her car key to cut the pill in half. I figured that dosage should give me enough time to slip through the gates, through the front door and into that building.
At first I wasn't even sure it worked—the place looked exactly the same now as it did back in 1972. This was a well-maintained loony bin, and always had been. But then I realized I was sitting in the middle of the street on a cold dark night, and the cars around me were all vintage models. Meghan's Prius was nowhere to be seen.
I slipped right through the asylum gates—which weren't locked now. Guess security wasn't a big concern back in 1972.
There were sodium lights dotting the grounds, casting wide ovals of yellow light on the lawn. I stuck to the dark patches.
When I reached the front door I grit my teeth and closed my eyes and just went for it.
Then I was inside.
Past the reception area, the doctors' offices and up a narrow row of concrete stairs and into the main quarters...
Which were empty.
Nothing. Just gurneys, completely stripped of everything except their thin mattresses.
Wasn't this where the experiments were supposed to be happening right about now? Did I miss them? Did I have the wrong building, after all?
I spent time back downstairs in the offices, rooting through filing cabinets, but they were empty, too.
By the time I thought to slip across the grounds and try another building, I could feel the dizziness starting again, and my grip on everything slipping away.
I woke up groggy. Throbbing. Taste of sour metal in my mouth. Sweat all over my face, and nostrils full of a gamey scent that I quickly realized was me.
Meghan was next to me, driving.
"Did you find anything?"
"No."
I insisted on parking at the hospital garage again, even though it meant a five-block walk for me on a bad ankle. Climbing up to the third floor wasn't fun either. Meghan tried to hide it, but she couldn't keep the smile off her face as we slowly made our way up.
"I still can't believe you just shouted his name."
"Fine. Next time we break into a mental hospital, you go over the fence."
And then we reached my apartment door.
But it was already open.
We could see the torn-up wood where the burglar had used the crowbar. Probably took him less than five seconds—jam the steel into the wedge between door and frame, pull once, maybe twice, and presto, you're breaking and entering.
We immediately tried to figure out what was missing, but the place was so cluttered with boxes, it was difficult. I had no TV to steal, no fancy DVD players or jewelry.
Meghan walked over to the desk.
"Your laptop's still here."
"It's too ancient to pawn."
My father's albums were still stacked up against the Technics turntable, which was also a relief. The peanut butter and apples were still on the kitchenette counter. My books were still stacked up on the cherrywood desk.
"Wow. I think someone busted into your place, saw that you had jack shit, then turned around and left."
"I'm glad you think this is funny."
"I don't. Not really."
"I don't know whether I should be relieved or depressed."
I limped into the bathroom to wash my face, then used a hand towel to dry my hair a little, which was dripping from the storm. Since the medicine cabinet mirror was still smashed, I had no idea how I looked. When my hair's wet a certain way, you can see the top of my head where I'm starting to go bald. I usually try to comb it to cover it up. Now I knew why men preferred fedoras back in the day.
Hanging the towel up I could feel my ankle really starting to throb. An aspirin would probably help, but then I remembered that I didn't have any real aspirin; just the transport-you-back-in-time variety. Tylenol A.D. Take two and call me thirty years ago.
Wait.
"Meghan!"
"What?"
"Did you move the bottle of pills?"
She appeared in the doorway.
"The pills?"
"Yes. The pills."
I could see the brown ring of rust where the Tylenol bottle used to sit, but the bottle itself was gone.
That was the only thing the burglar had taken, it seemed.
But how did this guy know about the pills? Why had he taken them now?
"You should go. I'll walk you to your car."
"And leave you wet, limping and burglarized? What kind of a friend would I be?"
She guided me to the houndstooth couch. We sat there listening to the rain snick-snack against the front windows. The El rumbled into its station, which sounded like thunder at first.
"I'm going to stay here tonight."
"There's no lock on the door. You can stay here. Anybody can stay here, help themselves to anything in the apartment. What does it matter?"
Her finger touched my chin, turned my face.
"Nobody else is welcome."
She kissed me.
We pushed the door shut to make sure it would at least stay closed, if not locked. We pulled out the houndstooth couch, made up the bed. We crawled in together and held each other, kissed each other, listened to the rain and the rumble of the El and kissed each other some more. We kissed until we faded into each other and it was hard to tell where I stopped and where she began and vice versa.
It was everything I'd wanted, but assumed I would never get.
At some point we fell asleep and then I woke up and gently touched the side of her face, just to feel her skin beneath my three good fingertips.
And then a harsh voice said:
"Hello, Mickey."
I could see nothing in the room. Just the streetlights, filtered through the front windows. Who was speaking?
Then, by my right ear: "Sorry I didn't come to the window. But I was sleeping. They make me sleep so much. But I woke up when I heard your voice. I've been waiting years to hear your voice."
I jolted and sat up in bed, looked around. And then I felt hands grab the sides of my head and pull me out of bed.
I'll admit it: I screamed.
Meghan woke up a nanosecond later, pushing herself up from the mattress. But something pushed her back down, violently. The springs of the couch strained beneath her.
"Stay out of this. This is family business, whore."
Then I saw him. He was a complete stranger, but I recognized the voice. It was older. It had deepened. But it was still the same voice.
Billy Allen Derace.
"Can you see me, Mickey?"
Yeah, I could see him.
But not quickly enough.
His fist smashed into my face quickly followed by his knee to my balls, which I swear came heaving out of nowhere. The lower half of my body exploded in white hot pain. My legs trembled for a second before giving out on me, and my knees slammed into the hardwood floor. Gravity wasn't working like it should. My internal compass was off—way, way off.
I crawled forward a few feet, the tips of my three good fingers clutching at the uneven spaces between the floorboards. My lip was throbbing and my balls felt like they were the size of cantaloupes. I crawled on a single elbow and both knees toward the bathroom. Anywhere.
Derace laughed at me. Walked toward me, ready to drag me back into the living room for more fun and games.
"Where you going, Mickey?"
Away from you.
"Would you rather me spend time with your girlfriend here? I like playing with the girls. Wig wam bam, gonna make you understand..."
Meghan screamed. I turned to see her lash out at the air. Her eyes popped open as something grabbed her throat. No.
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!"
I spun myself around and crawled back toward the couch.
"Wig wam bam, gonna getchoo if I can..."
Meghan cried out again but her voice was a weak rasp.
"But I think I'll save her for later. After I deal with you."
Something hard slammed into the side of my head. I think by chance I'd moved at the right moment, otherwise I would have been kicked in the face. I saw a white flash and collapsed to the ground, rolled over onto my back. I reached out with my three good fingers and tried to find the bathroom doorway so I could pull myself up.
Fingers tore at the back of my neck, then found the back of my head. There was a tug at the back of my waist...and then I was vertical again.
And then I was hurtling into the cherrywood desk. My face slammed against the back panel. My useless hand fumbled for the edge of the desk to anchor myself, but Derace was right behind me.
The next thing I knew the side of my face and my dead right shoulder slammed against the desk again, tilting onto two legs. Drawers opened, files gushed out.
Then he lifted me up and spun me around.
There was Billy Allen Derace. Nearly fifty years old. Wild red hair shaved down to nothing. Eyes sallow. Teary. Breath hot and stinking. I could feel him. I could smell him. He was standing behind me. This was no hallucination.
"Such a handsome face. That's not how I remember you. You had some scars. Nasty red-looking things. Maybe I'm supposed to give them to you."
"What do you want?"
"I was young when I killed your father. I was just starting out with the pills, figuring it all out. I thought the old man up here had some money I could steal, buy my own pills. But then I saw he had his own stash. And it was goooooooood shit he had. Shit nobody else had. Shit that made me a superhero."
"You asshole—you killed my father."
"I was confused back then, you see. I thought he was you. I killed him because I thought he was you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Now I get what I want. Finally."
Then the hands released me.
"Hey. No. No no no no no no not yet..."
Billy was gone.
But I still heard his voice.
"DON'T YOU BASTARDS STICK THAT IN ME I'LL COME FOR ALL OF YOU IN YOUR SLEEP AND CUT YOU AND YOUR PRETTY LITTLE CHILDREN TO DEATH..."
My eyes may have been playing tricks. But for a flicker of a moment I saw the shape of Derace above me, and it was like he was wrestling with unseen forces, trying to lift his curled fists up, but he couldn't, because the man had invisible restraints around his wrists...
And then he vanished.
In the mid-1960s a professor at the University of Virginia ran a series of experiments on an advertising executive named Robert Monroe who claimed to have experienced numerous "out of body" (OBE) experiences. Monroe agreed to eight sessions in which he was placed in a locked room and asked to project himself. In two of those sessions Monroe was able to accurately describe the contents of another room in the facility in vivid detail.
In the late 1960s the Pentagon began a series of experiments aimed to control "remote viewing"—essentially, using psychics as spies to peer behind the Iron Curtain. Reportedly, the other side was engaged in similar experiments, resulting in a top secret, low-key "brain race" similar to the arms race and the moon race.
And in 1971, Dr. Mitchell DeMeo was given a government grant to find a way to induce an out-of-body experience using pharmaceuticals, which he'd developed over a period of twenty years.
DeMeo was affiliated with the prestigious Adams Institute. But he ran his experiments offsite; the board of directors at the Adams Institute thought it would be better that way. He used the address of the Papiro Center, at the time an empty building on the hospital's grounds that was sometimes used by the government, sometimes not. When it was not, unruly patients and "special cases" were housed in the center.
But DeMeo had actually set up shop in an abandoned apartment building on Frankford Avenue. They advertised in local papers for volunteers.
They accepted my father.
Dr. DeMeo hired a cleaning woman named Erna Derace to tidy up his office as well as the other apartments in the building. Payment was very modest, but in exchange, Erna was allowed to keep an apartment downstairs.
She had a boy named Billy. And he was instructed to be quiet at all times. In fact, their stay in the apartment was contingent on Billy "behaving."
No one cared about the experiments now, because the experiments were seen as a failure.
And the story had gone untold.
The story was all here in the papers, which had been buried in drawers of the cherrywood desk. Meghan had found the motherlode when she righted the desk after Billy Derace had tried to smash my head through it. Everything was in there. Grandpop Henry had clearly been through it all, and kept the relevant stuff neatly organized in the desk drawers. The boxes and crates were essentially leftovers. Trash he hadn't gotten around to bringing outside. We'd been looking in the wrong place this whole time.
Meghan flipped through DeMeo's experiment notes, all of which were neatly typewritten and separated into three categories: positive, negative and "questionable." The negative files were thick, and had taken up most of the drawer. The questionables were comparatively slim. And the positives were thinner still.
We more or less read in silence, as if we were both engrossed in the same 500,000-page novel that had gushed itself out of the desk. Only, we were on wildly different chapters, trying to piece together the story out of order. At one point Meghan looked up at me.
"Okay, so Dr. DeMeo was researching out-of-body experiences. As far as we know, Billy Derace is still locked up, under heavy sedation at the Adams Institute. So this means the Derace we saw last night was what...an astral projection?"
"Which will make it very interesting to explain to the police."
"True."
Then I thought this through a bit more.
"Wait wait wait—that doesn't make sense. Say he has the same pills I do. And let's say he can do the same things I can do. Does this mean he's come back from some future year just to mess with me now?"
"Maybe the whole going back in time thing is specific to you. According to these papers here, it was all about astral projection. Harnessing it. Making it predictable. Finding people who were predisposed to it. Maybe you, and maybe your father, could only project into the past."
"What makes you say that?"
Meghan held up the positive folder.
"Because in this folder is Dr. DeMeo's one proven success. And his name is Billy Allen Derace."
"You're kidding. He ran drug experiments on a twelve-year-old boy? The son of the woman he was banging?"
Meghan opened the folder, handed it to me.
"I don't think he was twelve. These notes are dated from early 1980. That would make Derace, what, eighteen years old then?"
I skimmed the notes. Meghan was right. Derace had been an unqualified success. Able to walk around outside his body and identify objects in other rooms with ease. DeMeo was practically gushing. He also noted that his success was "no doubt linked to the extreme dosage administered to subject over a short period of time."
In short: Derace had been pumped full of these pills in order to make the out-of-body experience work.
But why do this to Billy? Had he volunteered? Had Erna coerced her son to do it to stay in the good graces of that fat pill-pusher?
Meghan found my father's page after a short while. He had been in the "questionable" folder, and it seemed that the pills had the same effect on the father as they did the son. He was hurled back in time, too, only to his birth year—1949. DeMeo's notes were snide, dismissive. My father insisted what he was seeing was real, and asked for more time to prove it. DeMeo let him have a few more sessions, then abruptly bounced him from the experiment. "Subject W. clearly wanted to milk the system for more money."
I shook my head.
"DeMeo didn't believe him. But my father was telling the truth."
Oh hell—my father.
Billy.
"What?"
The pallet full of cinder blocks that had been dangling over me finally broke free and smashed down on my head. I scrambled across the room, nearly tripping, and pulled out the death scrapbook Grandpop had made.
"Mickey, what is it?"
I flipped, found the Bulletin article. Billy Derace hadn't just disappeared from the scene of the crime. He had never really been there. It was his astral projection that had shown up, and it was strong enough and real enough to be seen and shown to a table and order a steak and a beer to bide his time. He'd ordered the steak because he wanted the knife. He couldn't bring one with him, because his physical body was locked up in the Adams Institute.
I don't know what I sounded like as I explained it to Meghan. It came out as a tumble of ideas and words. Somehow, though, it made sense to her. I think she was finally believing me—believing that those pills could do what I said they could.
"But what's the connection between Derace and your father? They were both experimented on, but eight years apart. What made Derace pick up a knife and stab him to death in a bar?"
"I don't know."
"I heard him talking to you last night. I heard him say, 'I killed him because I thought he was you.'"
"I have no idea."
After a while, Meghan hit my crappy laptop for some Google searches and we filled in some pieces that the notes from the desk couldn't. First, she found a death notice for DeMeo.
"Says here in the Inquirer that Dr. Mitchell DeMeo died in 2002. When did your grandpop move here?"
"A year later."
"Oh shit. He didn't just die. He was stabbed to death on Frankford Avenue at...Sellers Street? Is that nearby?"
"Just a few blocks away. Did you say stabbed?"
"He was walking to his car. Had the keys in his hand. Police say robbery wasn't a motive, as his car keys and his wallet were still on the body when he was found."
"Billy."
"Yeah, I'd say that was certainly a possibility."
Meghan kept typing; I kept digging. As a reporter I used to love printed sources. They were puzzle pieces. But now, there were too many pieces. Nothing seemed to match up or make sense.
"Um..."
"What?"
"I had somebody in my dad's office do a little checking for me—and he just e-mailed back. This building is still owned by the U.S. government. I think your grandpop was squatting. Which means that technically, you're squatting."
Somehow this news wasn't the crushing blow it should have been. I was already thinking that there was no way I'd be spending another night in this apartment. Not with Billy Derace knowing where to find me.
And Meghan.
A half hour later, dawn crept up over the Frankford skyline. We'd been digging and reading and throwing questions at each other all through the night. But now, with daylight here, I told Meghan she should probably go home.
"Are you kidding? Just when this is coming together?"
"It's not safe here."
"Don't tell me—Frankford's a bad neighborhood."
"You know that's not what I mean. I'm talking about Derace. Hell, I'm thinking about swallowing my pride, packing up my crap and asking my mom if I can crash in a spare bedroom for a few days. Just until I sort this stuff out."
"No way am I leaving you now."
"Seriously, Meghan, I'd feel a lot better if you kept your distance. I promise, I won't leave you out of this."
And I wouldn't. There was nothing I wanted more than Meghan to stay with me right now. To stay with me forever, actually. But I couldn't risk her life, not because of my selfishness. Billy Derace wouldn't know who she was, where she lived. To him, she was just another woman. The only connection he had to her was through me.
"I don't believe this. All of this time, and you push me away now? Seriously, Mickey—what the hell?"
She couldn't stay. She couldn't be anywhere near me. Not now.
"I'll call you."
When she left this time, she didn't kiss me. She made sure I saw her face for a moment, her angry eyes, and then she left.
The door snicked shut and I sat on the houndstooth couch, intending to close my eyes for just a minute. One minute I was staring at the cracks in the ceiling and the next utter exhaustion took over. I was out. Gone.
It was good to finally let go.
Sometime later—it must have been early afternoon—my cell phone rang. Through a curtain of gray haze I saw the caller was Frankford Hospital. My mom was probably in my grandpop's room and wanted to bug me about visiting him. I let the call go to voice mail and rolled back over. Maybe the drool would run down the other cheek, even things out. A while later the phone rang again. Please stop, Mom. Let me enjoy my coma here in peace. Then again. And a fourth time. So I finally picked up the phone and called into voice mail to see what the big panic was about...
But it wasn't my mother. It was Grandpop Henry, calling from the hospital. I redialed the number. He answered.
"Mickey?"
"Grandpop? You're awake?"
"Yeah, I'm awake. Been awake for a while. I need you to come here right away."
## XI
## The Night Watchman
Grandpop Henry was covered in blankets. A catheter tube ran down the side of the bed to a plastic container, but it was only partially obscured by a thin piece of blue linen. His piss was on display for the world to see.
He looked at me and I swear he had tears in his eyes.
"Your arm."
His voice was croaky and weak. I looked down at my right arm in its sling.
"I'm fine. It's nothing. And hey, you're the one in the hospital, remember?"
"You got that going back, didn't you?"
"That happened to you, too, huh?"
"I haven't been able to move my left arm for two years. But never mind that. Tell me everything you did.
There isn't much time."
"What I did?"
"Yeah, I could hear you just fine last time you were here. You found the pills."
"How about you start telling me everything you did, Grandpop? Because I've spent the past week trying to figure it all out."
"There's no time for that. I need to make sure you didn't screw anything up."
Oh, that was rich. Me screwing things up? I didn't want to stand here and be lectured. I wanted to know what this was all about. All of my life, my family had been talking around me instead of to me. I was sick of it.
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
I looked him in the eyes.
"I'm not telling you a thing until you explain everything to me."
"Feh."
"I want you to say the words. You were trying to go back in time to kill Billy Derace, the man who killed your son. My father."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"You're denying it?"
"Yes, I'm denying it. Actually, I was going back in time to kill Billy Derace's father."
"After your father was killed there was no trial. Nobody could place Derace at the bar, so he stayed where he was—that loony bin up the road. Well, that wasn't good enough for me. I wanted to look into his eyes, to know if he'd done it or not. Then I'd do what I had to. But I knew I'd never be able to set foot within a mile of that place if I told them who I really was."
"So you got a job there."
"Hey. Who's telling this, you or me? So yeah, I got a job there. This was years later—1989. But before that I waited. Paid attention to the newspapers, just in case they were to spring him early. I read all the local papers cover to cover looking for any mention of him. I saw all the pieces about those tramps he murdered—but I had no idea it was him. Nobody did. Nobody does. You wrote that story a few years ago—"
"You read that?"
"Yeah, I read it, I read everything you wrote in that paper, even the things you got wrong, and you got plenty wrong. Now will you stop interrupting me? I don't have that much time. Anyway, you wrote that story a few years ago and by then I knew, I knew what he'd been up to because I was living there and I found DeMeo's notes and then I knew what he could do."
"DeMeo was killed in 2002."
"Yeah, by that shadowy son of a bitch. I'm not crying for him, though. DeMeo deserved what he got. He knew about the hooker murders, but didn't say anything because he thought Billy was his big breakthrough. After all those years of pumping people with that poison, he finally finds somebody who can do this cockamamie walking out of your body stunt. Only problem is, it's this nut-job kid who raided his drug stash when his whore mother wasn't looking."
"Erna Derace."
"Erna Derace, yeah. DeMeo's journal said—"
"Wait. We didn't find any journal. We looked all through the desk and didn't find any journal."
"I know. 'Cause I burned it. Once I figured it out, I didn't want nobody seeing this stuff. Nobody's business but mine. Now. You're my grandson, you're the only flesh and blood thing on this earth that I care about, but if you don't shut up and let me tell this story I swear to God I'm going to pop you in the kisser."
"Sorry."
"Sorry, sorry, yeah, we're all sorry. Anyway, it was around 1980 and this kid, Billy, had grown up to be a real piece of trash. He's drinking at thirteen, doing the dope when he's fourteen, stealing shit and mugging people when he's seventeen. By that time, he also starts breaking into DeMeo's office, hoping to score pills. He scored pills all right."
"Wait—he started back then?"
"He started back then. He realized what he could do. I went back to those papers and read about all of these little break-ins up and down Frankford Avenue back in 1979. A real one-man crime wave. Nobody could figure it out. But I did. Only, it was too late to do anything about it."
I thought about my first experiences with the pill, and yeah, even my mind went to larceny. I was a thirty-seven-year-old guy with a fairly decent moral compass. Billy Derace, though, was an abused kid with a mother who drank and whored herself out to the fat doctor upstairs and pretty much felt the deck stacked against him. Of course he would goof around on those pills. He must have felt like a superhero with new powers. Only he didn't go back in time. He was able to astrally project into the present. He could do whatever he wanted.
One thing didn't make sense though.
"So why did he kill Dad?"
Grandpop looked at me, annoyed.
"Because he was a nut, why else? Like I was saying, I started working at the hospital in 1993. They did a background check, but it wasn't a very good one, because they didn't know I had a son. I'd been divorced since 1959, so I guess they didn't dig back too far. And your dad was using that stupid name, so no one put it together. Anyway, by that time DeMeo already had Derace over in this maximum security wing—"
"How did Derace end up there in the first place?"
"He overdosed in the summer of 1979. And surprise, surprise, the crime wave ended. His mom begged DeMeo to put him somewhere safe, not turn him over to a state-run hospital. I guessed it worked, because he had his own bed over at the loony bin."
"So he was at the Adams Institute when my dad was killed."
"Yeah. Only he wasn't. I think he started going for walks outside his body full-time, since his own body was more or less out of the picture. Like me."
I looked at my grandpop.
"Like you?"
"I haven't been sleeping this whole time. I've been walking."
"Walking where?"
"Just walking. Never mind that. You wanted to hear this whole thing, fine. I understand. And you know, it's probably a good thing someone else knows, in case I'm not able to fix things. But for now, really, Mickey, I want you to shut up and let me tell this the way I want to tell it before I strangle you with my pee tube.
"Okay, Grandpop."
"So I started working there and learned that this little bastard's kept at the Papiro Center. Nobody was allowed in except DeMeo and his own cleaning staff, twenty-four/seven lockdown. The cleaning staff was allowed on the grounds, you know, to cut the grass and sweep up, but we were never allowed in the building. I spent years trying to get into that building. They had their own cleaning people. Bused in from somewhere else, I don't know where. So it became a matter of stealing some keys. I figured I'd hang on to the job long enough to steal some keys and get myself into that building and grab a pillow and push it down over his face until he stopped breathing. Or maybe I'd bring a steak knife with me. Stab the bastard, just like he stabbed your father. Watch the hot blood splatter against his face as he looked into mine. Then I wouldn't care what the cops did to me. They could throw me in a cell, do whatever the hell they wanted. But I never got in. Instead, I was reading the paper one day when I saw that DeMeo had been found, knifed in the back and in the head. I thought maybe that creepy little bastard had gotten loose, killed his own doctor, was ready to go on a rampage. But no. According to the patient logs, Billy was still in lockdown. He hadn't moved. He'd been strapped to his bed. I couldn't figure it out. It made no sense. When DeMeo bought it, I dug up his personnel file and found another address—the place on Frankford Avenue. I didn't think I had much time, so I broke in, figuring I'd get a few hours, maybe a day before they clear out all of this stuff. I start looking through his papers, none of it makes a damn bit of sense. I stay there that one night, just to give me a little time to look around, and then I end up staying the next night. Nobody ever shows. So I end up staying there for good. The mushin running the store downstairs was paying his rent to DeMeo in cash, sticking it in his mailbox, so I took the money and paid the bills with it. I spent my time looking through his papers. And then I started reading about his pills. Crazy horseshit, I know, but there was a ton about them. How he thought they could give people out-of-body experiences. He never had much luck. They didn't work on very many people. And half of those people didn't even have real out-of-body experiences. They said they were back in some other time only they were invisible. So I found his stash of pills in the medicine cabinet and took one, just to see what the fuss was about. Only later did I put it all together. Of course DeMeo had no idea. His patients there started describing stuff from twenty, thirty, forty years in the past, and he thought they were making it all up. But I knew. I knew the very first time I took those things. Because I took one and I went into the past. I saw things I never thought I'd see again. The Starr Café, right there on the corner of Margaret and Frankford. It closed when I was a kid, but suddenly there I was looking in the front window. I couldn't believe it. So I took more pills and started walking around more. I learned quick that I could only walk at night. You discovered the same thing yourself, I see. But the nights were long, and there was so much I wanted to see. I walked down to the river and saw the Delaware River Bridge, almost finished. They opened it the year I was born—1926. They call it the Ben Franklin Bridge now, but it was the Delaware River Bridge then, and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. I saw my father and my mother down on Second Street. You never met my father, because he died when I was just a kid. I hadn't laid eyes on him for seventy some years. I was a ghost but I didn't care. I was seeing everything I'd missed."
"I know what you mean."
"You went back to your birth year, too, didn't you? I don't know why that is. The pills only do that to very, very few people—I read DeMeo's reports. But I guess that's how our brains were built. We take these pills, we go back. And when I saw my father, and myself as a baby, I started thinking of your father. Thinking maybe it wasn't too late. Thinking maybe I could do something to fix things. I couldn't do a thing about Billy Derace. He wouldn't be born for another twenty-four years. But I could find his father. I could find his father and do something about him."
"You never found him, though."
"Victor Derace didn't exist back then. It's like he was a ghost."
"Billy's mom told me he changed his name a lot. But he was born Victor D'Arrazzio."
My grandpop stopped and looked at me. Really looked at me. His jaw opened a little, and then he moistened his lips and looked over at his right hand, which was clutching the blanket.
"D'Arrazzio."
"Yeah."
"Spell it."
I did the best I could, but Erna hadn't spelled it for me either.
Grandpop didn't say anything for a while, and when he spoke, he was mostly muttering to himself.
"So it's not too late."
The whole time grandpop was speaking—and it was just like the old family holidays, Mickey sit down and shut up, Mickey go get your grandfather another warm beer—I took everything in. But with each new piece, I thought of my father. He'd taken the pills, too.
And the more I stared at Grandpop, and at his thin, mangled fingers from years of manual labor, taped up with IV tubes, I started to realize what else had happened.
The story didn't begin with Billy Allan Derace attacking my father at random in December 1980. The story also began with my father taking those pills in 1972 and being thrown back into his own past. I remembered what my mom had told me, about what my dad had said not long after I was born.
Why he wouldn't speak to my grandfather.
Why he hated him.
And quite possibly why he'd been so distant with me.
He didn't know how to be with me.
All he knew was what his father had taught him.
I touched grandpop's hand. It was cold and dry. He snapped out of his reverie and looked up at me.
"What?"
"Did my dad ever talk to you about those experiments when he was alive?"
"No. We didn't talk much then. I didn't know how to talk to him. He didn't seem to want to talk to me either."
"Did you ever wonder why?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You went back to 1926—the year you were born. I went back to 1972—the year I was born. So when my dad went back to 1949, what did he see?"
"How the hell would I know?"
"You would know because you were there. You were there in 1949, not long after my dad was born, and you were smacking Grandmom around with a belt."
His eyes bulged—I caught him by surprise. Then they narrowed into hot angry slits.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"No, I do, and you're going to listen to me now. Don't you realize that dad took those pills, too? He probably went back and did the same things you and I did. He went home. But what did he see? Well, I guess he saw how you really were. Smacking Grandmom around."
"You don't understand a goddammed thing. You don't have any kids."
"Yeah, and with shining examples like you and my dad, why the hell would I? Raise them, hold them, cuddle them, just so I can turn around and start beating them on the ass with a leather belt? Beat them until the backs of their legs are black and blue, and thank God it's still long pants weather so no one at school will see?"
My grandpop said nothing for a while, staring up at the ceiling.
Finally, after a while, he spoke again.
"Well, you won't have to worry about it anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I'm going to go back and fix things."
"Right. With those magic pills. But I don't think you're going to be able to fix things, because no matter how hard you push, life has a way of pushing back even harder."
"I can fix things."
"No, you actually can't. The pills are gone. Someone stole them."
"Yeah, I know. I stole them."
"What? That was you? How?"
"I hired some kid I know to break into the place, which technically isn't breaking in, since it's my place."
"No it's not. It belongs to the government."
"Yeah and the government owes me for what it did to my family. They couldn't kill my boy in Vietnam, so they had to get him with a bunch of loony pills. Well, I'm going to use those pills against the sons of bitches. I'm going to set things right."
My grandpop had them in his hand. He forced the pills into his mouth and chewed on them like hard candy.
I lunged for him, forgetting that I was down to three good fingers, and they weren't enough. He was eighty-four yet still strong as an ox. A lifetime of manual labor will do that for you.
He smiled at me as he chewed, pale eyes boring into mine.
"Don't worry. You're not going to remember any of this."
Even now, he couldn't bear to call me by my name. Mickey. He'd never liked it. Never liked that my dad had named me after a faggy fat-lipped singer in a rock and roll band.
"It doesn't work that way! You can't change the past. I've tried. It doesn't work!"
"You just didn't try hard enough."
"What do you mean, I didn't try hard enough? What did you want me to do, go back in time and kill a twelve-year-old kid? Is that what I should have done? Is that what you're trying to do? Grandpop, you can't just do that! You can't!"
But I was talking to his unconscious body. His eyes were already closed; his other self had already left his body behind.
## XII
## How It Ends
The summer sun burned at the back of my neck and the top of my head as I walked home from the hospital. Where was my fedora now? At home, in the apartment.
I wanted to blow the last of my money drowning myself in beer, but I wanted it to be good beer. After all, it was time to celebrate, right? My grandpop just O.D.-ed on a bottle of time-traveling pills and was going to fix everything. So I stepped into the bodega and went straight to the counter.
"Do you sell Sierra Nevada?"
The guy behind the counter looked at me.
"Eh, no. Bud, Coors Light, Yuengling, Old English."
"No microbrews? Really?"
"Hey, I like the stuff, too. But it'd never sell in this neighborhood. Aren't you the guy who's been buying up all of the Golden Anniversary?"
"Yeah."
"And you live upstairs, don't you."
"Yeah."
He held out his hand.
"Willie Shahid."
"Mickey Wade."
"Not that it's any of my business, but where's the cranky guy who used to live upstairs?"
"That would be my grandpop. You two didn't get along?"
"Well, being called a mushin kind of puts a strain on the relationship. And I don't even know what a mushin is."
"It's probably what you think it is."
"Yeah, I figured. Look, this is also none of my business, but do you have any friends staying over? I thought I heard some noises upstairs earlier."
"I don't think so. Could be my friend Meghan—the attractive young lady you may have seen me here with a while back. Or it could be one of the other residents."
"Other residents? You're the only one who lives upstairs."
"I'm what?"
"Yeah. Didn't your grandfather tell you?"
"The rest of the apartments are vacant?"
"Have been ever since I opened this place five years ago."
I keyed my way into the front door and was preparing to bound up the stairs when I heard a moaning noise. A woman's voice. At first I thought it was Erna. Then I remembered no, it couldn't be. This was 2009, not 1972.
Then it hits me, who else it could be.
No no no...
I don't remember climbing the two flights. I just remember fumbling with my keys before remembering the lock was broken. I kicked open the door to the apartment. It was empty. No one on the couch, or in the bathroom, or under the desk or in the closet. I ran back out into the hallway. Hearing another moan.
I tried 3-B, which was locked. Now I did kick in the door, which opened a lot easier than I would have thought. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but more likely this building was outfitted with shitty doors back when Dr. DeMeo turned it into his little science lab.
Inside, 3-B was a frozen apartment setting, like a page out of a 1970s Sears catalog. Spare. Table, chairs, cheesy tablecloth with an awful paisley pattern. Three candlesticks. A plastic apple, a plastic set of grapes, and two plastic pears, arranged not in a bowl but at random on the table. The dust in here was unreal. I think I was the first person to set foot in this room in about thirty years.
At least, a physical foot.
By the time I kicked open 3-C and yelled for Meghan, pleaded with her to keep moaning, I could hear her, I realized what this was. His test control rooms. That's why he needed an empty apartment building. His OBE subjects would lie on that psychiatrist's couch of his and try to astrally project themselves into other rooms. If they made it, he or she would be asked to describe the contents of the room. One apple, doctor. Two pears. And the ugliest tablecloth I've ever seen.
"MEGHAN!"
Another moan—down on the second floor.
But now I knew where she'd be. She'd be in Erna and Billy's old apartment—2-C.
Because Billy would have dragged her there.
She was on the floor of the empty apartment, trembling. She was covered in too much blood for me to see her wounds. Some of the blood had dried on the floor. She'd been here for a long time.
"Meghan stay with me, it's going to be okay, the hospital's just a few blocks away, I'm calling now, Meghan come on, look at me, I'm here, it'll be okay."
She mumbled.
I could barely make out the words.
Waiting for me.
Hallway.
He'd been waiting for her in the hallway, just before sunrise.
I fumbled with the phone. I don't remember what I said to the 911 dispatcher, other than a woman's been stabbed, please hurry, get here right now, please, God, PLEASE, followed by the address and the apartment number. I gave them Willie Shahid's name downstairs.
I didn't know first aid, other than to try to apply direct pressure and try to stop the flow of blood. But where was I supposed to start? Horrible gashes and scars covered Meghan's face and arms, her pretty, elegant hands. The knife had slashed through her blouse, too, a number of times.
All I could do was watch her neck as it still trembled slightly—faint proof of life. All I could do was lie to her.
"Meghan you're going to be okay," I said. "The ambulance is on its way. The hospital is only a few blocks away. You're going to be fine. Just a few scratches."
It was all I could do.
No.
That wasn't all I could do.
I reached into my pocket. I still had one half of a pill from last night—when I was parked outside the Adams Institute and tried to wake up Billy Derace.
I swallowed it, closed my eyes, feeling the burn in my blood.
Billy was playing with a G.I. Joe doll when I kicked in his front door. I held a steak knife with the three fingers of my good hand. All I had to do was stick it in his chest to the hilt and hold it there with my left hand until he stopped moving. Then I would leave. I wouldn't have to worry about wiping the blade clean, or removing fingerprints from the handle. No forensics team was going to track me down. I wouldn't have to burn my clothes.
I would just have to kill Billy.
Kill little Billy Derace, and life resets itself.
Meghan lives.
It was daylight, but I was being smart about it—wearing Grandpop's overcoat, shoes and gloves. I also pulled a wool ski cap over my face. It was hard to breathe, and it partially blinded me, but I could still see through the loose gaps in the weave. I put the fedora on my head for extra protection. I didn't care if the sun found me and nuked me to pieces. I just needed to kill Billy first.
Billy knew it, too.
"Mom!"
He screamed, and I couldn't blame him. I would be terrified out of my mind, too, if a ghost wearing a face mask and a fedora kicked in my front door. But I didn't give a shit. I whipped my three-fingered fist across his face. His little head snapped back, banging against the doors of a small hutch. Is this what it felt like to hit a kid, Erna? Was it a thrill to know that you were older, stronger and more vicious, and no matter what, this little boy had to take it?
The hutch doors popped loose from their magnetic locks and swung open slightly. Billy recovered quickly, though—kids often do—and scrambled across the dirty carpet, heading for the apartment door.
But I was older. Smarter. And I had the advantage of not being terrified. I made three quick leaps across the room and beat him there, kicking the door shut with my knee. The slam was like a rifle shot echoing throughout the stairwell.
"Mom!" he screamed again.
I placed my foot against his small chest and pushed hard. Not hard enough to break ribs, but enough to knock the air out of him. It's funny, you calling for your mother now, little Billy. Think she's going to come and save you, or join in? Maybe I'm doing her a favor. Maybe you did ruin her life.
You've ruined mine.
Now I had him where I wanted him. All I had to do was stick the knife in his chest to the hilt and hold it there until he stopped moving.
I had the knife out now, my three good fingers grasping the black plastic handle. Then I straddled Billy, my legs on either side of his chest. He was crying and screaming, hot fat tears running down the sides of his face. His skin was bright red.
"You didn't give me a choice," I said.
But he wasn't listening. He was too insane with fear, not knowing where to turn or how to protect himself or call for help. Because now he'd realized that help was not coming. He shook his head back and forth as if he could shake himself out of this nightmare.
The knifepoint was just a few inches above his heaving chest.
All I had to do was stick in the knife and hold it there until he stopped moving.
Think about it as a dream, I told myself.
A nightmare.
A nightmare you can wake from.
It was as if Billy could read my mind; he knew what I was planning. This was not a normal beating. There would be no wiping the blood away, putting a Band-Aid over the wound. There would be no bruises that slowly fade until you're no longer embarrassed to wear shorts outside. This would be the ultimate hurt, the final punishment for being a bad boy.
So he started slamming me with his small fists, desperately pounding at my chest and stomach. His body squirmed beneath my legs. I was focused on the knife in my hand and tried to will myself to plunge it down. Billy got lucky. He reached up and grabbed a fistful of my ski mask and yanked down, exposing my face.
"YOU!"
He saw me. He recognized me.
"I KNEW IT WAS YOU! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?"
Why was I doing this to him?
And then I finally put the last piece together.
Billy Derace didn't have a grudge against my father. They hadn't met one day in 1972. Billy Derace grew up wanting to kill my father because of what I was doing right now, right this very instant. He'd been scared to death as a twelve-year-old by a man wearing a mask and he'd ripped away the mask and grew up terrified of that face and then later, after years of abuse and drugs and time-traveling pills, he'd gone looking for the face that terrified him.
My face.
But in 1980, the closest thing he could find was my father.
I was my father's killer.
I let Billy go. I dropped the knife. I climbed to my feet. I left through the front door. I climbed the stairs. I heard a door slam down on the ground floor. Billy cried out for his mother. His mother cried back, an awful shriek that echoed through the stairwell. There was the urgent clacking of high heels up the stairs but I didn't care. I just wanted to go back into the office and collapse and close my eyes.
The daylight in the hallway scorched the skin on my face. It felt like the worst sunburn I've ever had.
I kicked in the door, just like I'd kicked in all the others in this building. There was a complete set now.
I collapsed to the ground, then got up on all fours. The half pill I'd swallowed was already wearing off. I felt dizzy.
Then Erna stepped through the open doorway, holding the gun.
"You hateful son of a bitch," she said, then squeezed the trigger.
The slug sliced through my astral body and buried itself in the floor beneath me. I felt a searing pain in my abdomen, even though there was no entry wound, no blood.
I didn't say anything.
She fired again, twice, and both shots were like hot needles in my chest, each stabbing me through my pectoral muscles. The pain made my eyes water. I dropped to my knees and lifted my left hand—the one with only three fingers.
"I'm going to kill you."
I shook my head.
"It's no use. You can't, because I'm not actually here."
"You're not making any sense."
Erna squatted next to me and lifted me up by the lapels of my borrowed overcoat. Her knuckles were raw, fingers bony. I'd never noticed how thin her hands were. It must hurt to be slapped by those hands.
I looked up at her.
"You think I'm dead but I'm not. I'm alive in the future. I just visit the past. So believe me when I tell you that unless you help your son, he's going to grow up to hurt a lot of people. A lot of innocent people. He's going to be a killer, Erna, unless you pull your head out of your ass and be a mother to him."
"You're from the devil! You're here to torment me and my boy!"
"Today is June 18, 2009. My real body is laying in this apartment in the future. Billy's in a mental hospital. You're living on the streets, and you're a goddamned mess."
She repeated the date to herself.
"June 18, 2009."
It couldn't make sense to her. It must sound like the title of a science fiction movie.
I tried to make her understand.
"So you can't kill me. It's not even worth trying. But you can try to save your son."
She dropped me. My head hit the floor with a thump. She didn't quite react at first. My words had to be picked apart, analyzed.
Then she looked down at me, deranged smile on her face, and said:
"No...I know how to kill you."
And then she began to rip the brown paper from the office windows.
Sunshine smashed through the windows, washing over my entire body. My overcoat began to sizzle and then fade away. My eyes burned as if I'd looked directly into the sun through a twin pair of high-powered telescopes. The skin of my face was beyond fevered; it was ablaze.
My ears functioned long enough to hear Erna ripping the rest of the brown paper from the windows. The nerves under my skin sensed the additional heat and light, and they curled up and withered inside my body.
And then I was gone.
I woke up in the same position on the floor. Belly down. Head turned to one side. Drool coming out of my mouth.
I don't know how long I'd been there, or how long I would be there, because I was completely paralyzed, top of my head to my feet. Just like my fingers, just like my right arm, I knew my body was still there, every piece of it. But I had zero control over any of it.
I could die here.
I could die here and no one would know.
Many hours, I think, passed before the door creaked open behind me. I heard heavy footsteps.
"Hello, you bastard. It's June 18, 2009."
Oh God. No.
She showed herself to me first. She wanted to make sure I knew it was her, so I knew who'd be doing this to me. It was Erna, the bag lady from Frankford Avenue. Which was where she'd ended up after watching her son institutionalized, and her lover knifed to death under the El. She'd been crazy back in 1972, and the intervening years hadn't done much to improve the situation.
But what made her real crazy, I realized now, were all the dead people she saw walking through her apartment and the empty apartments she cleaned. They'd make faces at her, because they were just goofing around, having fun. Dr. DeMeo's patients, in their past and some even propelled forward into the future a few years. And she thought she was losing her mind, but was afraid to tell the doctor, because then she'd lose her place and her job and then what would they do? So she said nothing and she drank wine and tried to forget about all the dead people.
Except the one dead person who'd told her the truth. That he was actually alive, in another year altogether. He'd even helpfully supplied the date.
So Erna Derace had waited.
And on June 18, 2009, she went back to that apartment building.
And she used the last three bullets in the gun she'd been saving for thirty-seven years.
"Do you understand now?"
She shot me in the back three times, right between the shoulder blades.
Willie Shahid, owner of the bodega downstairs, heard sharp cracks, three in a row, then heard someone rumbling down the steps and out the front door. He made it out in time to see an old woman go shuffling down Frankford Avenue. What was that about, he must have wondered. Then he locked the front doors of his shop and walked upstairs to check it out, cell phone in hand.
Willie stood outside my apartment door—3-A. He knocked and waited. Something wasn't right. He sniffed the air; the acrid scent of chalk and burnt paper filled his nostrils. Gunpowder. It wasn't an unfamiliar scent to Willie Shahid. Not in this neighborhood.
So Willie flipped open his cell and dialed 911, giving the address and even the floor.
A short while later the EMTs arrived, and then three squad cars from the Philly PD, 15th District.
The EMTs moved me to a stretcher and carried me out the front door of the building, under the rumbling El train.
But by that time, I was already dead.
## (XIII)
## My Other Life
See that body on the mortician's slab, waiting to be pumped with formaldehyde and other assorted preserving chemicals?
That's me.
I don't know how long I've been dead, but I have to presume it's been a day or so. As I said at the beginning, when you're dead everything seems to happen all at once.
Time's arrow only appears to fly straight when you're alive. Dead is something else. Once you cross that invisible line, you see things how they really are.
I am discorporated from my body. I am able to see everything I've done since birth, throughout my childhood, up through my adolescence and into adulthood.
But the strange thing is I don't quite remember any of it.
There's me, balancing on the edge of the couch, arms and legs extended like I'm a superhero with the ability to fly. There's me, fighting with my brother, wrestling around on the floor like I'm Spider-Man and he's the Hulk and...
See that? My brother.
I don't remember having a brother.
But somehow, I do.
In this life I also seem to have two sisters—one ten years younger, and another twelve years younger. Their names are on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to speak them out loud. They're familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I know them, I don't know them.
I still have a father.
There he is, trying to teach me how to play guitar. Three small fingers on the fret board, struggling to form a C chord, the home base of all rock guitar chords, the first thing you learn.
Then there he is, teaching me what little he knows about the piano, because he decided he could use a keyboard player in the band rather than a second guitarist.
There's me, playing along on my first "gig" with my father when I'm nine years old.
There's me, playing a wedding with my father's band. I am fifteen, and my father is still alive. We're wearing tuxedo shirts and cummerbunds.
He's alive! How is this possible?
But sure enough, there's my father, in a suit, at my high school graduation. I want to be a writer, but music's a way to make money for now. I write my stories on my own time. I spent my weekends practicing and playing gigs. Eventually I quit the band and go off into journalism. I only play the piano once in a great while, but I listen to music all the time.
I pluck a thousand memories at random from a life I don't fully remember having lived.
I remember it all and I don't remember it at the same time.
I am still dead, but I am also alive. There's another me out there, living a life where my father never died.
The other me is married.
He's married to a young teacher named Meghan. Her father's a powerful Center City attorney. She's cut her beautiful long blond hair short.
We have two children.
I keep thinking I'm going to wake up any minute now. But will I still be dead when I wake up?
After a while it occurs to me that the way this unremembered life makes any sense is that Grandpop Henry succeeded in going back and changing something.
Something huge. Something reality-warping. Something that's rewoven the fabric of many lives. My life. My father's. Meghan's. The siblings I didn't know existed. Everyone's life has changed now. Everyone's taken two steps to the right and carried on as if their other lives never happened.
I even wonder, briefly, where Whiplash Walt is right now. Married to another client? Because Anne, my mother, is still married to my father. She quit smoking a few years ago because of our children. Children I didn't know we had. I grew up in a house full of cigarette smoke, but in the years since she's read a few things. She knows how deadly it is. So she quit.
I pluck out other memories. I'm dead. I'm allowed to do this.
In this other life Erna Derace is childless. She never met Victor, she never had to experience the hell of burying her own child, never had to inflict living hell upon her other child. She leads a quiet lonely life. She never moves away from Frankford. Maybe she was never meant to have kids. Or maybe she was meant to have kids but screwed it up and is being punished in this alternate life. I catch glimpses of her, now and again, shopping on Frankford Avenue but I don't know who she is and she ignores me, too.
I scan this other, alien life, looking for Grandpop Henry.
And all at once, of course—because everything happens all at once when you're dead—I pluck out the details of his altered life story.
Seems I've never met Grandpop Henry, in this version.
I'm able to go back and watch him beat my grandmother. They both drink too much. They argue a lot. They both married young, Grandpop just a year out of the service, and they're still figuring each other out. Then she gets pregnant with my father. Now he's married young and saddled with a kid he didn't particularly ask for and it makes him angry and it's stupid but he takes it out on her. He works a lot. He says it's to make them money, but it's more to avoid her.
In the late 1950s, when my father is only ten years old, Grandpop Henry gets into a bar fight at a joint under the Frankford El. The guy comes out of nowhere, starts hacking away at Grandpop. The assailant's name was Victor D'Arrazzio. Later, he would change it to "Vic Derace." According to his FBI rap sheet, D'Arrazzio liked cheap sweet wine, BBQ ribs and prostitutes.
Grandpop Henry was stabbed seventeen times, in the chest and throat. He died at the scene. It was declared a senseless killing.
My grandmom doesn't remember the beatings. She misses her husband. She mourns the life they could have had together.
D'Arrazzio kills himself a few years later, in state prison.
I grow up never having met Grandpop Henry.
In this other life, the Frankford Slasher still killed women under the El during the late 1980s.
Only, it was somebody else doing the slashing.
By the time I was born, Grandpop Henry was long gone. Right now I remember him, and I don't remember him. I'm named for him. My father was thinking about musicians, but my mother suggested Henry. After his own father. The father he barely knew.
My name is Henry Wadcheck.
I remember him, and I don't remember him.
I want to remember him.
I need to remember him.
But I don't think I'll be allowed to remember him for very long.
And this is because my death is almost over, and in my original life, my grandpop's eighty-four-year-old body is about to give up and take its last breath. Everything's exploding out of that moment. My vision is blurring. I know what happens next, because when you're dead everything happens at once. That doesn't mean I experience life in one quick burst—like the old cliché about it flashing before your eyes. No, I relive every second. I retake every breath. I feel every cut, I savor every kiss. But I still know everything that is happening, did happen and will happen.
I knew everything the moment I started telling you this story.
I saw it all because I was dead.
But now I'm alive.
So I'm about to forget everything.
I told you this story because I so badly want to remember, even though I know it's impossible. You tell stories because you want some part of you to live on. And I know that's impossible.
I know that because right now I'm going to wake up.
##
When I wake up Meghan is already propped up on one elbow, beautiful eyes wide open, staring at me. I reach out and touch her face—her perfect, beautiful face. Even after two kids, even after twelve years of marriage, she's as gorgeous as ever. I love the feeling of her soft skin beneath my fingertips.
I'm pretty hungover.
Hot waves of sunshine burst through our windows.
It's a humid Sunday morning—the first day of summer. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and tell her I dreamed about something, and it was one of those annoying, busy dreams where you're working so hard at something...but I can't remember a thing about it. So frustrating.
Then the kids come screaming into the room and jump on our bed and my daughter pushes a stuffed animal in my face and says kissy! kissy! So I kiss the stuffed animal—a bunny. They're loud. They're not going to let us sleep. They're also not going to allow us to fool around. They want one thing: us up.
They also have drawings in their hands, which puzzles me until I remember: it's Father's Day.
My dad's coming over later. Meghan's, too. I'm going to be on grill duty. I really should have more sleep if I'm going to be putting up with both sets of parents today...
But you know, whatever. I smile at my kids. They're beautiful, just like their mother.
I go into the bathroom to wash my face. My head's throbbing like crazy—Meghan and I had more than a few glasses of wine last night, and then we got friendly on the living room floor. I'm paying for it this morning, though. I open the medicine cabinet door.
There's a bottle of Tylenol inside. I don't recognize it. Bottle looks old, but I'm sure the pills inside are fine. Meghan wouldn't buy out-of-date medicine. Probably just an old container.
I tap two into my palm.
## Also by Duane Swierczynski
Novels
SECRET DEAD MEN
THE WHEELMAN
THE BLONDE
SEVERANCE PACKAGE
Interactive Mysteries
THE CRIMES OF DR. WATSON
BATMAN: MURDER AT WAYNE MANOR
Graphic Novels
CABLE: WAR BABY
CABLE: WAITING FOR THE END OF THE WORLD
IMMORTAL IRON FIST: THE MORTAL IRON FIST
IMMORTAL IRON FIST: ESCAPE FROM THE EIGHTH CITY
WEREWOLF BY NIGHT: IN THE BLOOD
THE PUNISHER: SIX HOURS TO KILL
As Editor
DAMN NEAR DEAD
## NOTES AND THANKS
This book wouldn't exist if it weren't for Laura Lippman and Ilena Silverman. For the past few years the New York Times Magazine has been running a "Sunday Serial," featuring short novels from writers such as Elmore Leonard (who wrote the first, Comfort to the Enemy), Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, and Laura Lippman.
Not long into her own serial, The Girl in the Green Raincoat, Laura recommended me to her editor, Ilena, for a possible future serial.
So one hot afternoon in September 2008 I received a call on my cell phone from the New York Times.
I thought it was about my subscription, so I almost didn't answer. But if there was a problem with my credit card, I'd rather know about it now.
Ilena introduced herself, and explained the concept of the Sunday serial—though she didn't have to. I've been a huge fan since that first Elmore Leonard installment. And I began my Times subscription when Connelly's serial (The Overlook) began, because I wanted to save the entire run. Yes, I'm a mystery nerd that way.
Then she asked me if I'd consider pitching something. I tried to play it cool, but I think I yelped the word yes before she even finished the question.
Everything about this excited me, but especially the form: 40,000 words, told in 15 installments, about 2,600 words each. True serial, with cliffhangers and everything, running in one of the best magazines in the world.
Did I pitch her? I pitched like you wouldn't believe.
I submitted four ideas to Ilena, but I knew the one I had my heart set on. It was a strange one, closer in spirit to my first novel, Secret Dead Men, than anything I'd written lately. In fact, at one point I'd planned Expiration Date as the follow up to Secret Dead Men. (Back then, though, I was calling it The Dark Office. Which is a title I didn't like much even back then.)
Ilena could tell I was excited about the first idea—the one I had my heart set on. So she invited me to write a short synopsis. So I wrote a synopsis. Then a long treatment/outline. Then, finally, a full three-thousand-word installment, just to show Ilena and Gerry Marzorati (her boss) what it would feel like.
They liked all of it.
I was set.
I was given a deadline.
I was excited as hell.
I was about to receive a contract when...
Well, I received another call from Ilena. And God, do I wish it had been about my subscription.
Ilena told me that, sadly, the New York Times Magazine was doing away with its Sunday serial. It had been asked to cut pages in the coming budget year, and the serial was on the chopping block. She was super-apologetic. I listened, and then tried to make Ilena feel better about the whole thing, because it wasn't her fault. I've worked at magazines and newspapers before; I knew the crushing reality of budgets.
Still, I was absolutely heartbroken.
Honestly, I was kind of inconsolable for a while.
By that time, however, I'd mentioned the serial to Marc Resnick, my editor at St. Martin's Press, and he really dug the idea. I asked if he would mind if I wrote it anyway, making it my next book for St. Martin's Press. He agreed, and so I dove back into it. I had plotted fifteen installments, but halfway through I really loved the idea of twelve installments, one for each hour on a grandfather clock. (Grandfather Clock was one of the many titles I considered for this thing.) So I changed some things around. But I wrote it more or less as I'd pitched it to the New York Times Magazine.
If it hadn't been for Ilena and Laura, however, I really think this novel would have stayed somewhere frozen on my internal hard drive. (Maybe it should have stayed there! cries someone from the back row.) But I think a writer should be encouraged to do crazy things, and I'll be forever grateful to Ilena and Laura for giving me the opportunity.
Big thanks are also due to my extremely patient editor, Marc Resnick, and all the good folks at St. Martin's Press—including Andrew Martin, Matthew Sharp, Sarah Lumnah, Michael Homier, John Shoenfelder, Hector DeJean, and Matthew Baldacci.
Thanks to Laurence Campbell, whose illustrations adorn this book. I fell in love with Laurence's work from the moment Axel Alonso (my editor at Marvel Comics) showed me a few samples, and I've wanted to work with him ever since. I'm extremely proud to have his work in these pages.
Thanks, too, to my agent, David Hale Smith, who watched my back and held my hand the whole time, from the first pitches to Ilena, to the day it all crashed and burned, and then beyond. He spoons real nice for a Texas boy. And thanks to Shauyi Tai, his second in command.
Thanks to film agent Angela Cheng Caplan, who's been made to wait far too long for this manuscript.
Thanks to my first readers and better friends than a man deserves: Allan Guthrie, Lou Boxer, Jon Cavalier, Ed Pettit, David Thompson, and McKenna Jordan.
And last but nowhere least, thanks to my family—Meredith, Parker, and Sarah—for their patience and support during the writing of this novel.
I was in the middle of finishing Expiration Date when my grandfather, Louis Wojciechowski, died. I was writing this book for him. Not because it's about him, any more than it's about me. But there is a lot of him in this book, and I truly regret not putting my ass in gear and finishing this while he was still alive.
No reader should ever confuse a writer's life with his work, but I do want to make something clear:
The fictional grandfather in this novel was an imperfect man who tried his best.
My grandpop Lou was the best man I've ever known, and I miss him deeply.
## ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Duane Swierczynski has written several crime thrillers for St. Martin's, including Severance Package, all of which have been optioned for film. He also writes the monthly X-Men series Cable for Marvel Comics, and has also written comics featuring Wolverine, Deadpool, the Punisher, the Immortal Iron Fist and Werewolf by Night. Most recently he's collaborated with CSI creator Anthony E. Zuiker on a series of thrillers called Level 26. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and children. Visit him at www.duaneswierczynski.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
EXPIRATION DATE. Copyright © 2010 by Duane Swierczynski. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Swierczynski, Duane.
Expiration date / Duane Swierczynski.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-312-36340-6
1. Private investigators—Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.W53E97 2010
813'.6—dc22
2009039947
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Euchromatyna to rozluźniona forma chromatyny. Może ulegać całkowitej dekondensacji, gdyż luźny jej stan jest jednym z warunków koniecznych do procesu transkrypcji. Najważniejszym składnikiem euchromatyny jest DNA unikatowy. Euchromatyna zawiera głównie geny aktywne transkrypcyjnie. W wyniku kondensacji euchromatyny dochodzi do powstania chromatyny zwartej (heterochromatyny), która w okresach wzmożonej aktywności transkrypcyjnej może ponownie przekształcać się (dekondensować) w chromatynę luźną.
W euchromatynie występuje większa zawartość białek niehistonowych (fosfoprotein) i RNA oraz znaczniejsza aktywność matrycowa niż w heterochromatynie przy prawie jednakowej ilości histonów.
Euchromatyna uwidacznia się jako odcinki słabo zabarwione w czasie badania na prążki G (oraz mocno zabarwione w czasie badania na prążki R).
Bibliografia
Krzysztof Boczkowski: Zarys genetyki medycznej: podręcznik dla studentów medycyny. Wyd. 2. zmienione i uzupełnione. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Lekarskie PZWL, 1990, s. 284. , OCLC 25511069
Genetyka molekularna
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\section{Acknowledgments}
The authors would like to thank Shmuel Oren, Pravin Varaiya (UC Berkeley), Michael Swider (New York ISO), Eugene Litvinov, Feng Zhao, Chris Geissler, Tongxin Zheng, Jinye Zhao (New England ISO), participants of the 2014 CERTS Reliability and Markets Internal Program Review, and an anonymous referee for their helpful comments and feedback.
\section{Conclusion and Future Work} \label{sec_Conclusions}
In this paper, we have proposed a general regulatory and market framework to enable the \emph{open access} integration of storage, in which storage is treated as a communal asset accessible by all market participants.
Such an approach represents a substantial departure from the more standard storage integration paradigm in which a storage owner-operator pursues her individual profit maximizing interests within the confines of her local spot market.
Central to our proposal is the concept of \emph{financial storage rights} (FSRs), which are defined as a sequence of nodal power injections and withdrawals that yield the holder a payment according to the corresponding sequence of nodal prices.
Qualitatively, FSRs represent financial property rights to the capacity of centrally operated storage facilities.
This is in sharp contrast to the physical rights proposed in \cite{Heetal11}.
An essential advantage of FSRs and the modus operandi they entail is that their allocation does not interfere with the socially optimal operation of storage or the independence of the ISO, regardless of the ownership structure of the storage facilities.
Most importantly, FSRs enable the synthesis of fully hedged, fixed-price bilateral contracts for energy, when the seller and buyer exhibit differing intertemporal supply and demand characteristics, respectively.
More broadly, we envision storage owners trading such FSRs with other market participants through (short and long term) forward auctions and secondary markets centrally coordinated by the ISO; not unlike markets for FTRs today.
And, by selling financial rights to their energy storage capacity in various forward auctions (\mbox{\textit{e.g.}, \/} yearly, quarterly, etc.), storage owners can more finely manage their exposure to spot price volatility.
In addition, the auction revenue derived from the forward sale of FSRs may serve as a transparent long-term market signal to partially guide merchant investment in storage.
The study of financial storage rights presented in this paper represents an initial point of analysis. Many interesting questions remain.
First, how should the ISO structure an auction mechanism to jointly allocate both financial transmission and storage rights?
For instance, the simultaneous feasibility test (SFT) that we propose would require coordination in clearing both the transmission and storage right auctions.
This might be too cumbersome to be practical. Accordingly, it would be of interest to explore the design of alternative conditions for simultaneous feasibility that would enable the decoupling of transmission and storage right auctions.
Second, the potential value that energy storage offers to the power system goes well beyond the application of intertemporal energy arbitrage considered in this paper \cite{Sioshansietal12}.
For example, certain storage technologies posses the capability of providing voltage support or frequency regulation services.
A natural question then, is how might one expand the concept of FSRs to incorporate these value streams as well?
Third, it would be of interest to generalize the market framework considered to accommodate a broader family of technologies capable of shifting energy in time (\mbox{\textit{e.g.}, \/} flexible demand-side resources).
\section{An Illustration of the Use of FSRs} \label{sec_example}
\setlength\extrarowheight{4pt}
The natural variation of nodal spot prices over both location and time exposes market participants to price risk.
Extreme price volatility is particularly problematic for load serving entities (LSEs) that sell electricity to end-use customers at a fixed and predetermined price, as they face the risk that the spot price at which they pay for energy may considerably exceed the fixed price at which they are remunerated during certain hours of the day. Accordingly, LSEs and, more generally, those market participants seeking price stability in their transactions, may wish to hedge their exposure to such price risk. In the following discussion, we explain how FSRs, in combination with
contracts for differences (CFDs) and FTRs, can be employed to fully hedge a long-term bilateral contract for energy, when the seller and buyer may exhibit differing intertemporal supply and demand characteristics, respectively. As a special case, the framework considered accommodates the setting in which the seller is physically constrained to deliver the contracted amount of energy through a constant power profile over a predetermined interval of time, while the buyer is compelled to consume that amount of energy according a power profile that (predictably) fluctuates over that same interval of time, due in part to the inelastic nature of its demand.
We consider the setting in which a demander at node $j$ would like to buy an amount of energy $q_c$ (MWh) from a supplier at node $i$ to be delivered over $N$ time periods at a fixed price $\lambda_c$ (\$/MWh). The supplier is assumed to deliver this quantity of energy according to the production profile $\b{q}_i \in \mathbb{R}^N$, while the demander is assumed to consume that same amount of energy according to the consumption profile $\b{q}_j \in \mathbb{R}^N$. While the production and consumption profiles need not agree at any given time period, they must balance over time, \mbox{\textit{i.e.},\ \/} $\b{1}^{\top}\b{q}_i=\b{1}^{\top}\b{q}_j=q_c$. In addition, it is assumed that both the demander and supplier are required to trade with the ISO according to their respective nodal spot prices. Accordingly, the demander pays $\b{\lambda}_j^\top\b{q}_j$, and supplier is paid $\b{\lambda}_i^\top\b{q}_i$ in the spot market.
Because nodal spot prices will naturally vary over both time and location, and will therefore differ from the contract price $\lambda_c$, a hedge is required in order to execute the fixed price contract between the supplier and demander.
In what follows, we explain how a combination of a CFD, FTR, and FSR can be employed to perfectly hedge such price differences.
In general, the supplier will lose an amount $\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_i^\top\b{q}_i$ and the demander will gain an amount $\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_j^\top\b{q}_j$, as a result of their respective spot market transactions.\footnote{Clearly, each of these amounts is as equally likely to be negative as positive, depending on the specific values of the contract price and nodal spot prices.} In the event that nodal spot prices are constant over both location and time, it is straightforward to see that the amount lost by the supplier is equal to the amount gained by the demander.
Thus, a simple money transfer between the two parties in that amount is sufficient to perfectly hedge the fixed price contract. Such transfer can be accomplished with a CFD, which requires that the demander pay the supplier the amount $\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_i^\top\b{q}_i$, as is recorded in the second line of Table \ref{tab:example}.
More generally, the CFD specified above leaves the demander exposed to a \emph{transmission congestion charge} when nodal spot prices vary over location, and a \emph{storage congestion charge} when nodal spot prices vary over time.\footnote{Of course, this is but one of several natural ways in which the CFD might be specified. Alternative specifications that entail risk sharing between the supplier and demander can also be envisaged.}
The specific form these congestion charges is made explicit in the following expression \eqref{eq:exposure}, which disentangles the individual effects that locational and temporal price differences have on the demander's market exposure after having settled the CFD with the supplier.
\begin{align} \label{eq:exposure}
\underbrace{\b{\lambda}_j^\top\b{q}_j}_{\substack{\text{spot market} \\ \text{charge}}} \hspace{-.05in} + \ \underbrace{(\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{q}_i)}_{\text{CFD charge}} \ = \ \lambda_c q_c \ + \hspace{-.05in} \underbrace{(\b{\lambda}_j-\b{\lambda}_i)^{\top} \b{q}_i}_{\substack{\text{transmission congestion} \\ \text{charge}}} + \ \underbrace{\b{\lambda}_j^\top (\b{q}_j - \b{q}_i)}_{\substack{\text{storage congestion} \\ \text{charge}}}
\end{align}
It is straightforward to see that the transmission (storage) congestion charge vanishes when the nodal spot prices are constant across location (time).
In the event that nodal spot prices vary over location, the resulting transmission congestion charge can be perfectly hedged with a FTR from node $i$ to node $j$ given by $\b{t}_{ij} := \b{q}_i$. Similarly, a FSR at node $j$ given by $\b{s}_j := \b{q}_j - \b{q}_i$ yields a perfect hedge against the storage congestion charge, in the event that nodal spot prices vary across time.\footnote{It is worth mentioning that, should the two parties enter into a bilateral contract specifying common production and consumption profiles, \mbox{\textit{i.e.},\ \/} $\b{q}_i = \b{q}_j$, the storage congestion charge would vanish -- thereby eliminating the need for the procurement of a FSR in the pursuit of a perfectly hedged, fixed price contract.} Essentially, this FSR yields the demander a hedge, which is identical to that which could have been produced using a physical storage facility to purchase the profile $\b{q}_i - \b{q}_j$ in the spot market at node $j$.
In combination with the CFD, the procurement of a FTR and a FSR by the demander yields a perfectly hedged, fixed price contract between the supplier and demander -- provided that both parties deliver and consume power according to the profiles specified by the contract. However, as is argued in \cite{BushnellStoft97}, such price risk cannot be costlessly eliminated, as FTRs and FSRs will, in general, have nonzero value in expectation.
We refer the reader to Table \ref{tab:example} for a detailed accounting of the transactions described in the preceding discussion.
\begin{table*}
\caption{Using CFDs, FTRs, and FSRs to synthesize bilateral contracts.}
\begin{center}
\begin{tabular*}{4.7in}{>{\centering\arraybackslash}m{0pt}@{}llllll}
\hline
&& \multirow{2}{*}{Contract or Market} & \multicolumn{2}{l}{Supplier at node $i$} & \multicolumn{2}{l}{Demander at node $j$} \\\cline{4-7}
&& & Quantity & Payment & Quantity & Payment \\\hline
&1 & Spot market & $\b{q}_i$ & $\b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{q}_i$ & $-\b{q}_j$ & $-\b{\lambda}_j^{\top} \b{q}_j$ \\
&2 & CFD & $\b{q}_i$ & $\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{q}_i$ & $-\b{q}_i$ & $-(\lambda_c q_c - \b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{q}_i)$ \\
&3 & FTR & -- & -- & $\b{t}_{ij}:=\b{q}_i$ & $(\b{\lambda}_j-\b{\lambda}_i)^{\top} \b{t}_{ij}$\\
&4 & FSR & -- & -- & $\b{s}_j:=\b{q}_j-\b{q}_i$ & $\b{\lambda}_j^{\top} \b{s}_j$ \\\hline
&5 & Total & -- & $\lambda_c q_c$ & -- & $-\lambda_c q_c$ \\\hline
\end{tabular*}
\end{center}
\label{tab:example}
\end{table*}
\section{Models and Formulation} \label{sec_Formulation}
\subsection{Notation}
\noindent Let $\mathbb{R}$ denote the set of real numbers and $\mathbb{R}_+$ the non-negative real numbers. Denote the transpose of a vector $\b{x} \in \mathbb{R}^n$ by $\b{x}^{\top}$.
Let $x_i$ denote the $i^{\rm th}$ entry of a vector $\b{x} \in \mathbb{R}^n$.
We define by $\b{1}$ a column vector of all ones and by $\b{e}_i$ the $i^{\rm th}$ standard basis vector of dimension appropriate to the context. For two matrices $A,B \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$ of equivalent dimension, we denote their Hadamard product by $A \circ B$. Given a matrix $A \in \mathbb{R}^{m\times n}$, we write $A = 0$ to denote entrywise equivalence to zero.
\subsection{Network Model} \label{sec:network_mod}
\noindent Consider a transmission network defined on a set of $n$ nodes (buses) connected by $m$ edges (transmission lines). The associated graph of the network is assumed connected. The nodes are indexed by $i = 1,2, \dots,n$. We operate under the assumption of a linear model of steady state power flow defined by the so called DC power flow approximation, where the vector of nodal power injections is linearly mapped to a vector of (directional) power flows along the $m$ transmission lines through the mapping $H \in \mathbb{R}^{2m \times n}$, commonly referred to as the \emph{shift-factor matrix}. Let $\b{c} \in \mathbb{R}^{2m}_+$ denote the corresponding vector of transmission line capacities. It follows that the set of feasible power injections is described by the polytope ${\cal P}(\b{c}) \subset \mathbb{R}^n$,
\begin{align} \label{eq_Polytope}
{\cal P}(\b{c}) \ = \ \left\{ \b{v} \in \mathbb{R}^{n} \ \left| \ H\b{v} \leq \b{c}, \ \ \b{1}^{\top}\b{v} = 0 \right.\right\}.
\end{align}
One can readily verify the compactness of ${\cal P}(\b{c})$, as $\mbox{rank}(H) = n-1$ and $\b{1}^{\top}$ is linearly independent from the rows of $H$.
\subsection{Cost Model}
\noindent At the core of the formulation considered in this paper is the problem of multi-period economic dispatch over $N$ discrete time periods, which we index by $k=0,\ldots,N-1$.
We measure the cost and benefit of the net injection vector $\b{v}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ at time $k$ according to
$$ C(\b{v}(k), k) = \sum_{i=1}^n C_i(v_i(k),k), $$
Each component function $C_i(v,k)$ is assumed to be increasing, convex, and differentiable in $v$ over $\mathbb{R}$. Moreover, each function is assumed to satisfy $C_i(0,k) = 0$, \ $C_i(v,k) > 0$ for $v > 0$, and $C_i(v,k) < 0$ for $v< 0$.
This implies that $C_i(v,k)$ represents the \emph{convex cost of generation} for $v>0$ at node $i$ and time $k$. Conversely, $-C_i(v,k)$ represents the \emph{concave benefit of consumption} for $v<0$ at node $i$ and time $k$. Finally, the component functions $\{C_i(\cdot,k)\}$ to allowed to vary with time in order to capture the potential variation in the nodal demand preferences over time. We refer the reader to Wu et al. \cite{Wuetal96} for a more detailed explanation of this model.
\subsection{Energy Storage Model} \label{sec:storage model}
\noindent We consider an arbitrary collection of $n$ perfectly efficient energy storage devices connected to the transmission network, where we associate with each node $i$ a storage device with energy capacity $b_i \in \mathbb{R}_+$. We denote by $\b{b} = \bmat{b_1,\dots, b_n}^{\top}$ the vector of nodal energy storage capacities.
The collective storage dynamics are naturally modeled as a linear difference equation
\begin{equation}
\label{eq:storagemod} \b{z}(k+1) = \b{z}(k) - \b{u}(k) \
\end{equation}
for $k=0,1,\dots,N-1$, where the vector $\b{z}(k) \in \mathbb{R}_+^n$ denotes the vector of energy storage states just preceding time period $k$, and the input $\b{u}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ denotes the vector of net energy storage extractions during period $k$. The notational convention is such that $u_i(k) > 0$ (resp. $u_i(k) < 0$) represents a net energy extraction from (resp. injection into) the storage device at node $i$ during time period $k$.
Without loss of generality, we assume an initial condition of $\b{z}(0) = 0$ for the remainder of the paper.
The limited capacities of the energy storage devices require that $ 0 \leq \b{z}(k) \leq \b{b}$ for all $k$.
Iterating the linear difference equation (\ref{eq:storagemod}) back to its initial condition, one can express the storage capacity constraint as
\begin{align}
0 \leq \ -\sum_{\ell =0}^{k-1} \b{u}(\ell) \ \leq \b{b} \label{eq:con1}
\end{align}
for $k = 1,\dots, N$.
As a matter of notational convenience, we consider an \textit{equivalent} characterization of the energy storage capacity constraints (\ref{eq:con1}), which enables a decomposition of the constraints across nodes. More specifically,
letting $\b{u}_i = \bmat{u_i(0), \dots, u_i(N-1)}^{\top}$ denote the entire sequence of injections and extractions from the storage device at node $i$, one can recast the constraints defined by (\ref{eq:con1}) as
\begin{align}
\b{u}_i \ \in \ {\cal U}(\b{b}_i) \ = \ \left\{ \left. \b{u} \in \mathbb{R}^N \ \right| \ 0 \leq L \b{u} \leq \b{b}_i \right\} \label{stg_model}
\end{align}
for $i = 1,\dots, n$. Here, $L \in \mathbb{R}^{N\times N}$ denotes a lower triangular matrix with entries $[L]_{k \ell} = -1$ for all $ k \ge \ell$, and zero otherwise. We also define $\b{b}_i = \bmat{b_i, \dots, b_i}^\top \in \mathbb{R}^n$.
It is immediate to see that ${\cal U}(\b{b}_i)$ is a compact polytope containing the origin for each $i = 1,\dots,n$.
\begin{remark}
While the model of storage considered is stylized in nature, much of the ensuing analysis and conclusions derived can be easily extended to accommodate nonidealities in storage, such as constraints on allowable rates of charging and discharging, roundtrip inefficiencies, and dissipative losses.
\end{remark}
\subsection{Multi-Period Economic Dispatch}
Working within the idealized setting considered,
we now formulate the problem of multi-period economic dispatch with storage.
Broadly, the objective of the ISO is to select a vector of nodal prices for energy that sustains a competitive equilibrium between supply and demand at a feasible system operating point that maximizes social welfare -- a so-called \emph{economic dispatch}.
Formally, the \emph{multi-period economic dispatch} problem is stated as:
\begin{alignat}{3}
& \text{minimize} \hspace{.25in} & & \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \ C(\b{v}(k),k) \label{objective} \\
& \text{subject to} & & \b{v}(k) + \b{u}(k) \in \ \mathcal{P}(\b{c}), \qquad k=0,\dots,N-1 \label{constraints_flow} \\
&& & \hspace{.58in} \b{u}_{i} \in \ \mathcal{U}( \b{b}_i), \hspace{.2in} i =1,\dots,n \label{constraints_stg}
\end{alignat}
where the minimization is taken with respect to the variables $\b{v}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ and $\b{u}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ for $k =0,\dots,N-1$. We will occasionally denote the decision variables more compactly by the pair $(V,U)$, where $V = \bmat{\b{v}(0), \dots, \b{v}(N-1)}$ and $U = \bmat{\b{u}(0), \dots, \b{u}(N-1)}$.
\subsection{Optimality Conditions}
\begin{definition}
\label{def:feas}
A pair $(V,U)$ is a \emph{feasible dispatch} if it satisfies constraints \eqref{constraints_flow}-\eqref{constraints_stg}. A pair $(V,U)$ is an (optimal) \emph{economic dispatch} if it solves problem (\ref{objective})-(\ref{constraints_stg}).
\end{definition}
The multi-period economic dispatch problem (\ref{objective}) - (\ref{constraints_stg}) is a convex optimization problem with linear constraints.
As such, an economic dispatch $(V, U)$ is characterized by the existence of Lagrange multipliers such that the Karush-Kuhn-Tucker (KKT) conditions (\ref{constraints_flow}) - (\ref{FOC_7}) hold.
More specifically, we associate Lagrange multipliers $\gamma(k) \in \mathbb{R}$ and $\b{\mu}(k) \in \mathbb{R}_+^{2m}$ with the power balance and line flow capacity constraints (\ref{constraints_flow}) at time $k$, respectively. Similarly, we define $\underline{\b{\nu}}_i \in \mathbb{R}_+^N$ and $\overline{\b{\nu}}_i \in \mathbb{R}_+^N$ as the Lagrange multipliers associated with the energy capacity constraints (\ref{constraints_stg}) of the storage device at node $i$.
In specifying the KKT conditions, it will be convenient to define as $\b{\lambda}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ a particular linear combination of Lagrange multipliers given by:
\begin{align} \label{eq:LMP}
\b{\lambda}(k) = \gamma(k) \b{1} - H^{\top} \b{\mu}(k)
\end{align}
for each time $k=0, \dots, N-1$. The \emph{stationarity condition} is given by:
\begin{align}
\nabla C(\b{v}(k), k) = & \ \b{\lambda}(k), \qquad k=0,\dots, N-1 \label{FOC_1}\\
L^{\top} (\overline{\b{\nu}}_i - \underline{\b{\nu}}_i) = & \ \b{\lambda}_i , \hspace{0.45in} i=1, \dots, n \label{FOC_2}
\end{align}
where we have defined $\b{\lambda}_i = \bmat{\lambda_i(0),\dots, \lambda_i(N-1)}^{\top}$.
The \emph{complementary slackness condition} is given by:
\begin{align} \setlength{\itemsep}{.3in}
\b{\mu}(k) \circ \left( H ( \b{v}(k) +\b{u}(k) ) - \mathbf{\c} \right) = 0, & \qquad k=0, \dots, N-1 \label{FOC_5} \\
\underline{\b{\nu}}_i \circ L \b{u}_{i} = 0, & \qquad i=1, \dots, n \label{FOC_6} \\
\overline{\b{\nu}}_i \circ \left( \b{b}_i - L \b{u}_i \right) = 0, & \qquad i=1, \dots, n. \label{FOC_7}
\end{align}
It will occasionally prove convenient to work with alternative arrangements of the Lagrange multipliers defined above. Accordingly, we define the vector $\b{\mu}_{\ell} = \bmat{\mu_{\ell}(0), \dots, \mu_{\ell}(N-1)}^\top$ as the sequence of Lagrange multipliers associated with each transmission line constraint $\ell = 1, \dots, 2m$. In addition, the vectors $ \underline{\b{\nu}}(k) = \bmat{ \underline{\nu}_1(k), \dots, \underline{\nu}_n(k)}^\top $ and $\overline{\b{\nu}}(k) = \bmat{ \overline{\nu}_1(k), \dots, \overline{\nu}_n(k)}^\top$ denote the collection of Lagrange multipliers associated with the lower and upper bounds on storage capacity, respectively, for each time $k = 0, \dots, N-1$.
\section{Introduction} \label{sec_introduction}
The increased penetration of supply derived from variable renewable energy resources, coupled with the recent decline in the cost of electric energy storage technologies, has brought about an opportunity to significantly reduce the cost of managing the electric power system through careful planning, deployment, and operation of storage resources \cite{HindsBoyer14}. Broadly, the short-run value of energy storage derives from its ability to arbitrage energy forward in time, enabling both the absorption of power imbalances on short time scales and the more substantial reshaping of supply and demand profiles over longer periods of time.
The extent to which the deployment of a collection of energy storage devices might benefit the power system depends critically, however, on the collective \emph{sizing}, \emph{placement}, and \emph{operation} of said devices \cite{BitarBose14}. The challenge resides in the design and implementation of electricity markets and instruments that induce strategic expansion and operation of storage in a manner that is consistent with the maximization of social welfare over both the long and short run, respectively.
The coordinated optimal dispatch of a collection of distributed energy storage resources clearly offers the possibility of a sizable reduction in the cost of servicing demand by reshaping it in such a manner as to alleviate both transmission congestion and the reliance on peak power generation \cite{PJM12}. Of interest then is the characterization of mechanisms for the integration of storage, which encourage its efficient operation. And of critical importance to this effort is the resolution of the question: \emph{who commands the storage?}
Among the variety of possible answers to this question, there are two extremes -- differing in terms of the degree of government intervention -- which we naturally refer to as \emph{competitive} and \emph{regulated}. Each implies a distinct mechanism for both the operation of the physical storage facilities and the remuneration of the services provided.
Broadly, the \emph{competitive} or \emph{market-based operation of storage} entails a decentralized operating paradigm in which storage owners pursue their own rational (profit maximizing) interests in the spot energy market.
A shortcoming of such approach to storage integration derives from the uncertainty in revenue that storage owner-operators might obtain from the spot market. Energy storage is a capital intensive technology.
And several recent studies \cite{DruryEtAl11, Sioshansietal12, DOE13, RMI15b} have indicated that the risk of incomplete capital cost recovery due to such revenue uncertainty may serve to inhibit investment in storage facilities.
Sioshansi \cite{Sioshansi10} also goes on to show that a complete reliance on the spot energy market to guide the integration of storage may lead to its substantial underutilization relative to the social optimum, as strategic owner-operators of storage will naturally endeavor to preserve intertemporal price differences for purposes of arbitrage.
The \emph{regulated operation of storage}, on the other hand, calls for a centralized operating paradigm in which storage is treated as a communal asset that is centrally dispatched by the Independent System Operator (ISO) to maximize social welfare subject to its physical constraints.\footnote{The PJM Interconnection has explored a similar regulatory framework in which energy storage would be operated and compensated traditionally like a transmission asset \cite{PJM12}.}
The socially optimal dispatch of storage, in concert with conventional generation and transmission, naturally improves upon the welfare of the system in the short run.
Accordingly, such an approach to the operation of storage necessitates the creation of a mechanism capable of extracting and redistributing the value added by storage back to the owners of the responsible storage facilities.
Towards this end, we propose a market mechanism founded on the definition of tradable financial instruments, which monetize property rights to storage capacity made available to the ISO for centralized operation.
Such an approach resembles the regulation and operation of transmission in the majority of US electricity markets, which entails the centrally optimized operation of the transmission network subject to the locational marginal pricing of energy, and the allocation of financial transmission rights that monetize property rights to said transmission capacity \cite{AlsacEtAl04, Hogan92, Hogan02, ONeillEtAl02, ONeillEtAl13}.
\subsection{Open Access Energy Storage}
There has been recent activity in both academia and industry to identify alternative paradigms to support the efficient integration of storage into power system operations \cite{Sioshansietal12, PJM12}. One stream of literature
centers on an \textit{open access} approach to the integration of storage; or more simply, \textit{open access storage} (OAS) \cite{Heetal11, Sioshansietal12, Taylor14b}.
Loosely, we refer to OAS as a regulatory framework in which energy storage facilities are treated as communal assets accessible by all participants in the wholesale energy market.
To the best of our knowledge, only two concrete approaches to OAS have been proposed. He et al. \cite{Heetal11} proposes a market framework where storage owners sell \emph{physically binding rights} to their storage capacity through sequential auctions coordinated by the ISO.
The collection of physical rights, which are defined as a sequence of nodal power injections within a specified time horizon, determine the actual operation of the storage.
As such, the physical rights associated with a particular storage facility must be collectively feasible with respect to the corresponding physical device constraints.
While such physical rights might be used by market participants to execute price arbitrage or mitigate the cost of honoring existing contractual energy commitments, there are several important limitations.
First, the ability of a market participant to leverage on a physical storage right depends on her location within the network relative to the storage facilities. Such restriction could serve to limit market access.
Second, the eventual physical dispatch of storage is determined by a sequence of auctions -- the outcome of which is likely to substantially deviate from the socially optimal dispatch, because of strategic interactions between parties bidding for physical storage rights.
Closer to our proposal, Taylor \cite{Taylor14b} suggests an approach to OAS that centers on a paradigm in which storage owners sell \emph{financially binding rights} to their storage capacity through an auction coordinated by the ISO.
The ISO is charged with the task of operating storage in a socially efficient manner -- not unlike its non-discriminatory operation of the transmission network.
As financial rights, they do not interfere with the optimal operation of storage, but rather, they represent entitlements to portions of the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO.
A central component of the proposal in \cite{Taylor14b} is the definition of the financial rights in terms of the shadow prices associated with the physical constraints on the storage facilities. This is analogous to the definition of flowgate rights (FGRs) \cite{ChaoPeck96, ChaoPeck97, Chaoetal00} in the context of open access transmission.
And, as a result, such a definition of financial storage rights is naturally endowed with advantages and disadvantages comparable to those of FGRs in the context of transmission. We refer the reader to Section \ref{sec:fsr} and \cite{Hogan00, Orenetal95} for a more detailed discussion on such issues.
\subsection{Contribution}
We propose a regulatory framework to enable open access storage, which centers largely on the concept of \textit{financial storage rights} (FSRs). Broadly speaking, FSRs can be interpreted as financial property rights to storage capacity; or, more accurately, as financial entitlements to portions of the storage congestion rent collected by the ISO under the socially optimal dispatch of storage capacity. Being defined as such, FSRs enable the complete decoupling of a storage facility's ownership from its physical operation.
Moreover, the specific form of FSRs that we propose -- viz. a sequence of nodal power injections and withdrawals that yield its holder a payment according to the corresponding sequence of nodal spot prices -- provides market participants the ability to perfectly hedge physical or financial energy positions against intertemporal price risk in the spot market.\footnote{Such a definition of FSRs represents a financial analog to the physical storage rights proposed by He et al. \cite{Heetal11}, and is in contrast to the constraint-based financial rights proposed in \cite{Taylor14b}.} Such hedging capabilities represent a natural complement to financial transmission rights (FTRs) and their ability to hedge spatial price risk across the network.
What distinguishes such financial instruments from standard forward energy contracts is the fact that they are issued under the physical cover of transmission and storage capacity, and are settled against the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO. Accordingly, in Section \ref{sec:generalSimultaneousFeasibility}, we establish a generalized \emph{simultaneous feasibility test} (SFT), which constrains the joint allocation of financial transmission and storage rights in such a manner as to guarantee the ISO's revenue adequacy. Namely, any simultaneously feasible collection of transmission and storage rights are guaranteed to yield a rent that does not exceed the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO. A positive attribute of the proposed SFT is that it enables the allocation (auction) of FSRs at nodes without physical storage capacity -- a feature which genuinely democratizes access to storage by all market participants.
\subsection{Organization}
\noindent The remainder of paper is organized as follows.
In Section \ref{sec_Formulation}, we formulate the multi-period economic dispatch problem with storage, and delineate its optimality conditions.
In Section \ref{sec_FSR}, we formally introduce the concept of financial storage rights, and establish a general test for simultaneous feasibility, which restricts the allocation of both financial transmission and storage rights in such a manner as to ensure the ISO's revenue adequacy.
In Section \ref{sec_example}, we illustrate with a stylized example the role of FSRs in synthesizing flexible, fully hedged, fixed-price bilateral contracts for energy.
We close with a discussion on directions for future research in Section \ref{sec_Conclusions}.
All mathematical proofs are included in the Appendix to the paper.
\section*{Proof of Lemma \ref{lemma:MS} }
Let $(\V,\U,\Lambda)$ denote an efficient market equilibrium throughout.
And, let $(\b{\lambda}(k), \gamma(k), \b{\mu}(k), \overline{\b{\nu}}_i, \underline{\b{\nu}}_i)$ denote the corresponding Lagrange multipliers satisfying the KKT conditions \eqref{constraints_flow}-\eqref{FOC_7} for all $k$ and $i$.
We prove the desired result by establishing nonnegativity of both the TCS and SCS.
\begin{proposition}
\label{prop:TCS}
$ {\rm TCS} = \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\mu}(k)^{\top} \b{c} \ge 0$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
We have that ${\rm TCS} = -\sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\lambda}(k)^{\top} (\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k))$ based on its definition in \eqref{eq:tcs}.
Substituting for $\b{\lambda}(k)$ according to Equation \eqref{eq:LMP}, and using the fact that $\b{1}^{\top}(\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k)) = 0$ for all $k$, we have that
\begin{align*}
{\rm TCS} = \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\mu}(k)^{\top} H (\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k)).
\end{align*}
The complementary slackness condition \eqref{FOC_5} yields ${\rm TCS} = \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\mu}(k)^{\top} \b{c}$, which is clearly nonnegative. \hfill $\blacksquare$
\end{proof}
\begin{proposition}
\label{prop:SCS}
${\rm SCS} = \sum_{i=1}^{n} \overline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} \b{b}_i \ge 0$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}
We have that ${\rm SCS} = \sum_{i=1}^{n} \b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{u}_i$ based on its definition in \eqref{eq:scs}. A direct substitution of the stationarity condition \eqref{FOC_2} and complementary slackness conditions \eqref{FOC_6}-\eqref{FOC_7} yields
\begin{align*}
{\rm SCS} = \sum_{i=1}^{n} \overline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} L \b{u}_i - \underline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} L \b{u}_i = \sum_{i=1}^{n} \overline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} \b{b}_i,
\end{align*}
which is clearly nonnegative. \hfill $\blacksquare$
\end{proof}
The desired result follows from Propositions \ref{prop:TCS} and \ref{prop:SCS}, as ${\rm MS} = {\rm TCS} + {\rm SCS}$.
\section*{Proof of Lemma \ref{lemma:FTR}}
Let $(V,U,\Lambda)$ denote an efficient market equilibrium throughout.
Clearly, the maximum rent achievable by any \emph{simultaneously feasible} collection of transmission rights is given by the optimal value of
\begin{align}
& \text{maximize} & {\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) \hspace{72pt} & && \label{lem2:objective}\\
& \text{subject to} & \b{t}(k) + \b{q}(k) \in \ \mathcal{P}(\b{c}-\b{f}(k)),& && k=0,\dots,N-1 \label{lem2:constraints_flow}\\
&& \b{q}_{i} \in \ \mathcal{U}(\b{b}_i),& && i =1,\dots,n.
\label{lem2:constraints_stq}
\end{align}
This is a convex optimization problem with linear constraints in the decision variables $\b{t}(k)$, $\b{f}(k)$, and $\b{q}(k)$ ($k=0, \dots, N-1$).
Upon comparing the KKT conditions of the above problem with those of the multi-period economic dispatch problem \eqref{objective}-\eqref{constraints_stg}, it is straightforward to verify that a (non-unique) optimal solution to problem \eqref{lem2:objective}-\eqref{lem2:constraints_stq} is given by
\begin{align*}
\b{t}(k) =\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k), \quad \b{f}(k)=\b{0}, \quad \text{and} \quad \b{q}(k)=\b{0}
\end{align*}
for all $k$.
This optimal solution yields a collection of transmission rights with an associated rent of ${\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) = -\sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\lambda}(k)^{\top} (\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k))$. This equals the ${\rm TCS}$ at the efficient market equilibrium, thus completing the proof.
\section*{Proof of Theorem \ref{thm:MS}}
Let $(V,U,\Lambda)$ denote an efficient market equilibrium throughout.
Clearly, the maximum rent achievable by any \emph{simultaneously feasible} collection of transmission and storage rights is given by the optimal value of
\begin{align}
& \text{maximize} & {\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) + {\rm \Sigma}(\Scal, \Ecal) \hspace{60pt} & && \label{thm1:objective}\\
& \text{subject to} & \b{t}(k) - \b{s}(k) + \b{q}(k) \in \ \mathcal{P}(\b{c}-\b{f}(k)),& && k=0,\dots,N-1 \label{thm1:constraints_flow}\\
&& \b{q}_{i} \in \ \mathcal{U}(\b{b}_i-\b{e}_i),& && i =1,\dots,n.
\label{thm1:constraints_stq}
\end{align}
This is a convex optimization problem with linear constraints in the decision variables $\b{t}(k)$, $\b{f}(k)$, $\b{q}(k)$, $\b{s}(k)$ ($k=0, \dots, N-1$), and $\b{e}_i$ ($i =1, \dots, n$).
Upon comparing the KKT conditions of the above problem with those of the multi-period economic dispatch problem \eqref{objective}-\eqref{constraints_stg}, it is straightforward to verify that a (non-unique) optimal solution to problem \eqref{thm1:objective}-\eqref{thm1:constraints_stq} is given by
\begin{align*}
\b{t}(k)=\b{v}(k)+\b{u}(k), \quad \b{f}(k)=\b{0}, \quad \b{q}(k)=\b{u}(k), \quad \b{s}(k)=\b{u}(k), \quad \text{and} \quad \b{e}_{i}=\b{0}
\end{align*}
for all $k$ and $i$.
This optimal solution yields a collection of transmission and storage rights with an associated rent of ${\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) + {\rm \Sigma}(\Scal, \Ecal) = -\sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \b{\lambda}(k)^{\top} \b{v}(k)$. This equals the ${\rm MS}$ at the efficient market equilibrium, thus completing the proof.
\section{Financial Storage Rights} \label{sec_FSR}
In this section, we outline the concept of \emph{financial storage rights} (FSRs), and develop their basic properties within the context of a nodal spot market for energy. Broadly, FSRs amount to financial instruments, which enable the decoupling of the ownership of storage capacity from its physical operation. This is accomplished through the allocation of financial property rights to storage in the form of entitlements to the merchandising surplus generated by the centralized dispatch of the storage assets.
Specifically, a FSR is defined as a sequence of hourly injections/withdrawals at a specific node in the power network, which yields the holder a payoff according to the corresponding sequence of nodal spot prices. Being defined as such, FSRs provide energy market participants the ability to hedge their intertemporal exposure to hourly price variability at specific nodes in the power network.
And while FSRs are essentially strips of forward energy contracts, what makes this class of financial instruments unique is the fact that FSRs are issued under the physical cover of storage capacity and are funded by the surplus (i.e., the intertemporal arbitrage value) that centrally operated storage generates in the spot market.
In what follows, we investigate the \emph{revenue adequacy} of such instruments in the context of electricity markets employing locational marginal pricing.
In particular, we establish conditions under which the allocation of both financial storage and transmission rights is guaranteed to be revenue adequate, \mbox{\textit{i.e.},\ \/} the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO is sufficient to cover the net settlement to all holders of financial storage and transmission rights.
We begin with a definition of locational marginal prices under multi-period economic dispatch with energy storage, in the following section.
\subsection{Locational Marginal Pricing}
We refer to $\b{\lambda}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ as the vector of nodal prices at time $k$. More specifically, the $i^{th}$ element, $\lambda_i(k)$, denotes the price at which energy is transacted at node $i$ and time $k$. We denote by $\Lambda = \bmat{\b{\lambda}(0), \dots, \b{\lambda}(N-1)}$ the corresponding sequence of nodal prices from time $k=0$ to $N-1$. We have the following standard definitions of \emph{market equilibrium} and \emph{efficiency}.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:effeq}
The triple $(V, U, \Lambda)$ constitutes a \emph{market equilibrium} if it satisfies \eqref{constraints_flow}, \eqref{constraints_stg} and \eqref{FOC_1}. The triple $(V, U, \Lambda)$ is said to be an \emph{efficient market equilibrium} if $(V,U)$ is also an economic dispatch.
\end{definition}
The requirement that $(V,U)$ satisfy \eqref{constraints_flow} and \eqref{constraints_stg} in Definition \ref{def:effeq} can be interpreted as \emph{market clearing} and \emph{feasibility conditions}, respectively, as they require that supply equal demand at each time period, while ensuring that the line flow and storage capacity constraints are met. Condition \eqref{FOC_1} is tantamount to requiring \emph{consumer and supplier equilibrium} at every node and time period. In other words, relation \eqref{FOC_1} requires that the marginal cost of supply (benefit of demand) equal the nodal price $\lambda_i(k)$ for all nodes $i$ and time periods $k$. Consequently, at equilibrium, there is no opportunity for the profitable trading of energy across nodes or time.
It is important to note that there may exist multiple market equilibria -- some of which may not be efficient. In other words, the system operating point at a market equilibrium may not maximize social welfare. One can, however, implement an economic dispatch $(V,U)$ at a market equilibrium $(V,U, \Lambda)$, if the nodal prices $\Lambda$ are set according to \eqref{eq:LMP} -- the Lagrange multipliers derived at the corresponding economic dispatch. Such approach to spot pricing is generally referred to as \emph{locational marginal pricing} (LMP) \cite{Schweppeetal88}.
\subsection{Merchandising Surplus} \label{subsec_MS}
In selecting and implementing a market equilibrium $(\V,\U,\Lambda)$,
the ISO collects payment from the consumers and remunerates the suppliers according to their respective operating points and nodal prices. In doing so, the ISO may collect a nonzero surplus. We refer to this excess as the \emph{merchandising surplus} (MS).
Indeed, it is a straightforward generalization of \cite{Wuetal96} to show that the MS can be either positive or negative at an arbitrary market equilibrium. The latter outcome is undesirable, as it may require the ISO to incur a fiscal deficit in clearing the market.
In what follows, we briefly discuss the effects of dispatch efficiency and congestion, in both transmission and storage, on the MS. First, we have a definition.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:MSdef}
The \emph{merchandising surplus} (MS) at a market equilibrium $(\V,\U,\Lambda)$ is defined as
\begin{equation} \label{ms}
{\rm MS} = -\sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \sum_{i=1}^n \lambda_i(k) v_i(k),
\end{equation}
or, equivalently, as ${\rm MS} = - \text{trace}(\Lambda^\top V)$.
\end{definition}
One can massage the expression for the MS in \eqref{def:MSdef} to reveal the specific impact that both transmission and storage congestion have on its value. In order to do so, we must first specify the line flows induced by the net injection profile for each time period. More formally, let $(V,U)$ be an arbitrary feasible dispatch. And denote by $p_{ij}(k)$ the resulting power flow over the line from node $i$ to node $j$ at time $k$.\footnote{According to the formulation of DC power flow considered in Section \ref{sec:network_mod}, the line flow $p_{ij}(k)$ corresponds to a single entry of the vector $H(\b{v}(k) + \b{u}(k))$. And if there is no line connecting nodes $i$ and $j$, then $p_{ij}(k) = - p_{ji}(k) = 0$ necessarily.}
We adopt a sign convention such that $p_{ij}(k) = - p_{ji}(k) > 0$, if power flows from node $i$ to $j$. It follows from Kirchhoff's Current Law that \
$
v_i(k) + u_i(k) = \sum_{j=1}^n p_{ij}(k)
$
\ for all nodes $i=1,\dots,n$. Using this relation, one can decompose the merchandising surplus as
\begin{align} \label{eq:MS_TCS_SCS}
{\rm MS} \ = \ {\rm TCS} \ + \ {\rm SCS}.
\end{align}
The first term in the decomposition is commonly referred to as the \textit{transmission congestion surplus} (TCS). The second term, we refer to as the \textit{storage congestion surplus} (SCS). Each term satisfies:
\begin{align}
{\rm TCS} & \ = \ \frac{1}{2} \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \sum_{i,j=1}^n \left(\lambda_j(k) - \lambda_i(k) \right) p_{ij}(k), \label{eq:tcs} \\
{\rm SCS} & \ = \ \sum_{k=0}^{N-1} \sum_{i=1}^n \lambda_{i}(k) u_i(k). \label{eq:scs}
\end{align}
\begin{lemma}
\label{lemma:MS}
The {\rm MS}, {\rm TCS}, and {\rm SCS} derived at an efficient market equilibrium $(\V,\U,\Lambda)$ are nonnegative quantities.
\end{lemma}
Lemma \ref{lemma:MS} reveals an important property. Namely, at an efficient market equilibrium, the collective transactions between supply and demand are guaranteed to be \emph{revenue adequate} ({\it i.e.,} ${\rm MS} \geq 0$).
Moreover, the reformulation of the MS in \eqref{eq:MS_TCS_SCS} reveals a decomposition of the effects due to congestion in transmission and storage on the rent collected by the ISO.
\begin{assumption}
\label{as:1}
For the remainder of the paper, we let $(V,U,\Lambda)$ denote an \emph{efficient market equilibrium}, unless otherwise specified.
\end{assumption}
\subsection{Financial Transmission Rights}
In the event that there is transmission congestion at an economic dispatch and the ISO does indeed collect a positive merchandising surplus, it is common practice in US electricity markets to reallocate the MS in the form of \emph{financial transmission rights} \cite{ONeillEtAl13}.
Essentially, a financial transmission right entitles its holder to receive a fraction of the transmission congestion surplus (TCS) collected by the ISO in clearing the spot market \cite{Hogan92}.
Financial transmission rights can be specified in variety of ways, with the two most predominant types being defined as \emph{point-to-point} and \emph{flow-based} rights.
A \textit{point-to-point financial transmission right} (FTR) is specified in terms of a quantity of power, a point of injection, and a point of withdrawal. It yields the holder the entitlement to receive, or obligation to pay, the difference in nodal spot prices between the chosen point of withdrawal and the point of delivery, times the nominated quantity of power. Accordingly, an FTR may amount to a credit or liability. We have the following definition.
\begin{definition}
A \textit{point-to-point financial transmission right} (FTR) is any triple $(i,j, \b{t}_{ij})$, where $i$ denotes an injection node, $j$ a withdrawal node, and $\b{t}_{ij} \in \mathbb{R}^N_+$ an hourly power profile spanning $N$ time periods.
The FTR yields the holder a rent (or liability) equal to \ $(\b{\lambda}_j - \b{\lambda}_i)^{\top} \b{t}_{ij}$.
We refer to the FTR more compactly as $\b{t}_{ij}$.
\end{definition}
\begin{remark} \label{remark:FTRsymmetry}
We have implicitly required injection/extraction symmetry in our definition of FTRs, as we have considered a lossless model of power flow.
We refer the reader to \cite{PhilpottPritchard04} for a more general characterization of FTRs that accommodates lossy transmission networks.
\end{remark}
FTRs have become an important component of LMP-based electricity markets, in part, because of their ability to provide market participants with
an effective hedge against transmission congestion costs for long-term energy transactions involving known injection and withdrawal points within the transmission network.\footnote{
We refer the reader to \cite{RosellonKristiansen13} for a recent survey on financial transmission rights.}
\textit{Flow-based} or \textit{flowgate rights} (FGRs) have also been proposed as a viable alternative or complement to FTRs \cite{ChaoPeck96, Stoft98, Chaoetal00}.
Specifically, a FGR is a link-based transmission right, specified in terms of directed transmission link, and quantity of power flow along that link. It yields the holder the entitlement to receive a payment equal to the Lagrange multiplier (\mbox{\textit{i.e.},\ \/} shadow price) associated with the chosen link's capacity constraint multiplied the nominated quantity of power flow. Note that the rent due to a FGR is guaranteed to be nonnegative, as the corresponding shadow prices on transmission constraints are necessarily nonnegative.
We have the following definition of FGRs according to the model considered in this paper.
\begin{definition}
A \textit{flowgate right} (FGR) is any double $(\ell,\b{f}_\ell)$, where the index $\ell \in \{1,\ldots,2m\}$ denotes a directed transmission link, and $\b{f}_\ell \in \mathbb{R}^{N}_{+}$ a hourly power profile spanning $N$ time periods.
The FGR yields the holder a rent of $\b{\mu}_\ell^{\top} \b{f}_\ell$.
We refer to the FGR more compactly as $\b{f}_{\ell}$.
\end{definition}
Although FGRs are not currently offered in the majority of transmission rights auctions that are in operation today,
the theoretical literature on the subject has converged on the viewpoint that both FTRs and FGRs could and should coexist, thereby allowing market participants the ability to decide as to what mix of rights is best \cite{Chaoetal00, ONeillEtAl02,ONeillEtAl13}.
We adopt this perspective, and develop our mathematical results in a framework that is general enough to accommodate both types of financial rights.
Accordingly, we denote an arbitrary \emph{collection of FTRs and FGRs} by the pair $({\cal T}, {\cal F})$, where
\begin{align*}
{\cal T} = \{ \b{t}_{ij} \ \left| \ i,j = 1,\dots,n \right.\} \quad \text{and} \quad {\cal F} = \{ \b{f}_\ell \ \left| \ \ell=1,\ldots,2m \right.\}.
\end{align*}
Here, $\b{t}_{ij}$ is the sum of all FTRs of the same type $(i,j)$, and $\b{f}_\ell$ is the sum of all FGRs of the same type $\ell$.
In what follows, we investigate the revenue adequacy of transmission rights in nodal spot markets based on multi-period economic dispatch with storage. In particular, we establish conditions on the joint allocation of FTRs and FGRs, under which the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO is sufficient to cover their net settlement.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:FTR_rent}
The \emph{rent due to a collection of transmission rights} $({\cal T}, {\cal F})$ is defined as
$$ {\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) = \sum_{i,j=1}^n (\b{\lambda}_j - \b{\lambda}_i)^{\top} \b{t}_{ij} \ + \ \sum_{\ell=1}^{2m} \b{\mu}_\ell^{\top} \b{f}_\ell. $$
\end{definition}
In general, the merchandising surplus collected by the ISO will not equal the rent due to a collection of transmission rights.
Their allocation must, therefore, be restricted in such a manner as to guarantee that the ISO does not incur a financial shortfall.
A well known requirement
is the \emph{simultaneous feasibility test} (SFT) \cite{Hogan92, Wuetal96, PhilpottPritchard04}.
We now extend this notion to the multi-period setting to accommodate the enlargement of the set of feasible power injections due to the presence of storage capacity.
We first require additional notation.
For each time period $k = 0, \dots, N-1$, denote by $\b{t}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^n$ the net injection vector induced by a collection of FTRs in ${\cal T}$, and by $\b{f}(k) \in \mathbb{R}^{2m}$ the vector of direction-specific flowgates induced by a collection of FGRs in ${\cal F}$.\footnote{Accordingly, the $i$th element of the net injection vector $\b{t}(k)$ is given by $t_i(k) = \sum_{j=1}^n (t_{ij}(k)-t_{ji}(k))$, and the $\ell$th element of the flowgate vector $\b{f}(k)$ is given by the $k$th element of the FGR $\b{f}_\ell$. }
\begin{definition
\label{def:sf}
A collection of transmission rights $({\cal T}, {\cal F})$ are said to be \emph{simultaneously feasible} if there
exists a sequence of storage injections $Q \in \mathbb{R}^{n \times N}$, which is feasible according to
\begin{alignat*}{3}
\b{t}(k) + \b{q}(k) & \in \ \mathcal{P}(\b{c} - \b{f}(k)), \qquad && k=0,\dots,N-1 \\
\b{q}_{i} &\in \ \mathcal{U}( \b{b}_i), && i =1,\dots,n.
\end{alignat*}
\end{definition}
In other words, a collection of transmission rights $({\cal T}, {\cal F})$ are simultaneously feasible if the sequence of nodal injections induced by the FTRs in ${\cal T}$ can be reshaped by a feasible sequence of storage injections so that the resulting nodal injections induce power flows that respect the transmission capacity limits, derated according to the FGRs in ${\cal F}$.
We have the following result, which establishes revenue adequacy for any simultaneously feasible collection of transmission rights.
\begin{lemma}
\label{lemma:FTR}
If $({\cal T}, {\cal F})$ are a simultaneously feasible collection of transmission rights, then their corresponding rent satisfies
\begin{align}
{\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) \ \leq \ {\rm TCS}. \label{eq:FTRadequacy}
\end{align}
This inequality is \emph{tight}, in the sense that there exists a simultaneously feasible collection of transmission rights with a corresponding rent equal to the ${\rm TCS}$.
\end{lemma}
Lemma \ref{lemma:FTR} reveals that a simultaneously feasible collection of transmission rights cannot yield a rent, which exceeds the transmission congestion surplus (TCS).
While this ensures the revenue adequacy of the ISO, it also points to the fact that transmission rights, alone, are incapable of capturing the entire merchandising surplus (MS) collected by the ISO, in general.
We thus define \emph{financial storage rights} -- a new class of financial instruments, which, in combination with transmission rights, enable the full recovery of the MS, among other benefits to market participants.
\subsection{Financial Storage Rights} \label{sec:fsr}
\noindent We begin with a definition of \emph{financial storage rights}.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:fsr}
A \textit{financial storage right} (FSR) is any double $(i,\b{s}_i)$, where $i$ denotes a withdrawal node, and $\b{s}_{i} \in \mathbb{R}^N$ a hourly power profile spanning $N$ time periods.
The FSR yields the holder a rent (or liability) equal to $\b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{s}_{i}$.
We refer to the FSR more compactly as $\b{s}_{i}$.
\end{definition}
Before embarking upon a formal analysis of FSRs and their properties, we provide a brief qualitative discussion surrounding their structure and potential use.
First, FSRs can be thought as financial property rights to storage capacity; or, more accurately, as entitlements to the intertemporal arbitrage gains that storage generates under its socially optimal operation, \mbox{\textit{i.e.},\ \/} the storage congestion surplus (SCS).
Being defined as such, FSRs enable the complete decoupling between the actual operation of storage facilities and the settlement of storage congestion charges.
Second, as tradable property rights, FSRs can be sold in forward auctions coordinated by the ISO; and the revenue generated by such auctions could serve to incentivize merchant investment in storage -- not unlike the role of FTRs in partially supporting the remuneration of merchant transmission investments \mbox{\cite{Hogan02b, KristiansenRosellon06}}. Third, from the perspective of its holder, a FSR is equivalent to a strip of forward energy contracts.
Accordingly, FSRs yield market participants the ability to perfectly hedge physical or financial positions in the spot market against intertemporal price risk. Such hedging capabilities represent a natural complement to FTRs and their ability to hedge spatial price risk across the network. Finally, an important factor distinguishing FSRs from standard forward energy contracts, is the crucial fact that FSRs are issued under the physical cover of storage capacity and settled against the SCS collected by the ISO, as opposed to the revenue generated from contract sales.
Different forms of financial entitlements to the storage infrastructure can be envisioned. For instance, Taylor \cite{Taylor14b} proposes an alternative form of financial storage rights, which are defined in terms of specific storage facilities, and entitle their holder to receive the shadow price on a storage facility's energy capacity constraint times the nominated quantity of energy. We refer to this alternative form of financial rights as \emph{energy capacity rights} (ECRs).
Working within the confines of our idealized storage model, ECRs can be formally defined as follows.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:c-fsr}
An \textit{energy capacity right} (ECR) is any double $(i,\b{e}_i)$, where the index $i$ denotes a storage asset, and $\b{e}_i \in \mathbb{R}^N_+$ a hourly energy profile spanning $N$ time periods.
The ECR yields the holder a rent of $\overline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} \b{e}_i$.
We refer to the ECR more compactly as $\b{e}_{i}$.
\end{definition}
\begin{remark}
In the presence of additional constraints, which limit the rate at which a storage facility can be charged or discharged, one can expand the definition of ECRs to include another class of financial rights that entitle their holder to receive the shadow price on the storage facility's power capacity constraint times the nominated quantity of power. Taylor \cite{Taylor14b} refers to such instruments as \emph{power capacity rights} (PCRs).
\end{remark}
Definition \ref{def:c-fsr} is in contrast to our \emph{profile-based} definition of FSRs (cf. Definition \ref{def:fsr}).
Intuitively, the relationship between FSRs and ECRs is analogous to the relationship between FTRs and FGRs. And, to a large extent, the advantages and disadvantages of FSRs versus ECRs mirror those of FTRs as compared to FGRs.\footnote{We refer the reader to \cite{Chaoetal00, ONeillEtAl02,ONeillEtAl13, Oren13, Ruff01} for detailed discussions surrounding such comparisons in the context of transmission rights.}
For example, while FTRs (FSRs) are convenient instruments for hedging spatial (intertemporal) price risk, FGRs (ECRs) are instruments better suited for remunerating property rights to specific transmission lines (storage facilities).
In Section \ref{sec:generalSimultaneousFeasibility}, we present conditions on the joint offering of transmission and storage rights under which the ISO is guaranteed to be revenue adequate. To that end, we first define the rent due to a collection of FSRs and ECRs. We denote an arbitrary \emph{collection of FSRs and ECRs} by the pair $({\cal S}, {\cal E})$, where
\begin{align*}
{\cal S} = \{ \b{s}_i \ \left| \ i = 1,\dots,n \right.\} \quad \text{and} \quad {\cal E} = \{ \b{e}_i \ \left| \ i=1,\ldots,n \right.\}.
\end{align*}
Here, $\b{s}_{i}$ is the sum of all FSRs of the same type $i$, and $\b{e}_i$ is the sum of all ECRs of the same type $i$.
\begin{definition}
\label{def:rent_FSR}
The \emph{rent due to a collection of storage rights} $({\cal S}, {\cal E})$ is defined as
$$ {\rm \Sigma}(\Scal, \Ecal) = \sum_{i=1}^n \b{\lambda}_i^{\top} \b{s}_{i} \ + \ \overline{\b{\nu}}_i^{\top} \b{e}_i. $$
\end{definition}
\subsection{A Generalized Simultaneous Feasibility Test} \label{sec:generalSimultaneousFeasibility}
We now extend our definition of multi-period simultaneous feasibility to accommodate a combination of both transmission and storage rights.
\begin{definition
\label{def:sfGeneral}
A collection of transmission and storage rights $({\cal T}, {\cal F}, {\cal S}, {\cal E})$ are said to be \emph{simultaneously feasible} if there
exists a sequence of storage injections $Q \in \mathbb{R}^{n \times N}$, which is feasible according to
\begin{alignat*}{3}
\b{t}(k) - \b{s}(k) + \b{q}(k) & \in \ \mathcal{P}(\b{c} - \b{f}(k)), \qquad && k=0,\dots,N-1 \\
\b{q}_{i} &\in \ \mathcal{U}( \b{b}_i - \b{e}_i), && i =1,\dots,n.
\end{alignat*}
\end{definition}
\begin{remark}[Accommodating Inefficiencies in Storage]
\label{remark:nonidealities} While we have thus far operated under the assumption of perfectly efficient storage facilities, it is straightforward to extend the definition of simultaneous feasibility in Definition \ref{def:sfGeneral} to accommodate dissipative losses and conversion inefficiencies in storage
by simply refining the underlying storage constraints on which it is based.
\end{remark}
Essentially, a collection of transmission and storage rights are simultaneously feasible if the nodal injections induced by the FTRs in ${\cal T}$ and FSRs in ${\cal S}$ can be reshaped by a sequence of storage injections, which both respect the storage capacity constraints (derated according to the ECRs in ${\cal E}$), and result in power flows that do not violate the transmission capacity constraints (derated according to the FGRs in ${\cal F}$). Notice that, in the absence of storage rights, this generalized definition of simultaneously feasibility reduces to Definition \ref{def:sf}.
The following result characterizes the maximum rent achievable by any simultaneously feasible collection of transmission and storage rights.
\begin{theorem}
\label{thm:MS}
If $({\cal T}, {\cal F}, {\cal S}, {\cal E})$ are a simultaneously feasible collection of transmission and storage rights, then their corresponding rent satisfies
\begin{align}
{\rm \Phi}(\Tcal, \Fcal) \ + \ {\rm \Sigma}(\Scal, \Ecal) \ \leq \ {\rm MS}. \label{eq:proof_ms}
\end{align}
Moreover, this inequality is tight, in the sense that there exists a simultaneously feasible collection of rights $({\cal T}, {\cal F}, {\cal S}, {\cal E})$ with an associated rent equal to ${\rm MS}$.
\end{theorem}
Theorem \ref{thm:MS} is reassuring, as it guarantees revenue adequacy on behalf of the ISO when jointly issuing transmission and storage rights in a manner that is simultaneously feasible. More precisely, given a \textit{fixed} configuration of transmission and storage facilities, the MS collected by the ISO in the spot market suffices to cover the rents of all outstanding transmission and storage rights. Revenue adequacy is not, however, guaranteed in the event of unplanned contingencies, as the configuration of transmission and/or storage facilities may deviate from what was assumed in the simultaneous feasibility test.
The ISO must, therefore, specify a mechanism to compensate potential revenue shortfalls that might arise in the event that such contingencies occur.\footnote{
We refer the reader to \cite[Sec. 3.6]{Oren13}, which examines several mechanisms to cover revenue shortfalls that might occur when settling payments to FTR holders in the event of transmission line contingencies. For example, PJM handles revenue inadequacy in settling FTR payments by prorating the revenue shortfall among the FTR holders; whereas, in NYISO-run markets, transmission line owners are held responsible for the shortfall \cite{ONeillEtAl13}. A mechanism of the former type generally transfers the risk of shortfall to the FTR holders, undermines the ability of FTRs to provide perfect price hedges, and is vulnerable to gaming due to the socialization of the shortfalls.
Conversely, a mechanism of the latter type fully funds the outstanding rights, thereby transferring the risk of shortfall to the transmission line owners themselves. An argument in favor of such a mechanism is that it provides an incentive to transmission line owners to effectively maintain their assets, and avoids the socialization of revenue shortfalls among the FTR holders \cite{ONeillEtAl13, Oren13}.}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 1,112 |
**THE STATES AND THE NATION SERIES,** of which this volume is a part, is designed to assist the American people in a serious look at the ideals they have espoused and the experiences they have undergone in the history of the nation. The content of every volume represents the scholarship, experience. and opinions of its author. The costs of writing and editing were met mainly by grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, a federal agency. The project was administered by the American Association for State and Local History, a nonprofit learned society, working with an Editorial Board of distinguished editors, authors, and historians, whose names are listed below.
**EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD**
**James Morton Smith,** General Editor
Director, State Historical Society
of Wisconsin
**William T. Alderson,** Director
American Association for
State and Local History
**Roscoe C. Born**
Vice-Editor
_The National Observer_
**Vernon Carstensen**
Professor of History
University of Washington
**Michael Kammen,** Professor of
American History and Culture
Cornell University
**Louis L.Tucker**
President (1972–1974)
American Association for
State and Local History
**Joan Paterson Kerr**
Consulting Editor
_American Heritage_
**Richard M. Ketchum**
Editor and Author
Dorset, Vermont
**A. Russell Mortensen**
Assistant Director
National Park Service
**Lawrence W. Towner**
Director and Librarian
The Newberry Library
**Richmond D. Williams**
President (1974–1976)
American Association for
State and Local History
**MANAGING EDITOR**
**Gerald George**
American Association for
State and Local History
**_To
Paul, Ruth, and Jennifer_**
## **Contents**
Invitation to the Reader
Preface
The Old Oregon Country: The Outer Limits of Rival Empires (1500–1806)
The Pursuit of Furs, Souls, and the Good Life
Roots of a Conservative Commonwealth
Intrusion of the Outside World (1870–1920)
Change for the Sake of Continuity (1861–1920)
People and Politics (1920–1970)
The Struggle against Modern Life
Epilogue: Oregon at the Bicentennial
Suggestions for Further Reading
Index
Copyright
Illustrations
A Photographer's Essay by Bob Peterson
_Original Maps by Harold Faye_
Oregon, Contemporary Map Keyed to Text
Major Railroads in the Pacific Northwest, 1893
## _Invitation to the Reader_
IN 1807, former President John Adams argued that a complete history of the American Revolution could not be written until the history of change in each state was known, because the principles of the Revolution were as various as the states that went through it. Two hundred years after the Declaration of Independence, the American nation has spread over a continent and beyond. The states have grown in number from thirteen to fifty. And democratic principles have been interpreted differently in every one of them.
We therefore invite you to consider that the history of your state may have more to do with the bicentennial review of the American Revolution than does the story of Bunker Hill or Valley Forge. The Revolution has continued as Americans extended liberty and democracy over a vast territory. John Adams was right: the states are part of that story, and the story is incomplete without an account of their diversity.
The Declaration of Independence stressed life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; accordingly, it shattered the notion of holding new territories in the subordinate status of colonies. The Northwest Ordinance of 1787 set forth a procedure for new states to enter the Union on an equal footing with the old. The Federal Constitution shortly confirmed this novel means of building a nation out of equal states. The step-by-step process through which territories have achieved self-government and national representation is among the most important of the Founding Fathers' legacies.
The method of state-making reconciled the ancient conflict between liberty and empire, resulting in what Thomas Jefferson called an empire for liberty. The system has worked and remains unaltered, despite enormous changes that have taken place in the nation. The country's extent and variety now surpass anything the patriots of '76 could likely have imagined. The United States has changed from an agrarian republic into a highly industrial and urban democracy, from a fledgling nation into a major world power. As Oliver Wendell Holmes remarked in 1920, the creators of the nation could not have seen completely how it and its constitution and its states would develop. Any meaningful review in the bicentennial era must consider what the country has become, as well as what it was.
The new nation of equal states took as its motto _E Pluribus Unum_ —"out of many, one." But just as many peoples have become Americans without complete loss of ethnic and cultural identities, so have the states retained differences of character. Some have been superficial, expressed in stereotyped images—big, boastful Texas, "sophisticated" New York, "hillbilly" Arkansas. Other differences have been more real, sometimes instructively, sometimes amusingly; democracy has embraced Huey Long's Louisiana, bilingual New Mexico, unicameral Nebraska, and a Texas that once taxed fortunetellers and spawned politicians called "Woodpecker Republicans" and "Skunk Democrats." Some differences have been profound, as when South Carolina secessionists led other states out of the Union in opposition to abolitionists in Massachusetts and Ohio. The result was a bitter Civil War.
The Revolution's first shots may have sounded in Lexington and Concord; but fights over what democracy should mean and who should have independence have erupted from Pennsylvania's Gettysburg to the "Bleeding Kansas" of John Brown, from the Alamo in Texas to the Indian battles at Montana's Little Bighorn. Utah Mormons have known the strain of isolation; Hawaiians at Pearl Harbor, the terror of attack; Georgians during Sherman's march, the sadness of defeat and devastation. Each state's experience differs instructively; each adds understanding to the whole.
The purpose of this series of books is to make that kind of understanding accessible, in a way that will last in value far beyond the bicentennial fireworks. The series offers a volume on every state, plus the District of Columbia—fifty-one, in all. Each book contains, besides the text, a view of the state through eyes other than the author's—a "photographer's essay," in which a skilled photographer presents his own personal perceptions of the state's contemporary flavor.
We have asked authors not for comprehensive chronicles, nor for research monographs or new data for scholars. Bibliographies and footnotes are minimal. We have asked each author for a summing up—interpretive, sensitive, thoughtful, individual, even personal—of what seems significant about his or her state's history. What distinguishes it? What has mattered about it, to its own people and to the rest of the nation? What has it come to now?
To interpret the states in all their variety, we have sought a variety of backgrounds in authors themselves and have encouraged variety in the approaches they take. They have in common only these things: historical knowledge, writing skill, and strong personal feelings about a particular state. Each has wide latitude for the use of the short space. And if each succeeds, it will be by offering you, in your capacity as a _citizen_ of a state _and_ of a nation, stimulating insights to test against your own.
_James Morton Smith_
General Editor
## Preface
THIS book is an attempt to interpret the major themes, political, cultural, and economic, in the history of Oregon since the arrival of the first explorers. It also tries to indicate where the people of the state have most significantly influenced national and international developments and events, and have been affected by them. Although focussed thus upon a region that became a single state, the book does have a further purpose in singling out the experiences that separate Oregon from the other states of the Republic. To do justice in a short work to these large themes requires that much of consequence in the history of the state be omitted. Many important men and women, groups, and topics must be only touched upon or even passed over simply for lack of space. Yet the fact that this volume is the first history of the state published in more than thirty years gives the author hope that future scholarship will remedy its inadequacies, for the documents are rich, the workers few, the opportunities many in writing about almost any aspect of the state's history.
My most important influence in this book, as in my life, is my wife Rosemary. She contributed to the research and read the entire manuscript, portions of it several times. The full manuscript also was scrutinized and significantly improved by the scholarship of Edwin R. Bingham, Vernon Carstensen, Rodman W. Paul, Kent D. Richards, and Craig E. Wollner. Stephen Dow Beckham, Thomas D. Morris, and Robert Peters read portions to my benefit; Professor Beckham and Henry B. Zenk kindly allowed me to examine unpublished manuscripts dealing with the Indians; and Robert Sutton assisted in the research for another section. Robert E. Burke, T. A. Larson, and Wayne Suttles contributed their assistance in various ways. Gerald George, the managing editor of the States and the Nation Series, contributed immeasurably in numerous ways to the preparation of this book. Gary W. Hansen was an ideal research assistant.
The format of this series does not allow comprehensive documentation of material derived from secondary authors as required in a scholarly monograph. I would, however, like to acknowledge specifically the contributions to Oregon historiography of several undergraduate and graduate students of Holy Names College (Oakland), Portland State University, Reed College, Santa Clara University, Stanford University, Syracuse University, the University of California (Berkeley), the University of Oregon, and the University of Washington. The seminar papers, theses, or dissertations of these students have been invaluable to my study of regional history and to the writing of this book: Warren Blankenship, Mary Chewning, David Cole, Janice K. Duncan, Christopher H. Edson, John S. Ferrel, Charles F. Gould, Martha Hicks, Daniel C. Hill, Oznathylee A. Hopkins, Robin Huffman, Amy Kesselman, Manly R. Maben, Franz M. Schneider, Philip Silver, Claude Singer, Richard Slatta, Marjorie R. Stearns, Jack E. Triplett, Walter K. Waters, Esther G. Weinstein, and Robert C. Woodward.
No one can write anything about the history of Oregon without employing the unsurpassed resources of the Oregon Historical Center. Thomas J. Vaughan, the director, and many members of his staff have been indispensable sources of information and encouragement, especially Cathy de Lorge, Barbara H. Elkins, Priscilla F. Knuth, Gordon W. Manning, and Arthur C. Spencer.
For a splendid effort in preparing the manuscript for the press I am indebted to Elizabeth L. Berg, Karen S. Birky, Linda C. Owen, Barbara J. Rossman, Sharon D. Swanson, and Shari Vice.
## _Oregon_
## **1**
## [The Old Oregon Country: The
Outer Limits of Rival Empires
(1500–1806)](Contents.html#zch1)
**I**
A perceptive visitor conversing with residents of the state of Oregon in the bicentennial year, whether in city, small town, countryside, or suburbia, east or west of the Cascade Mountains, from the Columbia valley in the north to the Rogue River in the south, could hardly fail to learn that the men and women of Oregon are intimately dependent upon nature; that this dependence results in a colonial status economically; that colonialism in turn forces citizens into an awareness of national and international developments; and that the people themselves are ethnically and culturally homogeneous. What the visitor might not realize is that these characteristics have persisted since the era of the first settlements.
Oregon's relationship to nature is more noticeable than in most of the fifty states. The commonwealth's most valuable industries today are forest products, agriculture, and tourism. The extractive industries, beginning with the quest for the fur seal and the sea otter, then developing into the beaver trade, lumber milling, wheat raising, and salmon canning, all resting upon the regional waterways, have always been the basis of its economy. The modern tourist, equipped with camper, butane stove, and water skis, wearing hiking boots and packing a nylon tent, is also the heir of the past, of the generations of adventurers, landscape painters, and health seekers who have sought in Oregon's uncluttered spaces opportunities of a nonmaterial nature.
From the beginning the Oregonian has been a colonial. Relying economically upon outside markets, deferring culturally to San Francisco, Chicago, or New York, much of his life has been determined by decision-makers residing far from the borders of the state. But colonialism has not meant isolation. Indeed, however they might try to avoid the demands of world or of nation, Oregonians have been dragooned into recognition of external forces. The Oregon Country was the focus of imperial rivalry among five powers. From this conflict there emerged two final contenders for sovereignty. England ultimately yielded the territory south of the 49th parallel, but the victorious American citizens in the years ahead had to contend with—among a myriad of challenges to the status quo—the California gold rush, congressional attitudes on slavery, Asian immigration, promoters of transcontinental railroads, world wars, the Ku Klux Klan, abstract art, and thousands of outsiders crowding into the state.
Historically, most of these migrants have been similar. Initially, the Caucasian traders, missionaries, and explorers stamped—forcibly or otherwise—their commercial and religious institutions upon the Indian, and later farmers and businessmen continued to bring to their new homes a pervasive racism that has long afflicted the ethnic minorities within the region. The white man's discriminatory cultural values, laws, treaties, and constitutions since the days of the first explorers have been an enduring legacy of his transplanted culture. All of these features of Oregon's life—nature, colonialism, internationalism, and homogeneity—have their roots in the formative era, and in nations thousands of miles from the Pacific slope.
II
Oregon falteringly entered the civilized world as a minor offshoot of the intellectual, economic, and political revolutions reshaping Europe in the three centuries from 1500 to 1800. With the opening of the great frontier of Asia, America, and Africa after the voyages of Columbus, European businessmen and monarchs sought to exploit the natural resources of the undeveloped continents. Organized into proprietary colonies and joint-stock companies, protected by powerful monarchs such as Elizabeth, Ferdinand, and Isabella, equipped with potent arms and ammunition, their consciences secured by the mission of expanding Christianity, the conquerors force-fed the development of Old World mercantile capitalism with the natural resources of the New.
Epochal advances in science and technology accompanied Europe's new affluence. In the seventeenth century Bacon, Galileo, and Descartes attacked the conception of an earth-centered universe where scholars gained truths by means of deductive logic. Now through induction and empiricism they fanned a critical spirit that promised to lay bare the secrets of nature hitherto obscured by reactionary scholasticism. Toward the close of the century and throughout the next the genius of Isaac Newton, revealed in his _Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy_ (1689), spread from scholars' studies to dilettantes' salons on the wings of innumerable popularizations, until the European world assented to Pope's couplet: "Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night; / God said, 'Let Newton be', and all was light." Newton's three laws of motion seemed to reveal for all time the major outlines, both terrestrial and celestial, of the physical universe. These achievements, it should be noted, were not isolated feats of the scientific great, for they rested upon the solid foundation of the labors of many men who first timidly banded together in obscure discussion clubs and lonely scientific associations, often in fear of secular or religious defenders of the status quo, but who in time gained the patronage of the rich, the noble, and the powerful in forming such great intellectual clearinghouses as the French Academy of Sciences and the British Royal Society that served to keep scholars in touch even across international boundaries.
The triumph of science was the triumph of reason. Churchmen had long welcomed human reason as a divine gift, as a means supplementary to faith to perceive God's truths. In the wake of the discovery of scientific laws, philosophers increasingly regarded reason as a way to discern the laws of politics and society and economics which they believed to be as immutable as the physical laws that the great Newton had revealed. It became a commonplace that everybody, not just the individual genius or the devoutly religious, possessed at least a modicum of reason. Confidence in reason refurbished the ancient belief in natural law, that deposit of virtue in the breast of every person, savage, barbarian, or civilized, that inspired him to moral conduct. And if all are rational, if all are moral, then all too are endowed with natural rights against the power of despotic institutions and personages, however exalted they may be.
The inevitable conclusion from the increasing faith in man's faculties, in humanism, was the ideal of progress. By the eighteenth century most intellectuals in Europe, England, and America felt secure in the belief that all aspects of human endeavor were improving or destined to improve. This era, after all, was the age which gave the word _civilization_ its modern connotation of "the triumph of reason"; it was the epoch which condemned the medieval past as the "Dark Ages"; it was the period in which most thinkers proclaimed the present as superior even to the revered antiquity of Greece and Rome; the time when the Marquis de Condorcet proclaimed a century's faith: "It is certain that Man will become perfect."
Europe's trust in progress, even perfection, was not local or parochial, not snobbish or nationalistic. Humanism meant humanity; progress, natural law, and natural rights meant cosmopolitanism, for surely nature was not discriminatory, did not confine its gifts to the European world. Whether because of these philosophic assumptions or because of the discoveries of the sixteenth-century explorers, men and women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries turned eagerly for knowledge or diversion to the intriguing worlds of America and the East. What they discovered there was not easy for their countrymen to assimilate, for the titled aristocracy of the salons and courts and the newly leisured middle class of coffeehouses and drawing rooms received confusing signals from the reporters of distant continents. The sources of information were various; some authors had been to the exotic regions, some had not. Furthermore, the literary genres were not uniform since military reports, missionary assessments, and travellers' interpretations competed with realistic and utopian novels for the attention of the curious. Finally, the content of these writings gave the reader a wide choice in his response to the alien worlds.
Cortes and Pizarro, in looting the gold and silver of the Aztec and Inca civilizations, had indubitably found the greatest treasure trove of history. Ponce de Leon knew of the fountain of everlasting life. Everyone had heard of the seven golden cities of Cibola, or the golden man, or the Northwest Passage (the Strait of Anián) through North America to the Pacific, or the undiscovered continent—Terra Australis—created symmetrically to balance the northern hemisphere. Most intriguing of all, somewhere in the unexplored regions was domiciled the noble savage.
Rarely has there been such a compelling misconception. For the man or woman for whom progress and reason and civilization had not produced comparable institutions in Europe, solace came in the belief that in favored places of the globe resided a human being close to nature: generous, orderly, simple, and natural in the best sense of the words, unburdened by the artificialities of dogmatic church or tyrannical state, a being whose life was both mirror and model for the pampered European. Scores of writers drew his primitive and romantic portrait. Most popular of all was Baron de Lahontan, whose _New Voyages to North-America_ glorified the Iroquois, and Lahontan was no armchair utopian but one who had himself lived in their bark longhouses.
And yet there was another side to the non-European cultures and their primitive inhabitants. One could not be sure that Baron Lahontan caught the true image of the New World for there were other writers, of equal credentials, who may have found not only wealth in distant places but also danger: mighty storms, threatening forests, insufferable climates. Primitive man, these critics claimed, was indeed savage, but scarcely noble: dirty, treacherous, lustful, backward, he and his culture deserved only the option of destruction or assimilation. But whether one found the undeveloped continents a source of virtue or of vice, of utility or of frustration, fascination with them led to an ever-widening concern with their environment and society, a concern manifested in a proliferation of dangerous ventures to unknown coasts. Among these beckoning regions, the sources of both temptation and trepidation, was the vast domain of the Oregon Country (far larger than the present state of Oregon), extending from the Pacific Ocean to the Rocky Mountains, and from the northern border of California (42°) to the southern boundary of Alaska (54°40').
III
The opening of the Oregon Country to the Caucasian race was a product of the Anglo-Spanish rivalry of the Renaissance. Beginning from the base in the West Indies secured by Columbus, Spain's _conquistadors_ fanned out through Central and South America. From 1492 through 1535 their quest for gold carried them to the great cultural centers of Indian America where they laid tribute the Aztec, Chibcha, and Inca peoples. Buoyed by the treasures of Latin America, Spanish maritime explorers pushed into the Pacific, discovered the Philippine Islands, and first circumnavigated the globe. By 1600 Spain's treasure galleons had linked the Philippines with Acapulco and the Spanish Main with Cadiz. Her monarchs, Charles V (1516–1556) and Philip II (1556–1598), dazzled Europe with their empire's cultural magnificence and political hegemony and their unquenchable liberality in pouring the wealth of the Indies into the wars of religion arising out of the Reformation. The mines of Aztec and Inca, however, were something less than eternal in their supply. Admission of this inescapable fact, coupled with geographic delusions and the maddening blows of England, turned the attention of Spaniards to their northern borderlands. Shortly after Cortes's conquest of Montezuma, Spain had started her explorations northward to California from Panama and western Mexico, but the Pacific Northwest became desirable only because it represented one of the innumerable European fantasies about America.
The Strait of Anián connecting the Pacific and the Atlantic oceans was, men avowed, not only a geographic fact but a source of mercantile wealth. A short northern passageway, avoiding the dangerous capes to the south, would be worth a fortune in time, logistics, and safety for the fragile vessels of the day. The Pacific Northwest, along with other favored regions of America, promised more than this long-desired waterway. Gold and silver, pearls, precious stones, exotic plants lay there just as they had beckoned men of all nations—Verrazano, Champlain, Raleigh, Gilbert, John Smith, to recount the most familiar—to eastern North America. Private enterprise with the blessing of the crown (secured by a promise of one-tenth of the profits—the same arrangement made by Ferdinand and Isabella with Columbus) was the time-honored instrument at hand. The results were expected to bolster the declining fortunes of Mexico and Peru and sustain Spain's position as the most glorious and most extensive empire of world history.
The confident beginnings of this anticipated renaissance began all across the Spanish borderlands. In the middle of May in 1539 Hernando de Soto sailed from Cuba to plant a colony 600 strong in Florida, a land of elastic boundaries that might well contain the seven golden cities of Cibola. Four years later the survivors, reduced by half, wandered into Mexico City after traversing most of the present southeastern United States and discovering the Mississippi River, which became for De Soto both his glory and his grave. In February 1540 Francisco Vasquez de Coronado left from Compostela for the Seven Cities of Cibola. When he returned two years later to the City of Mexico, Coronado reported the tall grasses, the mercurial climate, and the shaggy buffalo of the Great Plains, but no cities of gold. And farthest west Antonio de Mendozo, the great viceroy of Mexico, dispatched an expedition in 1542 commanded by Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, a naval officer, to seek the Strait of Anián by sailing north beyond California. Disease killed the commander, but his lieutenant, Bartolome Ferrelo, carried on and may have become the first white man to catch sight of the coast of Oregon, before wind and fog forced his expedition to turn back just south of the 42nd parallel, the later boundary between California and the Northwest. These three great probes, east, center, west, all ended in failure, but so far as the Northwest coast was concerned, the failure may have been a boon to Spain for, upon reflection, her officialdom decided not to follow Ferrelo's wake in fear that a discovered Anián might become a curse, might benefit the _nouveaux_ empires of France or Russia or England more than its nondiscovery would succor Spain. For the same reason it was better to leave, out of sight if not out of mind, the minerals and pearls of the Northwest.
England, however, was painfully visible, to Spanish eyes, for under Queen Elizabeth, the charismatic "Gloriana" of her people, that hitherto insignificant nation had become a world power in arts, commerce, and statecraft. Her gains were Spain's losses in both the diplomacy of continental chancelleries and on the decks of ships of war in the Atlantic, the Caribbean, and the misnamed Pacific. The struggle between English corsair and Spanish galleon is one of the epic themes of maritime history and one not unrelated to the genesis of Caucasian Oregon. It opened in the Pacific with Francis Drake's attacks on the western coasts of South America and his capture of the treasure galleon bound from the Philippines to Acapulco in 1578–1579. On this voyage, hunting for a port to refit, Drake may have reached what became the Oregon line, but the evidence remains unclear. A decade later the English privateer Thomas Cavendish raided Peru, then took a galleon worth one million dollars; the Spanish viceroy feared he had slipped in and out of the Pacific through the Strait of Anián.
Spain's responses to the English assaults fluctuated between rage and hesitation. Some colonial officials favored exploration of the California and Northwest coasts to establish antibuccaneering bases; others, fearful of financial drain and naval overexpansion, cautioned inaction. One final exploratory effort was made just at the beginning of the new century. In 1602–1603 Sebastián Vizcaíno and Martin de Aguilar sailed from Acapulco to chart the coast of northern California. They reached a latitude of 43° before the sea and scurvy defeated them, ending Spain's last thrust towards the Oregon Country for 171 years, and she then settled to a conscious policy of neglect concerning the Pacific Northwest. The Spanish allowed the Strait of Anián again to slip from memory in the hope that no foreign power would reveal it to provide a means of leverage against their possessions. Thus the legacy of Spain's maritime pioneers became one of courage, resourcefulness, and ultimate oblivion, as official policy demanded that their maps, their charts, their logbooks lie concealed, even from other Spaniards.
IV
The year 1774 was one of anguish for the great imperial rivals Britain and Spain. In Philadelphia rebellious colonists met in the First Continental Congress to petition George III for redress of grievances. A continent away Spain, too, was on the defensive. Her colonial governors worried not about rebellious subjects but about Russian entrepreneurs, fur traders hunting sea otter in Alaskan waters who were, so feared the Spanish, ambitious to push down the entire coast of western North America even to California in pursuit of their lucrative aquatic quarry. A more depressing prospect for Spain was a potential by-product of Russian expansion. What if they discovered the Strait of Anián, followed it to the center of the continent, and then struck southward to the core of the Iberian empire, the silver-producing provinces of northern Mexico? Or what if the British followed the same southerly route, perhaps coming through Anián from the east, from Hudson Bay or the Saint Lawrence?
To forestall the Russians, the Spanish had begun at San Diego in 1769 their famous California mission chain. At these imperial outposts they planned to secure the province with a handful of soldiers, a few dedicated friars, and numerous Christian Indians. Farther north, information was the first requirement, and to obtain it Viceroy Antonio Maria de Bucareli, a century and three-quarters after Spain's previous expedition, sent Juan Pérez to the Northwest coast in 1774. Pérez's men reached their farthest north at 55°30´, encountered canoe loads of Haida Indians, and discovered a future pivot of international power politics and commercial relations, Nootka Sound on western Vancouver Island. But Pérez did not land nor did he claim possession anywhere in the Northwest.
Spurred on by further warnings from Madrid, Bucareli sent other mariners, Bruno de Heceta and Juan Francisco Bodega y Quadra, north again in the following year to spy upon the Russians, to explore, to take possession, and to assess the trade potential of the Indians. Heceta entrenched himself forever in the history of exploration when, on August 17, he discovered what he took to be the Strait of Anián, but what Robert Gray later rediscovered and named the Columbia River. But Heceta did not investigate the waterway. He found the Indians to be formidable (they killed seven members of a landing party) and he only reached 58°30´ north rather than his chosen destination of 65°. His sole success, and that was chimerical, was to claim possession of the country for imperial Spain. The failures of Pérez and Heceta stood in stark, perhaps unfair, contrast to the exploits of the first English explorer of the Pacific Northwest.
In a London salon one April evening in 1776, the diarist James Boswell reflected upon a couple standing across the room: "It was curious to see Cook, a grave steady man, and his wife, a decent plump Englishwoman, and think that he was preparing to sail round the world." Boswell, of course, did not confuse James Cook's appearance with his achievements, for the unprepossessing mariner was one of the greatest explorers who ever lived. The son of a day laborer, Cook had early gone to sea, had risen to command a collier in the north of England, and had served efficiently in the Seven Years War as a naval officer. His reputation as a navigator earned him the command of an expedition to the South Pacific in 1768–1771, sponsored by the Royal Society, when he observed the transit of Venus and searched faithfully but fruitlessly for Terra Australis, the unknown continent. He became the first white man to visit New Zealand in more than a century and he also touched at Tahiti. The year after his return he began a four-year sweep that carried him to the Antarctic and through many islands of the Central and South Pacific. Returning triumphantly from his second voyage, Cook personified for Europe the eighteenth-century virtues of cosmopolitanism, humanity, and reason. His navigational skill was legendary, his antiscorbutic measures innovative, and his patrons impressive.
Now Cook was preparing for his third and final voyage, the only one concerned with North America. His instructions, dated two days after the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence, were a compendium of the century's aspirations: the Admiralty ordered Cook to find the Northwest Passage, to inventory the natural environment, to take possession of territory unclaimed by foreign powers, and to deal kindly but firmly with the natives.
Cook's vessels, _Resolution_ and _Discovery,_ departed from Plymouth on July 12, 1776, passed around Cape Horn, and reached the Northwest coast at Cape Blanco on March 7, 1777, after passage via New Zealand, Tonga, and Tahiti. Cook then proceeded northward to Nootka Sound, unwittingly bypassing in foul weather and in the night two great attractions for the searcher for the Northwest Passage, the Columbia River and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. After a stay of a month's duration at Nootka he sailed north to Alaskan waters, hoping to find a passage to the Arctic Ocean, but he was turned back by ice at his highest latitude, 70°44'. Cook then retired to winter quarters in Hawaii, where he was killed in a skirmish with the natives. Command of the expedition then fell to Capt. Charles Clerke, and after his death to Capt. John Gore, who finally brought the ships home on October 4, 1780. Cook's voyage was important not only for itself but also because its journals, unlike those of the Spanish discoveries, were published openly for the world to admire. According to his biographer, J. C. Beaglehole, Cook on his third voyage settled the general outline of the American coast from Cape Blanco to Nootka Sound and from a few degrees beyond Nootka to Cook Inlet. He firmly placed the general line of the Alaskan Peninsula, discovered the true nature and direction of the Aleutian chain, and also made preliminary surveys of Alaska beyond those islands.
In addition to the geographical record that his biographer rightfully celebrates, impressive as it was, Cook's final voyage had other implications for the Pacific Northwest. The most important concerned the fur trade. For almost forty years there had been a market in north China for the pelts of seals and otters. The Russians had inaugurated this traffic from the rich sealing grounds of Alaska, and later, as we have seen, they threatened to encroach upon Spanish California. Thus it was not surprising in December 1779, when _Resolution_ and _Discovery_ anchored in Macao on their homeward journey, that their seamen were able to dispose of the skins acquired in casual trade in America. What did amaze them was the rate of exchange. As the official journal put it: "We sold the remainder of our furs to much greater advantage, then [ _sic_ ] at Kamchatka; the Chinese being very eager to purchase them and gave us from 50 to 70 dollars a skin;... for what we bought with only a hatchet or a Saw." Lt. James King added, "The rage with which our seamen were possessed to return to Cook's River [Inlet], and, by [ _sic_ ] another cargo of skins, to make their fortunes, at one time, was not far short of mutiny." The result of this momentous discovery, within half a decade of its publication, was to send the first of a multinational flotilla to the Northwest coast with almost incalculable consequences for the North Pacific Indians, for the fortunes of British businessmen, for the economy of the United States, and for Anglo-Spanish relations.
The mariners who rushed to Nootka Sound and Alaska could choose from a variety of impressions offered by several of Cook's men whose logs or journals they had eagerly scanned. Statesmen, natural historians, and armchair travellers also were intrigued by the description of the natural environment and cultural patterns of the area. A composite view of their impressions of Nootka gathered from the Cook expedition documents might run like this: The climate of the Pacific Northwest at this latitude was mild in comparison to the Atlantic Coast, surprisingly so, and indeed was as congenial to farming as to the fur trade. Although the Indians had neither necessity nor desire to practice agriculture, the advanced state of the wild plants early in the season, the size of the trees that testified to the fertility of the soil, and the warmth of the spring temperatures promised a land "fit for cultivation." But Lieutenant King also gave the primitive counterpoint to this pastoral scene: "The high mountains which rise on the back & far inland are many of them bare, & serve to heighten & finish the Picture of as wild & savage a Country as one can well draw in so temperate a climate."
Not surprisingly, Cook's men were also ambivalent about the noble savages of Nootka. They judged them not only against the standard of the European philosopher but also against their experiences with the native peoples of Hawaii and the South Seas. The wisest observers, like King, recognized the difficulties of distinguishing Man from men: "rather few of us are capable separating [ _sic_ ] the invariable & constant springs by which we are all mov'd, & what depends on education & fashion." Yet the Admiralty's instructions required judgment, and certain broad areas of agreement did emerge.
The Indians were "brave, resolute, and of a good disposition" toward the visitors, although quick to sense and to redress injuries among themselves. They were superb canoe-men, fine carvers, and expert manufacturers of wooden boxes and other utensils. They traded furs willingly and sold the favors of their women, who were, once cleansed from paint and ashes, not unattractive if Englishmen "had the Courage & perseverence to attempt the refining of this ore, among which it must be confessed we sometimes found some Jewels that rewarded our trouble, Namely two sparkling black Eyes accompanied with a beautiful Face."
To all the officers the Indians' filthiness was their most repellent aspect. Cook found them to be "slovenly and dirty to the last degree" and Clerke, "the dirtiest set of People I ever yet met with." Indian cookery turned the stomachs even of eighteenth-century sailors, especially their art of baking fish, during which the Indians covered the food with "hot stones & Ashes, & in order to keep the heat they clap on their old greasy habits, that are seen swarming with lice, Old mats & whatever is at hand." The Indians stole (although, unlike the South Sea Islanders, less nimbly and only what was valuable—including Cook's gold watch), but perversely were extremely property-conscious themselves, selling not only pelts but trying to drive a bargain for "the very wood and water we took on board." Their music and dances impressed some visitors, repelled others; all were disgusted by reports of Indian cannibalism, a charge later proved to be unfounded. Yet the Indians, however unpleasant in some respects, were redeemed by their furs and by their exotic naturalism, and the Europeans who read about them treasured them as much as they did the primitive peoples of Hawaii or Samoa.
One year after the publication of Captain Cook's _Journals_ in 1784 the first of the British fur traders, James Hanna, was on the Northwest coast in a sixty-ton brig to engage in the sea otter commerce. Although very little is known about Hanna, a great deal is clear about the system under which he and the later British traders operated on the coast. The British government continued to adhere to the old policy of mercantilism, although the challenge to it from Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_ (1776) and other works advocating free trade was beginning to be heard. Mercantilism was a complex theory with many facets. One was the belief that government should allocate exclusive spheres of interest to monopolistic commercial companies, the best-known of which in North America was the Hudson's Bay Company, founded in 1670. Other companies with deceptive names also had a very real interest in the continent. One of them was the South Seas Company, which had title to all British trade on the west coast of America and within 300 leagues of it. Another was the East India Company, which had the exclusive right to import goods, including furs, to the China markets. Mercantilism also raised other barriers for British businessmen. One of its tenets was that trade should be in vessels of one's own flag; another was that trading with one's colonies was preferable (for the balance of trade) to trading with a foreign nation. Spain also adhered to these postulates and claimed the sovereignty of the Pacific Northwest by right of the papal bull of 1494 and through the voyages of her explorers. An Englishman contemplating a trading expedition to the Northwest needed both licenses from the two British companies, which were expensive, and the courage to defy the laws of Spain, which might cost one's ship.
The most famous of the capitalists who broke these twin barriers were Richard Cadman Etches and his associates, British businessmen, who had sent two licensed ships to the Northwest in 1786. Their mariners encountered other vessels, including two trading illegally, according to both Spanish and English law, under Portuguese colors, but actually owned by another English syndicate headed by John Meares. Etches's ships traded in the Queen Charlotte Islands and in Alaska before reaching their destination in China in November 1788. To prevent legal difficulties and to reduce competition, the Etches and Meares groups combined in 1788 to form the Associated Merchants Trading to the North West Coast of America. The new company obtained proper licenses and laid plans not only to trade with the Indians but also to plant a trading factory (to be called Fort Pitt) to anchor a chain of posts all along the coast. These prospects were temporarily stymied, however, when the company's ships became the first to encounter Spain's defense of her claims to sovereignty. Gov. Esteban José Martinez seized _Argonaut_ and _Princess Royal_ in the harbor at Nootka Sound and transported their captain, James Colnett, and the crews to prison in Mexico. After England and Spain approved the Nootka Sound Convention the way was clear for British vessels to voyage to the Northwest coast, and they were the most numerous ships of any nationality until the mid-1790s. Thereafter they yielded primacy to the Americans, who were unhampered by mercantilist regulations either in the Northwest or in China.
The Peace of Paris of 1763 had sealed France's humiliation in the Seven Years War. England had embarrassed her on the high seas, checkmated her on the continent, and ejected her from her vast possessions in North America. To gain revenge upon her rival, France had contributed mightily to the rebellious Thirteen Colonies, but the war that gave America independence brought only financial dislocations to her patron. One of her many trials in these years of struggle was the news of Captain Cook's achievements, news that received plaudits in France despite Cook's nationality, a bittersweet, grudging admiration from the nation that considered herself the intellectual giant of the powers.
France's first response to Cook's accomplishments was the dispatch of Yves-Joseph de Kerguelen-Tremarec to sweep the Pacific in search of the unknown continent of Terra Australis and the trade routes of the Indian Ocean, but his two voyages of 1771–1772 and 1773–1774 were utter fiascoes. To succeed him, France chose a man whose early career bore many similarities to that of Cook, Jean-Francois de Galaud, Comte de La Pérouse. Like Cook, Galaud was not born into the nobility (although his family later purchased him a title); he had gone to sea in his teens, had served with distinction in the Seven Years War, and was recognized as a careful navigator and a humane commander. When Louis XVI and his minister, Claret de Fleurieu, prepared an expedition to redeem Kergulen, Fleurieu remembered La Pérouse as a friend and as a distinguished officer. The government gave him command of two vessels, _Boussole_ and _Astrolabe,_ and a breathtaking set of orders that added up to a command to explore the Pacific more comprehensively than anyone, even Cook, had ever done. The primary purpose of the voyage was scientific, to make one of the grand eighteenth-century surveys of all the conceivable gifts of nature discernible to a mariner's eye, and it received preparations worthy of its goals. Scholars and scientists from the Academy of Science and the Society of Medicine prepared La Pérouse with a set of questionnaires and checklists to record his data, and the eminent naturalist Buffon, among a host of other notables, contributed suggestions. Sailors stowed an abundance of presents in the holds to pave the way for co-operation with the natives. A secondary objective of the expedition was to canvass the territorial possessions and the military and naval strengths of rival powers. In regard to the Pacific Coast, La Pérouse was to explore it fully from Mount Saint Elias in Alaska to the Spanish capital at Monterey in California. Especially was he to keep before his eyes, as he swept this huge arc of latitude, the great objective of the Northwest Passage.
La Pérouse began his staggering task on July 2, 1785, when _Astrolabe_ and _Boussole_ departed Le Havre. Almost one year later on June 23 the ships struck the Alaskan Coast in the latitude of 59°. Two weeks later La Pérouse found a spacious bay that he named Frenchmen's Harbor, now known as Lituya Bay, where he landed to refit and to take on wood and water. On a small island within the bay he established an astronomical observatory and then proceeded to examine a large river discharging into the harbor, which he hoped was the outlet of a passage to the Great Lakes. The inevitable disappointment that dashed this hope set the tone for La Pérouse's other disenchantments with the region. During his stay of about five weeks he lost twenty-two of his men in a squall that swamped their two small sounding boats. Although the Indians were willing to sell La Pérouse the observatory island, he found them to be otherwise distasteful, indeed a caricature of the Noble Savage:
Philosophers may exclaim against this picture if they please. They may write books by their fire-sides, while I have been voyaging for thirty years. I have been witness to the knavery and injustice of these people, whom they depict as good, because they are so little removed from a state of nature; but this nature is sublime only in the great, in the minutiae of things it is negligent. It is impossible to penetrate woods not thinned by the hand of civilized man; to traverse plains filled with stones and rocks, and deluged with impassable morasses; and to associate with the man of nature, because he is savage, deceitful, and malicious.
Time and environment both worked against La Pérouse. The coastline was so jagged, so studded with inlets, bays, and rivers, that he realized that to conduct a thorough search for the Northwest Passage would consume months allocated for his more valuable work in the Central Pacific. But when La Pérouse departed for Monterey on July 30 he took with him not only unhappy memories and unfavorable impressions and a sense of mission unfulfilled, but also a belief that even in this depressing area Art could improve Nature. The explorer had found the soil fertile and the vegetation lush; fish and game abounded; the scenery was more awesome and picturesque even than that of the Alps or Pyrenees; and, most useful of all, Frenchmen's Harbor was an ideal trading post for otter skins. Upon leaving Alaskan waters, La Pérouse sailed to California, thence on to Russia, where he sent his journals overland to Paris, and to Australia, where he entrusted more reports to a British naval officer. The prescient wisdom of these precautions became evident when his two ships were lost with all hands in a hurricane on the reefs of the island of Varrikoro in the New Hebrides sometime in 1788.
The Pacific Northwest first came to the world's attention as a source of great international tension in the famous Nootka Sound Affair of 1789. The genesis of this incident was that the Spanish Governor Martinez arrived at Nootka on May 5, 1789, to find two British trading vessels riding in the harbor brazenly defying the Spanish possessory claims to the region. The governor seized these vessels and then in July seized two other English ships commanded by James Colnett, compounding his indiscretion by arresting the commanding officer. Heated arguments broke out between the two officers, with Martinez brandishing the discoveries of Heceta and Pérez and later explorers, while Colnett retaliated with the explorations of Cook. On two occasions after his capture, Colnett, who suffered from a family malady, attempted to commit suicide by plunging into the sea. Although less dramatic, the response of Martinez's superior, Viceroy Revillagigedo in Mexico, was also one of dismay. He knew that Spain's domestic and international situation was already precarious with the ascent to the throne of the new monarch Carlos IV, who was under the domination of his queen María Luisa and her close adviser Manuel de Godoy. Abroad, Spain's closest ally was plunged into the turmoil of revolution with Louis XVI, a virtual captive of the French National Assembly.
William Pitt the Younger, precocious son of a brilliant sire (described by his admirers as "not a chip off the old block, but the old block himself"), saw and seized Spain's travail as Britain's opportunity. His vision was not confined to redressing grievances of a handful of peltry traders at Nootka Sound. What Pitt wanted to do was to force open the Spanish empire in the New World to British commerce; his instrument was a novel interpretation of the concept of sovereignty. Pitt argued through correspondence and through his minister at Madrid that the Spanish voyages of discovery and proclamations of possession at Nootka and all along the Northwest coast were invalid. Sovereignty, he declared (in contravention of Britain's claims elsewhere on the globe), rested upon colonization and occupation. However inconsistent, even hypocritical, this assertion sounded to the Spanish courtiers, they were in no position to resist it. By the summer of 1790 it was clear to all that Spain's case against England was weakened not only by the transition to the new rulers but also by the fact that she had never publicized the discoveries of Perez and Heceta.
Pitt's demands that Spain restore the confiscated vessels and abandon her claims to exclusive sovereignty were strengthened by popular passions against Catholic Spain rooted in the days of Philip and the Armada, of Drake and Hawkins. One ballad put the British case most belligerently:
It's a farce you may make your weak Subjects believe,
But our right's equal to yours from Adam and Eve.
Therefore if you don't make us immediate amends
No longer can we look upon you as Friends[.]
Should you wish for a War we have got a new race
Of such brave fighting fellows
not the Devil dare face!
More specific interests joined the mob passions: merchants, industrialists, fur traders all had a stake in supporting the prime minister. War seemed imminent and Spain tried to bolster her negotiating position by calling upon her ally France. But France was no help as the revolution accelerated, and the king was reduced to a partner of the National Assembly, whose members were afraid to aid Spain against her enemy.
Pressing his advantages home, Pitt presented an ultimatum in October 1790. The choice for Spain was either to fight or to restore the captured ships and to modify her claims to sovereignty. Carlos IV consulted his advisers, who counselled rejection even at the cost of war, but the king spurned this course and bowed to the British demands. The resultant treaty, the Anglo-Spanish Convention of 1790, permitted the subjects of both nations to carry on commerce freely "north of parts of the Coast already occupied by Spain" prior to April 1789. The date is important because Martinez planted the Spanish colony at Nootka on May 5, 1789.
This concession was an enormous victory for Pitt, for it could thereafter be interpreted as meaning Spain had no rights by occupation north of San Francisco. The whole region to the north was now open to British trade. For Spain the treaty was also epochal; in the words of historian Warren Cook: "The Nootka crisis signals the beginning of the end of the Spanish Empire in America." What she had long feared, effective commercial rivalry in the region between Alaska and California, was now both a reality of business and of power politics.
The Nootka incident affected not only monarchs and empires. Martinez's seizure of British vessels occurred only months after the inauguration of George Washington as first president of the United States, and it produced the initial foreign policy crisis under the Constitution. Washington and his cabinet feared that if war came Britain would seek permission from the neutral United States to march from bases in Canada to strike at the Spanish possessions in Florida and Louisiana. As a small and impotent power, with a total military establishment of fewer than 1,000 men, the United States was faced with the dilemma of offending, even perhaps fighting, one of the two great empires. Assent to the British request would alienate Spain; refusal could mean another war with the former mother country. The president and cabinet members divided over the issue, but finally resolved upon neutrality and refusal to let Britain pass. Fortunately for the new nation the consequence of this decision was never tested, for the Nootka Sound Convention nullified the need for the feared request. But the United States policy of peacetime neutrality was established.
With the crisis defused, exploration of the Northwest coast continued pacifically. Spain's answer to Cook and La Pérouse was the great Malaspina expedition, which took much of the world within its purview. The expedition, proposed and led by Alejandra Malaspina and Jose Bustamente y Guerra, sailed on the twin corvettes, _Descubierta_ and _Atrevida,_ which departed Cadiz in 1789. Although not originally part of the plan of the voyage, the Pacific Northwest was later included so that Malaspina could search for the Northwest Passage. In late June 1791 he first touched the Northwest Coast at Yakutat Bay (59°) and then moved southward to Nootka. Although the members of the expedition remained in the Northwest for only a month, the artists made invaluable sketches of the Indians, and the scientists also accomplished a good deal of work. Malaspina proved to be astute in assessing the weakness of Spain's political position when he argued for the abandonment of mercantilist restrictions in favor of free trade. He predicted that if these changes were made the Spanish would defeat all their competitors in the Chinese market because of the proximity of California to the Northwest, which would assure the traders a supply of food and other goods. But neither Malaspina's scientific labors nor his economic arguments had any influence. Their author, suspected of currying the queen's favor and of seeking to displace her counsellor Godoy, was banished from the country and his reports were never published in his lifetime.
After the Nootka Convention the Spanish attempted to strengthen their slipping grasp upon the Northwest coast. In the very year of the treaty, 1790, Spain sent three expeditions northward from California. Francisco de Eliza re-established the settlement at Nootka, incidentally becoming the first person to practice agriculture in the Pacific Northwest. Salvador Fidalgo was in Alaska to ascertain recent movements of the Russian fur traders. Finally, Manuel Quimper explored the Straits of Juan de Fuca. His voyage was a part of the revised Spanish plan to retain a portion of the Northwest south of Nootka Sound by founding a naval base at the western end of the strait to guard the only passage to the interior (no one at that time knew that Vancouver Island was an island).
Spain also leaned upon diplomacy. The key to this effort came in the exchanges between the Spaniard Bodega and the Englishman Vancouver in 1792 and 1793, as representatives of their respective governments, when they debated what exactly the Nootka Convention required to be returned to England and the implications of this restoration. Both men were true gentlemen, with a great respect for social amenities and for each other, and they refused to allow their political disagreements to poison their personal relationships. The disagreements arose over the two diplomats' differing readings of the convention and the instructions from their governments. Bodega asserted that he had to restore only the small tract of land Meares had acquired before April 1789; that Spanish sovereignty over the rest of Nootka (and the entire area north of California) was unimpaired by the convention; and that he and Vancouver should make a boundary settlement between the two nations at the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Vancouver contended that he must receive back the entire territory of the port of Nootka and that—most important of all—the British had the right to trade anywhere on the Pacific Coast north of San Francisco. His instructions, he continually avowed, afforded him no room for maneuver. After many lengthy sessions, characterized by courtesy and good faith, Bodega and Vancouver gave up, and referred their problems to their capitals. Then followed another treaty in 1793 which granted Meares $210,000 for his property and a final one in 1794 that officially sealed Spain's abandonment of exclusive sovereignty, thereby opening the Nootka region to England and other nations as well. Further consequences of this impasse for Spain were the abandonment of Neah Bay, since a boundary could not be obtained, the rejection by the Spanish government of a Bodega plan (reminiscent of that of Malaspina) to control the Northwest through trade goods from Mexico, and the final departure of Spain from Nootka in 1795.
George Vancouver's importance in Northwest history goes beyond that of his unsuccessful diplomacy. This great explorer had joined the British navy as a youth and had served in various stations, including that of midshipman on Cook's third voyage. He could have had no better model than that master of command and navigation, although his own judgment and courage were exemplary, in spite of his chronic complaint of a hyper-thyroid condition. On March 8, 1791, the officers of the Admiralty issued Vancouver instructions for an expedition that would put all his qualities to the test. Vancouver was ordered to receive back the English lands and buildings confiscated by Martinez, and to explore the Pacific Coast from latitude 60° north to 30° north, concentrating upon the Northwest Passage and upon the number of early European settlements in the area.
In the three summer seasons from 1792 to 1794, in work involving some danger, much hardship, and a great deal of tedium, the crews of Vancouver's vessels, _Discovery_ and _Chatham,_ patiently searched the Northwest coast. During his first season Vancouver carefully traced the shoreline from 39°5' (in modern California) to 52°18´ (in present British Columbia). The highlights of this year—in addition to the cordial if unfruitful negotiations with Bodega—were the discovery, parallel to that of Spanish vessels under Quimper, that Vancouver Island was indeed insular and that the shoreline south of Whidbey's Island had great agricultural potential. Illustrative of the last, he envisioned this future for the area about Restoration Point:
The serenity of the climate, the innumerable pleasing landscapes, and the abundant fertility that unassisted nature puts forth, require only to be enriched by the industry of man with villages, mansions, cottages, and other buildings, to render it the most lovely country that can be imagined; whilst the labour of the inhabitants would be amply rewarded, in the bounties which nature seems ready to bestow on cultivation.
He noted, however, that north of Point Atkinson the country becomes desolate and devoid of animal life. The nadir of the year, as every schoolchild knows, is that Vancouver failed to rediscover the Columbia River (and also missed the Fraser). Off Cape Disappointment on April 27, 1792, he noticed the "river colored water," but "Not considering the opening worthy of more attention, I continued our pursuit to the N.W." Two weeks later Gray found the river and courteously passed the information on to Vancouver. Vancouver ordered his Lt. William R. Broughton to explore it with _Chatham._ Broughton cruised along the Columbia almost to the union with the Willamette and made the usual observations of the Indians and of nature. Although he considered that the river would be useless for shipping, Broughton, unlike Gray, did take formal possession of it, arguing that his claim was superior to that of Gray in that the American did not enter the river.
In 1793 and 1794 Vancouver returned to the Northwest after wintering in Hawaii. In these years he carefully charted the coastline as far north as Alaska, interviewed the Russian traders there (and was impressed by their understanding of the Indians), and continued his biological and ethnological work. His most enduring accomplishments were his surveys and his cartography, and within them his most interesting immediate conclusion was to destroy the idea of the Northwest Passage. Not the Strait of Juan de Fuca, not Lynn Canal (which Vancouver named for his birthplace), not Cook Inlet, not any other promising bay or river from 30°N to 56°N could ever again be claimed as the long-sought Anián. On August 16, 1794, the crews met to celebrate the completion of the survey of the last bit of shoreline and "In the course of the evening no small portion of facetious mirth passed amongst the seamen, in consequence of our having sailed from old England on the _first of April,_ for the purpose of discovering a north-west passage."
In spite of his "failure" concerning the quest for the Northwest Passage that began on April Fool's Day, George Vancouver was a magnificent eighteenth-century scientist and gentleman. He was cosmopolitan, generous to rival mariners, and sympathetic to the aboriginal peoples. He believed in progress and was proud of the achievements of his country and of his age. Courageously writing the report of his voyages while awaiting death at the age of forty, Vancouver glorified (on the first page of his great report) the mariners of all nations who had participated in the discoveries:
In contemplating the rapid progress of improvement in the sciences, and the general diffusion of knowledge, since the commencement of the eighteenth century, we are unavoidably led to observe, with admiration, that active spirit of discovery, by means of which the remotest regions of the earth have been explored; a friendly communication opened with their inhabitants; and various commodities, of a most valuable nature, contributing either to relieve their necessities, or augment their comforts, introduced among the less-enlightened part of our species. A mutual intercourse has been also established, in many instances, on the solid basis of a reciprocity of benefits; and the productive labor of the civilized world has found new markets for the disposal of its manufactures. Nor has the balance of trade been wholly against the people of the newly-discovered countries; for, whilst some have been enabled to supply their visitors with an abundance of food, and the most valuable refreshments, in exchange for iron, copper, useful implements, and articles of ornament; the industry of others has been stimulated to procure the skins of animals, and other articles of a commercial nature; which they have found to be eagerly sought for by the traders who now resort to their shores from Europe, Asia, and the eastern side of North America.
V
Private enterprise, not the Admiralty, was responsible for the last of the eighteenth-century British explorations, but the goal of the Northwest Passage remained. The North West Company, an organization of Canadian fur merchants formed to combat the Hudson's Bay Company in central Canada, sent Alexander Mackenzie in 1789 to search for a water route to the Pacific. Instead Mackenzie reached the Arctic along the great river that now carries his name. Four years later, with a party of ten men (eight whites and two Indians) Mackenzie tried again, beginning his journey from Fort Chipewyan on May 9, 1793. His route was along the Peace and Parsnip rivers across the Rockies and then to the Fraser River, which he unknowingly discovered but mistook for the Columbia. Knowing that the Columbia flowed into the Pacific far to the south, he struck overland and finally reached the Pacific by descending the Bella Coola River. Near its mouth he found a large rock on which he painted the famous inscription: "Alexander Mackenzie, from Canada, by land, the twenty-second of July, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-three." He was the first man of record to cross the continent by land.
The journey in both directions was a testimony to Mackenzie's genius as a leader. On many occasions, mishaps disheartened the party, and both Indians and whites frequently begged the leader to return home. Sand flies, rain, white water, indifferent or threatening Indians, portages through thickets that tore one's clothes to ribbons were varied and frequent trials. The nadir was a twenty-four-hour disaster on James Creek, which Mackenzie named Bad River, when the canoe overturned in the rapids with the loss of all the bullets and much of the equipment. The entire party effected what Mackenzie called "a miraculous escape" from drowning and his men then hoped that nothing would prevail upon the leader to go on, but he ordered them to dry the remaining supplies, passed out food and rum, and exhorted them to continue. One additional miracle was required to permit the party to proceed to the Pacific, for one of the men, carelessly smoking his pipe, was observed walking unscathed across eighty pounds of drying gunpowder: "I need not add [as Mackenzie understated in his journal] that one spark might have put a period to all my anxiety and ambition."
Mackenzie's journey had remarkable consequences. He was convinced that there was no single Northwest Passage, but he was also convinced that his trip opened up vast possibilities for British power and British commerce. He broached the scheme in its formative version the year after his return and continued to urge it upon government officials for the next sixteen years. Mackenzie's plan was based upon the assumption that the territory of the Pacific Northwest lacked the potential for agriculture; it would thus be secure for the fur trade indefinitely. He wanted government to foster the commercial possibilities derived from this fact by creating the merger of the Hudson's Bay and the North West companies. This corporation would then be free to import through Hudson Bay (formerly closed to all but the monopolistic HBC) goods which would be distributed to Indians all along the beaver and otter country of the Northwest. The pelts collected, through arrangement with the East India Company, would then be sent to China. In sum, Mackenzie proposed a single company to control the fur trade of British North America, but his grand scheme was taken to be grandiose, not only by the government and the rival HBC, but by the majority of his own company. Its attempted execution fell later to American hands.
Whoever might follow Mackenzie's plans or footsteps in the future would have to reckon with the compelling impressions of his journal. Like the other eighteenth-century explorers, regardless of nationality, Mackenzie was intrigued by the Indians. His interest, although primarily commercial, also partook somewhat of the disinterested ethnologist. Mackenzie was impressed by the Indians as canoemen, even rating them superior to his voyageurs: "the Canadians who accompanied me were the most expert canoe-men in the world, but they are very inferior to these people." He was amazed that these "children of Nature" were adept in art; as he walked among the Bella Coola people "near the house of the chief I observed several oblong squares, of about twenty feet by eight. They were made of thick cedar boards, which were joined with so much neatness, that I at first thought they were one piece. They were painted with hieroglyphics, and figures of different animals, and with a degree of correctness that was not to be expected from such an uncultivated people." The environment of the Northwest would have delighted a contemporary romantic aesthete as this observation, recorded four days out on the return journey, confirms:
Nor was it possible to be in this situation without contemplating the wonders of it. Such was the depth of the precipices below, and the height of the mountains above, with the rude and wild magnificence of the scenery around, that I shall not attempt to describe such an astonishing and awful combination of objects; of which, indeed, no description can convey an adequate idea.
VI
About two weeks after the delegates fixed their signatures to the new constitution at Philadelphia, a convivial gathering was in progress aboard the ship _Columbia,_ riding in Nantanskit Roads off Boston harbor. "The evening was spent in murth [ _sic_ ] and glee," wrote one of the participants, "the highest flow of spirits animating the whole Company Jovial songs and animating sentiments passed the last evening we spent on [the Atlantic] side of the Continent." _Columbia_ would depart the next day, October 1, 1787, for the Pacific Northwest, the first American vessel to enter the maritime fur trade. Cook's _Journals_ and the British Etches group's successes had inspired the Boston merchant Joseph Barrell to fit out _Columbia,_ under the command of John Kendrick, and her consort _Lady Washington,_ with Robert Gray as captain, for the Oregon Country. As commander of the expedition, Kendrick was instructed to conduct himself scrupulously in the new territory, to treat the Indians well, and to respect the claims and citizens of other nations.
The outward voyage was marred by the separation of the two ships off Cape Horn on April 1, 1788, and by the suicide of the astronomer, John Nutting, who threw himself overboard, but Gray's _Washington_ raised the Pacific Coast of northern California on August 2, 1788, and the ship worked north searching for a good harbor to take on wood, water, and antiscorbutics. Southern Oregon "was beautyfully divercified with forists and green verdent launs," and at a spacious bay which they took to be the opening of the River of the West, Gray sent a party ashore. One of its members, the captain's cabin boy, a black youth named Marcus Lopius, left his cutlass behind as the party withdrew to the ship. An Indian saw his opportunity, and stole the weapon; Lopius pursued him and wrenched the sword away, but before his shipmates could intervene the Indians "drenched there knives and spears with savage feury in the boddy of the unfortunate youth. He quited his hold and stumbled but rose again and stagered towards us but having a flight of arrows thrown into his back and he fell... and instantly expiered while they mangled his lifeless corse." Gray christened the bay Murderer's Harbor (now Tillamook Bay), but did not retaliate against the Indians.
_Washington_ pushed on to Nootka Sound to find _Columbia_ and Meares's ships, _Felice_ and _Iphigenia._ The British traders tried to scare off the American competition by "fabricating and rehursing vague and improvable tales relative to the coast of the vast danger attending its navigation [and] of the Monsterous Savage disposition of its inhabitants," but the two ships continued to trade along the coast until Gray, who had exchanged ships with Kendrick, took _Columbia_ to China where he traded the furs for Bohea tea while Kendrick remained on the Northwest coast. Gray's vessel ultimately reached Boston on August 9, 1790, after a voyage of 48,889 miles, the first American ship to circumnavigate the globe. Ironically, in spite of the plaudits of New England, the voyage was unprofitable for the owners, since the tea, which was damaged at sea on the return voyage, sold at a low price. In other respects Gray's endeavor was of national significance. _Columbia_ and _Lady Washington_ had not only shown the flag where it had not been seen before, but they had acquired and disposed of a cargo of skins in competition with seasoned British traders; they had established good relations with the Indians despite some provocations; and they had claimed to have seen the western end of the Northwest Passage (probably at either Clarence Strait or Dixon Entrance) while cruising in Alaskan waters. They had also in passing written off the land of British Columbia for farming as "indeed the trees are every where of so enormious a sise that it would be attended with emence labour to Clear the Land."
Joseph Barrell and his associates were not farmers, and they were not discouraged with their first trading venture, for the 250-ton _Columbia,_ manned by fifty officers and men and carrying a cargo of blue cloth, copper, and iron, was again on the Northwest Coast in August 1791. This time the vessel worked for several months southward from Alaska, acquiring furs, and paying for them not only in trade goods but also in the usual mishaps of a trading voyage: scurvy, an Indian plot to capture the ship, and deadening routine in the rainy weather. On May 12, 1792, Gray's men immortalized themselves not by the discovery of the river they named for their ship (which Heceta had accomplished), but by running into its mouth and "at five, P.M., came to in five fathoms water, sandy bottom, in a safe harbor, well sheltered from the sea by long sand-bars and spits." During the next few days the ship probed the mouth of the Columbia River and traded with the Indians whom they found friendly and attractive: "The Men at Columbia's River are strait limb'd, fine looking fellows, and the women are very pretty. They are all in a state of Nature, except the females, who wear a leaf Apron (perhaps _'twas_ a fig leaf)." The courtesy of the Indians and the fish, game, and fertile soil made the Columbia's mouth an ideal place for a trading post, which, in conjunction with one in the Queen Charlotte Islands, would monopolize the trade of the Northwest coast. But the momentous significance of the rediscovery of the great river and the two weeks that Gray's men spent upon it was not for commerce but for politics. Although neither Gray nor his owners thought the event important enough to preserve the log, it later passed into other hands who altered it to contend that he had formally taken possession of the river for the United States. Again and again until the final settlement with England in 1846, American diplomats would assert their country's claim to the vast Columbia watershed on the basis of Gray's exploration of its mouth.
But that development lay in the long future. At the time, what was valuable about Gray's two voyages for the postrevolu-tionary generation of Americans was that they led to a rush of American maritime traders to the Northwest. The work of these seamen was of enormous significance for the national economy of the United States, as the Americans, now restricted in the markets of the British Empire after independence, had to find substitutes for the West Indies, Asia, and the mother country to ensure a favorable balance of payments. The sea otter was the commodity that helped tide the country over its postwar depression and into the recovery of the 1790s. And by the turn of the century Americans dominated the sea otter trade.
The genesis of the most famous of all American expeditions to the Oregon Country, that of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, is a composite of many concerns, commercial, political, and scientific. Gray and Kendrick had initiated several successors into the profits of the maritime trade. Alexander Mackenzie had crossed the continent overland, and his reports were read in the United States as well as in the British Empire. An American who had served with Captain Cook, John Ledyard, had actually attempted to go on foot eastward across Siberia and the Aleutian chain to reach the Pacific Northwest. He reached Yakutsk before being turned back by Russian authorities. As early as the 1760s some of Thomas Jefferson's neighbors were discussing an expedition to explore the Missouri and Columbia watersheds, but the immediate precedent for the Lewis and Clark expedition was the employment in 1793 of a French botanist, André Michaux, by the American Philosophical Society to lead a western expedition. Thomas Jefferson, secretary of state and a member of the society, was the moving spirit in the enterprise, which was "to find the shortest & most convenient route of communication between the U.S. & the Pacific ocean." Comprehensive reports of flora, fauna, and Indians were required. Michaux got underway, reached Kentucky, but then was exposed as a French agent trying to organize an attack upon Spanish Louisiana and was recalled. The Michaux fiasco, however, did not kill Jefferson's interest in western exploration, for as president of the United States he revived the project a decade later.
In the fall of 1802 Jefferson first made known his plans to send off a western expedition and on the following January 18 he proclaimed his intentions to the Congress. He requested the sum of $2,500 to dispatch an exploring party through Spanish Louisiana and the Oregon Country to the Pacific. Jefferson told the members of the Senate and the House that the expedition would have commercial value in that it could produce treaties with the Indians of the plains and Rockies whereby they would abandon their alliances with British traders of the Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence in favor of the continuous navigation of the Missouri River to American territory. Furthermore, since Jefferson, along with other contemporary geographers, believed that there was only a single easy portage between the Missouri and the Columbia, the whole watershed of that river would be opened for American commerce. The expedition promised to furnish incalculable amounts of scientific data and, although Jefferson did not say so publicly, would strengthen the American political claim to the valley of the Columbia, the mouth of which had been first entered by Robert Gray. The international political scene altered, in fact, while Jefferson was laying his plans, as Napoleon sold the entire Louisiana Territory (bounded roughly by the 49th parallel, the Rocky Mountains, the Mississippi, and the Gulf of Mexico) to the United States in April 1803. Now much of the labor of what came to be called the Corps of Discovery would be to inventory American rather than French territory. The magnificent purchase of course did not include any of the disputed Oregon Country.
Under the leadership of two of Jefferson's former Virginia neighbors, both experienced military men and practiced woodsmen, the Lewis and Clark expedition traversed a distance of 3,555 miles round trip from May 14, 1804, to September 26, 1806. Instructions from the president included the main objective (as in the case of the Michaux venture) of following the Missouri to the watershed of whatever river flowing into the Pacific promised "the most direct & practicable water communication across this continent for the purposes of commerce." Furthermore, the Indians were to be cultivated and investigated, and finally the flora, fauna, and mineral resources were to be recorded. Only one special point of inquiry concerned the Pacific Northwest, and that was to discover if the furs of the Pacific Coast might be shipped to market by the Missouri outlet rather than from Nootka.
Departing from a site near Saint Louis, the expedition pushed up the Missouri River to its first winter quarters, the Mandan villages, near present Bismarck, North Dakota. Here were acquired a French-Canadian hunter, Charbonneau, and his Indian wife Sacajawea. When their investigations promised travel free from snow, the expedition departed winter quarters, leaving on April 7, 1805. The corps ascended the Missouri River to the Great Falls and then to its threefold source of the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin rivers. Lewis and Clark led their party across the Rockies to the watershed of the Columbia, down the Clearwater to the Snake, and along that river toward the distant ocean. In the evening of October 16, 1805, the members of the Corps of Discovery proceeded in their canoes down the last seven miles of the Snake to its junction with the Columbia, the Great River of the West, to become the first Americans to strike its waters since Gray's men thirteen years earlier had crossed its dangerous bar. For the next day and one-half various members of the party explored six miles up the Columbia, assured the neighboring Indians in council of their peaceful intentions, and, disgusted by the putrid fish they were proffered, purchased forty dogs from them as a food supply.
At four o'clock on the afternoon of the eighteenth they began their descent of the Columbia that carried the expedition into what became the state of Oregon, and it thus becomes appropriate to follow them more closely. During the next four days the party's progress to the rapids at Celilo was uneventful except for the annoyance of lack of fuel, remedied in part by the Indians, and by the attempt of their Indian guides to return home. Fleas were a minor problem and the hair seals in the river a novelty. The explorers had their initial glimpse of Mount Adams and noted the first wooden houses of the Indians since they had left the Illinois country.
The next few days were among the most arduous of the expedition. At Celilo and The Dalles the men had to master the rapids and chutes of the Columbia forcing its way through narrow gorges between towering basaltic walls. The Great Chute of the Columbia made an indelible impression upon Clark "with the water of this great river compressed within the space of 150 paces in which there is great numbers of both large and Small rocks, water passing with great velocity forming [foaming] & boiling in a most horriable manner." Celilo, as the common fishing grounds for the tribes of the Columbia, had a long tradition of Indian economic use, and since the precontact era The Dalles had been a trade emporium between the Indians of the lower river and those of the Columbia Plateau. Clark noted white man's clothing, kettles, and a musket and sword obviously originating from the maritime traders. He reported on the Indians' bargaining skills and their declaration that "the white people below give great prices for every thing &c."
On November 2 Lewis and Clark left The Dalles for the final stage of their journey to the sea, a thirteen-day trip to the end of waterway navigation. This portion of the trip was a generally pleasant interlude marked by the first sight of Mount Hood and by their joy at the pastoral scenes along the river. From their camp on the Sandy River sixty miles westward, the valley
extends a great Distance to the right & left, rich thickly covered with tall timber, with a fiew Small Praries bordering on the river and on the Islands; Some fiew standing Ponds & Several Small Streams of running water on either Side of the river; This is certainly a fertill and a handsom valley, at this time crouded with Indians.
The mouth of the Columbia, long desired, proved at first to be disappointing. It was difficult to beat through the high winds, and the canoes had to be abandoned in favor of an overland march to the ocean. The Chinook Indians, because of the ravages of venereal disease, did not present an initial favorable impression. The supply of game seemed insufficient for the support of the party while in winter quarters. It was then decided to take counsel from the members of the expedition as to their next step. Lewis and Clark polled everyone, including York, Clark's black slave, and Sacajawea, and the overwhelming consensus was to move to the south side of the river to investigate the temper of the Indians there, to seek better hunting grounds, to see if salt were available, and to have a chance to encounter a trading vessel that might carry them home. Physical activity in itself would offer a release from the elements summed up in Clark's outcry in his journal: "O! how disagreeable is our Situation dureing this dreadfull weather." After a search of a few days the corps moved to the site of its winter quarters on December 7 and in three weeks' time erected the buildings and named the post Fort Clatsop. Here, inside a stockade fifty feet square, they constructed two rows of rooms (three on the north side, four on the south) separated by a parade ground. This small structure was the expedition members' home for the next few months.
Most readers who perused the _Journals_ of Lewis and Clark found the Oregon Country disenchanting. The weather was depressing with only six clear days during the entire winter, and a day without much precipitation called for a special entry: "only three Showers dureing this whole day." Wet weather was not only tedious, but was injurious to health, destructive of gun powder, and dangerous to preserved meat. Life at Fort Clatsop was tiresome in other respects. The men spent hours boiling sea water to make the indispensable preservative salt for the return journey. Their clothing had torn or rotted on the outward journey, but now, with plenty of time and an abundance of elk skins, there developed a shortage of animal brains used for tanning, nor was there soap for a substitute, nor lye from which to make soap, for the evergreens left insufficient ashes for lye-making. Disease and injuries were troublesome; dysentery, back problems, venereal disease, influenza, and dislocated joints all required special treatment. The Indians were interesting, honest, and helpful for the most part, but their ways were often incomprehensible across the cultural gulf. On one occasion, moreover, violence flared as a member of a small salt-making party narrowly escaped murder by a Tillamook Indian. The diet of elk meat soon became monotonous; Lewis noted in February an "excellent supper it consisted of a marrowbone a piece and a brisket of boiled Elk that had the appearance of a little fat on it. this for Fort Clatsop is living in high stile." With these memories none regretted the day of departure, March 27, 1806, although all could look back on a productive winter quarters: reports were written, astronomical observations somehow made in spite of bad weather, and clothes, salt, and food were laid by.
The return trip through the Columbia valley was relatively uneventful except for the discovery of the Willamette River, which the explorers had missed the previous autumn. Significantly, at The Dalles, Lewis welcomed the dry air and the green grass "after having been so long imprisoned in mountains and those almost inpenetrably thick forrests of the seacoast." After a delay of several weeks waiting for the snows to clear, the expedition members crossed the Rockies and descended the Missouri to Saint Louis, where they were heartily acclaimed. The expedition was one of the notable achievements of exploration and its results were numerous and significant, although their totality was not revealed at once. Only in 1814 was an incomplete account of the journey published and not until 1904–1905 were the full journals of Lewis and Clark given to the public. Historian William Goetzmann concludes that the most significant result of the expedition was to make the American West "an object of desire" to the American people. If this estimate be accurate, what specifically was desirable about the Oregon Country? In Lewis's first report to Jefferson (intended for public consumption and published in the press) he testified to the fur trading potential of the Columbia watershed which, although not as lucrative as the Missouri, "yet it is by no means despicable in this rispect." In contrast to Jefferson's original hope, however, the explorers reported that these furs, and those of the Canadian plains if Britain agreed, should be shipped down the Columbia (not the Missouri) to the markets of the East Indies. Although Lewis and Clark believed that the route they discovered was the best to connect the two great western rivers, they admitted that the 340-mile mountainous portage between them precluded as many goods being sent from Asia over this route as on the traditional one about Cape Horn. The explorers praised the Willamette Valley as a place of future agricultural settlement. And, as Jefferson had anticipated, the political gains to the nation, which would ensure the benefits of the fur trade and farming, were substantial. The Indians of the Columbia and of the coast, although not uniformly friendly, were not formidable enemies. On the negative side, the contemporary scientist, unlike the trader and statesman, was not to benefit from the work of Lewis and Clark, for the detailed botanical and zoological reports were not published until the twentieth century.
With the return of the Corps of Discovery, the last of the great surveys of the Oregon Country was concluded. What Ferrelo and Cabrillo had falteringly begun in their frail vessels Lewis and Clark had completed. The Northwest Passage was chimera, not fact. The noble savage was nonexistent, except for Lewis and Clark's favorable estimate of the Nez Percé tribe. Yet equally intriguing possibilities were spread before the eyes of men of the Caucasian race, men not of the Latin nations but of England and the United States, who were now on the threshold of the final struggle for regional sovereignty. But their conflicts were not over unpopulated territory. The tragedy of the white man's advance was that he had predecessors in this abundant country.
The native peoples of the Oregon Country comprised an astonishingly varied mosaic of languages and cultures. Although white men frequently denigrated them as primitive or uncivilized, these observers, apostles of the doctrine of progress, mistook the stability of the Indian ways for simplicity. In actuality the Oregon Indians had very complex cultures, attuned to the rhythms of the changing seasons, and furnished with a rich artistic and cultural life. In the largest sense the Indians of Oregon may be divided, with some exceptions, into four peoples: those of the coast and the lower Columbia; the Columbia Plateau; the south central regions; and the southeast. What united them was not geographic locale, neither was it language or politics, but an intimate dependence upon nature and the compelling necessity to master it.
Nature contributed the salmon, other finned fish, bivalves, whales, and mammalian fauna for the food of the coastal peoples and those of the lower Columbia. On the plateau salmon was supplemented in the diet by mammals, fruits, bulbs, and nuts, and in south central Oregon the Klamath and Modoc relied upon marshes and streams for ducks and geese, fish, and mollusks. In the southeast sustenance came from a variety of natural objects, principally wild seeds, which were at times augmented by deer, rabbits, antelope, and fish.
Nature provided shelter in the form of split plank dwellings, huts, or pit houses. It contributed cooking utensils, weapons, canoes, and storage containers that the Indians made from cedar, willow, and hazel trees, bear grass, spruce root, ferns, and hides. Clothing, too, was its gift. In the realm of the mind and spirit the Indian's animistic religion expressed a desire to control nature for the sake of a rich material life. This animism was marked by rituals ranging from the young Indian's search for a guiding spirit to elaborate ceremonies at the time of spring's first salmon runs. Throughout the long evenings in the winter lodgings, skilled actors dramatized the traditional legends that explained cosmology and cosmogony and reinforced the people's collective virtues in the minds and hearts of young and old.
The political organization of the Oregon Indians ranged from small villages to loose band alliances to tribes. Underlying the leadership of these entities, which the whites found to be distressingly lacking in their concept of political sovereignty, were the two principles of competence and voluntarism. The most adept man would become leader, religious, political, or military, not necessarily through inheritance or wealth. Furthermore, leaders would be followed, not obeyed, as each individual participated in warfare or the hunt on an individual basis, and if a man decided to return home he suffered no stigma for deserting the cause. So far as the Caucasian newcomers went, the Indian attitudes toward nature, in all their ramifications, and their seeming lack of political discipline, were at best exotically quaint and at worst distressingly incomprehensible. Out of these cultural differences, in the heyday of the beaver traders, arose the first manifestations of one of Oregon's oldest social phenomena, the white man's belief in his racial superiority.
## **2**
## The Pursuit of Furs, Souls, and the Good Life
**I**
THE earliest result of the Lewis and Clark expedition was to interest United States businessmen in the beaver trade of the Trans-Mississippi West. Manuel Lisa, the Saint Louis entrepreneur, led a trading party up the Missouri in 1807, the year after the return of Lewis and Clark. But the first American fur trader interested in the Oregon Country was an even greater businessman, a man who was one of the wealthiest Americans of his time. John Jacob Astor, like many Americans, was an immigrant; unlike most, he had emigrated twice. Born the son of a butcher in Germany in 1763, he had joined his elder brother, a manufacturer of musical instruments, in England when sixteen years old. Astor's first experience with America came in 1783–1784, when he journeyed to the New World to visit another brother living in New York City. Conversations with fellow passengers on his ship stirred his interest in the fur trade, and after arriving at Baltimore with a total competence of five guineas and seven flutes, Astor travelled to New York City and, after a brief return to England, settled into the North American beaver trade.
By the year 1808—when he founded the first great United States corporation, the American Fur Company—Astor dominated the fur business. He had connections with Canadian businessmen, he had agents abroad, and his United States territory extended from New York to the Mississippi. The American Fur Company was designed to consolidate his rule over the Great Lakes country, but his allied organization, the Pacific Fur Company, first brought an American settlement to the Oregon Country.
The genesis of this company, formed in 1810, was Mackenzie's plan to unite the territorial beaver trade with that of the North Pacific into a single corporation. Astor hoped to send a party of men from New York City via ship to anchor the Pacific Fur Company operations by erecting a post at the mouth of the Columbia River. The post was to serve as a base to collect furs gathered in the watersheds of the Columbia and Snake rivers and in Canada both by field parties and by coastal vessels. A second party of men was to be sent overland from Saint Louis to the mouth of the Columbia. Astor hoped to work out a reciprocal division of territory with the Russians in Alaska and the North West Company, but these negotiations failed, and he was forced into a competitive rather than a co-operative relationship with these firms. He anticipated the markets for his furs to be international: China, the eastern cities of the United States, Britain, and Europe. Astor would never have become a millionaire businessman without possessing a sense of timing, good fortune, and the ability to select able subordinates, but ironically all of these qualities failed him in his Oregon venture, and international conflicts and a series of misjudgments converted it from an imperial scheme into a humiliating failure, part tragedy, part comic opera.
Astor gathered his maritime expedition at New York City in 1810, bringing many of its members from Canada and down the Hudson by birchbark canoe to the amazement of the New Yorkers, who gaped from the wharves at the voyageurs bobbing in their unusual craft. His ship, _Tonquin,_ was commanded by Capt. Jonathan Thorn, a professional naval officer on leave of absence. The commander of the fur company party, which numbered thirty-three men, was Duncan McDougall, a Canadian like most of the party. Thorn and the landsmen never understood one another; the captain rigorously enforced naval discipline, even abandoning a landing party that missed the ship in the Falkland Islands, until he was forced to return at the point of a pistol. The Canadians rebelled against Thorn's discipline by harassing him in a variety of minor ways, including speaking only the French language when in his presence. The climax of ill-feeling came at the culmination of the voyage when Thorn lost the lives of eight seamen crossing the Columbia bar. Once ashore, however, the spirits of the fur traders rose as they landed in an Edenic world: "The weather was magnificent," a clerk wrote, "and all Nature smiled.... The forests looked like pleasant groves and the leaves like flowers."l
Although the arduous task of clearing timber to make the fort, named for Astor, showed nature in another dimension, the post was built and preparations for trading were begun. During construction Thorn embarked on a trading voyage to the north, became enbroiled with the Indians on Vancouver Island, and was attacked by them. Taken by surprise, _Tonquin's_ crew was overwhelmed, and the survivors abandoned ship (but were later killed by the Indians), except for one wounded sailor who touched off the powder magazine, destroying self, ship, and captors. The overland party, dispatched in 1811, also suffered gravely. Astor's leader, Wilson Price Hunt, became lost along the Snake River, the party separated, and several almost perished before they reached Astoria.
In spite of these troubles Astor's men began trading, placing their posts in competition to those of the North West Company. The rivalry was strong and life often dangerous or lonely, as described by the lone employee at Fort Okanogan: "Only picture to yourself, gentle reader, how I must have felt, alone in this unhallowed wilderness, without friend or white man within hundreds of miles of me, and surrounded by savages who had never seen a white man before. Every day seemed a week, every night a month."
Competition between the Pacific Fur Company and the North West Company was soon caught up in international strife, the War of 1812. When war was declared the British company persuaded the Royal Navy to send a warship to the Columbia to capture the rival post. The captain of _Raccoon,_ finding upon arrival at Astoria that the fort had already changed hands, captured it anyway for good measure. McDougall and the other officers, their position gravely weakened by the loss of _Tonquin_ and the failure of the annual supply ship of 1812 to arrive, had sold Astor's interests to the British firm in the fall of 1813. Since the Treaty of Ghent, approved in 1815, ended the war and provided that property captured during the conflict must be restored, and although Astoria was considered to have fallen under this provision, Astor decided not to resume operations. He could not count upon American naval protection, and his competitors had proved more aggressive than anticipated. The Astoria venture was a failure, not because it was ill-conceived, but because of poor personnel decisions, bad luck, and war. Its significance lay in the realm of foreign affairs, for it provided, as a site of permanent occupation, a useful claim to the Columbia watershed on behalf of the United States when the question of the sovereignty of the Oregon Country was decided. But this decision lay in the long future. What British and American diplomats accomplished in the aftermath of the War of 1812 was agreement on the treaty of joint occupation in 1818 that deferred the question of sovereignty until the indefinite future, while it assured the nationals of both countries free access to the entire region. Both parties were content to renew the agreement in 1827 so that time would enable them to strengthen their respective spheres of interest. In reality, however, after the collapse of Astoria, it was the British fur companies that were the sole source of power in the Oregon Country.
II
The heirs to maritime fur traders, to the territorial explorations of Alexander Mackenzie and Lewis and Clark, and to John Jacob Astor were two great British corporations, the North West Company and the Hudson's Bay Company. The roots of the North Westers lie in the arrangements developed by Montreal businessmen for the fur trade north of the Great Lakes and east of the Rockies beginning in the 1770s. To forestall competition in this wilderness, the various supply houses pooled their trading goods at the interior posts and divided their profits at the end of the season. The system frequently broke down because of avarice or personality conflicts, but the North West Company, reorganized several times over the years since 1779, had by 1804 absorbed or defeated most of its Canadian rivals.
One foe could not be intimidated. This was the venerable and potent Hudson's Bay Company (its antiquity certified by the popular tag for its initials, "Here Before Christ") which, in return for an annual rent of two elk and two black beaver, had received from Charles II in 1670 the entire drainage basin of Hudson Bay as its exclusive preserve. No other subject or firm could lawfully set foot upon this magnificent domain of a million and one-half square miles, but the Scotsmen who directed the North West Company were not deterred by their formidable rival, and under the leadership of William McGillivray they developed a two-pronged response to it. One move was to invade the Hudson's Bay region itself in defiance of British law and the employees of the HBC. Until 1821 guerrilla warfare, marked by price-cutting, indiscriminate use of liquor among the Indians, taking of hostages, and even murder, raged throughout the northern wilderness.
The other strategy was to seek new and uncontested beaver country. From Fort William on Lake Superior the North Westers trapped westward along the watersheds of the Saskatchewan and Athabasca rivers toward the Rockies to outflank the HBC from the south. As it enlarged its territory, however, the North West Company found it increasingly difficult to supply economically its traders from Montreal. Accordingly, in 1806 its directors ordered Simon Fraser to locate the Columbia River from the central plains and to trace it to the ocean in the hope that this river might prove to be an efficient logistical route from the Pacific Coast to the interior posts. Finally in 1808 Fraser's party of twenty-four men embarked on a thirty-six-day outward journey to the Pacific along the river that now carries his name. Fraser had as many challenges as Mackenzie: unknown and enormously difficult terrain, the uncertain responses of the Indians, the murmurings of the men. But his leadership was of impeccable stoutheartedness and exemplified that of the trader of all nations. "Our situation is critical and highly unpleasant," he wrote on one occasion, "however we shall endeavour to make the best of it; what cannot be cured, must be endured." And, on another, "while we have a salmon remaining, bad as they are, there will be nothing impossible for us to do." Yet his intrepedity came to naught, for the Fraser proved to be neither the Columbia nor a navigable substitute for it. The Columbia itself was first traced from source to mouth by another great North Wester, David Thompson, explorer, cartographer, Christian—as well as fur trader—who in a series of journeys from 1807 to 1811 finally reached the ocean at Astoria.
Thompson, who had learned the fur business as an employee of the HBC before he switched to its aggressive rival, had a superb knowledge of wilderness ways, knew several Indian languages, and possessed marvellous skills as a surveyor and cartographer. His multiple talents opened up many of the beaver regions of the Oregon Country. In 1810 his company decided to send him the length of the Columbia River to establish a trading post at the mouth in order to beat Astor's men to this strategic point of exchange and to claim the river's watershed for Britain. Although he was unable to gain the primary objective of his great journey, for he did not reach the river's outlet until after the founding of Astoria, his maps were notable contributions to geographic knowledge, and his Columbia River journey was referred to subsequently by British diplomats in negotiations over the Oregon boundary.
After the acquisition of Astoria the North West Company seemingly had a limitless future. Its only rival was gone, Fraser and Thompson had opened a large beaver country, and the company had posts along the main course of the Columbia and in the Rockies. But there were several problems that awaited resolution before success could be assured. One of these, as historical geographer Donald W. Meinig has pointed out, was the different natural environment of the beaver trade west of the Rockies compared to that of central Canada. In this new country the terrain was rugged and not always penetrable by waterways; the beaver, because of a relative scarcity of its favorite food, was in short supply and the milder winters made its coat less luxurious. The bison, the staple of the plains, appeared infrequently, forcing the men to substitute horse meat as their basic food; this reliance in turn meant a dependence on the Indians who, because of their relative affluence, were not eager to sell horses or to trap furs for the whites. The North Westers also had trouble in finding a suitable headquarters post adjacent both to beaver and friendly Indians and they had difficulty marketing their furs in China because of the monopoly of that market by the East India Company.
In spite of these obstacles the North West Company enjoyed a brief renaissance in the Oregon Country after 1816 under the leadership of the charismatic and corpulent Donald McKenzie. McKenzie selected Fort Nez Perce, at the confluence of the Walla Walla and the Columbia, to be company headquarters. From this base he devised the fur brigade, mobile parties of horsemen, who penetrated deep into the central Rockies and through the Snake River watershed. Profits from the Oregon Country appreciated as knowledge of the virgin beaver territory increased, but even McKenzie's genius could not save the company, for the North Westers were undone by forces and events thousands of miles from the Pacific Northwest.
In 1821 the British government, appalled by the devastation caused by the lawless trade war in central Canada, forced the merger of the North West Company and Hudson's Bay Company. This union brought the HBC to the Pacific Northwest in force for the first time for, as far as British law was concerned, the company was granted exclusive trading privileges and original civil and criminal jurisdiction in the entire region west of the Rockies from the Columbia River North to 54°40', the southern boundary of Russian Alaska. Presented with this domain, the governing council of the company had to make a series of decisions to develop it.
The London headquarters was initially dubious about the potential of the Columbia River watershed. Some directors wanted to write it off as a field of operations, arguing that it would be unprofitable. Others believed that at least the south bank of the river should be abandoned. To settle the point, the directors ordered their North American governor, George Simpson, to make a field inspection of the Columbia country in the fall and winter of 1824–1825. Simpson, like so many British officers of the fur trading companies, was a Scotsman seeking advancement in the dynamic society of the new world. Astute, courageous, literate, a discerning judge of men and motives, Simpson soon earned the encomium of his superiors as having "acquired a more perfect knowledge of the Indian Trade than perhaps was ever possessed by any one Individual or even by any body of Men who have been engaged in it."
In a series of bold recommendations, persuasively argued, Simpson got the council to consent to retain and nurture the Columbia region, and in the years after the mid-twenties the company ultimately established thirteen posts throughout the Oregon Country, based on its new headquarters, Fort Vancouver, at the junction of the Columbia and the Willamette rivers. Although the company's chief business was furs, HBC employees also sent farm products to Alaska to supply the Russian-American Company posts, established a shipyard at Fort Vancouver, and tried to find outlets for lumber and salmon in Hawaii, South America, and California. Distance, varying demand, and uncertain quality of products, however, made these activities an inferior source of profits compared to those of the vast fur trade empire. The direction of all these endeavors was placed in the hands of Dr. John McLoughlin, chief factor of the company operations west of the Rockies. McLoughlin, a huge man of generous temperament and enormous charisma, forestalled American competition on both land and sea by price competition and by ordering his trapping brigades literally to denude the Snake River area of beaver to make it a barrier against the advance of the Saint Louis fur men. For almost fifteen years, until the late 1830s, HBC competition was obliterated, and the company—through McLoughlin—ruled the Northwest.
Hudson's Bay's success was anchored in developments other than the intrepedity and business acumen of McLoughlin and his traders and trappers. The joint occupation treaties of 1818 and 1827 negotiated between the governments of Britain and the United States postponed the Oregon sovereignty question and left a clear field to the entrepreneurs of both nations. But British trade goods were better and cheaper than those of their rivals, and the capital resources of the bay company were larger and more efficiently focussed. In the underdeveloped colonial region of the Northwest the power of the HBC reflected the advantages enjoyed by a concern representing a nation with a long headstart over its former colony in the industrial, commercial, and financial revolutions. But the British concentrated their efforts upon the fur business and, even there, operated through the medium of a single monopolistic corporation. When challenged by other economic interests, with concomitant political authority, Great Britain's dependence on the fur trade proved fatal.
III
Yet for years before this weakness became apparent the HBC was a source of emulation as well as envy for Americans. Revival of American interest in Oregon occurred in the late 1820s, a decade and a half after Astor's failure in the Northwest, and it took a somewhat different form from the purposes of the Pacific Fur Company. Astor, like Simpson and McLoughlin, was primarily a fur trader; Hall J. Kelley and Nathaniel Wyeth, his countrymen, combined colonization with economic exploitation.
Hall Kelley, a college graduate and a Boston school teacher, was a romantic visionary inflamed from early youth with a passion for chronicles of distant places and voyages of discovery. Although he had never approached closer to Oregon than a continent's width, he knew the work and writings of Lewis and Clark, Vancouver, Gray, and other explorers, and in his conception of the future of Oregon he synthesized several disparate dreams into a compelling vision. In 1829 Kelley organized an American Society for Encouraging the Settlement of the Oregon Territory, frankly modelled on the pattern of the Hudson's Bay Company. Thereafter in various prospectuses and petitions Kelley asked Congress for aid; he wanted a land grant and military assistance to make his plan attractive to New England investors and to induce settlers to join the venture.
In return for governmental assistance and private capital Kelley promised several advantages to his countrymen. In Oregon he would add to the national wealth through agriculture, fishing, and whaling. He pledged to develop a lucrative trade with the teeming population of the East Indies. Unemployed urban workers would find profitable labor in healthful Oregon. Politically, too, the United States would gain as Kelley's colonists pressured England out of the Northwest and secured the friendship of the Indians. The resources of Oregon were not only beneficial but indeed providential; "these paramount advantages," Kelley wrote, "are indications, that the God of nature has designed it for the great purposes and operations of heaven-born man." The Indian residents of the region, too, were appealing, for they combined military weakness with a character, when treated justly, that was "courteous and kind to strangers; amiable and obliging to one another."
Kelley, for all his effort, was never able to transfer his enthusiasm for Oregon into a practical instrument to people it. His organizational skill was limited and the opposition of the HBC and the Saint Louis fur traders, who circulated accounts denigrating the economic opportunities of the Pacific Northwest, destroyed his plans. Although Kelley was not himself a colonizer, his ideas were influential in publicizing the Oregon Country, nowhere more effectively than in the mind of his Cambridge neighbor, Nathaniel Wyeth.
Wyeth had gotten his start as a businessman working for Frederick Tudor, the refrigeration entrepreneur, who was engaged in the novel and lucrative pursuit of collecting ice from the farm ponds of Massachusetts and shipping it to Central America. First intrigued, then disgusted, with Kelley and his plan, Wyeth decided to venture his own Oregon settlement in 1832. Wyeth's models were the HBC and the Pacific Fur Company as well as Kelley's dreams. He projected land and maritime expeditions to build a base of operations on the lower Columbia, and from this nucleus he planned to collect furs, preserve salmon, and make lumber in addition to founding an agricultural settlement. The ship would transport the heavy equipment, and Wyeth himself led the overland party of employees and colonists. In spite of careful planning, the fate of Wyeth's expedition of 1832 paralleled Astor's endeavor in that the supply ship was lost and the venture failed. Stranded at Fort Vancouver, Wyeth received the generous hospitality of Dr. McLoughlin, which helped him retain his perspective after his disaster: "I am now afloat on the great sea of life without stay or support but in good hands i.e. myself and providence and a few of the H. B. Co. who are perfect gentlemen."
Upon returning to the East, Wyeth determined to try his luck again in the Oregon Country. He entered into arrangements with the Saint Louis-based Rocky Mountain Fur Company to transport its trading goods to the annual fur traders rendezvous in the Rockies. The profits from this venture were earmarked for the operations on the Columbia, which were again to be established by the men of maritime and overland expeditions. Nathaniel Wyeth's second expedition, led again by himself, was made up of diverse elements. In his party of 1834 he included not only his own men, but also the first Protestant missionaries to follow the trail to Oregon, Jason and Daniel Lee and their small party, and two scientists, botanist Thomas Nuttall and ornithologist John K. Townsend.
Again his preparations were thorough and again Wyeth met disaster. This time the trouble came from the land, not the sea, for his supply ship crossed the dangerous Columbia bar in safety, but the men were to receive news that the Rocky Mountain Fur Company had decided not to accept Wyeth's trading goods at the rendezvous, asserting that straitened business conditions required them to reduce their operations. This perfectly lawful, although totally unexpected, decision, in some ways comparable to the sale of Astoria to the North Westers, enraged Wyeth, but he fought back against his ill luck by opening a post he named Fort Hall (in present Idaho) and began operations on the lower Columbia. By the fall of 1835, faced at both posts with the opposition of the HBC, which systematically undercut him in their competition for furs, Wyeth lamented his decision to leave safer ventures in a letter to his uncle: "I am surrounded with difficulties beyond any former period of my life and without the health [he was suffering from "bilious fever"] and spirit requisite to support them. In this scituation [ _sic_ ] you can judge if memory brings to me the warnings of those (wiser and older) who advised a course which must at least have resulted in quietness. Yes memory lends its powers for torment."
In 1836 Wyeth gave up, sold out to the HBC, and returned to Massachusetts. There he was re-employed by Tudor and became a man of wealth, while his erstwhile colleague Kelley died a failure. Kelley had actually reached Fort Vancouver in 1834, but instead of leading a prosperous colony, he went as a member of a party of fur traders, travelling north from California in the company of suspected horse thieves, to find a chilling reception from Dr. McLoughlin. He spent much of the balance of his life (he died in 1874) trying to obtain a government pension for publicizing Oregon to the American people.
There was a good deal of truth in his claim. Kelley had stimulated Wyeth's interest and Wyeth had caught the imagination of important elements within the public: in politics, in science, in business and among the restless, unsettled class of American pioneer farmers. Although Wyeth failed because his plans did not arouse sufficient interest in commercial and governmental circles in the 1830s to make him competitive with the HBC, he was a magnet for those who came in the next decade to stay. Townsend, his expedition's chronicler, recorded from personal experience what Kelley had merely asserted and what the frontiersman desired, that the land of Oregon was incredibly rich; above all, at Fort Vancouver, he wrote "Wheat thrives astonishingly; 1 never saw better in any country, and the various culinary vegetables... are in great profusion, and of the first quality." And of the Indian guardians of the land, Townsend predicted, "in a very few years the race must, in the nature of things, become extinct; and the time is probably not far distant, when the little trinkets and toys of this people will be picked up... as mementoes of a nation passed away for ever from the face of the earth."
IV
Townsend's melancholy conclusion was not shared by contemporary Christian clergy. The interest of the churches in the souls of the American Indians originated at the beginnings of the conquest of the New World, and Spanish, French, and English missionaries, more or less zealous and effectual, were numbered frequently among the frontiersmen of the colonial period. Early in the history of the United States, in 1819, Congress established a policy of subsidizing missionary activity, educational and agricultural as well as religious, among the Indian tribes, but this concern was desultory until the emergence of one of the great religious and social crusades of the nineteenth century, the "Great Revival" of the 1820s and 1830s.
Beginning in western New York state, then spreading across the Union, Protestant ministers began to place a new emphasis in their exhortations to the "unsaved." No longer could a person who had "gained Christ" rest on the certainty of individual salvation, but Christian men and women had an obligation to reform the social environment so as to make it as congenial as possible to the practice of the Christian faith, particularly the cultivation of pious habits. This powerful conviction underlay the reform movements of the day: the causes of prison reform, abolition of slavery, teaching of the deaf and dumb, Sabbath observance, and the bringing of American civilization and Christianity to the pagan peoples, not the least of which was the American Indian.
In the Oregon Country, Christianity already had some fragile roots. There were chaplains aboard the government exploring vessels. Some of the trappers and traders, both Indian and white, were Christians. Divine services were conducted at Fort Vancouver from time to time, and the HBC, under pressure from its London office, educated and Christianized two young men from the mountain tribes at its American headquarters at the Red River. Consistent with these diverse contacts were reports of a visit by four Nez Percé Indians to Saint Louis in 1831 in search of further knowledge of the Christian faith. This quest was interpreted to mean a desire for the missionary presence in the Oregon Country, and the Board of Missions of the Methodist Episcopal Church was the first to respond to it.
Jason and Daniel Lee and three laymen thus found themselves in Nathaniel Wyeth's caravan on the trail to Oregon in 1834 as a result of multiple causes. Jason Lee, born a Canadian, was a strong preacher, knowledgeable about the world as well as the church, courageous, and tenacious, but—as would become all too evident—ill-equipped to deal with his distant bureaucratic superiors because of his inadequacy as a cost accountant and his disinclination for correspondence.
For ten years Lee's mission labored in Oregon. Although he had abandoned his original plan to work among the Nez Percé (a decision reinforced by McLoughlin, who asserted they were too mobile and fierce for his labors), Lee planted his mission headquarters in the Willamette Valley thirteen miles by river north of the present city of Salem. In the next few years he sent other missionaries to the Indian settlements at Salem, The Dalles, Clatsop Plains, Nisqually, and Oregon City. Three times his people were numerically reinforced, twice in 1837 and again in 1840, and the mission group became for a brief period the most influential of the Americans in Oregon. Yet in 1844 the mission board in New York abandoned its Oregon Indian mission. In understanding the Methodist missionary experience, its successes and failures, its ideology and techniques, its origins and its demise, it is necessary to underscore the pervasive influences of traditional ideals and structures upon its men and women.
With its emphasis upon scriptural understanding, Protestantism demanded literacy. Morality demanded clothing. Contemporary political economy required that farming and trades be taught, since those who labored in the fields or crafts were closer to Nature and to Nature's God than either extreme of hunter or industrial worker. The teachings of Christ required feeding the hungry and healing the sick, and most Indians—ravaged by the white man's economy and diseases—were in desperate need of succour. Far less theoretically, the inadequate financial support from the East forced the missionaries to expend a great deal of time producing their own food, shelter, and clothing. The missionary became a school teacher, an agricultural agent, a physician, and a manual arts instructor.
A particular aspect of eastern civilization that affected the Methodist missionaries was the virulent and pervasive denominationalism of the antebellum era. It affected all religions and denominations. Protestants, for many reasons, found Roman Catholics to be abhorrent. They were believed to be willing tools of the pope and his subordinates in both government and politics. They were identified with the waves of "uncouth" immigrants swarming to American shores. Lurid stories of escaped nuns fleeing from lecherous priests abounded in books, pamphlets, and public platforms. Catholics were synonymous with foreign foes: with Spain, or Mexico, or England (at least in Oregon where most of the HBC employees were Catholics). Roman Catholic clergy counterattacked with verve and vigor, and such internecine conflict doubtless not only confused the Indians about Christian doctrine but appalled them at its clerical application. Illustrative of the missionary rivalry was the creation of competing mission stations at the Clackamas River. Here the Indians were visited from time to time by the Methodist clergyman Alvan F. Waller and the Catholic priest Francois Blanchet. Waller described one confrontation between the two:
Immediately however he [Blanchet] set up his high claims to "apostolic succession" that he was sent to preach the gospel to all the world &c. I also professed to be sent to preach the gospel. Whence he indignantly replied " _You sent to preach? You the successor of the apostles?_ " "Yes, said I, I yield nothing to you in this respect. I profess to be sent to preach the gospel."
Blanchet's description of this meeting ran as follows:
After the mass and instruction, while I was surrounded by many natives, I saw the minister Waller enter.... He gave evidence of his displeasure that I came, as an intruder, he said, to preach to the natives of his jurisdiction, whom he was accustomed to teach every Sunday. My answer was that my mission on the Columbia did not except any part of the country; that, not considering him as a true messenger, my duty was to disabuse the natives of the false doctrines that he was teaching them.
The work of the missionaries was also weakened by the criticism of their "secular" activities by the mission board. As a great frontier religion Methodism's success—organizationally—had been based on circuit riders who moved about the frontier and who were supported originally by the mission board until sufficient settlement permitted them to be maintained by the local congregations they served. In Oregon, of course, local support was not possible (until 1849, and even thereafter board contributions continued) and to help themselves, as well as the Indians, the missionaries labored long hours in field and mill. The practice of self-support, a necessity for the Oregonians, indeed a virtue, seemed to the eastern officialdom an un-Christian "worldliness" that endangered the true missionary function of teaching the Word of God. The major charge against Jason Lee was this secular emphasis, and his replacement, George Gary, at the orders of the mission board, quickly closed down the economic facets of the mission after his arrival in the Willamette Valley in 1844.
A nondoctrinal reason for this tack was the increase in the numbers of white pioneers who migrated to Oregon in the early 1840s. The presence of these settlers became the increasing concern of the missionaries, especially as they saw the social situation: "The hopes of the mission [declared the board in 1845], for the future, depend principally upon the success of the Gospel among the emigrants. The Indians are comparatively few in number and rapidly wasting away." The growing numbers of white settlers forced the Methodists to develop institutional responses to their needs, responses that were as conservative as those of the mission era.
These traditional patterns were those that had worked well on other frontiers, from the circuit riders of the Middle West to those of the Pacific Coast. The organization and style of worship at Sunday services, prayer meetings, and camp meetings were identical to those of eastern Methodism. The local class and local congregation were carried to Oregon and they were assembled, as elsewhere, into an annual conference (de facto for a time it is true). The church members also organized themselves into Sunday schools, temperance societies, and missionary societies, as did their brothers and sisters in the East. In doctrine, too, what was true for the pioneer era had been true for the missionary period: "There was a fundamental doctrinal unity in Methodism extending from England to Oregon."
The aspirations, challenges, and failures of the Methodist missionaries were often akin to those of other faiths. The opportunities of the Oregon Country that drew the Lee party in 1834 also brought, in the following year, the veteran clergyman, Samuel Parker, fifty-six years of age, who made a remarkable lone investigation of the Indians of the Rockies on behalf of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, an ecumenical endeavor of Presbyterians, Congregationalists, and Dutch Reformed. The year following his favorable report the board dispatched the party led by Dr. Marcus Whitman. This small expedition included three missionary wives, an exceptionally literate and dedicated group, the first white women to cross overland to the Rocky Mountains. From 1836 to 1847 these missionaries and their reinforcements planted several mission stations among the tribes of central and eastern Washington and western Idaho.
Here, among Cayuse, Walla Walla, Nez Percé, and allied tribes the Whitman party engaged in the attempt to evangelize and civilize the Indians and to turn them into sedentary people who would abandon the annual migrations required by the hunting-fishing-gathering cultures. Initially receptive to the gospel, the Indians soon became disillusioned by the failure of the missionaries consistently to improve their material wealth and physical health, to provide, in other words, the advantages implied in acquiring American culture. The missionaries came to represent America not only in terms of their own work, but they also became identified with the approach of white settlers to take the Indians' land. The Whitman Massacre in 1847 was the tragic culmination of the accumulating Indian outrage.
By the summer of this year Indian apprehensions had turned to hatred. A frightening epidemic of measles had broken out among the tribes that Dr. Whitman's medical skills could not check. The Indians nursed their grievances and recalled their ancient practice of taking the life of an unsuccessful medicine man. Others circulated a rumor that Whitman was poisoning his charges to make way for the whites. A part-Indian, Joe Lewis, became the leader of an enraged minority of the Cayuse which attacked the main mission station at Waiilatpu (near present Walla Walla) on November 29, 1847. Of the seventy-five people present that day at Waiilatpu, the Indians murdered fourteen, including Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, and three children died in captivity. Forty-seven captives were taken, and the remainder either escaped or were released at the time of the attack.
The first Catholic priests in Oregon, Francois Blanchet and Modeste Demers, arrived in the fall of 1838 to minister to the employees of the HBC. In 1840 Pierre-Jean de Smet, the pioneer American Catholic Indian missionary, reached the Rockies. Catholic priests, like Protestant ministers, fought each other as well as labored with the Indians and shared the discouragement of Indian tasks. In the end all missionaries came to see their effort with the Indians as insignificant compared to their labor with the whites. Disease and encroachment depleted the tribes; those who survived were tenacious in retaining their religions. The final resolution for many missionaries was to share John Townsend's conclusion. As the Jesuit missionary, Father de Smet, expressed it: the "poor Indians of Oregon... who, after having lived peaceably by hunting and fishing, during several generations, will finally disappear, victims of vice and malady, under the rapacious influence of modern civilization." Although poor consolation, some saw the replacement of Indian by white as the workings of the Divine Plan to reward a superior race.
Interdenominational rivalry, personality conflicts, secular attractions, misunderstanding in the East, the coming of the white settler, and the indifference of the Indians destroyed the missionary efforts. Their influence was persuasive, however, in drawing white migrants who knew in their bones that the agricultural land that supported and tempted the missionaries, and that the Indians were so reluctant to plow, was God's gracious gift to American frontiersmen.
V
To the America of the 1840s Oregon's past seemed doubly dated. Not only were the vocations of the maritime explorer, the scientist, the missionary, and the fur trader a part of history—however colorful and valuable they once may have been—but they had no place in the envisioned future. The prospective Oregonians of the decade, the agricultural settlers, left their homes for many reasons and, for a variety of motives, chose the valley of the broad Willamette in preference to unsettled regions of California or Texas or the Middle West. What united these men and women, for the most part residents of the valleys of the Ohio, Mississippi, and Missouri, was the conservatism of their occupation and of their quest for new frontiers to solve their problems.
Pioneers interested in the Oregon Country were a product of earlier frontiers. Into the Middle West, particularly in the southern third of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois along the north bank of the Ohio River; into Kentucky; and into Missouri had come representatives of pioneer families stretching back in time and place to the southern piedmont, to the tidewater country, and ultimately to England, Scotland, and Ireland. These people were apt to be illiterate, poor, and insular. They were evangelical Protestants in religion, if anything, the supporters of the circuit rider and the camp meeting. Adherents of Jacksonian Democracy in politics, haters of both slavery and free blacks, they championed democracy and equality for whites. Their society, immortalized in Edward Eggleston's _Hoosier Schoolmaster,_ contrasted with that of the Yankee culture in the northern part of the Middle West, which was wealthier, better educated, more favorable to the Whig party than that of the southern uplanders. But the southern and New England elements coexisted, although in tension, for both peoples had the underlying similarities, for better or worse, of a common Protestant religion; of the vicissitudes of the family-sized farm; and pride in national and racial achievements. All in all they made excellent material for colonizers and in the years ahead would expel the Mormons from Illinois, drive the Mexicans from Texas and California, and pressure the HBC in the Oregon Country.
This destiny in the late 1830s was unclear, for discouragement hung over the river valleys of the Middle West. Economic depression, the worst in history, flattened the whole country. Farmers and businessmen lost their markets. Local and state governments went bankrupt as hard times destroyed their elaborate schemes for internal improvements. Land sales and agricultural prices slid. Economic depression magnified personal difficulties such as marital troubles, generational conflicts, and the pervasive health problems of a fever-infested lowland country. In the traditional manner, sanctioned by two centuries of success, many citizens restlessly began to consider another move.
Oregon's specific attraction to the discontented was manifold. In the economic realm the region's great appeal was that it promised certain success without changing one's customary methods of farming. Tradition, not innovation, was required. More than a score of actual observers, of different nations and interests, had revealed to the American public the fertility of the soil of the Willamette Valley, its ample rainfall and temperate climate, its waterways communications, its millsites, and its groves of trees dotted throughout the level prairies. For a farming family, necessarily conservative, Oregon represented not a totally new life but a better old one; if not quite a garden of Eden, at least a mightily improved Missouri.
Oregon's pioneers were not all materialistic in their motivation. Crossing the trail for some was an act of patriotism, a chance to participate in saving the country from Britain and the Hudson's Bay Company. For English institutions: the established Anglican church; the system of economic monopoly; a hereditary aristocracy, and a dynastic monarchy conveyed to the American a picture of Britain, although not entirely an accurate one, as a society both antithetical and menacing to the dynamic and pluralistic America of the Age of Jackson. And, in the course of time, if an American territory were created in Oregon following the departure of Britain, an added bonus for the politically ambitious would be the host of offices available to aspiring statesmen.
The pioneers of the 1840s were thus a conservative and nationalistic people. They were largely members of families—unlike those Americans who went in that decade to the mines of California. Most had some money, because the cost of equipment, food, and supplies for the trail was high, and farming in the new country would also require capital until the first crops found a market. And although the pioneer generation was conservative, its members were not staid or unadventuresome. After all, most people in the Middle West stayed home. The pioneers were those who, when weighing the necessity to move and the desire to remain, came down on the side of change, but change for the sake of duplicating the old ways in an environment that was itself, paradoxically, both novel and familiar.
The emigrants' conservatism was amply displayed in the organization of their wagon trains. Stable people, desirous of protecting life and property, the pioneers formed written codes to regulate their behavior on the overland march both through and toward regions without American government. In this respect they reached back to the _Mayflower_ pilgrims who, finding themselves outside the boundaries of their intended destination, drew up in 1620 their famous compact to create a government. To command the party and to enforce the regulations, the settlers, as in choosing contemporary militia officers, elected their own leaders from captain to council members. If tradition were not followed there would be protest. When it was proposed within one group to give the captain temporary veto power over the acts of the council, one observer noted that [he] "heard Dumbarton denounce it, as 'an absurd innovation upon a conservative system, and a most gross violation of a cardinal principle of political jurisprudence.'"
Once organized politically and equipped according to the guidebooks, which proliferated with the years, the wagons began their 2000-mile, four-to-six-month journey to the Willamette. As one old settler reminisced: "Our long journey thus began in sunshine and song, in anecdote and laughter; but these all vanished before we reached its termination." Another old timer remembered it differently, for he recalled "the journey that followed as one of the pleasantest incidents of his life. It was a long picnic, the changing scenes of the journey... just about sufficed to keep up the interest, and formed a sort of mental culture that the world has rarely offered." Most people who wrote of the Oregon Trail fell somewhere between these two, finding the journey neither wearisome nor joyous.
There were real dangers on the trail, but probably the most dreaded was the least likely—the attack by Indians. Indian assaults did occur, but they were only upon isolated parties, not upon the organized caravans. The Indians traded with the whites, provided an interesting change of scene, and were targets for the missionaries, but they were not dangerous. Indeed the Indians were often a welcome sight for the pioneers for they provided portage service, served as paddlers and oarsmen, supplied food, furnished guide services, and even gave defense against hostile Indians. Cholera, accidents, boredom, personality conflicts, and politics produced more tension than did the Indians.
A people uprooted from their homes, casting off for a distant country, suffering from heat and thirst on the plains and cold and lack of supplies in the mountains, were easy prey for abrasive conflict. The loss of fixed work routine was particularly hard for the women, for their usual activities of cooking, washing, and child care were almost totally disrupted by mobility, lack of fuel, the high altitudes of the Rockies, muddy streams, and the need to guard their children against falling under the heavy wagons, against rattlesnake bites, and against wandering. Although men missed the security of plowing and harvesting, their driving, scouting, and hunting activities were closer to their normal outdoor pursuits than those of the women. Of course not all women were disconcerted by the migration. Elizabeth Wood, a youthful Illinoisian, writing to her hometown newspaper three days after passing Fort Hall, declared: "After experiencing so many hardships, you doubtless will think I regret taking this long and tiresome trip, and would rather go back than proceed to the end of my journey. But, no, I have a great desire to see Oregon, and, besides, there are many things we meet with... to compensate us for the hardships and mishaps we encounter."
Tensions burst out in several forms. A well-known conflict was whether or not to allow dogs to accompany the party. On at least two wagon trains a move was made to kill them, since they consumed food and stampeded the cattle. Captains were voted out of office and sundered the train when their followers stayed loyal rather than accompanying the new leader. One leader resigned in disgust over protests against his direction of a buffalo hunt that resulted in a wasteful slaughter of the animals. Parties split, literally or figuratively, over trials of men accused of crime, over whether to wait for slow-moving wagons, over the problems of delays caused by the owners of cattle.
In the end, however, for most settlers it was the cohesive rather than the divisive factors that prevailed. There were a few murders, more assaults, much bickering, and a great deal of nostalgia and homesickness. One young migrant, Agnes Stewart, may have been thinking of the human condition as she stopped on a Sunday under a rocky outcropping: "Away up in the rocks under a projection I saw a hundred little bird nests made of moss and mud. It looked so pretty to see so many little creatures living together so happy." Yet the settlers, like the _Mayflower_ pilgrims, demanded and obtained the security of order and routine, even on the Oregon Trail. Laws were written and largely obeyed. When insurmountable policy clashes occurred, votes were taken and leaders changed. Trials were held and judgments rendered.
Joel Palmer, a sensitive and literate observer, caught the persistence of civilization, not the advent of anarchy, as he described a day's rest during the migration of 1845. "Of the women," he wrote,
some were washing, some ironing, some baking. At two of the tents the fiddle was employed in uttering its unaccustomed voice among the solitudes of the Platte; at one tent I heard singing; at others the occupants were engaged in reading, some the Bible, others poring over novels. While all this was going on, that nothing might be wanting to complete the harmony of the scene, a Campbellite preacher, named Foster, was reading a hymn, preparatory to religious worship. The fiddles were silenced, and those who had been occupied with that amusement, betook themselves to cards. Such is but a miniature of the great world we had left behind us, when we crossed the line that separates civilized man from the wilderness. But even here the variety of occupation, the active exercise of body and mind, either in labor or pleasure, the commingling of evil and good, show that the likeness is a true one.
However one responded to the experiences of the trail as he or she rode, or walked, or floated, or swam from the Missouri along the Platte, the North Platte, the Bear, the Snake—over the Rockies and across the Blues—and then along the Columbia to The Dalles, where the decision was made to travel either by boat to Fort Vancouver or by road around the base of Mount Hood to the falls of the Willamette, the goal was the same: participation in the transit of civilization. At the end of the terrible journey on the Barlow Road around Mount Hood, Philemon V. Crawford discovered the first house of the settlements in the Willamette Valley: "Here we find all of the conveniences of civilized life and we are able for the first time to appreciate them." James Nesmith's terse diary entry encapsulated the goals of the white migrants: "Friday, October 27.—arrived at Oregon City at the falls of the Willamette. Saturday, October 28.—Went to work."
VI
Although he typified many Oregon pioneers, James Nesmith did not represent all of them. There were those who came who were not white, and who did not enjoy the full economic and social opportunities of the region. Although small in numbers, several non-Caucasian groups were present in early Oregon. One of the earliest ethnic minorities represented was the Hawaiian. In the island nation, King Kamahameha, claiming the throne in 1810 after an internal power struggle, attempted to forge a united kingdom out of competing groups. He decided upon an outward-looking policy to cushion his country against foreigners by absorbing the European's economy and Christianity. The heart of this policy was to send out young men to learn western techniques and values through practical experience. One place they migrated to was the Oregon Country, where Hawaiians had been in the crews of merchant vessels as early as 1788. In the nineteenth century the Hawaiians, also known as Kanakas or "Blue Men" (because they turned that color in the winter drizzles of the Pacific Northwest), soon became a vital labor supply in the fur trade. Captain Thorn brought Hawaiians to the region in _Tonquin_ and twelve perished in the destruction of his ship. After the demise of the Pacific Fur Company the Kanakas were welcomed into the ranks of the North West Company. Loyal and docile, asking only food and clothing for compensation, the Hawaiians on one occasion saved Donald McKenzie from a surprise attack at Fort Walla Walla at the hands of his discontented Indian trappers.
The Hudson's Bay Company and Nathaniel Wyeth also found the Kanakas most valuable as laborers, canoe men, sailors, gardeners, herders, and domestic servants, among other pursuits. The missionaries, too, admired the islanders. The Methodists used them as blacksmiths, farm laborers, and kitchen help, and the Lees at one time proposed to import Hawaiian Christians as missionaries to their countrymen. At the Whitman mission the Kanakas were also well received, and they worked in a variety of pursuits. Both Methodist and American board workers found the Kanakas to be in all respects preferable to their Indian charges. The Indians, in missionary eyes, were slow in emulating American agriculture and domestic science, but the Hawaiians were adaptable and hard working. The Indians were suspect when they sought baptism and the sacraments; they were accused of desiring the material advantages of Christian civilization, but when a Kanaka presented himself at the baptismal font his sincerity went unchallenged. Perhaps their lengthier exposure to the West in their homeland or their voluntary search for white civilization in the Northwest made the Kanakas, in contrast to the Indians, more willing to attempt the process of assimilation. If eagerness to adopt American culture was a guarantee of equal treatment, the Hawaiian was secure in his new home.
But racial prejudice came in the baggage of the white agricultural settlers who had feared blacks in the Middle West because of economic competition, miscegenation, and the migration of idle free Negroes from the South. When the provisional government was organized in the early 1840s, the racism of the pioneers was quickly institutionalized in antiblack and anti-Asian laws that limited land ownership to free males who could vote, and then gave the vote to whites only. Employers of Hawaiian labor were taxed three dollars for those islanders already residents and five dollars for those who were to be introduced in the future. After the organic law of 1848 created the territory of Oregon, Kanakas on several occasions applied for American citizenship. The final blow came in the passage of the Oregon Donation Land Act of 1850, which gave to the emigrants 160 to 320 acres of free land (depending on their time of arrival), but which, at the insistence of Territorial Delegate Samuel R. Thurston, excluded from its terms blacks and Hawaiians, although not part-Indians. Thurston feared that the settling of these two groups would result in their unification with the Indians into a racial combination against the dominant ethnic group. After this rebuff most of the Kanakas returned to the Islands, more fortunate than other ethnic minorities, who had no place to go. In the end, in spite of the Hawaiians' efforts to accommodate, racism had conquered assimilation.
Black people were among the first visitors to the Pacific Northwest. Although various legends persist of shipwrecked black men who integrated with the coastal Indians, the first authenticated case of a black visitor was Marcus Lopius, Gray's cabin boy, who lost his life in the scuffle at Murderer's Harbor. York, William Clark's slave, was a stalwart member of the great expedition, and George Winslow accompanied the mountain man Ewing Young to Oregon in 1834. Several blacks crossed the Oregon Trail in the pioneer era, some as slaves, some as free persons.
The most notable of these was George Washington Bush, a free man of means who waged a remarkable fight against legal and social prejudice. Bush had fought against the British under Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. Although free blacks were not permitted to live in his home state of Missouri, Bush was so popular that a special act of the state legislature was passed to allow him to remain. In time he caught the Oregon fever and financed a racially integrated overland party to the Northwest in 1844. At the end of the trail he hoped to settle at The Dalles, but racial prejudice drove him to the country around modern Olympia where he became the town father of the Bush Prairie community and a long-lived and much respected citizen.
In Oregon, as in Missouri, Bush's status was exceptional, for most black people met the legal and social hostility of white persons nurtured in the racism of the Middle West. The organic law of the provisional government in 1843 had prohibited slavery, and in 1844 at the behest of Peter Burnett, the leader of the overland migration of 1843 and future governor of California, the legislature of the provisional government passed two statutes regarding blacks. One again prohibited slavery in Oregon; the other forbade the residence of free blacks. The immediate causes of this legislation were Burnett's fear that white women would be sexually endangered by the presence of black males and the threat of James Saules, a black man, to raise an Indian war against the white community. Although the residence law was never officially enforced, and slaves also continued to remain in Oregon, the significance of the antiblack legislation is that it was repeated under the territorial government and under the state constitution until destroyed by amendments to the federal Constitution after the Civil War.
By the Civil War, indeed, there were few nonwhite pioneers in Oregon. Hawaiians, blacks, and the very small number of Chinese and Japanese immigrants were all victimized by enduring prejudice. Although their goal for coming—improving one's status—was the same as the principal objective of the whites, members of minority groups with rare exceptions never were allowed to rise to the level of white persons, whether in social, economic, or political affairs.
## **3**
## Roots of a Conservative Commonwealth
**I**
REGARDLESS of race, the Oregon migrants of the early years faced a period of economic frustration. With uncertain supplies and the sole and undependable market provided by the Hudson's Bay Company, life in the Oregon Country seemed more like a struggle for subsistence than a means to an abundant life. What changed these primitive economic conditions into something far more dynamic began with a foreman's short stroll along a millrace several hundred miles from Portland early in 1848. As James Marshall described it: "One morning in January,—it was a clear, cold morning; I shall never forget that morning,—as I was taking my usual walk along the race after shutting off the water, my eye was caught with the glimpse of something shining in the bottom of the ditch." Twelve months after Marshall's gold discovery at Sutter's mill, 80,000 people from literally all over the world rushed to California. This heterogeneous group of argonauts wasted no time in producing the necessities of life but acquired their sustenance and shelter from whatever source was available. Oregon largely filled their demands, for the territory was full of flour and wheat, rich in lumber, and reasonably proximate to San Francisco. It is true that Oregon was temporarily denuded of a labor supply by the lure of gold, as farmers left their fields and migrants rerouted themselves to the Sierras, but many soon learned the lesson of the far greater profits to be made in "mining the miners."
In a general sense this impact of "California gold enabled Oregon to overcome the pressing economic problems which plagued the Willamette community during the 1840s" by permitting the flow of Oregon products into a larger Pacific Coast market and by freeing the region from its servitude to the uncertain market of the HBC. What occurred on January 24, 1848, provided the pioneers with the economic opportunity and social mobility for which they had endured the agonies of the decision to leave home and the discomforts of the Oregon Trail. More specifically, the foothills of the Sierras furnished, in exchange for wheat and lumber, the gold dust that became the first reliable medium of exchange in Oregon and the capital for transportation and urban developments in the territory. Although the fields and forests of California by 1851 were providing for the needs of that state, and causing a brief depression in Oregon, the gold rush to the central and western sections of the Rogue River valley in southern Oregon in 1853 took up the slack, and by the time the strikes there played out the economy was on a plateau that lasted until the end of the decade.
Quickening economic life not only invigorated farmers but it accelerated urbanization. Merchants, land speculators, professional people, editors, all boomed their respective towns, real or projected, in the hope that they would become the successor to Fort Vancouver as the economic metropolis of the Oregon Country. In this competition the residents of Oregon City in the late 1840s clearly possessed certain advantages. They had the prestige of living in the largest town in the area between California and Alaska. They lived in the territorial capital. Most importantly, the falls of the Willamette River guaranteed them not only a source of water power for milling but also provided a break-of-bulk point where goods had to be unloaded for transshipment around the falls. No one elsewhere conceded these advantages. While denigrating the resources of Oregon City, people in Oregon's Milwaukie boasted of their location as superior in terms of deepwater navigation. Portland and Linn City boomers made the same claim, and Saint Helens businessmen talked of their geographical advantage in cutting travel time for vessels from the mouth of the Columbia; indeed their town was chosen as the terminal of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company in 1851.
The victory of Portland in this interurban warfare came at a single stroke. For Portlanders gained an objective that was never efficiently realized by their competitors, the linking of the Willamette-Columbia water route with Oregon's major wheat belt, the 460,000 acres of the Tualatin Plains. Saint Helens interests promoted a road over the Tualatin Hills through the Cornelius Pass from Sauvie Island to the Yamhill River. Linnton businessmen attempted to upgrade a trail to the plains that had been opened up by Peter Burnett and Morton M. McCarver from their community and adjacent Springville and that was known as the Germantown Road. From the Willamette, Oregon City and Milwaukie reached to the Tualatin Plains from the east.
The best route from the rivers to the plains lay through the canyon of Tanner Creek that joined the Willamette at Portland. A rudimentary trail had been grubbed out by Francis Pettygrove, the cofounder of Portland, but it had sharp curves and steep grades. To supplement it a road had been laid out through the Tanner Creek Canyon as early as 1849, but the natural springs of the canyon kept it a morass. To rectify this situation the Portland business community obtained a charter in 1851 from the territorial legislature for the Portland and Valley Plank Road Company. In the same year grading was begun and the first plank was laid on September 27, 1851. Two months later funds were exhausted and construction ceased after ten miles of plank road had been laid. Although the company was reorganized thereafter several times, the road was never very suitable until the 1880s. Still it was passable enough to determine Portland's commercial supremacy over her rivals.
The last half of the 1850s was a period of steady and sustained growth for the most part, although not as spectacular as the California gold rush era. There were flurries of hope that the Indian wars of the mid-decade would stimulate the economy through government purchases, but those who sold supplies or equipment to the federal commissary officers were the losers, since the United States paid in scrip redeemable at the pleasure of Congress. Congress ultimately paid off in 1861 but in depreciated paper money, the famous greenbacks that rose and fell in proportion to the success of the Union armies, armies which were winning no victories in the first year of the war.
By 1860 the economy, because the California market had dried up, was in danger of stagnation, but for the third time gold came to the rescue of the Oregonians. Although the strikes in Idaho, Montana, and eastern Oregon in 1860 and 1861 were neither as valuable nor became as legendary as those of the Forty-Niners, they were of enormous significance to Oregonians and especially Portlanders. The prize of controlling the trade of these mining districts did not fall into Portland's hands without competition, however, for her rivals, although far away, were formidable. San Francisco, metropolis of the Pacific Coast, reached for the miners' gold dust along the overland route eastward to Nevada and then north to the mining fields. Saint Louis, the metropolis of the midcontinent, had an even longer grasp up the Missouri to the Great Falls, which were first reached by steamboat in 1858, and then over the Rockies to the diggings.
To hold their own in this competition, Portland businessmen had to develop an efficient mode of transportation into the interior. The Oregon Steam Navigation Company, the most famous corporation in the state's early history, was formed in 1860 to reach the Inland Empire mine fields. The leading figure of the OSNC was John C. Ainsworth, who headed a concern originally capitalized at $172,000, all of which was raised in Oregon, a tribute to the economic development of the state in the previous decade. The success of the corporation was phenomenal, a success grounded on a policy of moderate dividends with profits being plowed into improvements, and on the absolute monopoly of the key portages of the Columbia at The Dalles and the Cascades, which strangled competition. One employee reminisced: "It makes my head swim now, as memory carries me back to those wonderful rushing days, when the constant fall of chinking coin into the coffers of the company was almost like the flow of a dashing torrent. The Oregon Steam Navigation Company had become a millionaire-making machine." All along the Columbia and the Snake ran the economic writ of the OSNC and Portland, commanding the gold dust of the miners in return for their food and shelter and supplies. The decade of the sixties thus saw the city of Portland develop an east-west axis that supplemented the earlier flow of Willamette Valley products to Portland, and the city continued to enjoy its position as export-import hub of the San Francisco market. Indeed, Portland became the principal urban center of the entire Pacific Northwest until it lost its supremacy to Seattle after the turn of the century.
The OSNC monopoly is a remarkable story of private profit that had public significance. The company laid the basis for the creation or increase of Portland fortunes that helped to shape the cultural life of the city. Many of its investors became wealthy, and Ainsworths, Reeds, and others were moving spirits, sometimes for several decades ahead, in not only the formation of a wealthy social elite, but in the rise of cultural institutions such as the opera, symphony, art museum, and library. The powerful magnates of the OSNC and their families helped develop the northeastern strain in Portland life which balanced the middle-western character of the rest of the Willamette Valley. This Yankee cultural heritage emphasized thrift and prudence and helped perpetuate the blending within the state's borders of the North-South mixture that was transplanted to Oregon by the pioneer farmers from the Ohio and Mississippi valleys.
The mining rush to the Inland Empire also fostered the development of railroading and communications. In 1868 Oregon's real railroad era began when the great western transportation magnate Ben Holladay began the construction of a line to San Francisco, although it was not to be completed for another twenty years. Two years previously Congress had passed a statute granting land for the construction of a railroad from Sacramento to Portland. In this measure, because of the lobbying of William W. Chapman and Jesse Applegate, a provision was inserted requiring that the state legislature designate an Oregon corporation to receive the land grant and to build the road through the state. A company called the Oregon Central Railroad, and headed by Joseph Gaston, later a historian of the state, received the blessing of the legislature to run a line along the west side of the Willamette. When Holladay appeared in 1868, with a national reputation as an entrepreneur and lobbyist ("the Napoleon of the West"), he got the legislature to transfer the land grant to his east side corporation that was reorganized in 1870 as the Oregon and California Railroad Company. Both companies continued to build until 1874, when Holladay's line acquired its west side rival, but the completion of the line to California was long delayed by the national depression of the 1870s. Meanwhile, the Willamette Valley lines expanded the hinterland of Portland and eased the penetration of Oregon's wheat into national markets.
The discovery of gold in Idaho and Montana brought not only the development of transportation and communication in Oregon but also the beginning of manufacturing. Perhaps of all the enterprises that began in the prosperous decade of the 1860s the highest hopes were attached to wool. The Civil War, which touched Oregon perhaps the lightest of all the states in terms of blood and treasure, did create a demand for the production of wool and for the manufacture of woolens. Both enterprises were rooted in the previous decades, for in 1848 Joseph Watt had brought the first herd of high-grade sheep over the Oregon Trail. Eight years after this venture Watt became the moving spirit in organizing the Willamette Woolen Manufacturing Company, which opened its factory at Salem in the following year. Capital was local, as was the labor source (girls from Salem); machinery and technical management were imported from New England and the manager, L. E. Pratt, secured the mill equipment from his home state of Massachusetts. The mill manufactured blankets and exchanged them for its wool supply as a device to popularize its line among the state's merchants, a successful stratagem until 1863, when the company fell into the doldrums after the Yankee Pratt was dismissed by the pro-Confederate ownership. Rival firms posed a further challenge to the recovery of the mill when Linn County interests subscribed $24,000 to start a mill at Brownsville in 1863, with supervisory employees brought from New Jersey, and two years later the mill of the Oregon City Woolen Manufacturing Company came into production. These and other pioneer woolens enterprises, in the words of Alfred Lomax, "infused into the pioneer Willamette Valley, not only the technology of an older order of industry, but that of managerial capacity as well."
In spite of these promising beginnings, the woolen mills suffered from serious problems, some indigenous to any frontier area. Fires took their toll, local demand was sporadic, and racial and labor conflicts emerged. The mill at Oregon City in 1869 was the first to employ Chinese laborers, men who had learned the weaving art in California. This change in employment practices, designed to cut costs, also produced an anti-Chinese labor organization, the White Laborers Association, that carried out an unsuccessful protest strike in July. Racism continued underground until the mill burned in 1872 under suspicious circumstances: the watchman's dog was poisoned and the rope to the fire alarm bell was cut. Other mills in time sprang up from Ashland to The Dalles, but by 1881 the state had only four of the twenty-eight woolen mills on the Pacific Coast, a testimony to the problems of Oregon entrepreneurship.
Papermaking began in Oregon in 1866 when William W. Buck organized the Pioneer Paper Manufacturing Company at Oregon City with a combination of local capital and a loan from the Bank of British Columbia. The mill began producing its first product, brown wrapping paper, in January 1867 after a rather embarrassing grand opening ceremony, complete with brass band and dancing, during which the machinery stopped and no one in the assembled crowd—employees, dignitaries, or ordinary guests—could get it restarted. The company collapsed later in the year, but Buck, in conjunction with Henry L. Pittock, the publisher of the Portland _Oregonian,_ started a second mill in 1868 on the Clackamas River a mile and one-half north of Oregon City. The labor force was Chinese and the uncertain supply of rags for the wide variety of paper products manufactured was gathered from local farm wives and from as far away as China.
In the allied enterprise of lumbering, Oregonians also made their start in the years before 1880. As in the case of wholesaling, agriculture, papermaking, woolens manufacture, and salmon canning, the forest products enterprise was strongly influenced, as a colonial extractive industry, by nonregional developments. The first sawmill in what became the state of Oregon was started by John McLoughlin at the falls of the Willamette River. Other mills were organized by American businessmen there and on the lower Columbia, and the California gold rush guaranteed a thriving export market for the first time. In 1849–1850 the California market influence was seen in Oregon in the creation of four water-powered mills and the first steam-powered mill in the Pacific Northwest. The miners' demands created a boom in Oregon, population consequently increased, and local urban markets arose that became far more valuable than those formerly supplied by the local farming community. As the years wore on until statehood, which was secured in 1859, lumbering became the most valuable industry in Oregon.
During the next quarter-century, however, lumbering declined in importance as a result of the collapse of the mining booms in California and Idaho. Although replacement markets were sought by the millmen of the Willamette, Columbia, and Coos Bay (where Asa Mead Simpson began his empire in 1856), Oregon lost her supremacy in the Northwest lumber trade to Washington Territory. The terrible perils of the bar of the Columbia River contrasted unfavorably with the deep and sheltered harbors of Puget Sound. Nature had also favored the north with thick stands of timber growing to the water's edge in contrast to the scattered and inaccessible forests of the lower Columbia and Coos Bay regions. In the end the lumber industry of Oregon, as historian Thomas Cox has pointed out, became a creature of California since the major markets, source of investment capital, and center of entrepreneurial activities were almost all in that state.
California was also the residence of the men who established the Oregon salmon canning industry. These were the four brothers of the Hume clan, men from Maine who had first gone to California to hunt for gold and then had turned to their ancestral pursuit of salmon fishing. In 1864 they, in co-operation with the tinsmith Andrew Hapgood, began on the Sacramento River the laborious process of canning salmon and were the first on the Pacific Coast to do so. The work was entirely one of trial and error, and the vicissitudes of canmaking, cooking, and marketing were frequent and vexatious. Before the first pack of 2,000 cases was sold, many cans had exploded, and William Hume had suffered numerous rebuffs from the suspicious housewives of Sacramento when he tried to market the red cans from door to door. No sooner had these problems been at least partly overcome than the partners faced new difficulties in the pollution of the Sacramento by hydraulic mining, which threatened to destroy their supply of fish.
In this crisis the Humes remembered their journey northward to the British Columbia gold rush of 1859, recalling not their failure in the mining camps, but the abundant supply of salmon in the Columbia River. In 1867 they established the first cannery on the Columbia River—on the Washington side—and in the next year John West, a Scotsman and a disappointed homesteader, established Oregon's pioneer cannery at a place he named Westport between Astoria and Portland. During the next dozen years many canneries began operations on both banks of the Columbia and also along Oregon's coastal rivers. In this critical period for the industry several precedents were set. Although the great majority of the American public spurned canned fish in favor of its customary beef and pork diet, salmon penetrated foreign markets from Australia to China to Latin America, and most of it found its outlet in the sooty, industrialized "Black Counties" of central England. Capital for the business came from California or local sources, and labor was divided between white men—local residents or migratory workers from California—who did the fishing, and Chinese, whom social prejudice consigned to the messy butchering and filling tasks in the canneries.
In two areas the Oregon frontier produced major innovations in the fishing business, contrary to what one would expect from an underdeveloped area. In the fall of 1877 in his cannery at Gold Beach at the mouth of the Rogue River, R. D. Hume began the first efforts of private enterprise to propagate artificially the salmon of the Pacific Coast. Although he had numerous trials in this precarious science and was long unable to convince either the public or the Columbia canners of the value of his work, Hume's labor did bear fruit at the turn of the century. There were important technological innovations also, as seine and drift nets were improved (a Portland mechanic invented a machine to make them in 1877), and the first fish wheel was constructed in 1878 at The Dalles.
The extractive industries and manufacturing captured the imagination of Oregonians, but agriculture was the principal economic concern of the region. In both natural and social aspects the setting for the immigrants coming after 1840 was appealing. The Willamette Valley in particular seemed to promise the Edenic setting that most writers had described since Kelley's time. The landscape was varied and appealing. Not only did the natural prairies promise easy plowing, but the forests, spaced among the prairies, along the river banks, and on the hillsides of the Coast Range, furnished building material, fuel supplies, and fencing. The soil, covered with red and white clover, beautiful wild flowers, and tall grasses, had already been proved rich by missionary and retired fur trapper. Buttes, hills, and the more distant mountains of the Cascade and Coast ranges stimulated the eye. Rainfall was ample, and the Willamette and Columbia and their tributaries promised easy access to markets. Winters were mild by midwestern standards. Indeed, measured either by the old home or by the hazardous or tedious environment of the overland trail, western Oregon gave the pioneers rich promise of a radiant future.
This hope was grounded upon the acquisition of agricultural land, the most precious of all natural resources during the pioneer era. But land had not only to be available, it had also to be secured. In order to guarantee the acquisition of land, Oregon's first American government, the provisional government of 1843, wrote into its organic law a provision to register and protect the land claims of the pioneers. Another government, that of the United States, also had a major impact upon the pioneers' quest for land. As early as 1842 the Senate had discussed a bill introduced by Sen. Lewis Linn of Missouri to reward with grants of free land those Americans who moved to Oregon. In the same year Congress had passed its first free land statute, for residents of Florida Territory, giving 160 acres to settlers who would serve as a buffer against warring Seminole Indians. This military measure came to be considered as a precedent for Oregon, where the settlers regarded themselves, as many in Congress agreed, to be performing a similar role in the national defense against the British. Throughout the balance of the decade Oregonians counted on the national government to redeem the implicit promise of these two measures. For four years, however, there was considerable nervousness in Oregon about congressional intentions. The first step to relieve this apprehension occurred in 1846 when a treaty with Great Britain apportioned to the United States the Oregon Country south of the 49th parallel except for the tip of Vancouver Island. Yet when Congress, after a two-year delay, organized the territory of Oregon, it left intact all the laws of the provisional government except the most important ones, those concerning land. Thus the paramount duty of the first territorial delegate, Samuel R. Thurston, was to obtain a homestead law. Employing the reward-for-settlement argument, combined with an appeal that an Oregon homestead law would set a precedent for a national act, Thurston succeeded in obtaining the Oregon Donation Land Act in 1850. This important measure gave 320 acres of land to a male homesteader, with another 320 to his wife in her own name, who settled in Oregon prior to 1853; 160 acres, with an equal amount to wives, went to those who came between 1853 and 1855. Although the Donation Land Act did not engender a rush of settlement to Oregon, it did at last provide the basis for lawful title to the soil.
Those who took up land employed no new means in farming it, relying on the traditional techniques of tillage and harvesting. Crop selection, also, followed the pattern of the Middle West, modified by the knowledge gained from the agricultural operations of the HBC; its subsidiary, the Puget's Sound Agricultural Company; and their retired employees. Wheat, oats, fruit, and vegetables were the major products of the soil. The keenest disappointment to each wave of settlers was the failure of corn as a major crop, for the Willamette Valley lacked a sufficient number of hot days and humid nights to enable this basic frontier plant to flourish. The settlers were willing to experiment with a great variety of plants brought from their homes, ranging from flax to pumpkins, but many of these attempts to reproduce their old crops in Oregon failed.
One successful effort laid the basis for the orchard industry in Oregon. Although the HBC had introduced fruit trees, the founder of the state's commercial pomology was Henderson Luelling, who brought over the trail from the Middle West in 1847 two boxes of 700 vines, shrubs, and fruit trees that he used to found a nursery at Milwaukie with his brother Seth, who developed the Black Republican cherry and the Bing cherry, the latter named for his Chinese foreman. The business flourished since there was a demand for fresh fruit both locally and, until the 1870s, in California. Natural conditions in western and southern Oregon were ideal, particularly the absence of destructive insects and pests, until they were introduced from California in the 1870s. Luelling had many competitors, although his success as a businessman and plant breeder made him wealthy, compensating for his labor in protecting his first shipment: "a dollar a drop for the sweat I lost in getting the necessary water to keep them alive while we crossed the desert; and their luscious fruit repaid me many times over for the jeers, ridicule and contentions of my comrades."
Stock raising also grew from the successful efforts of the HBC and those of the missionaries who brought cattle and sheep from overseas and from California. Sheep raising was an important enterprise in western Oregon until the early 1860s, when the population pressure of farmers displaced it in favor of wheat culture. Beef cattle, too, were significant in the life of farmers in the Willamette Valley who exported them to the gold fields of British Columbia and Washington in the Civil War years. After the war the pioneers who opened central and eastern Oregon to settlement introduced sheep raising and cattle ranching there.
These sections of the state were held in low repute by the early explorers and settlers who passed through them en route to the Willamette Valley. James Nesmith in 1843 expressed his disappointment at the country around the mouth of the Walla Walla River: "If this is a fair specimen of Oregon, it falls far below the conceptions which I formed of the country.... The whole country looks poverty stricken." White settlers first came to the area east of the Cascades in the 1850s when they settled the region around The Dalles, a military post, taking up land under the donation act. The legislature created Wasco County in 1854 and settlement increased slowly until the Inland Empire gold rush in the early 1860s. The Dalles then became the major interior shipping point for the mines. In the years ahead Wasco County was subdivided many times as population increased to the east and south.
At different times in the period between 1859 and 1880 three enduring occupations developed in the vast area between the Cascades and the Idaho line. Central and southern Oregon was excellent cattle country because the flat land, the bunchgrass, and the scarcity of farmers in the 1850s and 1860s gave the stock raisers a clear field. Sheepmen were numerous in the late 1860s and the 1870s south of The Dalles, between the John Day and Deschutes rivers, and in the Umatilla country. Wheat farmers appeared in the river valleys in the 1860s, and they discovered in the next decade, to their surprise, that the high bench-lands above the Columbia could also grow fine crops of wheat. Towns such as Linkville, later called Klamath Falls, Pendleton, Umatilla City, and Prineville sprang up to join The Dalles as market and supply centers for the surrounding country. The store, saloon, and blacksmith shop–livery stable, the early urban mainstays, soon were supplemented by the school, social club, and church as the family succeeded the single male as the basic social unit, although the clergy had the most difficult time in socializing the crude and lawless inhabitants of the first frontier. In The Dalles, for example, the Congregationalists leased a room in the courthouse over the jail: "during religious worship," a settler recalled, "vaporings of profanity and villainous songs mingled with the sacred exhortations from the minister's desk, and during the season of prayer the mocking 'amens' would be heard from the inmates below." But persistence, courage, and wealth produced more than a semblance of order by the late 1870s in the towns east of the Cascades.
II
The coming of American colonists to the Oregon Country, whether as missionaries or farmers, created a demand for a government to represent their interests. Although the HBC had served, since the merger with the NWC, as the virtual sovereign in Oregon, few Americans would acknowledge its supremacy. Indeed, Americans themselves were not of a single mind in their approach to governmental needs or political forms, for by 1840 there were several interests among the small population of Oregon.
The HBC was the dominant force. Its able leader, Chief Factor McLoughlin, was concerned to hold as much territory as possible for the company in the face of Anglophobe American pressures. The company's strength depended not only upon its employees, but upon its retired French-Canadian servants farming in the French Prairie region of the Willamette Valley. Its indispensable allies were the Catholic priests, Blanchet and Demers, whose transportation expenses to Oregon had been subsidized by the company. Employment with the company was more appealing, it was thought, when priests of the Canadians' religious faith were provided.
Among the Americans the Methodist missionaries were the most powerful interest. Led by Jason Lee, they had developed by 1840 extensive agricultural and milling holdings around Champoeg, Clatsop Plains, The Dalles, and Oregon City. American citizens also numbered retired mountain men, most prominent of whom were Joseph Meek and Robert Newell, who had gone into farming after the beaver had played out, and a small number of farmers whose strength would increase dramatically in the next five years.
The political and social issues that preoccupied these diverse groups were fundamental, some inherent in the nature of society, some indigenous to the frontier. The basic question was who would control the political life of the community. Other questions followed. How would the dominant group or groups use their authority to protect life and property? A fundamental issue in a formative commonwealth was the establishment of a community that would appeal to the "right kind" of future migrants and discourage those deemed undesirable. Issues of race relations were also important.
Until the late 1830s the various interests had co-existed amicably and had solved two major problems, both concerning the ex-mountain man, Ewing Young. Young in 1836 planned to erect a distillery, a project offensive to the Methodists on moral grounds and repugnant to the HBC as destructive of friendly relations with the Indians. After their protests, Young yielded gracefully to the wishes of Lee and McLoughlin and abandoned his venture. In the next year co-operation continued among the three men as Lee and McLoughlin helped finance Young in a drive of cattle from California to the Willamette Valley, the genesis of that industry in Oregon.
The origin of an American government in Oregon was contained in a petition Jason Lee carried with him to the East in 1838 on his journey to reinforce the mission strength. This Methodist request to Congress begged that the national government establish a territory in Oregon in order to protect property, and to ensure, in so doing, that solid, moral, civic-minded people would find Oregon appealing rather than "the Botany Bay refugee;... the renegade of civilization from the Rocky Mountains;... the profligate deserted seaman from Polynesia; and the unprincipled sharpers from Spanish America." When the first overland party, that of Thomas Farnham, arrived in 1839, its members were told of an increase in the number of crimes, and Farnham advised residents to send another petition to Congress seeking territorial status. Neither of these requests bore fruit, and the missionaries, now involved in a number of "secular" interests, but without federal aid, had to move themselves to form a government to protect them against the company, its "heretical" employees, and the unstable adventurers. Their opportunity devolved from Ewing Young, who was as important in death as in life to the political history of Oregon. When he died in 1841 without known heirs, some method had to be devised to dispose of his property. The Methodists took the lead in pushing not for an informal mode of disposing of Young's effects, but for a formal political structure. From February to June 1841, a series of three meetings was held at Champoeg. Although the French Canadians participated in these meetings, they refused to sanction a written constitution and a formal government. The only institutional result was the appointment of a missionary, Ira Babcock, to exercise probate powers under the laws of New York, not under any innovative code.
During the next two years the missionaries and the HBC had to confront new threats to the status quo. Elijah White, who had abandoned the Methodist mission two years earlier, returned to Oregon as a member of the overland party of 1842, bearing with him the honor of presidential appointment as United States Indian agent and the disgrace of having been deposed as leader of the wagon train for his advocacy of killing the dogs in the party. White's obvious political ambitions were a danger to the established interests. So, too, were the new emigrants who were unsympathetic to the missionaries for claiming large amounts of good arable land and for engrossing the excellent millsite at the falls of the Willamette River. The new Americans were also nationalistic, consciously asserting that one of their purposes in coming to Oregon was to drive out the British. To divert the opposition of the new settlers, the Methodists circulated another petition to Congress seeking protection against the machinations of the HBC. Out of these conflicting interests and personalities came the Oregon Provisional Government.
At a meeting at Champoeg held on March 6, 1843, attended by French Canadians and independent (nonmission) Americans, the settlers decided to coalesce into a government. A committee of organization was formed. This committee, now joined by the Methodists, met on March 17 and reported on May 2 to a meeting of about 100 adult males that the residents of the Willamette Valley "organize themselves into a civil community, and provide themselves with the protection, secured by the enforcement of law and order." This report was carried by a slender majority and the dissenters, almost all French Canadians, retired, fearful that organization would lead to incorporation into an American territory.
The most striking thing about the structure of the provisional government is its unoriginality. The preamble stating the need for government was another illustration of the long reach of John Locke, the seventeenth-century English philosopher, whose thought underlay the ideology of the American Revolution, the formation of the Constitution, and the creation of the Bill of Rights. At the May 2 meeting a legislative committee composed of nine members was elected. Later in the month and in June the committee met under the chairmanship of Robert Moore, who had been a member of the legislature of Missouri. Another member of the committee possessed a copy of the laws of the Iowa Territory, which also contained the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Northwest Ordinance, and the organic laws of Iowa. Drawing from this experience and tradition the committee report creating the organic law was a blend of Lockean compact theory, a constitution, and statutory law. The governmental form partook of the usual separation of powers, although the executive branch was a committee, rather than a single governor. The most important law gave each settler a land claim one mile square and the Methodist mission a townsite six miles square. But there was no provision for taxation, no process for amendment of the organic law, and no bill of rights. On July 5, a few weeks after the large overland migration was setting out across the plains, the organic law was adopted at a mass meeting sprinkled with a few French Canadians but attended by no representatives of the HBC.
The immigrants of 1843, upon arrival, gave Oregon not only more than 800 new souls, but also a political leader, Peter Burnett of Missouri, who soon became the strongest figure in the legislature. The influence of the newcomers was felt in the legislative elections of 1844 when they chose Burnett and others of their group. This new legislature enacted a tax and removed the Methodist mission's right to hold its townsite. In the following year the organic law was again altered by the legislature to include a bill of rights and to establish the office of governor. Of equal importance, the interests of the HBC were taken into account by the Americans at this time.
For McLoughlin now realized that the company needed to cooperate with the government because the increased population, inflamed with an anti-British spirit of Manifest Destiny, threatened not only the company's property, but also the moral stability represented by the Methodists. Under the leadership of Jesse Applegate and McLoughlin, the Americans and the company agreed that it was desirable to work together to protect land claims; that the company would pay taxes on all goods brought to Oregon for resale; and that the HBC would have control of the appointments for judge and sheriff in the county organized north of the Columbia River. George Abernethy, formerly business manager of the mission, was elected first governor.
The adjustments of 1845 established a governmental framework that survived until 1848. The record and popularity of the provisional government, in the years both before and after its reorganization, were mixed. Historian Walter Woodward has accurately assessed its statutory achievements: "the colonists were conservative in the amount and kind of legislation enacted." Insofar as any extralegal government could do so, land was protected, although the newcomers of the mid-1840s resented the efforts of earlier arrivals to maintain their large claims. The first settlers, in turn, tried to stave off attempts to limit their holdings by forming claims clubs, as was done on earlier frontiers, to secure their property.
Concerning race relations, the settlers translated their border state attitudes into two laws of 1844 prohibiting slavery and forbidding the residence of free black persons. In the minds of white people the Indians were more threatening than the blacks, and frequent rumors of uprisings attained awful reality in the murder of Marcus and Narcissa Whitman at their mission station near Walla Walla in 1847. The attempt of the militia of the provisional government to free the hostages and capture the murderers (the Cayuse War) was a complete fiasco because of desertions and indecisiveness of leadership. The Americans, who had ceaselessly denigrated the HBC, now were placed in the humiliating position of asking the company to rescue the hostages, which Peter Skene Ogden accomplished without loss of life and without charging the Americans for the ransom the HBC paid to retrieve the survivors.
Far more gratifying to Oregonians was the settlement of the Oregon question. The decision as to how sovereignty would be divided between Great Britain and the United States in the Pacific Northwest was finally reached in the Anglo-American Treaty of 1846. This goal that had eluded diplomats since the era of the War of 1812 was attained through the resolution of competing interests and ideals in the Oregon Country, in the eastern parts of the United States, and in Britain.
In Oregon the years following the renewal of the joint occupation agreement in 1827 saw the slow deterioration of British power, a process evident at the time but one the British were powerless to arrest. As American interests developed, as Jason Lee and Marcus Whitman and Pierre-Jean de Smet succeeded Nathaniel Wyeth, and as the pioneers in turn replaced them, the accretion of American power in the Northwest took the shape of the formation of the provisional government and the establishment of American economic enterprise. By the mid-1840s the Americans numbered about 5,000 souls, with all but a handful of residents in the Willamette Valley, while the British subjects were scattered throughout Oregon both north and south of the Columbia River, with by far the bulk of them north of the river. Although two Americans did stake out a claim to the grounds of Fort Vancouver itself and the provisional government did organize a county north of the Columbia, men of good will of both nations resolved these issues. Dr. McLoughlin evicted the squatters, who had little support among their fellow Americans, and the provisional government, after negotiations, allowed the company in effect to run its northern county.
Thus, so far as an American presence in Oregon was concerned, it was confined to the region south of the Columbia. Its threat to the status quo lay in two directions: its potential to expand northward, and its influence of propaganda and filial affection upon fellow countrymen living in the United States, who, as voters, would have a far greater influence upon the national government than Oregonians could ever hope to exercise. The interest of the American public in Oregon, ordinary citizens, interest groups, and politicians alike, was sporadic and uncertain until the late 1830s or early 1840s. A great deal had been published about Oregon, most of it complimentary, but few who read Kelley or Townsend or William Slacum (a naval officer whom President Jackson had sent to Oregon in 1836) envisioned themselves, their friends, or relatives migrating to Oregon.
In the early 1840s, however, the issue of the Oregon boundary became both nationalized and sectionalized. Protestants, particularly northerners, read with interest the Methodist mission's petition to Congress asking that it organize a territory in Oregon. Urban northerners dreamed of a settlement that would ensure the ports of Puget Sound as terminals of railroads that would connect with ocean vessels exchanging the goods of America with the "limitless markets of Asia." Middle westerners, crushed by the depression of 1837, caught the "Oregon Fever" that promised a new start in a new country. Nationalists of all sections, although less fervidly anti-British than in the 1820s, would welcome the limitation of Britain's power in Oregon. Northern Democratic party strategists saw favorable settlement of the Oregon question as complementary to the acquisition of Texas for the benefit of its southern wing. All of these people could take comfort in the decree of God or fate or nature that it was America's "Manifest Destiny" to expand to the Pacific slope.
In Britain, Oregon was of far less concern. The sole economic interest in Oregon was the Hudson's Bay Company. Neither the company nor its predecessor, the North West Company, nor British explorers, had established strong territorial claims south of the Columbia. If the literate public thought at all of the HBC it was as a monopolistic anachronism. What did interest the public and the government was a fair settlement of the boundary that—for reason of national honor—would not sacrifice the interests of the Empire by yielding unnecessary concessions.
In 1842, as Britain and the United States proposed to clear away all the outstanding disputes between the two nations, the time seemed appropriate to come to an agreement over the Oregon boundary issue. To resolve these problems the British chose a distinguished diplomat, Lord Ashburton, who was personally friendly to the United States, a man who found Daniel Webster, the secretary of state, also amenable to resolving issues. Quickly the two men came to an agreement on the Maine boundary and on the slave trade, but the solution to the Oregon question evaded them. Lord Ashburton was hamstrung by instructions that permitted him to make as his ultimate offer the old line of the 49th parallel-Columbia River boundary. Although Webster countered with a proposal that Britain might have the line Ashburton proposed (with the Puget Sound harbors) if Mexico could be persuaded to sell the port of San Francisco to the United States, this proposal proved not to be feasible.
The failure to resolve the Oregon boundary question in 1842 was a serious missed opportunity, for it left the matter to be decided in a far more emotional atmosphere. In 1843 occurred a large migration over the Oregon Trail which added some 800 or 900 Americans to the Willamette Valley. In the same year these pioneers reorganized the provisional government established by their predecessors in what could be regarded as a first step toward permanent American occupation. And 1844 was a presidential election year, one of the most interesting of the antebellum years. The Whig party nominated Henry Clay for the third time. The Democrats selected James K. Polk as their candidate. The foreign policy issues in the campaign were significant and revolved about the issues of expansionism. One question was whether the United States should assent to the desire of the independent, slaveholding Republic of Texas to be admitted to the Union as a state in defiance of the wishes of Mexico, its former owner. This addition to the nation was favored by the South and by certain elements in the North. The second question was the settlement of the Oregon boundary. In his campaign Clay advocated a careful, noncontroversial policy toward both Texas and Oregon. He cautioned against exacerbating both issues for fear of creating a crisis, or even war, with Mexico or Britain or both.
The Democrats and their candidate seemingly had no such qualms. The party platform asserted that the United States claim to Oregon (presumably everything west of the Rockies from 42° to 54°40') was "clear and unquestionable" and that the region should be "re-occupied" by Americans. Convention and candidate also called forthrightly for the annexation of Texas. A bargain was made between northern and southern wings of the party so that the nation would balance a free Oregon with a slave Texas. The tactics worked, and Polk won a sweeping victory in the electoral college, although he soon forgot that his margin among the popular votes was slender.
In spite of his strong position during the campaign, Polk in the summer of 1845 proposed to Richard Pakenham, the British minister, that the two nations settle the boundary on the basis of the 49th parallel. Pakenham inexplicably rejected this offer out of hand and Polk, angered by this rebuff, determined to force the issue. The president decided to ask Congress to advise him to terminate the joint occupation treaty with England by giving the required one-year notice. Then, he implied, either the British would surrender the entire region to 54°40´ or the Americans would use force to displace them. Polk at this time, in December 1845, asserted in a public message that the Monroe Doctrine required the abandonment of all British territorial claims in the Oregon Country. Until the late spring of 1846 the Senate debated Polk's request to give notice to Britain and finally authorized him to do so, but in a conciliatory manner that invited the British to reopen the negotiations. Once this opportunity was presented the British speedily accepted it.
The forces and personalities that effected not only the defeat of Polk's confrontation tactics but also the British willingness to decide the boundary question had many similarities on both sides of the Atlantic. These peace forces included the reciprocal relationship between British textile manufacturers and southern cotton planters that would be disturbed in case of war. International bankers, merchants, and shipping interests in both countries also favored peace, as did their spokesmen in Parliament and Congress. The informed public in Britain and America realized that division at the 49th parallel was an equitable one based upon the respective explorations and settlements of the two countries. Cultural exchanges also made for peace, since people who read Scott and Dickens, Whittier and Longfellow, felt a strong and abiding kinship. In the end even the politics of the situation worked toward a peaceful settlement. British parties faced the grave problems, far more important than Oregon, of crop failures and unrest in Ireland, coupled with agitation to remove the agricultural tariff. Polk, a southerner, was satisfied with the incorporation of Texas and saw no need, with a war with Mexico looming over that issue, to risk splitting his party and the nation over a claim to a 54°40' settlement. By 1846 each side knew that they would pay a heavy price for neglecting other problems to remain at loggerheads over the Oregon boundary.
Once Oregonians received the news of the Anglo-American treaty of 1846 there no longer seemed a need for a provisional government, and few desired its continuance. But the manner of its replacement by an organized American territorial government was controversial and proved to be the last effort of the Methodists to influence Oregon politics. Early in 1847 Governor Abernethy sent J. Quinn Thornton to Congress as an official delegate of the provisional government. Thornton, a member of the mission party, was not authorized by the legislature as a delegate, but was sent personally by the governor to represent the Methodist interests in securing their land claim at Willamette Falls and in obtaining appointment of Methodists to the offices of the territorial government. To counter Abernethy's action, the legislature sent to Washington Joe Meek, the grandiloquent ex-mountain man and a distant relative of President Polk, as its advocate of territorial status. The legislators instructed Meek, who styled himself as "Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from the Republic of Oregon to the Court of the United States," to obtain a free homestead act and to secure capable officeholders regardless of their religious or political preferences. Meek's hand was strengthened by his bearing news of the Whitman Massacre, a persuasive argument for immediate granting of territorial status.
Oregon's case in Congress was enormously complicated by the emotional era in which it was presented. The late 1840s were the most divisive years in domestic politics since the struggle over the Missouri Compromise (1819–1821), as Congress debated the issue of the Wilmot Proviso: whether or not it could or should close to slavery the territory to be acquired from Mexico at the close of the war then raging. Although not a part of this domain, Oregon was subsumed within the debate, for its future would affect the sectional balance. If it were a free territory it would presumably become a free state and if a slave territory it would possibly become a slave state. Both the apostles of slavery expansion and slavery containment had a stake in scrutinizing the Oregon bill, but it was finally adopted and territorial status achieved on August 14, 1848.
As residents of a territory Oregonians became participants in an old, quasi-colonial form of government that dated to the Northwest Ordinance of 1787. The voters elected the territorial legislature and a nonvoting delegate to Congress; the president of the United States, with the consent of the Senate, appointed the territorial governor, secretary, judges, and council. (Abraham Lincoln, then a lame-duck Congressman, may have been offered the position of governor of Oregon Territory in 1849—he certainly could have had the secretary's post—but he refused to accept because of his wife's objections.) Not only was the territorial structure familiar, for many had lived under it elsewhere, but several political issues that confronted it were similar to those of the era of provisional government. Legislators, the territorial delegate, and appointed officials had to deal with land policy, military affairs, and race relations. The new issues that arose were concerned mainly with the quality and judgment of the officers appointed by the national government. In resolving the issues and in dealing with officeholders, Oregonians relied upon the theory of local self-government (often called popular sovereignty in the era), rooted in the American tradition, practiced by the settlers in the Middle West, and refined in the government of the wagon trains and in the provisional period. Popular sovereignty authorized white, adult, male citizens to determine their domestic policies—from education to slavery—with as little interference as possible from the national government.
The first issue resolved successfully in the territorial era was the security and availability of landed property. This agreement came in the Donation Land Act of 1850 as a reward to the pioneers for settling Oregon. Concerning race questions, the Organic Act itself had abolished slavery, and the territorial legislature continued the policy of its predecessor by voting, at its first session in 1849, to prohibit in the future the admission of free black persons to the territory. In Indian relations two concerns were paramount. One was to obtain payments from Congress for military expenditures authorized during the Cayuse, Rogue River, and Yakima wars. The other was to obtain support from the federal government to continue the wars against the Indians and to confine the Indians on reservations after the conclusion of military conflict. In both cases white Oregonians believed that the treasury or the military was too inclined to be suspicious of their requests and that Congress, also, was unsympathetic to their economic and military needs.
By the early 1850s Oregonians were showing their conservative tastes by importing another old political institution—the political party—to resolve their conflicts. The first party to be organized locally was an offshoot of the oldest in the United States. The founder of the Democratic party in Oregon was a twenty-eight-year-old Massachusetts journalist, Asahel Bush, whose newspaper, the _Oregon Statesman,_ began calling for the formation of parties as early as 1851, buttressing its arguments, significantly, with quotations from eastern newspapers. In the following year the Democrats organized and became the most powerful party in Oregon until statehood. In short order the nucleus of the party, "the Salem Clique" to its enemies, had created a political machine comparable to those of eastern regions, like New York's Tammany Hall. The clique was interested almost exclusively in the pursuit of office and the distribution of plums such as the penitentiary and the insane asylum. Devoid of principle, the young men of the clique, including Bush, Matthew P. Deady, James W. Nesmith, and Orville C. Pratt, were able to maintain themselves in power by skillful exploitation of the realities of Oregon's political environment. Most migrants to Oregon were Democrats and the party's support of popular sovereignty—nationally and locally—kept them loyal in their new homes. Oregon Democrats admired enormously the charismatic Joseph Lane, a midwesterner like themselves, who had been a hero in the War with Mexico. President Polk had made Lane Oregon's first territorial governor, and, after he had been dismissed by a new administration in Washington, Oregonians elected him delegate (1851–1859) and then one of the state's first two senators (1859–1861). Lane's honesty, ability as a stump speaker, and skill in distributing patronage, plus his real accomplishments for the territory in Washington, redounded to the benefit of the entire party.
But the Democrats did not go unchallenged. In the northern counties of the state the Whig party was formed in 1853 to advance the interests of the commercial class and wealthier farmers of the territory. The local organization followed the national party in advocating strong federal intervention in the economy but was vague on local issues. Its principal spokesman, Thomas Dryer, editor of the _Portland Oregonian,_ spent most of his time assailing the Democrats on the grounds of personality. In the next year emerged the Oregon subsidiary of another national party, the American or Know-Nothing, whose members feared the waves of immigrants to the United States, especially Catholics, and who built upon the superstructure of nativism and religious bigotry laid in the missionary era. Many Oregonians found appealing the Know-Nothing program opposed to short naturalization periods and alien voting and office-holding. Far more tolerant of human rights was the Free-Soil party, another national (or rather northern) party with an Oregonian following. The Free-Soilers, whose first northwestern branch was organized in Washington Territory in 1854, soon spread their platform into Oregon. The Free-Soilers were a radical, ideological party advocating free homestead legislation, abolition of slavery in the territories, and, in Oregon, prohibition of alcoholic beverages.
What galvanized Democrats, Whigs, Know-Nothings, and Free-Soilers into spirited conflict on the political stump and in their respective newspapers was the issue of slavery in the territories. In 1854 Congress passed the Kansas-Nebraska Act permitting the residents of the two territories named in it, and the rest of the West by implication, to decide by popular vote—the principle of popular sovereignty—whether or not to have slavery. Oregon Democrats supported the bill as an exercise in local self-government; Oregon Whigs opposed it, arguing that only Congress had the power to decide the issue of slavery in the territories. Most Oregonians favored the Democratic position, for it reflected their faith in local control of political matters and their hope that the principle could be expanded to include the election, instead of appointment, of territorial officials. By 1856, however, many citizens opposed to the Kansas-Nebraska law had coalesced to form a local organization of the new Republican party, a party determined to pass a congressional statute prohibiting the introduction of slavery in the territories regardless of the wishes of the inhabitants. In two years the party had acquired sufficient strength from ex-Whigs, former Free-Soilers, and dissident Democrats to become the second-largest party in the commonwealth.
As in the period of the provisional government, the most exciting political issue was the race question with its several ramifications. The legislature inadvertently repealed the black exclusion act in 1854 when it was mistakenly included on a list of laws to be repealed. Efforts to re-enact it failed, since few blacks were coming to Oregon, and most citizens feared the political turmoil that re-enactment would engender. The right to hold slaves was tested in court when Robin Holmes and his family, brought to Oregon as slaves of a pioneer named Nathaniel Ford, who settled near Salem, sued for their freedom in Judge George H. Williams's federal court. Williams, although not referring to the antislavery provision of the Organic Act, gave the slaves their freedom. Although there were not many black persons in Oregon, slave or free, their residence figured significantly in the crusade for statehood.
Ever since the first session of the territorial legislature in 1849, bills had been introduced to sample the sentiments of Oregonians concerning statehood. Three times a popular vote was taken on the question and three times it failed. Those who favored statehood stressed the power the people would obtain in the national capital with voting senators and representatives. Such authority would result in funding the war debts and in providing military protection against the Indians. A railroad to the Pacific would be only the most beneficial of federal gifts that statehood might provide. Democrats, being the majority party, favored statehood with the hope of capturing its host of elective offices. Whigs, for the same reason, opposed it. Opponents also argued that the expenses of state government, as opposed to federal funding of territorial expenses, would raise taxes prohibitively.
The catalyst for Oregonians' position on this issue, as on so many others throughout the decades, was a development on the eastern seaboard. Early in the spring of 1857 the Supreme Court of the United States handed down its opinion in the case of _Dred Scott_ vs. _Sanford._ This momentous decision declared it illegal for either territorial legislature or Congress to prohibit slavery in any federal territory since only a sovereign state was constitutionally empowered to do so. To prevent even the possibility of slavery being legislated into Oregon, most citizens now swung over to support of statehood and voted by approximately a seven-to-one majority to call a constitutional convention.
Oregon's only constitution was drawn up at Salem in 1857 in a session lasting from August 17 to September 18. Sixty delegates were chosen; most were Democrats, and most were farmers or lawyers. Matthew Deady, a brilliant attorney and member of the Salem Clique, was elected presiding officer. In their deliberations the delegates over and over demonstrated the essential conservatism of the territory. This reliance upon the past emerged vividly at an early session of the convention when a historically minded delegate recommended that the convention employ a reporter, at the pay of $300, to make a complete transcript of the debates. In developing his point James K. Kelly reminded the delegates of the irreparable loss to posterity of a full record of the remarks of the members of the federal Constitutional Convention at Philadelphia. Immediately David Logan of Multnomah County was on his feet to challenge this expenditure: "The making of a constitution now," he declared,
is not such an interesting proceeding as it may have been heretofore. What is said and done is not of that character, and the constitution that we may make, and every principle that we can engraft into it, has been discussed and decided time and again. It is no solution of new principles; it is no solution of new doctrines. We have a number of models before us, and have only to select such as are applicable to the country at this time. Among the mass of principles which are already settled, we are only looking to the solution of those which are applicable to the present circumstances of Oregon.
Logan's view prevailed, and posterity's view of the constitution makers comes from the newspapers, not a verbatim official record.
Nearly all the members of the convention were eager to incorporate the experiences of the past in the constitution. This made their task relatively easy, and as a result there was little time wasted on trivial matters, although a forty-minute time limitation on speeches was defeated ("Why, sir, I could not begin to have a good sweat on by that time"), and a motion to make the governor live at the seat of government was adopted ("Men coming from the extremes of the territory to see the governor wanted to know where to find him"). The models that Oregon's constitution makers followed most closely were those of the states of the Mississippi valley, the region which was a major source of migration to Oregon and was similar to it in its rural society. These constitutions were also written after the great depression of 1837 and reflected an agrarian people's distrust of the bankers and corporations who were blamed for that debacle.
With this heritage it is not surprising that the Oregon Constitution was hardly innovative in any respect. Nowhere was this conservatism more evident than in the provisions reflecting racial or ethnic prejudice. White foreigners were permitted to become citizens and the legislature was authorized "to restrain, and regulate" the immigration of nonwhites. Further, "No Negro, Chinaman, or Mulatto shall have the right of suffrage." Chinese migrating after the constitution was adopted were not permitted to work mining claims or to own mining claims or realty. Two other racial matters were considered too dangerous for the convention delegates to decide. These were the familiar issues of the residence of free blacks and the institution of slavery, issues that were left for the people, not the delegates, to decide. Accordingly, when the constitution was submitted to the voters in the fall of 1857, it was a document containing a traditional form of government. Legislative, executive, and judicial branches were established. Counties and municipalities were formed. The powers of these agencies were limited in a conscious attempt to cut costs, for there was little that an agricultural people desired by way of governmental activity and less by way of taxes. For as Deady said, "We have an agricultural community, and the domestic virtues incident to an agricultural people; and there is where you look for the true and solid wealth and happiness of a people." The constitution accordingly prescribed rigid debt limitations upon the state and local governments. No government was permitted to become a stockholder or lend credit to a corporation. Indeed, only after a sharp and lengthy debate were limited liability corporations permitted at all. Salaries of governmental officers were meager.
In addition to the main body of the constitution the voters were asked to vote upon two separate provisions. They were asked if they wanted slavery in Oregon. Secondly, they were asked if they wished to permit the residence of free blacks. Between the adjournment of the convention and the vote upon the constitution, these racial issues were the ones most widely discussed. The debate was superficially extraneous, for there were few free blacks in Oregon and little possibility of slavery being introduced even if it were legitimatized. The subject received the attention that it did because of a pragmatic fundamental—the necessity that the constitution please not only Oregonians, but also Congress, which would vote upon admission.
Congress, and the nation, were torn by distressing news from another prospective state. Violent actions in Kansas Territory, deeds perpetrated by militants who wished to make the region slave or free, forced the slogan "Bleeding Kansas" upon the public consciousness. The doctrine of popular sovereignty proved unenforceable in Kansas as the citizens chose two governments, one proslavery, which formed a constitution at Lecompton, one antislavery, which drew up a constitution at Topeka, and President James Buchanan and his agents proved incompetent in resolving their controversy. Both nationally and in Oregon the Kansas conflicts and the failure of popular sovereignty to solve them split the Democratic party. In the Northwest the Salem Clique was unable to confine politics to the safe waters of local issues and local patronage. The party divided into a pro-Buchanan, pro-Lecompton wing led by Joseph Lane and a pro-Douglas, anti-Lecompton faction that included James Nesmith and Asahel Bush. This division gave the Republicans their opportunity to challenge seriously the majority party, and by the elections of 1859 they had become a formidable threat to the Democrats.
Earlier in the year, on Valentine's Day, the president signed a bill admitting Oregon to the Union. The long delay was caused, as Oregonians had feared, by northern and southern misgivings about the various racial provisions in the constitution, and by Republican fears of admitting a Democratic state. In the end a sufficient majority of Republican congressmen voted for statehood, against the wishes of their party leadership, to bring the state into the Union, and in time to cast its first presidential ballots in the momentous election of 1860. Voters in that campaign had a choice of four contenders. John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky represented the southern Democracy with a plank advocating a congressional slave code for the federal territories. Curiously, his running mate was Joseph Lane of Oregon, a man who had nothing to gain with his state's voters by his proslavery stand but one who adopted it out of conviction. Stephen A. Douglas's presidential race was based upon a defense of popular sovereignty. Abraham Lincoln's plank on slavery called for congressional prohibition of slavery in the territories. Both Douglas and Lincoln were pro-Union, adamantly opposing the Breckinridge-Lane stance that state sovereignty justified secession if the South's position on slavery in the territories did not prevail in Congress. A fourth nominee was John Bell of Tennessee, candidate of the Constitutional Union party, who equivocated on the slavery issue.
Lincoln carried Oregon, although with a minority of the popular votes. His views on slavery, the Republican advocacy of free homestead legislation and the construction of a railroad to the Pacific, and the Democratic Congress's unwillingness to discharge the debts of the Indian wars, secured his triumph in the electoral college. If his votes and those of Douglas are combined, the pro-Union sentiment appears overwhelming. The Lincoln-Douglas vote and the citizens' support of the Union during the Civil War that followed is not surprising. The state had always been nationalistic and conservative. The federal government and its political institutions, and those of the states as well, were satisfactory to the people of Oregon. To threaten or to destroy the Union was a radical step that almost all Oregonians found abhorrent to their self-interest and their principles.
III
Conservative as the settlers were in political affairs, they were equally tenacious in matters of culture. In institutions and ideals they were transplanters, not innovators, men and women concerned with preserving a satisfying way of life in a new geographical and political environment. The basic organization of life substantiates this generalization, for Oregonians belonged to an extended farm family that was the fundamental social and economic unit, although in the urban areas single males for a time predominated. In contrast with the practice of Mormon polygamy in Illinois and Utah or the almost exclusively male population of the California gold rush era, most Oregon settlers were members of the monogamous families that were characteristic of rural America. Their economic occupations, both in town and country, were familiar ones in the areas of largest population, although new environmental challenges appeared in the regions east of the Cascades.
The very buildings sheltering the people were built on eastern models. As the settlers put in their first crops, then found markets for them, they could in time afford more elaborate structures: a farm home developed in the pattern of log shanty, then log cabin, then frame house. Not that all houses looked alike, for Oregonians were both northern and southern in their heritage, and they recalled their native homes. What they did not draw upon for architectural inspiration was their new natural environment. Similarly, the pioneers' contempt for the Indian culture, although like their own in intimate dependence upon nature, precluded their learning from the earlier social environment for their housing. City residents, too, varying with their wealth and status, built their homes according to their memories of the dwellings of eastern people of similar position.
The most recent scholarship divides Oregon architecture in the formative period about the year 1860. Before this date the lumber houses built in Oregon were characterized by symmetry. The houses and the rooms within them were invariably rectangular. The chimneys and windows were in balance, and the roof was either flat or low-pitched. Houses built from these plans were constructed in one of three modes—hewn frame, balloon frame, or box construction, all of which had antecedents on the East Coast or in the Middle West. Exteriors of the most modish houses were classical revival or federal styles similarly transplanted from the East. The builders and owners, in making their architectural selections, were again choosing forms with which they were familiar from their own homes. In the Willamette Valley a traveller might encounter a house derived ultimately from the James River in Virginia or from Missouri or the French country of Illinois or even from the Dutch colony of New Netherland. After 1860 many of these modes continued to be employed, although there were new possibilities for the fashionably inclined as the Gothic revival, with its steep roofs, lancet windows, and multiple-volume floor plans became popular in Oregon.
Barns, like houses, were traditional. The norm was side opening barns, through which teams and wagons filled with wheat could be driven for unloading into lofts. This form was brought from sixteenth-century England to Jamestown and Ply-mouth and then transplanted the 3,000 miles to the Oregon Country. After 1860 barns became more technically complex in their design and construction but remained derivative. Mills, the only industrial enterprises of the era, warehouses, churches, and inns were also conservative. Even the radical communitarian settlement at Aurora, in its architecture, was a transplant from Missouri and Pennsylvania.
The Oregonians brought with them in vessel, wagon, or railroad car a respect, even love, for schools and churches. In these institutions, as in architecture, the hand of the eastern past shaped the Oregon present. The earliest primary and secondary schools, public or private, stressed the essentials of reading, writing, and arithmetic, in addition to the installation of moral values. The Catholic church had provided some religious instruction as early as 1844 among the French Canadians at French Prairie and later at Oregon City and Portland. In 1859 twelve sisters of the Holy Names who came around the Horn from Montreal to Portland established a school for six pupils, Saint Mary's Academy, still extant. The first Jewish school was begun by the Beth Israel Congregation in Portland in 1861 to provide instruction in both secular and religious subjects. Methodists had organized a school at Champoeg in 1834, originally for the purpose of educating the Indian converts, but it soon turned its attention to white children. In 1854 the Methodists founded Portland Academy and in 1861 Episcopalians established Spencer Hall Seminary in Milwaukie that, after a hiatus, was transplanted to Portland as Saint Helen's Hall in 1869. Eastern church members provided the bulk of the endowment for this institution, 300 dollars, for example, being given by students and faculty of Saint Mary's Hall of Burlington, New Jersey.
Public schools were more difficult to root than were private institutions. A territorial law of 1848 included two sections of public land in each township to be sold for schools, and in 1851 the first public school was begun in Oregon when the voters of Portland combined with those of Multnomah County to purchase a former private school building where a twenty-two-year-old Nova Scotian, John Outhouse, taught his first class of twenty pupils. The state's first public high school opened—in Portland—in 1869, although it was many years before this type of institution was regarded with general favor throughout the state.
Higher education also did not encompass many students. Several small academies, such as the Oregon Institute, which became Willamette University at Salem, grew up but their influence was small. Organized on eastern lines, they stressed a classical curriculum that was designed to prepare students for the professions. Indeed, in no respect was the educational system a product of the Oregon environment in terms of its structure or objectives. Teachers, administrators, and supporters of schools and colleges were educated in the East and convinced of the virtues of the eastern system. In their commitment to education Oregonians were not ungenerous, given the lack of material resources of an underdeveloped region. They wanted a literate citizenry for pragmatic reasons: to provide social cohesion, vocational opportunity, and an informed electorate, as Unitarian minister Thomas Lamb Eliot, grand old man of Portland "good causes," put it in an address in 1875 celebrating and justifying the public schools. They provided, he affirmed, "the supply of stable citizenship and conservative power—we must as a nation, pour in life blood from this system as a heart, if we would balance titanic material forces, and remain self-governed, without caste or chasm, free from the tyranny of man or mob."
In the area of religion the Oregon frontier was similarly conservative. The transplanted institutions of the mission period were followed by the advent of other denominations until all of the major religious forms were represented. Yet not one single innovation emerged, either in polity or theology, unlike the Mormonism of antebellum western New York, or the Christian Science of late nineteenth-century urban America, or the proliferation of cults in twentieth-century California. Nor was there in Oregon a particularly large interest in traditional religion, and church membership, even among Methodists in the years before the Civil War, remained very low. A stable, self-satisfied, sufficiently prosperous people apparently felt little need for the support of religious institutions. This indifference, planted in the first decades, remains a distinguishing feature of the state's cultural life.
Beyond the basic institutions of home, family, school, and church, the people of early Oregon made some attempts at the "higher culture" of literature and the arts. What most interests the student of Oregon's history is the least conscious but refreshing writings, those of the diaries from the wagon trains, the correspondence of the missionaries, and the editorials of the frontier press. Although none of this material is great literature, taken as a whole it confirms the solidity of character, if somewhat unimaginative nature, of the early Oregonians and their practical aspirations, a characterization given further minor support by the total lack of folk songs contrived in Oregon wagon trains in contrast to the round dozen invented by those en route to the California mining camps. There are, of course, some notable exceptions to the stolid generalization: the humor of James Nesmith and the vivid sketches of Jesse Applegate from the Oregon Trail; the soul-searching of Narcissa Whitman; and the vindictive editorials of Asahel Bush and Thomas Dryer.
When one turns to fiction, drama, or poetry there is little that, by the standards of the day, was worthy of recognition beyond the borders of the region. A great deal of poetry was written for the local press, and a few novels and at least one play were published. In all these literary efforts the forms were traditional and the themes conventional. Most of the content dealt with the glories of Oregon nature, with romantic sentiments, or with personalities of the region. The two most interesting works, produced by two colorful although vastly different people, reflected these emphases.
Margaret Jewett Bailey was a member of the second Methodist reinforcement party of 1837. A contentious and pious young woman, she resented the overbearing manner of the Reverend David Leslie, who commanded this party, and her problems were magnified in Oregon when Leslie and Jason Lee refused to assign her the teaching position she had been promised before leaving the East. Angered by her continuing assignment to menial labor, by ongoing personality clashes with others at the mission station, and by the condemnation of her love affair with William H. Willson, a carpenter at the mission, Margaret Bailey published (under the pseudonym of Ruth Rover) a sensational exposé in 1854 entitled _The Grains, or Passages in the Life of Ruth Rover, with Occasional Pictures of Oregon, Natural and Moral._ In this work, whose characters had most transparent names when referred to derogatorily (Leslie was Leland; Shepard was S——), she laid bare the internal conflicts of the mission family, emphasizing how the secular activities of the missionaries hindered their ostensible purpose of laboring with the Indians. In the small circle of frontier Oregon the book became a piece not only for conversation, but also for angry debate, and all but two copies were destroyed by those who considered it immoral.
A similar work, at least in its notoriety, was _Treason, Stratagems and Spoils,_ a play published in 1852 by William Adams in the pages of the _Oregonian_ under the pseudonym of Breakspear. Adams, who had earlier sharpened his skills in the genre as a satirist in Kentucky, later became a leading antislavery editor. His play was a clever Whig attack upon the Salem Clique or "Durhamites" (so called because their early leader, Orville C. Pratt, had once sold a scrub bull as a pure-blood Durham), a play in which the clique leaders were mercilessly lampooned as self-seeking and incompetent spoilsmen. Tormented by the sharpness of the attack, the clique attempted to acquire, and destroy, all extant copies, but a few survived.
The touchstone of this cultural conservatism of Oregon was the relationship of the pioneers with the Indian peoples. The maritime traders, the explorers and scientists, and the early beaver trappers all had affected the Indian culture—as conservative as that of the Caucasian—in numerous ways, but their impact was relatively slight in comparison to the burdens placed upon the original residents by the white farmers and businessmen. It is surprising, indeed, that so many of the Indian ways of life survived at all. The pressures of white persons and institutions on the Indians took the form of disease, territorial encroachments, wars, and segregation on reservations. Certainly more lives were lost from the introduction of venereal disease, smallpox, measles, and influenza than from any of the declared or undeclared military conflicts of the era. For example, the members of the Kalapuya linguistic group who lived in the Willamette Valley declined in the century after 1780 from 3,000 to 351 persons, most of the loss the toll of malaria and influenza, while some coastal groups declined in population from 50 to 70 percent between 1850 and 1900.
White people brought these diseases in their role of occupants, not as sojourners. Although the missionaries certainly did not intend to destroy the Indians, they were the first to publicize widely the agricultural possibilities of the Willamette Valley. The advent of the pioneers led to a struggle for land between the old residents and the new, as farm making destroyed hunting and gathering terrain and as Indians in turn encroached on cropland. This type of conflict was evident as early as the 1840s in the Willamette region and then in the 1850s as the miners invaded Indian country all along the Rogue and southern coastal regions. Other miners in the 1860s were en route to the Idaho and Montana fields through the Klamath Lake area and in the Umatilla River region. Late in the decade and into the next, all other land desired by the white man fell from Indian control, as wheat farmers, cattlemen, and sheep growers occupied southeastern and central Oregon. These economic conflicts over incompatible land use patterns were irreconcilable and frequently led to war.
In the area of the original Oregon Country there were eight conflicts labelled wars between the Cayuse War of 1847 and the Bannock War of 1878. Not all were fought within the boundaries of the state of Oregon, but the Cayuse War, the Rogue River War, and the Yakima War were especially influential in the state's development and, indeed, had a national impact. The Cayuse War, carried on against the tribe whose members had killed the Whitmans, was instrumental in accelerating the demand of the pioneers for a territorial structure to replace the military impotence of the provisional government. In the Rogue River War, waged between 1851 and 1856, the territorial militia and United States forces defeated the Indians of southwestern Oregon. The Yakima War (1855–1858), against the Yakimas, Klickitats, Spokanes, and their allies, was fought on both sides of the Columbia but mainly in central Washington Territory, and together with the Rogue War forced a significant change in federal Indian policy.
Before the 1850s the national government had displaced the eastern Indians to the "Indian Country," a vast region of shifting boundaries west of the Mississippi River, where they were supposed to reside in perpetuity in conditions of relative freedom. The Oregon experience forced changes in the old policy and soon forged a new institution, the "small" Indian reservation. War and treaty-making produced the reservation. In 1855 at the Umatilla Reservation were gathered the Umatillas, Walla Wallas, and Cayuses. In the same year the Warm Springs Reservation was created for the Wascos, some of the Walla Wallas, and (after 1868) Paiutes. The next two years saw the establishment of the Grand Ronde and Siletz reservations on the coast for tribes of the Willamette Valley and the south, and in 1864 Congress commenced the Klamath Reservation which ultimately encompassed members of the Klamath, Modoc, and Paiute tribes.
The old policy of segregating the defeated Indians in areas separate from the victorious whites appeared as early as the regime of Joseph Lane, the first territorial governor, who also acted as Indian superintendent. The purpose was not only to prevent territorial conflict but also to avoid corrupting the Indians through contact with the dregs of white society. Lane argued for the separation of the races; Samuel Thurston, first territorial delegate, wished to move the western Indians east of the Cascades. Officials in Washington were willing to follow this time-honored policy, but Lane's successor as Indian agent, Anson Dart, realized that the Indians accustomed to the humid climate would be destroyed when they were moved to the semi-arid country to the east. Convinced that his position was sound, Dart in 1851 made treaties with the valley and coastal Indians. The treaties granted reservations in the west where there were no white residents, reservations which "consist for the most part of ground unfitted for cultivation, but suited to the peculiar habits of the Indians." On these lands, presumably, the Indians were to carry on their historic fishing-hunting-gathering operations.
The theory of co-existence underlying these treaties was chimerical. Indeed the members of the United States Senate recognized this fact, for many settlers had complained to them; all of Dart's treaties were rejected; and he himself resigned in 1852. His successor was Joel Palmer, a pioneer of 1845, "a plain, unpretensious [ _sic_ ] _,_ practical and honest man, strong in the conviction that all people show their best traits when well treated." Palmer further developed Dart's innovation of the small, specifically bounded reservation, but he abandoned both his predecessor's idea of reservations proximate to white settlement and the pioneers' wish for locating them east of the Cascades. Palmer drew treaties with the southern and western Oregon tribes that, coupled with executive orders of President Buchanan, established the Siletz Reservation and the Grand Ronde Reservation along the central section of the Oregon coast, an area he believed unsuitable for the white economy. By 1857 the Senate had approved these arrangements which, coupled with the treaties he and Isaac Stevens, governor of Washington, concluded with the Indians of the middle Columbia, cleared away the Indian "title," at least as the whites understood this concept, to the land.
The reservation had two purposes. The first was to concentrate the Indians in areas undesirable to whites where any hostile actions could be easily detected. The second was to convert the Indian into a white farmer. To achieve the latter purpose the agents of the federal government included in the treaties provisions promising educational facilities and instruction in vocational arts and in agriculture. Sometimes directly, more often indirectly, the government encouraged the clergy to carry out their work among the Indian people. As in the Protestant missionary era, the Caucasian culture was to displace that of the Indians, root and branch.
The discouragement and hatred of reservation life on the part of the Indians is not difficult to imagine. They were forced to farm, but the land was unsuitable for agriculture. Old tribal enemies were brought together on a single reservation. The entire culture was condemned as inferior or immoral. Family patterns were shattered, and the respect earned by the wisdom of the aged in solving the problems of the traditional culture disappeared with the advent of the challenges of the white civilization. The burden of assimilation fell principally upon the shoulders of the Indian agent and his staff and upon the younger Indian leaders. Their job, executed through cajolery, force, persuasion, example, or bribery, was enormous because the resistance of the Indian people was widespread.
What gave the advocates of assimilation hope, at least sporadically, was that the Indian resistance was selective. As anthropologist Theodore Stern has pointed out concerning the Klamath, there were certain aspects of the new culture that the Indians readily accepted. To work hard, to gain material possessions, to be practical were virtues of both worlds, and Indians needed no persuasion to assure agreement in these matters. Religion, clothing, even the names of individuals were matters of individual choice in the precontact era, and there was no objection from the tribe if an Indian assumed Christianity, the garb of white people, or a Caucasian name. What the Indian would accept only under duress was the economic system and the educational practices imposed by the national government.
The precontact Indian throughout the Pacific Northwest was not a farmer. The practice of agriculture needed the tutelage of white teachers and the provision of seed, implements, and mills. None of these was provided systematically in either quantity or quality. During the transitional period, while awaiting the success of Indians in the new economy, the national government had to supply food and clothing for the Indians. These goods were both inferior and in short supply. Other distractions appeared from time to time. On the Warm Springs Reservation the problems of early agriculture included raids by the northern Paiute Indians upon the reservation stock; the traditional attraction of the salmon fisheries, which took the men from the fields in the critical seasons of spring and fall; the absence of a mill, which made it impossible to provide poles for fencing; and the shortage of implements and harnesses, furnished by the agent, which created inconvenient delays at seedtime and harvest. On the Siletz Reservation troubles came with white encroachment for oystering, mining, and for the construction of a wagon road from Corvallis to Yaquina Bay. In time Congress responded to these pressures and whittled the reservation down in 1865 and 1875 to reduce further its potential as a means for the Indians to enter the mainstream of American economic life. The greatest frustration came to those Indians who had somehow survived the poor shelter, inadequate food, incompetent instruction, and insufficient equipment to become trained for the new economy. They found that not only did racial prejudice keep them out of the white world, but that the Indian economy lacked the base to provide employment for them in their new pursuits.
Another irony is that the Indian, ostensibly being prepared for Caucasian civilization, was required to live on reservations segregated from it. To assimilate off the reservation, as Dick Johnson and his family discovered, was undesirable. Near Yoncalla, Johnson and his family carved out a farm and made a success of it. They were Christians. They prized education. Indeed their desire for assimilation earned them the admiration of many of their white neighbors, including the respected pioneer, Jesse Applegate. Yet on November 28, 1858, Dick Johnson and his stepfather were murdered by a party of eight claim jumpers who coveted their farm. Although Applegate led a struggle to bring the murderers to justice and to guarantee the Johnson heirs their land, he and his friends failed. Law that prohibited the testimony of Indians in court, the lukewarmness of Indian Superintendent James Nesmith, and technicalities in the Umpqua treaty thwarted justice and equity.
Failure and frustration was also the harvest of Indian education. Designed to be both academic and vocational, to be offered in both day and boarding schools, the educational system was shaped to be comprehensive. Its main purpose was to make the Indian self-supporting, but the list of obstacles to the attainment of this goal was almost limitless. At the root, however, was racial prejudice on the part of the American public that precluded adequate congressional appropriations for suitable buildings and capable teachers. Without a more substantial recognition of the humanity of the Indians, their educational fate was to shiver in filthy and dilapidated buildings under the instruction of a succession of teachers, ill-equipped or incompetent, who attempted to prepare them for a world that would not accept them. By the 1880s Oregon Indians, for the white majority, were literally out of sight and out of mind, consigned to fringe regions, unworthy in their impotence even of hatred. They had become a sacrifice to the cultural conservatism of white Americans who transplanted racism in the wagon trains to the new land.
## **4**
## Intrusion of the Outside World (1870–1920)
**I**
AFTER the close of the Civil War Oregon continued to furnish opportunities for new lives to thousands of migrants. From 1860 until 1920 the state's population grew at a far higher rate than did that of the nation, outstripping the federal rate of increase by an average of 37 percent every decade. Most of the newcomers came, as did those of the pioneer period, to better themselves economically, and although the great majority of the new Oregonians continued to be white, Anglo-Saxon Protestants, the state's population did become slightly more heterogeneous than in the antebellum era.
The American citizens who came to Oregon were easy for the pioneer generation to accept because both were people of a midwestern, agricultural background who aspired to settle in the Willamette Valley. Unlike the pioneers, however, many newcomers found the great valley settled, with the good land either already taken or priced prohibitively. Their solution was to cross the Cascades and to settle up farms and ranches in eastern and central Oregon or to reconcile themselves to an urban life along the Willamette or its tributaries. Indeed, urbanization in these years for the first time became an important feature of Oregon life, and the city of Portland developed into the only metropolitan area in the state. Growth of population, the bridging of the Willamette, and the development of the electric streetcar all enabled the city to expand geographically and in many cases to annex adjacent small towns. The new markets of recent migrants permitted industrial expansion as the economy became more sophisticated, and an urban residence and job were the lot of most Americans who came to Oregon in these years. In spite of where they lived these American-born arrivals fit easily into the cohesive pattern of the state's culture and helped to forestall serious urban-rural divisions.
The majority of foreigners who came to Oregon after 1870 were equally adaptable and equally welcome. Germans were the most numerous throughout the whole period with Canadians, Irish, Swedes, English, and Scots following in a varying order, depending upon the particular census year. By and large these peoples, too, found a benign social environment since almost all of them were of the same color and Protestant religious preference as most older Oregonians. They came at a time of expanding opportunity and accordingly did not seem to threaten the standard of living of American citizens. They possessed the rudiments of education and probably had some experience, at least at the local level, with self-government. More importantly, their ideals were those of the native-born Americans. They came to Oregon to get ahead, because their ancestral lands in the old countries were too small to support a growing population, or because they dreaded the confined life of factory laborers in an industrializing European economy. They believed in hard work, in making a better life for their children, in the public school, in political democracy, and in a free press. Their contributions could be recognized and appreciated because, unlike the bulk of American immigrants of the day who were from central or eastern Europe, or from Asia, they were not handicapped by the "wrong" religion or color, or by inadequate educational and political preparation for life in the United States. Since the new migrants were so favorably equipped for life in America it is not surprising to find two German-born citizens elected mayor of Portland in 1869–1873, or Irish lodges given honored positions in the city's parade celebrating the completion of the Northern Pacific Railroad in 1883, or English-born Thomas H. Tongue chosen for the national House of Representatives from 1897 to 1903. The very lack of unfavorable notice of the northern European peoples in the public and private records of the state testifies to the overall smoothness with which they were assimilated into Oregon's culture. Furthermore, in the city of Portland, in contrast to most American metropolises, there were few foreign ethnic geographical enclaves, and the national organizations, such as the Sons of Norway, remained potent forces for a generation at most.
Oregon shared also, although to a very small degree, in the great migration of southern and central European peoples to the United States in the post-Civil War era. Those of northern European stock, aliens and citizens alike, found these newcomers to be useful in accepting positions of menial labor, but suspected them for their Catholicism and for their "exotic" ways. An expanding economy and their very fewness spared them, however, from the grosser forms of ethnic prejudice.
The building of the railroads in the Northwest brought Italians to the Pacific Northwest after 1880. Most came from southern Italy and from Sicily, driven from their farms by crop failures, soil erosion, and land monopoly. Their intention was to return home with a nest egg and hence most Italian migrants were single males ("birds of passage") willing to accept jobs with lower pay and more physical demands than would citizens. Italians worked in railroad building, in the mills and lumber camps, and in street and sewer construction. But in time at least half of the migrants decided to settle in Oregon, sent for their families, and began the arduous process of breaking away from manual labor to enter other occupations. Those who could afford the capital outlay took up the congenial occupation of truck farming around Portland, and some, or their children, secured a foothold in other businesses or professions.
By 1920 the Italian determination to stay and succeed was evident in the community's institutional structure. In the usual immigrant pattern the new residents founded benevolent societies, the first being the Columbia Lodge (1889), to cushion them against unemployment, sickness, and burial expenses, and churches to provide both divine and worldly consolation. The pioneer Italian Roman Catholic Church, Saint Michael's, was organized in Portland in 1901. In time political participation opened and the formation of the Italian-American Republican Club in 1916 signalled successful adjustment to this aspect of the American democratic process.
The Greek experience in Oregon, although beginning about twenty years later, resembled that of the Italians in many respects. The early newcomers, forced from their homeland by poor economic conditions, aspired to acquire sufficient savings to return to Greece. In America, they, like others from eastern and southern Europe, took construction work in the dry seasons and returned to Portland for the winter. In time many Greeks, too, decided their best interest lay in remaining in America and began the grueling, often desperate, search for self-employment as bootblacks or retailers of candy, fruit, and cigars. Money laboriously saved was willingly spent in founding the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in 1907 and the Hellenic Social Club in 1912 as tokens of the intention to remain in the new world.
A small number of Russian and south Slavs also became Oregonians before the First World War destroyed the Czarist and Hapsburg empires. Most were "birds of passage" who worked as laborers or restaurateurs with the intention of returning home. Among the Russians of the Czarist migration not only Slavs were represented, but also Volga Germans and Jews. For Christians, the Holy Trinity Orthodox Chapel, built in East Portland in 1894, was their place of worship, and secular institutions included a Russian Club and a lodge of the Serbian National Federation.
In the 1880s eastern Europe also gave Oregon a renewed source of ancient culture. Jews from Germany had been a significant part of Oregon life since the days of the Rogue River gold rush in the 1850s when there were Jewish communities in Jacksonville and Glendale, and Aaron Rose, a tavern keeper, gave his name to Roseburg in 1851. In 1858 Oregon's first Jewish congregation was founded, Beth Israel in Portland, and German Jewish citizens became prominent in the business, professional, and political life of Portland. In that city Bernard Goldsmith (1869–1871) and Philip Wasserman (1871–1873) served successively as mayor. Jews of these years were akin to other German migrants in their educational and political background and in aspirations to participate fully in American life. In consequence they rarely fell afoul of anti-Semitism or other cultural discrimination.
The lot of the Jews coming after 1880 was rather different. Most were eastern Europeans from the Romanov or Hapsburg empires, poor people, of a strange and somewhat troubling background to Americans. Unlike the first Italians, Greeks, or Slavs, they were not "birds of passage." Unlike them, they did not go into construction work or the mills. Unlike the earlier German Jews, they were Orthodox rather than Reformist in their religious profession. The east European Jews made their way economically in Portland as tailors, as pawnbrokers, and in all varieties of retail and wholesale merchandise. They co-operated with German Jews in the founding of benevolent organizations like the local chapter of the National Council of Jewish Women, which established a social service organization, Neighborhood House, in 1904. They established several orthodox congregations such as Sharrie Torah and Kesser Israel.
By the early 1920s the diversification of Oregon through migration from southern and eastern Europe was over as disenchantment with the world, fear of a constricting economy, and disillusion with the world war led to the congressional imposition of minute quotas for migrants from these quarters of the world. Groups that had enriched the life of the state, particularly the city of Portland, with a heterogeneous cultural strain were now condemned as unworthy, not by Portlanders or Oregonians, but by the national legislature.
But older Oregonians themselves were not invariably pleased with representatives of other cultures. As before the Civil War, the burden of proof of their social acceptability was placed on the shoulders of nonwhite peoples. Many were never permitted equality of legal status with whites, contempt for their cultures was pervasive, and fear of physical violence was often their companion.
The newest of the nonwhite peoples to arrive in Oregon were the Japanese, whose numbers rose from two in 1880 to 2,501 in 1900 and to 4,151 in 1920. Although federal law throughout the years prohibited them from becoming American citizens, Japanese nationals migrated to Oregon before 1900 with the aspiration of making money so they could eventually return to the old country with enough funds to support their families in some comfort. The most influential of such early Japanese was Sinzaburo Ban, who became a contractor, lumber dealer, and shingle manufacturer in Oregon with branch offices in Tokyo, Wyoming, and Colorado. In the 1890s Ban began to supply Japanese labor on contract to the Oregon Short Line Railroad for construction work. Along the railway lines, in the logging camps and lumber mills of the Hood River region, and in Portland there developed a male-oriented, transitory Japanese community located in inexpensive restaurants, boardinghouses, and brothels.
Around the turn of the century the Oregon Japanese community took a new direction. Family groups replaced the male culture. Agriculture became the principal economic occupation as Japanese immigrants began farming in Hood River, Gresham, Salem, and, after 1910, in eastern Oregon around the small towns of John Day and Prineville. The life of these pioneers was arduous as they attempted to make the most of their labor by acquiring raw land on steep slopes, noncommercial woodlands, or poorly drained terrain; often the dream of a farm seemed chimerical as self-sacrifice brought them to the edge of hunger: "In those days a stray jackrabbit meant a feast and a cow killed by a passing train was a God-sent banquet." But tenacity provided success, not only in material terms but in the development of a well-rooted and comprehensive set of cultural institutions like the Buddhist congregation founded in Portland in 1903 by a young priest, Shozui Wakabayashi. Japanese also began entering into American life and the children attended schools, learned the English language, and adopted American customs.
Although the Japanese exemplified the American ethic of hard work, material success, and desire for education, and were law-abiding and docile people, their reception among white Oregonians was not enthusiastic. In the twentieth century anti-Japanese feelings, beginning in California, spread northward along the Pacific Coast, although a minority, particularly among businessmen, hailed the industriousness of the Japanese. When Joseph Gaston, the railroad entrepreneur, published a history of Portland in 1911 he labelled a Japanese leader as a "typical representative of the progressive little nation which in the past half century has advanced to a greater degree than any other country in the same period," and W. E. Wheelwright, president of the Pacific Export Company, became in Oregon the principal white defender of the Japanese people.
On the other hand, white small farmers and townspeople near Japanese communities either feared or resented the Asian immigrants. Many Caucasian citizens of Gresham and Hood River believed that Japanese were becoming "land monopolists," although they held only one-twentieth of 1 percent of the total acreage of the state in 1920. They were scorned as shiftless or slovenly, for the first generation of farmers spent the bulk of their capital upon land rather than upon sprucing their dwellings; they were regarded (in the face of contrary evidence) as inordinately prolific; and their community-mindedness was condemned as clannish or even politically sinister. Local prejudice developed concurrently with that of the nation, and when the United States and Japan agreed to limit Japanese emigration to the United States in 1907, coupled with the nineteenth-century ban against naturalizing Japanese aliens, an official seal seemed to stamp the Japanese as not only different but also culturally inferior to Caucasian Americans. In Oregon the development of anti-Japanese prejudice produced a bill in 1917, drawn by Sen. George R. Wilbur, an attorney, to prohibit land ownership by aliens ineligible for citizenship. Although defeated at this legislative session, it emerged again in the chauvinistic atmosphere after the First World War.
The social and economic position of another Asian group in Oregon, the Chinese, was the reverse of that of the Japanese: their conditions and respect, although not their legal status, improved with the passing years, while that of the Japanese simultaneously declined. Chinese had been among Oregon's earliest residents, having mined in the Rogue River Valley in the 1850s. In the following two decades the Chinese took up residence both around Portland and in eastern Oregon. They found their living in mining, railroad construction, and in the service trades, such as cooking or laundering, east of the Cascades. In the Portland area construction and services made up the bulk of the employment opportunities.
The Chinese migrants in the last decade of the nineteenth century resembled the early Japanese in that most of them were single men seeking economic opportunities in America with the intention of ultimately returning home. "I came to America," wrote an emigrant in 1897, "to labor, to suffer, floating from one place to another, persecuted by the whites, for more than twenty years. What is my goal for enduring this kind of pain and hardship? Nothing but trying to earn some money to relieve the poverty of my home. Do you know that both the old and the young at my home are awaiting me to deliver them out of starvation and cold?"
In the late 1890s in China a spirit of change swept the country in the wake of the national defeat in the Sino-Japanese War. Many people left their homes after this debacle, including those who planned to make permanent residences abroad. Oregon was the beneficiary of many of these migrants, and by 1900 Portland had a very large Chinese population, the second largest of any city in the United States.
The Chinese faced consistent prejudice until the turn of the century. Oregonians imported this prejudice from California, along with the Chinese, in the 1850s. After the Civil War Pacific Coast racists, led by demagogues from the Golden State, ensured that Chinese migrants were denied American citizenship, and in 1880 a treaty between the United States and China permitted Congress to legislate the regulation, limitation, or suspension of immigration of Chinese laborers. In 1882 Congress exercised this option by suspending Chinese immigration for ten years.
Although Oregonians did not create these federal measures, or the prejudice that undergirded them, they themselves were never tolerant of the Asian newcomers. Local mining districts often permitted the Chinese to work only the tailings of the mineral deposits. State law assessed a special tax on Chinese miners and merchants. Caucasians denigrated and ridiculed their customs and physically assaulted them sporadically. In the depression years of the mid-1880s and the mid-1890s the Chinese became the scapegoats for bad economic conditions and were unjustly blamed for the unemployment of American workingmen. In the last era the Populist-Democratic governor, Sylvester Pennoyer, ingratiated himself as the demagogic spokesman of anti-Chinese sentiment. The nurseryman Seth Lewelling had to shelter his Chinese foreman in his own home. Stores owned by Chinese and by those who employed them were burned in Portland in the early 1870s and Irish toughs cruelly abused the Chinese. In 1886 Chinese woodcutters were driven from Mount Tabor and forcibly deported from the woolen mills in Oregon City, and in the following year ten Chinese were murdered in Wallowa County.
Although conservative citizens condemned these outrages, the burden of the defense of the Chinese fell upon their own shoulders in almost all respects. "Chinatowns" were places both of residence and of refuge where Chinese could physically escape from the white world and could focus their cultural activities. Socially the Chinese depended for benevolent services, as well as for moral support, upon their clan organizations if they were members of large extended families. The less fortunate members of smaller families, denied the services of the clans, banded together into tongs to protect themselves both against the clans and against the Caucasian world.
After the turn of the century, as many Chinese left the city, as the remainder dispersed throughout Portland, as prosperity returned following the depression of the middle 1890s, and as the Japanese became the new targets of anti-Asian sentiment, Caucasians accepted the Chinese more easily. In the years until the close of the First World War the Chinese cultural life in Portland was centered in the Chinese Theater and in the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association of Portland, a federation of all societies that cushioned its members against the shocks of American society by providing advice and arbitration of disputes and also tried to abate the assimilationist temptations of the younger generation by founding a language school. By 1920 the last cause seemed to be almost hopeless. In eastern Oregon the store of Lung On in John Day was the center of not only the mercantile but the cultural life of the Chinese of that region. Temple, herbal doctor's office, gambling den as well as wholesale and retail mercantile institution, the store flourished until the death of its last proprietor in 1952.
Blacks, too, forged a cultural life in the teeth of white indifference. The constitutional amendments of the Civil War and Reconstruction eras freed the slaves, declared blacks to be citizens, and guaranteed the right to vote to the freedmen. Oregon's antiblack constitutional provisions were rendered invalid, but their nullification did not lead to a large migration of blacks in the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries. Almost all Oregon blacks of these years lived in Portland, with a handful resident in La Grande and in other railroad division points. The occupation of the black populace was almost exclusively connected with transportation, and the newly arrived black people from the South filled jobs as Pullman porters, laborers in the railroad shops, cab drivers, and waiters. A few blacks became farmers, however, in Clackamas County. In Portland the black population was segregated in a ghetto area near the downtown business district until about 1890, when commercial expansion in the area forced the black community to move across the Willamette River into the independent city of Albina, a tough, brawling town that housed railroad shops and other industries.
Both in their old homes and in Albina, blacks maintained a cohesive and vibrant cultural life, one that partook of the worlds of both blacks and whites, since in the Oregon of this era there was no legal social segregation except for a ban on mixed marriages and a prohibition of integrated theaters from 1890 to 1900. Within the constraints of poverty and these legal barriers the blacks focussed their communal lives upon several thriving institutions. The roots of the First African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church (1895) were in the People's Church that had been founded in 1862. An African Methodist Episcopal church and several Baptist churches were founded before the First World War, and blacks were members of the prestigious Trinity Episcopal Church until shunted into Saint Philip's Episcopal mission in 1912.
Black women organized a variety of clubs and had a chapter of the Women's Christian Temperance Union. A Bad Rock Republican Club and later the New Portland Republican Club were founded for political cohesion, and debating and discussion societies like the Paul Laurence Dunbar Literary Society appealed to those concerned with more formal culture. The building which housed the Enterprise Investment Company was frequently used for parties after its opening in 1903. A more comprehensive organization was the Afro-American League that not only sponsored social gatherings, but also assisted blacks in obtaining employment. It also carefully watched the legal process to forestall illegal arrests or unfair trials. In a similar vein the Portland chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was established in the early years of the twentieth century, first coming to public attention by its protest against the showing of D. W. Griffith's racist film, _Birth of a Nation._
Black Oregonians also became active in the political realm in the last decades of the nineteenth century, although some had exercised the suffrage as early as 1872. One sphere of their activity was an attempt to repeal the racist legislation of the 1850s and 1860s. The constitution had discriminated against Negroes in a variety of ways. In 1862 a $5 poll tax was passed against Negro, Chinese, and Hawaiian residents. Interracial marriage was prohibited in 1866.
In the 1890s black leaders began the attempt to remove these measures. The pastor of the Portland AME (Zion) Church led a movement to have the mixed marriage law repealed in 1893, but it failed in the senate. The same session saw the Reverend T. Brown begin the effort to repeal the clauses of the state constitution prohibiting black residence and restricting the franchise to white persons. These two constitutional amendments came to the vote of the people in 1900 and again in 1916 but were defeated in both years, the first time because of a general anti-amendment sentiment and the second because of a misunderstanding about the terms of the measure.
Leaders of the black community, including Adolphus D. Griffin, a prominent real estate dealer and publisher of the _Portland New Age_ (1899 to 1907), and McCants Stewart, Oregon's first black lawyer, were adherents of the Republican party, as were most of the state's black voters. In city politics also, the era was one of partisanship, and the blacks, although usually Republican, were not averse to switching parties. Charlie Green, a barber, was the first black elected to the city council, and black leaders attempted to deliver their race's votes in the traditional manner of ethnic urban political blocs. Bloc efforts were not unavailing, as instanced by the success of the New Portland Republican Club in getting a black, George Hardin, placed on the city police force in 1894. Whatever political pressure that could be exerted was a bonus, since the black community in Oregon was never far from the reality or memory of prejudice. Not only the ever-present symbols of racial prejudice, like the existence of the Coon Chicken Shack restaurant in Portland, but violent measures such as the deporting of a black from the town of Liberty in Marion County in 1893 and a lynching in Marshfield in 1902 were more vivid manifestations of the white Oregonians' heritage of racial bigotry.
The Indian, too, made slow progress toward recognition by Caucasians as equals, although the Oregon Indian's position in society altered somewhat in the years after 1880. In 1887 Congress adopted one of its most important statutes concerning the American Indian, the Dawes General Allotment Act. Convinced that communal ownership of property and tribal government were anachronisms that kept the Indian out of the mainstream of American life, white reformers, abetted by those who hungered for more Indian land, urged that the reservations be broken up and that Indians be given land in individual parcels in their own right. The principle underlying this allotment system was to force the Indians to become individual farmers with the aim of fully assimilating them into the white culture. Jesse Applegate, hearkening to Scripture, said the Indians, like Adam and Eve, should begin their new life in a garden. Contrary to the hopes of its advocates, however, the Dawes Act had its greatest impact simply in reducing the communal Indian land base. On the Siletz Reservation, for example, the 1,100,000 acres of 1856 were cut down to 3,000 acres by the middle of the 1890s. The Indians on the reservation held by then only 40,000 acres in allotment trusts, too small an amount for success as individual farmers. The theory of turning the Indian into a white farmer was also at the basis of education in the Indian schools, both day and boarding, in vocational and academic subjects alike; in 1901, for example, the _Course of Study for the Indian Schools of the United States_ prescribed that in history classes, time should be devoted to the history of agriculture, a topic that "will assist the student much in his regular work in gardening, farming, etc., and tend to deepen his interest in those branches. The importance of this subject can not be overemphasized." Whatever the depth of commitment to this theory on the part of national policymakers, progress towards these objectives on the reservations of Oregon was painfully slow.
The most pitiable of all Indians were the Paiutes living in the Harney Valley near the town of Burns. These families were the remnant from the Malheur Reservation which had been discontinued by executive order in 1882. Transferred to the Yakima Reservation in Washington as punishment after the Bannock War, they had slipped home again to live on the margin of subsistence, sustained in squalor by public benevolence. In 1898 they were granted 104 allotments of 160 acres, but this land was unproductive, and charity alone continued to keep the Paiutes alive.
The many tribes intermingled on the coast, in the Siletz and Grand Ronde reservations, were scarcely better off. A special census investigator reporting in 1890 detailed the plight of these peoples. Declining population, rampant syphilis, squalid housing ("Those occupied by the old and infirm are nothing but huts, giving but scant protection from the winter winds"), and cultural loss ("No legends or traditions of these Indians are extant") characterized their lot. The Dawes Act was applied to the Indians of Siletz (1892) and Grand Ronde (1901). Reservation land remaining after the individual allotments had been made was distributed and sold, far below its true monetary value, to the United States Government. By the turn of the century the Indians of the former coast reservations had met, superficially, the government's goal of assimilation, as they attempted farming, listened to Christian missionaries, wore white man's clothing, and lived in frame dwellings. Their children attended school either locally or at Chemawa Indian School in Salem, but their culture was largely gone and they had not succeeded in the economic world of the Caucasians.
Government agents also discussed allotments for the residents of the Klamath Reservation in southern Oregon. Early recommendations from the Indian agents and other government observers opposed allotments, however, because the short growing season of the high plateau of the reservation militated against profitable farming. The economic hopes for the future, they asserted, lay in stock grazing or in lumbering. In spite of these negative recommendations, the allotment process began in 1895 and was completed in 1906. The results, as predicted, were almost uniformly unsuccessful, for most Indian farmers lost title to their unprofitable lands to white persons. Those obtaining grazing allotments made a better living, but did so not by learning the business but by leasing their lands to Caucasians. But the chief means by which the Klamath residents lived was by apportioning the proceeds from the sale of reservation timber among the tribal members. These sales kept them well above the poverty line, but again accomplished nothing to integrate them into the economic mainstream.
Outside the economic sphere the Klamath Indians gained some political experience in dealing with their agent and with the Washington bureaucracy. Conflicts with the agent developed over a variety of issues, including the nature of the schools, appointments to the Indian police, and personality clashes. Indians who received the vote when they secured their land allotments also felt greater interest in making their case against the federal government. Here the principal controversies were the boundaries of the reservation and other claims against the United States. Indians learned to organize into political factions over both local and federal issues, and by the early days of the twentieth century they had developed the technique of sending tribal delegations to Washington to secure redress of grievances. One successful result of this pressure was the removal of Oliver C. Applegate (of the famous pioneer family) as Klamath agent because of Indian objections to his policies. In most cases, however, the political power of the Indians was minimal, although the experience gained had potential use if governmental policies authorized more autonomy in the future.
In social and cultural affairs Indians continued to display the veneer of white life as the old precontact society disintegrated. The solvent forces included the Christian church, which tended to replace the traditional religion or to fuse with it in a syncretistic pattern. Working patterns of some Indians took them into the Caucasian world either as employees of the white families of the agency or as workers in the cities off the reservation. The schools, too, attempted with mixed success to inculcate white values along with the curriculum.
The two large reservations of eastern Oregon similarly suffered from the painful pressures of existing between two cultures. At the Warm Springs Reservation economic discussions also revolved around allotments, although the desire for this procedure had come in part from the Indians because of frequent conflicts over the farming of the communal tribal lands. Under this system Indians who believed in individual operation of real property were often in dispute with their neighbors who continued to practice communal property ownership. Long before the Dawes Act, indeed in the original treaty of 1855, the principle of allotment was granted, but the practice itself was not begun until 1888. By 1900 almost all of the residents of the Warm Springs Reservation were self-supporting although in a status of poverty.
As in the case of the Klamath, the three tribes on the Warm Springs Reservation gained political experience in disputes with the federal government. Here, too, the boundary was an issue, with the Indians challenging the justice of the 1871 lines drawn by the federal surveyor. The Indians also argued that when they signed the treaty of 1865 the government interpreters had never read them the provisions in which they gave up their historic fishing rights on the Columbia River. Although objections on both of these issues were unsuccessful in this era they did bear fruit in future decades. Economic endeavors, political activity, and the efforts of clergy and schoolteachers were unavailing in stopping the discouragement and disillusionment of the Indians, a despair most poignantly reflected in the high rates of alcoholism among the residents of the reservation. Although its sale was prohibited on the reservation itself, liquor was readily available at The Dalles, and the agents and the members of the Women's Christian Temperance Union at Warm Springs were unable to stamp it out.
At the Umatilla Reservation the Indians were slower to adopt the trappings of Caucasian civilization. In 1890 the census taker reported that "a large number of the Indians of Umatilla can not be regarded as having adopted the habits of civilized life. They live in tepees or lodges, dress in blankets, leggings, and mocassins, wear long hair, paint their faces, and seldom converse in English." The Indians were reluctant to take up allotments that were authorized in a congressional statute of 1885, and even when the land was apportioned it was usually leased by the owners to white cattlemen or wheat farmers. At Umatilla, as elsewhere, the years 1870–1920 were transitional ones for the Indian people of Oregon. They were given a large dose of white civilization, but the taste was usually bitter. They had a harder struggle to retain their native culture if they were so minded. For the white citizens the Indians remained largely invisible, since they were distant from the centers of population and rendered almost powerless in terms of the state's economic and political structure.
II
The people of Oregon in the 1880s participated in one great transformation in their economic life, a change long sought and one with a great impact, although not always the one desired. The completion of railroads from the Mississippi and Missouri valleys to the mouth of the Columbia and to Puget Sound affected Oregonians engaged in the oldest pursuits of agriculture and fishing as well as the newer industries of lumbering and open-range ranching.
After 1880 Oregon agriculture continued as the principal economic occupation of the state. As in the pioneer era, the basic farming unit was the family-owned farm, with the state's proportion of owner-operated farms remaining far above the national average (in 1920, the respective percentages were 81.2 and 61.9). By 1880 almost all migrants had also admitted a less pleasant fact: the good land in the Willamette Valley was gone and the potential for new farms lay exclusively east of the Cascades.
In this region, especially in Umatilla, Gilliam, Morrow, Union, Wallowa, Wasco, and Crook counties, winter wheat became the dominant crop of the state. The soil was superb, the land was still abundant (the decade of the greatest use of the Homestead Act in Oregon was after 1910), and the railroad's expansion gave to vast areas an access to market. Farm families who arrived in the state by 1900 had the best opportunity to obtain the land that was adjacent to water and to timber, neither of which was abundant. Migrants coming after that date were often condemned to land without transportation facilities or were forced into futile competition with cultivators of better soils. Increasingly in the twentieth century, agriculturists required not only the assistance of nature, good fortune, and proximity to transportation routes, the successful farmer's immemorial allies, but they also needed capital and imagination as well. Capital was essential to acquire greater acreage for efficient operations and to buy costly machinery and stock to work it. Here again the long shadow of California fell across its northern neighbor, as most of the machinery of agricultural Oregon had been imported from the wheat ranches of the great central valley of California. But capital for land and for improved drills, harvesters, and combines, and for the horses and mules required to draw the largest machinery was not the only requirement for successful agriculture. Farmers had also to allocate time and energy for increasing political activity as counties proliferated and Grange and Populist organizations advocated solutions to rural problems. They had to set aside time for working with extension agents and agricultural college scientists in the quest for ever more bountiful strains of wheat or improved techniques of tillage, fallowing, and weed control that were the basis of prosperous dry farming.
For those migrants who wanted another chance to re-enact on a new frontier the American vision of the yeoman farmer and the country town, but who lacked the necessary luck or skill or money to realize it, for those who were shunted aside to the arid lands away from the railroad arteries and civilization, turn-of-the-century Oregon offered a progression seldom before encountered by white settlers: disillusionment, disappointment, despair. As the migrants' capital shrank with the failing crops, many of them, wrote novelist H. L. Davis in _Honey in the Horn_ ,
were beginning to wonder, as most all or nothing gamblers sometimes will, whether they hadn't come a little too far, whether they shouldn't have gone somewhere else, whether they might not have been better off not coming anywhere. Mighty few prayers were ever addressed to the Throne of Grace as fervently as theirs were that old E. H. Harriman might be moved to build his railroad their way so the country would settle up and put civilization back around them again.
Frustration was also the lot of many in the fishing industry. By 1890 primacy in the salmon canning trade had been lost by the Columbia River packers to those of Alaska, and the relative importance of Oregon fishing continued to decline in the next three decades from overfishing, stream pollution, and irrigation ditches. As competition for the resource base sharpened, men turned, as in large-scale agriculture and lumbering, to increasing reliance upon mechanization. In the 1890s and at the turn of the century several inventions reduced labor costs. Axel Johnson developed a successful automatic canmaking machine and Edmund A. Smith's "Iron Chink," a device to cut, clean, and pack salmon automatically, did the work of fifty Chinese cannerymen. The cosmopolitan fishermen of the Columbia—Iberians, central Europeans, Greeks, and Scandinavians—cruelly exploited under a contract-labor system, fought many a bitter strike with management in the 1880s and 1890s, but thereafter the declining state of the industry and the departure of many of the packers to Alaska (packing began there in 1878) caused a decrease in militance.
The packers who remained on the river, like the contemporary farmers and lumbermen, were turning to large-scale organization to solve their production and labor problems. In 1887 nine cannerymen founded the Columbia River Packers Association to attempt to limit wages and maximize production, although a more constructive, but overrated, response for the industry was the interest private enterprise began taking in conservation of the resource. In 1877 the cannerymen started their own hatchery and by 1888 the United States Fish Commission, at the urgent behest of the industry, was fully committed to artificial propagation work on the Columbia. The state of Oregon, too, largely goaded by Robert D. Hume, salmon packer of the Rogue River, was convinced of the value of hatcheries by 1910.
In the forest products industry, always the most important manufacturing enterprise, the bases of operations remained the lower Columbia valley and the coastal area centering about Coos Bay. However, both of these regions continued to lag far behind the amount of timber that the state of Washington produced in these years, although there were some changes in the Oregon industry. With the coming of the railroad the maritime trade was imperiled and began to decline by 1900. The railroad opened more extensive local markets and also the midwestern centers of Denver, Omaha, and Saint Louis. Business picked up in the urban areas of the state with population increase and continuing economic prosperity. A host of mechanical inventions ranging from the double-bitted axe to the steam donkey engine helped to meet these markets, although their cost required large capital investment.
With the depletion of the virgin white pine stands of the upper Middle West at the turn of the century, lumbermen moved to the Pacific Northwest. By 1914 the giant Weyerhaeuser Company had 400,000 acres of ponderosa pine and Douglas fir in Oregon which it was holding for future use. The advent of large corporations with vast holdings threatened the traditional pattern of Oregon timber ownership, the small "gyppo" mill, which was doomed by the heavy costs required for production efficiencies. The First World War saw an increase in production but Oregon still lagged behind Washington. Finally, the prewar years brought the rudiments of conservation with a state fire protection law in 1904 and the creation of a state forestry department five years later.
Oregon's cattle industry reflected the colonial condition of the state's economy although the classic days of the range cattle industry had disappeared by the middle 1880s. The four largest cattle ranches of eastern Oregon were all financed by Californians whose land base came from the acquisition of swamplands, or at least lands officially so designated. In 1870 the state took title to swamplands granted by the federal government at the time of statehood and began selling them at $1 or less per acre. Much of the land was not swampy but rather excellent grazing land. Many ranchers found even this cost exorbitant and freely helped themselves to the use of the public domain. For a time all prospered as new markets opened up with the advent of the railroad and the industrialization of the nation that created a demand for beef.
Cattlemen fed the growing cities of the Northwest in the 1880s. Until 1885 they continued the colorful long drives, begun in the 1870s, through the passes of the Rockies to the stocking ranges of the northern plains and Rockies. Some cattle were driven to Nevada and then sent by rail to San Francisco. In the cattle country from the Columbia to the Nevada line the names of Peter French, John Devine, Henry Miller, and James Hardin were merely the leading ones of a flourishing industry.
But the railroad which had been the catalyst for the range cattle industry also was the cause of its demise. The Northern Pacific, the Oregon Short Line, and the Union Pacific not only opened up new markets for Oregonians, they also brought new settlers east of the Cascades. These newcomers were farmers or sheepmen and were menacing to the cattle ranchers. The railroad made possible the raising of wheat in northeastern Oregon, and wheat farming was a more lucrative land use than cattle ranching. In the southeastern portion of the state the railroad made sheep raising profitable, and this enterprise drove the range cattle industry out of that region.
In the late 1880s and the 1890s the range cattle industry was in its death throes as competition for land led to bitterness and bloodshed among cattlemen, farmers, and sheep growers. Some cattlemen intimidated settlers and clubbed, shot, or poisoned sheep, but most reacted tamely by departing for Idaho, Montana, or Dakota. A lurid symbol of their defeat was the murder in 1897 of cattle baron Peter French by Ed Oliver, who in the face of the evidence was acquitted by a jury of his fellow settlers. Along with the farmers, the sheep raisers inherited the cattle country. After the middle 1880s thousands of wethers were driven east of the Rockies for finishing before slaughter. Other ranchers, especially the great trinity of central Oregon, Charles Cunningham, the Baldwin Sheep and Land Company, and the Dufur Brothers, went into wool production. The Baldwin firm was Oregon's largest, controlling 281 square miles by 1910, and for a time held the world record for annual wool clips. For a time, too, the railroad to central Oregon made the town of Shaniko one of the world's principal wool markets. These successes were products both of nature and of men. Sheep could go where topography prohibited cattle and farmers. Their wool was far more valuable to transport by rail than was beef. And, unlike the cattlemen, the sheep growers usually produced no rivalry for land with the farmers. By the early twentieth century the sheep industry was stabilized both by economics and government, and the new U.S. Forest Service began controlling land use through leasing grazing permits in the vast areas of the national forests. Also, by this date the remaining cattlemen had readjusted to the loss of the open range and were producing almost solely for local markets.
Although Oregonians resented the condition, they had to recognize their colonial economic status and to live within the context of dependence upon outside capital for development, the importation of a supply of labor, and the export of raw materials. In the 1880s their concern, especially that of Portlanders, was not to throw off colonialism but to assert themselves and secure its advantages by defeating the challenges of Seattle, Tacoma, Spokane, and other Washington cities for the position of metropolis of the Pacific Northwest. The principal weapon in this urban rivalry was the railroad. The Portland business community had to court the railroad magnates to acquire construction and service but had to avoid the trap of falling dependent upon a monopolistic line. At the center of both east-west and north-south transportation axes, the acknowledged metropolis of the Northwest, Portland in 1870 had the opportunity of obtaining competitive rail service if she developed her opportunities in all geographical directions.
The beginnings of this quest significantly involved foreign investors, German bondholders concerned about money sunk into Ben Holladay's railroad building south from Portland to California. Ultimately, one of their agents, the brilliant Henry Villard, in 1876 assumed the operation of the Holladay line and three years later began to invest his own capital in Oregon railroads. In 1881 Collis P. Huntington, the main force in the Southern Pacific, was threatening to buy the Oregon and California line and divert the traffic of the Willamette Valley to San Francisco, but Villard acquired control first and the railroad was finally completed in 1887.
More important was Portland's and Villard's quest to obtain a connection to the Mississippi valley superior to that of the Puget Sound ports. To accomplish this link Villard established two holding companies to forestall the chief threat to Portland's hegemony, the Northern Pacific Railroad, which was being built from Saint Paul to Puget Sound, with a mere branch line to Portland. Portland's fear was that the Northern Pacific would construct a line from the confluence of the Snake and Columbia over the Cascade Mountains to Tacoma or Seattle and draw from Portland the wheat exports of those two great rivers, commodities that had hitherto flowed down the Columbia in the holds of the Oregon Steam Navigation Company vessels.
Villard's first holding company was the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company, formed in 1879. Through it he acquired the OSNC, which still held a monopoly of the Columbia River traffic; a line of steamships from Portland to San Francisco; and a railroad from the Walla Walla wheatfields to the Columbia River. The ORNC planned to build a railway along the south bank of the Columbia to prevent the Northern Pacific from using this route, which was superior to that on the north bank. In 1881 Villard formed his second holding company, the Oregon and Transcontinental, to control the Northern Pacific itself. His victory was complete, it seemed, for Portland and Oregon were secure from the Cascade-Puget Sound outlet.
The next decade proved this hope unwarranted. Railroad construction did move apace as the rails were laid from Spokane across the desert of Washington, down the south bank of the Columbia to Kalama, and thence north to Tacoma, the main terminus, and Seattle. But Portland was not to enjoy the benefits of this line exclusively, for the Northern Pacific freed itself of the grip of the Oregon and Transcontinental and completed its Cascade line in 1887. This tie to Seattle was a blow to Portland, for wheat increasingly was exported from Seattle, but the older city survived, in part by obtaining navigational improvements at the bar of the Columbia and in part by reaching toward the southeast.
Progress in this direction came from a link, called the Oregon Short Line, completed by the Union Pacific from Umatilla on the Columbia through Oregon and Idaho to the main line of the transcontinental at Granger, Wyoming, in 1884. This line not only opened up areas of eastern Oregon, but also provided a competitive shipping route to that of the Northern Pacific. Thus by the close of Oregon's railroad decade of the eighties, Portland had been able to salvage a fair share of the profits of regional development, although the construction of the Great Northern Railway to Seattle in 1893, the Alaska gold rush, and defense industries in the First World War enabled Seattle to attain regional primacy over Portland by 1920.
The railroad had other effects than those on the interurban rivalry. It made the basic exporting industries of wheat raising and lumbering competitive with California, Washington, and the South in the urban markets of the East and Middle West. The railroad not only functioned to continue the colonial role of furnishing raw materials, but it also supplied the imported manufactured goods that underdeveloped Oregon could not produce. The railroad as colonizer brought immigrants to Oregon in relative comfort compared to the overland trail or the Panamanian passage. Indeed, the railroad was more than a passive force in populating Oregon, for both Union Pacific and Northern Pacific maintained agents in Europe, in the East, and in Omaha to persuade migrants to settle on or along their lands in the West. The railroad advertising literature was reasonably accurate in describing the conditions in the Northwest, and railroad lands were quite inexpensive, since the roads' profits were to come from the freight traffic, not the sale of real estate. The railroad changed land use patterns by altering, as we have seen, the economy of eastern Oregon from cattle raising to one based on wheat or sheep. These changes—particularly the coming of agriculture—were welcomed by most "substantial" townspeople who preferred the familiar sedentary, civic-minded fanners (and their larger incomes) to untypical Oregonians such as cattle barons, cowboys, and sheepherders.
Yet in spite of their impact the railroads became less appreciated as the decades passed. Extravagantly hailed before their advent as the means to break down social isolation and promote economic growth, welcomed enthusiastically upon completion with golden spike ceremonies and municipal parades, the railroads soon became the target of disillusioned citizens. The railroads, critics now charged, demanded too-high rates; they discriminated between large and small shippers and among communities; they purchased favors from politicians (even the upright federal Judge Matthew P. Deady expected his annual passes from the ORNC and OSNC, and Sen. John H. Mitchell admittedly served the interests of the railroad magnates). The railroads brought too many drifters and too few farmers, and they laid their construction and financial plans in the interest of eastern capitalists, not sturdy Oregonians. Out of these charges, many of them true, came a counterattack against the railroads that lay at the base of the political protest movements of the post-Civil War years.
The workers and farmers whose skills underlay these economic changes were beginning to organize in these decades. Labor unions in Oregon were small in membership and quite ineffectual until the turn of the century. Probably there were only about 100 members of trade unions in Portland in 1880 and few elsewhere in the state, because the immature status of manufacturing limited the potential for labor organization. In the 1880s, though, with the development of manufacturing stimulated by the railroad, several groups arose. In 1880 was organized the Portland chapter of the Knights of Labor, a national organization that sought to unite all workers with hand or brain into a single organization that would humanize the industrial system. It had some periodic success locally, usually among the unemployed, until it perished in the depression of 1893.
Of far more importance was the organization of skilled workers into what became the American Federation of Labor. Samuel Gompers, the founder of this organization, was able in 1887, after a false start four years earlier, to organize fifteen skilled craft unions into a citywide trades assembly. Under the leadership of a great organizer, John L. O'Brien, the Oregon AFL unions grew in the years to 1900 and organized labor became more visible to the public. Portland brewery workers went on strike in 1888 and 1889, but their use of the boycott weapon lost them public sympathy and the strike in both years. In 1890, however, the city's building trades won a strike for the eight-hour day. Fishermen in Astoria organized the third group, the Columbia River Fishermen's Protective Union, and conducted several unsuccessful strikes before 1900. In the railroad centers, such as La Grande and Roseburg, the shop unions and railroad brotherhoods were strong, and the Western Federation of Miners had a chapter in Baker.
In politics unions followed the AFL belief in nonpartisanship, although O'Brien lobbied in Salem in the eighties and nineties for an eight-hour day on public works projects, an improved mechanics lien law, and the secret ballot. Some labor unions were represented in the same decades in support of a farmer-labor alliance and Populist ideals, but organized labor lacked the numbers to be a powerful force in politics. Overall, the labor activity of the pre-twentieth century was conservative, following the lead of the national Knights of Labor and AFL in ideology, membership composition, organizing techniques, and goals, so that the historian of early Oregon labor concludes: "In fact, little that is unique can be found on the Oregon labor scene in that period."
The next two decades produced prosperity; the Oregon System of initiative, referendum, recall, and direct primary; and the First World War. Oregon labor continued to be eclectic, but the ideas that it imported now tended to alarm the great bulk of the state's population, including many of its own members, whose conservatism remained staunch. In early 1902 the AFL unions founded the Oregon Federation of Labor at the initiative of George H. Harry, a sheet metal worker and recent migrant from California. Six years later the state federation embarked upon an extensive organizing campaign based upon the importation of the Seattle Plan (of 1903), which required that delegates to a city central labor council also represent their own trade section.
In spite of these institutional changes labor lost ground in the decade 1910 to 1920 as it became identified in the public mind with radicalism, lack of patriotism, and disregard of public convenience. Although most members of the AFL were not radical, the Portland Central Labor Council in 1907 did resolve to assist the Industrial Workers of the World when that militant syndicalist group took over a Portland sawmill workers' strike. Also, after 1914, the AFL combatted municipal ordinances designed to silence the antiwar protests of the IWW. The AFL opposed military preparedness before American entry into the war (although not afterwards), for fear that a strengthened state militia would be used for strikebreaking purposes, and it objected to the Boy Scouts of America as dangerous to labor. The public disliked the boycott weapon.
The general public's most vivid impression of labor life before the close of the First World War was the rise of the IWW. This radical and colorful organization was created in 1905 by William D. Haywood, former president of the Western Federation of Miners, and other labor leaders disenchanted with the AFL. The IWW advocated a syndicalist state with economic and political power residing in the hands of the workers rather than in a system of capitalism and democracy. It opposed wars as conflicts between the exploiting classes. The techniques of the Wobblies, as they were derisively called, were almost as threatening to most citizens as were its goals, for they included inflammatory propaganda, speeches on street corners in defiance of municipal ordinances, the courting of mass arrests, and work slowdowns and sabotage. Ordinary Oregonians, accustomed either to a consensus society or one in which conflicts were resolved by the use of peaceful democratic machinery, were horrified by the starkness of the Wobblies' description of the social order, contained most famously in the preamble to their 1908 constitution:
The working class and the employing class have nothing in common. There can be no peace so long as hunger and want are found among millions of working people and the few, who make up the employing class, have all the good things of life.
Between these two classes a struggle must go on until the workers of the world organize as a class, take possession of the earth and the machinery of production, and abolish the wage system.
The IWW had its greatest national success in organizing the lumber camps of the state of Washington. In the years of the First World War and in its immediate aftermath the Wobblies terrified the middle classes of the Evergreen State, and Wobblies and their conservative opponents clashed in bloody battles in Seattle, Everett, and Centralia. More than anything else the power of the Wobblies forced government intervention to maintain defense production in the lumber camps of the Northwest during the war by giving the employees the wages, hours, and working conditions for which the IWW was striking.
By contrast, IWW activity in Oregon was mild, although the first IWW strike in the Pacific Northwest was in Portland in 1907, ironically not for revolutionary goals, but for higher wages and shorter hours. In three weeks the strike was broken, and thereafter the organization became more ideological and less popular with each passing year. In 1912 the Wobblies tried to take over a strike of construction workers in Eugene and in the following year one of loggers at Coos Bay. Both strikes failed. In the great Northwest lumber strike of 1917 the Wobblies closed most of the mills in Astoria and Portland for about two weeks, but the relative insignificance of the lumber business in Oregon compared to that in Washington and the conservative nature of the state's population precluded much interest in Oregon woods or mills on the part of either the IWW or AFL organizers, and the strike in the state was ineffective.
The conservative social climate in fact defined the principal impact of the IWW in Oregon. Fear of the rhetoric of the Wobblies caused a variety of repressive responses by the citizens. In the summer of 1913 Mayor George Baker of Portland issued a proclamation prohibiting the use of the city's streets for IWW meetings, and veterans of the Spanish-American War helped enforce it by violence. In Klamath Falls a member of the IWW was arrested by a sheriff's posse and charged with arson after the destruction of a grain elevator, but he could not be convicted. And in 1919 the legislature adopted a criminal syndicalism law aimed at the IWW under which a few arrests but no convictions were obtained. The chief importance of the Wobblies in Oregon history was to demonstrate, by their militant and ideological contrast, the practicality of the traditional labor unions and the importance of organized labor retaining the confidence of the general public if it were to obtain its objectives.
III
In dictating a reminiscence for historian Hubert Howe Bancroft, the crusty and forthright Jesse Applegate summarized his views of the Oregon cultural record: "Oregon has no history. It has added no new fact to human knowledge—has produced no high illustration of any fact already known, has produced no statesman, warrior, or scholar in any branch of human knowledge, in fact not a _single_ name that for any merit or act of its possessor _deserves_ to live in the memory of mankind." This judgment, rendered in 1878, however harsh it might seem, has a great deal of validity with respect to the higher culture for the next forty years as well. Writers of literature, poetry, and history were by and large parochial and second-class. In almost no sense did they touch upon the themes that were making the years to 1920 one of the most fruitful periods in American literature.
In fiction, authors emphasized nature and local history in such works as Frederick Homer Balch's _The Bridge of the Gods_ (1890), Eva Emery Dye's _McLoughlin of Old Oregon_ (1900), and Ella Higginson's _Mariella_ (1904). Whereas the most compelling national literary movements were realism and naturalism, focussed upon universal themes in a contemporary setting in an "objective" and "realistic" mode, Oregon writers wrote of the pioneer generation in a romantic, personal, localized vein that stressed the heroic deeds of important men and women battling against the environment or the Indians. Indeed, except for Balch's _Bridge of the Gods,_ writers ignored the Indians as authentic human beings. Balch conceived an improbable plot for his novel, the missionary endeavors and romance with an Indian princess of a seventeenth-century New England clergyman along the lower Columbia, but his reading and his interviews with Indians introduced their culture as worthy of serious literary treatment. Unfortunately he had no competent emulators in this respect for decades. Most of the abler novelists were women, and most novels were published outside the state, because the immature cultural life could not sustain an Oregon publisher. In poetry Oregon's most beloved author was the bibulous Sad Sam Simpson, who never realized his early promise, and its most notorious was "Joaquin" (born Cincinnatus Hiner) Miller, who deserted his wife Minnie Myrtle (born Minnie Dyer), the "Sweet Singer of the Coquille," and children before moving on to an evanescent reputation in California and the Old World. The themes of both poets were conventional romance and nature worship.
The writing of history, although also traditional in form, was more distinguished. The Oregon Historical Society, founded in 1898, opened an avenue for historical publication in its quarterly. At the University of Oregon Frederic G. Young and Joseph Schafer were professional historians of the new breed of the turn of the century: trained in graduate schools, assiduous in pursuit of sources, careful and clear in judgment, not particularly interested in literary style. Schafer's _History of the Pacific Northwest_ (1905) was the first one-volume synthesis of regional development.
The best history was written by one of an earlier generation, however, Frances Fuller Victor, a migrant to the region from her native Ohio by way of California. In 1878 Hubert Howe Bancroft had employed her as one of the authors of his thirty-nine-volume series entitled _History of the Pacific Coast._ Ultimately she wrote four complete volumes in the series (the two volumes on Oregon; one on Washington, Idaho, and Montana; and one on Nevada, Colorado, and Wyoming) and probably parts of four others. Her Oregon volumes are still the beginning point for a study of the state's history: their detail, their ordering, and their judgments are all impressive. She also distinguished herself with a biography of the mountain man Joseph Meek entitled _The River of the West_ (1870) and _History of the_ _Indian Wars of Oregon_ (1894). Throughout her mature years Frances Victor also wrote poetry, newspaper and magazine articles, and a book of travel and description. Although income from her pen was modest, she was Oregon's best-known and most-respected resident author by the time of her death in 1902.
For two other authors Oregonians had less respect but equal concern. These men, "Oregon's Romantic Rebels," as Edwin Bingham styled them, were John Reed and C. E. S. Wood. Both were of wealthy Portland families, both successful in their fields, both critics of the established order, both, at least part of the time, shocking to the Portland citizenry. Wood, the older, stayed longer in his native city. Wood's critics found his personality to be bifurcated. A graduate of West Point who became a corporation lawyer and an important figure in the state Democratic party, Wood enjoyed the social amenities that were his birthright. A leader of the bar, he mingled easily with men of property and political establishment, but he was also a self-proclaimed anarchist, an attorney for advocates of unpopular causes like birth control, a defender of the Indian (one of his first published works was an article on Chief Joseph in the national magazine _Century_ ), and a worker for the initiative and referendum. Wood, too, was a talented painter and poet whose _Poet and the Desert_ (1915) was the most lyrical evocation of the region east of the Cascades. Although his multiple talents and his radiant charm enabled him to retain the good will of Portland in spite of his radicalism, Wood in 1919 shook off the city's conventionality by fleeing to California with the poet Sara Bard Field.
One who departed earlier was John Reed, the only American to be buried in the Kremlin. Born to luxury in the Portland Heights area, Reed became a great war correspondent after a career at Harvard, gaining a national reputation in his coverage of John Pershing's campaign against Pancho Villa in Mexico that culminated in a personal interview with Villa. Reed became a prominent figure in the bohemian life of Greenwich Village; dramatized the IWW strike at Paterson, New Jersey, in 1912 through a pageant in Madison Square Garden; and for a time served as managing editor of the radical periodical, _Masses._ He also was a contributor to more conventional journals, writing domestic and foreign correspondence for _American, Century,_ and the _New York World._
On a visit to Portland in 1915 Reed fell in love with the poet Louise Bryant Trullinger, wife of a Portland dentist, who divorced Trullinger to marry Reed in the next year. Louise and Reed joined the Greenwich Village outpost at Provincetown, Massachusetts, where Louise for a time became the lover of Reed's friend, the then-obscure Eugene O'Neill. In time Reed was caught up in the Bolshevik Revolution and in 1919 published his masterpiece, _Ten Days that Shook the World._ This book breathed a spirit of romance and adventure, although the reporting was factual, celebrating the advent of Bolshevik power as the herald of the liberation of humanity. The book made him a hero of international communism—ironically for one of his independent and romantic views—and secured him a place in radical history that his early death in 1920 from typhus contracted in Finland and his Moscow burial helped to sanctify.
Whether shocked, titillated, or amused by Wood, Reed, and Bryant, Oregonians congratulated themselves that the romantic radicals were the exception to the conservatism that permeated their cultural life as thoroughly as in the era before the railroads. Education, for example, continued in the safe channels of the rudiments for all, vocational training for the many, and a liberal arts education for the few. The state passed compulsory attendance laws, required certification of teachers, and gave more generous financial support to education than in the previous era. The high school became normative and new institutions of higher education were founded. The Methodists established Portland University (its campus is now the site of the University of Portland), and Amanda Reed, widow of Simeon of the OSNC, left money that was used to found Reed Institute, later College, in 1911. On the other hand the state legislature abolished the meagerly supported three normal schools in 1909 and let the people select by initiative which they wished to retain. Only the college at Monmouth survived this test. The appropriations for the university at Eugene were always inadequate and in some cases referred to the people by the members of the legislature. Indeed, the state university had always been short of funds either from private or public sources. When Henry Villard of the Northern Pacific gave the university $50,000 in the railroad's bonds, the president of the regents, Matthew Deady, congratulated himself in the official report on the manner of his acknowledgment of this rare and generous gift: "I think I have done it in a way that will be acceptable to him... and at the same time point a moral in the right use of riches for the benefit of our local closefisted narrow visioned millionaires."
Men and women of property had a somewhat better record in the patronage of the arts. Local people founded the Portland Art Association in 1892 with a small collection, and a building was acquired in 1905. Soon the museum added an art school that served a large number of students in its day and evening classes. After the turn of the century local artists gathered in the Art Association, the Little Club, and the Oregon Society of Artists under the leadership of Carl Walters, a landscape painter, lithographer, and ceramic artist; Anna Belle Crocker; and Harry F. Wentz. There were several amateur painters like Paul Trullinger, the first husband of Louise Bryant, but the two moving forces in art circles were Harry Wentz and Anna Belle Crocker. Wentz, a painter who loved the Oregon Coast at Neahkahnie, and who was the state's first landscape artist of repute, occupied himself almost exclusively with nature, depicting the remote mountains of the Northwest, the coastal areas, and detailed studies of floral life. The people in his paintings were also those in communion with nature: fishermen at Nehalem, hikers in the mountains, and ocean bathers. He also served as an inspiring teacher for thirty-one years at the Portland Art Museum Art School, to which he was appointed in 1910. Wentz, although committed to Oregon and its natural environment in his own paintings, was aware of the currents of international art and made visits to New York to visit the galleries and studios. His influence was immense.
Comparable in force was Anna Belle Crocker's curatorship of the Art Association from 1909 to 1936. She, too, was current with changing values in art, unafraid of modern art, and willing to test Portland's reception of it. She welcomed to the museum paintings that had been displayed at the Armory Show in New York in 1913, including Marcel Duchamp's "Nude Descending A Staircase" that confused or scandalized many in America who were introduced to "modern art" for the first time. Her leadership was consistently clear, forceful, and honest. In terms of theme, however much they might be impressed by modern art, most Oregon artists concentrated, as in former years, upon the world of nature.
The architectural life of Oregon in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in both town and country, remained for the most part derivative, although the cultural lag between the state and eastern centers closed, and the seminal figure of Albert E. Doyle began to influence regional architecture in new directions. The great American architects and landscape architects such as McKim, Mead, and White; H. H. Richardson; Richard Morris Hunt; and Frederick Law Olmsted had their Portland following both in clients and in architects. The Chicago World's Fair of 1893, officially titled the Columbian Exposition, had an influence in Portland in propagating the ideas of the "City Beautiful" movement that was sweeping the metropolitan centers, but the archetypical architectural monument of the early twentieth century was Portland's Lewis and Clark Exposition of 1905.
This fair was basically a promotional venture to advertise the economic assets of Portland and the lower Columbia valley, but its moving spirits had high aesthetic ideals. The director of architecture was Ion Lewis, who had moved to Portland in 1889 from his native Boston. The theme of the buildings was Spanish Renaissance, for no apparent reason, but it was carried out with grace and unity and in harmony with the landscaping. The fair made money, publicized the region, and gave Portland a beloved landmark, the Forestry Building (built of logs, not in Spanish Renaissance style) that survived until destroyed by fire in 1964. Yet the exposition was an eastern institution in almost all respects, as were the Portland city plan of 1912 designed by Edward H. Bennett and the eclecticism of urban dwellings of the wealthy that drew from all cultures—and sometimes most effectively indeed—except that of the Oregon Country.
Although thoroughly trained in eastern modes and a devoted and brilliant practitioner of them, Alfred Doyle was also the first in Oregon architecture to reach for a native influence. Famous as the architect of the Georgian Portland Public Library, the terra cotta Meier and Frank building, and the French baroque Benson Hotel, Doyle was not confined by the eclectic tradition or the urban environment. At Neahkanie on the Oregon beach, a long popular resort, Doyle designed four cottages from 1912 to 1916 that were functional and freed from all prevailing European, English, or eastern United States styles. They cast a long shadow on the architecture of the next era.
The world of religious life was changing, too. Judge Deady, who was ubiquitous at religious services of every faith, attended morning worship on a summer Sunday in 1881: "Went to Methodist church in Salem.... The congregation was thin and looked lean. The glory has departed from Salem—particularly the Methodist part of it." Although by no stretch of the imagination were pioneer Oregonians all Methodist or even church-affiliated persons, Deady was right in implying the rise in strength of other denominations after the Civil War. The coming of immigrants in large numbers from northern Europe, smaller groups from central and southern Europe, the more diverse origins of native migrants, and the rise in religious tolerance made for denominational cosmopolitanism. When a religious census was taken in the United States in 1906, the largest denominations in numbers were, in order, Roman Catholic, Methodist, and Baptist. These denominations held the same rank in Oregon. But in terms of total church membership Oregon continued, as in the pioneer era, to lag behind the national norm. Forty-three percent of Americans in 1906 had a denominational affiliation, but only 29 percent of Oregonians were church members. What did distinguish this era from the pioneer period was the greater concentration of the churches upon urban social problems like prostitution and upon the establishment of cultural institutions for immigrants like Portland's Chinese Baptist Church.
Edwin V. O'Hara, a young Catholic priest, in 1912 assumed the presidency of the Oregon branch of the National Consumer's League to study the wage situation in the state. Using data compiled by Caroline Gleason, he became the moving force in persuading the state legislature to pass the first effective minimum wage law in American history in 1913. Rabbi Jacob Wise was a stalwart of the urban reform movement, and Thomas Lamb Eliot, longtime minister of Portland's Unitarian Church, was the conscience of the city in the establishment of the Oregon Humane Society, the [Orphan's] Home, and the Boys and Girls Aid Society of Oregon; he was also an advocate of enlightened aid to the criminals and the insane.
The most popular cultural institution in Portland was representative of the state's aspirations and level of concern. This was the Baker Stock Company, owned by George Baker, future mayor of Portland, who operated it from 1902 to 1915. Baker's resident stock company was, of its kind, among the best in the nation. It provided each year several weeks of theater by an able company whose members became temporary residents of the community—some indeed settled down permanently—and who were adopted by their admirers as old friends. The Baker Company gave performances of good plays that emphasized either comedy or action. Both the plays and the players were to emphasize proper moral themes and conduct (divorced actors and actresses concealed their previous marriages from the public). The appeal was to middle-class professional persons and white-collar workers: housewives attended the Wednesday matinees, family groups the weekend performances, and older couples the evening plays. Baker's customers were those whose taste ran between the vaudeville that appealed to the working classes and the touring productions from the East with the latest plays and stars, who often did not work very hard for the provincial audiences. The Baker Company was a model for urban Oregon in its emphasis upon tried and true plays staged in traditional modes for a middle-class audience.
When the excitement, the dislocations, and the disillusionment of the First World War began to clear away by 1920, Oregonians who looked for support to their cultural past might detect three basic characteristics of the years since the Civil War. First of all, cultural life was overwhelmingly derivative and conservative. The family remained nuclear although the rise of cities gave wives and mothers more freedom of employment and political action. In education there were no innovations at any level in curriculum, teacher training, finance, or organization. Even the new schools, except for Reed College, which prohibited Greek letter societies and intercollegiate athletics, were modelled on eastern institutions. Architecture was basically eclectic, artists dealt with landscape in the traditional modes, and theaters and musical groups neither performed original forms nor produced first-class local talent. In literature there were some Oregonians of ability, but dissidents like Wood and Reed left the state, and those who remained, like Frances Victor, did not break new ground in history and literature either in philosophy or structure. Newspapers began to be homogenized as the days of the personal journalist faded and those of the mass advertiser emerged. The death in 1910 of Harvey W. Scott, editor of the _Portland Oregonian_ , marked the end of the era that began with Asahel Bush and Thomas Dryer.
Cultural life was not only conservative, it was most admired when it was most "practical," that is, most related to vocational opportunities. People endorsed public grade schools enthusiastically, but it took a sharp struggle to establish high schools. Oregon Agricultural College at Corvallis was more popular than the university at Eugene. Public support of art museums and of symphony orchestras was limited because most citizens could not see their value in their own lives. Cultural life was also parochial. Almost all painters, historians, poets, and novelists emphasized local landscape and local themes. Few left the state for extended periods of time or even explored other regions or more sophisticated problems in the country of the mind. In an era of enormous changes in the American intellect, Oregon artists were far from the cutting edge of cultural progress.
## **5**
## Change for the Sake of Continuity (1861–1920)
**I**
BETWEEN the firing on Fort Sumter and the close of the First World War Oregon politics evolved from conservatism to progressivism, at least in the machinery of government, but the changes that occurred, although frequently misinterpreted outside the state, did not drastically alter the political, economic, or social system. Reformers arose and reforms were enacted by the legislature or the people through initiative or referendum so that "Oregon System" became household words in America, but several basic political institutions of the antebellum era continued. The two-party system remained effective; the constitution of 1857 continued unamended in the nineteenth century; partisan journalism still flourished. By the end of the period conservatives and reformers—after much strife and excitement—had come to a rough agreement about the desirable political responses to the new developments of post-Civil War Oregon. They had grappled with the full-scale emergence of the state's economy into world markets through its ever-increasing reliance upon raw material exports. They had addressed themselves to the political and economic impact of the railroad, the state's first modern corporation. They had taken into account the forces of the city and the corporation: the boss, woman's desire for participation in political life, and urbanites' requirement of increased social services.
The most striking feature of state politics until the nineties was the alliance between business, especially the railroads, and government. The archetypical conservative political organization was the Mitchell-Dolph wing of the Republican party. Operating through the bosses of Portland's Republican machine, the law firm of John H. Mitchell and Joseph Dolph, plus two other partners, Joseph Simon and John M. Gearin, produced United States senatorships for all four members, men who supported the gold standard, the protective tariff, and federal aid to railroads. Mitchell and Dolph were retained by Ben Holladay and later by the Northern Pacific Railroad, and when Dolph won election to the United States Senate in 1882 he was attorney and vice-president of the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company. Although in time the Mitchell-Dolph wing was challenged by another faction within the party led by Joseph Simon and Henry W. Corbett, and Harvey Scott of the _Oregonian_ waged a personal vendetta against Mitchell, the Republican internecine struggles until the mid-1890s evolved over office, not principle.
Mitchell was the most colorful politician in the history of the state, at least in his personal life. Courtly in manner, orotund of speech, patriarchal of beard, John H. Mitchell had the veneer of a statesman of rectitude. Yet his private life, which became increasingly an open book throughout his years of public service, belied his righteous exterior. Mitchell had deserted his wife in Pennsylvania and fled, with his three-year old daughter and his mistress, to California where he changed his name from Hipple to Mitchell. In turn he left his mistress behind in migrating to Oregon in 1861. The following year he married again, without benefit of divorce, and in a few years cast eyes upon his sister-in-law. His political enemies of course made much of his amours, ridiculing him for self-righteousness and hypocrisy (a favorite gibe was aimed at Mitchell's frequently delivered lecture on "Henry the Eighth and His Wives"). They were at times able to defeat him, but the legislature also elected him to the United States Senate four times, once in 1885 only a few days after the publication in the _Oregonian_ of his captured love letters to Carrie Price, his wife's sister. These missives ("My thoughts have been of you, and you alone.... With you for my wife I would be the happiest man living.... _Read and burn._ ") were sensational reading but little else. Judge Deady had rightly predicted the uselessness of this maneuver: [It] "must fix him with the decent part of the community, but with his particular henchmen I imagine that it will make no difference unless his pretensions to piety disgust them. He is alone in making fornication a means of salvation."
An equally notorious representative of the casual morality of Oregon politicians in the postwar years was George H. Williams. A former free-soil Democrat, Williams had been elected to the United States Senate in 1865 as a Republican and had later been appointed attorney general of the United States by President Grant in 1872. In time it became rumored, then proved, that Williams and his spendthrift, socially ambitious wife had diverted Department of Justice funds to buy a small carriage, called a landaulet, and uniforms and wages of two servants for their personal use. Mrs. Williams had also extorted $30,000 from a New York firm in return for her efforts to halt a Justice Department suit against it. Even more seriously, Williams had misused government moneys to reward New York City spoilsmen for "political services." When disclosure loomed at the hands of an investigating committee of the House of Representatives, Mrs. Williams and a political retainer attempted to blackmail President Grant and members of his cabinet into forcing the committee members to abandon their inquiries.
In spite of his corruption and incompetence Williams escaped impeachment and was allowed to resign his seat in the cabinet. Indeed Grant nominated him, albeit as his fourth choice, for chief justice in 1875 but withdrew his name when it became obvious that he could not be confirmed. (One senator declared: "We have five hundred better lawyers in Massachusetts.") His reputation as a national figure shattered, stigmatized publicly as "Landaulet" Williams and privately as "George the Third" (his wife's first husband and her paramour had both also borne the name of George), Williams retreated to Portland where he resided until his death in 1910 as an honored citizen and sometime mayor.
Oregon also became an object of national political notoriety in the noisome presidential election of 1876. When the polls closed, it appeared that Samuel J. Tilden, the Democratic candidate, had won, but the electoral votes of South Carolina, Louisiana, and Florida, and one from Oregon, were contested. If all of these votes had been awarded to Rutherford B. Hayes, the Republican standard-bearer, he would have been elected by a single vote. The Oregon situation was extremely muddy. The three Republican electors had received the highest number of popular votes, but one of them, John W. Watts, was a postmaster on the day of election and hence ineligible under the United States Constitution, as a federal officeholder, to cast his vote for Hayes. Oregon law held that the office of a vacant elector would be filled by the remainder of the electoral college. When the electoral college met in December, however, confusion abounded.
The two Republicans re-elected Watts, who had previously resigned as elector. The secretary of state certified him as duly chosen. However, the Democratic elector who had received the most votes (fourth in the overall total), E. A. Cronin, himself unlawfully chose two other citizens as Democratic electors, neither of whom had been on the electoral ballot and one of whom had voted for Hayes. Gov. Lafayette Grover certified the three electoral votes of Oregon as Democratic. In the meantime Tilden's nephew, W. T. Pelton, was keeping in touch with Oregon events by coded telegrams. One of his agents, J. N. H. Patrick, endorsed by Sen. James K. Kelly, wired Pelton: "Must purchase a republican elector to recognize and act with democrats and secure the vote and prevent trouble. Deposit $10,000 to my credit with Kountze Brothers, Wall street." The sum of $8,000 was sent to Oregon, although there is no proof whatsoever that it was spent, let alone given to Cronin or Grover, who might well have been acting out of partisanship or ignorance of the law.
To decide the matter of the disputed electoral votes from the four states Congress created an Electoral Commission, which decided that Hayes was entitled to them all and hence to the presidency. Grover, who had been elected to the United States Senate, was also scrutinized but was seated. In these two public investigations Oregon's politics became, for the first time since the statehood crisis, an object of national attention and some disgust.
II
While the two major parties were cementing an alliance between business and government, both state and local, and convincing the voters that their interests lay in assenting to this arrangement, there were occasional stirrings of protest. In the seventies and eighties the causes were economic as Oregon wheat became the chief staple export. The farmers of the Willamette Valley and eastern Oregon had little control over prices, and they blamed their inadequate income upon the transportation monopolies of the OSNC or of Ben Holladay or the Northern Pacific Railroad. Neither along the Willamette nor the Columbia they felt, was there effective competition and hence fair freight rates.
Beginning in 1872 local agriculturists met to form "farmers' clubs" that came into a state union in the following year. The thrust of these groups was to encourage farmers themselves to build steamboats and warehouses and to manufacture their own implements. A rival to the farmers clubs appeared simultaneously, the Grange, officially the Patrons of Husbandry, an offshoot of a national organization founded in 1867 in the East. The Oregon State Grange was born in 1873 and in the next year many of its members, although not the organization officially, joined with adherents of the farmers' clubs to organize a third party, the Independents, to run candidates for the legislature and for governor. In the elections of 1874 the Independents gained substantial strength in both the house and the senate although, for inexplicable reasons, they squandered their numerical strength when the legislature met and therefore translated none of their programs into law. The Independent party soon collapsed.
After this venture into political action farmers retreated from large-scale activism. What they did attempt was through the Grange, although its numbers were fewer in the eighties than in the previous decade. The Grange always demanded that the legislature adopt laws regulating passenger and freight rates and that Congress improve the navigable waterways of the region to provide an alternative to rail transportation. Grangers also organized some economic endeavors such as group marketing and purchasing ventures, but these efforts failed for lack of experience and capital. The organization did succeed in breaking down rural isolation through its social gatherings, and it advocated political rights for women in advance of other interest groups. But the chief importance of the Grange in Oregon history was to inaugurate and cherish the spirit of agrarian protest that became potent in the final fifteen years of the nineteenth century. In this crusade, as in the earlier Grange movement, Oregon imported its vehicles for reform.
By the late 1880s agricultural prices were still fluctuating wildly, although the usual drift was downward. Transportation companies remained unresponsive to the farmers' pleas for lower rates and improved service. Rates charged by grain elevators, often controlled by the railroads, were also believed to be unfair. In the cities, too, labor began to stir, and middle-class citizens of the professional and business classes became increasingly restive at the coalition of corporation with political boss and saloonkeeper. This combine delivered elections and government into the hands of machines dependent upon a "floating" vote of corrupt citizens who on election day moved from polling place to polling place voting repeatedly.
To take up arms against these conditions a Union party was organized at Salem in 1889, about the same time as in other western states. The new party, composed of spokesmen of farmers, prohibitionists, and organized labor, pledged themselves to combat corporate monopolies and the liquor traffic. It provided the seedbed for the growth of the Oregon chapter of the Farmers Alliance and Industrial Union that had been organized in the South and Middle West in the late eighties. National and state alliance stood for the regulation of monopolies and a program of United States government loans to farmers at periods of low prices. In Oregon, although not nationally, the party supported prohibition. Although feared by many, the state alliance saw itself as restorative of older conditions, its platform preamble of 1891 declaring "that all monopolies are dangerous to the best interests of our country, tending to subvert and finally overthrow the great principles purchased by the fathers of American liberty." Pressures from the alliance and other reformers resulted in one important change in the machinery of government. Led by Edward W. Bingham, a Portland lawyer and sportsman (one of the first men to introduce largemouth bass to Oregon) who formed the Ballot Reform League, the state legislature passed a secret ballot law in 1891 that struck at the power of the boss and his "floating" voters.
In February 1892, the third national reform group began to develop its forces in Oregon. This was the People's party, better known as Populist, whose strength lay among the discontented farmers of the South and the Great Plains, and whose remedies for agricultural depression contained a thoroughgoing program of reform. The Populists advocated loans to farmers like the loans urged by the Alliance, nationalization of railroads and communications, a postal savings bank, the recapture by the government of federal lands granted to railroads, and inflationary monetary policies. As the nation plunged into depression in 1893 the Populist remedies gained attractiveness both nationally and in Oregon.
One convert to Populism was Sylvester Pennoyer, a Harvard graduate, who had served as mayor of Portland and gained both popularity and condemnation as a baiter of Chinese in the mid-1880s before being elected governor in 1889. Although a demagogue, Pennoyer was also a man of acute mind (he had published three articles on economic questions in the prestigious _North American Review_ between 1891 and 1893). His political astuteness was demonstrated by his switch to the Populist cause in time for re-election. As governor he became nationally famous for his disagreement with President Cleveland over monetary policies. Oregon's Populists supported the national program but also had a comprehensive reform program in Portland that included a free municipal boardinghouse for the unemployed. At the state level the Populists advocated free textbooks and a temperance law. They wanted Congress to finance government construction of a railroad along the north bank of the Columbia River to provide competition for the Northern Pacific.
The success of the Populists was mixed. Pennoyer gave active support to the cause by providing a pulpit for their views. The Populists elected some members to both houses of the legislature in 1892 and 1894. In the presidential contest of 1892 Oregon gave one of its electoral votes to James B. Weaver, the Populist candidate for president of the United States, making Oregon one of only six states where Weaver secured electoral votes. Populists were active in 1894 in the ranks of Jacob Coxey's "army" of the unemployed, which determined to march on Washington, D.C., to publicize its leader's demands for a public works program. The Oregon contingent of Coxey's force, which had a great deal of public sympathy, hijacked two eastbound freight trains but were stopped before leaving the state. Yet all of this activity was not translated into legislative achievement in Salem, and the Populists' principal legacy in Oregon was to keep the flame of reform alive, to publicize grievances, and to build a cadre of reformers that merged into the progressive movement that followed.
The failure of the Populists as an effective legislative force, even though they had some imaginative solutions for the gravest depression in national history to that time, was caused by the fact that they suffered splits in their own ranks, as did the Democrats, while the Republicans were temporarily able to paper over their controversies. The divisive issue for all three parties was the question of currency expansion and how best to obtain it. The Populists, in their early days in the East, favored cheap money created by federal coinage of large quantities of silver dollars—federal subsidies, in effect. Many Democrats and some Republicans also favored this particular Populist plank, although they could not accept the rest of the platform. Some Populists came to believe that they could turn this attitude to advantage and began to advocate "fusion" with members of other parties, that is, to advocate that Populists and Democrats (or even Republicans) nominate and support the same candidates for office on the silver plank. The fusion strategy had worked when both Populists and Democrats (the "Popocrats") had re-elected Governor Pennoyer in 1890, but fusion "stuck in the craw" of many Populists who feared that the abandonment of the balance of their platform was not worth the chance of gaining silver with Democratic aid. Many Democrats also feared that fusion would aid the Populists rather than their own party. In the Populist and Democratic ranks all over the nation this battle was fought and resolved in the electoral campaign of 1896.
At the national level the Populists and Democrats united in nominating for the presidency, on a silver plank without the other Populist measures, William Jennings Bryan, a former Democratic congressman from Nebraska. In the fall, however, in one of the closest and most exciting races in American history, William McKinley, the Republican candidate running on a single gold standard, was victorious. McKinley carried Oregon by only a few hundred votes, while Bryan won in the more progressive state of Washington and in silver-mining Idaho. In the two House races where the fusion strategy was employed, Republicans won the First District over a Democrat by 74 votes and the Second District against a Populist by 344 votes. The Populists also failed to capture control of the state legislature. Against the background of four years of severe depression and the worst harvest in forty-four years during the past summer, Oregon conservatism prevailed. Yet the cause of reform was not stilled, even with the return of prosperity in 1897.
III
The movement for reform in Oregon, born in Grangerism and developed in populism, reached fruition at the turn of the century in the progressive movement that produced the famous "Oregon System." Unlike earlier reformers, the progressives had an enormous faith that reason and morality could bring about changes in the political system. Progressives had a fervent hope that proper laws could remedy the baneful social and economic environment so that benign human energies could be released. In a newspaper interview the greatest of all Oregon's progressives, William S. U'Ren, proclaimed, "Things make men do bad things... conditions that can be changed." To free the citizens from corporation control the progressives believed that discovering the right set of political machinery would be the liberating force. The man who was certain he had come upon the correct instruments was William S. U'Ren.
U'Ren was from Wisconsin, a blacksmith and lawyer who had migrated to Colorado and then to Hawaii in a vain search for improved health. When his health failed to improve in Honolulu he decided to return to the United States to die, arriving in Oregon in 1889, where he lived until his death in 1949. U'Ren was as tenacious of causes as he was of life (his niece reported that he looked "determined" even in his coffin) and sampled various crusades throughout his long career. A spiritualist, religious mystic, and disciple of the dietician Horace Fletcher ("never eat when you are sad or mad, only when you are glad"), U'Ren's intellectual searchings brought him to Henry George's _Progress and Poverty_ in 1882. Written three years earlier, this influential work publicizing the single tax made U'Ren an instant convert: "I went just as crazy over the single tax as anyone else ever did. 1 knew I wanted the single tax, and that was about all I did know." The single tax was an economic panacea consisting of a confiscatory tax on unearned income or gain through speculation on land. George and his adherents contended that this measure alone would force speculators to disgorge their holdings and enable the landless American poor to acquire farms and homes in the traditional manner. Given a stake in society and freed from the serfdom imposed by industrialism, the average citizen would recoup the freedom and dignity of an earlier era.
U'Ren, soon after his arrival in Oregon, became a managing partner in the Lewelling nursery near Milwaukie, a position that, gave him entree into the circle of high-minded reformers that gathered in the Lewelling home. Among the ideas discussed was another panacea, direct legislation, the plan to give the voters the constitutional authority to initiate laws and to have laws passed by the legislature referred to them. After a venture into Populist politics as a state representative, U'Ren decided to marry the single tax to direct legislation, for he became convinced that the corporation-controlled legislature would never adopt Henry George's reform without popular pressure. All his considerable political talents were put into the fight for the initiative and referendum.
By the late 1890s the elements for progressive reform in Oregon had coalesced. Earlier critics had challenged the old order. A great depression had just ended. The electorate had for years heard rumors of corrupt politics. A remedy and a leader were at hand. And the catalyst was a break in the ranks of the old guard. The Republican party in Oregon was sagging badly from years of internecine struggle when, in the spring of 1897, the time came to choose a United States senator. The Simon-Corbett wing of the party, as always, was at loggerheads with the Mitchell faction, but Mitchell's group itself was divided. Mitchell had been a silver Republican until the presidential campaign of 1896, when he had reluctantly endorsed McKinley on the gold standard platform. This decision alienated his most formidable ally, Jonathan Bourne. Now Mitchell's chances for re-election were compromised by Bourne's defection. Bourne himself had his eye on the speakership of the Oregon House of Representatives but lacked the necessary votes to secure the post.
U'Ren fished skillfully in these waters. Although theoretically committed to democracy and to rational persuasion, he "now decided to get the reforms by using our enemies' own methods." The enemy of the machine now determined to use ruthless methods to champion democracy. As a leader of the Populists in the legislature U'Ren worked out a plan with Bourne. Bourne would agree to support the initiative and referendum and to finance the room, board, and entertainment of legislators who agreed to oppose Mitchell, since they would draw no pay until the legislature organized (U'Ren himself got $80). U'Ren for his part agreed to persuade enough senators and representatives to absent themselves so that the legislature could not be organized for lack of a quorum. Bourne rented quarters in two hotels, he and the Mitchell force spent wildly, the local banks ran out of hard money, and gold and silver had to be imported from Portland. Without organization of the legislature Mitchell could not be elected senator. Of course, no one else could be elected, and no laws could be passed, but in U'Ren's mind these inconveniences were a small price to pay for the aid of Bourne in the struggle for direct legislation. The strategy worked and the legislative session of 1897 was never held. U'Ren had deprived the people of one senator and a year's laws, and he and his supporters had received money from the wealthy Bourne, who was the attorney for the Southern Pacific Railway. Reminders of these actions were hurled in U'Ren's face thereafter, but he brazened it out. Other Oregon progressives also, for all their talk of the popular will, were not always respectful of the citizenry. C. E. S. Wood, for one, had little regard for the average voter: "'The mass of men will not study a law which is of abstract interest, or of great length and legal technicality... and therefore it seems to me the people will not vote intelligently on any but clearcut, briefly stated questions.'" For the progressives the popular will had to be guided.
In 1898 U'Ren formed a new organization to obtain the direct legislation that would allow the people's will to emerge clearly and decisively. This was the Direct Legislation League, and through it, in a few years, U'Ren's political genius was able to achieve the constitutional amendments that gave the initiative and referendum. His task, although aided by the reform tradition, was formidable, for amendments to the basic law had to be adopted by two successive legislatures, and the legislature met only every other year. Amendments also had to be approved by the vote of the people. The constitution, indeed, had never been amended since its adoption in 1857.
U'Ren and his direct legislation advocates moved skillfully to overcome these barriers. They recognized the failures of the narrowly based reform movements of Grangers and Populists, which were largely agrarian in their composition, by adding to the farm coalition. City people wanted greater freedom from the control of the legislature. Suffragettes desired the vote and antiliquor interests, prohibition. Businessmen wanted better services from railroads, especially shippers who confronted a chronic shortage of boxcars. A speaker at a business convention in Eugene in 1906 denounced the president of the Union Pacific, which also controlled the Southern Pacific: "Mr. Harriman has money enough to buy up other railroads—then let him buy enough cars for Oregon shippers." Another speaker at the same meeting urged his fellow businessmen "to construct a financial club with which to batter the wizard of Wall Street." Believers in representative democracy advocated freedom from the old-line political conventions in which a small group of delegates ruled by controlling the proxy votes of absent members. The direct legislation cause thus added a potent urban constituency, including some very conservative men who supported it because they wanted to take money out of politics, to prevent more radical measures, to make legislation more difficult to enact, or simply because they thought it right or inevitable. Even Harvey Scott and John H. Mitchell, conservatives and implacable personal foes, supported U'Ren's amendments, as did the president of the state bar association, Stephen Cornell, and the bankers, William and Charles E. Ladd. U'Ren's tactics also fit into the cohesive, conservative spirit of the state. He was a persuader, not an arm twister, a reasoner, not a shouter, a man described by Lincoln Steffens as "slight of figure, silent in motion, he speaks softly, evenly, as he walks; and they call him therefore, the 'pussy cat.'"
U'Ren was also extraordinarily determined in pursuit of his objectives. Unlike many reformers he did not insist that all his remedies be enacted at once. He put nothing in the way of the cause, neither personal political ambition nor desire for fame, and he was not a partisan, although after the demise of the Populists he labelled himself a Republican. Nor did he refuse to work with people who had once opposed him or who continued to oppose him on other issues. He bore no grudges. As he himself once declared: "I'll do nothing selfish, dishonest, or dishonorable, but I'll trade off parties, offices, bills—anything for [the initiative and referendum.]" The Direct Legislation League sent out literature, provided speakers, and lobbied in Salem during legislative sessions. The fruits of the new constituency, of U'Ren's personal qualities, and of his tactics of persuasion were harvested initially in the 1899 legislative session when the initiative and referendum amendments passed in the house by a vote of 43 to 9 (with 8 absences) and in the senate 20 to 8 (with 2 absences). The next year came word that Utah and South Dakota had obtained direct legislation, and in 1901 the two amendments passed the legislature for the second and final time, unanimously in the house and 28 to 1 (with 1 absent) in the senate. The last hurdle was cleared in 1902 when the voters adopted the amendments by an overwhelming vote, 62,024 in favor and 5,668 opposed.
Progressivism was spurred forward after the enactment of the Oregon System by sensational revelations concerning the misuse of federal land laws in Oregon. In 1900 a three-man Portland syndicate was formed to take advantage fraudulently of an enlightened measure of the national government, the Forest Reserve Act of 1897, designed to create timber reservations on the national domain. Under this law, when the reserves were created, previous owners of land within them could take other federal lands as a substitute. The three Portlanders, Franklin P. Mays, Steven A. D. Puter, and Horace G. McKinley, in collusion with the Eugene branch of the United States Land Office, had prepared a series of fraudulent entries in remote portions of the state within the bounds of the potential Cascade Forest Reserve, lands which they anticipated exchanging for excellent timber stands after the reserve was proclaimed. The entries were approved by the General Land Office in Washington.
When their plan was exposed to special investigators of the Department of the Interior it had numerous unpleasant ramifications for Oregonians. President Roosevelt appointed a special prosecutor, the crusading San Francisco attorney Francis J. Heney, to handle the case. In time several cases were prepared and prosecuted (one before a jury "that would crucify Christ"), and by the time the affair ended in 1910 several cases concerning misuse of the public domain in Oregon had been brought to trial. As a result Senator Mitchell was convicted of accepting bribes to expedite fraudulent claims before the General Land Office by influencing the commissioner, Binger T. Hermann, an Oregonian and a Mitchellite. U. S. Rep. John N. Williamson and a Prineville employee of the General Land Office were both convicted of conspiracy to defraud the government. Three former state senators suffered the same fate, as did U. S. Attorney John Hall. Binger Hermann, by the vote of a single juror, escaped conviction.
The Oregon land fraud trials publicized policies toward natural resources and the conflict between America's old and new attitudes. One historian contends that the trials not only ended the grossest abuse of public land laws, but more positively helped form in the minds of the general public and federal officials such as President Roosevelt the conviction that conservation should be pushed aggressively. In a sense, then, nationwide publicity about Oregon politicians, both corrupt and honest, the Mitchells and Williamsons as well as the U'Rens and the Lewellings, fostered the American progressive movement.
Oregon's transformation from a corrupt state, unable to combat the power of corporations or other modern forces, to a commonwealth that so speedily adopted innovations in the machinery of its government, has called forth a multitude of explanations. The Swiss experience with direct legislation that was carried by immigrants to U'Ren's Oregon home of Milwaukie; the lack of an urban-rural cleavage in the state; the high level of literacy of the population; the provision for county use of the referendum in the original constitution are all sound explanations. One might also note that the nature of direct legislation was, as U'Ren often said, that of tools. The tools could be used to build or to destroy, or to build different legislative structures. Two conclusions follow from this fact. One is that the neutral nature of the tools appealed to both conservatives and reformers. The other is that the tools would be used by a cohesive people who, even in reform moods, were not radical. Neither their rhetoric nor their use of direct legislation was destructive of the existing order. Frederick G. Young, a political scientist at the University of Oregon, exemplified in his speeches and articles this progressive modernization of the old order. Young's faith in reason and the ability to learn from history led him to believe that the contemporary Oregonian, having inherited from his ancestors who crossed the overland trail the pioneer notions of liberty, equality, and democracy, could adapt their values to form a modern society characterized by a socially conscious rather than an excessively individualistic citizen. Young's faith in his contemporaries was such that he believed the modern Oregonian, like his pioneer ancestor, would play the role of "the most representative American of his time." U'Ren, too, in his advocacy of direct legislation was employing new devices, although even they were imports from other states, for an old purpose, the restoration of the family farm and the small business via the single tax.
Once equipped with direct legislation the voters of Oregon used it repeatedly in the fifteen years after 1902 to attempt to restrain the powers of corporations and to improve the lot of working people. The various constituencies of progressivism had something to show in this legislative harvest. Farmers and small businessmen obtained a railroad commission, road legislation, and laws regulating banks; organized labor secured a child labor law, a minimum wage law, a statute regulating the hours and conditions of female labor, and a workmen's compensation act; small businessmen approved the banking and railroad legislation and a statute scrutinizing securities issues; middle-class urbanities got home rule for cities; people of integrity of all groupings gained a responsive government. Yet the people were not—either through direct legislation or their elected representatives—prone to measures requiring expensive appropriations or those destructive of the existing system. Their changes were remedial, not radical.
Indeed, Oregonians continued to be as fascinated with further changing the machinery of government after 1902 as they were with adopting social and economic legislation. To further this aspect of reform the Direct Legislation League, reshaped into the People's Power League in 1905, pushed for the direct primary and for the popular election of United States senators. U'Ren drafted the direct primary law, but he drew upon the experiences of Minnesota, Maryland, and Wisconsin in preparing it. Supported by all groups it passed with ease. More controversial was the attempt to acquire for the voters the right to elect directly their United States senators. Under the American Constitution the election of senators lay in the hands of the state legislatures, which meant that in effect powerful and well-organized interests assumed this sovereign power. Reformers around the nation were interested in giving the people the right to elect directly their senators either by amending the federal Constitution or by some mode of circumventing it, and in Oregon the People's Power League adopted the second alternative in devising what became known as "Statement Number One." The league persuaded the legislature to draw up a law that included the names of candidates for the United States Senate so that voters could express their preference for the office. At the same election the state legislative candidates were asked whether they promised, if elected, to vote for the winner of the preferential primary ("Statement Number One") or if they would use their own personal preference ("Statement Number Two"). The first test of the new law came in 1906 when U'Ren managed Jonathan Bourne's campaign for the United States Senate. Bourne's wealth made possible the use of a direct mail campaign, an innovation that, along with other expenditures, cost $50,000. Victorious in the primary and general election campaigns, Bourne awaited the vote of the legislature in the spring of 1907. The legislature, without cavilling, chose him to become the first United States senator elected in conformity to the popular majority. This triumph was the highwater mark of U'Ren's influence, for the people would not follow him into more fundamental reforms. In 1909 U'Ren drew up a constitutional amendment that drastically reshaped the governmental structure of the state, but the people were not ready for six-year terms for governor and members of the state legislature; for annual legislative sessions; and for awarding the governor the power to appoint all state officials, including sheriffs and district attorneys. They defeated U'Ren's amendment for a more centralized government by a substantial margin.
The great irony of U'Ren's career, however, was his failure to persuade the people of Oregon to adopt the single tax. He began serious work for this project in 1909 when he met with board members of the Joseph Fels Fund Commission. This group was a project of the wealthy Philadelphia soap (Fels-Naptha) manufacturer, Joseph Fels, like U'Ren a devoteé of Henry George. The Fels commissioners and U'Ren agreed that Oregon would be a likely place to enact the single tax, and from 1910 to 1914 the fund poured thousands of dollars into Oregon to secure the adoption of this measure. Success came only in 1910 when an amendment permitting the single tax at the county level was adopted. The Fels money helped publicize this innovation, but the fundamental reason that it passed was that it was stated in a duplicitous manner so that the voter had no idea for what he was voting. The first words of the amendment read: "No poll or head tax shall be levied or collected in Oregon." The poll tax had several years earlier been repealed anyway, but few remembered that and few read on to the other sections of the amendment. When charged with mendacity, U'Ren responded: "I never went hunting deer with a brass band." When the measure was exposed in 1912 it was repealed, and the single tax failed of re-enactment in 1914, 1916, 1920, and 1922, when the long struggle was abandoned.
In 1912 U'Ren and the People's Power League not only lost the single tax but they sustained two other defeats. One was the campaign to re-elect Senator Bourne. Bourne had strong opposition in the Republican primary from Benjamin Selling of Portland, a contender who elicited an unusual response from men ostensibly dedicated to clean government. Bourne paid U'Ren the sum of $500 to hire a firm of private detectives to gather evidence charging Selling with failure to report campaign contributions. The results were not conclusive, but U'Ren was undaunted: "Although no formal charge was made, it was hoped that the publicity would cost Selling votes." U'Ren's troubles were compounded when he and Bourne, the great advocates of rule by the citizens, refused to accept Selling's primary victory and decided to mount an independent campaign in the fall general election, a stratagem for which they were denounced by some within the People's Power League, including C. E. S. Wood. Neither Bourne nor Selling, but the Democratic candidate, Harry Lane, won the election. The final blow for U'Ren in his disastrous year of 1912 was the defeat of another of his proposals to reorganize drastically the state government. Two years later he ran for governor and finished third.
Another influence of the progressive movement on state politics lay in the realm of parties and party government. The elected leaders of the Oregon reform movement were George Chamberlain, Oswald West, and Harry Lane. All were Democrats in a Republican state, but their elections indicated that the voters were now prepared to support the candidate rather than the ticket. Chamberlain was governor (1903–1909) and United States senator (1909–1921). West was governor from 1909 to 1915, and Lane was mayor of Portland (1909–1913) and United States senator (1913–1917). The nonpartisan tradition of Oregon politics that continues to the present began in this era when the voters realized that in a cohesive state the need for powerful parties to represent specific interests was far less strong than the requirement to adjust politics to the social needs of the industrial era.
The years of the rise and fall of the People's Power League were also years of progressive reform in municipal government. In Portland the city had been long bossed by Walter F. "Jack" Matthews, who organized the business interests in support of friendly politicians for the mutual benefit of each. "All politics," he said, "are selfish; therefore politics is mere selfishness." A shy and secretive man who never permitted interviews and who became enraged at being photographed, Matthews did not even list his name in the city directory or the telephone book. An easy master, Matthews ruled by persuasion, resembling U'Ren in that sense, and by providing politicians the wherewithal and strategy for victory. The facade for Matthews and for the Portland machine was the venerable George H. Williams, his venality and misjudgment on the national scene forgotten. Behind Williams's distinguished appearance the city lay in the grip of business interests, gamblers, and thugs, all of whom obtained their special requirements from a complacent city hall vigilant only to extract its payment in money and votes. Williams was first elected mayor in 1902 at the age of seventy-nine, the oldest mayor in the country. Although there were some achievements during his administration, such as the creation of a full-time fire department and the improvement of streets and sewers, Williams and his cronies became notorious as sponsors of gambling dens and houses of prostitution (one of the last, painted a flamboyant scarlet, was anchored in the Willamette River), whose proprietors were levied upon by the city periodically as a valued source of revenue. Although supported by the vice business, the old guard Republicans, and the _Oregonian_ , Williams also had a legion of enemies who included the clergy, church members, and progressive businessmen who fought him on the grounds of religious morality or municipal efficiency.
For a time the champions of reform in the city found a leader in the unlikely person of Harry Lane, who defeated Williams for mayor in 1905 and was re-elected in 1907. The grandson of Joseph Lane, the new mayor was a physician, mushroom hunter, bird watcher, and a man of courage and humor. Although he was caricatured by his opponents in his first campaign as one who would "make a mushroom bed out of the city park and build little houses up in the trees for people to live in," he had substantial support from middle-class business and professional people. Their progressive creed was articulated in the pages of the new _Oregon Daily Journal_ , founded in 1902 and published by the crusading journalist, Charles S. "Sam" Jackson, who had launched earlier the _Pendleton East Oregonian._
Once elected, Lane and his police force had considerable success in enforcing city ordinances against prostitution and gambling. As ex-officio chairman of the city water board he was able to persuade its members to reduce the municipal water rates, although the city council defeated his plan to establish a sinking fund to redeem the city's debt. Lane reformed the police department and refused to create needless jobs for patronage plums. Although less vigorous and successful leaders, two later mayors, Allen G. Rushlight (1912) and Harry R. Albee (1913–1917), also carried forward the fight for honest government. Albee was the first mayor to serve under the commission form of government, a typical progressive device that replaced the old councilmanic ward system when reformers instituted a new city charter in 1912. Lane himself was elected to the United States Senate in 1913 on the basis of his municipal achievements.
The progressive movement in Oregon was not confined to altering the machinery of government or cleaning up state and local politics. Perhaps its most important contribution, arising from its basic philosophy of faith in human reason and the innate morality of persons, was the expansion of the state's constituency by the adoption of woman suffrage. Although woman suffrage was a progressive crusade in the sense that it was achieved in the era bearing that label, women's participation in civic life in Oregon had a long history.
In the famous Oregon Donation Land Act of 1850 Congress granted wives as much land as husbands. At various times the legislature had expanded the political rights of women. In 1866 married women obtained the right to own personal or real property in their own name and six years later acquired the right to sue and be sued. Women twenty-one years or older who were taxpayers gained the franchise in school elections in 1878 (in 1889 all women with school-age children were included) and women were admitted to the practice of law in 1885. The powerful farm lobby, the Oregon State Grange, had often taken positions favorable to the increasing participation of women in public life. In 1881 the Grange passed a general resolution declaring that women must have equality "where their interests are concerned." In 1882 it favored equal treatment for women in the settlement of estates and the guardianships of minors, and in the same year it declared for suffrage for women taxpayers and their right to serve on school boards. In 1889 it asked that the governor appoint women to the board of Oregon Agricultural College, now Oregon State University.
The moving figure in the long struggle to obtain woman suffrage in Oregon was a pioneer of the overland migration of 1852, Abigail Scott, who had crossed in a wagon train at the age of seventeen. In Oregon she married a farmer, Benjamin Duniway, whose life was dogged by financial misjudgments and by accident and ill-health. Much of the burden of family support accordingly fell upon Abigail's competent shoulders (her mother had died on the Oregon Trail) and she established herself as a milliner and as a newspaper publisher in Oregon. Publishing was not just a vocation for Abigail Duniway but a means for political reform. Her first interest in public affairs had been the temperance cause but, like U'Ren, she had turned to a means, woman suffrage in her case, to reach her original objective. In time she abandoned her first goal because it was interfering with the realization of the second.
In 1871, after the family's move to Portland from Albany, Abigail Duniway began to publish the _New Northwest._ Although. the paper contained news of general interest, its focus was on the cause of woman suffrage, and the Duniways, for husband and six children also worked on the paper, made it the most influential organ of the cause in the Pacific Northwest. The year 1871 also brought a second significant political experience to Abigail Duniway when she accompanied the famed reformer Susan B. Anthony on a three-month speaking tour of the Northwest. The tour was indeed more valuable for Duniway than Anthony, who had small audiences and mixed reviews. For her part Duniway gained from the tour not only the reputation as the foremost suffragette in the region but also a plethora of new ideas, some money for the cause, and additional subscriptions for the _New Northwest._ The interest base provided by the newspaper enabled Duniway to institutionalize her cause in the formation of the Multnomah County Woman Suffrage Association in 1873 and the Oregon State Woman Suffrage Association founded two years later. Yet her preparations were of greatest impact in Washington Territory and Idaho rather than in her home state.
On their tour in 1871 Anthony and Duniway had organized a Woman Suffrage Association in Washington Territory, and Duniway had pushed for woman suffrage bills in Olympia in 1873 and 1875 and at the state constitutional convention in 1878 but without immediate success. In 1883 Washington adopted woman suffrage only to repeal it four years later when men became convinced that it was being used for the cause of prohibition. This reaction was an important influence in Duniway's subsequent political strategy for it marked the end of her personal advocacy of prohibition. In 1872 she had declared: "Women must have a chance to vote, and legislate whiskey hells out of existence," but now her political pragmatism forced her to repudiate the prohibitionists as liabilities.
In Idaho Duniway became almost an institution in the suffrage campaign. She paid her first visit to the state in 1876 and returned frequently to speak. She also contributed periodically to the Idaho campaign through her suggestions in the pages of the _New Northwest._ The climax of her Idaho career came in 1887 when she addressed the constitutional convention, but she continued to work in the state until 1895, although she founded no suffrage organization there as she did in Washington and Oregon. In the nineteen years of her Idaho itinerancy Duniway gave 140 public lectures and travelled 12,000 miles in addition to distributing 500,000 copies of the _New Northwest._
In Oregon the woman suffrage cause had moved slowly until the 1890s. It had been linked with the Women's Christian Temperance Union since 1883, but by 1890 the two causes were split since Duniway broke with the temperance forces. Not only was she impressed with the loss of woman suffrage in Washington because of the fear that it would lead to temperance, but she herself was afraid that the temperance people would form a third party if women gained the right to vote. This was particularly abhorrent, for Duniway was an ardent supporter of the Republican party and feared that a third party would cut into its support. Finally she became less and less certain of her Christian faith with the passing years and less confident of the moral underpinnings of a Christian organization. In time she turned her considerable sarcasm against the prohibitionists, assailing them as women who "had never lifted voice or finger to secure their right to vote, but had often sat in the sanctuary singing 'Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight,' when the little hoodlum was kicking up a rumpus at my suffrage meetings."
Out of the wreckage of the old alliance Duniway organized the Oregon State Equal Suffrage Association in 1894. The association in Oregon immediately went to work using methods of quiet persuasion, what Duniway called a "still hunt," among the legislators. The woman suffrage amendment passed the legislature in 1895 and 1898 but the electorate defeated it by some 2,000 votes in 1900. After the initiative became law the Equal Suffrage Association took advantage of this process to put the suffrage question on the ballot in 1906, 1908, 1910, and in 1912, when victory was finally attained.
The campaign for woman suffrage, in both its arguments and tactics, is a model of Oregon progressivism. The cause was couched in typical terms for Oregon reform, and the appeal of Abigail Duniway and the OESA seemed certain to gain ultimate, if slow success, for it avoided "fanatical" arguments while it echoed traditional appeals. Duniway took care that the cause could not be branded as advocacy of prohibition. She frequently admitted publicly the harm prohibitionists had done to the suffrage cause in nearby Washington and took care to disassociate her Oregon work from the WCTU. She also repeatedly insisted that woman suffrage would not bring about a revolution between the sexes and place men in leading strings to "man-hating," revengeful women ("Show me a woman who doesn't like men, and I will show you a sour-souled, vinegar-visaged specimen of unfortunate femininity, who owes the world an apology for living in it at all"). Her own happy family life, her success as wife and mother, also gave credibility to her insistence that the ballot would not cause women to forsake the home and compete economically with men. Indeed, she seemed to accept in part the argument of many conservative opponents of woman suffrage, that there were innate psychological differences between men and women, when she declared: "The home instinct is inherent in woman, and cannot be created or destroyed by laws of men's or women's making." After her earlier flirtation with prohibition, Duniway and her forces shied away from the advocacy of woman suffrage as the means to any forms of sumptuary legislation. In other words, the Oregon suffragists did not hold out the hope that votes for women would purify politics or regenerate society, as was the cry in other areas.
What Duniway and the OESA did advocate was the right to vote as one of the traditional American ideals. In the 1899 campaign, for example, Oregon suffragettes sent an appeal to each legislator, "basing it wholly upon the fundamental right of self-government, that inheres in the individual, which the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States had taught us to revere." In Oregon the woman suffrage appeal was mainly to principle: one student has shrewdly noted that the eastern suffragette advanced her cause by arguing that women's votes could be used to protect Anglo-Saxon institutions against the immigrant hordes now coming to America from central and eastern Europe. Given Oregon's cohesive population such an appeal would have been meaningless.
Not only did the woman suffrage movement appeal to the past but also to the conservative experience of other states. "Women," Duniway declared, "under normal conditions, are evolutionists, and not revolutionists, as is shown by their conduct, as voters, in Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and Idaho." Yet at the same time Duniway avoided the dangerous waters of overreliance upon assistance from outside the state. Her lesson had been learned in the campaign for the initiative in 1906 when the OESA allowed the cause to be directed by officers of the National American Woman Suffrage Association, which conducted a campaign marked by ballyhoo and noise and resulted in a convincing defeat. Even earlier, in her Idaho work, Duniway had been wary of eastern suffragettes, calling them "invaders" and "leeches," a suspicion that caused them to regard her as a prima donna who was, in Susan B. Anthony's words, "amply sufficient not only unto herself, but unto the whole state of Oregon as well." Carrie Chapman Catt was blunter: "Mrs. Duniway is a jealous minded and dangerous woman." By 1906 Duniway was assailing the new president of NAWSA, Anna Howard Shaw (whose name she invariably spelled "Pshaw"), as a "liar" and threatening her with court action if she came to Oregon. In the end it seems that Duniway got the better of the argument, for her undoubted fame in American woman suffrage came from her quiet and effective methods in Idaho, Washington, and Oregon.
Oregon obtained woman suffrage two years later than Washington and Idaho. The state was conservative in taking its time to adopt the reform, but when it did occur, as in the case of the Oregon System, it came with the support of all elements of the citizens. Men and women, rural and urban, rich, middling, and poor, supported the cause in 1912. They found it to be based on principle, threatening to no group, and presented with quiet conservative techniques under the leadership of an independent but not radical woman, a successful wife and mother, who was a veteran of the Oregon Trail. As Solomon Hirsch, stalwart Mitchellite and political spoilsman, declared in 1908: "I am naturally conservative, but I advocate woman suffrage because it is right."
The movements for the Oregon System and for woman suffrage are characteristic of the progressive period in Oregon. Both reforms were instrumental, not substantial. They were based upon broad principles rather than small single-interest groups. They were threatening to no large group but were potentially useful to all groups. They passed with a relative lack of passion and ill will because they were guided by men and women who understood the cohesive nature of Oregon society and its tradition of quiet change. Once in force, the instruments were used to adjust tradition to contemporary forces so long as the changes made were adjustments, not radical alterations. When radical change was pushed, it either failed or lasted only for a short time. Prohibition, nationalization of railroads, and drastic restructuring of the form of state government were too advanced for Oregon progressives, and U'Ren went to his grave advocating the single tax in vain.
A failure to understand the nature of Oregon progressivism characterized Americans at the time and to some extent subsequently. Certainly direct legislation and the work of Abigail Duniway were nationally known through the work of journalists and politicians who made pilgrimages to Oregon. The adoption of direct legislation became nationally known as "the Oregon System" (somewhat inaccurately, since South Dakota had the initiative and referendum in 1897 and Utah in 1900) and the state's governmental experiments were its principal political influence upon the United States. Oregon received an enormous amount of publicity in books, pamphlets, and, above all, in the crusading, "muckraking" as they were called, journals of the day where the state was labelled as one "Where the People Rule"; "the Home of Direct Legislation"; "the Most Complete Democracy in the World"; and a "Political Experiment Station." Perhaps the most laudatory of all appraisals was by the greatest of the "muckrakers," Lincoln Steffens. In _American Magazine_ , in March 1908, appeared an article, "U'Ren, The Law Giver," that Steffens later republished in a book on American reformers entitled _Upbuilders._ Steffens wrote effusively in delineating U'Ren's moral character and his political astuteness, but he also asserted that the Oregonian had an influence far beyond his state. "They call this man," said Steffens, "the Father of the Initiative and Referendum in Oregon, but that title isn't big enough. U'Ren has fathered other Oregon laws, and his own state isn't the limit of his influence."
In another, more concrete, sense Oregon came to national attention via the federal court system when the constitutionality of one of its social laws was challenged. This statute was one passed in 1903 that limited the hours of women in factories and laundries to ten hours per day. On a September day in 1905 Mrs. Edward Gotcher was required by her employer, the Grand Laundry of Portland, to work more than the legal maximum. The owner of the laundry, Curt Muller, was convicted under the statute and his conviction was upheld by the Oregon Supreme Court. He appealed to the United States Supreme Court, contending that the law restricted the liberty of women to make contracts, constituted class legislation, and was an unlawful use of the police powers of the state.
At the time Muller appealed the case it became an object of concern to a national organization, the National Consumers League, which was dedicated to social welfare causes, especially protective labor legislation for women and children. The leaders of this group, the renowned Florence Kelley and Josephine Goldmark, sought a distinguished counsel to defend the Oregon law and determined to persuade Goldmark's brother-in-law, Louis D. Brandeis, to take the case. Brandeis was one of the nation's most distinguished reformers, a Boston attorney who had a great reputation as an opponent of industrial and transportation monopolies. Brandeis agreed to accept the case on two conditions: that he represent the state and not the league and that the league staff gather data for him on the effect of long working hours on women employees. With both conditions met, Brandeis then drew up a remarkable brief in arguing the ten-hour law in the Supreme Court.
His task was to show the court that it was reasonable for the state to limit the hours of working women even though such regulation restricted their freedom to work as many hours as they chose. The task was difficult because in the Lochner case (1905) the court had ruled unconstitutional a New York ten-hour law for men and women employees. Brandeis had to gather data that proved women's health, but not necessarily that of men, suffered by long hours of labor. With the aid of the Consumers League, Brandeis presented a unique brief, so seminal a document that it thereafter was known simply as the "Brandeis brief." His argument devoted only two pages to matters of constitutional law and judicial precedents, but more than 100 pages dealt with legislation, foreign and domestic, and with more than ninety reports of various agencies from all over the world, the bulk of which concluded that woman's physical constitution made her uniquely susceptible to dangers from long hours of employment.
The Supreme Court accepted the Brandeis arguments in unanimously upholding the constitutionality of the Oregon law. The Brandeis brief, in its use of economic and sociological data, was the first occasion where overwhelming emphasis was placed upon other than constitutional arguments before the Supreme Court. It became an enormously important precedent for courts in assisting them to adjust the law to changing economic and social realities. Although the immediate effect of the Brandeis brief in American constitutional law should not be exaggerated, for it took some time for Brandeis's educational work to be fully accepted by jurists, the Muller case did call national attention to Oregon's progressive spirit.
Yet it must be remembered that the forces of conservatism, even reaction, were still powerful in these years. In Portland, for example, the progressive mayoralty of Harry Lane was followed by the long regime of George L. Baker. Baker built upon his connections and enormous popularity as a theater impresario to become leader of the Fourth Ward, the largest in the city, where he operated in the conventional and time-honored manner of the political boss. Ubiquitous, handsome, and gregarious ("Fraternal affiliations are the finest things a man can make. I attribute all my success to the contacts made in these"), Baker distributed patronage jobs and other favors to the poor. He also ingratiated himself with the middle class by his showmanship—he led the annual Rose Parade—and by his public displays of puritanical virtue (he once protested at a meeting a speaker's use of the word _virginity:_ "Mr. Chairman, I object to the use of this insidious word in the presence of women"). In 1915 the Fourth Ward elected him to the city council, where he became commissioner of public affairs; his sole platform in the campaign was a promise to reinstate the city hall janitor, a drunken incompetent, but a Civil War veteran who had been dismissed by the previous reform administration. Baker made good on his promise and then embarked on a program of public entertainment, spending on municipal band concerts, bathing beaches, rifle ranges, and golf courses. In 1917 his endeavors paid off with his election to the position of mayor, which he held until 1933.
The chief issue in the mayoralty campaign of 1917 typified the decline of progressivism and its faith in reason and human nature. Baker and his opponent, William H. Daly, clashed over an ordinance on the ballot aimed at unions and at the Industrial Workers of the World. The measure would have made it almost impossible to boycott, picket, or display a banner in any labor dispute without running the danger of a conspiracy conviction. Daly, the candidate of organized labor, seemed to be the favorite to win the race as an opponent of the anticonspiracy ordinance, but several days before the election his house was ransacked; then the _Oregonian_ published on the eve of the election Daly's application to join the Socialist party, an application made out in 1910. In the wartime years any identification with socialism was fatal, for the party opposed the war effort. Baker won the race by a little more than one thousand votes and was triumphantly re-elected thereafter, his alliance with business, the _Oregonian_ , and the Republican machine solidified.
At the state level, also, progressivism failed to survive the 1910s. When the Republican party failed to nominate Theodore Roosevelt for president in 1912, he and his supporters walked out of the Chicago convention and formed the Progressive or "Bull Moose" party with Roosevelt as the candidate. The party stood for increased governmental regulation of industry and greater structural changes in the national government (e.g., the recall of judicial decisions) than advocated by Woodrow Wilson, the Democrat, or by the incumbent Republican, William Howard Taft. In Oregon, under the leadership of disgruntled Republicans, the Progressives marched under the same banner of reason, integrity, and individual and public morality that had characterized the campaigns for direct legislation, woman suffrage, and social and economic legislation.
But the limits of progressive accomplishment had been reached in the state by 1912. The two-party tradition remained adequate for the mass of the voters. Indeed the Oregon Progressive party never adopted a state platform and instead concentrated upon its efforts to elect Roosevelt. In so doing its members were handicapped by the fact that they had seemingly deserted the Oregon System by not supporting the winning candidates in the Republican primary. Tarred as hypocrites, their campaign did not stir the voters' interest, and Wilson carried the state. Two years later the party candidates for governor and United States senator were beaten, and in 1916 the state Progressives, like those nationally, returned to the ranks of the two older parties. Indeed, many wondered why they had ever left, for most progressive Oregonians were satisfied to provide the balance of power within and between the Democratic and Republican parties, to endorse such men as Oswald West, George Chamberlain, and Harry Lane, rather than to support a more radical third party. To win the voters' support progressives, with or without the capital _P,_ had to be bipartisan, reasonable, and, paradoxically, relatively conservative. By the time of American entry into the world war in 1917 Oregon progressives, for the most part, were satisfied with their work.
When war broke out Oregonians supported it overwhelmingly. By every measurable index, from the purchase of war bonds to the rate of voluntary enlistment, the state's contribution to the war effort was in the first rank. Qualitatively, too, Oregonians supported the cause wholeheartedly, as the emotionalism and violence of war ended, at least temporarily, the progressive dream of a world of reason and morality. Those who did not endorse the war, or even the specific programs of the Wilson administration, were pilloried. Anything smacking of the German cause, indeed even of Germany, became anathema: the streets of Portland with German names such as Rhine or Bismarck were altered to those of American or Allied military leaders. A Portland clergyman proclaimed: "There is no place on the top side of American soil for a Pacifist.... There is no room in this country for a Pacifist. If you have one, shoot him." Mayor Baker and the press demanded the dismissal of M. Louise Hunt, a young employee of the Multnomah County Library in Portland, for her refusal to buy war bonds on account of her pacifist convictions. Although the members of the library board, principally composed of conservative professional and business men, refused to do so ("the right to one's own conscientious opinion is the very foundation of human freedom"), Hunt resigned and left the state. Criminal syndicalism laws were passed to combat the antiwar activities of the IWW and the Socialist party, and several prosecutions were instituted under them, although few convictions were secured. So far had the spirit of harmony and the hope of progress disintegrated since the bright morning of the Oregon System.
## **6**
## **People and Politics (1920–1970)**
IN the last half-century the people of Oregon have modified but not discarded their major political, economic, and social characteristics derived from earlier historical eras. That Oregonians have survived international wars, a global depression, and enormous cultural changes without drastic modifications of their traditional patterns is a tribute to the tenacity with which they are devoted to moderate conservatism. They continue to accommodate themselves to change but not to welcome it.
**I**
Oregon's ethnic composition has remained fundamentally homogeneous, and the state's historic social prejudice has not prevented nonwhites from gaining greater material advantages, legal rights, and cultural respect, especially in the years after the Second World War. The majority Caucasian group that had grown enormously in the late nineteenth century and at the turn of the century was reinforced by the defense workers of the First World War whose motive for migrating, economic advancement, and whose geographical background, southern and western, were the same as those who had preceded them and those who would come in the 1920s. In the Great Depression, however, the white immigrant participated in an experience that was unique.
By the middle of the 1930s thousands of farmers and urbanites, mainly from the northern Great Plains region, were driven by depressed economic conditions, which in the case of agriculture reached back into the twenties, to seek homes in the Pacific Northwest. Although far less publicized than those who departed from Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma, perhaps because they had no John Steinbeck to write about them, their numbers were larger and their fate, in some respects, was similar to those of the "Arkies" and the "Okies" of _The Grapes of Wrath._
Like their predecessors, the depression migrants were seeking economic opportunity in Oregon, preferably in the agricultural life that was familiar to them. They were not seekers of adventure, rootless drifters, or individuals drawn by an aesthetic appreciation of the Northwest's natural environment. They were white, literate, family members who accepted the American social and economic system. But they were different too. Most came within a very short span, 1935–1937; they had little luck in finding a prosperous farm and had to take urban jobs, if any; and, above all, their reception, in its chilling unwelcome, was unlike the fate of their Caucasian predecessors who had been almost invariably regarded as economic and cultural assets to a developing region. Now the migrants seemed to threaten the old residents who perceived the newcomers as competitors for scarce jobs, as sources of increased taxation for relief, and as socially dangerous malcontents. Although Oregonians never emulated Californians in using violence against the migrants or in passing laws forbidding the entry of indigents, there was a great deal of grumbling that dissipated only with the absorption of the unemployed into the armed services or defense plants after Pearl Harbor.
The Second World War brought thousands of Caucasian migrants to Portland. In the twelve months after American entry into the war 160,000 new workers, mainly white, came to the Portland area, most for shipyard employment. The major defense firm, the Kaiser Corporation, desperate to recruit labor, had advertised throughout the country for war workers. The response came from throughout the nation and special trains, called "Kaiser Specials," brought many of the shipyard employees. Perhaps the most remarkable contribution, at least in numbers, was made by the John H. Braukmiller family from Iowa, whose twenty-five members included fifteen who worked on the graveyard shift at Kaiser's Swan Island yard.
After the war the population of Oregon continued to rise at a higher percentage than the national rate, mainly stimulated by migration of Caucasians. These migrants tended to resemble the bulk of previous white residents, although their income and educational levels were somewhat higher. Many of the new Oregonians of this era were employees of the so-called "footloose" industries, those not located because of the proximity of raw materials or cheap transportation and therefore free to select their sites, subject to the availability of skilled labor. Although most of these most recent immigrants came for economic gain, and were thus traditional, the social and economic amenities of the state were also powerful pulling factors in their decision to migrate.
In their reasons for leaving their old homes the post—Second World War Oregonians also differed from their predecessors. No longer simply economic misfortune, but social problems such as urban crime, pollution, and educational decay drove them from their former places of residence. And, ironically, their very migration to "unspoiled" Oregon has put greater pressure not only upon natural resources, but also upon social services, as the affluent and well-educated newcomers demand power boats, vacation homes, air conditioning, and additional schools. Their demands and their increasing numbers cause the old guard to turn against them in a manner reminiscent of the antimigrant hostility of the Great Depression, so that neither skin color, economic competence, educational level, nor affluence can secure the newest immigrants against the derision, scorn, and fear of the older citizens.
If the fortune of the new Caucasians has changed markedly for the worse in the last thirty-five years, that of the Japanese and Japanese Americans has undergone the opposite transformation. During and after the First World War anti-Japanese sentiment began to intensify in Oregon in various portions of the state and to take the form of pressure upon the legislature. The Caucasian citizens of Klamath Falls became panic-stricken at the rumor that thirty or forty Japanese planned to acquire farms in the area. Near Redmond in Deschutes County a plan by local people and George Shima, "the potato king," to raise seed for Shima's California farms led to the "potato affair." Although the work on Shima's Oregon enterprise was to be done by Caucasians, the Deschutes County Farm Bureau passed resolutions against the rumored introduction of "several thousand Japanese tenants." The project was dropped.
The town of Hood River was the site of the most virulent prejudice and was the source of both state and national legislation reflecting it. In 1917, it will be remembered, a local attorney and legislator, George Wilbur, introduced a bill prohibiting aliens ineligible for citizenship from owning land in Oregon. Pressure from the American State Department, which feared the consequence of this assault upon Japan's national honor, forced Wilbur to withdraw it. California influence was present, for not only had that state passed an alien land law in 1913, but after the war it had begged Oregon to adopt a similar statute so that California bigotry would not stand alone in the nation's eyes. In 1919 Hood River citizens organized the Anti-alien League to obtain both the land law and a federal law barring further immigration of Japanese aliens. In 1923 the Oregon legislature passed the alien land law. The Hood River post of the newly formed American Legion persuaded the national convention of the veterans' organization to pass a resolution calling for Japanese exclusion. Aided by similar pressure from California and Washington, Japanese exclusion was adopted in the immigration law of 1924.
In the aftermath of this brief era of prejudice the Japanese of Oregon moved ahead economically in the 1920s and suffered with the rest of the population in the depression years. Children of immigrants now were not only Americans, since they were born in the United States, but increasingly Americanized. They learned the English language, worked into the economic system, and rebelled against their parents' ways. Prejudice against them became less overt than in the wartime era.
This typical progression of an immigrant group was interrupted, first by war alarms and then war itself. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, the army, with the concurrence of President Roosevelt and Congress, as a war measure, established a military zone along the Pacific Coast in which residents of Japanese ancestry were first placed under curfew, and then deported to interior concentration camps. Although this drastic measure did not originate in Oregon, neither was it opposed by most of the state's white population, whose outrage against the bombing of Pearl Harbor coupled with the traditional economic and cultural fear of the Japanese justified the harshness of removal in their eyes. (One Portlander, answering the doorbell in the city's first blackout, found a second-generation Japanese-American soldier, and yelled in terror: "The invasion is here!") Oregon's principal cultural group, the Japanese American Citizens League, went along with the evacuation order under protest and the people in the affected area met at Portland in May 1942 to be sent to their camps.
One man at least protested the order more forcefully. Minoru Yasui, born in Oregon, a graduate of the state university, and an officer in the army reserve, intentionally violated the curfew order to test the constitutionality of the program, claiming that it could not be applied to American citizens. Sentenced to a $5000 fine and a year in a prison road camp, he appealed his case to the United States Supreme Court, which upheld the constitutionality of the curfew order.
In January 1945 came a twofold turning point in the hostility toward the Japanese. Both events occurred in Hood River. The local American Legion post removed the names of sixteen Japanese-American servicemen from its roll of honor. A national outcry led by President Harry Truman forced their replacement. In the same month three hundred residents of Hood River signed a petition urging that the Japanese returning from concentration camps be given a cordial welcome. This sentiment reflected that of the future, for although other Hood River citizens published a statement of hostility to the returning Japanese, and there were public meetings in Gresham and other localities urging the strict enforcement of the alien land law and harassment (economic and otherwise) in various points, leaders of public opinion such as banker E. B. MacNaughton and Gov. Charles Sprague helped deflect this sentiment. Unlike California and Washington, Oregon saw no violence over this question.
In contrast to wartime, the Japanese of Oregon found the postwar years far more fulfilling than any previous era. Economic progress continued, informal prejudice declined, and discriminatory legal actions disappeared. In 1949 the Oregon Supreme Court declared the alien land law unconstitutional. In 1965 Congress effectually eliminated the principle of Japanese exclusion by banning race as a barrier to immigration and naturalization. Six years later Congress repealed the emergency detention clause of the Internal Security Act of 1950, a section that might have been used to legitimatize another group detention comparable to that suffered by the Japanese in the Second World War. Less satisfying was the disposition of claims for loss of property during the war. Congress permitted litigation to recover these losses, but when the final payment of Oregon claims was made in 1961 the Japanese residents of the state were awarded only 25 percent of their claimed losses, and many who lacked the means to litigate or had lost faith in American justice did not file claims.
The war had also first brought large numbers of Spanish-speaking people to Oregon until today they constitute the largest minority group in the state. As early as the nineteenth century, members of this ethnic group had come to the Northwest as miners, muleskinners, sheep raisers, and cattlemen, and in the 1920s the first migrant agricultural workers began to arrive. The last group, mainly from Texas, was like the first in that it was almost entirely composed of single males who came for economic purposes. When war broke out, demands of the military and defense industries created a grave shortage of labor in the fields of the Pacific states. To meet the requirements for harvesting, Congress established the _bracero_ program with Mexico to ensure a labor supply of Mexican nationals who came to the United States, followed the crops, and then returned home after the last harvests. This program was extended until Congress, at the urging of organized labor, terminated it in 1964. Long before its demise, Spanish-speaking American citizens had become indispensable ingredients in Oregon's harvest fields, until by the end of the 1950s only 13 percent of Oregon's forty thousand migrant workers were Mexican nationals and a mere 2 percent were year-round residents of the state. Because of their forced rootlessness and the indifference of white Oregonians to dark-skinned groups, the pitiful lot of both American-and Spanish-speaking workers long went unpublicized. Not until an investigation by the Oregon Council of Churches in 1956 were the low pay, poor sanitation, inadequate housing, and lack of education for children made public knowledge. People who cared now discovered that the migrant worker was a family member, not a single person, with all the problems inherent in establishing a normal pattern of domestic living in the dislocated world of the migrants dominated by labor contractors and the growers.
The investigation by the council of churches produced further scrutiny of migrant labor conditions by an interim committee of the Oregon legislature whose chairman was Rep. Donald S. Willner. In turn this led to the creation by the governor of an interagency committee from the executive branch to assist the interim committee. Out of these investigations and the attendant publicity came several acts in 1959 designed to aid the migrant worker by protecting his health and by licensing labor contractors. The laws lacked teeth, however, and were not effectively enforced.
In the decade of the 1960s the Spanish-speaking ethnic group changed substantially. Increasingly its members became permanent residents and the state's most urbanized minority, rather than men and women who spent the winters in California or the Southwest. Mechanization, government regulations, and federal programs shrank drastically the ranks of migrant farm laborers. This residence gave them a base from which to operate politically and culturally, and organizations controlled by Spanish-speaking people have developed in the recent past, ranging from cultural centers in Woodburn and Cornelius to Colegio Caesar Chavez, the former Mount Angel College. The first cultural center was founded in 1969 near Woodburn on a sixty-three-acre plot purchased by an arm of the Roman Catholic church, and its initial activities included a bilingual library, a monthly newspaper, and radio programs. Although federal government programs were of some importance in the migrant labor phase of the Chicano experience—the Education Act of 1965 established special programs for the children of migrant workers, and the Office of Economic Opportunity funded a Valley Migrant League in 1964—with permanent residence the Chicanos have gained control of their newer organizations and the Spanish-speaking society is itself reaffirming its heritage.
The Indians of Oregon have had diverse experiences in the years since 1920, and the very different fate of two groups of them have had a substantial influence on American Indian policy. The failure of the Dawes Act and the attempt to make the Indian a participant in the mainstream of American economic life became more evident with each passing year, not only to Oregon but throughout Indian America, until the fact became widely recognized in the 1920s. By that time the Indians had not only been apportioned their lands but, by one means or another, had lost at least the more productive lands to whites. Critics of the Dawes Act had become convinced that salvation for the Indians could come only in the repudiation of the principles of that law and its replacement by a policy that recognized communitarianism rather than economic individualism as the basis of Indian culture.
This philosophy was the basis of the Wheeler-Howard Act of 1934 that permitted, not forced, Indians to regroup into federally chartered tribes with limited powers of self-government and with eligibility for programs of federal economic assistance. In Oregon the three tribes in the Warm Springs Reservation organized under this new statute in 1938 but were not able to take advantage of it fully until 1960. In that year the tribal council spent $2 million of a settlement from the United States Government for the loss of its Celilo Falls fishing grounds on the Columbia River (for the construction of a dam) to purchase a resort on the reservation called Kah-nee-ta. This tribal enterprise became the foundation for other economic developments, such as a forest products factory and an electronics assembly plant, that have made the Warm Springs Indians among the most successful in the United States and have belatedly vindicated the principles of the Wheeler-Howard law.
Indians living on the Klamath Reservation suffered a far different fate when, in the 1950s, they encountered another of the changing Indian policies of the federal government. The Klamath peoples had not organized under the Wheeler-Howard law, nor had those on the Umatilla Reservation, and they continued to live, as they had before the First World War, from the proceeds of the timber sales from their reservation and from casual labor. In 1953 Congress adopted the new termination policy, a throwback to the philosophy of the Dawes Act. Under termination, reservations whose residents were presumed capable of making their way in the economic mainstream were to be broken up if their members preferred to take their individual per capita share of the tribal assets. Special government programs to assist Indians were to be terminated for them. Unlike the Dawes Act, however, the principle of voting was incorporated into the termination policy, although the government reserved to itself the decision whether to submit the question of termination to any given tribal group. In 1954 Congress passed a law requiring that the Klamath tribes vote on the termination question. In the ensuing election that took place in 1958, 77 percent voted to take their per capita shares and to withdraw from the tribe; 5 percent voted that their property shares remain under the trusteeship of a private organization, ultimately the United States Bank of Oregon; and 18 percent cast blank ballots (they were then assumed to have voted for trusteeship). Those who took the large per capita settlements, and the children who acquired them when they reached maturity, rather soon regretted their choice, since most of their money was dissipated. In 1969 the trustee Indians voted to abandon their bank trust and to accept their per capita share of it, a result ultimately accomplished when the United States Government bought their remaining land for a part of a national forest. The failure of termination on the Klamath Reservation, coupled with the similar outcome in Wisconsin on the Menominee Reservation, although too late to save the economic fortunes of the Indians, forced the abandonment of the policy.
This belated responsiveness to the desires of Oregon Indians and their allies elsewhere is also reflected politically in the settlement of the Warm Springs Reservation boundary, the prospective legislation for the restoration of tribal status to the Siletz tribes whose reservation had been terminated in the 1950s, and the decision of a federal judge in Portland guaranteeing the Indians a proportionate share of the Columbia River fisheries as they had been promised in the original treaties. Oregon Indians, who now make up 1½ percent of the state's population and are increasingly urbanized, have also moved in directions that are not exclusively political, such as the Chicano-Indian Study Organization at Camp Adair and a museum and study center at Coos Bay. In both areas the Indian, like the other ethnic minorities, is more and more a creator of his own destiny, rather than a reactor to the Caucasian culture.
The Oregon black community in the 1920s and 1930s grew in traditional patterns based upon employment in the railroad industry. Cultural life continued to be centered in black rather than integrated organizations as the Williams Avenue YMCA, founded in 1921, and the weekly newspaper, the _Advocate,_ published by Beatrice Canoder, joined the churches as cultural centers. The major accomplishment politically was the repeal of the racist provisions of the state constitution. In 1926 a committee of the Portland League of Women Voters that included Lenore Freeman, a black woman, and the _Advocate_ led a successful campaign to abolish the residence clause. In the following year the voters repealed the antiblack and anti-Chinese suffrage clause as well. Extralegal discrimination continued, however. In the 1920s blacks were excluded from the Catholic schools of Portland and also segregated in the schools of Vernonia. Hotels, restaurants, and unions also practiced discrimination; Portland real estate agents refused to sell to blacks except in the Albina ghetto; automobile insurance rates were higher for blacks.
Just as the Second World War greatly affected Oregon Japanese and Chicanos, so did it greatly affect Oregon blacks. On the eve of American entry into the war the 1940 census reported Oregon's black population to be 1,800, the majority of whom were supported in the traditional transportation and hotel industries. The Kaiser shipyards brought a large increase in the black population throughout the war until a peak of approximately 20,000 was reached in early 1945. Most of the newcomers resided in federally financed housing projects operated by the Housing Authority of Portland. The largest of these was Van-port, an entirely new community built in north Portland by the Kaiser firm but operated by the local housing authority. In Van-port the Portland white community had its first experience with large numbers of black residents and many southern blacks had their first exposure to a partially desegregated life.
Government fair employment regulations opened up the unions to blacks and guaranteed equal pay and employment opportunities. Off-the-job life was segregated to the extent that all black war workers were assigned to residences in the Vanport or Guild's Lake housing projects, and the Vanport blacks lived in blocks of housing separate from other residents. Responsibility for segregated housing was denied by the housing authority, but it is evident that it did create this policy either on its own initiative, as a reflection of prewar segregation patterns in Portland, or in response to the prejudices of the white residents of the housing projects. The other institutional aspects of life in Vanport, schools, shopping centers, recreation halls, and church facilities, were open to all on a nonsegregated basis.
Although morale of Vanport residents of any race was not high, a far larger proportion of blacks remained there after the war than did whites. This fact was not so much the result of preference but rather the lack of job opportunities elsewhere; whites could move out, blacks could not. Thus when the city of Vanport was washed away in the floods of Memorial Day, 1948, many blacks left the Portland area, for they could not get housing elsewhere in the region. Yet the war migration did not totally evaporate, and the black population of Portland in 1950 numbered 9,495 compared to 1,931 in 1940.
For many black persons the wartime period in Portland had provided steady and high income. It had strengthened older community organizations like the NAACP and had stimulated new ones like the Urban League. Blacks were the most active in the Vanport churches of any group and led the way in other community activities. On the base of the war years the now-expanded black population could build a greater cohesiveness, one that flourished in the civil rights movement of the postwar era.
For the Oregon white community the migration of black shipyard workers was also important. The newcomers gave the Caucasians an opportunity to deal with blacks other than as members of a tiny minority and gradually to erode Oregon's racist heritage. A Committee on Interracial Principles and Practices was established, and white organizations such as the Portland Housing and Planning Association and the League of Women Voters finally forced the local housing authority to terminate its segregated Vanport housing policy early in 1948. The _Oregonian_ refuted rumors of a disproportionate amount of black crime in Vanport and pointed out that black migration into white residential areas did not destroy property values. And there were very few, if any, interracial conflicts in Vanport.
After the war Oregon blacks participated in the burgeoning civil rights movement. The first major result of this was a state fair employment practices law adopted in 1949, followed by measures abolishing the ban on interracial marriage, opening the National Guard to all ethnic groups, and desegregating public accommodations. Economic opportunities became more diversified because of these government pressures, and prosperity and the greater freedoms opened to blacks the opportunity to participate more widely in both older activist organizations, such as the NAACP and the Urban League, as well as in groups that had become prominent more recently, such as the Congress of Racial Equality and the Black Muslims. Yet a recent student concludes that there is a "special conservatism of Oregon Negroes, which make them, similar to most other Oregonians, highly selective in their acceptance of exogenous novelties."
II
In the last half-century Oregon's political life has been characterized by more or less successful attempts to adjust the principles and institutions of the Progressive Era to industrialization, urbanization, and resource depletion. The period opened, however, with a savage reaction against the spirit of progressivism that made Oregon nationally notorious. This development was the rise of the Ku Klux Klan in the urban areas of the state, coupled with an attempt to close the parochial and private schools by initiative petition. The openness of Oregon's politics and the tools of direct legislation that U'Ren believed were to be used for progress now became the instruments for reaction. The postwar Ku Klux Klan was an organization, strong in both North and South, dedicated to restoring private and public morality by attacking those it judged failures to meet its moral standards; blacks, Jews, and Catholics automatically qualified as deviants. There were few members of these groups in Oregon in the early 1920s, but the state acquired a large and influential Klan membership nonetheless.
In 1921 the Klan came to Oregon, moving north from Medford with its message of racial hatred until it developed its greatest numerical strength in Portland. Originally derided and opposed by established politicians such as Gov. Ben W. Olcott, the Klan plunged into politics in 1922 and almost defeated him in the Republican gubernatorial primary of that spring. In the general election that followed, the Klan endorsed Olcott's opponent, Democrat Walter Pierce, and the school initiative measure. This proposal would have required parents to send their children of ages eight to sixteen to public schools (only 7 percent of Oregon pupils attended private schools) and would have virtually destroyed private education in the state. When the votes were tabulated in November both Pierce and the school bill won overwhelmingly.
Their victories may be attributed to Oregon's traditional social cohesiveness, racism, and reluctance to face change and to the newer progressivism. Pierce not only supported the school bill; he was an avowed foe of Japanese land ownership and an advocate of the old progressive crusade of higher taxation on utilities combined with a lowering of individual tax rates. The school bill not only conformed to nativism but it also appealed to the egalitarian sentiments of a people largely middle class, a people whose ethnic homogeneity spread throughout the state. The twin appeals of the compulsory school measure were caught superbly in a work of propaganda entitled _The Old Cedar School,_ by George Estes. Mainly written in a rural vernacular, the pamphlet attacked the subversiveness of Catholic education ("the Academy of St. Gregory's Holy Toe Nail") and the snobbishness of "Piscopalyun Oxford Hall" ("there's a hull lot of big bishops an' fellars that wear their collars and vests buttoned in the back... an' eat good grub an' draw big salaries an' you have to pay an awful price for the learning").
The compulsory school bill was sponsored and supported by others than the Klan, including the Scottish Rite Masons, the Federation of Patriotic Societies, the Knights of Luther, and the Loyal Orange Institution. Its enemies numbered George Putnam's _Salem Capital Journal_ and the _Portland Telegram,_ although most of the state's newspapers approved it or were neutral. Pierce supported the bill, although he neither endorsed nor repudiated the Klan. Governor Olcott opposed both Klan and bill in the strongest terms.
In 1923 the legislature quickly adopted the bill under the leadership of the Speaker of the House Kaspar K. Kubli, a Portland stationer and the son of a pioneer, but all parties agreed that it would not be enforced until tested in court. The fate of the law was finally settled in 1925 in the case of _Pierce_ vs. _Society of Sisters_ when the United States Supreme Court unanimously declared it unconstitutional as a violation of the parents' right to educate their children in schools of their own choice and of the property rights of the proprietors of parochial and private schools. But long before this decision was rendered the Klan had disappeared, a political phenomenon of three or four years, shocking but evanescent. Internal wrangling, rumors of corruption, and the second thought of the public destroyed it, although its influence lingered throughout the decade.
Most of the period between the world wars was not marked by the bigoted reaction of the early 1920s but rather by conservative or moderate political life. Even in the depression the Oregonians voted for Franklin Roosevelt but did not heartily embrace his New Deal policies, especially those that required the spending of money. Both political parties remained divided and weak, a product of personal rivalry as well as the reforms of the Oregon System and the lack of powerful antagonistic interest groups. Republican conservatives were ascendant during the twenties, although the progressive wing of the party, led by Charles Linza McNary and Charles Sprague, gained in the following decade.
Senator McNary was the state's only national figure in these years, and his legislative impact was in the most crucial area of domestic politics for Oregonians, that of natural resources. McNary was of an old pioneer family, an urbane and sophisticated progressive of amazing equanimity, who recovered quickly from a one-vote loss in the Republican primary for state supreme court justice in 1914. McNary was the major force in pushing the Clarke-McNary Act through Congress in 1924, an innovative measure that strengthened the triple alliance of federal Forest Service, state government, and private timbermen in fire protection. The statute also provided seedlings to states, and in various other ways was the motivating force in making Oregon state forestry effective. McNary also received a great deal of publicity for his sponsorship of the McNary-Haugen bill for the relief of agricultural prices that were declining throughout the 1920s. The measure called for a government corporation to sell farm surpluses abroad; farmers would be paid by government the difference between the lower world price they received and the higher domestic price of farm products; once prices were raised they would remain high behind a protective tariff barrier. Although passed twice by Congress, the bill never survived vetoes by President Coolidge, yet its advocacy of large-scale government intervention in the farmers' interest was an important precedent for New Deal farm legislation.
When Republican party strength in the 1930s was reduced to a handful in the United States Senate, McNary was chosen as minority leader, where he served effectively to keep the party alive, chiefly by condemning a policy of diehard opposition to the New Deal that would stamp the party as hopelessly reactionary. Although McNary did not support Roosevelt in 1932, he prevented the party caucus in the Senate from expelling progressive Republicans who did so. Three years later he denounced Republican negativism ("We ought to accept and acknowledge the good that is to be found in the Administration program") and in 1936 he sat out the presidential campaign rather than oppose Roosevelt.
The personal friendship and political compatibility of minority leader and president worked to Oregon's advantage in the Bonneville Dam project. After Roosevelt successfully urged Congress to adopt the Grand Coulee project in the state of Washington, primarily as a work-relief measure, McNary provided the impetus for the second of the great Columbia River multiple-purpose projects at Bonneville. This dam, when placed into operation in 1938, provided low-cost electrical power for farmers, public utility districts, and farm co-operatives, all of which received preferential rates, and for industry. It also was instrumental in bringing aluminum and other defense industries to Oregon during the Second World War. McNary rounded out his career in national politics as Wendell Willkie's vice-presidential candidate on the Republican ticket in 1940, a tribute to his progressivism, as the GOP tried to shed its reactionary image. In this role McNary was the second, and to date the last, Oregonian after Joseph Lane in 1860 to reach this height in national politics.
In the interwar years the Democrats, too, were divided. Oswald West, his progressivism cooling, was the leader of the conservative forces, as the spokesmen of the state Grange and organized labor took the field for progressivism. This internal clash caused the party to muff a golden opportunity in the depression decade to replace the Republicans as the majority party, for although some Democrats won office—Charles Martin as congressman and later governor and Nan Wood Honey-man and Walter Pierce as congressmen—wrangles over patronage, public power policy, and personalities kept the party split. The coup de grâce of lost opportunity came in the late thirties when progressive Democrats joined with a few Republicans and Socialists to form the Oregon Commonwealth Federation, which called for public ownership of natural resources, utilities, banks, and monopolies. The OCF did defeat conservative Governor Martin in the spring primary of 1938, but the radicalism of the OCF was too much for the voters, who chose progressive Republican Charles Sprague as governor in the fall. Sprague's victory was symbolic of the state's measured response to the depression, for the unparalleled economic crisis produced in Oregon very little support for drastic radical measures in comparison with those proposed in Washington ("the soviet of Washington" as it was described by James Farley) or with Upton Sinclair's socialistic End Poverty in California movement, or Dr. Francis E. Townsend's plan for government payments of $200 per month to the aged. Oregonians were grateful for New Deal measures such as agricultural payments and resource projects, but they were little inclined to reward local Democrats for these plans, let alone push for more radical measures.
After the Second World War Oregon continued its moderately progressive course. Institutionally the state firmly established a two-party system as hard organizational work, attractive candidates, and an influx of Democrats among the war workers enabled the Democrats to attain first major- and then majority-party status by the 1970s. So far as issues were concerned, environmental resources continued to dominate political affairs, although with a shift to equal emphasis upon amenity as well as economic conservation. The legislature enacted a scenic rivers bill, regulated field burning, provided for a Willamette Valley "Greenway," and created a land conservation and development commission, among other resource laws.
The major national political figure of these years was Wayne Lyman Morse, whose career exemplified, indeed in doubly distilled form, Oregon's use of the progressive tradition to alleviate both state and national political problems. Morse came to Oregon from Wisconsin in 1929 as assistant professor in the Law School of the University of Oregon, and in 1931 he was chosen its dean. There he quickly developed a reputation as an effective teacher, inspiring administrator, and a nationally known arbitrator. In 1944 he was elected to the United States Senate as a Republican. On the larger Washington stage Morse became known as a man of brilliance, articulateness, and integrity. His independence was manifest not only in his defiance of special interest groups but more spectacularly in his abandoning the Republican party in 1952, then serving as an Independent, and finally joining the Democrats in 1955. He was an advocate of civil rights and of organized labor and an early and unremitting foe of American military intervention in Southeast Asia. Throughout his public career, which ended with his death while campaigning for the Senate in 1974, Morse drew deeply upon the progressive tradition of both his native Wisconsin and his adopted state, a tradition rooted in the years of political ferment at the turn of the century.
Morse exalted the use of educated reason. One of his two principle legislative accomplishments, in his own judgment, was his sponsorship of federal aid to education statutes, including the Morse-Green Act of 1963 and the Higher Education Act of 1965, which together provided grants for university building construction, scholarships, and loans to students, among other provisions, and established the precedents for billion-dollar federal outlays in this sector. He also argued that his own decisions as senator were based upon his impartial study of the facts and the answer to the question, "What do these facts show the public interest to be?" The freedom that impartial scrutiny of public issues demanded led to his determination that all public policies be examined carefully, regardless of the power or prestige of those advocating them, and to his equal determination that dissenters, regardless of the depth of their convictions, utilize only weapons of peaceful persuasion rather than violence in their opposition. Morse himself refused to employ pathos or sentimentality in his public addresses.
Morse was progressive not only in his professional obligations, but also in his insistence upon the rule of law. In this respect his greatest contribution came in the advocacy of collective security under the aegis of the United Nations, and he was a strong supporter of United States intervention in Korea under the UN banner and of Israel's access to the Gulf of Aqaba in 1966–1967 under the protection of a UN resolution. What gave Morse his international reputation was his opposition to American involvement in Southeast Asia, a position that went back to his refusal to endorse the congressional Formosa Resolution of 1955, which regarded an attack on the small offshore islands of Quemoy and Matsu as an attack upon Formosa.
Morse opposed the Vietnam War from the beginning of American entry, not because he opposed the use of economic aid or military force to American allies (he objected to rapid disarmament after the Second World War and endorsed the Marshall Plan, Truman Doctrine, and NATO), but because the war was illegal: "In Vietnam," he declared, "we have totally flouted the rule of law, and we have flouted the United Nations Charter. This lipservice given by the United States to the United Nations and its international law provisions and procedures has done our country great injury among many international lawyers around the world." When in 1964 the administration succeeded in persuading Congress to adopt a resolution condemning the North Vietnamese attack upon two American destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin, Morse was one of two senators who opposed it. He had been informed by sources within the Navy Department that actually the United States had been the aggressor, and he chose correctly to believe his source rather than the secretary of defense. In time, of course, the Morse position in opposition to the war became the national view, although it cost him his place in the Senate in the election of 1968.
Although Morse became famous nationally for his position on the Vietnam War, as well as earlier opposition to the Eisenhower resource policies, he also was popular within Oregon because he caught and responded to the spirit of what its citizens wanted done within their state. Morse's conviction that there was a public interest apart from the desires of pressure groups, a classic progressive faith, led to his refusal to be partisan and to the voters' insistence that he be rewarded, not punished, for his change of parties. He opposed gun controls, advocated nuclear power to solve energy needs, and objected to a bill to create an Oregon Dunes Seashore Park because it contained a provision for government condemnation of private land ("They've got public property running out their ears down here"). Morse's defense of free enterprise ("The threat of world communism is a threat of economic totalitarianism, out of which political totalitarianism is bound to be a certainty") and his opposition to the demands of pressure groups ("I have never made a commitment to a labor organization, to an employer organization, or to any political pressure group in this country... and I do not intend to start with the CIO in the State of Oregon") also helped earn him election to the Senate four times, where he became one of the most intelligent, conscientious, and forthright members of that body in the twentieth century.
On public issues beyond Vietnam, Oregon's impact upon the national consciousness was most marked concerning the natural resources policies of the Eisenhower administration. These involved men and measures crucial both to Oregon's political and economic life. As a part of his ideological conviction that the federal government played too large a role in the development of natural resources as opposed to the states and private enterprise, Eisenhower shortly after his inauguration in 1953 unveiled what he called the "power partnership policy." Under the direction of Douglas McKay, secretary of the interior and former governor of Oregon, this program called for the government and private utilities to divide the costs of future power projects.
On the Hells Canyon of the Snake River the Idaho Power Company, supported by the Eisenhower administration, proposed a series of three low dams suitable for the production of power, but inadequate for purposes of flood control, navigation, and recreational facilities. Advocates of these additional purposes, including most Oregonians of both parties, favored a single high dam at Hells Canyon and carried their case to the Federal Power Commission, to Congress, and to the electorate. The Hells Canyon project was the reason for Morse's switch to the Democratic party in 1955, and the issue became even more dramatic when McKay, at Eisenhower's urging, and against his own wishes and those of the leaders of the state Republican party, resigned from the cabinet to oppose Morse for the Senate seat in 1956. In an exciting race Morse focussed on the Eisenhower-McKay resource policies (McKay was rhythmically pilloried as "Giveaway Doug McKay"), and McKay unwisely tried to make Morse's personality and party-switching the central issue of the campaign. Morse won handily and in the national perspective the defeat of McKay forced Eisenhower to abandon his ideological conviction that westerners wanted less rather than more federal participation in developing the resources of the region. Oregonians had helped persuade the president that their support of him—he carried the state handily in both 1952 and 1956—was a vote for less federal government; this may have been the rhetoric of the Oregonian, but in practice he continued to desire federal assistance.
At the local level postwar Oregon politics turned slightly toward a more progressive cast as both Republicans and Democrats moved to limit the influence of conservatives within their ranks. In 1948 the state had been clearly Republican. It was the only western state to vote for Dewey against Truman, and the Republican party had a majority of registered voters. The party also elected all but one of its statewide candidates to office and recaptured control of seventy of the ninety seats in the state legislature. By the middle 1950s, however, the picture had changed. Younger Democrats fresh from the world war took advantage of the presence of the large number of Democrats who came to the state as war workers to mobilize them behind the issues of fair employment practices, the Brannan plan for agriculture, and federal aid for education, so that the party's strength developed election by election. The party leaders also were wise enough to abandon causes like the Columbia Valley Authority, a program modelled on the Tennessee Valley Authority, when it became apparent that the scheme rubbed against the grain of most Oregonians, who regarded it as a bureaucratic nightmare divorced from familiar controls on river development maintained by Congress and old-time federal agencies such as the Corps of Engineers and the Department of the Interior. Richard Neuberger, a nationally known journalist-turned-politician, was elected as a Democrat to the United States Senate in 1954, a tribute not only to his personality and grasp of the issues, but also to a drop in the economy and the effective organization of his labor and party supporters. Senator Morse joined the Democrats the following year and in 1956 led the party to its greatest victory. Not only did he defeat Douglas McKay, but the first Democratic governor since 1934 was chosen, and the party gained control of the legislature. Oregon had become a two-party state.
Quickly taking a cue from their rivals, the Republicans fought back by limiting the power of their conservative wing. Almost from the time of the great Democratic victories of the 1950s the Republicans adopted a policy of seeking out attractive candidates, muting ideology, and moving toward the center. By the 1960s they were re-established as solid rivals of the Democrats.
In state government Oregonians secured measures that were mostly progressive but inexpensive. As always, the voters were almost parsimonious, and it became routine for them to insist that tax increases be referred to them. In 1963 an income tax measure was beaten, and in 1969 a sales tax suffered the same fate, as it had in 1933, 1934, 1936, 1944, and 1947, although a cigarette tax was adopted in 1965. A civil rights law was enacted in 1949 and laws protecting migratory labor a decade later. The legislature reapportioned itself before this reform was mandated by the United States Supreme Court. The nonpartisan, privately financed Citizens Conference on State Legislatures appraised the Oregon legislature in 1971 as twenty-seventh among the fifty states in its overall efficiency, twenty-eighth in functional ranking, but—in a significant tribute to the legislature's traditional responsiveness to the voters' wishes—fourteenth in accountability. In other words Oregonians have secured what they wanted in postwar politics: a two-party system composed of weak parties, a responsive state government, and laws and legislators, state and national, that are moderately progressive, avoiding ideological rhetoric and radical or reactionary programs.
Although the politics of Oregon have not had the national impact that they contributed in the antebellum era or at the time of the Oregon System, the state has from time to time had a political influence. Oregon's flirtation with the Klan produced nationwide revulsion. Battles against the power partnership policy helped shape natural resources policy, and the opposition of Senators Morse and Mark O. Hatfield to the Vietnam War gained national attention. In its presidential primaries Oregon also had something of an influence in nominating politics when in 1948, in the last primary before the Republican convention, Oregon Republicans chose Thomas Dewey and thus destroyed the presidential ambitions, for that year, of Harold Stassen. Similarly in 1964 the Oregon primary revived the campaign of Nelson Rockefeller, at least temporarily, when Rockefeller defeated Henry Cabot Lodge to eliminate him from the presidential race. Finally, in its attempt to pass legislation to protect the natural environment, the state has created interest around the nation, both at the state and federal level, in measures that might become models in other political jurisdictions. In contrast to the Progressive Era, Oregon is becoming known for the substance rather than the structure of its politics.
## **7**
## The Struggle against Modern Life
**I**
IN the interwar years Oregon's economic life followed its customary patterns of dependence upon lumber and agriculture, but during the Second World War and after, some alterations began to appear in this traditional structure. In the 1920s and 1930s the Oregon economy grew at a rate slower than that of the nation, except when federal expenditures began to take hold during the Great Depression. Exports from farm and forest enabled the state to balance its imports, although by no stretch of the imagination did the state's continuing colonial status place it in the ranks of the most affluent of American commonwealths.
In the Second World War the federal presence that became manifest in the programs of the New Deal expanded enormously in shipbuilding and aluminum, and Oregon, although its base was far lower, led California and Washington in the percentage increase of value added by manufacturing during the years 1939 to 1947. After the war the boom continued into 1951, fell off briefly, and then was further stimulated by defense contracts in lumber, plywood, and food during the last two years of the Korean War.
But for the 1950s as a whole Oregon did not keep pace with the average rate of growth of the rest of the United States because her exports of manufactured goods, with the exception of pulp and paper, lagged. In the decade of the fifties national real income rose 21 percent, but Oregon's income appreciated only 4 percent. The causes of this lag included a decline in the labor force, the declining value of farm income, the slower rise in wages, and the fact that the rest of the nation was industrializing at a faster rate. The hopes of the thirties and forties that cheap power or some other panacea would convert the state into another California or Texas in economic development proved to be chimerical.
Since the 1950s the economic scene has turned more prosperous and more diverse. The lumber business has intensified a conversion that began in the mid 1940s to the diversified forest products industry, in which a variety of by-products has saved the old lumber enterprise from stagnation. As the population of the area has increased, new manufacturing has been required to meet the needs of an ever-more-affluent society. Cheap power, although getting more expensive, continues to be a factor, and "footloose" (amenity-attracted) enterprises like electronics have contributed to Oregon's wealth.
Throughout the years since 1920 the lumber industry has continued to be a staple of the Oregon economy. In the last year of the prosperous twenties lumber production was at an alltime high, accounting for about one-half the value of goods exported from the region. Four years later, however, the industry was at its nadir, a victim not only of depression, but also of the trends developing since the close of the First World War. Indeed, in the years 1919 to 1933 lumber industry production averaged less than 40 percent of the value of other manufacturing industries in the country. New technology was one cause for the doldrums of the industry, as rubber, plastics, and light metals, for reasons of expense or convenience, began to replace lumber in the construction industry. Architectural changes also hindered lumbermen: newer homes were designed with fewer rooms and lower ceilings than in the prewar period. To meet their competition for markets lumbermen became frantic to cut more and more trees as prices dropped, a remedy that led only to a disastrous condition of overproduction. The underconsumption of the Great Depression was only the final blow.
Between the wars Oregon lumbering also changed. The state at last passed Washington, in 1938, as the leading lumber producer in the nation, since most of the readily accessible virgin timber in the Puget Sound area was milled. Symbolic of this fact, the headquarters of the West Coast Lumbermen's Association was moved to Portland from Seattle in 1945. Within Oregon there were geographic changes as well, as corporations began to cut heavily in the regions of the southern Willamette Valley and in the southwest to replace the stagnant production of the Columbia River and northern Willamette valleys.
Although the postwar years were far more profitable than the thirties, the lumber industry never recovered its position as the dynamic factor in the state's economic development that it held in the forty years before 1920. Even in the era of unparalleled affluence after 1945 the lumberman has been on the defensive. Although the industry has taken seriously a variety of conservation methods, ranging from fire protection to tree farming, it has had trouble in bringing its resources to bear upon matters of research and marketing. As a far less concentrated enterprise than any other major American industry, it has had some difficulty—in the face of threats from foreign lumbermen and domestic producers of rival building materials—in bringing its many companies to co-operate with each other to meet these challenges.
Oregon's other historic industry, agriculture, has remained an important, although shrinking, portion of the state's economic sector. Wheat is still the most valuable crop east of the Cascades, where it has been dominant for a century, but products of irrigated agriculture like apples have risen in importance along with the production of specialty crops like filberts. Indeed, from 1935 to 1959, while the nation's farm acreage declined 20 percent, Oregon's farmland actually increased in extent, chiefly because of the spread of irrigation in eastern Oregon. In the decade of the 1960s, however, Oregon farms conformed to the national agricultural standard as productivity increased, the number of farm acres fell, and the farm population declined. The exodus from agriculture was a result not only of the increase in productivity caused by the use of chemical fertilizers, improved seeds, and sophisticated machinery, but also of the wide gap between farm and nonfarm income that has lured hundreds of farm children to urban centers.
In recent years the old cattle and sheep industries have taken on new life. Now the cattle feeding business is a major enterprise. Centered in the Tule Lake-Klamath Basin area, it produces beef for the regional urban centers. This industry arose during the Second World War based on the state's large acreage of grazing land, the nutritious feed produced on its farmland, the well-developed transportation network, and the expanding regional market outlets. Sheep raising has come full circle, for since the close of the Second World War the largest number of sheep in Oregon are again west of the Cascades where the enterprise began in the 1840s. During the war high prices for wool and mutton revitalized the sheep business, but the shortage of skilled labor after the end of the war, caused by higher wages in other forms of employment, coupled with the loneliness of the sheepherder's lot, made the life of the eastern Oregon sheep-herder unappealing. In the postwar era the majority of the state's sheep are grown in the southern part of the Willamette Valley, mostly in Douglas County, as an adjunct of farming operations. Ironically, cattle that the railroad replaced with sheep in the eighties and nineties have now, in turn with the rise in beef prices, supplemented sheep in the eastern regions. Mining and commercial fishing, the other nineteenth-century staples, have almost disappeared as important ingredients in the economic life of the state.
In the Oregon economy the stable or declining industries have been replaced or augmented since the Second World War by promising new ventures. Chief among these is the broadening of the old lumber industry into a diversified forest products industry. One technological key to the salvation of the Oregon woodsman was the invention of the whole-log barker, which opened the way to use an entire log for lumber, for fibre for pulpwoods, and for chips. The lumber and paper pulp industries, historically rivals, now became complementary. This integrated use of logs meant an integrated corporate structure, since firms now could produce the full range of forest products rather than confine themselves to single lines such as lumber, pulp, or plywood. Integration requires capital for the high-priced machinery of barkers, chippers, and conveyors, and many smaller lumber firms, unable to raise this capital to diversify, have perished. Another technological advance has been the invention of the Kraft process for producing pulp from the residues of nonwhite trees like the ponderosa pine that is the dominant forest type east of the Cascades.
The pulp and paper industry of Oregon is a product of the years since 1946. Technology, the enormous growth in national wealth, and the depletion of large logs cut from the virgin forests have made it possible for surviving lumbermen to diversify to stay solvent. The modern pulp and paper enterprise is large and fully integrated; it uses small trees and is expanding to the Pacific shore where these smaller trees are growing.
The plywood and hardboard enterprises have also developed as important components of the Oregon economy since the Second World War. Although there had been a plywood firm in Portland as early as 1904, most companies were located in the state of Washington, where timber was more accessible, sounder, and younger than in Oregon. After the wartime interlude when production slowed, plywood in Oregon grew mightily because of the availability of timber and of the desirability of harvesting old-growth trees before their quality declined. Douglas fir was particularly adapted to plywood production because it had large logs that the original mechanical peelers could easily handle, and its uniform texture made for an attractive finish. By the 1960s, however, Oregon plywood was facing vigorous competition from the South as old growth timber declined, and the invention of sheathing plywood, used for concealed structural strength, made surface appearance unimportant.
Hardboard, production of which began in Corvallis, is also an invention of the late forties. This wood aggregate takes up the slack when lumber and plywood are no longer available or suitable. Hardboard flourished when high-grade raw log supplies for lumber and plywood decreased and when cost efficiencies demanded a ruthless crusade against waste of any wood product. Postwar housing booms, with their insatiable demand for any type of suitable building material and more tolerant architectural trends, have also opened the way for the hardboard industry.
For years Pacific northwesterners had dreamed and hoped for federal production of hydroelectric power to make possible a more diversified economic base in the region than reliance upon the extractive industries. With the advent of the Bonneville Dam in the late 1930s this hope became firmer and was realized after Pearl Harbor. During the war the aluminum industry came to Oregon because of the availability of cheap power and because it was close to the aircraft producers of Washington and California. In Oregon the Aluminum Company of America built and operated a plant at Troutdale in the war years for the United States Government, a plant that was sold in 1949 to the Reynolds Metal Corporation, and in the 1950s the Harvey Aluminum Company opened a plant at The Dalles.
In the 1950s aluminum production as a herald of state prosperity began to disappoint its supporters. It became clearer that the cost of power was becoming the least important factor in the total cost of aluminum production. Other regions closer to major aluminum customers became a growing threat, but in the sixties production picked up with a decline in regional freight rates and an increase in large contracts for aircraft production.
Food processing was another industry spurred by the Second World War with its high prices for products and the absence of rationing of fruit and vegetable products. Canneries boomed because of the demands of the armed forces for food supplies in compact and concentrated form. After the war frozen and dehydrated foods became important ingredients of an industry based upon a rich truck gardening area that was close to urban markets and that was blessed with an outstanding transportation network.
A final new category was "footloose" industries. These enterprises, such as electronics and others, are not dependent upon local raw materials and nearby markets for their locations because of low transportation costs. They may be sited almost anywhere that a skilled work force can be gathered, which meant that Oregon's natural and social environment, attractive and uncrowded, and with well-educated residents, was magnetic for them, although even they cannot escape from the impact of federal government policies and the demands of extraregional markets.
The tourist industry was rooted in such developments as the founding of Crater Lake National Park in 1902 and the visits of occasional wealthy tourists of the nineteenth century (Rudyard Kipling, after fishing for steelhead on the Clackamas River in 1889, proclaimed "I have lived!") and of landscape artists of the same era (Albert Bierstadt painted in the state in the 1850s and 1860s). Yet tourism was really a product of the automobile age. Gov. Oswald West persuaded the legislature to declare the state's ocean beaches as public highways in 1913, thus protecting them against private land ownership. The mass-produced automobile led to the good roads movement in Oregon and to the construction of the first part of the scenic Columbia River Highway in 1915. Oregon enacted the nation's first tax on gasoline in 1919. In 1921 another incentive to tourism was added when the legislature created a state parks system under the authority of the highway commission. Later in the decade Commissioner Robert W. Sawyer pushed for the acquisition of more state parks, arguing that they would attract tourists to use the highways and thus to support them through gasoline tax revenues. Sawyer also arranged the appointment of Samuel H. Boardman as first superintendent of the state parks, a man who in his twenty-one-year tenure acquired thousands of acres for the system. Yet the rise in tourism, presaged in the twenties, was largely unfulfilled during the depression era and the Second World War.
In the last year of the war the first systematic attempt to organize the tourist business began when Gov. Earl Snell called a conference that established a committee to set up a program to publicize Oregon's tourist attractions. A dozen years later an officer of the United States National Bank was still extolling the tourist as a desirable source of revenue: "The people who come to see the mountains, the ocean, the forests, and the rivers are not like locusts that consume every living thing.... They leave the beauty of the scene for ours, and theirs, and other eyes. They are profitable business." Certainly the tourists were profitable for Oregon as national affluence, transportation improvements, and the westward movement of population to the states of the Pacific Coast produced a large pool of potential tourists with the means to visit Oregon. These "birds of passage" were regarded favorably by most citizens until the last few years when they became objects of suspicion as competitors for recreational sites and as potential residents.
Whether old or new industries, based on natural resources or "footloose," Oregon's enterprises have been increasingly affected by the federal government. The most obvious and most important economically are the multiple-purpose projects along the Columbia River that began, in Oregon, with Bonneville, a measure advocated by Senator McNary and largely managed through Congress by him. Although these dams were supported by most citizens, their legislative proponents had to overcome some opposition. When the NcNary Dam was proposed in the middle forties, for example, it was assailed by commercial fishermen, who feared for the salmon runs; the National Association of Electric Companies, who objected to federal power protection as a threat to free enterprise; John L. Lewis and the United Mine Workers, who were apprehensive about hydroelectricity as a threat to coal; and various eastern interests alarmed by industrial competition and the employment of their tax dollars for western enterprises—the typical "mother country" objection to the colonies. Although all the industrial hopes for cheap power were never realized, the federal projects were of enormous value, not only to manufacturing, but also to rural people in electrifying the farms and irrigating the semiarid regions.
The national government also fostered the excellent transportation network in Oregon. In 1944 federal road aid was extended to urban areas, a decade later the highway act raised the federal contribution to highway construction from 50 to 60 percent of costs, and in 1956 the interstate highway system authorized by Congress increased the federal contribution to 90 percent of the construction costs.
The policies of the national government concerning the housing industry were decisive for Oregon's lumber and forest products manufacturers. In the early thirties, Congress established, as antidepression weapons, a Federal Home Loan Bank, a Home Owners Loan Corporation, and the first federal housing act. In 1935 came direct federal funding of public housing construction. From the New Deal forward federal regulation of interest rates and the supply of money have had much to do with the rate of national housing starts and hence with the health of the Oregon economy; e.g., three times in the 1950s tight money policies contributed to a recession in the state's economy.
Farm legislation, environmental regulations such as the ban on DDT in the national forests, and transportation and freight rates are further obvious manifestations of the federal presence. One sector in which the nation has been of minimal effect in Oregon since the Korean War is in military expenditures, a matter of great significance in California and almost of economic life and death in the state of Washington. At the height of the Vietnam War, in the period July to December 1969, Oregon's prime defense contracts numbered but 0.3 percent of the national total, and there have never been large military installations in the state. Although often cited as proof of the impotence of Oregon's senators and representatives in contrast to the influence of those of other states, the paucity of military spending has contributed to the evenness of economic development.
Since the era of the "Red Scare" of the First World War and early twenties, when most citizens automatically identified organized labor with radicalism, the men and women of Oregon's labor force have progressed impressively until the urban areas of the state have become among the most highly unionized in the United States. Most of this gain in membership has been accomplished in unspectacular fashion, although there have been many strikes, some marked by violence. The passage of the Wagner Act in 1935, another example of the federal impact, guaranteed the right to organize and bargain collectively. This statute unleashed a wave of organizational efforts and produced, in the process, the Congress of Industrial Organizations, dedicated to organizing the unskilled industrial workers in the face of the older American Federation of Labor concern for the skilled crafts. This rivalry produced temporary confusion in the minds of workers, management, and politicians (the AFL, which had helped elect Nan Wood Honeyman to Congress in 1936, repudiated her in her losing campaign two years later, after she supported the CIO).
A portion of Oregon labor, although certainly not the largest, participated in the spectacular waterfront struggles of the 1930s. The International Longshoreman's Association had been organized in the 1890s and conducted unsuccessful strikes in 1901, 1916, and 1919–1921. Conditions along the waterfront had always been bad: labor contractors, hiring favoritism, company spies, dangerous working conditions, ethnic rivalry, and loan sharking were omnipresent. Out of these conditions, magnified by the depression, came the maritime strike of 1934. This great strike began on May 9, 1934, in all the major ports of the Pacific Coast. The strikers demanded union recognition and the closed shop, control of the hiring halls, and a reduced work day. The employers resisted adamantly and tried to break the strike by importing nonunion labor and by using special police to guard the strikebreakers. On July 5, 1934, "Bloody Thursday" in longshoreman's annals, the employers attempted to open the coast ports and to destroy the union. Police officers battled against the union pickets in all cities, a brief general strike broke out in San Francisco, and several men were killed, although there were no deaths in Portland. In the end the longshoremen won a complete victory. Three years after the strike, in 1937, the Pacific Coast longshoremen broke away from the ILA, because of dislike for its local and national leadership, to form the International Longshoremen's and Warehousemen's Union, an affiliate of the CIO.
After the Second World War there was a major West Coast dock strike in 1948, the expulsion of the ILWU from the CIO in 1950 on account of the left-wing policies of its leader, Harry Bridges, and then a period free from major strikes until 1971. These more amicable relations surmounted such problems as control of hiring halls, relinquished by the union for a large monetary settlement in 1960, and the threat to employment brought on by the handling of bulk freight through containerization. Aside from the waterfront, woods workers and millmen also went through a time of troubles in the 1930s. The forest products corporations recognized the unions in 1935, but labor unrest caused by depression and CIO opposition to the old AFL unions continued throughout the decade. Union membership rose enormously but temporarily during the war with ship construction; there was a bitter strike against the _Oregonian_ and _Journal_ newspapers in Portland beginning in 1959; and there were other labor disputes scattered throughout the state. But with the exception of the longshoremen, Oregon's modern labor relations have not differed from the national developments.
The last fifty years have also seen the amplification of the hesitant conservation measures of the Progressive Era. The fisheries have received assiduous attention from state and nation in legislation for closed seasons, size of nets, prohibition of certain equipment, requirement of fish ladders at dams, and artificial propagation expenditures. Yet the effort has been, if not wasted, at least from the vantage point of the seventies, not successful. The commercial fishing industry has almost entirely disappeared and the sportsmen are now the most vigorous, because most numerous, in the conservation struggle. Whether their efforts can prevail against the desire of industry, agriculture, and transportation for use of the waters of the Columbia Basin remains conjectural.
In the forests of the Northwest, conservation has become more successful as the old triple alliance of state-federal-private forestry has expanded. After the Clarke-McNary Act was adopted the national government matched state and private expenditures for fire protection and reforestation. In 1928 Congress adopted the McSweeney-McNary Act to finance forest research and experimentation along the lines of earlier agricultural experiment research. In 1937 the theory of sustained yield was applied to the Oregon and California land grant forests in Oregon by the Department of the Interior, which managed this timber. Sustained yield was a principle whereby forests would be cut and replenished and lumber marketed at a rate sufficient to maintain profits, employment, and trees indefinitely. In 1944, again under the leadership of Senator McNary, Congress passed a law extending the triple alliance co-operation to the practice of sustained yield. In Oregon state forestry began in the 1930s when the people adopted a bond issue to acquire abandoned forest land. The first state efforts were in the area of the Tillamook Burn in western Oregon, where 311,000 acres had burned in 1933. Private corporations also pushed conservation measures. The first tree farm was established in Washington in 1941, and the idea took hold in Oregon after the war. Lumbermen began publicizing the "Keep Oregon Green" slogan in the early forties and expending large sums for research and development for both forestry and forest products enterprises.
Beginning in the 1950s the economic conservation endeavor became intermixed with the desires of hunters, fishermen, campers, and preservationists to protect the American environment. Congress responded to these newly powerful interests, which gathered strength because of urbanites' disenchantment with city pressures and their sufficient influence to do something about it. Several important measures were passed that, in part at least, dedicated public forests to interests other than commercial forestry and grazing. What the outcome of this legislation will be, in harmonizing both those who look to nature for economic sustenance and those who desire nonmaterial rewards, is in doubt. What is clear is that contemporary Oregonians no longer take the existence of Eden for granted.
**II**
Jesse Applegate's assessment of one hundred years ago that there was not one Oregonian worthy of memory for any endeavor has long since been disproved. The cultural life of the state, especially in the last half-century, has been marked by the achievements of several men and women who have done notable work. Yet when their accomplishments are assessed, one must still conclude that the familiar patterns of conservatism and eclecticism continue to predominate.
In institutional religion Oregon has the second-lowest percentage of church membership of any state. The most likely influence to account for this condition, which is a longstanding one, is the homogeneous population. A people without sharp ethnic or class divisions, a people of a conservative collective personality, and one whose natural environment is generous, need not depend upon religion for social control, since the great mass of the population is self-disciplined. Why there is no greater need felt for church membership for individual salvation is less clear; the facetious explanation is that when one already lives in Eden there is no need for salvation, but it is evident that Oregon has produced no new religion, no new church polity, and that no religious leader of national impact has long resided in the state.
In education the modern era continues the eclecticism of the past. In primary and secondary education, public, private, and parochial, the trends of modern educational philosophy have washed over the state from the East or California, but no noteworthy local innovation has emerged. The taxpayers have been willing to expend the money to provide a literate population, but as elsewhere have not been overly generous with tax dollars. Hemmed in by the state's constitutional requirement that no taxing unit (including a school district) may raise its tax base more than 6 percent over that levied in any one of the preceding three years without approval of the voters, school administrators and parent groups are required to spend much time and effort in cajoling the electorate for funds.
At the level of higher education, five four-year institutions have emerged since the close of the First World War. The citizens finally consented to expand the number of teacher-training institutions, and Southern Oregon College and Eastern Oregon College were founded in 1926 and 1929, respectively. The Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary established Marylhurst College for women in 1930, and the Church of God started Warner Pacific College in 1937. After the Second World War, under the leadership of Stephen E. Epler, came the genesis of Portland State University, established as a two-year extension school for military veterans in 1946, a four-year degree-granting college in 1955, and a university in 1969.
Other important developments in the realm of higher education include the progress of Reed College, which by the quantitative measures of percentage of graduates attaining doctorates, Woodrow Wilson Fellowships, and Rhodes Scholarships is in the forefront of American private liberal arts colleges. After a power struggle among the alumni, faculty, and local legislators of Oregon Agricultural College and the University of Oregon in the late twenties and early thirties, the legislature established the Oregon State System of Higher Education to oversee all the state institutions of higher education. In addition to the rise of Portland State to university status, the post-Second World War years have seen the development of a thriving group of two-year community colleges in the old Oregon tradition of appreciation for vocational education. The largest of these, Portland Community College, founded in 1962, flourishing under its philosophy of an "educational shopping center," has grown to an enrollment of more than 15,000 persons in the middle 1970s. Although the public has taken some pride in these advances, the state's overall commitment to education has not been deep in appreciation or expenditures.
In literature and scholarship the story is much the same. There are certainly far more able men and women writing in the state of Oregon than at the time of Frederick Balch and Frances Fuller Victor. Yet in first-rate national figures the list is sparse. The first to attain this status was H. L. Davis, born in Yoncalla in 1896, and a practitioner of various trades from cowboy to typesetter in central Oregon, until he emerged from a year at Stanford and another in the army to win the prestigious Levinson Prize of Harriet Monroe's _Poetry Magazine_ in 1922 (other winners of the early twenties included Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, E. A. Robinson, and Amy Lowell). Davis next emerged as polemicist, not poet, in the biting diatribe, _Status Rerum,_ written with James Stevens in 1927, which labelled the creative writers of the state as either mediocre or mercenary: "Is there something about the climate, or the soil, which inspires people to write tripe? Is there some occult influence, which catches them young, and shapes them to be instruments out of which tripe, and nothing but tripe, may issue?" Challenged to do better than those he scorned, Davis responded with a long novel, _Honey in the Horn_ (1935), that was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1936.
In this work, the first excellent novel to be written about the state, Davis dealt with the rural people of Oregon in 1906–1908. He realistically described, with deft characterizations of the average settlers and with sensitive attention to their natural environment, the ambitions, frustrations, and failures of the later pioneers who were too late to re-enact their parents' and grandparents' success in finding agrarian fulfillment in the Oregon Country. Lack of humid land, and the prohibitive cost of irrigation, farm machinery, and fencing, prevailed against their courage and left them only hopeless and embittered. _Honey in the Horn_ is the account, perhaps too harsh to be fully accurate, not of the disintegration of the older values, but of the impossibility of their attainment in the new century.
Not until the 1960s did two other Oregon novels of first rank appear. In 1960 Don Berry published _Trask,_ an excellent historical novel based upon a journey of the pioneer Elbridge Trask and two Indian companions along the Oregon Coast south from Clatsop Plains to open up the land on the shores of Tillamook Bay to white settlement. Using the raw materials of pioneer sources, Berry's imagination developed a plot that brilliantly enlightens the modern reader about the indigenous values of white settler and Indian occupant and their redefinition when the two cultures intersect. The evolution of Trask into a searcher for the Indian culture, the tragedy of the young Wakila without a place in either race, the integrity of Kilchis, chief of the Tillamooks, and the insight of Charley Kehwha, Trask's Indian mentor throughout his quest, express this theme in vivid characterization. Berry followed his first success with _Moontrap_ (1962), the trials of an ex-mountain man and his Indian wife in attempting to adjust to a life of farming and to the bigotry of their Oregon City neighbors in the 1850s, and with _To Build a Ship_ (1963), which deals with the efforts of Tillamook Bay settlers to construct a homemade vessel to transport their goods to outside markets.
Four years after the publication of _Trask,_ Ken Kesey's _Sometimes a Great Notion_ appeared. Although dealing with universal themes and written in a vein that made it a favorite of the "counterculture" of the sixties, the novel superbly catches the meanness of smalltown life on the Oregon Coast, the pride of the logger in his conquest of the forest, and, above all, the varieties and impact of nature upon the hero, Hank Stamper, proprietor of a "gyppo" logging operation. The Wakonda Auga River, flowing by the Stamper home, sets the tone of the novel's grim action, and Kesey also illuminates the changing seasons in their various moods. Kesey's Stamper family is a testimony, although often a sordid one, to the enduring independence of Oregon's people.
In poetry several Oregon residents achieved national acclaim in the 1920s, including, in addition to Davis, Albert Wetjen, Howard McKinley Corning, Borghild Lee, Ada H. Hedges, Mary C. Davies, and Charles O. Olsen, who found outlets for their work in such periodicals as _Poetry,_ the _Nation,_ the _New Republic,_ and the _American Mercury._ Although sometimes known as the "Portland Poets," their identification as a group came from their geographic location (the Northwest Poetry Society was organized in 1924) rather than their subject matter. Neither they nor other gifted successors were "regional" poets.
The development of modern painting and architecture is a somewhat different story, for in these arts the regional influences have struggled with national and international forces. Ironically, one architect who built upon the regional foundations laid by A. E. Doyle was not an Oregonian, not even an American, but an Italian, Pietro Belluschi, born in Ancona in 1899. After study at Cornell, Belluschi moved to Portland by way of Idaho and practiced in the state from 1930 to 1950, then served as dean of architecture at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for fifteen years before returning to Portland.
Unlike most in the history of Oregon's formal culture, Belluschi was an innovator of international reputation, an artist who shook off the eclectic classicism of contemporaries to open himself to the functional and organic influences of Frank Lloyd Wright, but clearly one who continued to be governed by local setting. As he himself wrote in 1941: "we may deduce that a region with similar natural and human attributes may have an architecture harmonious to them. The people are neighbors, their interests are alike, they respond the same way to life, they have the same materials at hand, they have similar landscape, the same climate." From this regional consciousness, the influences of his partner Doyle, another brilliant architect, and also John Yeon and Harry Wentz, Belluschi's genius was reflected in a variety of buildings that made him internationally famous. He designed the building of the Portland Art Museum in 1930 and a wing of the structure in 1936, residences like the Jennings Sutor house, and churches, such as Saint Thomas More Chapel and Zion Lutheran Church. Both Belluschi and Yeon did award-winning designs for commercial buildings also.
For John Yeon, the other prominent member of the "Northwest School," fame first came in the design of the Aubrey Watzek House in 1936, a regional scheme that soon became a classic. Although Yeon did other residences in this vein, he also was a pioneer in experimenting with materials like plywood both before and after the Second World War. The influence of Belluschi, Yeon, and many others continues to the present in the "Northwest Style" with its "concern for the setting and integration of landscaping, the open functional plan, the broad sheltering pitched roof, and the use of naturally finished native woods." Their style is the most distinctive Oregon contribution to modern American culture, although in the fifties and sixties it lost ground to the "international style," a mark of the greater integration of the Pacific Northwest into the national and world culture. But for a short time at least, in this one discipline, Oregon stood apart, confidently asserting the integrity of its culture in the face of pressures to conform to the East Coast, California, or Europe.
Oregon painters, too, have been torn between the region and the world in the last half-century. Certainly their knowledge of international currents was far greater than that of the pre-First World War artists. Equally certainly their work was widely appreciated in the region, and the institutions of the art world—galleries, university departments of fine arts, museums—increased in both quality and quantity. In the twenties and thirties, the Runquist brothers, Arthur and Albert, and Clayton S. Price, Harry Wentz, and David McCosh were among the best-known Oregon artists. They experimented with various styles as the region became less insular, but the Oregon landscape furnished them the subject matter for their best work, even when it was not representational. Price, for example, who developed an interest in Eastern religions and the holistic view of nature, was deeply affected by his local landscape.
In the forties and fifties Oregon artists reached out even more to the world. Carl Morris, Louis Bunce, and Michele Russo arrived in the 1940s. These artists, too, were painters of nature, although not representationally, but they and their colleagues in Oregon painting "were not much affected by abstract art before the 1950s, nor by social consciousness art. They painted in response to what they saw—very often the natural environment—according to the art tradition they were exploring at the time or had adopted." The younger artists who succeeded them, influenced by abstract expressionism or by the mélange of styles of the 1960s which broke down the divisions among the arts, have for the most part abandoned regional influences, as have the architects, for international directions.
Probably the most fervent defender of Oregon culture would not assert that the state is in the front rank of American commonwealths. Although there have been men and women of distinction, and more of them with the passing years, such as Tom Hardy in sculpture, Ursula K. LeGuin in fiction, and William Stafford in poetry, and although there has been increasing support for cultural institutions, especially since the close of the Second World War, the people have created only a handful of institutions that are, measured against national standards, of the very top rank. Among these the oldest, founded in the nineteenth century, is the Oregon Historical Society. Although always a solid institution, the OHS underwent a renaissance with the coming of Thomas J. Vaughan as director in 1954. Under his leadership the society has become a distinguished institution with a manuscripts collection containing far more than Oregon history holdings, the only flourishing scholarly press in the state, a historical quarterly, and quarters that, in the testimony of Walter Muir Whitehill of the Boston Athenaeum, "for commodity, firmness, and delight, surpass anything we now have in the United States." Many years ago Angus Bowmer, a young instructor at Southern Oregon Normal, planned at Ashland a Shakespeare festival. Since 1934, this institution in the foothills of the Siskiyous has overcome enormous handicaps to develop a reputation for its productions and physical plant, including a replica of the Globe Theater, that places it as a premiere Shakespearean institution. In the 1920s Mary V. Dodge and Jacques Gershkovitch conceived a plan for an orchestra of young musicians, the Portland Junior Symphony, that has now flourished for half a century. And Reed College almost since its founding has been regarded as a first-rate academic institution.
Yet in spite of these highly ranked institutions Oregonians for some time have self-consciously debated their cultural record. Most agree that their achievements have not been of the first order, some condemning, some exonerating the state for this condition but without providing a consensus to explain it. Some argue that the region is too new and thus lacking in historical associations, the Indians being conveniently discounted. Newness also means poverty, others maintain, for there has not been sufficient time to develop a leisured class to patronize artists, to endow museums or symphonies, and to support generously the opera or the symphony. Still others assert that the people have stultified the artist, citing the departures of Wood and Reed, and the later self-imposed exile of H. L. Davis and others. Davis himself, and Stevens, made this one of their principal charges against regional culture in their diatribe, _Status Rerum._
Yet many of these explanations, or excuses, are unsatisfying, for the South and the Great Plains are poor and the plains, the Southwest, and California are as newly settled as Oregon; ethnic composition is about the same on the Great Plains as in Oregon. Perhaps an additional explanation of the condition of Oregon cultural life may be offered to supplement the others. When historian Dorothy Johansen assessed Oregon's first century of independence in 1949, she pointed out that the state's citizens have pursued "an unusually even tenor of existence. In fact, I would say our history is a recapitulation of the middle way, the historical norm, if there is such a thing, of our national history." It could well be, however, that the lack of conflict, which is the essence of art, is the Oregon heritage that makes the formal cultural life so derivative and lacking in outstanding works of art. Oregonians have been homogeneous in values, ethnicity, and religion; with a small proportion of minority groups, racial conflicts in Oregon have been short-lived or forgotten. In a colonial state the extremes of wealth and the diversity of occupations are slight compared to most states, and class conflict has been muted. Although the semiarid environment of eastern Oregon was as strange to the people of the humid lands as the western regions of Kansas, Nebraska, or the Dakotas, it was settled later after earlier experiences on the Great Plains or California had been assimilated. In any case, most Oregonians lived, throughout their history, in a natural environment familiar not only to American migrants but to those from the agricultural and forested regions of northern Europe. There have been sectional struggles between east and west, but the weight of numbers has been on those west of the Cascades, and the clashes have been unspectacular. Within the great population center of the state, the Willamette Valley, the rural-urban rivalry, because of the rapid communications between town and country, has paled into insignificance beside the upstate-down-state rivalry in New York or Illinois or the north-south rivalry in California. All of this is not to say that there is no higher culture in Oregon, or that there never will be great art or cultural institutions, but the historical record reveals that the people have been satisfied with the competent, not the distinguished.
## Epilogue: Oregon at the Bicentennial
TO many Americans of the bicentennial years Oregon seems a fruitful garden, a sort of "chlorophyll commonwealth," set amidst the desiccated wilderness of contemporary urban pollution, violence, crime, and alienation. They read of the state's "livability" or of its "quality of life" as measured by a host of quantitative indices compiled by government researchers, scholars, and journalists. They know of the bottle deposit bill, of the Scenic Rivers Act, and the aerosol spray can statute. Oregonians themselves reinforce the Edenic images and underscore the data by guarding the state against incipient encroachers. A governor urges visitors "to come but not stay"; bumper stickers exhort potential tourists to "visit Colorado"; "ungreeting cards" tell of Oregon's single day of summer. More positively, what Oregonians see themselves as representing, what has been their success in not only drawing but holding people, what they fear they have made too appealing, is a commonwealth in which common decency has been exalted to a way of life, in which there has been a paucity of charismatic figures, where quiet competence, not the pursuit of excellence, is virtuous. This vision disappoints some, who go away, reviling the state as they depart: "Somehow I believe," wrote one disenchanted young person, "that the future of American life is not being decided in the Willamette Valley, but in the chaotic, violent, corrupt and thoroughly exciting urban places in America."
This criticism, although heartfelt, misses the mark, for Oregonians have never envisioned themselves as settling the future of the nation. What they have tried to do is to retain the past, and to a large extent they have succeeded in this quest. Oregon has always been like an eighteenth-century club whose members value highly the qualities of self-restraint, cohesion, loyalty, trust, and exclusiveness. Yet the club will admit new members to replenish its ranks and also, although grudgingly, to introduce new ideas, at least those that will enable it to adjust old values to present pressures. Oregon's uniqueness lies in its success in retaining the commonplace and its adventure-someness in pursuit of the ordinary. The state is, paradoxically, a progressive anachronism, and the story of its dogged resistance yet successful accommodation to the forces of national development furnishes the central theme of its history and remains the state's principal legacy to the American experiment. Oregon's appeal to the nation at the time of the bicentennial lies in this conservatism as well as in its resemblance to the Thirteen Colonies on the eve of the Revolution.
For there are several similarities between the old colonies and the contemporary state. Both have been in many respects appendages of a "mother country." Producer of raw materials, market for manufactured goods, an insignificant political unit, both have been true colonial regions. Culturally, both have been inferior to their metropolitan mentors. Yet in spite of their impotence and backwardness, which they candidly acknowledge, they have had an influence on those who ostensibly control them. Britons feared as well as scorned the American colonists for the explosiveness of their political theory and for their example of a socially and economically fluid commonwealth. So, too, do modern Americans, with nostalgia or with anticipation, look to Oregon for inspiration in responsible government, civil personal relationships, and respect for the natural world. Oregon's experience proclaims, as does that of the Founding Fathers, that the heritage of the Enlightenment, the belief that men and women by the application of reason can shape their destiny, individually and collectively, is neither chimera nor delusion, but a promise and a hope.
## _Suggestions for Further Reading_
Although there is no one-volume history of Oregon in print, substantial portions of three excellent works dealing with larger areas survey the history of the state. The best interpretation of the Pacific Northwest is Dorothy O. Johansen and Charles Gates, _Empire of the Columbia: A History of the Pacific Northwest_ (2d ed. New York: Harper and Row, 1967), a work that integrates regional, national, and international developments. Earl S. Pomeroy, _The Pacific Slope: A History of California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada_ (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1965), is brilliant and well-written. David S. Lavender, in _Land of Giants: The Drive to the Pacific Northwest, 1750–1950_ (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1958), emphasizes heroic deeds and great men and women, particularly those of the nineteenth century.
For the Indians, Ella E. Clark, _Indian Legends of the Pacific Northwest_ (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1953), is a compilation of the Indians' views of men and nature. In the splendid novel _Trask_ (New York: Viking Press, 1960), Don Berry deals with many of the same themes and their conflict with the values of the Caucasians. A superb account of an important tribe from the precontact era to the 1960s is Theodore Stern, _The Klamath Tribe: A People and Their Reservation_ (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1965), which traces the impact of white attitudes and policies upon the Indian culture.
Among the host of works on the period of exploration and the fur trade are Lavender's _Land of Giants_ (cited above) and three other works. Stewart H. Holbrook in his smoothly written work, _The Columbia_ (New York: Rinehart, 1956), talks of the explorers in a colorful vein. John E. Bakeless is equally interesting in his dual biography, _Lewis and Clark, Partners in Discovery_ (New York: Morrow, 1947). Warren L. Cook's magisterial _Flood Tide of Empire: Spain and the Pacific Northwest, 1543–1819_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973) also gives detailed treatment of the Russian, British, and American interests in the region. The most interesting account of Astor's venture is Gabriel Franchére, _Journal of a Voyage on the North West Coast of North America,_ ed. W. Kaye Lamb (Toronto: The Champlain Society, 1969), written by a participant in the events who wrote clearly and vividly.
The life of the American pioneers is captured in A. B. Guthrie, _The Way West_ (New York: Sloane, 1949), a fictional account of the settlers' reasons for going to Oregon and their adventures on the trail. Antebellum politics is the theme of Robert Johannsen's detailed _Frontier Politics and the Sectional Conflict: The Pacific Northwest on the Eve of the Civil War_ (Seattle: University of Washington, 1955). Economic life of the times is carefully described in Arthur L. Throckmorton's _Oregon Argonauts: Merchant Adventurers on the Western Frontier_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1961).
For post–Civil War cultural and economic life there are several outstanding works. James B. Hedges makes clear the intricacies of railroad building in his _Henry Villard and the Railways of the Northwest_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1930). Donald W. Meinig deals lucidly with the central and eastern sections of Oregon (and Washington) in their changing patterns of land use in _The Great Columbia Plain: A Historical Geography, 1805–1910_ (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968). Malcolm Clark has provided a portrait of several features of Oregon's society, especially that of Portland, in his annotated edition of Judge Deady's diaries, _Pharisee Among Philistines: The Diary of Judge Matthew P. Deady, 1871–1892,_ 2 vols. (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1975). Harold L. Davis's picaresque novel, _Honey in the Horn_ (New York: Harper, 1935), which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1936, describes Oregon's economy and society in the early years of the twentieth century.
On more specialized topics, a splendid anthology is Thomas Vaughan and Virginia Guest Ferriday, eds., _Space, Style and Structure: Building in Northwest America,_ 2 vols. (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1974), which goes beyond architecture to encompass many aspects of the daily life of the people. Twentieth-century politics is lucidly treated in Robert E. Burton, _Democrats of Oregon: The Pattern of Minority Politics, 1900–1956_ (Eugene: University of Oregon Press, 1970). A brief, recent, and interesting history of Portland is Thomas Vaughan and Terrence O'Donnell, _Portland: A Historical Sketch and Guide_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1976). Ken Kesey in _Sometimes a Great Notion_ (New York: Viking, 1964) has given first-rate fictional treatment of a "gyppo" logging family in southwestern Oregon. A modern collection of essays on various aspects of Oregon history is Thomas Vaughan, ed., _The Western Shore: Oregon Country Essays Honoring the American Revolution_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1975).
## Index
Agriculture: _See_ Industry
American Fur Company: founded in 1808,42; dominated fur business, 43
Art: _See_ Cultural arts
Blacks: prejudice toward, by pioneers, 68; antiblack laws, 68, 69, 89, 95, 98, 120; first to Oregon, 68, 69; aid to statehood, 98; in Portland, segregated, 124, 125, 195; cultural organizations of, 125; leaders of, 126, 194; violence toward, 126; in population, 194, 195; as war workers, 195; legal gains for, 194, 195
Bush, Asahel: as journalist, 96; in politics, 96, 102
Business leaders, early:
—American: Joseph Barrell, 30, 32; John Jacob Astor, 42–45 _passim,_ 50; Nathaniel Wyeth, 50, 52, 53; John Ainsworth, 74; Ben Holladay, 76; Joseph Gaston, 76; L. E. Pratt, 77; William Buck, 77; Asa Mead Simpson, 78
—English: Richard Etches, 17, 30; John Meares, 17; Donald McKenzie, 48, 67; John McLaughlin, 49, 50, 52, 53, 55, 78, 85, 88, 90
Canada: _See_ Explorers
Colleges: _See_ Education
Colonialism (as Oregon characteristic), 3, 4, 84, 136, 138, 227, 230
Columbia River: _See_ Rivers
Commerce: early trading companies, 16, 17, 27, 28, 29; Spain-England competition, 17, 21, 22; American primacy, 17; first American trading companies, 42, 43; British supremacy, 45; competition between British companies, 46, 47, 48; monopolized by British, 50; American re-entry, 50; failure of Rocky Mountain Fur Company, 53; markets during gold era, 72; steamship companies, 73, 74, 75; with Union armies, 74; early railroad era, 75, 76; of woolens during Civil War, 76; expanded by railroads, 131–138 _passim_
Congress: subsidizes Indian missions, 54; land grant to Oregon railroad, 76; establishes Oregon Territory, 81; and Oregon question, 93; and Oregon territory, 94, 96; and slavery, 101, 102; in Indian affairs, 113, 114; and immigration, 123; and conservation, 199, 219
Conservatism: of early settlers, 61, 62, 63, 103; in early politics, 96; in state constitution, 99, 100; in early culture 103–107; in Indian relations, 108–114; in cultural arts, 151; in politics, 161; during interwar years, 199; wanes in political parties, 205, 206
Cook, James: British explorer, naval officer, 12, 13; and search for Northwest Passage, 13; at Nootka Sound, 13; establishes Northwest coastline, 13, 14; reaction to, by France, 18; mentioned, 20, 23, 24. _See also_ Explorers, Journals
Cultural arts: in 1860s, 75; literature, 107, 108, 143–146, 222–223; fiction writers, 143, 221–222, 226; historians, 144, 145, 226, 227; social critics, 145, 146; artists, 147, 225; architecture, 148, 149, 223–225; theater, 150, 226; conservatism in, 151; poets, 223, 226; painters, 225; sculptors, 226; status of, 226–228
Davis, H. L.: as poet, 221, 223; as polemicist, 222
De Heceta: _See_ Heceta
Democratic party: _See_ Political parties
DeSmet, Pierre-Jean, 60
Dolph, Joseph: as senator, 153
Donation Land Act of 1850: gave free land to emigrants, 68, 95; discriminatory, 68; and women's rights, 174
Duniway, Abigail: as pioneer, 174; as journalist, 174, 175, 176; as suffrage leader, 175–178
East India Company: China markets of, 17, 29, 48
Economy: major industries in, 3; basis of, 3, 4; reliance on outside markets, 4; external forces on, 4; development of, during gold era, 72–76 _passim;_ development of, 1860–1880, 74–84 _passim;_ in 1880s and 1890s, 131–138; colonial dependency of, 136, 152, 208; growth of 1920–1940, 208; impact of war boom on, 208; since 1950, 208, 209; tourism in, 214–215; aided by federal government, 215–217; _See also_ Commerce; Industry
Education: in church schools, 105; in first public schools, 105, 106; at academies, 106; progress in, 146; higher, support of, 146, 147, 151; antiprivate school law, 197, 198; character of, 220; support of, 220, 221; higher institutions of, 221
England: and rivalry with Spain for New World, 10, 17; and challenge to Spain's claim to Northwest, 21, 22; and operations of trading companies in Northwest, 29, 45–50 _passim,_ 90, 91; in Oregon claim resolution, 91, 93. _See also_ Explorers
Ethnic groups: after Civil War, 116–126 _passim;_ attitudes toward, 119, 121, 188–197 _passim;_ legal restrictions on, 122, 123, 188; evacuation of Japanese, 189; largest minority, 191. _See also_ Laws; Population; Settlements
Explorers:
—American: Gray's voyages, 30–33 _passim;_ claim to Columbia River, 33; lead to sea otter trade, 33; Lewis and Clark expeditions, 33–39 _passim. See also_ Lewis and Clark Expeditions
—Canadian: overland journey by Mackenzie, 28; search for Columbia, 46, 47; cartographic work by Thompson, 47
—English: role in development of Pacific Northwest, 10, 14; and expeditions in New World, 10, 12, 13; as perhaps first to reach Oregon, 10
—French: and expeditions in New World, 18, 19
—Spanish: role in development of Pacific Northwest, 8, 9, 10; and expeditions in New World, 9, 10, 12, 23; first whites to Oregon, 10; last thrust toward Oregon, 11; Perez's discovery of Nootka Sound, 12, 20, 21; Heceta's discovery of Columbia River, 12, 20, 21; and founding of naval base, 24
Fishing: _See_ Industry
France: role in development of Pacific Northwest, 18, 19
Fur trading: American entry into, 30; potential for, 39; and first American trader, 42; disrupted by War of 1812, 45; and British supremacy in, 45, 50; and competition between British companies, 46, 47, 48; era of, over by 1840s, 60. _See also_ Commerce
Gold strikes: in California, 71, 72; in Oregon, 72, 74; in Idaho and Montana, 74. _See also_ Economy
Government ( _see also_ Political parties, Politics):
—provisional: racist laws, 68, 69, 89, 98; protection of land claims, 81, 88; factors in development, 84, 85, 86; formation of, 85, 86; organic law for, 88; taxation by, 88; leaders in, 88, 94; first governor of, 89; end of, 94, 95
—state: 69; and railroads, 76; constitution for, 99–101; political leaders in, 99, 102; adoption of "Oregon System," 165, 169; progressive acts of, 206; reapportionment, 206; character of, 207. _See also_ Oregon System
—territorial: 69; capital of, 72; formation of, 95; philosophy of, 95; issues during, 95–102 _passim_
Grangers: _See_ Political parties
Gray, Robert: finds Columbia River, 26; escorts American expedition, 30; christens Tillamook Bay, 31; first American around globe, 31; enters Columbia River, 32, 34, 35
Hawaiians: _See_ Settlements, Hawaiian
Heceta, Bruno de: discovers Columbia River, 12; claims Pacific Northwest for Spain, 12; mentioned, 20
Hudson's Bay Company: founded, 16; rejects merger, 29; awarded Oregon Country, 48; business endeavors of, 49; monopoly of Northwest, so; in forming government, 84–89 _passim;_ mentioned, 56, 60, 61, 62, 67, 72, 82
Indians: of Nootka Sound, 15, 16; of Bella Coola, 29; Chinook, 37; of the Columbia, 39; Nez Percé tribe, 39; life and culture of, 40, 41; by regions of Oregon, 40; west of Rockies, 48; extinction prophesied, 54, 60; efforts to Christianize, 54–60 _passim;_ Whitman Massacre by Cayuse, 59; along Oregon Trail, 64; wars against, 96, 109, 110; on reservations, 96, 109, 110–113, 192–194; policies toward, 110, 192, 193; treaties with, 110, 111; failure of aims for, 111–114 _passim;_ effects of reservations on, 112; land allotments for (Dawes Act), 127, 128, 192; political activity of, 129, 130; tribal living restored, 192, 193
Industry ( _see also_ Economy):
—agriculture: as first practiced, 23, 24; as principal economic concern, 80; and land claims, 81; and homestead law, 81, 131; and farming techniques, 82; and major crops, 82, 131; and success of orchards, 82; in 1880s, 131, 132; and political activity, 132, 156; and Grange movement, 156, 157; modern crops in, 210
—fishing: and salmon canneries, 79; and salmon exports, 80; innovations to, 80; decline of, 133; hatcheries in, 133; minor importance of, 211, 218
—lumber: and sawmill, 78; and first steam-powered mill, 78; as major industry, 78; decline of, 78, 79, 209, 210; Oregon as leading producer, 210; and conversion of to forest products, 211–213
—manufacturing: spurred by gold rush, 76; and woolen mills, 75, 76; and papermaking, 77, 78; and forest products, 134, 211–213; and aluminum products, 213; and food processing, 213; and "footloose" industries, 213–214
—stockraising: first sheep herd, 76; and sheep and cattle ranching, 83, 84; in 1880s, 134, 135; demise of, for cattle ranches, 135; and turn to wool production, 135; rise and fall of, 211
Jefferson, Thomas: backs western expeditions, 33, 34; and Louisiana Purchase of 1803, 34
Journals, explorers': Cook's voyage, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17; La Pérouse voyage, 20;of Lewis and Clark, 37, 38
Ku Klux Klan: influence of, 197, 199
Labor Unions: before 1900, 139; AFL, 139, 217; strikes by, 139, 140, 142,217, 218; leaders of, 139, 140, 141, 218; in politics, 140; public's dislike for, 141; IWW (Wobblies), 141, 142; return to tradition, 143; in urban areas, 217; CIO, 217, 218; longshoreman's, 218
Lane, Harry: as Portland politician, 173
Lane, Joseph: as territorial governor, 96; in national politics, 96, 97, 102; in Indian affairs, 110
La Pérouse (voyage), 18–20
Law, discriminatory: toward blacks, 68–69, 89, 95–96, 100; toward Asians, 68, 100; Oregon Donation Land Act, 68, 81, 95; repeal of, 98, 194; and right to vote, 100, 126; and suspension of Asian immigration, 121, 123; and Japanese Americans in World War II, 188–189; _See also_ Racism
Lee, Jason: missionary, 52, 55, 57; in origin of government, 85, 86
Lewis and Clark expeditions: to Oregon Country, 33; interest in, by Thomas Jefferson, 33, 34; commercial purposes of, 35; along Columbia and Snake rivers, 35–37; at Celilo and The Dalles, 35, 36; and hardships at Fort Clatsop, 37, 38; and report to Jefferson, 39; and stimulus to fur trading, 42
Literature: _See_ Cultural Arts
Lumbering: _See_ Industry
Mackenzie, Alexander: first across continent by land, 28; fails to merge trading companies, 29; and impressions of Indians, 29; mentioned, 43, 45
McNary, Charles: as U.S. senator, 199, 200; as Willkie's running mate, 200
Manufacturing: _See_ Industry
Mercantilism: British policy of, 16; and barriers to trade, 17; and rejection by Spain, 23; mentioned, 5
Methodist church: _See_ Religion
Migration: to Oregon, 15, 185, 186, 187, 195; restriction on indigents, 186; of migrant workers, 190, 191, 195, 196; of blacks, 195
Mitchell, John: in politics, 153, 163; as senator, 153; in federal land fraud, 167
Morse, Wayne: as U.S. senator, 202–205; party affiliations of, 202, 205, 206; positions of, 202–204; and Vietnam War, 203, 207
Natural resources: exploitation by foreign nations, 5; conservation of, 218–219
Nesmith, James: pioneer, 66, 83; in politics, 96, 102; in Indian affairs, 113
Newspapers: _Oregon Statesman,_ 96; _Portland Oregonian,_ 97, 108, 151, 153, 172, 218; _Portland New Age._ 126; _Oregon Daily Journal,_ 173, 218; _Pendleton East Oregonian,_ 173; _New Northwest,_ 174, 175, 176; _Salem Capital Journal._ 198; _Portland Telegram,_ 198
Nootka Sound: discovered, 12; reached by Cook, 13; natural assets of, 15; Indians of, 15, 16; trade agreement of, 17; Affair of 1789, 17, 20, 21, 22; convention of, 17, 22, 23; and English-Spanish diplomacy, 24–25; mentioned, 23, 35
North West Company: expeditions in Northwest, 27–28; proposes merger of trading companies, 29; refuses Astor's plan, 43; and quest for dominance, 46, 47, 48; at Fort Nez Percé, 48; merged, 48
Northwest Passage: search for, by Cook, 13; by La Pérouse, 19; proved nonexistent by Vancouver, 26; debunked by Mackenzie, 29. _See also_ Strait of Anián
Oregon Country: focus of imperial rivalry, 4; attraction of Old World, 8: American interest in, 30, 32, 33, 34, 42–45 _passim;_ joint occupation treaty, 45, 50; sovereignty question, 45, 50; revival of interest in, 50, 52, 53; Kelly's plan to colonize, 51; Wyeth's attempt to settle, 52; Christian missionaries in, 54–60 _passim;_ pioneer migrants to, 61–66 _passim;_ roots of racism in, 66–70 _passim;_ impact on, of gold era, 72–76 _passim;_ early economic development, 74–84 _passim;_ formation of government, 84–89 _passim;_ boundary settlement 89–94 _passim;_ Indian wars in, 109, 110; mentioned, 11, 33, 40, 48, 49
Oregon Historical Society, 226
Oregon question: settlement of, 89–94; debated, 91; and American interests, 91–93; and British interests, 91, 93
Oregon Railway and Navigation Company: and economic development, 137; in politics, 153; and farmers' protest of policies, 156, 157
Oregon Steam Navigation Company: success of, 74, 75; contribution to cultural arts, 75; and wheat exports, 137
Oregon System: beginnings of, 162, 163; and Direct Legislation League, 164, 166, 169; enacted, 165; uses of, by voters, 168, 169; and direct senatorial election, 169, 170; influence on U.S., 179, 180
Oregon Trail: conditions on, 63–66 _passim;_ as large migration, 92
Pacific Fur Company: founded in 1810, 43; failure to consolidate beaver trade, 43; British competition, 45; collapse of, reasons for, 45
Pacific Northwest: first world notice, 20; initial foreign crises for U.S., 22. _See also_ England; Explorers; Spain
People's Power League: and direct primary law, 169; loses single tax issue, 170; and election defeats, 171
Pérouse voyage, 18–20
Pitt, William, the Younger: asserts British claim to Northwest, 21, 22
Political parties: formation of, in Oregon, 96–98; and slavery issue, 97, 98, 102
—Democratic: interest in Oregon question, 91; prestatehood dominance, 96; the "Salem Clique," 96, 99, 108; on statehood, 96; split over slavery issue, 102; fusion with Populists, 161; during interwar years, 201; ascendency of, 201, 206
—Independent (Grangers), 157
—Populist: advocacy of, 158, 160, 174; in "Coxey's army," 160; successes of, 160; fusion with Democrats, 161
—Republican: strength of, 98, 102; leaders in, 153; factions within, 153; survives reform era, 160; internecine struggle, 163; during 1920s and 1930s, 199, 200; in postwar years, 205, 206
—Union: as antimonopolist, 158
—Whig: constituency of, 97; on statehood, 99
Politics: over Oregon possession, 92–94; and business, 153; draws national notice, 156; of reform parties, 157–161; of progressive movement, 163–170; national impact of, 207
Polk, James K.: in Oregon settlement, 92, 93
Population: homogeneous, 3, 227; size, in 1840s, 84, 88, 90; rapid growth of, 115, 187; composition of, 115, 187; black, 124–126, 194, 195; Indian, 194
—ethnic: European, 116–119; Asian, 120–124; Spanish, 191. _See also_ Ethnic groups
Populist party: _See_ Political parties
Portland: _See_ Newspapers, Railroads, Urban development
Progressivism: evolution to, 152; Populist aid to, 160; basis of, 162; led to "Oregon System," 162–166; aided by land frauds, 166, 167; influence in politics, 167–183 _passim;_ in municipal government, 173; decline of, 182–183; and conservation, 218–219. _See also_ U'Ren
Protestants: _See_ Religion
Racism: pervasive in history, 4; rise of white superiority, 41; in mission theology, 60; among early settlers, 61, 68, 69, 70; in industrial labor, 77; in fishing industry, 80; in government formation, 85, 89, 95; in state constitution, 100, 102, 124; in Indian relations, 113, 114; toward early aliens, 121–123, 188–190; lessened in government, 194, 195. _See also_ EthnicGroups; Law, discriminatory
Radicalism: in political ideology, 97; in labor unions, 140, 141, 218; in literature, 145, 146; in politics, 201
Railroads: first built, 76; early competition, 76; and migration, 117, 120; effects of, on economy, 131–138 _passim;_ leaders of, 135, 136; in intercity competition, 136, 137; disillusionment with, 139. _See also_ Economy
Ranching: _See_ Industry, stockraising
Religion: among ethnic immigrants, 118, 119, 121, 125; major denominations, 149; and social causes, 150; low reliance on, 107, 149, 220
—missionaries: Spanish, in California, 11; American, first Protestant, 52; Methodist, among Nez Percé, 55; Jason and Daniel Lee, 55; weakening of efforts to Indians, 56–58; and Catholic-Protestant conflict, 56, 57; secular activities of, 57; shift to white settlers, 58, 60; ecumenical, led by Marcus Whitman, 59; "Whitman Massacre," 59, 89, 94; Catholic, to HBC employees, 60; Pierre-Jean de Smet, 60; in origin of government, 84–89 _passim;_ in politics, 85, 86, 87, 88, 94; and bigotry in politics, 97; and first schools, 105
Republican party: _See_ Political parties
Rivers:
—Columbia: discovery of, 12; believed Strait of Anián, 12; found by Gray, 26; claimed by English, 26; followed by Lewis and Clark, 35, 36, 37; importance to fur traders, 43, 46–53 _passim;_ traced by Thompson, 47; steamship navigation, 75; and lumbering, 78; salmon fishing in, 79; and agriculture, 80
—Fraser: discovered by Mackenzie, 28; explored by Fraser, 47
—Snake: traversed by Lewis and Clark, 35; and fur trade, 43, 44, 48, 49; steamship navigation, 75
—Willamette: discovery of, 38; early settlers, 55, 62, 66; first sawmill, 78, agriculture along, 80, 82, 83
Roman Catholic church: _See_ Religion
Settlements: first American, 43; in Willamette Valley, 55, 62, 66, 72, 87, 90; at Fort Vancouver, 66, 90
—Caucasian: missionaries, 56, 57, 60; traits of, 61, 62; reasons for migration, 62; areas settled, 83, 84, 90; attitudes toward British, 87, 88, 91
—Hawaiian: origins of, 67; character, 67; skills, 67; favored by missionaries, 67; white prejudice toward, 68
Sheep herding: _See_ Industry, stockraising
Slavery: York, Clark's slave, 37; prohibited in Oregon, 69, 89, 95; question of, in Oregon, 94, 95; court decision against, 98; and state constitution, 101
Smet, Pierre-Jean de, 60
Snake River: _See_ Rivers
Social conflict: lack of, 227–228
Spain: role in development, 8, 9, 10, 12, 17, 23, 24; strategy toward Russians, 11; claim to possession of Northwest in 1774, 12; sovereignty claim of Northwest, 17; concedes control in 1790s, 22, 24, 25. _See also_ Explorers
Statehood: in 1859, 78, 102; early attempts for, 98; role of blacks in, 98, 99; impetus to, 99; issues in quest for, 99–102
Stockraising: _See_ Industry
Strait of Anián: myth of, 9; search for, by Cabrillo, 10; fear of discovery, 10, 11; believed to be Columbia River, 12; myth destroyed, 26. _See also_ Northwest Passage
Suffrage (of women): _See_ Duniway
Thompson, David (explorer and cartographer), 47
Trading posts: at Fort Pitt, 17; at Astoria, 44, 45; of the Northwest Company, 47, 48; of the Hudson's Bay Company, 49; at Fort Vancouver, 52, 66; at Fort Hall, 53, 64
Treaties: Anglo-American of 1846, 81, 90, 94; with Indians, 110, 111
Urban development: of early towns, 55, 72, 73, 77, 78, 83, 84, 85; capital for, from gold era, 72; and rise of Oregon City, 72, 73; and Portland's ascendency, 73, 74, 75; begins, 115; of Portland, 115, 138; and intercity rivalry, 136, 137, 138
U'Ren, William: in progressive movement, l62–17l _passim;_ as a populist, 163, 164; and direct primary law, 169; loses single tax issue, 170, 179. _See also_ Progressivism
Vancouver, George: British diplomat, 24; as explorer, 25, 26; as scientist, 27
Voting: by Indians, 129, 193; rights for women, 157, 173–179; by secret ballot, 158; rights for minorities, 194
—presidential elections: of 1860, 103; in 1876, 155; electoral, disputed, 155, 156; in 1896, 161; in 1912, 183; in 1930s, 199; in 1948, 205; in 1950s, 205
Whitman, Marcus and Narcissa (missionaries and massacre of): 59, 89, 94
Willamette Valley: early settlement of, 90, 104; Indians in, 109; migration to, 115, 131; farmers of, 156; as population center, 228. _See also_ Rivers
Williams, George: as Grant's attorney general, 154; as Portland politician, 172
Women: first white woman to Rockies, 59; and hardships of migration, 64; and political rights of, 157, 173, 174, 178; and work rights case of, 180–181
Canon Beach and Haystack Rock.
Logging truck near Trent.
Loading logs on ship, Coos Bay.
Mount Thielsen near Crater Lake National Park.
Fountain and forecourt of Civic Auditorium, Portland.
Pacific Ocean near Neptune State Park.
Forest near Crater Lake.
Girl with horse near Condon.
Columbia River and Mount Hood.
Ship and houses, Astoria.
Trojan nuclear power plant on Columbia River near Rainier.
Downtown Ashland.
Multnomah Falls east of Portland.
Crater Lake.
Farm near Wasco.
## Original Maps by Harold Faye
Chapter 1
1. Charles Ryskamp and Frederick A. Pottle, _Boswell: The Ominous Years, 1774–1776_ (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1963), p. 309.
2. J. C. Beaglehole, ed., _The Journals of Captain James Cook on His Voyage of Discovery,_ 4 vols. (Cambridge: At the University Press, 1955–1967), 3:714.
3. Beaglehole, _Cook,_ 4:1402–1403.
4. Beaglehole, _Cook_ , 4:1406.
5. Beaglehole, _Cook,_ 4:1100.
6. Beaglehole, _Cook,_ 3:306, 311; 4:1326, 1412.
7. J. F. G de la Pérouse, _A Voyage Round the World,_ 2 vols. (London: A. Hamilton, printer, 1799), 1:397–398.
8. Warren L. Cook, _Flood Tide of Empire: Spain and the Pacific Northwest, 1543–1819_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), p. 241.
9. George Vancouver, _A Voyage of Discovery to the North Pacific Ocean and Round the World._ 3 vols. (London: G. G. and J. Robinson, 1798), 1:210, 259.
10. Vancouver, _Voyage,_ 3:285.
11. Vancouver, _Voyage,_ 1:1.
12. W. Kaye Lamb, ed.. _The Journals and Letters of Sir Alexander Mackenzie_ (Cambridge: At the University Press, 1970), p. 378.
13. Lamb, _Mackenzie,_ p. 300.
14. Lamb, _Mackenzie,_ pp. 364, 367, 395.
15. Frederic W. Howay, ed., _Voyages of the "Columbia" to the Northwest Coast 1787–1790 and 1790–1793_ (Boston: Massachusetts Historical Society, 1941), p. 4.
16. Howay, " _Columbia,"_ pp. 30, 38.
17. Howay, " _Columbia,"_ pp. 49, 59.
18. Howay, " _Columbia,''_ pp. 435, 399.
19. Donald Jackson, ed., _Letters of the Lewis and Clark Expedition with Related Documents, 1783–1854_ (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1962), p. 669.
20. Jackson, _Letters of Lewis and Clark Expedition,_ p. 61.
21. Reuben Gold Thwaites, ed., _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, 1804–1806,_ 8 vols. (New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1904–1905), 3:180, 186.
22. Thwaites, _Journals of Lewis and Clark,_ 3:202.
23. Thwaites, _Journals of Lewis and Clark,_ 3:255.
24. Thwaites, _Journals of Lewis and Clark,_ 3:299.
25. Thwaites, _Journals of Lewis and Clark,_ 4:49.
26. Thwaites, _Journals of Lewis and Clark,_ 4:290; William H. Goetzmann, _Exploration and Empire: The Explorer and the Scientist in the Winning of the American West_ (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966), p. 4; Jackson, _Letters of Lewis and Clark Expedition, p._ 322.
Chapter 2
1. Gabriel Franchère, _Journal of a Voyage on the North West Coast of North America,_ ed. W. Kaye Lamb (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1969), p. 77.
2. Alexander Ross, _Adventures of the First Settlers on the Oregon or Columbia River,_ ed. Milo Milton Quaife (Chicago: R. R. Donnelley, 1923), p. 158.
3. W. Kaye Lamb, ed., _The Letters and Journals of Simon Fraser, 1806–1808_ (Toronto: Macmillan, 1960), pp. 82, 145.
4. Frederick Merk, ed., _Fur Trade and Empire: George Simpson's Journal,_ rev. ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1968), p. 286.
5. Fred Wilbur Powell, _Hall J. Kelley on Oregon_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1932), pp. 35, 60.
6. F. G. Young, ed., _The Correspondence and Journals of Captain Nathaniel J. Wyeth, 1831–6_ (Eugene, Ore.: University Press, 1899), p. 178.
7. Young, _Correspondence of Wyeth,_ p. 152.
8. John Kirk Townsend, _Narrative of a Journey Across the Rocky Mountains to the Columbia River_ in Reuben Gold Thwaites, ed., _Early Western Travels, 1748–1846,_ 32 vols. (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1904–1907), 21:298, 333.
9. Diary of Alvan F. Waller, August 25, 1841, Waller Papers, Oregon Historical Society. Waller quote from the Manuscript Collections of the Oregon Historical Society and used with permission. Blanchet quote from Carl Landerholm, ed., _Notices & Voyages of the Famed Quebec Mission to the Pacific Northwest_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1956), p. 85.
10. Charles Henry Carey, ed., "Methodist Annual Reports Relating to the Willamette Mission (1834–1848)," _Oregon Historical Quarterly_ [hereafter cited _OHQ_ ] 23 (December 1922): 334.
11. Robert N. Peters, "From Sect to Church: A Study of the Permutation of Methodism on the Oregon Frontier" (Ph.D. diss., University of Washington, 1973), p. 164. Used with permission.
12. P. J. de Smet, _Oregon_ _Missions and Travels over the Rocky Mountains,_ in Reuben Gold Thwaites, _Early Western Travels 1748–1846,_ 29:194.
13. George Wilkes, _History of Oregon, Geographical and Political_ (New York: William H. Colyer, 1845), p. 71.
14. Peter Burnett, "Recollections and Opinions of an Old Pioneer," _OHQ_ 5 (March 1904): 67–68; H. S. Lyman, ed., "Reminiscences of Hugh Cosgrove," _OHQ_ 1 (September 1900): p. 257.
15. Elizabeth Wood, "Journal of a Trip to Oregon, 1851," _OHQ_ 27 (March 1926): 199.
16. Claire Warner Churchill, "The Journey to Oregon—A Pioneer Girl's Diary," _OHQ_ 29 (March 1928): 88.
17. Joel Palmer, _Journal of Travels over the Rocky Mountains,_ in Thwaites, _Early Western Travels,_ 30:53–54.
18. P. V. Crawford, "Journal of A Trip Across the Plains, 1851," _OHQ_ 25 (June 1924): 169; James W. Nesmith, "Diary of the Emigration of 1843," _OHQ_ 7 (December 1906): 359.
Chapter 3
1. Charles B. Gillespie, ed., "Marshall's Own Account of the Gold Discovery," _Century Magazine_ 51 (February 1891): 538.
2. Arthur L. Throckmorton, _Oregon Argonauts: Merchant Adventurers on the Western_ _Frontier_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1961), p. 106.
3. F. A. Shaver, comp., _Illustrated History of Central Oregon_ (Spokane: Western Historical Publishing Co., 1905), pp. 114–115.
4. Alfred L. Lomax, _Pioneer Woolen Mills in Oregon: History of Wool and the Woolen Textile Industry in Oregon. 1811–1875_ (Portland: Binfords and Mort, 1941), p. 183.
5. Joseph W. Ellison, "The Beginnings of the Apple Industry in Oregon," _Agricultural History_ 11 (October 1937): 327.
6. James W. Nesmith, "Diary of the Emigration of 1843," _OHQ_ 7 (December 1906): 355.
7. Shaver, _Illustrated History of Central Oregon,_ p. 150.
8. Quoted in Dorothy O. Johansen and Charles M. Gates, _Empire of the Columbia: A History of the Pacific Northwest,_ 2d ed. (New York: Harper and Row, 1967), p. 181.
9. Quoted in John A. Hussey, _Champoeg: Place of Transition, A Disputed History_ (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1967), p. 152.
10. Walter C. Woodward, _The Rise and Early History of Political Parties in Oregon, 1843–1868_ (Portland: J. K. Gill Company, 1913), p. 27.
11. Charles H. Carey, _The Oregon Constitution and Proceedings and Debates of the Constitutional Convention of 1857_ (Salem, Ore.: State Printing Department, 1926), pp. 141–142.
12. Carey, _Oregon Constitution,_ pp. 94, 227.
13. Carey, _Oregon Constitution,_ p. 249.
14. Alfred Powers and Howard M. Corning, "History of Education in Portland," mimeographed (n. p., n. p., 1937), p. 78.
15. Stanley Sheldon Spaid, "Joel Palmer and Indian Affairs in Oregon" (Ph.D. diss., University of Oregon, 1950), p. 79. Used with permission.
16. Spaid, "Joel Palmer," p. 89. Used with permission.
17. Theodore Stem, _The Klamath Tribe: A People and Their Reservation_ (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1965), pp. 44–121. I have relied on this excellent work extensively throughout the book for my treatment of the Klamath reservation peoples.
Chapter 4
1. Quoted in Barbara Yasui, "The Nikkei in Oregon, 1834–1940," _Oregon Historical Quarterly_ 74 (September 1975): 232.
2. Joseph Gaston, _Portland, Oregon: Its History and Builders,_ 3 vols. (Chicago: S. J. Clarke Publishing Co., 1911), 2:454.
3. Chia-lin Chen, trans, and comp., "The Kam Wah Chung Company Papers, John Day, Oregon," typescript (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1974), p. 128. Used with permission from the Manuscript Collections of the Oregon Historical Society.
4. H. L. Davis, _Honey in the Horn_ (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1935), p. 299.
5. Jack E. Triplett, "History of the Oregon Labor Movement Prior to the New Deal," (Master's thesis, University of California, Berkeley, 1961), p. 64. Used with permission.
6. Joyce L. Kornbluh, ed.. _Rebel Voices: An I. W. W. Anthology_ (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1964), pp. 12–13.
7. Jesse Applegate, "Views of Oregon History, etc..." [1878], Bancroft Library, University of California. Quoted by permission of the Bancroft Library.
8. Malcolm Clark, Jr., _Pharisee Among Philistines: The Diary of Judge Matthew P. Deady, 1871–1892_ , 2 vols. (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1975), 2:420.
9. Clark, _Pharisee,_ 340–341.
Chapter 5
1. _Portland Morning Oregonian._ November 14, 1885, p. 2; Malcolm Clark, Jr., _Pharisee Among Philistines: The Diary of Judge Matthew P. Deady_ , 2 vols. (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1975), 2:480.
2. Philip W. Kennedy, "Oregon and the Disputed Election of 1876," _Pacific Northwest Quarterly_ [hereafter cited _PNQ_ ] 60 (July 1969): 141.
3. Lincoln Steffens, _Upbuilders_ (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968), p. 291.
4. Esther G. Weinstein, "William Simon U'Ren: A Study of Persistence in Political Reform" (D. S. Sc. diss., Syracuse University, 1967), p. 5. Used with permission.
5. Weinstein, "U'Ren," p. 23; James D. Barnett, _The Operation of the Initiative, Referendum, and Recall in Oregon_ (New York: Macmillan Co., 1915), p. 37.
6. O. K. Burrell, "Shortages of Freight Cars an Old Problem in Oregon." _Oregon Business Review_ 14 (September 1955): 4–5: Steffens, _Upbuilders,_ p. 288.
7. Steffens, _Upbuilders,_ p. 316.
8. Quoted in George A. Frykman, "Frederic G. Young, Regionalist and Historian," _PNQ_ 48 (April 1957): 36.
9. Robert C. Woodward, "William Simon U'Ren: In An Age of Protest" (Master's thesis, University of Oregon, 1956), p. 114.
10. Woodward, "U'Ren," p. 146.
11. Scrapbook 261, Oregon Historical Society, Portland, Oregon, p. 142. Used with permission.
12. The quotations on woman suffrage are from Abigail Scott Duniway, _Path Breaking: An Autobiographical History of the Equal Suffrage Movement in Pacific Coast States_ (New York: Source Book Press, 1975), pp. 192, 157, 236, 114, 162, 238; T. A. Larson, "Home Rule on the Range," in _Western American History in the Seventies,_ ed. Daniel Tyler (Fort Collins, Colo.: Robinson Press, Inc., 1973), p. 81; and Larson, "The Woman Suffrage Movement in Washington," _PNQ_ 67 (April 1976): 54, 56, 59.
13. Annette H. Bartholomae, "A Conscientious Objector: Oregon, 1918," _Oregon Historical Quarterly_ 71 (September 1970): 220, 227.
Chapter 6
1. Thomas C. Hogg, "Negroes and Their Institutions in Oregon," _Phylon_ 30 (Fall 1969): 285.
2. Quoted in Robin Huffman, "An Analysis of the Interrelationship between the Oregon School Law of 1922, the Press of Oregon, the Election of Walter Pierce and the Ku Klux Klan" (Master's thesis, Portland State University, 1974), p. 32. Used with permission.
3. Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., _The Politics of Upheaval_ (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co.), p. 525.
4. This quotation and those following are drawn from Morse speeches as recorded in the _Congressional Record_ on various occasions from 1945 to 1969.
Chapter 7
1. E. H. Eby, ed., "'American Salmon,' by Rudyard Kipling: A Sketch from American Notes," _Pacific Northwest Quarterly_ (hereafter cited _PNQ_ ] 60 (October 1969): 177.
2. Marshall N. Dana, "New Mood Found in Pacific Northwest Forest Industries," _Oregon Business Review,_ 16 (May 1957): 4.
3. Warren L. Clare, ed., "'Poseurs, Parasites, and Pismires,' _Status Rerum,_ by James Stevens and H. L. Davis," _PNQ_ 61 (January 1970): 27.
4. George McMath, "Buildings and Gardens," in Thomas Vaughan and Virginia Guest Ferriday, eds., _Space, Style and Structure: Building in Northwest America_ , 2 vols. (Portland: Oregon Historical Society, 1974), 2:479.
5. McMath, "Buildings and Gardens," 2:476.
6. Rachel Griffin, "Portland and Its Environs," in _Art of the Pacific Northwest from the 1930s to the Present_ (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1974), p. 18.
7. Walter Muir Whitehill, "Oregon Historical Center Dedication Address, September 23, 1966," _Oregon Historical Quarterly_ 67 (September 1966): 199.
8. Dorothy O. Johansen, "Oregon's Role in American History: An Old Theme Recast," _PNQ_ 40 (April 1949): 92.
**Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data**
Dodds, Gordon Barlow, 1932–
Oregon: a bicentennial history.
(The States and the Nation series)
Bibliography: p.
Includes index.
1. Oregon—History. 1. Title. 11. Series.
F876.D6 979.5 77–9080
ISBN 978-0-393-34864-4 (e-book)
Copyright © 1977
American Association for State and Local History
All rights reserved
Published and distributed by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.
500 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10036
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
} | 582 |
{"url":"https:\/\/gowers.wordpress.com\/","text":"## Reflections on the recent solution of the cap-set problem\u00a0I\n\nMay 19, 2016\n\nSometimes blog posts about recent breakthroughs can be useful because they convey the main ideas of a proof without getting bogged down in the technical details. But the recent solution of the cap-set problem by Jordan Ellenberg, and independently and fractionally later by Dion Gijswijt, both making crucial use of an amazing lemma of Croot, Lev and Pach that was made public a week or so before, does not really invite that kind of post, since the papers are so short, and the ideas so transparent, that it\u2019s hard to know how a blog post can explain them more clearly.\n\nBut as I\u2019ve got a history with this problem, including posting about it on this blog in the past, I feel I can\u2019t just not react. So in this post and a subsequent one (or ones) I want to do three things. The first is just to try to describe my own personal reaction to these events. The second is more mathematically interesting. As regular readers of this blog will know, I have a strong interest in the question of where mathematical ideas come from, and a strong conviction that they always result from a fairly systematic process \u2014 and that the opposite impression, that some ideas are incredible bolts from the blue that require \u201cgenius\u201d or \u201csudden inspiration\u201d to find, is an illusion that results from the way mathematicians present their proofs after they have discovered them.\n\nFrom time to time an argument comes along that appears to present a stiff challenge to my view. The solution to the cap-set problem is a very good example: it\u2019s easy to understand the proof, but the argument has a magic quality that leaves one wondering how on earth anybody thought of it. I\u2019m referring particularly to the Croot-Lev-Pach lemma here. I don\u2019t pretend to have a complete account of how the idea might have been discovered (if any of Ernie, Seva or Peter, or indeed anybody else, want to comment about this here, that would be extremely welcome), but I have some remarks.\n\nThe third thing I\u2019d like to do reflects another interest of mine, which is avoiding duplication of effort. I\u2019ve spent a little time thinking about whether there is a cheap way of getting a Behrend-type bound for Roth\u2019s theorem out of these ideas (and I\u2019m not the only one). Although I wasn\u2019t expecting the answer to be yes, I think there is some value in publicizing some of the dead ends I\u2019ve come across. Maybe it will save others from exploring them, or maybe, just maybe, it will stimulate somebody to find a way past the barriers that seem to be there.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## The L-functions and modular forms\u00a0database\n\nMay 10, 2016\n\nWith each passing decade, mathematics grows substantially. As it grows, mathematicians are forced to become more specialized \u2014 in the sense of knowing a smaller fraction of the whole \u2014 and the time and effort needed to get to the frontier of what is known, and perhaps to contribute to it, increases. One might think that this process will eventually mean that nobody is prepared to make the effort any more, but fortunately there are forces that work in the opposite direction. With the help of the internet, it is now far easier to find things out, and this makes research a whole lot easier in important ways.\n\nIt has long been a conviction of mine that the effort-reducing forces we have seen so far are just the beginning. One way in which the internet might be harnessed more fully is in the creation of amazing new databases, something I once asked a Mathoverflow question about. I recently had cause (while working on a research project with a student of mine, Jason Long) to use Sloane\u2019s database in a serious way. That is, a sequence of numbers came out of some calculations we did, we found it in the OEIS, that gave us a formula, and we could prove that the formula was right. The great thing about the OEIS was that it solved an NP-ish problem for us: once the formula was given to us, it wasn\u2019t that hard to prove that it was correct for our sequence, but finding it in the first place would have been extremely hard without the OEIS.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## Should I have bet on Leicester\u00a0City?\n\nMay 3, 2016\n\nIf you\u2019re not British, or you live under a stone somewhere, then you may not have heard about one of the most extraordinary sporting stories ever. Leicester City, a football (in the British sense) team that last year only just escaped relegation from the top division, has just won the league. At the start of the season you could have bet on this happening at odds of 5000-1. Just 12 people availed themselves of this opportunity.\n\nTen pounds bet then would have net me 50000 pounds now, so a natural question arises: should I be kicking myself (the appropriate reaction given the sport) for not placing such a bet? In one sense the answer is obviously yes, as I\u2019d have made a lot of money if I had. But I\u2019m not in the habit of placing bets, and had no idea that these odds were being offered anyway, so I\u2019m not too cut up about it.\n\nNevertheless, it\u2019s still interesting to think about the question hypothetically: if I had been the betting type and had known about these odds, should I have gone for them? Or would regretting not doing so be as silly as regretting not choosing and betting on the particular set of numbers that just happened to win the national lottery last week?\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## Discrete Analysis launched\n\nMarch 1, 2016\n\nAs you may remember from an earlier post on this blog, Discrete Analysis is a new mathematics journal that runs just like any other journal except in one respect: the articles we publish live on the arXiv. This is supposed to highlight the fact that in the internet age, and in particular in an age when it is becoming routine for mathematicians to deposit their articles on the arXiv before they submit them to journals, the only important function left for journals is organizing peer review. Since this is done through the voluntary work of academics, it should in principle be possible to run a journal for almost nothing. The legacy publishers (as they are sometimes called) frequently call people naive for suggesting this, so it is important to have actual examples to prove it, and Discrete Analysis is set up to be one such example. Its website goes live today.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## FUNC4 \u2014 further\u00a0variants\n\nFebruary 22, 2016\n\nI\u2019ve been in Paris for the weekend, so the number of comments on the previous post got rather large, and I also fell slightly behind. Writing this post will I hope help me catch up with what is going on.\n\n### FUNC with symmetry\n\nOne question that has arisen is whether FUNC holds if the ground set is the cyclic group $\\mathbb Z_n$ and $\\mathcal A$ is rotationally invariant. This was prompted by Alec Edgington\u2019s example showing that we cannot always find $x$ and an injection from $\\mathcal A_{\\overline x}$ to $\\mathcal A_x$ that maps each set to a superset. Tom Eccles suggested a heuristic argument that if $\\mathcal A$ is generated by all intervals of length $r$, then it should satisfy FUNC. I agree that this is almost certainly true, but I think nobody has yet given a rigorous proof. I don\u2019t think it should be too hard.\n\nOne can ask similar questions about ground sets with other symmetry groups.\n\nA nice question that I came across on Mathoverflow is whether the intersection version of FUNC is true if $\\mathcal A$ consists of all subgroups of a finite group $G$. The answers to the question came very close to solving it, with suggestions about how to finish things off, but the fact that the question was non-trivial was quite a surprise to me.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## FUNC3 \u2014 further strengthenings and\u00a0variants\n\nFebruary 13, 2016\n\nIn the last post I concentrated on examples, so in this one I\u2019ll concentrate on conjectures related to FUNC, though I may say a little about examples at the end, since a discussion has recently started about how we might go about trying to find a counterexample to FUNC.\n\n### A proposal for a rather complicated averaging argument\n\nAfter the failure of the average-overlap-density conjecture, I came up with a more refined conjecture along similar lines that has one or two nice properties and has not yet been shown to be false.\n\nThe basic aim is the same: to take a union-closed family $\\mathcal A$ and use it to construct a probability measure on the ground set in such a way that the average abundance with respect to that measure is at least 1\/2. With the failed conjecture the method was very basic: pick a random non-empty set $A\\in\\mathcal A$ and then a random element $x\\in A$.\n\nThe trouble with picking random elements is that it gives rise to a distribution that does not behave well when you duplicate elements. (What you would want is that the probability is shared out amongst the duplicates, but in actual fact if you duplicate an element lots of times it gives an advantage to the set of duplicates that the original element did not have.) This is not just an aesthetic concern: it was at the heart of the downfall of the conjecture. What one really wants, and this is a point that Tobias Fritz has been emphasizing, is to avoid talking about the ground set altogether, something one can do by formulating the conjecture in terms of lattices, though I\u2019m not sure what I\u2019m about to describe does make sense for lattices.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## FUNC2 \u2014 more\u00a0examples\n\nFebruary 8, 2016\n\nThe first \u201cofficial\u201d post of this Polymath project has passed 100 comments, so I think it is time to write a second post. Again I will try to extract some of the useful information from the comments (but not all, and my choice of what to include should not be taken as some kind of judgment). A good way of organizing this post seems to be list a few more methods of construction of interesting union-closed systems that have come up since the last post \u2014 where \u201cinteresting\u201d ideally means that the system is a counterexample to a conjecture that is not obviously false.\n\n### Standard \u201calgebraic\u201d constructions\n\n#### Quotients\n\nIf $\\mathcal A$ is a union-closed family on a ground set $X$, and $Y\\subset X$, then we can take the family $\\mathcal A_Y=\\{A\\cap Y:A\\in\\mathcal{A}\\}$. The map $\\phi:A\\to A\\cap Y$ is a homomorphism (in the sense that $\\phi(A\\cup B)=\\phi(A)\\cup\\phi(B)$, so it makes sense to regard $\\mathcal A_Y$ as a quotient of $\\mathcal A$.\n\n#### Subfamilies\n\nIf instead we take an equivalence relation $R$ on $X$, we can define a set-system $\\mathcal A( R)$ to be the set of all unions of equivalence classes that belong to $\\mathcal{A}$.\n\nThus, subsets of $X$ give quotient families and quotient sets of $X$ give subfamilies.\n\n#### Products\n\nPossibly the most obvious product construction of two families $\\mathcal A$ and $\\mathcal B$ is to make their ground sets disjoint and then to take $\\{A\\cup B:A\\in\\mathcal A,B\\in\\mathcal B\\}$. (This is the special case with disjoint ground sets of the construction $\\mathcal A+\\mathcal B$ that Tom Eccles discussed earlier.)\n\nNote that we could define this product slightly differently by saying that it consists of all pairs $(A,B)\\in\\mathcal A\\times\\mathcal B$ with the \u201cunion\u201d operation $(A,B)\\sqcup(A',B')=(A\\cup A',B\\cup B')$. This gives an algebraic system called a join semilattice, and it is isomorphic in an obvious sense to $\\mathcal A+\\mathcal B$ with ordinary unions. Looked at this way, it is not so obvious how one should define abundances, because $(\\mathcal A\\times\\mathcal B,\\sqcup)$ does not have a ground set. Of course, we can define them via the isomorphism to $\\mathcal A+\\mathcal B$ but it would be nice to do so more intrinsically.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## FUNC1 \u2014 strengthenings, variants, potential\u00a0counterexamples\n\nJanuary 29, 2016\n\nAfter my tentative Polymath proposal, there definitely seems to be enough momentum to start a discussion \u201cofficially\u201d, so let\u2019s see where it goes. I\u2019ve thought about the question of whether to call it Polymath11 (the first unclaimed number) or Polymath12 (regarding the polynomial-identities project as Polymath11). In the end I\u2019ve gone for Polymath11, since the polynomial-identities project was listed on the Polymath blog as a proposal, and I think the right way of looking at things is that the problem got solved before the proposal became a fully-fledged project. But I still think that that project should be counted as a Polymathematical success story: it shows the potential benefits of opening up a problem for consideration by anybody who might be interested.\n\n## Frankl\u2019s union-closed conjecture \u2014 a possible Polymath\u00a0project?\n\nJanuary 21, 2016\n\nAlthough it was from only a couple of people, I had an enthusiastic response to a very tentative suggestion that it might be rewarding to see whether a polymath project could say anything useful about Frankl\u2019s union-closed conjecture. A potentially worrying aspect of the idea is that the problem is extremely elementary to state, does not seem to yield to any standard techniques, and is rather notorious. But, as one of the commenters said, that is not necessarily an argument against trying it. A notable feature of the polymath experiment has been that it throws up surprises, so while I wouldn\u2019t expect a polymath project to solve Frankl\u2019s union-closed conjecture, I also know that I need to be rather cautious about my expectations \u2014 which in this case is an argument in favour of giving it a try.\n\nA less serious problem is what acronym one would use for the project. For the density Hales-Jewett problem we went for DHJ, and for the Erd\u0151s discrepancy problem we used EDP. That general approach runs into difficulties with Frankl\u2019s union-closed conjecture, so I suggest FUNC. This post, if the project were to go ahead, could be FUNC0; in general I like the idea that we would be engaged in a funky line of research.\nRead the rest of this entry \u00bb\n\n## Entropy and Sidorenko\u2019s conjecture \u2014 after\u00a0Szegedy\n\nNovember 18, 2015\n\nHere is a simple but important fact about bipartite graphs. Let $G$ be a bipartite graph with (finite) vertex sets $X$ and $Y$ and edge density $\\alpha$ (meaning that the number of edges is $\\alpha |X||Y|$). Now choose $(x_1,x_2)$ uniformly at random from $X^2$ and $(y_1,y_2)$ uniformly at random from $Y^2$. Then the probability that all of $x_1y_1, x_1y_2, x_2y_1$ and $x_2y_2$ are edges is at least $\\alpha^4$.\n\nThe proof is very simple. For each $x$, let $f_x:Y\\to\\{0,1\\}$ be the characteristic function of the neighbourhood of $x$. That is, $f_x(y)=1$ if $xy$ is an edge and $0$ otherwise. Then $\\sum_{x,y}f_x(y)$ is the sum of the degrees of the $x\\in X$, which is the number of edges of $G$, which is $\\alpha |X||Y|$. If we set $f=\\sum_{x\\in X}f_x$, then this tells us that $\\sum_{y\\in Y}f(y)=\\alpha|X||Y|$. By the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality, it follows that $\\sum_{y\\in Y}f(y)^2\\geq\\alpha^2|X|^2|Y|$.\n\nBut by the Cauchy-Schwarz inequality again,\n$(\\sum_{y\\in Y}f(y)^2)^2=(\\sum_{y\\in Y}\\sum_{x_1,x_2\\in X}f_{x_1}(y)f_{x_2}(y))^2$\n$= (\\sum_{x_1,x_2\\in X}\\sum_{y\\in Y}f_{x_1}(y)f_{x_2}(y))^2$\n$\\leq |X|^2\\sum_{x_1,x_2\\in X}(\\sum_{y\\in Y}f_{x_1}(y)f_{x_2}(y))^2$\n$=|X|^2\\sum_{x_1,x_2\\in X}\\sum_{y_1,y_2\\in Y}f_{x_1}(y_1)f_{x_2}(y_1)f_{x_1}(y_2)f_{x_2}(y_2).$\nThat last expression is $|X|^2$ times the number of quadruples $x_1,x_2,y_1,y_2$ such that all of $x_1y_1, x_1y_2, x_2y_1$ and $x_2y_2$ are edges, and our previous estimate shows that it is at least $\\alpha^4|X|^4|Y|^2$. Therefore, the probability that a random such quadruple consists entirely of edges is at least $\\alpha^4$, as claimed (since there are $|X|^2|Y|^2$ possible quadruples to choose from). Read the rest of this entry \u00bb","date":"2016-05-28 21:59:09","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 71, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.744098961353302, \"perplexity\": 360.22050378228585}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2016-22\/segments\/1464049278244.51\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20160524002118-00012-ip-10-185-217-139.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"https:\/\/blog.plover.com\/addenda\/201803.html","text":"# The Universe of Discourse\n\nSat, 24 Mar 2018\n\nIt's been a while since we had one of these. But gosh, people have sent me quite a lot of really interesting mail lately.\n\n\u2022 I related my childhood disappointment at the limited number of cool coordinate systems. Norman Yarvin directed me to prolate spheroidal coordinates which are themselves a three-dimensional version of elliptic coordinates which are a system of exactly the sort I escribed in the article, this time parametrized by a family of ellipses and a family of hyperbolas, all of which share the same two foci; this article links in turn to parabolic coordinates in which the two families are curves are up-facing and down-facing parabolas that all share a focus. (Hmm, this seems like a special case of the ellipses, where one focus goes to infinity.)\n\nWalt Mankowski also referred me to the Smith chart, shown at right, which is definitely relevant. It is a sort of nomogram, and parametrizes certain points by their position on circles from two families\n\n\\begin{align} F_1(c): && (x- c)^2 & + y^2 & =c^2 \\\\ F_2(c): && x^2 & + (y- c)^2 & =c^2 \\\\ \\end{align}\n\nElectrical engineers use this for some sort of electrical engineer calculation. They use the letter !!j!! instead of !!i!! for the imaginary unit because they had already used !!i!! to stand for electrical current, which is totally reasonable because \u201celectrical current\u201d does after all start with the letter !!i!!. (In French! The French word is courant. Now do you understand? Stop asking questions!)\n\n\u2022 Regarding what part of the body Ska\u00f0i was looking at when the Norse text says f\u00f3tr, which is probably something like the foot, Alexander Gurney and Brent Yorgey reminded me that Biblical Hebrew often uses the foot as a euphemism for the genitals. One example that comes immediately to mind is important in the book of Ruth:\n\nAnd when Boaz had eaten and drunk, and his heart was merry, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of corn: and she came softly, and uncovered his feet, and laid her down. (Ruth 3:7)\n\nM.\u00a0Gurney suggested Isaiah 6:2. (\u201cAbove him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying.\u201d) I think Ezekiel 16:25 is also of this type.\n\nI mentioned to Brent that I don't think Ska\u00f0i was looking at the \u00c6sir's genitals, because it wouldn't fit the tone of the story.\n\n\u2022 Alexander Gurney sent me a lot of other interesting material. I had translated the Old Icelandic hre\u00f0jar as \u201cscrotum\u201d, following Zo\u00ebga. But M.\u00a0Gurney pointed out that the modern Icelandic for \u201cradish\u201d is hre\u00f0ka. Coincidence? Or was hre\u00f0jar a euphemism even then? Zo\u00ebga doesn't mention it, but he doesn't say what word was used for \u201cradish\u201d, so I don't know.\n\nHe also pointed me to Parts of the body in older Germanic and Scandinavian by Torild Washington Arnoldson. As in English, there are many words for the scrotum and testicles; some related to bags, some to balls, etc. Arnoldson does mention hre\u00f0jar in the section about words that are bag-derived but doesn't say why. Still if Arnoldson is right it is not about radishes.\n\nI should add that the Sk\u00e1ldskaparm\u00e1l itself has a section about parts of the body listing suitable words and phrases for use by sk\u00e1lds:\n\nH\u00f6nd, f\u00f3tr.\n\n\u2026 \u00c1 f\u00e6ti heitir l\u00e6r, kn\u00e9, k\u00e1lfi, bein, leggr, rist, jarki, il, t\u00e1. \u2026\n\n(\u2026 The parts of the legs are called thigh, knee, calf, lower leg, upper leg, instep, arch, sole, toe \u2026 [\u00a0Brodeur\u00a0])\n\nI think Brodeur's phrase \u201cof the legs\u201d here is an interpolation. Then he glosses l\u00e6r as \u201cthigh\u201d, kn\u00e9 as \u201cknee\u201d, k\u00e1lfi as \u201ccalf\u201d, and so on. This passage is what I was thinking of when I said\n\nMany of the words seem to match, which is sometimes helpful but also can be misleading, because many don't.\n\nI could disappear down this rabbit hole for a long time.\n\n\u2022 Regarding mental estimation of the number of primes less than 1,000, which the Prime Number Theorem says is approximately !!\\frac{1000}{\\ln 1000}!!, several people pointed out that if I had memorized !!\\ln 10\\approx 2.3!! then I would have had that there are around !!\\frac{1000}{3\u00b72.3}!! primes under 1,000.\n\nNow it happens that I do have memorized !!\\ln 10\\approx 2.3!! and although I didn't happen come up with it while driving that day, I did come up with it a couple of days later in the parking lot of a Wawa where I stopped to get coffee before my piano lesson. The next step, if you are in a parking lot, is to approximate the division as !!\\frac{1000}{6.9} \\approx \\frac{1000}7 = 142.857\\ldots!! (because you have !!\\frac17=0.\\overline{142857}!! memorized, don't you?) and that gives you an estimate of around 145 primes.\n\nWhich, perhaps surprisingly, is worse than what I did the first time around; it is 14% too low instead of 8% too high. (The right answer is 168 and my original estimate was 182.)\n\nThe explanation is that for small !!n!!, the approximation !!\\pi(N)\\sim\\frac{N}{\\ln N}!! is not actually very good, and I think the interpolation I did, using actual low-value counts, takes better account of the low-value error.","date":"2018-07-22 22:18:12","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 1, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8278408646583557, \"perplexity\": 2466.7388539340795}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 5, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2018-30\/segments\/1531676594018.55\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20180722213610-20180722233610-00633.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Know About The Exercises For Hip Pain – Increasing the flexibility and building strength are effective ways of reducing the hip pain. Strengthening muscles help in supporting the joints. On the other hand, increasing the flexibility helps in reducing the pain. Loss of flexibility can cause huge stress on the joint.
It will cause pain. So we need to decrease the stress. There are lots of exercises which help in decreasing the stress on the joints. We should know about them. It will help us in getting relief from the pain.
Some exercises are needed to perform regularly. It will help in decreasing the pain of the hip. First, you need to start with simple exercise. Then you can try different types. These will help you in relaxing.
At first you need to lie on the back with the knees. Then you need to keep the feet horizontal on the ground. You need to squeeze the gluteal muscles through tightening your cheeks of the buttocks. Then hold it for five seconds. Release it after five seconds. You need to breathe while releasing it. You need to repeat this process for at least thirty times.
You need to lie on the back with the knees again. Then you need to tight your muscles in the buttocks. After that, you need to lift off the hips from the ground. Then hold it for five seconds. Then slowly lower yourself in the down of the backside. You need to take breathe through the full exercise. You need to do this at least thirty times with the first exercise. Take some rest between the two exercises.
For this exercise, you need to lie on the back with the knees. You need to keep the feet horizontally on the ground. You need to tight the buttocks and then you need to lift the hips off the ground. You need to tight the abdominal muscles, as well as lift a foot above couple inches of the ground. Put the foot back and move the other foot, in the same way. You need to take breathe while lifting the foot. You need to do this process at least thirty times at once.
You can also try the workouts in the gym. There you will be able to do exercise for hip pain using different machines. You will also have the guidance of the instructors in the gym. He will show you the proper form of exercise which will help you in decreasing the hip pain. So if you don't know about any exercise for decreasing the hip pain, you can go to your nearest gym for having solution.
This is the easy "Somatic Exercise" will help you begin to reverse hip pain, knee and foot pain. Learn to relax your muscles of the waist that, when chronically contracted, contribute to the pain of sciatica, Piriformis syndrome, plantar fascitis, and hip joint pain.
There are many number of exercises for hip pain. You need to know about them. It will help you in getting relief of the hip pain by doing the exercises regularly. You can do the exercise at home or outside in the gym. The pain won't decrease in a day. It will decrease day by day. So you need to continue the exercise for the best result. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 2,406 |
Q: React navigate router dom is not working when am trying to work on the react redux JWT auth for privateroute There are some issue when am trying to use private router for react redux JWT auth in the project. When am trying to access the dashboard am not seeing the output with the below code.
import { BrowserRouter, Route, Routes } from "react-router-dom";
import { ToastContainer } from "react-toastify";
import "react-toastify/dist/ReactToastify.css";
import TopNav from "./components/TopNav";
import PrivateRoute from "./components/PrivateRoute";
// components
import Home from "./booking/Home";
import Login from "./auth/Login";
import Register from "./auth/Register";
import Dashboard from "./user/Dashboard";
import DashboardSeller from "./user/DashboardSeller";
import NewHotel from "./hotels/NewHotel";
function App() {
return (
<BrowserRouter>
<TopNav />
<ToastContainer position="top-center" />
<Routes>
<Route path="/" element={<Home />} />
<Route path="/login" element={<Login />} />
<Route path="/register" element={<Register />} />
<Route element={<PrivateRoute />}>
<Route element={<Dashboard />} path="/dashboard" />
<Route element={<DashboardSeller />} path="/dashboard/seller" />
<Route element={<NewHotel />} path="/hotels/new" />
</Route>
</Routes>
</BrowserRouter>
);
}
export default App;
A:
import { Outlet, Navigate } from "react-router-dom";
const PrivateRoute = () => {
let auth = { token: true };
return auth.token ? <Outlet /> : <Navigate to="/login" />;
};
export default PrivateRoute;
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 1,512 |
package org.jetbrains.plugins.scala
package codeInspection.methodSignature
import com.intellij.codeInspection.ProblemsHolder
import org.jetbrains.plugins.scala.lang.psi.api.statements.ScFunctionDeclaration
import org.jetbrains.plugins.scala.codeInspection.methodSignature.quickfix.AddUnitTypeToDeclaration
import org.jetbrains.plugins.scala.codeInspection.InspectionBundle
/**
* Nikolay.Tropin
* 6/24/13
*/
class DeclarationHasNoExplicitTypeInspection extends AbstractMethodSignatureInspection(
"DeclarationHasNoExplicitType", InspectionBundle.message("declaration.has.no.explicit.type.name")) {
def actionFor(holder: ProblemsHolder) = {
case f: ScFunctionDeclaration if f.hasUnitResultType && !f.hasExplicitType =>
holder.registerProblem(f.nameId, getDisplayName, new AddUnitTypeToDeclaration(f))
}
} | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 1,578 |
#define _POSIX_C_SOURCE 200809L
#include <stdlib.h>
#include <string.h>
#include "swaybar/config.h"
#include "wlr-layer-shell-unstable-v1-client-protocol.h"
#include "config.h"
#include "stringop.h"
#include "list.h"
#include "log.h"
uint32_t parse_position(const char *position) {
uint32_t horiz = ZWLR_LAYER_SURFACE_V1_ANCHOR_LEFT |
ZWLR_LAYER_SURFACE_V1_ANCHOR_RIGHT;
if (strcmp("top", position) == 0) {
return ZWLR_LAYER_SURFACE_V1_ANCHOR_TOP | horiz;
} else if (strcmp("bottom", position) == 0) {
return ZWLR_LAYER_SURFACE_V1_ANCHOR_BOTTOM | horiz;
} else {
sway_log(SWAY_ERROR, "Invalid position: %s, defaulting to bottom", position);
return ZWLR_LAYER_SURFACE_V1_ANCHOR_BOTTOM | horiz;
}
}
struct swaybar_config *init_config(void) {
struct swaybar_config *config = calloc(1, sizeof(struct swaybar_config));
config->status_command = NULL;
config->pango_markup = false;
config->position = parse_position("bottom");
config->font = strdup("monospace 10");
config->mode = strdup("dock");
config->hidden_state = strdup("hide");
config->sep_symbol = NULL;
config->strip_workspace_numbers = false;
config->strip_workspace_name = false;
config->binding_mode_indicator = true;
config->wrap_scroll = false;
config->workspace_buttons = true;
config->bindings = create_list();
wl_list_init(&config->outputs);
config->status_padding = 1;
config->status_edge_padding = 3;
/* height */
config->height = 0;
/* gaps */
config->gaps.top = 0;
config->gaps.right = 0;
config->gaps.bottom = 0;
config->gaps.left = 0;
/* colors */
config->colors.background = 0x000000FF;
config->colors.focused_background = 0x000000FF;
config->colors.statusline = 0xFFFFFFFF;
config->colors.focused_statusline = 0xFFFFFFFF;
config->colors.separator = 0x666666FF;
config->colors.focused_workspace.border = 0x4C7899FF;
config->colors.focused_workspace.background = 0x285577FF;
config->colors.focused_workspace.text = 0xFFFFFFFF;
config->colors.active_workspace.border = 0x333333FF;
config->colors.active_workspace.background = 0x5F676AFF;
config->colors.active_workspace.text = 0xFFFFFFFF;
config->colors.inactive_workspace.border = 0x333333FF;
config->colors.inactive_workspace.background = 0x222222FF;
config->colors.inactive_workspace.text = 0x888888FF;
config->colors.urgent_workspace.border = 0x2F343AFF;
config->colors.urgent_workspace.background = 0x900000FF;
config->colors.urgent_workspace.text = 0xFFFFFFFF;
config->colors.binding_mode.border = 0x2F343AFF;
config->colors.binding_mode.background = 0x900000FF;
config->colors.binding_mode.text = 0xFFFFFFFF;
#if HAVE_TRAY
config->tray_padding = 2;
wl_list_init(&config->tray_bindings);
#endif
return config;
}
void free_binding(struct swaybar_binding *binding) {
if (!binding) {
return;
}
free(binding->command);
free(binding);
}
#if HAVE_TRAY
void free_tray_binding(struct tray_binding *binding) {
if (!binding) {
return;
}
free(binding->command);
free(binding);
}
#endif
void free_config(struct swaybar_config *config) {
free(config->status_command);
free(config->font);
free(config->mode);
free(config->hidden_state);
free(config->sep_symbol);
for (int i = 0; i < config->bindings->length; i++) {
struct swaybar_binding *binding = config->bindings->items[i];
free_binding(binding);
}
list_free(config->bindings);
struct config_output *coutput, *tmp;
wl_list_for_each_safe(coutput, tmp, &config->outputs, link) {
wl_list_remove(&coutput->link);
free(coutput->name);
free(coutput);
}
#if HAVE_TRAY
list_free_items_and_destroy(config->tray_outputs);
struct tray_binding *tray_bind = NULL, *tmp_tray_bind = NULL;
wl_list_for_each_safe(tray_bind, tmp_tray_bind, &config->tray_bindings,
link) {
wl_list_remove(&tray_bind->link);
free_tray_binding(tray_bind);
}
free(config->icon_theme);
#endif
free(config);
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 3,284 |
E-text prepared by sp1nd, Matthew Wheaton, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 40584-h.htm or 40584-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40584/40584-h/40584-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40584/40584-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/cu31924028040032
LANCASHIRE
[Illustration: EMIGRANTS AT LIVERPOOL]
LANCASHIRE
Brief Historical and Descriptive Notes
by
LEO H. GRINDON
Author of
'The Manchester Flora'; 'Manchester Banks and Bankers';
'Life, Its Nature, Varieties, and Phenomena'; etc.
With Many Illustrations
London
Seeley and Co., Limited
Essex Street, Strand
1892
PREFACE
The following Chapters were written for the _Portfolio_ of 1881, in
which they appeared month by month. Only a limited space being allowed
for them, though liberally enlarged whenever practicable, not one of
the many subjects demanding notice could be dealt with at length.
While reprinting, a few additional particulars have been introduced;
but even with these, in many cases where there should be pages there
is only a paragraph. Lancashire is not a county to be disposed of so
briefly. The present work makes no pretension to be more than an index
to the principal facts of interest which pertain to it, the details,
in almost every instance, still awaiting the treatment they so well
deserve. If I have succeeded in marking out the foundations for a
superstructure to be raised some day by an abler hand, I shall be
content. It is for every man to begin something, to the best of his
power, that may be useful to his fellow-creatures, though it may not
be permitted to him to enjoy the greater pleasure of completing it.
Some of the commendations passed upon Lancashire may seem to come of
the partiality of a man for his own county. It may be well for me to
say that, although a resident in Manchester for forty years, my native
place is Bristol.
LEO GRINDON.
CONTENTS
I. LEADING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE COUNTY
II. LIVERPOOL
III. THE COTTON DISTRICT AND THE MANUFACTURE OF COTTON
IV. MANCHESTER
V. MISCELLANEOUS INDUSTRIAL OCCUPATIONS
VI. PECULIARITIES OF CHARACTER, DIALECT, AND PASTIMES
VII. THE INLAND SCENERY SOUTH OF LANCASTER
VIII. THE SEASHORE AND THE LAKE DISTRICT
IX. THE ANCIENT CASTLES AND MONASTIC BUILDINGS
X. THE OLD CHURCHES AND THE OLD HALLS
XI. THE OLD HALLS (_continued_)
XII. THE NATURAL HISTORY AND THE FOSSILS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
EMIGRANTS AT LIVERPOOL _By G. P. Jacomb Hood_
SHIPPING ON THE MERSEY _By A. Brunet-Debaines_
AMERICAN WHEAT AT LIVERPOOL
RAN AWAY TO SEA
ST. NICHOLAS CHURCH, LIVERPOOL _By H. Toussaint_
THE CUSTOM-HOUSE, LIVERPOOL
ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LIVERPOOL
THE EXCHANGE, LIVERPOOL _By R. Kent Thomas_
WIGAN
WARRINGTON
THE DINNER HOUR
PAY-DAY IN A COTTON MILL _By G. P. Jacomb Hood_
IN A COTTON FACTORY
MANCHESTER CATHEDRAL
ST. ANNE'S SQUARE, MANCHESTER
TOWN HALL, MANCHESTER _By T. Riley_
DEANSGATE, MANCHESTER
IN THE WIRE WORKS
MAKING COKE
SMELTING
GLASS-BLOWING _By G. P. Jacomb Hood_
ON THE BRIDGEWATER CANAL _By G. P. Jacomb Hood_
ON THE BRIDGEWATER CANAL
BLACKSTONE EDGE
THE LAKE AT LITTLEBOROUGH
WATERFALL IN CLIVIGER
IN THE BURNLEY VALLEY
THE RIBBLE AT CLITHEROE
CONISTON _By David Law_
NEAR THE COPPER MINES, CONISTON
LANCASTER _By David Law_
CLITHEROE CASTLE
FURNESS ABBEY
FURNESS ABBEY _By R. Kent Thomas_
DARCY LEVER, NEAR BOLTON
SPEKE HALL _By T. Riley_
HALE HALL
HALL IN THE WOOD _By R. Kent Thomas_
HOGHTON TOWER
STONYHURST _By R. Kent Thomas_
LANCASHIRE
I
LEADING CHARACTERISTICS OF THE COUNTY
Directly connected with the whole world, through the medium of its
shipping and manufactures, Lancashire is commercially to Great Britain
what the Forum was to ancient Rome--the centre from which roads led
towards every principal province of the empire. Being nearer to the
Atlantic, Liverpool commands a larger portion of our commerce with
North America even than London: it is from the Mersey that the great
westward steamers chiefly sail. The biographies of the distinguished
men who had their birthplace in Lancashire, and lived there always,
many of them living still, would fill a volume. A second would hardly
suffice to tell of those who, though not natives, have identified
themselves at various periods with Lancashire movements and
occupations. No county has drawn into its population a larger number
of individuals of the powerful classes, some taking up their permanent
abode in it, others coming for temporary purposes. In cultivated
circles in the large towns the veritable Lancashire men are always
fewer in number than those born elsewhere, or whose fathers did not
belong to Lancashire. No trifling item is it in the county annals that
the immortal author of the _Advancement of Learning_ represented, as
member of Parliament, for four years (1588-1592) the town which in
1809 gave birth to William Ewart Gladstone, and which, during the
boyhood of the latter, sent Canning to the House of Commons.[1] In
days to come England will point to Lancashire as the cradle also of
the Stanleys, one generation after another, of Sir Robert Peel, John
Bright, and Richard Cobden. The value to the country of the several
men, the soundness of their legislative policy, the consistency of
their lines of reasoning, is at this moment not the question. They are
types of the vigorous constructive genius which has made England great
and free, and so far they are types of the aboriginal Lancashire
temper. Lancashire has been the birthplace also of a larger number of
mechanical inventions, invaluable to the human race; and the scene of
a larger number of the applications of science to great purposes, than
any other fragment of the earth's surface of equal dimensions. It is
in Lancashire that we find the principal portion of the early history
of steam and steam-engines, the first railway of pretension to
magnitude forming a part of it. The same county had already led the
way in regard to the English Canal system--that mighty network of
inland navigation of which the Manchester Ship Canal, now in process
of construction, will, when complete, be the member wonderful above
all others. No trivial undertaking can that be considered; no distrust
can there be of one in regard to its promise for the future, which has
the support of no fewer than 38,000 shareholders. Here, too, in
Lancashire, we have the most interesting part of the early history of
the use of gas for lighting purposes. In Lancashire, again, were laid
the foundations of the whole of the stupendous industry represented in
the cotton-manufacture, with calico-printing, and the allied arts of
pattern design. The literary work of Lancashire has been abreast of
the county industry and scientific life. Mr. Sutton's _List of
Lancashire Authors_, published in 1876, since which time many others
have come to the front, contains the names of nearly 1250,
three-fourths of whom, he tells us, were born within the
frontiers--men widely various, of necessity, in wit and aim, more
various still in fertility, some never going beyond a pamphlet or an
"article,"--useful, nevertheless, in their generation, and deserving a
place in the honourable catalogue. Historians, antiquaries, poets,
novelists, biographers, financiers, find a place in it, with scholars,
critics, naturalists, divines. Every one acquainted with books knows
that William Roscoe wrote in Liverpool. Bailey's _Festus_, one of the
most remarkable poems of the age, was originally published in
Manchester. The standard work upon British Bryology was produced in
Warrington, and, like the life of Lorenzo de Medici, by a
solicitor--the late William Wilson. Nowhere in the provinces have
there been more conspicuous examples of exact and delicate
philosophical and mathematical experiment and observation than such as
in Manchester enabled Dalton to determine the profoundest law in
chemistry; and Horrox, the young curate of Hoole, long before, to be
the first of mankind to watch a transit of Venus, providing thereby
for astronomers the means towards new departures of the highest
moment. During the Franco-Prussian war, when communication with the
interior of Paris was manageable only by the employment of
carrier-pigeons and the use of micro-photography, it was again a
Lancashire man who had to be thanked for the art of concentrating a
page of newspaper to the size of a postage-stamp. Possibly there were
two or three contemporaneous inventors, but the first to make
micro-photography--after the spectroscope, the most exquisite
combination of chemical and optical science yet introduced to the
world--public and practical, was the late Mr. J. B. Dancer, of
Manchester.
[1] _Vide_ Blue Book, 1878, Part I. p. 423. The first return of
Bacon for St. Albans was not until 1601. Roger Ascham, whose
influence upon education was even profounder than Bacon's, sat
for another Lancashire town--Preston--in the Parliament of 1563.
Generous and substantial designs for promoting the education of the
people, and their enjoyment,--habits also of thrift and of
self-culture, are characteristic of Lancashire. Some have had their
origin upon the middle social platform; others have sprung from the
civilised among the rich.[2] The Co-operative system, with its varied
capacities for rendering good service to the provident and careful,
had its beginning in Rochdale. The first place to copy Dr. Birkbeck's
Mechanics' Institution was Manchester, in which town the first
provincial School of Medicine was founded, and which to-day holds the
headquarters of the Victoria University. Manchester, again, was the
first town in England to take advantage of the Free Libraries Act of
1850, opening on September 2d, 1852, with Liverpool in its immediate
wake. The Chetham Free Library (Manchester) had already existed for
200 years, conferring benefits upon the community which it would be
difficult to over-estimate. Other Lancashire towns--Darwen, Oldham,
Southport, and Preston, for example, have latterly possessed
themselves of capital libraries, so that, including the fine old
collection at Warrington, the number of books now within reach of
Lancashire readers, _pro rata_ for the population, certainly has no
parallel out of London. An excellent feature in the management of
several of these libraries consists in the effort made to attain
completeness in special departments. Rochdale aims at a complete
collection of books relating to wool; Wigan desires to possess all
that has been written about engineering; the Manchester library
contains nearly eight hundred volumes having reference to cotton. In
the last-named will also be found the nucleus of a collection which
promises to be the finest in the country, of books illustrative of
English dialects. The Manchester libraries collectively, or Free and
Subscription taken together, are specially rich in botanical and
horticultural works--many of them magnificently illustrated and
running to several volumes--the sum of the titles amounting to
considerably over a thousand. Liverpool, too, is well provided with
books of this description, counting among them that splendid
Lancashire work, Roscoe's _Monandrian Plants_, the drawings for which
were chiefly made in the Liverpool Botanic Garden--the fourth founded
in England, or first after Chelsea, Oxford, and Cambridge, and
specially interesting in having been set on foot, in 1800, by Roscoe
himself.
[2] It is necessary to say the "civilised," because in
Lancashire, as in all other industrial communities, especially
manufacturing ones, there are plenty of selfish and vulgar rich.
The legitimate and healthful recreation of the multitude is in
Lancashire, with the thoughtful, as constant an object as their
intellectual succour. The public parks in the suburbs of many of the
principal Lancashire towns, with their playgrounds and gymnasia, are
unexcelled. Manchester has no fewer than five, including the recent
noble gift of the "Whitworth." Salford has good reason to be proud of
its "Peel Park." Blackburn, Preston, Oldham, Lancaster, Wigan,
Southport, and Heywood have also done their best.
In Lancashire have always been witnessed the most vigorous and
persistent struggles made in this country for civil and political
liberty and the amendment of unjust laws. Sometimes, unhappily, they
have seemed to indicate disaffection; and enthusiasts, well-meaning
but extremely unwise--so commonly the case with their class--have
never failed to obtain plenty of support, often prejudicial to the
very cause they sought to uphold. But the ways of the people,
considered as a community, deducting the intemperate and the zealots,
have always been patriotic, and there has never been lack of
determination to uphold the throne. The modern Volunteer movement, as
the late Sir James Picton once reminded us, may be fairly said to have
originated in Liverpool; the First Lancashire Rifles, which claims to
be the oldest Volunteer company, having been organised there in 1859.
In any case the promptitude of the act showed the vitality of that
fine old Lancashire disposition to defend the right, which at the
commencement of the Civil Wars rendered the county so conspicuous for
its loyalty. It was in Lancashire that the first blood was shed on
behalf of Charles the First, and that the last effort, before
Worcester, was made in favour of his son--this in the celebrated
battle of Wigan Lane. It was the same loyalty which, in 1644,
sustained Charlotte de la Tremouille, Countess of Derby, in the famous
three months' defence of Lathom House, when besieged by Fairfax.
Charlotte, a lady of French extraction, might quite excusably be
supposed to have had less care for the king than an Englishwoman. But
she was now the wife of a Lancashire man, and that was enough for her
heart; she attuned herself to the Earl's own devotedness, became
practically a Lancashire woman, and took equal shares with him in his
unflinching fervour. The faithfulness to great trusts which always
marks the noble wife, however humble her social position, however
exalted her rank and title, with concurrent temptations to wrongdoing,
doubtless lay at the foundation of Charlotte's personal heroism. But
it was her pasturing, so to speak, in Lancashire, which brought it up
to fruition. Of course, she owed much to the fidelity of her
Lancashire garrison. Without it, her own brave spirit would not have
sufficed. Lancashire men have always made good soldiers. Several were
knighted "when the fight was done" at Poitiers and Agincourt. The
Middleton archers distinguished themselves at Flodden. The gallant
47th--the "Lancashire Lads"--were at the Alma, and at Inkerman formed
part of the "thin red line." There is equally good promise for the
future, should occasion arise. At the great Windsor Review of the
Volunteers in July 1881, when 50,000 were brought together, it was
unanimously allowed by the military critics that, without the
slightest disrespect to the many other fine regiments upon the ground,
the most distinguished for steadiness, physique, and discipline, as
well as the numerically strongest, was the 1st Manchester. So striking
was the spectacle that the Queen inquired specially for the name of
the corps which reflected so much honour upon its county. In the
return published in the General Orders of the Army, February 1882, it
is stated that the 2d Battalion of the South Lancashire had then
attained the proud distinction of being its "best signalling corps."
The efforts made in Lancashire to obtain changes for the better in the
statute-book had remarkable illustration in the establishment of the
Anti-Corn-Law League, the original idea of which was of much earlier
date than is commonly supposed, having occupied men's minds, both in
Manchester and Liverpool, as far back as the year 1825. The celebrated
cry six years later for Reform in the representation was not heard
more loudly even in Birmingham than in the metropolis of the cotton
trade.
The pioneers of every kind of religious movement have, like the
leaders in civil and political reform, always found Lancashire
responsive; and, as with practical scientific inventions, it is to
this county that the most interesting part of the early history of
non-conforming bodies very generally pertains. George Fox, the founder
of the "Society of Friends," commenced his earnest work in the
neighbourhood of Ulverston. "Denominations" of every kind have also in
this county maintained themselves vigorously, and there are none which
do not here still exist in their strength. The "Established Church,"
as elsewhere, holds the foremost place, and pursues, as always, the
even tenour of its way. During the forty-three years that Manchester
has been the centre of a diocese, there have been built within the
bishopric (including certain rebuildings on a larger scale) not fewer
than 300 new churches. The late tireless Bishop Fraser "confirmed"
young people at the rate of 11,000 every year. The strength of the
Wesleyans is declared by their contributions to the great Thanksgiving
Fund, which amounted, on 15th November 1880, to nearly a quarter of
the entire sum then subscribed, viz. to about L65,000 out of the
L293,000. They possess a college at Didsbury; not far from which, at
Withington, the Congregationalists likewise have one of their own. The
long standing and the power of the Presbyterians is illustrated in
their owning the oldest place of worship in Manchester next to the
"Cathedral,"--the "chapel" in Cross Street,--a building which dates
from the early part of the sixteenth century. The sympathy of
Lancashire with the Church of Rome has been noted from time
immemorial;--perhaps it would be more accurately said that there has
been a stauncher allegiance here than in many other places to
hereditary creed. The Catholic diocese of Salford (in which Manchester
and several of the neighbouring towns are included) claimed in 1879 a
seventh of the entire population.[3] Stonyhurst, near Clitheroe, is
the seat of the chief provincial Jesuit college. Lastly, it is an
interesting concurrent fact, that of the seventy Societies or
congregations in England which profess the faith called the "New
Jerusalem," Lancashire contains no fewer than twenty-four.
[3] Namely, 209,480 Catholic, as against 1,437,000 non-Catholic.
The historical associations offered in many parts of Lancashire are by
no means inferior to those of other counties. One of the most
interesting of the old Roman roads crosses Blackstone Edge. Names of
places near the south-west coast tell of the Scandinavian Vikings. In
1323 Robert Bruce and his army of Scots ravaged the northern districts
and nearly destroyed Preston. The neighbourhood of that town witnessed
the Stuart enterprise of 1715, and of Prince Charles Edward's march
through the county in 1745 many memorials still exist.
The ruins of two of the most renowned of the old English abbeys are
also here--Whalley, with its long record of benevolence, and Furness,
scarcely surpassed in manifold interest even by Fountains. One of the
very few remaining examples of an ancient castle belongs to the famous
old town from which John o' Gaunt received his title.[4] Parish
churches of remote foundation, with sculptures and lettered monuments,
supply the antiquary with pleasing variety. Old halls are numerous;
and connected with these, with the abbeys, and other relics of the
past, we find innumerable entertaining legends and traditions, often
rendered so much the more attractive through preserving, in part, the
county speech of the olden time, to be dealt with by and by.
[4] ..."Next to whom
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster."
_King Henry VI._, Part 2d, ii. 2.
The _first_ Duke of Lancaster was Henry, previously Earl of
Derby, whose daughter Blanche was married by John of Gaunt, the
latter succeeding to the title.
In the sports, manners, and customs which still linger where not
superseded by modern ones, there is yet further curious material for
observation, and the same may be said of the recreations of the staid
and reflecting among the operative classes. It is in Lancashire that
"science in humble life" has always had its most numerous and
remarkable illustrations. Natural history, in particular, forms one of
the established pastimes in the cotton districts and among the men who
are connected with the daylight work of the collieries. Many of the
working-men botanists are banded into societies or clubs, which often
possess libraries, and were founded before any living can remember.
Music, especially choral and part-singing, has been cultivated in
Lancashire with a devotion equalled only perhaps in Yorkshire, and
certainly nowhere excelled. Both the air and the words of the most
popular Christmas hymn in use among Protestants, "Christians, awake!"
were composed within the sound, or nearly so, of the Manchester old
church bells. The verses were written by Dr. Byrom, of stenographic
fame;[5] the music, which compares well with the "Adeste Fideles"
itself,--the song of Christmas with other communions,--was the
production of John Wainwright. On a lower level we find the far-famed
Lancashire Hand-bell Ringers. The facilities provided in Lancashire
for self-culture have already been spoken of. That private education
and school discipline are effective may be assumed, perhaps, from the
circumstance that in October 1880 the girl who at the Oxford Local
Examinations stood highest in all England belonged to Liverpool.
[5] Originally published in the _Manchester Mercury_, 19th
October 1752.
Not without significance either is it that the coveted distinction of
"Senior Wrangler" was won by a Lancashire man on five occasions within
the twenty years ending February 1881. Three of the victors went up
from Liverpool, one from Manchester, and one from the Wigan
grammar-school. Lancashire may well be proud of such a list as this;
feeling added pleasure in knowing that the gold medal, with prize of
ten guineas, offered by the Council of Trinity College, London, for
the best essay on "Middle-class Education, its Influence on Commercial
Pursuits," was won in 1880 by a Lancashire lady--Miss Agnes Amy
Bulley, of the Manchester College for Women.
The list of artists, chiefly painters, identified with the county
appears from Mr. Nodal's researches to be not far short of a hundred,
the earliest having been Hamlet Winstanley, of Warrington, where he
died in 1756. Many of his productions, family portraits and views in
the neighbourhood, are contained in the Knowsley collection. Two of
these Lancashire artists--Joseph Farrington, R.A., and William
Green--were among the first to disclose the beauties of the Lake
District, by means of lithography or engraved views prepared from
their drawings. Farrington's twenty views appeared in 1789. Green's
series of sixty was issued from Ambleside in 1814. A very curious
circumstance connected with art in its way, is that Focardi's
well-known droll statuette, "The Dirty Boy," was produced in
Lancashire! Focardi happened to be in Preston looking for employment.
Waiting one morning for breakfast, and going downstairs to ascertain
the cause of the delay, through a half-open door he descried the
identical old woman and the identical dirty boy! Here at last was a
subject for his chisel. He got L500 for the marble, and the purchasers
acknowledge that it was the most profitable investment they ever made.
The scenery presented in many portions of the county vies with the
choicest to be found anywhere south of the Tweed. The artist turns
with reluctance from the banks of the Lune and the Duddon. The largest
and loveliest of the English lakes, supreme Windermere, belongs
essentially to Lancashire: peaceful Coniston and lucid Esthwaite are
entirely within the borders, and close by rise some of the loftiest of
the English mountains. The top of "Coniston Old Man"--_alt maen_, or
"the high rock"--is 2577 feet above the sea. The part which contains
the lakes and mountains is detached, and properly belongs to the Lake
District, emphatically so called, being reached from the south only by
passing over the lowermost portion of Westmoreland, though accessible
by a perilous way, when the tide is out, across the Morecambe sands.
Still it is Lancashire, a circumstance often surprising to those who,
very naturally, associate the idea of the "Lakes" with the homes of
Southey and Wordsworth, with Ambleside, and Helvellyn, and Lodore.
The geological character of this outlying piece being altogether
different from that of the county in general, Lancashire presents a
variety of surface entirely its own. At one extremity we have the
cold, soft clay so useful to brickmakers; on reaching the Lakes we
find the slate rocks of the very earliest ages. Much of the eastern
edge of the county is skirted by the broad bare hills which constitute
the central vertebrae of the "backbone of England," the imposing
"Pennine range," which extends from Derbyshire to the Cheviots, and
conceals the three longest of the English railway tunnels, one of
which both begins and ends in Lancashire. The rock composing them is
millstone-grit, with its customary gray and weather-beaten crags and
ferny ravines. Plenty of tell-tale gullies declare the vehemence of
the winter storms that beat above, and in many of these the rush of
water never ceases. Those who seek solitude, the romantic, and the
picturesque, know these hills well; in parts, where there is moorland,
the sportsman resorts to them for grouse.
In various places the rise of the ground is very considerable, far
greater than would be anticipated when first sallying forth from
Manchester, though on clear days, looking northwards, when a view can
be obtained, there is pleasant intimation of distant hills. Rivington
Pike, not far from Bolton, is 1545 feet above the sea-level. Pendle,
near Clitheroe, where the rock changes to limestone, is 1803. The
millstone-grit reappears intermittently as far as Lancaster, but
afterwards limestone becomes predominant, continuing nearly to the
slate rocks. It is to the limestone that Grange, one of the prettiest
places in this part of the country, owes much of its scenic charm as
well as salubrity. Not only does it give the bold and ivied tors which
usually indicate calcareous rock. Suiting many kinds of ornamental
trees, especially those which retain their foliage throughout the
year, we owe to it in no slight measure the innumerable shining
evergreens which at Grange, even in mid-winter, constantly tempt one
to exclaim with Virgil, when caressing his beloved Italy, "Hic ver
assiduum!"
The southernmost part of the county has for its surface-rock chiefly
the upper new red sandstone, a formation not favourable to fine
hill-scenery, though the long ridges for which it is distinguished, at
all events in Lancashire and Cheshire, often give a decided character
to the landscape. The highest point in the extreme south-west, or near
Liverpool, occupied by Everton church, has an elevation of no more
than 250 feet, or less than a tenth of that of "Coniston Old Man."
Ashurst, between Wigan and Ormskirk, and Billinge, between Wigan and
St. Helens, make amends, the beacon upon the latter being 633 feet
above the sea. The prospects from the two last named are very fine.
They are interesting to the topographer as having been first resorted
to as fit spots for beacons and signal-fires when the Spanish Armada
was expected, watchers upon the airy heights of Rivington, Pendle, and
Brown Wardle, standing ready to transmit the news farther inland. It
is interesting to recall to mind that the news of the sailing of the
Armada in the memorable July of 1588 was brought to England by one of
the old Liverpool mariners, the captain of a little vessel that
traded with the Mediterranean and the coast of Africa.
Very different is the western margin of this changeful county, the
whole extent from the Mersey to Duddon Bridge being washed by the
Irish Sea. But, although maritime, it has none of the prime factors of
seaside scenery,--broken rocks and cliffs,--not, at least, until after
passing Morecambe Bay. From Liverpool onwards there is only level
sand, and, to the casual visitor, apparently never anything besides;
for the tide, which is swift to go out, recedes very far, and seldom
seems anxious to come in. Blackpool is exceptional. Here the roll of
the water is often glorious, and the dimples in calm weather are such
as would have satisfied old Aeschylus. On the whole, however, the coast
must be pronounced monotonous, and the country that borders on it
uninteresting. But whatever may be wanting in the way of rocks and
cliffs, the need is fully compensated by the exceeding beauty in parts
of the sandhills, especially near Birkdale and St. Anne's, where for
miles they have the semblance of a miniature mountain range.
Intervening there are broad, green, peaty plateaux, which, becoming
saturated after rain, allow of the growth of countless wild-flowers.
Orchises of several sorts, the pearly grass of Parnassus, the pyrola
that imitates the lily of the valley--all come to these wild sandhills
to rejoice in the breath of the ocean, which, like that of the
heavens, here "smells wooingly." Looking seawards, though it is seldom
that we have tossing surge, there is further compensation very
generally in the beauty of sunset--the old-fashioned but inestimable
privilege of the western coast of our island--part of the "daily
bread" of those who thank God consistently for His infinite bounty to
man's soul as well as body, and which no people in the world command
more perfectly than the inhabitants of the coast of Lancashire. Seated
on those quiet sandhills, on a calm September evening, one may often
contemplate on the trembling water a path of crimson light more
beautiful than one of velvet laid down for the feet of a queen.
At the northern extremity of the county, as near Ulverstone, there are
rocky and turf-clad promontories; but even at Humphrey Head, owing to
the flatness of the adjacent sands, there is seldom any considerable
amount of surf.
The most remarkable feature of the sea-margin of Lancashire consists
in the number of its estuaries. The largest of these form the outlets
of the Ribble and the Wyre, at the mouth of the last of which is the
comparatively new port of Fleetwood. The estuary of the Mersey (the
southern shore of which belongs to Cheshire) is peculiarly
interesting, on account of the seemingly recent origin of most of the
lower portion. Ptolemy, the Roman geographer, writing about A.D. 130,
though he speaks of the Dee and the Ribble, makes no mention of the
Mersey, which, had the river existed in its present form and width, he
could hardly have overlooked.[6] No mention is made of it either in
the Antonine Itinerary; and as stumps of old oaks of considerable
magnitude, which had evidently grown _in situ_, were not very long ago
distinguishable on the northern margin when the tide was out, near
where the Liverpool people used to bathe, the conclusion is quite
legitimate that the level of the bed of the estuary must in the Celtic
times, at the part where the ferry steamers go, have been much higher,
and the stream proportionately narrow, perhaps a mere brook, with
salt-marshes right and left. "Liverpool" was originally the name,
simply and purely, of the estuary, indicating, in its derivation, not
a town, or a village, but simply water. How far upwards the brook,
with its swamp or morass, extended, it is not possible to tell, though
probably there was always a sheet of water near the present Runcorn.
Depression of the shore, with plenty of old tree-stumps, certifying an
extinct forest, is plainly observable a few miles distant on the
Cheshire coast, just below New Brighton.
[6] Unless, possibly, as contended by Mr. T. G. Rylands in the
_Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society's Proceedings_
for 1878, vol. xvii. p. 81, following Horsley and Keith
Johnston, Pliny intended the Mersey by his "Belisama." But West,
Professor William Smith, and authors in general, consider that
the "Belisama" was the modern Ribble.
In several parts of Lancashire, especially in the extreme south-east,
the surface is occupied by wet and dreary wastes, composed of peat,
and locally called "mosses." That they have been formed since the
commencement of the Christian era there can be little doubt, abundance
of remains of the branches of trees being found near the clay floor
upon which the peat has gradually arisen. The most noted of these
desolate flats is that one called Chat, or St. Chad's Moss, the scene
of the special difficulty in the construction of the original
Liverpool and Manchester Railway. Nothing can exceed the dismalness of
the mosses during nine or ten months of the year. Absolutely level,
stretching for several miles, treeless, and with a covering only of
brown and wiry scrub, Nature seems expiring in them. June kindly
brings a change. Everything has its festival some time. For a
short period they are strewed with the summer snow of the
cotton-sedge,--the "cana" of Ossian, "Her bosom was whiter than the
down of cana"; and again, in September, they are amethyst-tinted for
two or three weeks with the bloom of the heather. During the last
quarter of a century the extent of these mosses has been much reduced,
by draining and cultivation at the margins, and in course of time they
will probably disappear.
Forests were once a feature of a good part of Lancashire. Long
subsequently to the time of the Conquest, much of the county was still
covered with trees. The celebrated "_Carta de Foresta_," or "Forest
Charter," under which the clearing of the ground of England for
farming purposes first became general and continuous, was granted only
in the reign of Henry III., A.D. 1224, or contemporaneously with the
uprise of Salisbury Cathedral, a date thus rendered easy of
remembrance.
Here and there the trees were allowed to remain; and among these
reserved portions of the original Lancashire "wild wood" it is
interesting to find West Derby, the "western home of wild animals,"
thus named because so valuable as a hunting-ground.[7] No forest, in
the current sense of the word, has survived in Lancashire to the
present day. Even single trees of patriarchal age are almost unknown.
Agriculture, when commenced, proceeded vigorously, chiefly, however,
in regard to meadow and pasture; cornfields have never been either
numerous or extensive, except in the district beyond Preston called
the Fylde--an immense breadth of alluvial drift, grateful in almost
all parts for good farming.
[7] Retained to this day as the name of one of the principal
Lancashire "Hundreds," it is West Derby which gives title to the
Earls of the house of Stanley, and not, as often supposed, the
city in the midland counties.
II
LIVERPOOL
The situation of this great city is in some respects one of the most
enviable in the country. Stretching along the upper bank of an
unrivalled estuary, 1200 yards across where narrowest, and the river
current of which flows westwards, it is near enough to the sea to be
called a maritime town, yet sufficiently far inland never to suffer
any of the discomforts of the open coast. Upon the opposite side of
the water the ground rises gently. Birkenhead, the energetic new
Liverpool of the last fifty years, covers the nearer <DW72>s; in the
distance there are towers and spires, with glimpses of trees, and even
of windmills that tell of wheat not far away.
Liverpool itself is pleasantly undulated. Walking through the busy
streets there is constant sense of rise and fall. An ascent that can
be called toilsome is never met with; nor, except concurrently with
the docks, and in some of the remoter parts of the town, is there any
long continuity of flatness.
[Illustration: SHIPPING ON THE MERSEY]
Compared with the other two principal English seaports, London and
Bristol, the superiority of position is incontestable. A town situated
upon the edge of an estuary must needs have quite exceptional
advantages. London is indebted for its wealth and grandeur more to its
having been the metropolis for a thousand years than to the service
directly rendered by the Thames; and as for Bristol, the wonder is
that with a stream like the Avon it should still count with the trio,
and retain its ancient title of Queen of the West. Away from the
water-side, Liverpool loses. There are no green downs and "shadowy
woods" reached in half-an-hour from the inmost of the city, such as
give character to Clifton; nor, upon the whole, can the scenery of the
neighbourhood be said to present any but the very mildest and simplest
features. Only in the district which includes Mossley, Allerton,
Toxteth, and Otterspool, is there any approach to the picturesque.
Hereabouts we find meadows and rural lanes; and a few miles up the
stream, the Cheshire hills begin to show plainly. Yet not far from the
Prince's Park there is a little ravine that aforetime, when farther
away from the borough boundaries, and when the name was given, would
seem to have been another Kelvin Grove,--
"Where the rose, in all its pride,
Paints the hollow dingle side,
And the midnight fairies glide,
Bonnie lassie, O!"
Fairyland, tram-cars, and the hard facts of a great city, present few
points of contact--Liverpool contrives to unite them in "Exchange to
Dingle, 3d. inside." Among the dainty little poems left us by Roscoe,
who was quick to recognise natural beauty, there is one upon the
disappearance of the brooklet which, descending from springs now dried
up, once babbled down this pretty dell with its tribute to the river.
To the stranger approaching Liverpool by railway, these inviting bits
of the adjacent country are, unfortunately, not visible. But let him
not murmur. When, after passing through the town, he steps upon the
Landing-stage and looks out upon the heaving water, with its countless
craft, endless in variety, and representing every nation that
possesses ships, he is compensated. The whole world does not present
anything in its way more abounding with life. A third of a mile in
length, broad enough for the parade of troops, imperceptibly
adjusting itself to every condition of the tide, the Liverpool
Landing-stage, regarded simply as a work of constructive art, is a
wonderful sight. It is the scene of the daily movement of many
thousands of human beings, some departing, others just arrived; and,
above all there is the many-hued outlook right and left.
[Illustration: AMERICAN WHEAT AT LIVERPOOL]
Thoroughly to appreciate the nobleness, the capacities, and the use
made of this magnificent river, a couple of little voyages should be
undertaken: one towards the entrance, where the tall white shaft of
the lighthouse comes in view; the other, ascending the stream as far
as Rock Ferry. By this means the extent of the docks and the magnitude
of the neighbouring warehouses may in some degree be estimated. Up the
river and down, from the middle portion of the Landing-stage, without
reckoning Birkenhead, the line of sea-wall measures more than six
miles. The water area of the docks approaches 270 acres; the length of
surrounding quay-margin is nearly twenty miles. The double voyage
gives opportunity also for observation of the many majestic vessels
which are either moving or at anchor in mid-channel. Merchantmen
predominate, but in addition there are almost invariably two or three
of the superb steamers which have their proper home upon the
Atlantic, and in a few hours will be away. The great Companies whose
names are so familiar--the Cunard, the Allan, the White Star, the
Inman, and five or six others--despatch between them no fewer than ten
of these splendid vessels every week, and fortnightly two extra, the
same number arriving at similar intervals. Columbus's largest ship was
about ninety tons; the steamers spoken of are mostly from 2000 to 5000
tons; a few are of 8000 or 9000 tons. Besides these, there are the
South Americans, the steamers to the East and West Indies, China,
Japan, and the West Coast of Africa, the weight varying from 1500 to
4000 tons, more than fifty of these mighty vessels going out every
month, and as many coming in. The total number of ships and steamers
actually _in_ the docks, Birkenhead included, on the 6th of December
1880 was 438.
A fairly fine day, a sunshiny one if possible, should be selected for
these little voyages, not merely because of its pleasantness, but in
order to observe the astonishing distance to which the river-life
extends. Like every other town in our island, Liverpool knows full
well what is meant by fog and rain. "Some days must be dark and
dreary." At times it is scarcely possible for the ferry-boats to find
their way across, and not a sound is to be heard except to convey
warning or alarm. But the gloomy hours, fortunately, do not come
often. The local meteorologists acknowledge an excellent average of
cheerful weather,--the prevailing kind along the whole extent of the
lower Lancashire coast, the hills being too distant to arrest the
passage of the clouds,--and the man who misses his boat two or three
times running must indeed be unlucky. Happily, these uncertainties
and vexations of the bygones, actual and possible, have now been
neutralised, say since 20th January 1886, by the construction of the
Cheshire Lines tunnel under the river.
[Illustration: RAN AWAY TO SEA]
Nothing, on a fine day, can be more exhilarating than three or four
hours upon the Mersey. Liverpool, go where we may, is, in the better
parts, a place emphatically of exhilarations. The activity of the
river-life is prefigured in the jauntiness of the movement in the
streets; the display in the shop-windows, at all events where one has
to make way for the current of well-dressed ladies which at noon adds
in no slight measure to the various gaiety of the scene, is a constant
stimulus to the fancy--felt so much the more if one's railway ticket
for the day has been purchased in homely Stockport, or dull Bury, or
unadorned Middleton, or even in thronged Manchester. Still it is upon
the water that the impression is most animating. High up the river,
generally near the Rock Ferry pier, a guardship is stationed--usually
an ironclad. Beyond this we come upon four old men-of-war used as
training-ships. The _Conway_, a naval school for young officers,
accommodates 150, including many of good birth, who pay L50 a-year
apiece. The _Indefatigable_ gives gratuitous teaching to the sons of
sailors, orphans, and other homeless boys. The _Akbar_ and the
_Clarence_ are Reformatory schools, the first for misbehaving
Protestant lads, the other for Catholics. The good work done by these
Reformatories is immense. During the three years 1876 to 1878, the
number passed out of the two vessels was 1890, and of these no fewer
than 1420 had been converted into capital young seamen.[8]
[8] _Vide_ Mr. Inglis's Twenty-third Report to Government on the
Certified and Industrial Schools of Great Britain, December
1880.
Who will write us a book upon the immeasurable _minor_ privileges of
life, the things we are apt to pass by and take no note of, because
"common"? Sailing upon this glorious river, how beautiful overhead the
gleam, against the azure, of the sea-gulls! Liverpool is just near
enough to the saltwater for them to come as daily visitants, just far
enough for them to be never so many as to spoil the sweet charm of the
unexpected: for the moment they make one forget even the ships. Man's
most precious and enduring possessions are the loveliness and the
significance of nature. Were all things valued as they deserve,
perhaps these cheery sea-birds would have their due.
The Liverpool docks are more remarkable than those even of London.
Some of the famed receptacles fed from the Thames are more capacious,
and the number of vessels they contain when full is proportionately
greater than is possible in the largest of the Liverpool. But in
London there are not so many, nor is there so great a variety of cargo
seen upon the quays, nor is the quantity of certain imports so vast.
In the single month of October 1880 Liverpool imported from North
America of apples alone no fewer than 167,400 barrels. Most of the
docks are devoted to particular classes of ships or steamers, or to
special branches of trade. The King's Dock is the chief scene of the
reception of tobacco, the quantity of which brought into Liverpool is
second only to the London import; while the Brunswick is chiefly
devoted to the ships bringing timber. The magnificent Langton and
Alexandra Docks, opened in September 1881, are reserved for the ocean
steamers, which previously had to lie at anchor in the channel,
considerably to the disadvantage of all concerned, but which now enjoy
all the privileges of the smallest craft. At intervals along the quays
there are huge cranes for lifting; and very interesting is it to note
the care taken that their strength, though herculean, shall not be
overtaxed, every crane being marked according to its power, "Not to
lift more than two tons," or whatever other weight it is adapted to.
Like old Bristol, Liverpool holds her docks in her arms. In London, as
an entertaining German traveller told his countrymen some fifty years
ago, a merchant, when he wants to despatch an order to his ship in the
docks, "must often send his clerk down by the railroad; in Liverpool
he may almost make himself heard in the docks out of his
counting-house."[9] This comes mainly of the town and the docks having
grown up together.
[9] J. G. Kohl. _England, Scotland, and Ireland_, vol. iii. p.
43. 1844.
The "dockmen" are well worth notice. None of the loading and unloading
of the ships is done by the sailors. As soon as the vessel is safely
"berthed," the consignees contract with an intermediate operator
called a stevedore,[10] who engages as many men as he requires, paying
them 4s. 6d. per day, and for half-days and quarter-days in
proportion. Nowhere do we see a better illustration than is supplied
in Liverpool of the primitive Judean market-places, "Why stand ye here
all the day idle?" "Because no man hath hired us." Work enough for all
there never is: a circumstance not surprising when we consider that
the total number of day-labourers in Liverpool is estimated at
30,000. The non-employed, who are believed to be always about
one-half, or 15,000, congregate near the water; a favourite place of
assembly appears to be the pavement adjoining the Baths. The dockmen
correspond to the male adults among the operatives in the cotton-mill
districts, with the great distinction that they are employed and paid
by time, and that they are not helped by the girls and women of their
families, who in the factories are quite as useful and important as
the rougher sex. They correspond also to the "pitmen" of collieries,
and to journeymen labourers in general. Most of them are Irish--as
many, it is said, as nine-tenths of the 30,000--and as usual with that
race of people, they have their homes near together. These are chiefly
in the district including Scotland Road, where a very different scene
awaits the tourist. Faction-fights are the established recreation; the
men engage in the streets, the women hurl missiles from the roofs of
the houses. Liverpool has a profoundly mournful as well as a brilliant
side: Canon Kingsley once said that the handsomest set of men he had
ever beheld at one view was the group assembled within the quadrangle
of the Liverpool Exchange: the Income-tax assessment of Liverpool
amounts to nearly sixteen millions sterling: the people claim to be
"Evangelical" beyond compare; and that they have intellectual power
none will dispute:--behind the scenes the fact remains that nowhere in
our island is there deeper destitution and profounder spiritual
darkness.[11] When the famished and ignorant have to be dealt with, it
is better to begin with supply of good food than with aeriform
benedictions. Lady Hope (_nee_ Miss Elizabeth R. Cotton) has shown
that among the genuine levers of civilisation there are none more
substantial than good warm coffee and cocoa. Liverpool, fully
understanding this, is giving to the philanthropic all over England a
lesson which, if discreetly taken up, cannot fail to tell immensely on
the morals, as well as the physical needs, of the poor and destitute.
All along the line of the docks there are "cocoa-shops," some of them
upon wheels, metallic tickets, called "cocoa-pennies," giving access.
[10] For the derivation of this curious word, see _Notes and
Queries_, Sixth Series, vol. ii. pp. 365 and 492. 1880.
[11] Vide _The Dark Side of Liverpool_, by the Rev. R. H.
Lundie, _Weekly Review_, 20th November 1880, p. 1113.
Liverpool is a town of comparatively modern date, being far younger
than Warrington, Preston, Lancaster, and many another which
commercially it has superseded. The name does not occur in Domesday
Book, compiled A.D. 1086, nor till the time of King John does even
the river seem to have been much used. English commerce during the era
of the Crusades did not extend beyond continental Europe, the
communications with which were confined to London, Bristol, and a few
inconsiderable places on the southern coasts. Passengers to Ireland
went chiefly by way of the Dee, and upon the Mersey there were only a
few fishing-boats. At the commencement of the thirteenth century came
a change. The advantages of the Mersey as a harbour were perceived,
and the fishing village upon the northern shore asked for a charter,
which in 1207 was granted. Liverpool, as a borough, is thus now in its
685th year. That this great and opulent city should virtually have
begun life just at the period indicated is a circumstance of no mean
interest, since the reign of John, up till the time of the barons'
gathering at Runnymede, was utterly bare of historical incident, and
the condition of the country in general was poor and depressed.
Coeur de Lion, the popular idol, though scarcely ever seen at home,
was dead. John, the basest monarch who ever sat upon the throne of
England, had himself extinguished every spark of loyal sentiment by
his cruel murder of Prince Arthur. Art was nearly passive, and
literature, except in the person of Layamon, had no existence. Such
was the age, overcast and silent, in which the foundations of
Liverpool were laid: contemplating the times, and all that has come of
the event, one cannot but think of acorn-planting in winter, and
recall the image in _Faust_,--
"Ein Theil der Finsterniss die sich das Licht gebar."
(Part of the darkness which brought forth Light!)
[Illustration: ST. NICHOLAS CHURCH, LIVERPOOL]
The growth of the new borough was for a long period very slow. In
1272, the year of the accession of Edward I., Liverpool consisted of
only 168 houses, occupied (computing on the usual basis) by about 840
people; and even a century later, when Edward III. appealed to the
nation to support him in his attack upon France, though Bristol
supplied twenty-four vessels and 800 men, Liverpool could furnish no
more than one solitary barque with a crew of six. It was shortly after
this date that the original church of "Our Lady and St. Nicholas" was
erected. Were the building, as it existed for upwards of 400 years,
still intact, or nearly so, Liverpool would possess no memorial of the
past more attractive. But in the first place, in 1774, the body was
taken down and rebuilt. Then, in 1815, the same was done with the
tower, the architect wisely superseding the primitive spire with the
beautiful lantern by which St. Nicholas's is now recognised even from
the opposite side of the water. Of the original ecclesiastical
establishment all that remains is the graveyard, once embellished with
trees, and in particular with a "great Thorne," in summer white and
fragrant, which the tasteless and ruthless old rector of the time was
formally and most justly impeached for destroying "without leave or
license." Wilful and needless slaying of ornamental trees, such as no
money can buy or replace, and which have taken perhaps a century or
more to grow, is always an act of ingratitude, if not of the nature of
a crime, and never less excusable than when committed on consecrated
ground. The dedication to St. Nicholas shows that the old Liverpool
townsfolk were superstitious, if not pious. It is St. Nicholas who on
the strength of the legend is found in Dibdin as "the sweet little
cherub"--
"that sits up aloft,
And takes care of the life of poor Jack."
Up to 1699 the building in question was only the "chappell of
Leverpoole," the parish in which the town lay being Walton.
In 1533, or shortly afterwards, temp. Henry VIII., John Leland visited
Liverpool, which he describes as being "a pavid Towne," with a
castle, and a "Stone Howse," the residence of the "Erle of Derbe." He
adds, that there was a small custom-house, at which the dues were paid
upon linen-yarn brought from Dublin and Belfast for transmission to
Manchester[12]. A fortunate circumstance it has always been for
Ireland that she possesses so near and ready a customer for her
various produce as wealthy Liverpool. Fifty years later, Camden
describes the town as "neat and populous"--the former epithet needing
translation; and by the time of Cromwell the amount of shipping had
nearly doubled: the Mersey, it hardly needs saying, is the natural
westward channel for the commerce of the whole of the active district
which has Manchester for its centre, and the value of this was now
fast becoming apparent. By the end of the sixteenth century south-east
Lancashire was becoming distinguished for its productive power. A
large and constantly increasing supply of manufactures adapted for
export implied imports. The interests of Manchester and Liverpool soon
declared themselves alike. Of no two places in the world can it be
said with more truth, that they have "lived and loved together,
through many changing years"; though it may be a question whether
they have always "wept each other's tears." In addition to the impulse
given to shippers by extended manufacturing, the captains who sailed
upon the Irish Sea found in the Mersey their securest haven, the more
so since the Dee was now silting up--a misfortune for once so favoured
Chester which at last threw it commercially quite into the shade. The
Lune was also destined to lose in favour: an event not without a
certain kind of pathos, since cotton was imported into Lancaster long
before it was brought to Liverpool. Conditions of all kinds being so
happy, prosperity was assured. Liverpool had now only to be thankful,
industrious, honest, and prudent.
[12] _Itinerary_, vol. vii. p. 40. Oxford, 1711.
Singular to say, in the year 1635 Liverpool was not thought worthy of
a place in the map of England. In Selden's _Mare Clausum, seu de
Dominio Maris_ there is a map in which Preston, Wigan, Manchester, and
Chester, are all set down, but, although the Mersey lies in readiness,
there is no Liverpool!
The period of the Restoration was particularly eventful. The Great
Plague of 1665 and the Great Fire of 1666 led to a large migration of
Londoners into Lancashire, and especially to Liverpool, trade with the
North American "Plantations," and with the sugar-producing islands of
the Caribbean Sea, being now rapidly progressive. Contemporaneously
there was a flocking thither of younger sons of country squires, who,
anticipating the Duke of Argyll of to-day, saw that commerce is the
best of tutors. From these descended some of the most eminent of the
old Liverpool families. The increasing demand for sugar in England
led, unfortunately, to sad self-contamination. Following the example
of Bristol, Liverpool gave itself to the slave-trade, and for
ninety-seven years, 1709 to 1806, the whole tone and tendency of the
local sentiment were debased by it. The Roscoes, the Rathbones, and
others among the high-minded, did their best to arouse their brother
merchants to the iniquity of the traffic, and to counteract the moral
damage to the community; but mischief of such a character sinks deep,
and the lapse of generations is required to efface it entirely. Mr. W.
W. Briggs considers that the shadow is still perceptible.[13] Politely
called the "West India trade," no doubt legitimate commerce was bound
up with the shocking misdeed, but the kernel was the same. It began
with barter of the manufactures of Manchester, Sheffield, and
Birmingham, for the <DW64>s demanded, first, by the sugar-planters,
and afterwards, in Virginia, for the tobacco-farms. Infamous fraud
could not but follow; and a certain callousness, attributable in part
to ignorance of the methods employed, was engendered even in those who
had no interest in the results. When George III. was but newly
crowned, slaves of both sexes were at times openly sold by
advertisement in Liverpool! Money was made fast by the trade in human
beings, and many men accumulated great fortunes, memorials of which it
would not be hard to find. All this, we may be thankful, is now done
with for ever. To recall the story is painful but unavoidable, since
no sketch of the history of Liverpool can be complete without
reference to it. There is no need, however, to dwell further upon it.
Escape always from the thought of crime as soon as possible. Every
one, at all events, must acknowledge that, notwithstanding the outcry
by the interested that the total ruin of Liverpool, with downfall of
Church and State, would ensue upon abolition, the town has done better
without the slave-trade.
[13] Vide _Liverpool Mercury_, 11th December 1880.
The period of most astonishing expansion has been that which, as in
Manchester, may be termed the strictly modern one. The best of the
public buildings have been erected within the memory of living men.
Most of the docks have been constructed since 1812. The first
steamboat upon the Mersey turned its paddles in 1815. The first steam
voyage to New York commemorates 1838. In Liverpool, it should not be
forgotten, originated directly afterwards the great scheme which gave
rise to the "Peninsular and Oriental," upon which followed in turn the
Suez Railway, and then the Suez Canal. The current era has also
witnessed an immense influx into Liverpool of well-informed American,
Canadian, and continental merchants, Germans particularly. These have
brought (and every year sees new arrivals) the habits of thought, the
special views, and the fruits of the widely diverse social and
political training peculiar to the respective nationalities.
[Illustration: THE CUSTOM-HOUSE, LIVERPOOL]
A very considerable number of the native English Liverpool merchants
have resided, sometimes for a lengthened period, in foreign countries.
Maintaining correspondence with those countries, having connections
one with another all over the world, they are kept alive to everything
that has relation to commerce. They can tell us about the harvests in
all parts of the world, the value of gold and silver, and the
operation of legal enactments. Residence abroad supplies new and more
liberal ideas, and enables men to judge more accurately. The result
is that, although Liverpool, like other places, contains its full
quota of the incurably ignorant and prejudiced, the spirit and the
method of the mercantile community are in the aggregate thoughtful,
inviting, and enjoyable. The occupations of the better class of
merchants, and their constant consociation with one another, require
and develop not only business powers, but the courtesies which
distinguish gentlemen. A stamp is given quite different from that
which comes of life spent habitually among "hands";[14] the impression
upon the mind of the visitor is that, whatever may be the case
elsewhere, in Liverpool ability and good manners are in partnership.
And this not only in commercial transactions: the characteristics
observable in office hours reappear in the privacy of home.
[14] In Liverpool, strictly speaking, there are _no_ "hands," no
troops of workpeople, that is to say, young and old, male and
female, equivalent as regards relation to employer to the
operatives of Oldham and Stalybridge.
The description of business transacted in Liverpool is almost peculiar
to the place. After the shipbuilders and the manufacturers of shipping
adjuncts, chain-cables, etc., there are few men in the superior
mercantile class who produce anything. Liverpool is a city of agents.
Its function is not to make, but to transfer. Nearly every bale or box
of merchandise that enters the town is purely _en route_. Hence it
comes that Liverpool gathers up coin even when times are "bad."
Whether the owner of the merchandise eventually loses or gains,
Liverpool has to be paid the expenses of the passing through. Much of
the raw material that comes from abroad changes hands several times
before the final despatch, though not by any means through the
ordinary old-fashioned processes of mere buying and selling. In the
daily reports of the cotton-market a certain quantity is always
distinguished as bought "upon speculation." The adventurous do not
wait for the actual arrival of the particular article they devote
their attention to. Like the Covent Garden wholesale fruitmen, who
risk purchase of the produce of the Kentish cherry-orchards while the
trees are only in bloom, the Liverpool cotton brokers deal in what
they call "futures."
Another curious feature is the problematical character of every man's
day. The owner of a cotton-mill or an iron-foundry proceeds, like a
train upon the rails, according to a definite and preconcerted plan. A
Liverpool foreign merchant, when leaving home in the morning, is
seldom able to forecast what will happen before night. Telegrams from
distant countries are prone to bring news that changes the whole
complexion of affairs. The limitless foreign connections tend also to
render his sympathies cosmopolitan rather than such as pertain to
old-fashioned citizens pure and simple. Once a day at least his
thoughts and desires are in some far-away part of the globe. Broadly
speaking, the merchants, like their ships in the river, are only at
anchor in Liverpool. The owner of a "works" must remain with his
bricks and mortar; the Liverpool merchant, if he pleases, can weigh
and depart. Though the day is marked by conjecture, it is natural to
hope for good. Hence much of the sprightliness of the Liverpool
character--the perennial uncertainty underlying the equally
well-marked disposition to "eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we
die," or, at all events, may die. This in turn seems to account for
the high percentage of shops of the glittering class and that deal in
luxuries. Making their money in the way they do, the Liverpool people
care less to hoard it than to indulge in the spending. How open-handed
they can be when called upon is declared by the sums raised for the
Bishopric and the University College. In proportion, they have more
money than other people, the inhabitants of London alone excepted. The
income-tax assessment has already been mentioned as nearly sixteen
millions. The actual sum for the year ending 5th April 1876 was
L15,943,000, against Manchester, L13,907,000, Birmingham, L6,473,884,
London, L50,808,000. The superiority in comparison with Manchester may
come partly, perhaps, of certain firms in the last-named place
returning from the country towns or villages where their "works" are
situated. Liverpool is self-contained, Manchester is diffused.
[Illustration: ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LIVERPOOL]
Liverpool may well be proud of her public buildings. Opinions differ
in regard to the large block which includes the Custom-house, commonly
called "Revenue Buildings"; but none dispute the claim of the
sumptuous edifice known as St. George's Hall to represent the
architecture of ancient Greece in the most successful degree yet
attained in England. The eastern facade is more than 400 feet in
length; at the southern extremity there is an octostyle Corinthian
portico, the tympanum filled with ornament. Strange, considering the
local wealth and the local claim of a character for thoroughness and
taste, that this magnificent structure should be allowed to remain
unfinished, still wanting, as it does, the sculptures which formed an
integral part of Mr. Elmes' carefully considered whole. Closely
adjacent are the Free Library and the new Art Gallery, and, in Dale
Street, the Public Offices, the Townhall, and the Exchange, which is
arcaded. Among other meritorious buildings, either classical or in the
Italian palazzo style, we find the Philharmonic Hall and the Adelphi
Hotel. The Free Library is one of the best-frequented places in
Liverpool. The number of readers exceeded in 1880, in proportion to
the population, that of every other large town in England where a Free
Library exists. In Leeds, during the year ending at Michaelmas, the
number was 648,589; in Birmingham, 658,000; in Manchester, 958,000; in
Liverpool, 1,163,795. In the Reference Department the excess was
similar, the issues therefrom having been in Liverpool one-half; in
Leeds and Birmingham, two-fifths; in Manchester, one-fifth. The
Liverpool people seem apt to take advantage of their opportunities of
every kind. When the Naturalists' Field Club starts for the country,
the number is three or four times greater in proportion to the whole
number of members than in other places where, with similar objects,
clubs have been founded. Many, of course, join in the trips for the
sake of the social enjoyment; whether as much work is accomplished
when out is undecided. They are warm supporters also of literary and
scientific institutions, the number of which, as well as of
societies devoted to music and the fine arts, is in Liverpool
exceptionally high. At the last "Associated Soiree," the Presidents of
no fewer than fifteen were present. Educational, charitable, and
curative institutions exist in equal plenty. It was Liverpool that in
1791 led the way in the foundation of Asylums for the Blind. The
finest ecclesiastical establishment belongs to the Catholics, who in
Liverpool, as in Lancashire generally, have stood firm to the faith of
their fathers ever since 1558, and were never so powerful a body as at
present. The new Art Gallery seems to introduce an agreeable prophecy.
Liverpool has for more than 140 years striven unsuccessfully to give
effect to the honourable project of 1769, when it sought to tread in
the steps of the Royal Academy, founded a few months previously. There
are now fair indications of rejuvenescence, and, if we mistake not,
there is a quickening appreciation of the intrinsically pure and
worthy, coupled with indifference to the qualities which catch and
content the vulgar--mere bigness and showiness. Slender as the
appreciation may be, still how much more precious than the bestowal of
patronage, in ostentation of pocket, beginning there and ending there,
which all true and noble art disdains.
[Illustration: THE EXCHANGE, LIVERPOOL]
Liverpool must not be quitted without a parting word upon a feature
certainly by no means peculiar to the town, but which to the observant
is profoundly interesting and suggestive. This consists in the through
movement of the emigrants, and the arrangements made for their
departure. Our views and vignettes give some idea of what may be seen
upon the river and on board the ships. But it is impossible to render
in full the interesting spectacle presented by the strangers who come
in the first instance from northern Europe. These arrive, by way of
Hull, chiefly from Sweden and Denmark, and, to a small extent, from
Russia and Germany--German emigrants to America usually going from
their own ports, and by way of the English Channel. Truly astonishing
are the piles of luggage on view at the railway stations during the
few hours or days which elapse before they go on board. While waiting,
they saunter about the streets in parties of six or eight, full of
wonder and curiosity, but still impressing every one with their honest
countenances and inoffensive manners and behaviour. There are very few
children among these foreigners, most of whom appear to be in the
prime of life, an aged parent now and then accompanying son or
daughter. In 1880 there left Liverpool as emigrants the prodigious
number of 183,502. Analysis gave--English, 74,969; Scotch, 1811;
Irish, 27,986; foreigners, 74,115.
III
THE COTTON DISTRICT AND THE MANUFACTURE OF COTTON
First in the long list of Lancashire manufacturing towns, by reason of
its magnitude and wealth, comes Manchester. By and by we shall speak
of this great city in particular. For the present the name must be
taken in the broader sense, equally its own, which carries with it the
idea of an immense district. Lancashire, eastwards from Warrington,
upwards as far as Preston, is dotted over with little Manchesters, and
these in turn often possess satellites. The idea of Manchester as a
place of cotton factories covers also a portion of Cheshire, and
extends even into Derbyshire and Yorkshire--Stockport, Hyde,
Stalybridge, Dukinfield, Saddleworth, Glossop, essentially belong to
it. To all these towns and villages Manchester stands in the relation
of a Royal Exchange. It is the reservoir, at the same time, into
which they pour their various produce. Manchester acquired this
distinguished position partly by accident, mainly through its very
easy access to Liverpool. At one time it had powerful rivals in
Blackburn and Bolton. Blackburn lost its chance through the frantic
hostility of the lower orders towards machinery, inconsiderate men of
property giving them countenance--excusably only under the law that
mental delusions, like bodily ailments, are impartial in choice of
victims. Bolton, on the other hand, though sensible, was too near to
compete permanently, neither had it similar access to Liverpool. The
old salerooms in Bolton, with their galleries and piazzas, now all
gone, were ninety years ago a striking and singular feature of that
busy hive of spinning and weaving bees.
Most of these little Manchesters are places of comparatively new
growth. A century ago nearly all were insignificant villages or
hamlets. Even the names of the greater portion were scarcely known
beyond the boundaries of their respective parishes. How unimportant
they were in earlier times is declared by the vast area of many of the
latter, the parishes in Lancashire, as everywhere else, having been
marked out according to the ability of the population to maintain a
church and pastor. It is not in manufacturing Lancashire as in the
old-fashioned rural counties,--Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, and appled
Somerset,--where on every side one is allured by some beautiful
memorial of the lang syne. "Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the
plain" is not here. Everything, where Cotton reigns, presents the
newness of aspect of an Australian colony. The archaeological
scraps--such few as there may be--are usually submerged, even in the
older towns, in the "full sea" of recent building. Even in the
graveyards, the places of all others which in their tombstones and
inscriptions unite past and present so tenderly, the imagination has
usually to turn away unfed. In place of yew-trees old as York Minster,
if there be anything in the way of green monument, it is a soiled and
disconsolate shrub from the nearest nursery garden.
The situation of these towns is often pleasing enough: sometimes it is
picturesque, and even romantic. Having begun in simple homesteads,
pitched where comfort and safety seemed best assured, they are often
found upon gentle eminences, the crests of which, as at Oldham, they
now overlap; others, like Stalybridge, lie in deep hollows, or, like
Blackburn, have gradually spread from the margin of a stream. Not a
few of these primitive sites have the ancient character pleasingly
commemorated in their names, as Haslingden, the "place of hazel-nuts."
The eastern border of the county being characterised by lofty and
rocky hills, the localities of the towns and villages are there often
really favoured in regard to scenery. This also gives great interest
to the approaches, as when, after leaving Todmorden, we move through
the sinuous gorge that, bordered by Cliviger, "mother of rocks," leads
on to Burnley. The higher grounds are bleak and sterile, but the
warmth and fertility of the valleys make amends. In any case, there is
never any lack of the beauty which comes of the impregnation of wild
nature with the outcome of human intelligence. Manchester itself
occupies part of a broad level, usually clay-floored, and with
peat-mosses touching the frontiers. In the bygones nothing was sooner
found than standing water: the world probably never contained a town
that only thirty to a hundred years ago possessed so many ponds, many
of them still in easy recollection, to say nothing of as many more
within the compass of an afternoon's walk.
Rising under the influence of a builder so unambitious as the genius
of factories and operatives' cottages, no wonder that a very few
years ago the Lancashire cotton towns seemed to vie with one another
which should best deserve the character of cold, hard, dreary, and
utterly unprepossessing. The streets, excepting the principal artery
(originally the road through the primitive village, as in the case of
Newton Lane, Manchester), not being susceptible of material change,
mostly remain as they were--narrow, irregular, and close-built.
Happily, of late there has been improvement. Praiseworthy aspirations
in regard to public buildings are not uncommon, and even in the
meanest towns are at times undeniably successful. In the principal
centres--Manchester, Bolton, Rochdale, and another or two--the old
meagreness and unsightliness are daily becoming less marked, and a
good deal that is really magnificent is in progress as well as
completed. Unfortunately, the efforts of the architect fall only too
soon under the relentless influence of the factory and the foundry.
Manchester is in this respect an illustration of the whole group; the
noblest and most elegant buildings sooner or later get smoke-begrimed.
Sombre as the Lancashire towns become under that influence, if there
be collieries in the neighbourhood, as in the case of well-named
"coaly Wigan," the dismal hue is intensified, and in dull and rainy
weather grows still worse. On sunshiny days one is reminded of a
sullen countenance constrained to smile against the will.
[Illustration: WIGAN]
A "Lancashire scene" has been said to resolve into "bare hills and
chimneys"; and as regards the cotton districts the description is,
upon the whole, not inaccurate. Chimneys predominate innumerably in
the landscape, a dark pennon usually undulating from every
summit--perhaps not pretty pictorially, but in any case a gladsome
sight, since it means work, wages, food, for those below, and a fire
upon the hearth at home. Though the sculptor may look with dismay upon
his ornaments in marble once white as a lily, now under its visitation
gray as November, never mind--the smoke denotes human happiness and
content for thousands: when her chimneys are smokeless, operative
Lancashire is hungry and sad.
In the towns most of the chimneys belong to the factories--buildings
of remarkable appearance. The very large ones are many storeys high,
their broad and lofty fronts presenting tier upon tier of monotonous
square windows. Decoration seems to be studiously avoided, though
there is often plenty of scope for inexpensive architectural effects
that, to say the least, would be welcome. Seen by day, they seem
deserted; after dark, when the innumerable windows are lighted up,
the spectacle changes and becomes unique. Were it desired to
illuminate in honour of a prince, to render a factory more brilliant
from the interior would be scarcely possible. Like all other great
masses of masonry, the very large ones, though somewhat suggestive of
prisons, if not grand, are impressive. In semi-rural localities, where
less tarnished by smoke, especially when tolerably new, and not
obscured by the contact of inferior buildings, they are certainly very
fine objects. The material, it is scarcely needful to say, is red
brick.
All the towns belonging to the Manchester family-circle present more
or less decidedly the features mentioned. They differ from one another
not in style, or habits, or physiognomy; the difference is simply that
one makes calico, another muslins, and that they cover a less or
greater extent of ground. The social, moral, and intellectual
qualities of the various places form quite another subject of
consideration. For the present it must wait; except with the remark
that a Lancashire manufacturing town, however humble, is seldom
without a lyceum, or some similar institution; and if wealthy, is
prone to emulate cities. Witness the beautiful Art Exhibition held not
long ago at Darwen!
[Illustration: WARRINGTON]
The industrial history of the important Lancashire cotton towns,
although their modern development covers less than ninety years, dates
from the beginning of the fourteenth century. As early as A.D. 1311,
temp. Edward II., friezes were manufactured at Colne, but, as
elsewhere in the country, they would seem to have been coarse and of
little value. "The English at that time," says quaint old Fuller,
"knew no more what to do with their wool than the sheep that weare it,
as to any artificial curious drapery." The great bulk of the native
produce of wool was transmitted to Flanders and the Rhenish provinces,
where it was woven, England repurchasing the cloth. Edward III.,
allowing himself to be guided by the far-reaching sagacity of his wise
queen, Philippa, resolved that the manufacture should be kept at home.
Parties of the Flemish weavers were easily induced to come over, the
more so because wretchedly treated in their own country. Manchester,
Bolton, Rochdale, and Warrington, were tenanted almost immediately,
and a new character was at once given to the textile productions both
of the district and the island in general. Furness Abbey was then in
its glory; its fertile pastures supplied the wants of these
industrious people: they seem, however, not to have cared to push
their establishments so far, keeping in the south and east of the
county, over which they gradually spread, carrying, wherever they
went, the "merry music of the loom." The same period witnessed the
original use of coal--again, it is believed, through the advice of
Philippa; the two great sources of Lancashire prosperity being thus in
their rise contemporaneous. The numerous little rivers and waterfalls
of East Lancashire contributed to the success of the new adventurers.
Fulling-mills and dye-works were erected upon the margins: the
particular spots are now only conjectural; mementoes of these ancient
works are nevertheless preserved in the springing up occasionally, to
the present day, on the lower Lancashire river-banks, of plants
botanically alien to the neighbourhood. These are specially the
fullers' teasel, _Dipsacus fullonum_, and the dyers' weed, _Reseda
luteola_, both of which were regularly used, the refuse, with seeds,
cast into the stream being carried many miles down and deposited where
the plants now renew themselves. The retention of their vitality by
seeds properly ripened, when buried too deep for the operation of the
atmosphere, sunshine, and moisture, all at once, is well known to
naturalists, as well as their germination when brought near enough to
the surface of the ground. This ancient woollen manufacture endured
for quite 300 years. Cotton then became a competitor, and gradually
superseded it; Rochdale and a few other places alone vindicating the
old traditions.
The Flemings also introduced the national _sabots_, from which have
descended the wooden clogs heard in operative Lancashire wherever
pavement allows of the clatter, only that while the _sabots_ were
wholly wooden, with a lining of lambskin, the Lancashire clogs have
leathern tops.
In the writings of the period before us, and in others long
afterwards, the Flemings' woollens are called "cottonnes," a
circumstance which has led to much misapprehension as to the date of
the original use in England of cotton _ipsissima_. In 1551-52, temp.
Edward VI., an "Acte" passed for the making of "woollen clothe"
prescribes the length and breadth of "all and everie cottonnes called
Manchester, Lancashire, and Cheshire cottonnes." Leland, in the
following reign, mentions in similar phrase, that "divers villagers in
the moores about Bolton do make cottons." Genuine cotton fabrics
manufactured abroad were known in England, no doubt, though the raw
material had not been seen. Chaucer habits his Knight in "fustian," a
word which points to Spain as the probable source. The truth as
regards the "cottonnes" would seem to be that certain woollens were
made so as to resemble cotton, and called by the same name, just as
to-day certain calicoes have the look of linen given to them, and are
sold as "imitation Irish," and as gloves made of the skins of
uncertain animals are passed off as "French kid"; unless, indeed, as
conjectured by some, the word "cottonnes" was a corruption of
"coatings."
The employment of cotton for manufacturing in England is mentioned
first in 1641, when it was brought to London from Cyprus and Smyrna.
The word "cotton" itself, we need hardly say, is of oriental origin,
taking one back to India, the old-world birthplace of the plant. Used
there as the clothing material from time immemorial, it is singular
that the movement westward should have been so slow. The people who
introduced it, practically, to Europe, were the Moors, who in the
tenth century cultivated cotton in old Granada, simultaneously with
rice, the sugar-cane, and the orange-tree, all brought by themselves
from Asia. In those days Moslems and Christians declined to be
friendly, and thus, although the looms were never still, the
superabundance of the manufacture went exclusively to Africa and the
Levant. The cotton-plant being indigenous also to Mexico and the West
Indies, when commerce arose with the latter, Cyprus and Smyrna no
longer had the monopoly. Precise dates, however, are wanting till the
first years of the eighteenth century, when the United States and the
Mersey of to-day had their prototype in Barbadoes and the Lune,
already mentioned as having been a cotton port long anterior to
Liverpool. Lancaster city itself is not accessible by ships. The
cotton was usually landed on the curious _lingula_ which juts into the
Irish Sea where the estuary disappears, and hither the country people
used to come to wonder at it.[15] The first advertisement of a sale of
cotton in Liverpool appeared in November 1758, but thirty years after
that Lancaster was still the principal Lancashire seat of import. One
of the most distinguished of the "Lancashire worthies," old Mr. John
Blackburne, of Orford Mount, near Warrington, an enthusiastic
gardener, cultivated the cotton-plant so successfully that he was able
to provide his wife with a muslin dress, worn by her on some state
occasion in or about 1790, the material derived wholly from the
greenhouse he loved so fondly. Strange that, except occasionally in
an engine-room, we scarcely ever see the cotton-plant in the county it
has filled with riches--the very place where one would expect to find
it cherished. How well would it occupy a few inches of the space so
generally devoted to the pomps and vanities of mere colour-worship!
Apart from the associations, it is beautiful; the leaves resemble
those of the grape-vine; the flowers are like single yellow roses.
There never was a flood without its ark. One man a few years ago did
his part with becoming zeal--the late Mr. R. H. Alcock, of Bury.
Lancashire, it may be allowed here to remind the reader, is the only
manufacturing district in England which depends entirely upon foreign
countries for the supply of its raw material. One great distinction
between England and other countries is that the latter send away the
whole, or very much, of their natural produce, usually as gathered
together, England importing it and working it up. How terribly the
dependence in question was proved at the time of the Federal and
Confederate war, all who were cognisant of the great Cotton-famine
will remember. Next in order would come sugar and timber, a dearth of
either of which would unquestionably be disastrous; but not like want
of cotton in Lancashire--the stranding of a whole community.
[15] _Vide_ the _Autobiography of Wm. Stout_, the old Quaker
grocer, ironmonger, and general merchant of Lancaster. He
mentions receiving cotton from Barbadoes in 1701, and onwards to
1725, when the price advanced "from 10d. to near 2s. 1d. the
lb."
The Lancashire cotton towns owe their existence essentially to the
magic touch of modern mechanical art. During all the long procession
of centuries that had elapsed since the time of the "white-armed"
daughter of Alcinous, her maidens, and their spinning-wheels, and of
the swarthy weavers of ancient Egypt, the primeval modes of
manufacture had been followed almost implicitly. The work of the
Flemings themselves was little in advance of that of the Hebrews under
Solomon. In comparison with that long period, the time covered by the
change induced by machinery was but a moment, and the growth of the
weaving communities, compared with that of previous times, like a
lightning-flash. The movement commenced about 1760. Up till long after
the time of Elizabeth, the staple manufacture of Lancashire, as we
have seen, was woollen. Flax, in the sixteenth century, began to be
imported largely, both from Ireland and the Continent, and when cotton
at last arrived the two materials were combined. Flax was used for the
"warp" or longitudinal threads, which in weaving require to be
stronger than the "woof," while cotton was employed only for the
latter--technically the "weft."
Fabrics composed wholly of cotton do not appear to have been made in
Lancashire before the time of George II., Bolton leading the way with
cotton velvets about 1756. The cotton weft was spun by the people in
their own cottages, chiefly by the women, literally the "spinsters" of
the family, representative eighteen centuries afterwards, of the good
housewife of the _Aeneid_ and of the still older one in the Book of
Proverbs, though as the years rolled on so greatly did the demand
increase that every child had work of one kind or another. Thus began
"infant labour," afterwards so much abused. The employment of children
over thirteen in the modern factory is quite a different thing. Placed
under legal restrictions, it is a blessing alike to themselves and to
their parents, since if not there, the children now earning their
bread would be idling, and probably in mischief. Those, it has been
well said, who have to live by labour should early be trained to
labour. Diligent as they were, the spinsters could not produce weft
fast enough for the weavers. Sitting at their looms, which were also
in the cottages, thoughtful men pondered the possibilities of quicker
methods. Presently the dream took shape, and from the successive
inventions of Whyatt, Kay, Highs, and Hargreaves, emerged the
famous "spinning-jenny,"[16] a machine which did as much work in the
same time as a dozen pair of hands. Abreast of it came the
warping-mill, the carding-engine, and the roving-frame: the latter
particularly opportune, since the difficulty had always been to
disentangle the fibres of the cotton prior to twisting, and to lay
them exactly parallel. Arkwright now came on the scene. He himself
never invented anything; but he had marvellous powers of combination,
such as enabled him to assimilate all that was good in the ideas of
other men, and to give them unity and new vitality. The result was
machinery that gave exquisite evenness and attenuation to the
"rovings," and a patent having been granted 15th July 1769, Arkwright
is properly regarded as the founder of the modern modes of
manufacture. Arkwright possessed, in addition, a thoroughly feminine
capacity for good management and perseverance, with that most
excellent adjunct, the art of obtaining ascendancy over capitalists.
Among the immediate results were the disuse of linen warp, the new
frames enabling cotton warp to be made strong enough; and the
concentration of all the early processes, spinning included, in
special buildings, with employment of horse or water-power. The
weaving, however, long remained with the cottagers, and survives to a
slight extent even to the present day. The Lancashire cotton
manufacture, strictly so called, is thus very little more than a
century old. No further back than in 1774, fabrics made wholly of
cotton were declared by statute to have been "lately introduced," and
a "lawful and laudable manufacture."
[16] That the spinning-jenny was so named after a wife or
daughter of one of the inventors is fable. The original wheel
was the "jenny," a term corresponding with others well known in
Lancashire,--the "peggy" and the "dolly,"--and the new
contrivance became the "_spinning_-jenny."
[Illustration: THE DINNER HOUR]
The following year, 1775, saw the perfecting of Crompton's celebrated
"mule," which produced, at less expense, a much finer and softer yarn
than Arkwright's machine. It was specially suitable for muslins; and
from this date most assuredly should be reckoned the elevation of the
manufacture to its highest platform. Like the jenny, it was used at
first in private houses, but a nobler application was close at hand--a
new revolution--the superseding of hand, and horse, and water power,
all at one moment, by steam. Had the former remained the only
artificial sources of help--even supposing rivers and brooks not
subject to negation by drought, the cotton manufacture must needs have
been confined within narrow limits, and the greatest conceivable
supply of the raw material would not have altered the case. Steam,
which, like Lord Chatham, "tramples upon impossibilities," at once
gave absolute freedom; and manufacturing, in the space of thirty
years, eclipsed its history during 3000. The "mule" was now
transferred to the mill, and the factory system became complete.
Power-looms were first employed in Manchester in 1806. Stockport
followed, and by degrees they became general, improvements going on up
till as late as 1830, when the crowning triumph of cotton machinery
was patented as the "self-acting mule." The pride of Lancashire, it
must be remembered, consists, after all, not in the delicacy and the
beauty of its cottons, for in these respects India has not yet been
out-run; but in the rapidity, the cheapness, and the boundless
potentialities of the manufacture, which enable it to meet, if called
upon, the requirements of every nation in the world. While any human
creature remains imperfectly clad, Lancashire still has its work to
do. To be entrusted with this great business is a privilege, and in
the honourable execution consists its true and essential glory.
"Over-production," while any are naked, is a phrase without meaning.
That which wants correcting is deficient absorption.
[Illustration: PAY-DAY IN A COTTON MILL]
Reviewing the whole matter, the specially interesting point--rendered
so through inciting to profoundest reflection--is that those poor and
unlettered men--Hargreaves, Arkwright, Crompton, and the others--were
the instruments, under Providence (for such things do not happen
fortuitously), by which the world became possessed of an entirely new
industrial power, fraught with infinite capacities for promoting human
welfare; and which, in its application, introduced quite new styles of
thinking and reasoning, and gave new bias to the policy of a great
nation. Hargreaves, Arkwright, Crompton, had no prescience of what
would come of their efforts. In no part of the transformation was
there any precedent or example; it had neither lineage nor
inheritance; it was anticipated in momentousness only by the
inventions of Caxton and Gioia;[17] and if in our own day the electric
telegraph and the telephone reveal natural laws scarcely
distinguishable from those of miracle, it may still be questioned if
these latter discoveries surpass in intrinsic value the three or four
that gave life to the modern cotton manufacture.
[17] Inventor of the mariners' compass.
The interior of a great cotton factory, when at work, presents a
spectacle altogether unimaginable. The vast area of the rooms, or
"flats," filled in every part with machinery, admits of no comparison
with anything else in England, being found in the factory alone. A
thousand great iron frames, exquisitely composite, and kept
fastidiously clean, some by self-acting dusters, are in simultaneous
movement, the arms of some rising and falling, while parts of others
march in and out, and to and fro, giving perfect illustrations of
order, reciprocal adaptation, and interdependence, and seeming not
only alive, but conscious. Nothing is more striking, perhaps, than to
watch the shuttles as they dart alternately right and left, every
movement meaning an added thread to the beautiful offspring. The poets
are supposed by some to concern themselves only with fiction. Men and
women who write verses are poets only when they deal with truth,
though presented in the garb of fable; and assuredly, for a poet's
theme, there is nothing to excel a skilfully conducted human
manufacture. Erasmus Darwin, it will be remembered, describes the
whole series of processes in connection with cotton as observed by him
in Arkwright's original factory upon the Derwent.
A common practice is to have the looms in a "shed" upon the surface of
the ground. To be as near the earth as possible is a desire no less
with the spinner, who, like the weaver, finds the lower atmospheric
conditions much more favourable to his work than the upper. In any
case, where the power-looms are, long lines of slender pillars support
the roof, presenting an unbroken and almost endless perspective; and
between the machinery and the ceiling, connected with the horizontal
shafts which revolve just below it, are innumerable strong brown
leather straps that quiver as they run their courses. According to the
department we may be in, either threads or coils of cotton whiter than
pearl, and of infinite number, give occupation to those thousand
obedient and tireless slaves--not of the ring or the lamp, but of the
mighty engine that invisibly is governing the whole; and in attendance
are men and women, boys and girls, again beyond the counting. Their
occupations are in no degree laborious: all the heavy work is done by
the steam-engine; muscular power is not wanted so much as delicacy and
readiness of hand and finger. Hence in the factory and the cotton-mill
there is opportunity for those who are too weak for other vocations.
Machinery in all cases has the merit of at once increasing the
workman's wages and lessening his fatigue. The precision in the
working of the machinery enforces upon those who attend to it a
corresponding regularity of action. There is no re-twisting or
re-weaving; everything, if done at all, must be done properly and at
the proper moment. Apart from its being a place wherein to earn
creditably the daily bread, if there be anything in the world which
conduces pre-eminently to the acquisition of habits such as lie at the
foundation of good morals,--order, care, cleanliness, punctuality,
industry, early rising,--assuredly it is the wholesome discipline of
the well-ordered cotton factory. Whatever may befall _outside_, there
is nothing deleterious _inside_; the personal intercourse of the
people employed is itself reduced to a minimum; if they corrupt one
another, it is as people _not_ in factories do. In the rooms and
"sheds" devoted to weaving, the rattle of the machinery forbids even
conversation, except when the voice is adjusted to it. In the quieter
parts the girls show their contentedness not infrequently by singing--
"The joyful token of a happy mind."
[Illustration: IN A COTTON FACTORY]
"How often," says the type of the true Lancashire poet, most genial of
his race,--the late Edwin Waugh,--"how often have I heard some fine
psalm-tune streaming in chorus from female voices when passing
cotton-mills at work, and mingling with the spoom of thousands of
spindles." That the girls in particular are not unhappy is shown by
their preference of the cotton-mill to domestic service. Their health
is as good as that of any other class of operatives; and though they
have to keep upon their feet, it is not for so long a time as young
women in city shops. Of course there is a shadowy side to life
identified with the factory. The hands do not live in Elysium, any
more than the agricultural labourer does in Arcadia. The masters, as
everywhere else, are both good and bad: in the aggregate they are no
worse than their fellows in other places, and to expect them to be
better would be premature. In case of grievance or abuse there is an
"inspector" to apply to for remedy. The wages are as good as those
earned by any other large class of English work-people; and if the
towns in which so many abide are unlovely, the Lancashire
cotton-operatives at all events know little or nothing of the vice and
filth of metropolitan St. Giles'.
IV
MANCHESTER
The writer of the entertaining article in the _Cornhill_ for February
1880 upon "The Origin of London" shows that had the choice of the best
site for a capital to be made _now_, and for the first time, the
selection would naturally fall upon south-east Lancashire, and on the
particular spot covered by modern Manchester. Geographically, as the
author points out, it is the centre of the three kingdoms; and its
advantageousness in regard to commerce, all things considered, is
paramount. These facts alone suffice to give interest to the locality;
and that the town itself should have acquired the importance now
possessed, in some respects almost metropolitan, looks not so much
like accident or good fortune as the fulfilment of a law of Nature.
The locality in question is by no means picturesque. The ground, as
said before, is, on the Cheshire side, and westwards, nearly level,
the country being here bordered by the Mersey, a river, as Pennant
long ago remarked, utterly devoid along its course of the charms
usually identified with fairly broad and winding streams. At Northen
there are some pleasant shaded pathways, with willows and poplars like
those upon which _OEnone_ was carved; but the bank, if much above
the level, is artificial, the original having been raised with a view
to protecting the adjacent fields from inundation in time of floods,
such as occur not infrequently--the Mersey being formed in the
beginning by the confluence of several minor streams, which gather
their waters from the moors and the Derbyshire hills, and are apt to
be well filled and of rapid movement.
At a few miles' distance in other directions, or receding from the
Mersey, the ground becomes slightly elevated, and in parts agreeably
broken, as at Prestwich, and near Heywood, where there are numberless
little dells and ravines, ferny and full of trees. These are a
pleasant change after the flatness on the Cheshire side, but are too
far away to be called Manchester. To the Mersey Manchester makes no
claim: three other rivers are distinctly its own--the Irwell, which
divides the town from Salford, with its tributaries, the Medlock, and
the Irk; and of these, though the colour is inexpressible, unless we
go to mythology for a term, it is proud, since no three rivers in the
world do harder work. All three pass their earlier life in valleys
which in the bygones must have been delightful, and in some parts
romantic. Traditions exist to this day of the times when in their
upper reaches they were "silver-eddied." For a long distance before
entering, and all the way while passing through, they have now for
many years been converted into scavengers; the trout, once so
plentiful, are extinct; there are water-rats instead. This, perhaps,
is inevitable in a district which, though once green and tranquil, has
been transformed into an empire of workshops.
The Manchester rivers do not stand alone in their illustration of what
can be accomplished by the defiling energy of "works." In the strictly
manufacturing parts of South Lancashire it would be difficult to find
a single watercourse of steady volume that any longer "makes music
with the enamelled stones." The heroine of Verona[18] would to-day be
impelled less to poetical similes than to epitaphs; no sylvan glade,
however hidden, if there be water in it, has escaped the visitation of
the tormentors. Are we then to murmur?--to feel as if robbed? By no
means. Nothing can be regretful that is inseparable from the
conditions of the industry and the prosperity of a great nation. The
holidays will be here by and by. A couple of hours' railway journey
enables any one to listen to the "liquid lapse" of streams clear and
bright as Cherith. Everything lovely has its place of safety
somewhere. However doleful the destiny of the South Lancashire
streams, a thousand others that can never be sullied await us at a
little distance.
[18] _Two Gentlemen_, ii. 7.
Little can be said in praise of the Manchester climate, and that
little, it must be confessed, however reluctantly, is only negative.
The physicians are not more prosperous than elsewhere, and the work of
the Registrar-general is no heavier. On the other hand, the peach and
the apricot cannot ripen, and there is an almost total absence of the
Christmas evergreens one is accustomed to see in the southern
counties--the ilex to wit, the bay, the arbutus, and the laurustinus.
In the flourishing of these consists the true test of geniality of
climate; rhododendrons and gay flower-gardens, both of which
Manchester possesses in plenty, certify nothing. Not that the climate
is positively cold, though as a rule damp and rainy. Snow is often
seen in the Midlands when in Manchester there is none. The special
feature, again negative, is deficiency of bright, warm, encouraging
sunshine. Brilliant days come at times, and sultry ones; but often for
weeks together, even in summer, so misty is the atmosphere that where
the sun should be in view, except for an hour or two, there is only a
luminous patch.
The history of Manchester dates, the authorities tell us, from the
time of the "ancient Britons." There is no need to go so far back. The
genuine beginnings of our English cities and large towns coincide with
the establishment of the Roman power. They may have been preceded in
many instances by entrenched and perhaps rudely ramparted clusters of
huts, but it is only upon civilisation that a "town" arises. Laying
claim, quite legitimately, to be one of the eight primitive Lancashire
towns founded by Agricola, A.D. 79, its veritable age, to be exact, is
1812 years, or nearly the same as that of Warrington, where the
invaders, who came from Chester, found the river fordable, as declared
in the existing name of the Cheshire suburb, and where they fixed
their original Lancashire stronghold. What is thought to have happened
in Manchester during their stay may be read in Whitaker. The only
traces remaining of their ancient presence are some fragments of the
"road" which led northwards over the present Kersal Moor, and which
are commemorated in the names of certain houses at Higher Broughton.
The fact in the local history which connects the living present with
the past is that the De Traffords of Trafford Hall possess lands held
by their ancestor in the time of Canute. How it came to pass that the
family was not displaced by some Norman baron, an ingenious novelist
may be able perhaps to tell. Private policy, secret betrothals,
doubtless lay in the heart of as many adjustments of the eleventh
century as behind many enigmas of the nineteenth. The Traffords reside
close to "Throstlenest," a name occurring frequently in Lancashire,
where the spirit of poetry has always been vigorous, and never more
marked than in appellations having reference to the simple beauty of
unmolested nature. At Moston there is also Throstle-glen, one of the
haunts, half a century ago, of Samuel Bamford. At the time spoken of
the county was divided into "tithe-shires." The "Hundred of Salford"
was called "Salford-shire," and in this last was included Manchester;
so that whatever dignity may accrue therefrom belongs properly to the
town across the river, which was the first, moreover, to be
constituted a free borough, receiving its charter in the time of
Henry III., who died in 1272, whereas the original Manchester charter
was not granted till 1301. To all practical intents and purposes, the
two places now constitute a social and commercial unity. Similar
occupations are pursued in both, and the intercourse is as constant as
that of the people who dwell on the opposite sides of the Thames.
The really important date in the history of Manchester is that of the
arrival of the Flemish weavers in the reign of Edward III. Though
referable in the first instance, as above mentioned, to the action of
the king and the far-seeing Philippa, their coming to Manchester seems
to have been specially promoted by the feudal ruler of the time--De la
Warre, heir of the De Grelleys, and predecessor of De Lacy--men all of
great distinction in old Manchester records. Leading his retainers to
the field of battle, De la Warre literally, when all was over, turned
the spear into the pruning-hook, bringing home with him some of these
industrious people, and with their help converting soldiers into
useful artisans. A wooden church had been erected at a very early
period upon the sandstone cliff by the river, where the outlook was
pleasant over the meadows and the arriving Irk. By 1422, so much had
the town increased, it sufficed no longer, and then was built the
noble and beautiful "old church," the "cathedral" of to-day, the body
of which is thus now nearly 470 years old.[19]
[19] The original tower remained till 1864, when, being
considered insecure, it was taken down, and the existing
_facsimile_ erected in its place.
Up till 1656 the windows of this fine church, in conformity with the
first principles of all high-class Plantagenet and Tudor
ecclesiastical architecture, were and pictorial; the design
being that they should represent to the congregation assembled inside
some grand or touching Scripture incident, making palpable to the eye
what the ear might be slow to apprehend. In the year mentioned they
were broken to pieces by the Republicans, one of the reasons, perhaps,
why the statue of Cromwell--the gloomy figure in the street close
by--has been so placed as for the ill-used building to be behind it.
While the church was in its full beauty the town was visited by
Leland, who on his way through Cheshire passed Rostherne Mere,
evidently, from his language, as lovely then as it is to-day:
"States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die!"
"Manchestre," he tells us, was at that period (temp. Henry VIII.) "the
fairest, best-builded, quikkest, and most populous Tounne of
Lancastreshire" (v. 78). Whatever the precise comparative meaning
of "fairest and best-builded," there can be no doubt that in Leland's
time, and for a long subsequent period, Manchester was rich in houses
of the Elizabethan type, including many occupied by families of note.
The greater number of these would be "magpie," or wood and plaster
fronted, in black and white, the patterns, though simple, often very
ingenious, as indicated in relics which have only lately disappeared,
and in the old country halls of the same period still perfect, which
we shall come to by and by. The style of the inferior kind is shown in
an old tavern, the "Seven Stars," in Withy-grove.
[Illustration: MANCHESTER CATHEDRAL]
At the commencement of the Civil Wars Manchester was important enough
to be a scene of heavy contest. The sympathies of the town, as a
whole, were with the Parliament; not in antagonism to royalty, but
because of the suspicion that Charles secretly befriended Popery. It
was the same belief which estranged Bolton--a place never in heart
disloyal, so long as the ruler does his own part in faithfulness and
honour. Standing in the Cathedral graveyard, it is hard to imagine
that the original of the bridge now called the "Victoria" was once the
scene of a deadly struggle, troops filling the graveyard itself.
Here, however, it was that the severest assault was made by the
Royalists, unsuccessfully, as were all the other attacks, though
Manchester never possessed a castle, nor even regularly constructed
fortifications.
The town was then "a mile in length," and the streets were "open and
clean." Words change their meaning with lapse of time, and the visitor
who in 1650 thus describes them may have been given a little to
overpraise; but if Manchester deserved such epithets, alas for the
condition of the streets elsewhere! As the town increased in size, the
complexion may also very possibly have deteriorated. The fact remains,
that after the lapse of another 150 years, say in 1800, it was
inexpressibly mean and common, continuing so in a very considerable
degree up to a period quite recent. People who know Manchester only as
it looks to-day can form no conception of the beggarly appearance of
most of the central part no further back than during the reign of
George IV. Several years after he came to the throne, where Market
Street now is, there was only a miserable one-horse lane, with a
footpath of less than twenty-four inches. Narrow "entries" led to
adjacent "courts." Railed steps led down to cellars, which were used
for front parlours. The shops were dark and lowbrowed; of ornament
there was not a scrap. Mosley Street, King Street, and one or two
others comparatively modern, presented, no doubt a very decided
contrast. Still it was without the slightest injustice that so late as
in or about 1845 Mr. Cobden described Manchester as the shabbiest city
in Europe for its wealth. That the town needed some improvement is
indicated rather suggestively by the fact, that between 1832 and 1861
the authorities paved, drained, and flagged the footways of no fewer
than 1578 streets, measuring upwards of sixty miles in length. Many of
them, certainly, were new, but the great mass of the gracious work was
retrospective. These matters are worth recalling, since it is only by
comparison with the past that modern Manchester can be appreciated.
Shortly after the Restoration there was a considerable influx, as into
Liverpool, from the surrounding country; and by 1710 again had the
population so much increased that a second church became necessary,
and St. Anne's was erected, cornfields giving place to the "Square."
St. Anne's being the "new" church, the existing one was thenceforwards
distinguished as the "old."[20] Commerce shortly afterwards received
important stimulus by the Irwell being made navigable to its point of
confluence with the Mersey, and by the erection of the original
Manchester Exchange. In 1757 Warrington, the first town in Lancashire
to publish a newspaper, was imitated in the famous old _Manchester
Mercury_. Then came the grand inventions above described, upon which
quickly arose the modern cotton manufacture. In 1771 a Bank and
Insurance Office were found necessary, and in less than a year
afterwards the renowned "Jones Loyds" had its beginning. Social and
intellectual movements were accelerated by the now fast developing
Manchester trade. Liverpool had founded a Subscription Library in
1758: Manchester followed suit in 1765. In 1781 a Literary and
Philosophical Society was set on foot, and in 1792 Assembly Rooms were
built.
[20] St. Anne's was so named in compliment to the queen then on
the throne. "St. Ann's," like "Market-_street_ Lane," came of
carelessness or something worse. The thoroughfare so called was
properly Market-_stead_ Lane--_i.e._ the lane leading to the
Market-place.
[Illustration: ST. ANNE'S SQUARE, MANCHESTER]
New streets were now laid out,--to-day, so vast has been the
subsequent growth, embedded in the heart of the town,--the names often
taken from those of the metropolis, as Cannon Street, Pall Mall,
Cheapside, and Spring Gardens, and at a little later period Bond
Street and Piccadilly. Factories sprang up in not a few of the
principal thoroughfares: perhaps it would be more correct to say that
the building of factories often led to the formation of new streets.
The kind of variety they conferred on the frontages is declared to the
present day in Oxford Road. Similar buildings, though not so large,
existed till very lately where now not a vestige of them remains. The
"Manchester and Salford Bank" occupies the site of a once important
silk-mill. Gathering round them the inferior class of the
population,--the class unable to move into more select neighbourhoods
when the town is relished no longer,--it is easy to understand how, in
most parts of Manchester that are fifty years old, splendour and
poverty are never far asunder. In London, Bath, Leicester, it is
possible to escape from the sight of rags and squalor: in Manchester
they are within a bow-shot of everything upon which the town most
prides itself. The circumstance referred to may be accounted for
perhaps in part by the extreme density of the population, which
exceeds that of all other English manufacturing towns, and is
surpassed only in Liverpool.[21] Manchester, it may be added, has no
"court-end." When the rich took flight they dispersed themselves in
all directions. They might well depart. The reputation of Manchester
in respect of "smuts," that, like the rain in Shelley, are "falling
for ever," is only too well deserved; and, despite of legal
enactments, it is to be feared is inalienable.
[21] The population per statute acre of the towns referred to,
and of one or two others, which may be usefully put in contrast,
is as follows:
Liverpool 106
Manchester 85
Plymouth 54
London 49
Bristol 49
Birmingham 48
Salford 38
Oldham 26
Nottingham 18
Sheffield 16
Leeds 15
Norwich 12
Architecturally, modern Manchester takes quite a foremost place among
the cities by reason of its two great achievements in Gothic--the
Assize Courts and the new Town-hall. Classical models were followed up
till about 1860, as in the original Town-hall (1822-25)--now the City
Free Library; the Royal Institution, the Concert Hall (1825-30), and
the Corn Exchange--one of the happiest efforts of a man of real
ability, the late Mr. Lane. The new Exchange also presents a fine
example of the Corinthian portico. After Mr. Lane, the town was
fortunate in possessing Mr. Walters, since it was he who introduced
artistic details into warehouse fronts, previously to his time bald
and vacant as the face of a cotton-mill. Very interesting examples of
the _primitive_ Manchester warehouse style are extant in Peel Street
and thereabouts. Manchester is now employed in rebuilding itself, to a
considerable extent, under the inspiration received originally from
Mr. Walters, and here and there very chastely. Would that his impress
could have been seen upon the whole of the newly-contrived. We should
then have been spared the not uncommon spectacle of the grotesque, to
say nothing of the grimaces of the last few years. It is not to be
overlooked that the whole of the improvement in Manchester street
architecture has been effected since 1840. Four-fifths of all the
meritorious public buildings, the modern banks also, and nearly all
the ecclesiastical architecture that deserves the name, may be
referred to the same period. The Assize Courts and the new Town-hall
are both from designs by Mr. Waterhouse completed. The former were in
1866, but not used till July 1868, three months after which time the
first stone was laid of the superb pile in Albert Square. The gilt
ball at the apex of the tower, 286 feet high, was fixed 4th January
1876. The dimensions may be imagined from the number of separate
apartments (314), mostly spacious, and approached, as far as possible,
by corridors, which are as well proportioned as elaborate in finish.
The cost up to 15th September 1877, when much remained to be done,
including nearly the whole of the internal decoration, was L751,532.
In designing the windows, Mr. Waterhouse is said to have had
the assistance of a lady. Without pressing for the secret, it is
undeniable that the tints are blended with a sense of delicate harmony
purely feminine. Some people prefer the Assize Courts--a glorious
building, peculiarly distinguished for its calmness. Structures of
such character cannot possibly correspond. Perhaps it may be allowed
to say that the Assize Courts seem to present in greater perfection
the unity of feeling indispensable to all great works of art, however
varied and fanciful the details. Due regard being paid to the
intrinsic fitness of things and their moral significance, which in
Art, when aspiring to the perfect, should always be a prime
consideration, it may be inquired, after all, whether Gothic is the
legitimate style for municipal offices. We cannot here discuss the
point. Liverpool would have to be heard upon the other side. Better,
in any case, to have a Gothic town hall than to see churches and
chapels copy the temples devoted a couple of thousand years ago to the
deities of pagan Greece and Rome. It is not pleasant on a Sunday
forenoon to be reminded of Venus, Apollo, and Diana. The new Owens
College buildings, Oxford Road, are early fourteenth century Gothic,
and when complete will present one of the finest groups of the kind in
England. The architect (Mr. Waterhouse), it has been well said, has
here, as elsewhere, "not fettered himself with ancient traditions, but
endeavoured to make his learning a basis rather than a limit of
thought." A great treat awaits the stranger also in the Catholic
"Church of the Holy Name," a few steps beyond the Owens College. For a
passer-by to help noting the beautiful western front and the maze of
lofty buttresses and pinnacles is impossible. Ornament has been
expended with a lavish but not indiscriminate profusion, the general
effect being one of perfect symmetry--a character possessed equally by
the interior. The style is geometric Gothic of the thirteenth century,
to the capacities of which, all will acknowledge, Mr. Hanson has done
full justice. The very gracefully designed Tudor buildings at Old
Trafford, well known as the Asylums for the Blind and the Deaf and
Dumb, were erected in 1838.
[Illustration: TOWN HALL, MANCHESTER]
Manchester is much less of a manufacturing town at present, in
proportion to its extent and the entire breadth of its business life,
than when the cotton trade was young. Now, as described in the
preceding chapter, the towns and villages outside are all devoted to
spinning and weaving. While Liverpool is one great wharf, the middle
of Manchester is one great warehouse--a reservoir for the production
of the whole district. The trade falls under two principal heads--the
Home and the Export. In either case, the produce of the looms,
wherever situate, is bought just as it flows from them--rough, or,
technically, "in the grey." It is then put into the hands of
bleachers, dyers, or printers, according to requirement, and
afterwards handed to auxiliaries called "makers-up." Very interesting
is it to observe, in going through a great warehouse, not only how
huge is the quantity waiting transfer, but how differently the various
fabrics have to be folded and ornamented so as to meet the taste of
the nations and foreign countries they are intended for. Some prefer
the absolutely plain; others like little pictures; some want bright
colours, and embellishment with gold and silver. The uniformity of the
general business of Manchester allowed of agreement, in November 1843,
to shut all doors upon Saturdays at one o'clock. The warehouse
half-holiday movement soon became universal, and now, by four or five
p.m. on Saturdays large portions of the middle of the town are as
quiet as upon Sundays.
The composition of the Manchester community is extremely
miscellaneous. A steady influx of newcomers from all parts of Great
Britain--Scotland very particularly--has been in progress for eighty
or ninety years, and seems likely to continue. Not very long ago the
suburb called Greenheys was regarded as a German colony. Many
Levantine Greeks have also settled in Manchester, and of Jews the
estimated number is ten thousand. Notwithstanding the influence which
these newcomers have almost necessarily, though undesignedly, brought
to bear upon the general spirit of the town, the original Lancashire
character is still prominent, though greatly modified, both for the
better and the worse. Primitive Lancashire is now confined perhaps to
Rossendale, where, after all, it would be felt that Manchester is the
better place to live in. The people were distinguished of old by
industry and intense frugality, the women in particular being noted
for their thrift. They were enterprising, vigilant, shrewd, and
possessed of marvellous aptitude for business; they had judgment, and
the capacity for minute and sleepless care which is quite as needful
as courage to success in life, and which to many a man has been better
capital to start with than a well-filled purse. Hence the countless
instances in South Lancashire of men who, additionally fortunate in
being born at the favourable moment, though at first earning wages of
perhaps fifteen shillings a-week as porters or mill-hands, rose by
degrees to opulence, and in many cases laid the foundation of families
now in the front rank of local importance. Considering the general
history, it is easy to understand why carriage-heraldry, except of
the worthless purchaseable kind, is scanty; and not difficult either
to account for the pervading local shyness as to pedigrees and
genealogies. Curiously in contrast, one of the very rare instances of
an untitled family having supporters to the heraldic shield is found
in Ashton-under-Lyne, Mr. Coulthart the banker being entitled to them
by virtue of descent from one of the ancient Scottish kings. To a
Lancashire magnate of the old school it was sufficient that he was
_himself_. The disposition is still locally vigorous, and truly many
of the living prove that to be so is a man's recommendation. None of
the excellent attributes possessed by, for instance, the original
Peels and Ainsworths, have disappeared, though it cannot be denied
that in other cases there has been inheritance of the selfish habits,
contracted ideas, and coarsely-moulded character, so often met with in
men who have risen from the ranks. Given to saying and doing the
things natural to them, no people were ever more devoid than the
genuine Lancashire men, as they are still, of frigid affectations, or
less given to assumption of qualities they did not possess. If
sometimes startled by their impetuosities, we can generally trust to
their candour and whole-heartedness, especially when disposed to be
friendly, the more so since they are little inclined to pay
compliments, and not at all to flatter.
[Illustration: DEANSGATE, MANCHESTER]
That men of small beginnings, and who have had little or no education,
are apt, on becoming rich, to be irritable, jealous, and overbearing,
is true perhaps everywhere; in Lancashire it has been observed with
satisfaction that the exceptions are more numerous than the rule.
Whatever the stint and privations in the morning of life, these, it
has been again observed, have seldom led to miserly habits when old.
Most of the modern Lancashire wealthy (or their fathers, at all
events, before them) began with a trifle. Hence the legitimate pride
they take in their commercial belongings--a genuine Lancashire man
would rather you praised his mill or warehouse than his mansion. So
far from becoming miserly, no one in the world deteriorates less. Most
Lancashire capitalists are well aware that it is no credit to a man of
wealth to be in arrears with the public, and when money is wanted for
some noble purpose are quick in response. This, however, represents
them but imperfectly. Of a thousand it might be said with as much
truth as of the late Sir Benjamin Heywood, the eminent Manchester
banker, "He dared to trust God with his charities, and without a
witness, and _risk the consequences_." So much for the Lancashire
heart; though on many of its excellent attributes, wanting space, we
have not touched. The prime characteristic of the _head_ seems to
consist, not in the preponderance of any particular faculty, but in
the good working order of the faculties in general; so that the whole
can be brought to bear at once upon whatever is taken in hand.[22]
[22] For delineations of local and personal character in full we
look to the novelists. After supreme _Scarsdale_, and the
well-known tales by Mrs. Gaskell and Mrs. Banks, may be
mentioned, as instructive in regard to Lancashire ways and
manners, _Coultour's Factory_, by Miss Emily Rodwell, and the
first portion of Mr. Hirst's _Hiram Greg_. Lord Beaconsfield's
admirable portrait of Millbank, the Lancashire manufacturer,
given in _Coningsby_ in 1844, had for its original the late Mr.
Edmund Ashworth of Turton, whose mills had been visited by the
author, then Mr. Disraeli, the previous year.
The Lancashire man has plenty of faults and weaknesses. His energy is
by no means of that admirable kind which is distinguished by never
degenerating into restlessness; neither in disputes is he prone to
courtly forbearance. Sincerity, whether in friend or foe, he admires
nevertheless; whence the exceptional toleration in Lancashire of all
sorts of individual opinions. Possessed of good, old-fashioned
common-sense, when educated and reflective he is seldom astray in his
estimate of the essentially worthy and true; so that, however novel
occasionally his action, we may be pretty sure that underneath it
there is some definite principle of equity. Manchester put forth the
original programme of the "free and open church" system; and from one
of the suburbs came the first cry for the enfranchisement of women.
Lancashire, if nothing else, is frank, cordial, sagacious, and given
to the sterling humanities of life. These always revolve upon Freedom,
whence, yet again in illustration of the Lancashire heart, the
establishment of the Society (original in idea, if not unique) for the
Preservation of Ancient Footpaths.[23] The large infusion of the
German element has been immensely beneficial, not only in relation to
commerce, but to the general culture of the town. It is owing in no
slight degree to the presence of educated Germans that the Manchester
"shippers," in their better portion, now resemble the corresponding
class in Liverpool. The change for the better, since the time when
Coleridge met with his odd reception, is quite as marked, no doubt,
among the leaders of the Home commerce, in whose ranks are plenty of
peers of the Liverpool "gentlemen." Records of the past are never
without their interest. During the siege, the command of the defence
was in the hands of Colonel Rosworm, a celebrated German engineer,
who, when all was over, considered himself ill-used, and published a
pamphlet complaining of the town's injustice, enumerating the
opportunities he had had of betraying it to the Royalists, and of
dividing the inhabitants against themselves. "But then," he adds, "I
should have been a Manchester man, for never let an unthankful one, or
a promise-breaker, bear another name!" On the titlepage of "The Pole
Booke for Manchester, 22d May 1690," an old list of the inhabitants,
printed by the Chetham Society, the aforetime owner has written,
"Generation of vipers!"
[23] Founded in 1826. See the interesting particulars in Mr.
Prentice's _Historical Sketches and Personal Recollections_, pp.
289-295. 1851.
Manchester is now, like Liverpool, if not a school of refinement, one
of the principal seats of English culture. It possesses not fewer than
ten or twelve fine libraries, including the branches of the City Free
Library, established under Mr. Ewart's Act, which last are available
on Sundays, and are freely used by the class of people the opening was
designed to benefit. The staff of assistants at the City Library and
its branches consists very largely of young women. There is another
first-class Free Library in Salford, with, in the same building, a
Free Gallery of Paintings, and a well-arranged and thoroughly useful
museum. The "Athenaeum" provides its members with 60,000 newspapers per
annum, and, in addition, 9500 weekly, and 500 monthly and quarterly
magazines. Societies devoted to science, literature, and the fine
arts exist, as in Liverpool, in plenty. The exhibitions of paintings
at the Royal Institution have always been attractive, and never more
so than during the last few years, when on Sunday afternoons they have
been thrown open to the public _gratis_. The "School of Design,"
founded in October 1838, now called the "School of Art," recently
provided itself with a proper home in Grosvenor Square. There is also
a society expressly of "Women Painters," the works of many of whom
have earned honourable places. In addition to its learned societies,
Manchester stands alone, perhaps, among English cities in having quite
seven or eight set on foot purely with a view to rational enjoyment in
the fields, the observation of Nature in its most pleasing and
suggestive forms, and the obtaining accurate knowledge of its
details--the birds, the trees, and the wild-flowers. The oldest of
these is the "Field-Naturalists and Archaeologists," founded in 1860.
The members of the youngest go by the name of the "Grasshoppers."
Flower-shows, again, are a great feature in Manchester: some held in
the Townhall, others in the Botanical Gardens. In August 1881 the
greatest and richest Horticultural Exhibition of which there is record
was held at Old Trafford, in the gardens, lasting five days, and with
award in prizes of upwards of L2000. Laid out within a few yards of
the ground occupied in 1857 by the celebrated Fine Art Treasures
Exhibition, the only one of the kind ever attempted in England, it was
no less brilliant to the visitor than creditable to the promoters. No
single spot of earth has ever been devoted to illustrations so
exquisite of the most beautiful forms of living nature, and of the
artistic talent of man than were then brought together.
Music is cultivated in Manchester with a zest quite proportionate to
its value. The original "Gentlemen's Concert Club" was founded as far
back as the year of alarm 1745. The local love of glees and madrigals
preserves the best traditions of the Saxon "glee-men." On 10th March
1881 the veteran Charles Halle, who quite recently had been earning
new and glorious laurels at Prague, Vienna, and Pesth, led the _five
hundredth_ of his great concerts in the Free-trade Hall. "Our town,"
remarked the _Guardian_ in its next day's report of the proceedings,
"is at present the city of music _par excellence_ in England.... The
outside world knows three things of Manchester--that it is a city of
cotton, a city of economic ideas, and a city of music. Since then the
old character has been more than well sustained. Cobden was perhaps
the first who made all the world see that Manchester had a turn for
the things of the mind as well as for the production of calico and the
amassing of money. Similarly, Mr. Halle has made it evident to all the
world that there is in Manchester a public which can appreciate the
best music conveyed in the best way." It is but fair to the sister
city to add that the first musical festival in the north of England
was held in Liverpool in 1784, and that the erection of St. George's
Hall had its germ in the local musical tastes and desire for their
full expression.
A good deal might be said in regard to the religious and
ecclesiastical history of Manchester, a curious fact in connection
with which is, that between 1798 and 1820, though the population had
augmented by 80,000, nothing was done on their behalf by the
Episcopate. The Wesleyan body dates from 7th May 1747, when its
founder preached at Salford Cross--a little apartment in a house on
the banks of the Irwell, where there were hand-looms, being
insufficient to accommodate the congregation assembled to hear him.
The literary history of Manchester is also well worthy of extended
treatment; and, above all, that of the local thought and private
spirit, the underlying current which has rendered the last sixty or
seventy years a period of steady and exemplary advance. To some it may
seem a mere coincidence, a part only of the general progress of the
country; but advance, whether local or national, implies impetus
received; and assuredly far more than simple coincidence is involved
in the great reality that the growth of the town in all goodly
respects, subsequently to the uprise of the cotton trade, has been
exactly contemporaneous with the life and influence of the newspaper
just quoted--the _Manchester Guardian_--the first number of which was
published 5th May 1821.
V
MISCELLANEOUS INDUSTRIAL OCCUPATIONS
Lancashire is not only the principal seat of the English cotton
manufacture. Over and above the processes which are auxiliary to it
and complete it, many are carried on of a nature altogether
independent, and upon a scale so vast as again to give this busy
county the preeminence. The mind is arrested not more by the variety
than by the magnitude of Lancashire work. Contemplating the
inexpressible activity, all directed to a common end, one cannot but
recall the famous description of the building of Carthage, with the
simile which makes it vivid for all ages. Like all other manifold
work, it presents also its amusing phases. In Manchester there are
professional "knockers-up"--men whose business it is to tap at
up-stair windows with a long wand, when the time comes to arouse the
sleeper from his pillow.
The industrial occupations specially identified with the cotton trade
are bleaching, dyeing, and calico-printing. Bleaching, the plainest
and simplest, was effected originally by exposure of the cloth to the
open air and solar light. Spread over the meadows and pastures, as
long as summer lasted, the country, wherever a "whiter" or "whitster"
pursued his calling, was more wintry-looking in July than often at
Christmas. The process itself was tedious, requiring incessant
attention, as well as being liable to serious hindrance, and involving
much loss to the merchant through the usually long delay. Above all,
it conduced to the moral damage of the community, since the bleaching
crofts were of necessity accessible, and furnished to the ill-disposed
an incentive to the crime which figures so lamentably in their
history. That changes and events, both good and evil, are prone to
come in clusters is a very ancient matter of observation. At the
precise moment when the ingenious machinery produced by Hargreaves,
Arkwright, and Crompton, was developing its powers, a complete
revolution took place in regard to bleaching. Scheele discovered that
vegetable colours gave way to chlorine. Berthollet and Dr. Henry (the
latter residing in Manchester) extended and perfected the application.
By 1774 the bleaching process had been shortened one-half; the
meadows and pastures were released; the summer sunshine fell once more
upon verdure,
"Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis";
and by about 1790 the art became what we have it to-day, one purely
for indoors. The new method was first practised successfully in the
neighbourhood of Bolton, which place has preserved its original
reputation, though long since rivalled in every part of the
cotton-manufacturing district, and often in more distant spots, a
copious supply of clean water being indispensable, and outweighing in
its value the advantages of proximity to town. Many successive steps
have to be taken before perfect whiteness can be secured, these
demanding the utmost care and the strictest order of procedure.
Finally, unless destined for the dye-house or the print-works, the
cloth is stiffened with starch made from wheaten flour, the
consumption of which article is very large also in the factories,
where it is employed to give tenacity to the yarn, reacting
beneficially upon the agricultural interest; then, in order to give it
the beautiful smoothness and gloss which remind one of the petals of
the snowdrop, it is pressed between huge rollers which play against
one another under the influence of powerful engines. On emerging from
them it is said to have been "cylindered," or, corruptly,
"calendered." Bleaching, it will appear from this, is a process which
but slightly taxes human strength. Very interesting is it to note how,
in the presence of chemistry and steam, the old word "manufacture" has
in modern times changed its meaning. To-day the office of human
fingers is less to "make" than to guide the forces of nature, all the
harder work being delegated to inanimate wood and iron. The time
ordinarily allowed for bleaching is one or two days, though, if
needful, the entire process can be accelerated. The cost is about a
halfpenny per yard.
Dyeing is carried on in Lancashire quite as extensively as bleaching.
Here, again, the exactest chemical knowledge is wanted. The managers
are usually men well versed in science. A visit to an important
dye-works always awakens the liveliest sentiments of admiration, and
were it not for the relentless fouling of the streams which receive
the refuse, few scenes of industry would live longer in pleasant
memory. For although dye-works exist in towns and their suburbs, they
are more frequently established out in the country, where there are
babbling brooks and "shallow falls," with a view to obtaining a
plentiful and steady supply of clean water. Factories also are
sometimes found amid the fields, occupying quite isolated positions,
the object being similar--the command of some definite local
advantage. When at the foot of a hill it is interesting to observe
that the chimney is placed half-way up the <DW72>, a preliminary
underground passage inducing a more powerful draught.
It is in the neighbourhood of these rural establishments that the hurt
done by manufacturing to the pristine beauty of the country becomes
conspicuous. Near the towns the results are simply dirt, withered
hedges, and a general withdrawal of meadow adornment. In the country
we perceive how the picturesque becomes affected. Railways are not
more cruel. Cotton, with all its kindliness, reverses the celestial
process which makes the wilderness blossom as the rose. There are
differences in degree--the upper portion of the Irwell valley, near
Summerseat, is in a measure exceptional; but we must never expect to
find a spot wholly devoid of illustrations of blight and mischief.
Against the destruction of natural beauty, when works and factories
assume the sway, of course must be set not only the employment of the
industrious, but the enormous rise in the value of the land; since
rise of such character is a sign of advancing civilisation, which in
due time will more than compensate the damage. In the manufacturing
parts of Lancashire land available for farming purposes commands ten
times the rental of a century ago. Mr. Henry Ashworth's paper on the
increase in the value of Lancashire property, published in 1841,
showed that since 1692 the rise in Bolton had been six hundredfold.
The highest place in the trio of beautiful arts now before us is held
undeniably by calico-printing, since it not only "paints" the woven
fabric "with delight," but in its power to multiply and vary the
cheerful pictures is practically inexhaustible; thus representing, and
in the most charming manner, the outcome of the sweet facility of the
seasons. Next to the diversities of living flowers assuredly come the
devices of the pattern-designer who discreetly goes to nature for his
inspiration. Much of his work must of necessity be conventionalised,
and some of it cannot be other than arbitrary and artificial; but
there is no reason why, in its steadiest practice, strictly natural
forms and colours should not always be regarded as truest and best.
The tendency is daily more and more in this direction, so that
calico-printing may justly anticipate a future even more
distinguished than its present and its past. The "past," if we press
for the birthday, is an ancient one indeed. Not to mention the
chintzes of India, in the days of Calidasa, Pliny shows us very
plainly that printing by means of mordants was practised in Egypt in
the first century of the Christian era. When introduced into Western
Europe is not known; for our present sketch it is enough that in
England it began about A.D. 1700, coming, like many other excellent
things, of the short-sighted efforts of selfishness, which,
fortunately for mankind, always invites the retaliations of
generosity. In the year mentioned, 1700, with a view to favouring the
manufacturers of woollen and silk, the importation of prints from
India was forbidden. Experiments were at once made with a view to
production of similar work at home. This was soon discovered to be
practicable, and preparations were made for printing upon a large
scale, and at a moderate cost, when a new hindrance arose--say rather
that the old malignant one, jealous opposition, reappeared. For a time
this was successful, but at last the privilege to print in England was
conceded, burdened, however, with the condition that the metropolis
and the immediate vicinity should alone possess the right--a
circumstance which recalls to mind the original law as to joint-stock
banks. The monopoly wrought its own destruction, for there was one
county at least, a despised but courageous one in the north, which was
not likely to remain a passive spectator. Contemporaneously with the
new bleaching process above described, contemporaneously also with the
employment of the new cotton machinery, calico-printing obtained the
provincial footing which from that time forwards has never ceased to
strengthen, and which now renders Lancashire the most important
district in the world in regard alike to the immensity of production
and the inexpressible beauty of the workmanship. It is not too much to
say, with an eminent author, that the calico-printing works of
Lancashire are entitled to count with the most distinguished English
seats of useful science, and the most interesting scenes of the
exercise of tasteful invention. The earliest enterprise was in
Manchester itself, in 1745, the year of the visit of Prince Charles
and his army, the original Lancashire efforts having been made, so
history says, by the grandfather of the late distinguished surgeon,
Mr. Joseph Jordan. The "works" were situated on the banks of the
Irwell, close to St. Mary's Church. Blackburn soon followed, and under
the influence of the supreme abilities of the Peels, remained for
many years the uncontested centre. Print-works are now met with in
every little recess where there is supply of water, doubtless the
first thing looked for when they were founded. The natural current
sufficed at first; but it soon became customary to construct home or
private reservoirs, and upon these the dependence is now essentially
placed. No county in England needs so much water as Lancashire, and
certainly there is not one that presents so many little bits of
water-surface artificially prepared. It is pleasant to observe that
the reservoirs belonging to "works," when belonging to a man of taste,
have often been rendered extremely pretty by the introduction of
water-lilies: flowers not only of unrivalled queenliness among
aquatics, but distinguished among our native vegetation by the pensive
languor always associated with the idea of the Oriental--the
water-lilies' birthright--for, as a race, they are much more Asiatic
than European, and by happy coincidence the most appropriate that
could be placed there, the water-lily being the emblem not more of the
Nile than of the Ganges.
The multiplicity of the printing processes, and their complexity, call
for many distinct buildings. Hence, when large, and isolated away in
the country, as very generally happens, a print-works has quite the
look of a rising village. There is a laboratory, with library, for the
managing chemist, a suite of apartments for the designers, and a house
and fruitful garden for the resident partner, with, in addition, not
uncommonly, a schoolroom for the children. When the designers have
completed their sketches, the engraver's work begins--a business in
itself, and carried on almost exclusively in town, and especially in
Manchester. Originally the pattern was cut upon a block of wood,
usually sycamore, the success of the transfer to the cloth depending
chiefly upon the dexterity of the workman. In 1785 this very primitive
mode was superseded by "cylinder-printing," the pattern being engraved
upon copper rollers, as many as there are colours; and though
"block-printing" shares the unquenchable vitality of hand-loom
weaving, the roller may now be considered universal. The employment of
copper supplies another very interesting illustration of the resort
made to this metal in almost every kind of high decorative art, and
prepares us to understand the fitness of the ancient mythological use,
and why associated with the goddess of love and beauty.
These great undertakings--the bleaching, the dyeing, and the printing
of the calico--demand steady supplies of the chemicals and other
agents by means of which the various objects are attained. Hence in
Lancashire the unrivalled number and extent of the manufacturing
chemical works; and, especially in Manchester, the business,--never
heard of in many English counties, here locally distinguished as the
"drysalter's." The drysalter sees to the importation from foreign
countries of the indigo, the madder, and other dye-stuffs in daily
request; he deals also in the manifold kinds of gum constantly asked
for, supplying himself partly from abroad, _via_ Liverpool, partly
from works close by which prepare it artificially. A well-known sight
in Manchester is that of a cartload of logs of some curious tropical
dyewood, rudely hewn by the axe, and still retaining in the cavities
of the bark little relics of the mosses and lichens of their native
forest.
The chemical works are located principally in the extreme south-west,
especially near Widnes, a place which at once betrays itself to the
passing traveller in the almost suffocating atmosphere, and the total
extinction of the beauty of trees and hedges, spectres and gaunt
skeletons alone remaining where once was verdure. Here we find in its
utmost vigour the manufacture of "soda-ash" (an impure carbonate),
and of chloride of lime, both for the use of bleachers; also, prepared
from the first-named, "caustic soda," for the soap-boilers of
Liverpool and Warrington; and chlorate of potash, peculiarly for the
dyers. Nitric acid also is made in immense quantity, the basis being
Chilian saltpetre, though for their materials for the soda-products
the manufacturers have no need to go further than Cheshire, the supply
of salt being drawn entirely from the Northwich mines. The discharge
of stifling vapours was much worse before the passing of the Alkali
Act than at present; and, curiously enough, though by no means without
a parallel, involved positive loss to the manufacturer, who now
manages to detain a considerable amount of good residuum previously
wasted. The Act permits a limited quantity of noxious matter to go up
the chimney; the stream is tested every day to see that the right is
not abused: how terrible is the action even of that little the
surrounding fields are themselves not slow to testify; everything,
even in summer, looks dirty, lean, and dejected. Sulphuric acid
is likewise manufactured on a great scale, especially at
Newton-le-Willows, the basis (except when required to be very pure,
when sulphur is employed) being iron pyrites imported from Spain.
Hundreds of thousands of tons are prepared every year. There is
probably not a single manufacturing process carried on in England in
which chemical agency is involved which does not call for it. Hence,
in the consumption of sulphuric acid, we have always a capital index
to the state of trade, so far as regards appeal to the activity of the
producing classes.
In the extent of its manufacture of all the substances above
mentioned, Lancashire is far ahead of every competitor in the world;
Germany comes next, and then probably France.
Carbolic acid is of peculiarly Lancashire origin, having been
originally introduced commercially by the late Dr. Crace Calvert.
Supplies are in daily request for the production of colour: the
employment for antiseptic purposes is larger yet; the export is also
very considerable. Other immensely important chemicals prepared in
South Lancashire, and on a scale almost incredible,--Manchester
helping the Widnes corner,--are sulphate of soda and sulphate of
copper, the last-named being now in unlimited demand, not only by the
dyers and calico-printers, but for the batteries used in electric
telegraphy. In the presence of all this marvellous work, how quaintly
reads the history of the Lancashire chemistry of 500 years ago. It
had then not emerged from alchemy, which, after being forbidden by
Henry IV., and again legalised by Henry VI., was warmly encouraged by
the credulous Edward III., and had no devouter adherents than the
Asshetons and the Traffords, who in their loyalty undertook to supply
the king with silver and gold to the extent of his needs--so soon as
the "philosopher's stone" should be discovered! Before we laugh at
their misdirected zeal, it may be well to inquire whether the world
has suffered more from scornful and premature rejection, or from
honest and simple enthusiasm, such as in playing with alchemy brought
to life the germs of the profoundest and most variously useful of the
sciences.
Though Lancashire tries no longer to transmute the baser metals into
the precious ones by means of alchemy, it succeeds by the honester and
less circuitous route of industry. Lead is obtained, though not in
large quantity, at Anglezark, near Rivington Pike; and iron, in the
excellent form of haematite, plentifully in the Ulverston and Furness
district. The smelting is carried on chiefly at Barrow, where the
business will no doubt continue to prosper, though haematite of late
years has somewhat lost its ancient supremacy, methods having been
discovered by which ores hitherto deemed inferior are practically
changed to good and useful ones.
[Illustration: IN THE WIRE WORKS]
In any case the triumphs of Lancashire will continue to be shown, as
heretofore, in her foundries and engine-works, the latter innumerable.
Whitworth, Fairbairn, Nasmyth, are names too well known to need more
than citation. Nasmyth's steam-hammer in itself is unique.
Irresistible when it smites with a will, a giant in power and
emphasis, it can assume, when it pleases, the lightsome manners of a
butterfly. Let a lady place her hand upon the anvil, the mighty
creature just gives it a kiss, gently, courteously, and retires. It is
rather a misfortune for the stupendous products of the foundry and
engine-works that, except in the case of the locomotive, as soon as
completed they are hidden away for evermore, embedded where completely
lost to view, and thought of as little as the human heart. Happily in
the streets of Manchester there is frequent reminder, in the shape of
some leviathan drawn slowly by a team of eight, ten, twelve, or even
fourteen superb horses. Bradford, one of the suburbs of Manchester,
supplies the world with the visible factor of its nervous
system--those mysterious-looking threads which now everywhere show
against the sky, and literally allow of intercourse between "Indus and
the Pole." In addition to their manufacture of telegraph-wire, the
Messrs. Johnson prepare the whole of what is wanted for the wire-rope
bridges now common in America. Large quantities of wire are produced
also at Warrington; here, however, of kinds adapted more particularly
for domestic use. In connection with metal it is worthy also of note
that Lancashire is the principal seat of the manufacture of the
impregnable safes which, laughing at thieves and fire, challenge even
the earthquake. They are made in Liverpool by Milner and Company, and
near Bolton by the Chatwoods.
Lancashire was long distinguished for its manufacture of silk, though
it never acquired the importance held by Macclesfield. In Europe this
beautiful art came to the front as one of the results of the later
Crusades--enterprises which, though productive of untold suffering,
awoke the mind of all the civilised parts of the Continent from its
slumber of ages, enlarging the sphere of popular thought, reviving the
taste for elegant practices forgotten since the fall of the Western
Empire, and extending commerce and knowledge in general. To Lancashire
men the history is thus one of special interest. Italy led the way in
the manufacture; Spain and France soon followed, the latter acquiring
distinction, and at the close of the sixteenth century the English
Channel was crossed. Tyranny, as in the case of calico-printing, was
the prime cause, the original Spitalfields weavers having been part of
the crowd of Protestants who at that period were constrained, like the
unhappy and forlorn in more modern times, to seek the refuge always
afforded in our sea-girt isle.[24] James I. was so strongly impressed
with the importance of the manufacture that, hoping to promote it at
home, he procured many thousands of young mulberry-trees, some of
which, or their immediate descendants, are still to be found,
venerable but not exhausted, in the grounds and gardens of old country
houses. The Civil Wars gave a heavy check to further progress. Little
more was done till 1718, when a silk-mill, worked by a water-wheel,
was built at Derby. This in time had to close its doors awhile,
through the refusal of the King of Sardinia to permit the exportation
of the raw material, always so difficult to procure in quantity. At
last there was recovery; the manufacture crept into Cheshire, and at
the commencement of the present century into Lancashire, taking root
especially in the ancient villages of Middleton and Eccles, and
gradually spreading to the adjacent hamlets.
[24] The late greatly respected Mr. E. R. Le Mare, who came to
Manchester in 1829, and was long distinguished among the local
silk-merchants, belonged by descent to one of these identical
old Huguenot families. Died at Clevedon, 4th February 1881, aged
eighty-four.
[Illustration: MAKING COKE]
The arrival was opportune, and helped to break the fall of the
hand-loom cotton weavers, many of whom could not endure the loss of
freedom imposed by the rules of the factory, and whose latent love of
beauty, as disclosed in their taste for floriculture, was called forth
in a new and agreeable manner. Silk-weaving was further congenial to
these men in being more cleanly and less laborious than the former
work, requiring more care and vigilance, and rather more skill, thus
exactly suiting a race of worshippers of the auricula, the polyanthus,
and the carnation. The auricula, locally called the "basier," a
corruption of "bear's ear," is the subject of a charming little poem
by one of the old Swinton weavers, preserved intact, reprinted in
Wilkinson's _Lancashire Ballads_, and peculiarly valuable in respect
of the light it throws upon the temperament of a simple and worthy
race, now almost extinct. We may be allowed to quote two of the
verses:
Come and listen awhile unto what we shall say
Concerning the season, the month we call May;
For the flowers they are springing, the birds they do sing,
And the basiers are sweet in the morning of May.
When the trees are in bloom, and the meadows are green,
The sweet-smelling cowslips are plain to be seen;
The sweet ties of nature we plainly do say,
For the basiers are sweet in the morning of May!
The silk-weavers about Middleton were renowned also for their zest in
entomology, and truly wonderful were their cabinets of Lepidoptera.
Unfortunately, when all was prosperous, there came a change. Ever
since 1860, the year of the new, and still current, silk-treaties with
France, whereby its original command of the trade was restored, the
manufacture of silk in Lancashire, and everywhere else in England, has
been steadily and hopelessly declining; and at the present day,
compared with half a century ago, the production is less than a tenth
of what it was. Power-looms naturally have the preference with
employers, since they represent invested capital; whereas the
hand-loom weaver, if there is no work for him, has merely to be told
so. The latter, as a consequence, is now seldom met with. The trade,
such as remains, gathers chiefly about Leigh. Middleton, once so
famous for its "broad silks,"--those adapted for ladies' dresses,--now
spends its time chiefly in the preparation of "trimmings"; and
wherever carried on the manufacture is almost wholly of the kind
called "mixed," or cotton and silk combined, this being more in
demand, because lower in price, though not wearing so well.
[Illustration]
From silk that befits empresses to hemp, the material of sackcloth,
the way is long. But it must not be overlooked, in regard to the
textile manufactures of Lancashire, that each extreme is familiar.
Warrington, in the bygones, prepared more than half the entire
quantity of sailcloth required for the navy. It was a ship laden with
hemp from the Baltic for use in Lancashire which, touching at the Isle
of Skye, brought the first news of Prince Charles Edward's landing
there.
Lancashire produces one-sixth of all the paper made in England. In
other words, there are in this county about fifty of the nearly 300
English paper-mills, including the very largest of them--Messrs.
Wrigley and Sons', near Bury. The first to be established was
Crompton's, at Farnworth, near Bolton, which dates from 1676, or
exactly eighty-eight years after the building of the famous Kentish
one referred to by Shakspere,[25] which itself followed, by just a
century, the primeval one at Stevenage. Every description of paper,
except that required for bank-notes, is made in Lancashire. The mills
themselves, like the dyeworks, haunt the river-sides, though they no
longer draw their supplies of water from the stream. Paper-works
cannot possibly prosper if there be iron in the water they use, or
decomposed vegetable matter. Hence in Lancashire it is now customary
to sink wells of considerable depth, and in any case to provide for
elaborate filtration. No spectacle in its way is more wonderful than
that of a paper-machine at work. There is no limit to the length of
the piece it is able to produce continuously, save that which is
imposed by its own restricted dimensions. A roll could be made--as it
is--of three or four miles in length, the cylinder gradually gathering
up the pulp till it can hold no more. Very interesting also is it to
observe the variety of material now employed. Esparto, or "Spanish
grass," is brought to Liverpool (as to Cardiff and Newcastle) in
exchange for coal, and wood-pulp from Norway and Sweden _via_ Hull.
[25] Sir John Spielman's, at Dartford.--_Vide_ 2nd Henry VI.,
Act iv. Scene 7.
At Darwen we find the largest and most important production in England
of the ornamental wall-papers which now take the place of the
distemper painting of ancient Egypt, Herculaneum, and Pompeii. The
manufacture was originally very similar to block calico-printing. In
or about 1839 Messrs. C. & J. G. Potter introduced "rollers," with the
additional novelty of the pattern being cut in relief; and this is
now almost universal, the Messrs. Potter having progeny, as it were,
all over the country, though they themselves still produce quite
one-half of the quantity consumed. They have customers in every part
of the civilised world, and adapt their work to the diverse and often
fantastic tastes of all in turn, directed not uncommonly, as in the
case of the Hindoos and the Japanese, by native designs, which they
are required to follow implicitly.
[Illustration: GLASS-BLOWING]
To go further into the story of modern Lancashire manufacturing is not
possible, since there is scarcely a British industry which in this
county is without example, and to treat of the whole even briefly
would require thrice the space already occupied. Among the foremost
scenes to be described would be the plate-glass works at St. Helens;
and the Manchester india-rubber works, the original, now sixty-seven
years old, still carried on under the familiar name of Charles
Macintosh & Co. The first were established in Glasgow; London, and
then Manchester, were the next following centres, beginning with
simple waterproof, but now producing articles of every conceivable
variety. Thread, tape, pins, carpenters' tools, nails, screws,
terra-cotta, bottles, aniline, soap, brass, and pewter-work, are also
Lancashire staples. Gunpowder is manufactured near the foot of
Windermere; and at Prescot and thereabouts the people employ
themselves, as they have done now for nearly three centuries, in
manufacturing the delicate "works" and "movements" required for
watches. Not without significance either, in regard to the general
capabilities of the county, is the preparation at Newton by Messrs.
M'Corquodale of the whole of the requirements of the Government, both
for home use and in India, in the way of stationery and account-books.
For the Government alone they manufacture forty millions of envelopes
every year. They also execute the enormous amount of printing demanded
by the L. & N. W. Railway Company. The great ship-building works at
Barrow now need no more than a reference. The magnificent Atlantic
Inman steamer, the _City of Rome_, a ship with a gross tonnage of
8400, and propelled by, upon the lowest estimate, 8500 indicated
horse-power, was launched here in June 1881. After the ill-fated
_Great Eastern_, this was the largest vessel then afloat. All has come
into existence since about 1860, when the population of this
out-of-the-way Lancashire village was under 4000, though now nearly
50,000, a growth without parallel except in the United States.
[Illustration: ON THE BRIDGEWATER CANAL]
Omitting a considerable number of minor activities, there is, in
addition to the above, the vast sphere of industry, part of the very
life of working Lancashire, though not a manufacture, indicated by the
little word "coal." In their value and importance the Lancashire
collieries vie with the cotton-mills, declaring once again how close
and constant is the dependence of the prosperity of a great
manufacturing district upon its geology. Coalfields lying below the
surface leave the soil above them free for the purposes of the farmer
and the builder; in other words, for the raising of human food and the
development of useful constructive arts. Where there is plenty of coal
double the number of people can exist; the enormous population of
Lancashire south of the Ribble has unquestionably come as much of its
coalfields as of the invention of the spinning-jenny. The prevailing
rock in this portion of Lancashire is the well-known new red
sandstone, the same as that which overlies all our other best English
coal deposits. Concurrently with it, and with the millstone-grit, the
measures which have brought so much wealth to the county, extend from
Pendleton, two miles from Manchester, to Colne in the north-east, and
to St. Helen's in the west, many vast branches running out in various
directions from the principal mass. What the exact thickness may be
of course is not known, but, according to Mr. Dickinson, it may be
estimated at 6450 feet. Some of the deepest pits in the country have
been sunk in it, as at the Rosebridge Colliery, near Wigan, where the
depth already reached is nearly 2500 feet, and the Ashton-moss Pit,
near Ashton-under-Lyne, which goes still lower,--it is said to 2700
feet,--in which case this last will be the deepest in England. The
direction of the dip is described by the colliers in a very pretty
way. They say it is towards "the rising sun," or "the setting sun,"
the different points included between these opposites being similarly
expressed by "dipping towards nine-o'clock sun," "twelve-o'clock sun,"
and so on. The sun is thus their compass, though few men see less of
it during their hours of labour. The neighbourhood of a colliery is
generally well declared. Independently of the apparatus over the
opening of the pit, there is no mistaking the significance of the row
of neat cottages, all fashioned on the same architectural model, a few
stray ones here and there, a trim little front garden seldom wanting,
with close by a few shops, a school-house, a chapel, both very plain,
and the proprietor's or agent's residence, somewhat ornate, and
garnished with evergreen shrubs, ready always for the washing of a
kindly shower. In many places, as at Wigan, Atherton, Tyldesley, and
St. Helens, women, both single and married, work at the collieries,
but only above ground, or at the bank. They are prohibited by statute
from descending the pit, and their names and ages are all exactly
registered. Up to the waist they are dressed like men. Above the
knees, instead of a coat, they have a peculiarly fashioned tunic, a
compromise between gown and jacket, by which they may be distinguished
from afar: a limp bonnet tied under the chin protects the head, but
never conceals the ear-rings and plaited hair. Many of these women are
plainly equal to their masculine colleagues in physical power, yet
they earn only two-thirds of the wages given to men. The decorum of
their behaviour while at work is unimpeachable; on Sundays they do
their best to dress like ladies. The Lancashire quarries are also
remarkable, though little resorted to by the architect. Commercial
prosperity is always most conspicuous where the buildings are
principally not of stone, but of brick.
[Illustration: ON THE BRIDGEWATER CANAL]
Nothing does more to sustain and encourage the industry of a working
population than a steady system of transit, and a well-timed delivery,
alike of the natural products of the ground and of the articles
manufactured. Hence the early development in Lancashire of the idea
of the canal, and, sixty years afterwards, of that of the railway. The
history of the Bridgewater Canal is one of the most interesting
connected with the county enterprise, the more so since all other
canals were imitations of it. Many, however, are not aware that the
celebrated peer under whose dictation it was constructed--Francis
Egerton, the third and last Duke of Bridgewater--was led to devote
himself for solace sake to engineering through a disappointment in
love. That women, when troubled or bereaved, should take refuge in
works of charity, and that when wealthy they should found hospitals
and build orphanages, is very natural, and has plenty of
exemplification; but for a man to turn when similarly circumstanced to
science is phenomenal, and the records of search for consolation after
this manner would probably be sifted in vain for a parallel case.
Several versions of the story are afloat; whichever way be the true
one, it is beyond a doubt that one of the greatest industrial
achievements ever witnessed in England had for its prime cause the
caprice or the temper of the widowed Duchess of Hamilton,--to whom a
second coronet was offered,--she who in her early days was the
celebrated belle Elizabeth Gunning. There is a waterway of this
description in Lancashire more remarkable in some respects even than
the duke's canal--that one called the Leeds and Liverpool, the
Lancashire portion of which curls round from the great seaport by way
of Ormskirk, Southport, Wigan, Chorley, Burnley, and Colne, where the
Yorkshire boundary is crossed. Near the towns, and especially in the
south-west and south-east, these useful highways are dreary and
uninteresting; but in rural districts, such as they must needs
traverse, often for lengths of many miles, the borders sometimes
acquire an unlooked-for picturesqueness, and are gaily dressed with
wild-flowers. In any case they never fail in possession of the rude
charms of the gliding boat, the slow-paced horse, and artless guide.
The Lancashire railway system, it may be remarked, extends to within a
trifle of 600 miles.
VI
PECULIARITIES OF CHARACTER, DIALECT, AND PASTIMES
The primitive Lancashire character--industrious, frugal, sanguine,
persevering, inflexible in determination--has already been sketched in
brief. Some additional features, observable more particularly among
the operatives and away in the country, deserve notice, the more so
since it is in a people's average temperament that the key is usually
found to their pursuits in playtime--after the songs, the most
interesting chapter in a local history. The sum total of the private
morals of working Lancashire probably does not differ _pro rata_ from
that which would be disclosed by a census of any other county. So with
the manners and customs, for although in Lancashire the suavity of the
South is soon missed, and though there is little touching of the hat
or saying of "Sir," the absence of a courteous spirit is more
apparent than real, and in any case is amply compensated by a
thoroughness of kindly sentiment which more polished communities do
not always share. The "factory-folk," the colliers, and others, are
usually considered turbulent and given to outrages. They are not so by
nature. Though often rough, self-willed, and obstinate, the working
population as a whole is too thoroughly Saxon for the riotousness one
looks for while in the presence of the Celt. Social conflicts, when
they arise, are set on foot by mischief-makers and noisy idlers whose
personal interest it is to promote antagonisms. Save for these
veritable "disturbers of the peace" the probability is that there
would be few or none of the "strikes" and "turn-outs" which bring so
much misery to the unfortunate women and children who have no say in
the matter. The people who "strike" are in the mass more to be pitied
than held chargeable with love of disorder, for, as a rule, they have
been cruelly misled into the notion that it is the master's interest
to pay as little as possible for their labour, the truth being that
for his own sake he pays them the utmost the business will justify, so
that they shall be strong enough, healthy enough, cheerful and
good-tempered enough, to work with a will, thus augmenting his
personal profits. Every master of common-sense understands the
principle, and _does_ so pay. It may be useful to remind the reader
that the profits made by a Lancashire "cotton-lord" differ totally in
their composition from the payment received for his work by an artist,
a physician, or a barrister. The cotton-manufacturer's profits consist
of an infinite number of particles, an atom per head on the work of
500, and often 1000 assistants. To the outside and afar-off public,
who hear of contentions over pennies, the sum seems nothing, and the
man who refuses the penny a sordid fellow. But to the employer it very
soon means hundreds of pounds, and represents perhaps half a year's
income.
In Lancashire, whatever may be the case elsewhere, the people who
"strike" are deceived in no slight measure through their own honesty
and sincerity of purpose. One of the original characteristics of the
county is to be fair and unsuspecting; no people in the world have a
stronger dislike of deceit; one of the reasons why a genuine
Lancashire man can usually be trusted is, that he is so little
inclined to overstate or misrepresent. The very circumstance that wins
our esteem thus renders him vulnerable. Disposed to be honest
themselves, the operatives fall so much more readily a prey to
unscrupulous agitators. It is amusing, at the same time, to note how
soon, when he detects an impostor, a Lancashire man will put him out
of countenance; and how quick he is, in excellent balance, to perceive
the meritorious, either in person or subject, and, perceiving, to
appreciate.
A remarkable instance of the promotion of strikes by mischief-makers
occurred at the commencement of the spring of 1881, when the colliers
stood out for six weeks, at a loss to themselves of no less than
L250,000 in wages, such as otherwise they would have earned. The
chairman of the London and North-Western Railway Company explained it
at the shareholders' meeting on 24th July, pointing out at the same
time the immense collateral harm inflicted:
"They might remember that at the beginning of the year there
was a settlement made with the colliers of Lancashire and their
employers with regard to a mutual insurance fund against
accident; but a Member of Parliament went down and persuaded
these poor, unhappy people that they had better not accept it,
but take care of themselves. He also persuaded them to make a
strike, the result of which was disaster to every one. Prices
did not go up, and unless prices went up wages could not; and
the men afterwards suffered great distress. From this cause
they estimated that the Company had lost traffic to the amount
of about L100,000."
Another result was the permanent loss of an important market to the
local colliery proprietors. Many thousands of tons of Lancashire
steam-coal were previously being sent weekly to Birkenhead; but during
the stoppage of the Wigan collieries the coal masters of North and
South Wales obtained possession of the market, and the quantity now
sent to Birkenhead is confined to only a few hundreds of tons. The
general question as to strikes, and of the kind of grievances that may
sometimes be not unreasonably complained of, is no doubt a very large
and complex one. But whatever may be the case elsewhere, it is
impossible for the "strikers" to deny that in the aggregate, and in
the long run, the tendency of the Lancashire masters' doings is to
create and diffuse social happiness among the employed. It is the
master's interest that his people should be not only strong and
healthy and good workmen, but good men. Comfortable homes are prepared
for their families. Schools were provided by innumerable Lancashire
masters long before they were required to do so by law. Many an
employer is noted for the pains he takes, and the money he spends,
with a view to the operatives' enjoyments.
During the continuance of these ill-advised "strikes," and when the
depression of trade--quite as distasteful to the master as to the
man--involves "short time"--four or five days' work in the week, or
even less, instead of six, another capital feature of the Lancashire
character comes to the front. No people in the world are capable of
profounder fortitude. Patience under suffering never fails. Though
pinched by hunger, such is the manly and womanly pride of the
Lancashire operatives that they care less about privations than to be
constrained to surrender any portion, however trifling, of their
independence. That the large-hearted and intelligent among mankind are
always the last to complain in the hour of trial no one needs telling.
People of this character are probably more numerous everywhere than
may be thought, for the simple reason that they are the least likely
to be heard of; but it is worth putting on paper that no better
illustrations are to be found than exist in plenty in working
Lancashire. It is refreshing also to note the hearty kindness of the
Lancashire operatives one to another in time of distress. Not upon
"Trades' Union" principles, but upon the broad and unselfish basis of
strong, natural, human sympathy, familiar to the friendly visitor; and
which, when elevated, as it often is, by religion, and warmed and
expanded by personal affection, becomes so beautiful that in its
presence all short-comings are forgotten. These good qualities are
unfolded very specially on the occurrence of a terrible accident,
such as a coal-pit explosion. In the yearning to be foremost in help
to rescue; in the gentleness, the deference to authority, the
obedience to discipline, the resignation then exhibited,--this last
coming not of indifference, but of calmness,--a capacity is plainly
shown for the highest conceivable moral development.
_The Dialect._--The original county dialect of Lancashire is of
twofold interest. Still heard among the rustics, it is peculiarly
valuable to the student of the English language. "Our South Lancashire
speech," says its most accomplished interpreter, "is second to none in
England in the vestiges which it contains of the tongue of other
days.... To explain Anglo-Saxon there is no speech so original and
important as our own South Lancashire _patois_."[26] To the ears of
strangers who know nothing about it the sound is often uncouth and
barbarous. That it is far from being so is proved by the use long made
of this dialect for lyric poetry and for tales both racy and
pathetic.[27] There is conclusive evidence also of its sweet and
meaningful pathos in the resorting to it in times of deep emotion by
people of the highest culture, who then unconsciously throw aside the
learning and the vocabulary of school and college for the simplicity
that never fails to touch the heart. The titles of the stories hold a
conspicuous place in Mr. Axon's list of the no fewer than 279
publications illustrative of the general subject of the Lancashire
dialect;[28] the literature of which, he justly remarks in the
introduction, is richer than that of the popular speech of any other
English county. This is so much the more noteworthy since, with the
famous manufacturing epoch of 1785, everything belonging to primitive
Lancashire began to experience change and decay. In a certain sense it
may be said that the dialect has not only survived unhurt, but has
risen, during the last thirty or forty years, to a position worthy of
the native talent; and that the latter, in days to come, will have no
better commemoration than the metrical literature. Two particulars at
once arrest attention. No English dialect more abounds in interesting
archaisms; and certainly not one is so little tainted with expressions
of the nature of slang.[29]
[26] _On the South Lancashire Dialect_. By Thomas Heywood,
F.S.A. Chetham Society. Vol. lvii. pp. 8, 36.
[27] _Vide_ Mr. George Milner, "On the Lancashire Dialect
considered as a Vehicle for Poetry," _Manchester Literary Club
Papers_, vol. i. p. 20. 1875.
[28] _Vide_ Mr. George Milner, "On the Lancashire Dialect
considered as a Vehicle for Poetry," _Manchester Literary Club
Papers_, Appendix to the vol. for 1876.
[29] The modern slang of great towns is of course quite a
different thing from the ancient dialect of a rural population.
Affected misspellings, as of "kuntry" for country, are also to
be distinguished _in toto_ from the phonetic representation of
sounds purely dialectical.
Rochdale occupies the centre of the most distinctively
Lancashire-dialect region. As ordinarily employed, the phrase vaguely
denotes the rural speech of the manufacturing districts. But beyond
the Ribble, and more particularly beyond the Lune, there is
unmistakable variation from the genuine Lancashire of "Tim Bobbin";
and in Furness there is an echo of Cumberland. In genuine Lancashire
we have first the old-accustomed permutations of the vowels. Then come
elisions of consonants, transpositions, and condensations of entire
syllables, whereby words are often oddly transformed. Ancient idioms
attract us next; and lastly, there are many of the energetic old
words, unknown to current dictionaries, which five centuries ago were
an integral part of the English vernacular. The vowel permutations are
illustrated in the universal "wayter," "feyther," "reet," "oi," "aw,"
"neaw," used instead of water, father, right, I, now. "Owt" stands for
aught, "nowt" for naught. Elisions and contractions appear in a
thousand such forms as "dunnoyo" for "do you not," "welly" for
"well-nigh." "You" constantly varies to thee and thou, whence the
common "artu" for "art thou," "wiltohameh" for "wilt thou have me." A
final _g_ is seldom heard; there is also a characteristic rejection
of the guttural in such words as scratched, pronounced "scrat." The
transpositions are as usual, though it is only perhaps in Lancashire
that gaily painted butterflies are "brids," and that the little
field-flowers elsewhere called birds' eye are "brid een."
The old grammatical forms and the archaic words refer the careful
listener, if not to the Anglo-Saxon of King Alfred, at all events to
the _Canterbury Tales_; they take us pleasantly to Chaucer, and
Chaucer in turn introduces us agreeably to Lancashire, where "she" is
always "hoo," through abiding in the primitive "he, heo, hit;" and
where the verbs still end in _n_: "we, ye, they loven," as in the
Prologue--
"For he had geten him yet no benefice."
Very interesting is it also when the ear catches the antiquated _his_
and _it_ where to-day we say _it_ and _its_. Often supposed to
correspond with the poetical use of "his" in personifications (often
found in the authorised version of Scripture), the Lancashire
employment of _his_ is in truth the common Shaksperean one, _his_ in
the county palatine being the simple genitive of the old English
_hit_, as in _Hamlet_, iv. 7--
"There is a willow grows aslant the brook,
That shows _his_ hoar leaves in the glassy stream."
So with the obsolete possessive _it_. When a Lancashire woman says,
"Come to it mammy!" how plain the reminder of the lines in _King
John_--
Do, child, go to _it_ grandam, child;
Give grandam kingdom, and _it_ grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig;
There's a good grandam.
Archaic words are illustrated in many a familiar phrase. A Lancashire
girl in quest of something "speers" for it (Anglo-Saxon _spirian_, to
inquire). If alarmed, she "dithers"; if comely and well conducted, she
behaves herself "farrantly"; if delicately sensitive, she is "nesh"--
It seemeth for love his herte is tendre and neshe.
So when the poor "clem" for want of food--"Hard is the choice," says
Ben Jonson, "when the valiant must eat their arms or clem." Very many
others which, though not obsolete in polite society, are seldom heard,
help to give flavour to this inviting old dialect. To embrace is in
Lancashire to "clip"; to move house is to "flit"; when the rain
descends heavily, "it teems"; rather is expressed by "lief" or
"liefer," as in _Troilus and Cresseide_--
Yet had I levre unwist for sorrow die.
_Pastimes and Recreations._--The pastimes and recreations of the
Lancashire people fall, as elsewhere, under two distinct heads; those
which arise upon the poetic sentiment, the love of purity, order, and
beauty, and those which come of simple desire to be entertained. Where
poesy has a stronghold, we have never long to wait for the "touches of
sweet harmony"; hence a characteristic of working Lancashire,
immemorial as to date, is devotedness to music. In all Europe it would
be difficult to find a province where the first and finest of the fine
arts is better understood, or more reverently practised. High-class
sacred music--German music in particular--fills many a retired cottage
in leisure hours with solace and joy; and very generally in villages,
as well as in the large towns, there are clubs and societies
instituted purely for its promotion. "On the wild hills, where whin
and heather grow, it is not uncommon to meet working-men with their
musical instruments on their way to take part in some village oratorio
many miles distant.... Up in the forest of Rossendale, between Derply
Moor and the wild hill called Swinshaw, there is a little lone valley,
a green cup in the mountains, called Dean. The inhabitants of this
valley are so notable for their love of music that they are known all
through the neighbouring country as 'Th' Deign layrocks.'"[30] In
many of the large country manufacturing establishments--the
printworks, for instance--the operatives have regularly organised
"bands,"--the employers giving encouragement,--the value of which, in
regard to moral culture, is shown in the members being usually the
trusted men.
[30] _i.e._ the larks, or singing birds, of Dean. Edwin Waugh,
_Sketches_, p. 199.
The same primitive inclination towards the poetic would seem to
underlie the boundless Lancashire love of flowers and gardens. Not
that the passion is universal. The chief seat, as of the intrinsically
best of the dialect, is the south-eastern part of the county: the
portion abutting on Yorkshire is unfavourably cold, and though in the
north occur fine examples of individual enthusiasm, there is little
illustration of confederated work. Societies strong and skilful enough
to hold beautiful exhibitions are dotted all over the congenial parts
of the cotton district. They attend as diligently to the economic as
to the decorative; one never knows whether most to admire the onions,
the beans, and the celery, or the splendid asters, dahlias, and
phloxes--in many parts there is ancient renown also for gooseberries.
After the manner of the wise in other matters, the operative
Lancashire gardeners, if they cannot grow the things they might
prefer, give their whole hearts to liking those they have at command.
The rivalry and ambition in regard to gooseberries is unique. While
the fruit is ripening upon the bushes it is sacrilege for a stranger
to approach within a distance of many yards. On cold and hurtful
nights the owner sits up to watch it, like a nurse with an invalid,
supplying or removing defence according to the conditions, and on the
show day the excitement compares in its innocent measure with that of
Epsom. The exhibitors gather round a table: the chairman sits with
scales and weights before him, calling in turn for the heaviest red,
the heaviest yellow, and so on, every eye watching the balance; the
end of all being a bright new kettle for the wife at home.
Many of the operative gardeners are assiduous cultivators of
"alpines," the vegetable _bijouterie_ of the mountains; others are
enamoured of ferns, and these last are usually possessed of good
botanical knowledge. The beginning would seem to date from the time of
Elizabeth, thus from the time of Shakspere, when other immigrations of
the Flemish weavers took place. Things of home too dear to leave
behind them, they brought with them their favourite flowers, the tulip
and the polyanthus. These early growers would doubtless for a time be
shyly looked upon as aliens. Nothing is known definitely of the work
of the ensuing century, but there is certain proof that by 1725
Lancashire had already become distinguished for its "florists'
flowers," the cultivation lying almost entirely in the hands of the
artisans, who have never for an instant slackened, though to-day the
activity is often expressed in new directions.
It is owing, without doubt, to the example of the operative Lancashire
gardeners of the last century and a half that floriculture at the
present moment holds equal place with classical music among the
enjoyments also of the wealthy; especially those whose early family
ties were favourable to observation of the early methods. More
greenhouses, hothouses, and conservatories; more collections of
valuable orchids and other plants of special beauty and lustre exist
in South Lancashire, and especially in the immediate neighbourhood of
Manchester, than in any other district away from the metropolis.
Orchid culture was practised here, as in Macclesfield and Birmingham,
long before what orchids are was even a question in many parts. The
name of one of the noblest species yet discovered, the _Cattleya
Mossiae_, commemorates an old Liverpool merchant, Mr. John Moss, one
of the first to grow these matchless flowers; while in that of the
_Anguloa Clowesii_ we are reminded of the beautiful collection formed
at Higher Broughton by the Rev. John Clowes, which, after the decease
of the possessor, went to Kew. A very remarkable and encouraging fact
is that orchids, the queenliest and most fragrant of indoor flowers,
can, like auriculas, with skilful management be brought to the highest
possible state of perfection in an atmosphere in which many plants can
barely exist--the smoky and soot-laden one of Manchester. The proof
was supplied by the late Dr. R. F. Ainsworth of Cliff Point, to whom
flower-show honours were as familiar as to Benjamin Simonite of
Sheffield, that astonishing old florist whose auriculas are grown
where the idea of a garden seems absurd.
These very practical proofs of the life and soundness of the poetic
sentiment in working Lancashire prepare us for a county feature in its
way quite as interesting and remarkable--the wide-spread and very
deep-seated local taste for myth, legend, and superstition, which, in
truth, is no other than the poetic sentiment uncultured and gone
astray. Faith in "folklore" is by no means to be confounded with inane
credulity. The folk-lore of a civilised nation is the _debris_ of the
grand old spirit-worship--vague, but exquisitely picturesque, and
figuratively significant, which, in the popular religion of the
pre-Christian world, filled every sweet and romantic scene with
invisible beings--Dryads, who loved the woodland; Naiads, that sported
in the stream and waterfall; Oreads, who sat and sang where now we
gather their own fragrant _Oreopteris_,[31] and which assigned maidens
even to the sea--the Nereids, never yet lost. "Nothing," it has been
well said, "that has at any time had a meaning for mankind ever
absolutely dies." How much of the primeval faith shall survive with
any particular race or people--to what extent it shall be
transformed--depends upon their own culture, spiritual insight, and
ideas of the omnipresence of the Almighty, of which the fancies as to
the nymphs, etc., declared a dim recognition: it is affected also very
materially by the physical character and complexion of their country.
This has been illustrated in the completest manner as regards the
eastern borders of Lancashire by the accomplished author of
_Scarsdale_[32] already named: the influence of the daily spectacle of
the wild moor, the evening walk homewards through the shadowy and
silent ravine, the sweet mysteries of the green and ferny clough, with
its rushing stream, all telling powerfully, he shows us with perennial
grace, upon the imagination of a simple-hearted race, constitutionally
predisposed towards the marvellous, and to whom it was nourishment.
Nobody is really happy without illusions of some kind, and none can be
more harmless than belief in the mildly supernatural. The local fairy
tales having now been pretty well collected and classified,[33] it
remains only to recognise their immense ethnographical value, since
there is probably not a single legend or superstition afloat in
Lancashire that, like an ancient coin, does not refer the curious
student to distant lands and long past ages. Lancashire, we must
remember, has been successively inhabited, or occupied, more or less,
by a Celtic people,--by Romans, Danes, and Anglo-Saxons,--all of whom
have left their footprints. No one can reside a year in Lancashire
without hearing of its "boggarts"--familiar in another form in the
Devonshire pixies, and in the "merry wanderer of the night," Titania's
"sweet Puck." Absurd to the logician, the tales and the terrors
connected with the boggarts carry with them, like all other fables, a
profound interior truth--the truth for which, as Carlyle says, "reason
will always inquire, while half-reason stands indifferent and mocking."
The nucleus of the boggart idea is, that the power of the human mind,
exercised with firmness and consistency, triumphs over all obstacles,
and reduces even spirits to its will; while, contrariwise, the weak
and undetermined are plagued and domineered over by the very same imps
whom the resolute can direct and control. So with the superstitions as
to omens. When in spring the anglers start for a day's enjoyment, they
look anxiously for "pynots," or magpies, _one_ being unlucky, while
_two_ portend good fortune. The simple fact, so the ornithologists
tell us, is that in cold and ungenial weather prejudicial to sport
with the rod, one of every pair of birds always stays in the nest,
whereas in fine weather, good for angling, both birds come out.
Illustrations of this nature might be multiplied a hundred-fold, and
to unabating advantage. Time is never ill-spent upon interpretation of
the mythic. The effort, at all events, is a kindly one that seeks--
To unbind the charms that round slight fables lie,
And show that truth is truest poesy.
[31] _Lastrea Oreopteris_, "sweet mountain-fern," abundant in
South-East Lancashire.
[32] The late Sir James Philips Kay-Shuttleworth, Bart.
[33] _Lancashire Folk-lore._ By John Harland and T. T.
Wilkinson. 1867.
The dialect itself is full of metaphor, images of great beauty not
infrequently turning up. Some of them seem inherited from the
primevals. That light and sound are reciprocally representative needs,
for instance, no saying. From the earliest ages the idea of music has
always accompanied that of sunrise. Though to-day the heavens declare
the glory of God silently, in the beginning "the morning stars sang
together":--old Homer's "rosy-fingered morn" is in Lancashire the
"skryke" or cry "of day."
Though much that is deplorably brutal occurs among the lowest
Lancashire classes, the character of the popular pastimes is in
general free from stain; and the amusements themselves are often
eminently interesting, since in honest and _bona fide_ rustic sports
there is always archaeology. The tales they tell of the past now
constitute in truth the chief attraction of the older ones. The social
influences of the railway system have told no less upon the
village-green than on the streets of cities; any picture that may now
be drawn must needs owe its best colours to the retrospective.
Contemplating what remains of them, it is pleasant, however, to note
the intense vitality of customs and ceremonials having their root in
feelings of _reverence_; such, for example, as the annual
"rush-bearing" still current in many parts, and not unknown even in
the streets of modern Manchester. That in the olden time, prior to the
introduction of carpets, the practice was to strew floors and indoor
pavements with green rushes every one knows. Among the charges brought
against Cardinal Wolsey was his extravagance in the too frequent and
ostentatious spreading of clean ones. Employed also in churches and
cathedrals on the anniversary of the feast of the saint to whom the
building was dedicated, when renewed it was with special solemnity. In
an age when processions full of pomp and splendour were greatly
delighted in, no wonder that the renewal became an excuse for a showy
pageant; and thus, although to-day we have only the rush-cart, the
morris-dancers, the drums and trumpets, and the flags--the past, in
association, lives over again. Small events and great ones are seldom
far asunder. In the magnificent "rush-bearing" got up for the
delectation of James I. when at Hoghton Tower, Sunday, 17th August
1617, lay one of the secret causes of the Stuart downfall. Sports on
the Sabbath day had been forbidden by his predecessor. James,
admitting as argument that the cause of the reformed religion had
suffered by the prohibition, gave his "good people of Lancashire"
leave to resume them. The Puritans took offence; the wound was
deepened by Charles; and when the time of trial came it was
remembered.
"Pace-egging" (a corruption of Pasche or Pasque-egging) is another
immemorial Lancashire custom, observed, as the term indicates, at
Easter, the egg taking its place as an emblem of the Resurrection.
Perverted and degraded, though in the beginning decorous, if not
pious, the original house-to-house visitation has long had engrafted
upon it a kind of rude drama supposed to represent the combat of St.
George and the Dragon--the victory of good over evil, of life over
death. So with "Simnel-Sunday," a term derived from the Anglo-Saxon
_symblian_, to banquet, or _symbel_, a feast, a "simnel" being
literally "banquet-bread."[34] This corresponds with the
Midlent-Sunday of other counties, and, particularly in Bury, is a time
of special festivity. The annual village "wakes" observed everywhere
in Lancashire, and equivalent to the local rush-bearings, partake, it
is to be feared, of the general destiny of such things. Happily the
railway system has brought with it an inestimable choice of pleasure
for the rational. The emphatically staple enjoyment of the working
Lancashire population to-day consists in the Whitsun-week trip to
some distant place of wonder or wholesome gratification, the seaside
always securing the preference. In Lancashire it is not nearly or so
much Whitsun-Monday or Whitsun-Tuesday as the whole of the four
following days. In the south-eastern part of the county, Manchester
particularly, business almost disappears; and very delightful is it
then to observe how many little parties of the toiling thrifty are
away to North Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and even to France. The
factory system always implies _masses_. The people work in masses, and
suffer in masses, and rejoice in masses. In Whitsun-week, fifty miles,
a hundred miles away, we find in a score of places five hundred,
perhaps a thousand. There are salutary home-pleasures ready besides.
Manchester does wisely in holding its principal flower-show during
this great annual holiday, drawing, in fair weather, some 50,000
visitors. The example is a good one, since with the growing
disposition of the English people to enjoy their holidays, it behoves
all those who have the management of places of healthy recreation to
supply the most humanising that may be possible, and thus mitigate the
influence of the hurtful ones. The staple game of muscular Lancashire
was formerly that of bowls. A history of Manchester would be
incomplete without plenty of lively chat about it; and in regard to
the more modern pastime, the cricket match, it is no vaunt to add that
while the chief cricketing in England lies in the hands of only nine
out of its forty counties, the premiership has once at all events, say
in 1879, been claimed as fairly by Lancashire as by its great rival on
the banks of the Trent. Nottinghamshire, moreover, had held its
position without half the difficulties in the way that Lancashire had
to contend with.
[34] In the Anglo-Saxon version of the Old Testament there are
many examples of derivative words. In Exodus xxiii. 15, 16,
feasting-time is _symbel-tid_; xxii. 5, a feast-day is
_symbel-daeg_. In Psalm lxxxi. 3, we have _symelnys_, a
feast-day.
VII
THE INLAND SCENERY SOUTH OF LANCASTER
Scenery more diversified than that of Lancashire, taking the Duddon as
its northern boundary, does not exist in any English county. For the
present we shall keep to the portion south of the Lune, deferring the
Lake District to the next chapter, to which may also be left the
little that has to be said concerning the shore south of that river.
The eastern parts have attractions quite as decided as those of the
north, though of a character totally different. Every acknowledged
element of the picturesque may be discovered there, sometimes in
abundance. The only portion of the county entirely devoid of landscape
beauty is that which is traversed by the Liverpool and Southport
Railway, not unjustly regarded as the dullest in the kingdom. The best
that can be said of this dreary district is, that at intervals it is
relieved by the cheerful hues of cultivation.
[Illustration: BLACKSTONE EDGE]
From Liverpool northwards to the banks of the Ribble, excepting at
some distance from the sea, and eastwards to Manchester, the ground is
nearly level. Nothing must be expected where it borders upon the
Mersey above the estuary. To quote the precise terms employed by
Pennant, "The Mersey is by no means a pleasing water." The country
bordering upon it, he might have added, appeals very slenderly to the
imagination; and most assuredly, since the old topographer passed
along, Nature has made no change for the better as regards the river,
while man has done his best to efface any pretty features it may once
have owned. But we have not to go far from the modern Tyre in order to
find hills and the picturesque. Newborough and the vicinity present a
remarkable contrast to the plains beneath. Here the country begins to
grow really beautiful, and thenceforward it constantly improves. Some
of the <DW72>s are treeless, and smooth as a lawn; others are broken by
deep and wooded glades, with streamlets bound for the Douglas (an
affluent of the Ribble), one of the loveliest dells of the kind in
South Lancashire occurring near Gathurst. On the summits, at Ashurst
particularly, a sweet and pleasant air never fails to "invite our
gentle senses." Here too we get our first lesson in what may be truly
said, once for all, of Lancashire--that wherever the ground is
sufficiently bold and elevated we are sure not only of fine air and an
extensive prospect, but a glorious one. At Ashurst, while Liverpool is
not too far for the clear discerning of its towers and spires, in the
south are plainly distinguished the innumerable Delamere pines, rising
in dark masses like islands out of the sea; and far away, beyond the
Dee, the soft swell of the hills of North Wales, Moel Vamma never
wanting. This celebrated eminence, almost as well known in South
Lancashire as in Denbighshire, may be descried even at Eccles, four or
five miles from the Manchester Exchange.
Eastwards of the great arterial line of railway which, running from
Manchester to Lancaster through Bolton and Preston, almost exactly
bisects the county, the scenery is rich in the eloquent features which
come of wild and interminable surges of broad and massive hill, often
rocky, with heights of fantastic form, the irregularities giving
token, in their turn, of deep chasms and clefts, that subdivide into
pretty lateral glens and moist hollows crowded with ferns. The larger
glens constitute the "cloughs" so famous in local legend, and the
names of which recur so frequently in Lancashire literature. As
Yorkshire is approached, the long succession of uplands increases in
volume, rising at last in parts to a maximum altitude of nearly 1900
feet. Were a survey possible from overhead, the scene would be that of
a tempest-ruffled ocean, the waves suddenly made solid.
[Illustration: THE LAKE AT LITTLEBOROUGH]
Very much of this vast hill-surface consists of desolate, heathery,
unsheltered moorland. The amount of unreclaimed land still existing in
Lancashire, and which must needs remain for ever as it is, constitutes
in truth one of the striking characteristics of the county. Not merely
in the portion now specially under notice are there cold and savage
wastes such as laugh the plough to scorn. The "fells" of the more
northern districts present enormous breadths of similar character,
incapable of supporting more than the poorest aboriginal vegetation,
affording only the scantiest pasturage for a few scattered
mountain-sheep, thus leaving the farmer without a chance. In itself
the fact of course is in no degree remarkable, since there are plenty
of hopeless acres elsewhere. The singular circumstance is the
association of so much barrenness with the stupendous industries of
the busiest people in the world. It is but in keeping after all with
the general idea of old England,--
"This precious gem, set in the silver sea,"--
the pride of which consists in the constant blending of the most
diverse elements. If we have grim and hungry solitudes, rugged and
gloomy wildernesses, not very far off, be sure there is counterpoise
in placid and fruitful vale and mead. Lancashire may not supply the
cornfield: the soil and climate, though good for potatoes, are
unfriendly to the cerealia; there is no need either to be too
exacting; if the sickle has no work, there is plenty for the scythe
and the spade.
[Illustration: WATERFALL IN CLIVIGER]
A few miles beyond Bolton the hills begin to rise with dignity. Here
we find far-famed and far-seen Rivington Pike, conspicuous, like
Ashurst, through ascending almost immediately out of the plain. "Pike"
is in Lancashire, and in parts of the country closely adjacent, the
equivalent of "peak," the highest point of a hilly neighbourhood,
though by no means implying an exactly conical or pyramidal figure,
and very generally no more than considerable elevation, as in the case
of the "Peak of Derbyshire." Rivington well deserves its name,
presenting from many points of view one of those beautiful, evenly
swelling, and gently rounded eminences which the ancient Greeks were
accustomed to call [Greek: titthoi] and [Greek: mastoi], as in the
case of the classic mound at Samos which Callimachus connects so
elegantly with the name of the lady Parthenia. There are spots,
however, where the mamelon disappears. From all parts of the summit
the prospect is delightful. Under our feet, unrolled like a carpet, is
a verdant flat which stretches unbrokenly to the sea-margin, twenty
miles distant, declared, nevertheless, by a soft, sweet gleam of
silver or molten gold, according to the position of the sun in the
heavens. The estuary of the Ribble, if the tide be in, renews that
lovely shining; and beyond, in the remote distance, if the atmosphere
be fairly clear, say fifty or sixty miles away, may be discerned the
grand mountains that cast their shadows into Coniston. Working
Lancashire, though it has lakes of its own, has made others! From the
summit of Rivington we now look down upon half a dozen immense
reservoirs, so located that to believe them the work of man is
scarcely possible. Fed by the inflow of several little streams, and no
pains taken to enforce straight margins, except when necessary, these
ample waters exemplify in the best manner how art and science are able
at times to recompense Nature--
"Leaving that beautiful which always was,
And making that which was not."
After heavy and continuous rain, the overflow gives rise to musical
waterfalls. Up in the glen called Deanwood there is also a natural
and nearly permanent cascade.[35]
[35] These vast reservoirs belong to the Liverpool Waterworks,
which first used them in January 1857. The surface, when they
are full, is 500 acres. Another great sheet of water, a mile in
length, for local service, occurs at Entwistle, near Turton.
The eastern <DW72>s of the Rivington range descend into the spacious
valley which, beginning just outside Manchester, extends nearly to
Agricola's Ribchester, and in the Roman times was a soldiers'
thoroughfare. In this valley lie Turton, Darwen, and Blackburn. The
hills, both right and left, again supply prospects of great extent,
and are especially attractive through containing many fine recesses,
sometimes as round as amphitheatres. Features of much the same kind
pertain to the nearly parallel valley in which Summerseat nestles,
with the pleasurable additions that come of care to preserve and to
compensate in case of injury. By this route we may proceed, for
variety, to Whalley, the Mecca of the local archaeologist; thence on to
Clitheroe, and to the foot of famous Pendle. At Whalley we find "Nab's
Hill," to ascend which is pastime enough for a summer's evening.
Inconsiderable in comparison with some of its neighbours, this
favoured eminence gives testimony once again to the advantages
conferred by situation and surroundings, when the rival claims
consist in mere bulk and altitude. Lord Byron might have intended it
in the immortal lines:
"Green and of mild declivity, the last,
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape."
Westwards, from the summit the eye ranges, as at Rivington, over a
broad champaign, the fairest in the district, the turrets of princely
Stonyhurst rising amid a green throng of oaks and beeches. In the
north it rests upon the flanks of airy Longridge, the immediate scene
accentuated by the ruined keep of the ancient castle of the De Lacys.
On the right towers Pendle itself, most massive of English mountains,
its "broad bare back" literally "upheaved into the sky"; and
completing the harmonious picture,--since no landscape is perfect
without water,--below runs the babbling Calder. Whalley Nab has been
planted very liberally with trees. How easy it is for good taste to
confer embellishment!
Pendle, the most distinguished and prominent feature in the physical
geography of Mid-Lancashire, is not, like mountains in general, broken
by vast defiles, but fashioned after the manner of the Dundry range in
Somersetshire, presenting itself as a huge and almost uniform green
mound, several miles in length, and with a nearly level sky-line.
Dundry, however, is much less steep. The highest point is at the upper
or north-east extremity, stated by the Ordnance Survey to be 1850 feet
above the sea. The superficial extent is estimated at 15,000 statute
acres, or about 25 square miles, including the great gorge upon
the southern side called Ogden Clough--a broad, deep, and
mysterious-looking hollow, which contributes not a little to the fine
effect of this gigantic hill as seen from the Yorkshire side.
The <DW72> which looks upon Yorkshire marks the boundary of the famous
"forest of Pendle," a territory of nearly 25,000 acres--not to be
understood as now or at any former period covered with great and aged
trees, but simply as a tract which, when the property was first
apportioned, lay _ad foras_, or outside the lands deemed valuable for
domestic purposes, and which was left undisputed to the wild animals
of the country. Immense breadths of land of this description existed
in England in early times, and in no part was the proportion larger
than in Lancashire, where many of the ancient "forests" still retain
their primitive appellation, and are peculiarly interesting in the
marked survival among the inhabitants of the language, manners, and
customs of their ancestors. Generally speaking, these ancient
"forests" are distinguished also by dearth of primitive architecture
and of rude primeval fences, the forest laws having forbidden all
artificial hindrances to the chase, which in the refuges thus afforded
to "deer," both large and small, had its most ample and enjoyable
scope.
From the summit of Pendle, all that is seen from Whalley Nab, now
diminutive, is renewed on a scale quite proportionate to its own
nobleness. The glistening waters of the Irish Sea in the far west; in
the north the mountains of Westmoreland; proximately the smiling
valleys of the Ribble, the Hodder, and the Calder; and, turning to the
east, the land as far towards the German Ocean as the power of the eye
can reach. When the atmosphere is in its highest state of transparency
even the towers of York Minster become visible. Well might the old
historian of Whalley commend the prospect from mighty Pendle as one
upon which "the eye, the memory, and the imagination rest with equal
delight." To the same author we owe the showing that the common
Lancashire term Pendle-_hill_ is incorrect, seeing that the sense of
"hill" is already conveyed, as in Penmanmawr and Penyghent. "Nab's
Hill" would seem to involve a corresponding repetition, "nab" being a
form of the Scandinavian _nebbe_ or _nibba_, a promontory--as in
Nab-scar, near Rydal, and Nab-crag, in Patterdale.
All these grand peaks belong essentially to the range reached another
time by going from Manchester to Littleborough, ascending from which
place we find ourselves upon Blackstone Edge, so lofty (1553 feet),
and, when climbed, so impressive in all its circumstances, that we
seem to be pacing the walls of an empire. All the topmost part is
moorland; below, or upon the sides, there is abundance of the
picturesque; precipitous crags and rocky knolls, receding dells and
ravines, occurring frequently. Many of the dells in summer bear
witness to the descent in winter of furious torrents; the broad bed of
the now tiny streamlets that fall from ledge to ledge being strewed
with stones and boulders, evidently washed down from the higher
channel by the vehement water, heedlessly tossed about and then
abandoned. The desolate complexion of these winter-torrent gullies (in
Lancashire phrase "water-gaits") in its way is unique, though often
mitigated by the innumerable green fern-plumes upon the borders. The
naturalist's enjoyment is further quickened by the occurrence, not
infrequently, of fragments of calamites and other fossils. The
ascent to the crest is by no means arduous. Attaining it, provided
the atmosphere is free from mist, the prospect--now an old story--is
once again magnificent, and, as at Rivington, made perfect by water.
Nowhere perhaps in England has so much landscape beauty been provided
artificially and undesignedly by the construction of great reservoirs
as in the country of twenty miles radius around Manchester. The waters
at Lymm and Taxal belong respectively to Cheshire and Derbyshire.
Independently of those at Rivington, Lancashire excels both of them in
the romantic lake below Blackstone Edge, well known to every
pleasure-seeker as "Hollingworth." The measurement round the margin is
quite two miles; hills almost completely encircle it, and, as seen
from the edge, near Robin Hood's crags, so utterly is it detached from
all that pertains to towns and cities as to recall the remotest wilds
beyond the Tweed. Hollingworth Lake was constructed about ninety years
ago with a view to steady maintenance of the Rochdale Canal. Among the
hills upon the opposite or north-western side of the valley, Brown
Wardle, often named in story, is conspicuous; and adorning the lofty
general outline may be seen--best, perhaps, from near "Middleton
Junction"--another mamelon--this one believed in local story to be a
haunt of the maidens of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_.
[Illustration: IN THE BURNLEY VALLEY]
Looking westward from the Robin Hood pinnacles, the prospect includes
the valleys of the Roch and the Spodden--the last-named stream in
parts wild and wilful. At Healey its walls of rock appear to have been
riven at different times. Here, struggling through a lengthened and
tortuous cleft, and forming more than one lively cascade before losing
itself in the dingle below, so plainly does the water seem to have
forced a passage, asserting mastery over all impediments, that in the
vernacular this spot is called the "Thrutch." The first phrase heard
in a Lancashire crowd is, "Where are you thrutching?" The perennial
attrition of the broken and impending rocks causes many of them to
terminate in sharp ridges, and in one part has given birth to the
"Fairies' Chapel." The streams spoken of have their beginning in the
lofty grounds which intervene between Rochdale and Cliviger, and
include aspiring Thieveley Pike. Thieveley in the bygones served the
important use of a station for beacon-fires, signalling on the one
hand to Pendle, on the other to Buckton Castle. The prospect from the
top, 1474 feet above the sea, comprehends, to the north, almost the
whole of Craven, with Ingleborough, and the wilds of Trawden Forest.
The nearer portions of the Lake District mountains, now familiar, are
discernible; and on sunny evenings, when the river is full, once more
the bright-faced estuary of the Ribble. The view reaches also to North
Wales and Derbyshire, the extremities of this great map being quite
sixty miles asunder.
Cliviger, after all, is the locality which most astonishes and
delights the visitor to this part of Lancashire. Soon after quitting
Rochdale, the railway passes through the great "Summit Tunnel," and so
into the Todmorden Valley, there very soon passing the frontier formed
by the Calder,[36] and entering Yorkshire. The valley is noted for its
scenery, new combinations of the most varied elements, rude but not
inhospitable, rising right and left in quick succession. Turning up
the Burnley Valley, we enter Cliviger proper: a district having a
circuit of nearly twenty miles, and presenting an endless variety of
the most romantic features possible to mingled rock and pastured
<DW72>, constantly lifted to mountain-height, the charm of the huge
gray bluffs of projecting gritstone augmented in many parts by
abundance of trees, the predominant forms the graceful ones of larch,
birch, and mountain-ash. The trees are now very nearly a century old,
having been planted during the fifteen years ending with 1799, yet, to
appearance, still in the prime of their calm existence. A striking
characteristic of this admired valley is the frequent apparent
closing-in of the passage by protruding crags, which nevertheless soon
give way to verdant curves. Cliviger in every part is more or less
marked by crags and curves, so that we incessantly come upon vast
green bowls or hemispherical cavities, the bases of which change at
times into circular plateaux, at midsummer overlaid with carpets of
the prettiest botanical offspring of the province,--
"In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white,
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery."
[36] This, of course, is not the Calder seen at Whalley, there
being three rivers in Lancashire of the name--the West Calder,
the East Calder, and a little stream which enters the Wyre near
Garstang. The West Calder enters the Ribble half way between
Whalley and Stonyhurst; the eastern, after a course of forty
miles, joins the Aire in the neighbourhood of Wakefield.
For introduction to these choice bits it is needful, of course, to
leave the main thoroughfares and take one of the innumerable by-paths
which lead away to the lonely and impressive silence of the moors,
which, though desolate and sometimes bleak, have a profoundly
delightful influence upon the mind. Their interest is heightened by
the portions which are vividly green with bog-moss, being the
birthplace of important streams. No slight matter is it to stand at
any time where rivers are cradled. Here the flow of water is at once
both east and westwards--a phenomenon witnessed several times in the
English Apennine, and always bidding the traveller pause awhile. The
Ribble and the Wharf begin this way; so do the Lune and the Swale:
playmates in childhood, then parting for ever. Similarly, in Cliviger
Dean the two Calders issue from the same fragment of watery waste,
destined immediately for opposite courses. Hard by, in a stream called
Erewell, at the foot of Derply Hill, on the verge of Rossendale, may
be seen the birthplace of the Manchester Irwell.
The promise given at Newborough in regard to the scenery of East
Lancashire is thus perfectly fulfilled. It does not terminate either
with Cliviger, being renewed, after passing Pendle, all the way to the
borders of Westmoreland. Ward-stone, eight or nine miles south-east of
Lancaster, part of the Littledale Fells, has an altitude exceeding
even that of Pendle.
Asking for the best portions of the Lancashire river scenery,
they are soon found, pertaining to streams not really its own--the
Lune, approaching from Westmoreland by way of Kirby Lonsdale,
to which place it gives name; and the Ribble, descending from
the high moorlands of Craven, first passing Ingleborough, then
Settle, and Bolton Abbey. The only two important streams which
actually rise within the confines of the county are the Wyre
and the much-enduring Irwell. Lancashire is rich in home-born
_minor_ streams, a circumstance said to be recognised in the ancient
British name of the district,--literally, according to Whitaker, the
"well-watered,"[37]--and many of these, the affluents in particular,
do, no doubt, lend themselves freely to the production of the
picturesque, as in the case of the Darwen,[38] which glides almost
without a sound beneath Hoghton Tower, joining the Ribble at Walton;
and the Wenning, which, after bathing the feet of a thousand
water-flags and forget-me-nots, strengthens the well-pleased Lune.
Tributaries,--the little primitive streamlets which swell the
affluents,--since they begin almost always among the mountains, are at
all times, all over the world, wherever they run, in their youth pure
and companionable. One joyous consideration there is open to us
always, namely, that if we go to the beginning of things we are fairly
well assured of purity; whatever may be the later history, the
fountain is usually a synonym for the undefiled, as very pleasantly
certified by the Erewell Springs; the beginnings of the unhappy Irwell
itself are clear and limpid. Still, as regards claims to high
distinction, the river scenery of Lancashire is that, as we have said,
which pertains to its welcome guests, the Ribble and the Lune. When
proud and wealthy Ribchester was in existence fifteen centuries ago,
there is reason to believe that the Ribble, for many miles above
Preston, was considerably broader and deeper than at present, or at
all events that the tide came very much farther up than it does
to-day. It did so as late as the time of Leland. The change, as
regards the bed of the river, would thus be exactly the reverse of the
helpful one to which modern Liverpool owes its harbour. England
nowhere contains scenery of its kind more suave than that of the
Ribble, from Ribchester upwards. In parts the current is impetuous.
Whether rapid or calm, it is the life of a peaceful dale, from which
the hills retire in the gentlest way imaginable, presenting as they
go, green, smooth faces fit for pasture; then, through the unexpected
changefulness which is always so much more congenial to the fancy than
repetition, even of the most excellent things, wooded banks and shaded
recesses, followed by more green lawns and woods again, the last
seeming to lean against the sky. When the outline drops sufficiently,
in the distance, according to the point of observation, rises proud
old Pendle, or Penyghent, or Wharnside. Near Mitton, where Yorkshire
darts so curiously into Lancashire, the channel is somewhat shallow.
Here, after a busy and romantic course of its own, the Hodder
surrenders its waters, thus in good time to take part in the wonderful
whirl, or "wheel," at Salesbury, a little lower down, an eddy of
nearly twenty yards in depth, and locally known as "Sale-wheel." If a
haven ever existed at the mouth of the Ribble, it has now disappeared.
The sands at the bar continually shift with high tides, so that
navigation is hazardous, and vessels of light draught can alone
attempt the passage.
[37] It may not be amiss here to mention the names, in exact
order, of the Lancashire rivers, giving first those which enter
the sea, the affluents and their tributaries coming afterwards:
(1) The Mersey, formed of the union of the non-Lancashire Tame,
Etherowe, and Goyt. Affluents and tributaries--the Irwell, the
Roche, the Spodden, the Medlock, the Irk. (2) The Alt. (3) The
Ribble. Affluents and tributaries--the Douglas, the Golforden,
the Darwen, the West Calder, the Lostock, the Yarrow, the Brun.
(4) The Wyre, which receives the third of the Calders, the
Brock, and several others. (5) The Lune, or Loyne. Affluents and
tributaries--the Wenning, the Conder, the Greta, the Leck, the
Hindburn. Then, north of Lancaster, the Keer, the Bela, the
Kent, the Winster, the Leven (from Windermere), the Crake (from
Coniston Water), and the Duddon.
[38] The river immortalised by Milton, alluding to the conflict
of 17th August 1648:
"And Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued."
[Illustration: THE RIBBLE AT CLITHEROE]
The very interesting portion of the scenery on the banks of the Lune,
so far as concerns Lancashire, lies just above Lancaster itself.
Nearly all the elements of perfect landscape intermingle in this part
of the valley. If either side of the stream possesses an advantage,
perhaps it will belong to the road along the southern border, or that
which proceeds by way of Melon and Caton to Hornby, distant from
Lancaster about nine miles. The river winds so waywardly that in many
parts it seems a string of lakelets. Masses of woodland creep down to
the edge, and whichever way the eye is turned, green hills form
pictures that leave nothing to be desired.
_The Roman Road._--The portion of Roman Road referred to at the outset
as crossing Blackstone Edge presents, like all similar remains in our
island, one of the most conclusive as well as interesting memorials we
possess of the thorough conquest of the country by the Caesars. Labour
and skill, such as were so plainly devoted to the construction of
these wonderful roads, would be expended only by conquerors determined
on full and permanent possession, such as the Romans maintained for
three hundred and seventy years:--the Blackstone Edge road has in
addition the special interest which attaches to features not found
anywhere else, at all events nowhere else in England. The roads in
question were designed not more to facilitate the movements of the
troops than for the easier transport of merchandise and provisions, a
purpose which this one on Blackstone Edge seems to indicate perfectly.
In the district we to-day call "Lancashire" there were several roads
of the principal class, these serving to connect Warrington,
Manchester, Ribchester, and Lancaster, from which last place there was
continuation to Carlisle, and furnishing ready access to modern
"Yorkshire," thus to Ilkley--the Olicana of Ptolemy--and York, the
famous city which saw the death of Severus and the birth of
Constantine. Manchester and Ribchester were the two most important
strongholds in Western Brigantia, standing on the direct great western
line from the south to the north. There were also many branch or
vicinal roads leading to minor stations; those, for instance,
represented to-day by Wigan, Colne, Burnley, Kirkham, Urswick,
Walton-le-Dale, and Overborough. The lines of most of these roads have
been accurately determined, the chief of them having been usually
straight as an arrow, carried forward with undeviating precision,
regardless of all obstacles. They were formed generally in Lancashire
of huge boulder stones, probably got from neighbouring watercourses,
or of fragments of rock embedded in gravel, and varied in width from
four yards to perhaps fourteen. The stones have in most places
disappeared--made use of, no doubt, by after-comers for building
purposes; as exemplified on Blackstone Edge itself, where the
materials of which the wall near the road has been constructed point
only too plainly to their source. Complete remains continuous for any
considerable distance are found only upon elevated and unfrequented
moorlands; where also the substance of the road appears to have been
more rigid. The Blackstone Edge road, one of this kind, ascends the
hill at a point about two miles beyond Littleborough--an ancient Roman
station, here consisting of a strip of pavement exactly sixteen feet
wide. It is composed of square blocks of millstone-grit, obtained upon
the spot, laid with consummate care, and presenting, wherever the
dense growth of whortleberry and other coarse herbage has been cleared
away, a surface so fresh and even, that for seventeen centuries to
have elapsed since its construction seems incredible. The unique
feature of the road consists in the middle being formed of blocks
considerably larger than those used at the sides, harder, and
altogether of better quality, laid end to end, and having a continuous
longitudinal groove, obviously the work of the chisel. This groove, or
"trough," evidently extended down the entire roadway where steep,
beginning at the top of the hill. Nothing like it, as said above, is
found anywhere else in England, for the simple reason, it would
appear, that no other British Roman road descends by so steep an
incline. For it can hardly be doubted that Dr. March is correct in his
conjecture, that it was intended to steady the passage of wagons or
other vehicles when heavily laden; brakes adjusted to the wheels
retarding their progress as indicated by marks still distinguishable.
In some parts there are indications also of lateral trenches cut for
the downflow of water, the road itself being kept dry by a slight
convexity of surface. Over the crest of the hill the descent is easy,
and here the paving seems to have been discontinued. The Robin Hood
rocks close by present remarkably fine examples of typical
millstone-grit. Rising to the height of fifty feet and fantastically
"weathered," on the summits there are basin-like cavities, popularly
attributed, like so many other things they had no hand in, to the
Druids; but palpably referable to a far less mythical agency--the
quiet action, during thousands of years, of the rain and the
atmosphere.
VIII
THE SEASHORE AND THE LAKE DISTRICT
The coast of Lancashire has already been described as presenting, from
the Mersey upwards as far as the estuary of the Kent, an almost
unbroken surface of level sand. In several parts, as near Birkdale,
the western sea-breeze, pursuing its work for ages, has heaped up the
sand atom by atom into hills that have a romantic and attractive
beauty all their own. But of overhanging rocks and crags there are no
examples, except when at Heysham, in Morecambe Bay, the millstone grit
cropping out so as to form a little promontory, gives pleasing change.
Almost immediately after entering this celebrated bay--although the
vast expanse of sand remains unaltered--the mountains begin to draw
nearer, and for the rest of the distance, up to the estuary of the
Duddon, where Cumberland begins, the scenery close inshore is
picturesque. The peculiar feature of the coast consists, perhaps, in
its estuaries. No seaside county in England has its margin interrupted
by so many as there are in Lancashire, every one of the rivers which
leave it for the Irish Sea, excepting the insignificant Alt (six or
eight miles north of Liverpool), widening immensely as the sands are
approached. Embouchures more remarkable than those of the Ribble, the
Wyre, the Lune, and the various minor streams which enter Morecambe
Bay, are certainly not to be found, and there are none that through
association awaken interest more curious.
When, accordingly, the visitor to any one of the Lancashire
watering-places south of the Ribble desires scenery, he must be
content with the spectacle of the sea itself, and the glimpses
obtained in fair weather of the mountains of maritime North Wales. At
Blackpool it is possible also, on clear evenings, to descry the lofty
peaks of the Isle of Man, and occasionally even Cumberland Black
Combe. At Fleetwood these quite compensate the dearth of inland
beauty, and with every step northwards more glorious becomes the
outlook. Not to mention the noble sea in front--an ocean when the tide
is in--all the higher grounds of Cartmel and Furness are plainly in
view. Upon these follow the fells of Coniston, and a little more to
the east the dim blue cones which mark the near neighbourhood of the
head of Windermere. Everything is renewed at Morecambe, and upon a
scale still more commanding: the last reflection, as one turns
homeward from that favoured spot, is that the supreme seaside scenery
of old England pertains, after all, to the many-sided county of the
cotton-mills.
The watering-places themselves are healthful, well-conducted, and
ambitious. None of them had substantial existence seventy or eighty
years ago. Southport, the most important and the most advanced in all
that is honourable, is a daughter of the primitive neighbouring
village of Churchtown,--_filia pulchrior_ very emphatically.
Blackpool, in 1817, was only a rabbit-warren, the sunward <DW72>s, like
those of original Birkdale and Churchtown, a playground for quick-eyed
lizards, their descendants, both gray and green, not yet extinct.
Fleetwood has grown up within easy recollection; Morecambe is a
creation almost of yesterday. Unexcelled, in summer, for the visitor
in search of health, in its cool, firm, ample sands, Fleetwood aspires
to become important also commercially. Morecambe, though destitute of
a deep channel, and unable to offer the security of a natural harbour,
is making vigorous efforts in the same direction. Sir J. E. Smith, in
his account of the evening-primrose in _English Botany_, A.D. 1805,
described the Lancashire coast as a sort of _ultima Thule_:--to-day,
at Southport, there is the finest Winter Garden out of London; and at
a couple of miles distance, reached by tram-car, a Botanical Garden,
including fernery and conservatories, that puts to shame many an
ancient and wealthy city. A drawback to these South Lancashire
watering-places, as mentioned before, is that the water, at low tide,
recedes so far, and ordinarily is so reluctant to return. But is the
tide everything? When out, there is the serene pleasure of silent
stroll upon the vast expanse, the inspiring solitude beyond which
there is only Sea. On these smooth and limitless sands there is plenty
alike for repair of body, the imagination, and the solace of the
naturalist. Shells may be gathered in plenty, and in different parts,
of very various kinds: solens, long and straight; mactras, dentalias,
that resemble miniature elephant's tusks; the fragile pholas;
tellinas, that seem scattered rose-petals; and towards Fleetwood
pearly trochuses, dappled with lilac. A more delicious seaside walk
for those who love the sound of the rolling surge, the sense of
infinite tranquillity, total seclusion from every circumstance of town
and city life, and the sight of old ocean's playthings, may be sought
the world over, and not found more readily than by pursuing the five
or six miles between Fleetwood and Blackpool, one's face turned all
the while to the poetic west. Wanting rocks, upon these quiet sands
there are no native seaweeds, though fragments lie about, torn from
beaches far away, and stranded.
Very distinct interest attaches to the physical history of this part
of the coast, the elevation of which was at some not very remotely
distant period, almost without doubt, much higher. Mr. Joseph
Dickinson, the well-known geologist, and Government Inspector of
Mines, believes that in certain portions it has subsided through the
solution of rock-salt in the strata below--the circumstance to which
the formation of most, if not all, of the natural Cheshire meres is
attributed. The existence of the rock-salt has been clearly proved by
the sinking of a shaft and subsequent borings, near Preesal, a village
about a mile and a half south-east of Fleetwood. The thickness of the
deposit is similar to that met with in the salt districts of Cheshire,
at Port Clarence, near the mouth of the Tees, and at Stoke Prior,
Worcestershire. The subsidence of the shore at Blackpool is, on the
northern side, very palpable. Here the path to Rossall is pursued for
some distance along the brow of an earthy, crumbling cliff, not very
far from which, exposed at the lowest of low tides, there is a little
insulated mound, upon which, according to well-sustained tradition,
there once stood a cottage long since overwhelmed by envious Neptune.
The great rampart of sand-hills which stretches for so many leagues,
and which has been calculated to have an area of twenty-two square
miles, is thought by another distinguished geologist--Mr. T. Melland
Reade--to have taken certainly not less than 2500 years to form,
probably a much longer time. Some of the mounds, however, are
manifestly quite recent, interstratifications of cinders and matter
thrown up from wrecks, being found near the base. A strong westerly
wind brings up the sand vehemently, and very curious then becomes the
spectacle of its travel, which resembles the flow of thin waves of
translucent smoke. The wind alternately heaps up the sand and
disperses it, except where a firm hold has been obtained by the
maram,[39] or star-grass, the roots of which bind and hold all
together. Decoration of the smooth surface of the sloping sand-hills
is supplied by the wind-whirling of the slender stalks half way round,
and sometimes quite so, when there is room for free play: circles and
semicircles are then grooved, smaller ones often inside, as perfect as
if drawn with compasses. Another curious result of the steady blowing
of the sea-breeze is that on the shore there are innumerable little
cones of sand, originating in shells, or fragments of shells, which
arrest the drifting particles, and are, in truth, rudiments of
sand-hills, such as form the barrier a little further in.
[39] Maram, the popular name of the _Ammophila arenaria_, is
probably the Danish _marhalm_, sea-haulm or straw, a term
applied in Norway to the Zostera.
Further north the shore has little to offer in the way of curiosities,
nor is there any agreeable bathing-ground; not even at Grange. Never
mind. The further we advance towards the county frontier, the more
wonderful become the sands, these spreading, at low water, like a
Sahara, with the difference, that the breath of ocean, nowhere in the
world sweeter, blows across them for ever and ever. On a moonlight
night, when the tide is at the full, Morecambe Bay, surveyed from
Kent's Bank, presents an aspect of inexpressible fascination, the
rippled lustre being such as a shallow sea, gently moving, alone can
yield.
"Splendet tremulo sub lumine pontus."
Moving onwards, or towards Cumberland, we find that Lancashire is not
without its island. This is Walney, off the estuary of the Duddon,
closely abutting on the mainland of Furness--a very singular bank or
strip of mingled sand, pebbles, and shingle, nearly ten miles in
length, and half a mile broad where widest. Barren as it may seem from
the description, the soil is in parts so fertile that capital crops of
grain are reaped. There are people on it, likewise, though the
inhabitants are chiefly sea-gulls. Walney Island is the only known
locality for that beautiful wild-flower the _Geranium Lancastriense_,
a variety of the _sanguineum_, the petals, instead of blood-colour, as
at Fleetwood, on St. Vincent's Rocks, and elsewhere, cream-white
netted with rose. The seaward or western side of Walney is defended by
a prodigious heap of pebbles, the mass of which is constantly
augmenting, though left dry at low water. At the lower extremity of
the island there is a light-house, sixty-eight feet high, and adjacent
to it there are one or two islets.
The portion of Lancashire to which Walney belongs, or that which, as
it is locally said, lies "north of the sands" (the sands specially
intended being those of Morecambe Bay), agrees, in natural
composition, with Westmoreland and Cumberland. It is distinguished by
mountain-summits, greatly exceeding in elevation those found upon the
confines of Yorkshire, and the lower <DW72>s of which are, as a rule,
no longer naked, but dressed with shrubs and various trees. Concealed
among these noble mountains are many deep and romantic glens, while at
their feet are lakes of matchless purity. No feature is more striking
than the exchange of the broad and bulky masses of such hills as
Pendle for the rugged and jutting outlines characteristic of the older
rocks, and particularly, as here, of the unstratified. Before
commencing the exploration, it is well to contemplate the general
structure of the country from some near vantage-ground, such as the
newly-opened public park at Lancaster; or better still, that
unspeakably grand terrace upon the Westmoreland side of the Kent,
called Stack-head, where the "Fairy steps" give access to the plain
and valley below, and which is reached so pleasantly by way of
Milnthorpe, proceeding thence through Dallam Park, the village of
Beetham, and the pine-wood--in itself worth all the journey. The view
from the Stack-head terrace (profoundly interesting also,
geologically) comprises all that is majestic and beautiful as regards
the elements of the picturesque, and to the Lancashire man is
peculiarly delightful, since, although he stands actually in
Westmoreland, all the best part of it, Arnside Knot alone excepted, is
within the borders of his own county.[40] Whether the most pleasing
first impressions of the scenery of the Lake District are obtained in
the way indicated; or by taking the alternative, very different route,
by way of Fleetwood and Piel, is nevertheless an open question. The
advantage of the Lancaster route consists in the early introduction it
gives to the mountains themselves--to go _via_ Fleetwood and Piel
involves one of those inspiring little initiative voyages which
harmonise so well with hopes and visions of new enjoyment, alluring
the imagination no less agreeably than they gratify the senses.
[40] "Knot," in the Lake District, probably denotes a rocky
protuberance upon a hill. But it is often used, as in the
present instance, for the hill in its entirety. Hard Knot, in
Eskdale, and Farleton Knot, near Kendal, are parallel examples.
The Lancaster route implies, in the first instance, quiet and
unpretending Silverdale; then, after crossing the estuary of the Kent,
leafy Grange--unrivalled upon the north-west coast, not only for
salubrity, but for the exhaustless charms of the neighbouring country.
Whatever the final intentions in visiting this part of England, a few
days' delay at Grange will never be regretted: it is one of those
happy places which are distinguished by wild nature cordially shaking
hands with civilisation. Sallying forth from the village in an
easterly direction, or up the winding and shady road which leads
primarily to Lindal, we may, if we please, proceed almost direct to
Windermere, distant about ten miles. Turn, before this, up the green
<DW72> just beyond Ellerhow, the village on the left, perched
conspicuously on the highest hill in front, thus reaching Hampsfell.
Many beautiful views will have been enjoyed upon the way, land and sea
contributing equally; all, at the top of Hampsfell, are renewed
threefold, innumerable trees remembering that no witchery is perfect
in the absence of graceful apparel; while in the valley below, gray
and secluded Cartmel talks of a remote historic past. Fully to realise
the absorbing beauty of the scene, there must be no hesitation in
ascending to the Hospice, where the "herald voice" of "good tidings"
heard at Lindal is proved not to have uttered a single syllable in
excess. Hampsfell may be reached also by a path through the Eggerslack
woods, noted for the abundance of their hazel-nuts, and entered almost
immediately after emerging from Grange; and again by a third, somewhat
circuitous, near the towering limestone crags called Yewbarrow.
Kent's Bank, a couple of miles beyond Grange, supplies hill scenery
little inferior. The heights above Allithwaite cover almost the whole
of the fine outlook characteristic of the northern shore of Morecambe
Bay. Kirkhead and Humphrey Head also give unlimited prospects,
especially when the tide is in. The man who loves solitude will find
them lonely enough for hermitages:--blackberries beyond measure grow
on the <DW72>s. Humphrey Head presents features rarely met with,
consisting of a limestone promontory, the sides, in part, nearly
vertical, thus closely resembling the rock at the south-western
extremity of Clevedon, with which many associate Tennyson and the
mournful verses which have for their burden, "Break, break, break, on
thy cold gray stones, O Sea!" Grange, Kent's Bank, Kirkhead, and
Humphrey Head, constantly awaken recollections of the beautiful
village on the eastern edge of the Bristol Channel. The scenery
corresponds, and in productions there is again a very interesting
similarity, though Clevedon has a decided advantage in regard to
diversity of species. Hampsfell and Allithwaite recur at intervals all
the way to the borders of the Leven; thence, constantly varying,
westward to the banks of the Duddon, and southward to the Furness
Valley: not, indeed, until we reach Piel--the little cape where the
boats arrive from Fleetwood--is there surrender.
Piel, as said above, is preferable as a route to the Lake District,
because of the preliminary half hour upon the water, which is
generally smooth and exhilarating. It offers the most interesting way
of approach, also, to Duddon Bridge, where the coast of Lancashire
ends--a place itself of many attractions. The river, it is scarcely
necessary to say, is the Duddon immortalised by Wordsworth, one of
whose sonnets describes the "liquid lapse serene" of this too-seldom
visited stream as it moves through Dunnerdale, after entering, near
Newfield, through a rent in the rocky screen which adds so much to the
romantic features of its early existence. The bridge gives ready
approach to Black Combe, most gloomy and austere of the Cumberland
mountains, but affording full compensation in the magnificence of the
prospects, the height being little short of 2000 feet. Close by, in
Lancashire, we find the ancient village of Broughton, the lords of
which, four or five centuries ago, gave their name to a well-known
suburb of Manchester--so curious is the history of estates.
The railway, after touching at Broughton, leads right away to
Coniston, then to the foot of the "Old Man," the summit, 2649 feet
above the level of the sea, so remarkable in its lines and curves
that, once exactly distinguished from the crowd of lower heights,
like the head of Ingleborough, it is impossible to be mistaken.
Towards the village it throws out a ridge, upon which the houses are
chiefly placed. A deep valley intervenes, and then the mountain rises
abruptly, the walls in some places nearly perpendicular, but in others
disappearing, so that, if well selected, the path upwards is by no
means toilsome, or even difficult, though impeded here and there by
rocks and stones. The climbing is well repaid. From the brows of the
old giant are seen mountains innumerable, lakes, rivers, woods, deep
valleys, velvety meads, with, in addition, the accessories of every
perfect landscape,--those which come of its being impregnated with the
outcome of human intelligence and human feeling, the love of gardens,
and of refined and comfortable homes. Looking south, south-west, and
south-east, there are changing views of Morecambe Bay, flooded with
brightness; the estuaries of the Kent, the Leven, and the Duddon; the
capes and promontories that break the sea margin; Walney Island, the
shining Irish Sea, with the Isle of Man beyond, and the whole of the
long line of coast which runs on to the portals of the Wyre and more
distant Ribble.
Over the mouth of the Leven, Lancaster Castle is distinguishable.
Far away, in the same line, the lofty ranges of the Craven district
come in view; and when the atmosphere is very clear a dim blue
mountain wave on the side where sunset will be indicates Snowdon. In
other directions the views are somewhat circumscribed, Coniston being
situated upon the frontiers rather than within the actual area of the
hill country it so greatly enriches. The figure in general, of all
that is seen, so far as the nature of the barriers will allow, is
nevertheless majestic, and in itself worth all the labour of the
ascent. The Old Man, it must be admitted, is prone to hide his ancient
brows in mist and vapour; the time for climbing must therefore be
chosen carefully and deliberately.
[Illustration: CONISTON]
The lake, called Coniston Water, extends to a length of about six
miles. It is in no part quite a mile in breadth, but although so
narrow never gives the slightest idea of restriction; thus agreeing
with Windermere, to which, however, Coniston bears not the least
resemblance in detail, differing rather in every particular, and
decidedly surpassing it in respect of the wildness and purple
sublimity of the surroundings. The immediate borders, by reason of the
frequently recurring showers of rain, are refreshingly green all the
year round; they allure, also, at every season, by the daintiness and
the generosity with which the greater portion has been planted. Beyond
the line to which the handiwork of man has been continued, or where
the ground becomes steep and rocky, there are brown and heathy <DW72>s,
fissures and winding ravines, redolent of light and shade, the sunward
parts often laced with little white streamlet waterfalls, that in the
distance seem not cascades, but veins of unmelted winter snow. The
<DW72>s, in turn, like the arches in a Gothic cathedral, lead the eye
upwards to outlines that please so much the more because imperfectly
translatable; since when the clouds hover round the summits of these
soaring peaks, they change to mystery and fable, wooing the mind with
the incomparable charm that always waits upon the margin of the
undiscovered.
From what particular point the best views, either of the lake or of
the adjacent mountains, are readily obtainable, must of necessity be
very much a matter of taste. Perhaps it is discreetest to take, in the
first instance, the view _up_ the lake, or from Nibthwaite, where the
waters contract, and become the little river Crake--the stream which,
in conjunction with the Leven from Windermere, forms the estuary named
after the latter.
Contemplated from Nibthwaite, the mountains in which the lake is
bosomed are certainly less impressive than when viewed from some
distance farther up; but the mind is touched with a more agreeable
idea of symmetry, and the water itself seems to acquire amplitude.
None of the mountains are out of sight; the merit of this particular
view consists jointly in their presence, and in the dignified
composure with which they seem to stand somewhat aloof. The view
_down_ the lake,--that which is obtained by approaching Coniston _via_
Hawkshead and Waterhead, is indescribably grand, the imposing forms of
the adjacent mountains, those in particular of the Furness Fells (the
altitude of which is nearly or quite 2600 feet), being here realised
perfectly, the more distant summits fading delicately, the nearer ones
dark and solemn. To our own fancy, the most impressive idea alike of
the water and its framework is obtained, after all, not from either
extremity, but from the surface, resting upon one's oars, as nearly as
possible in the middle. Coniston Water contains a couple of islets,
the upper one named, after its abundant Highland pines, "Fir Island."
Many streamlets contribute to its maintenance, the principal being
Coniston Beck and Black Beck. No celebrated waterfall occurs very
near. All the famous lake waterfalls bearing names belong either to
Cumberland or Westmoreland.
Windermere, or more correctly, as in the well-known line:
"Wooded Winandermere, the river-lake,"
is nearly twice the length of Coniston Water, but of little more than
the same average width. Superficially it belongs to Westmoreland; the
greater portion of the margin is, nevertheless, in Lancashire, without
leaving which county the beauty of the English Zurich may be gathered
perfectly.
The finest view of the lake, as a whole, is obtained near Ambleside,
on the road through the valley of Troutbeck, where it is visible for
nearly the whole extent, the islands seeming clustered in the middle.
Yet nothing can be lovelier, as regards detail, than the views
obtained by ascending from Newby Bridge, the point at which the Leven
issues. The scenery commences long before the lake is actually
reached, the river having a fall, in the short space of four miles, of
no less than 105 feet, consequently flowing with great rapidity, and
supplying a suitable introduction to the charms above its source.
Newby Bridge deserves every word of the praise so often bestowed upon
it. Lofty and wood-mantled hills enclose the valley on every side,
and whichever way we turn the impression is one of Eden-like
retirement. The pine-crowned summit of Finsthwaite, reached by a
woodland path having its base near the river-side, commands a prospect
of admirable variety, the lake extending in one direction, while on
the other the eye ranges over Morecambe Bay. The water of Windermere
is clear as crystal--so limpid that the bottom in the shallower parts
shows quite plainly, the little fishes darting hither and thither over
the pebbles. Taken in its entirety, Windermere is the deepest of the
English lakes, excepting only Wastwater, the level of the surface
being, in parts, upwards of 240 feet above the bed. The maximum depth
of Wastwater is 270 feet. Whether, on quitting Newby Bridge, the
onward course be made by boat, or, more wisely, on foot or by
carriage, along the road upon the eastern margin of the lake, the
prevailing character of the scenery, for a considerable distance, will
be found to consist in consummate softness and a delicacy of finish
that it may be permitted to call artistic.
[Illustration: NEAR THE COPPER MINES, CONISTON]
Not until we reach the neighbourhood of Storrs Hall (half way to
Ambleside), where Lancashire ends and Westmoreland begins, is there
much for the artist. The scenery so far has been captivating, but
never grand. Here, however, and of rarest hues, especially towards
sunset, come in view the majestic Langdale Pikes, with mountains of
every form, and Windermere proves itself the veritable "Gate
Beautiful." Everywhere, upon the borders, oak and ash fling out their
green boughs, seeking amiably others that spring from neighbours as
earnest. Woodbine loves to mingle its fragrant coronals of pink,
white, and amber with the foliage amid which the spirals "gently
entwist;" and at all seasons there is the rich lustre of the peerless
"ivy green." The largest of the Windermere islands (in the Lake
District, as in the Bristol Channel, called "holms") has an area of
thirty acres.
Esthwaite, the third and last of the trio of lakes claimed by
Lancashire, is a quiet, unassuming water, so cheerful, withal, and so
different in character from both Coniston and Windermere, that a day
is well devoted to it. The length is not quite three miles; the width,
at the broadest part, is about three furlongs; the best approach is by
the ferry across Windermere, then ascending the mountain-path among
trees, the lake presently appearing upon the left, silvery and
unexpected, so suddenly does it come in view. Esthwaite, like the
Duddon, has been immortalised by Wordsworth, who received his
education at Hawkshead, the little town at the northern extremity. The
outlet is by a stream called the Cunsey, which carries the overflow
into Windermere.
IX
THE ANCIENT CASTLES AND MONASTIC BUILDINGS
At the period so memorable in history when Wiclif was giving his
countrymen the first complete English Bible--this under the kindly
wing of John o' Gaunt, who shielded the daring reformer in many a
perilous hour--Lancashire possessed six or seven baronial castles; and
no fewer than ten, or rather more, of the religious houses
distinguished by the general name of abbeys and priories. Every one of
the castles, except John o' Gaunt's own, has disappeared; or if relics
exist, they are the merest fragments. Liverpool Castle, which held out
for twenty-four days against Prince Rupert, was demolished more than
200 years ago. Rochdale, Bury, Standish, Penwortham, are not sure even
of the exact spots their citadels occupied. A fate in some respects
heavier has overtaken the monastic buildings, these having gone in
every instance; though the ruins of one or two are so beautiful
architecturally, that in their silent pathos there is compensation for
the ruthless overthrow: one is reconciled to the havoc by the
exquisite ornaments they confer, as our English ruins do universally,
on parts of the country already picturesque.
"I do love these ancient ruins!
We never tread among them, but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history."
Lancaster Castle, the only survivor of the fortresses, stands upon the
site of an extremely ancient stronghold; though very little, somewhat
singularly, is known about it, or indeed of the early history of the
town. The latter would seem to have been the Bremetonacis of the
Romans, traces of the fosse constructed by whom around the castle hill
are still observable upon the northern side. On the establishment of
the Saxon dynasty the Roman name was superseded by the current one;
the Saxon practice being to apply the term _caster_, in different
shapes, to important former seats of the departed Roman power, in the
front rank of which was unquestionably the aged city touched by the
waters of the winding Lune. Omitting fractions, the name of Lancaster
is thus just a thousand years old. The Saxons seem to have allowed the
castle to fall into decay. The powerful Norman baron, Roger de
Poictou (leader of the centre at the battle of Hastings)--who received
from the Conqueror, as his reward, immense portions of Lancashire
territory from the Mersey northwards--gave it new life. He, it is
believed, was the builder of the massive Lungess Tower, though some
assign this part of the work to the time of William Rufus. In any
case, the ancient glory of the place was restored not later than A.D.
1100.
After the disgrace of Roger de Poictou, who had stirred up sundry
small insurrections, the possession was transferred to Stephen, Earl
of Boulogne, inheritor of the crown, and from that time forwards, for
at least two centuries, the history of Lancaster Castle becomes
identified with that of the sovereigns of our island to a degree
seldom equalled in the annals of any other away from London. King
John, in 1206, held his court here for a time, receiving within the
stately walls an embassy from France. Subsequent monarchs followed in
his wake. During the reign, in particular, of Henry IV., festivities,
in which a brilliant chivalry had no slight share, filled the
courtyard with indescribable animation. The gateway tower was not
built till a later period, or the castle would probably not have
suffered so severely as it did when the Scots, after defeating Edward
II. at Bannockburn, pushed into Lancashire, slaying and marauding. The
erection of this splendid tower, perhaps the finest of its kind in the
country, is generally ascribed to John o' Gaunt (fourth son of Edward
III.), who, as above mentioned, was created second Duke of Lancaster
(13th June 1362) by virtue of his marriage to Blanche, daughter of the
first duke, previously Earl of Derby, and thus acquired a direct
personal interest in the place. But certain portions of the
interior--the inner flat-pointed archway, for instance, the passage
with the vaulted roof, and a portion of the north-west corner--are
apparently thirteenth-century work; and although it is quite possible
that the two superb semi-angular towers and the front wall as high as
the niche containing the statue may have been built by this famous
personage, the probabilities point rather toward Henry, Prince of
Wales, eventually Henry V. Ten years after the death of John o' Gaunt,
or in 1409, this prince was himself created Duke of Lancaster, and may
reasonably be supposed to have commemorated the event in a manner at
once substantial and agreeable to the citizens. The presumption is
strongly supported by the heraldic shield, which could not possibly
have been John o' Gaunt's, since the quartering for France consists
of only three fleurs de lys. The original bearing of the French
monarchy, as historians are well aware, was _azure_, semee de fleur de
lys, _or_. Edward III. assumed these arms, with the title of King of
France, in 1340. In 1364 the French reduced the number of fleurs de
lys to the three we are so familiar with, and in due time England
followed suit. But this was not until 1403, when John o' Gaunt had
been in his grave nearly four years. The shield in question is thus
plainly of a period too late for the husband of the Lady Blanche.
But whoever the builder, how glorious the features! how palatial the
proportions! Placed at the south-east corner of the castle, and
overlooking the town, this superb gateway tower is not more admirably
placed than exalted in design. The height, sixty-six feet, prepares us
for the graceful termination of the lofty wings in octagonal turrets,
and for the thickness of the walls, which is nearly, or quite, three
yards: it is scarcely possible to imagine a more skilfully
proportioned blending of strength, regal authority, and the air of
peacefulness. The statue of John o' Gaunt above the archway is modern,
having been placed there only in 1822. But the past is soon recalled
by the opening for the descent of the portcullis, though the ancient
oaken doors have disappeared.
The entire area of Lancaster Castle measures 380 feet by 350 without
reckoning the terrace outside the walls. The oldest portion--probably,
as said above, Roger de Poictou's--is the lower part of the massive
Lungess Tower, an impressive monument of the impregnable masonry of
the time, 80 feet square, with walls 10 feet in thickness, and the
original Norman windows intact. The upper portion was rebuilt temp.
Queen Elizabeth, who specially commended Lancaster Castle to the
faithful defenders of her kingdom against the Spaniards. The height is
70 feet; a turret at the south-west corner, popularly called John o'
Gaunt's Chair, adding another ten to the elevation. Delightful views
are obtained from the summit as, indeed, from the terrace. The chapel,
situated in the basement, 55 feet by 26, here, as elsewhere in the
ancient English castles, tells of the piety as well as the dignity of
their founders and owners. In this, at suitable times, the sacraments
would be administered, not alone to the inmates, but to the foresters,
the shepherds, and other retainers of the baron or noble lady of the
place; the chapel was no less an integral part of the establishment
than the well of spring water; the old English castle was not only a
stronghold but a sanctuary. Unhappily in contrast but in equal harmony
with the times, there are dungeons in two storeys below the level of
the ground.
The Lancaster Castle of 1881 is, after all, by no means the Lancaster
Castle of the Plantagenets. As seen from Morecambe and many another
spot a few miles distant, the old fortress presents an appearance
that, if not romantic, is strikingly picturesque:
"Distance lends enchantment to the view,"
and the church alongside adds graciously to the effect, seeming to
unite with the antique outlines. But so much of the building has been
altered and remodelled in order to adapt it to its modern uses--those
of law-courts and prison; the sharpness of the new architecture so
sadly interferes with enjoyment of the blurred and wasted old; the
fitness of things has been so violated that the sentiment of the
associations is with difficulty sustained even in the ample inner
space once so gay with knights and pageantry. The castle was employed
for the trial of criminals as early as 1324, but 1745 seems to be the
date of its final surrender of royal pride. No sumptuous halls or
storied corridors now exist in it. Contrariwise, everything is
there that renders the building convenient for assizes; and it is
pleasing to observe that with all the medley of modern adaptations
there has been preserved, as far as practicable, a uniformity of
style--the ecclesiastical of temp. Henry VII.
[Illustration: LANCASTER]
Clitheroe Castle, so called, consists to-day of no more than the Keep
and a portion of the outermost surrounding wall. The situation and
general character of this remarkable ruin are perhaps without a match.
Half a mile south of the Ribble, on the great green plain which
stretches westwards from the foot of Pendle, there suddenly rises a
rugged limestone crag, like an island out of the sea. Whether it
betokens an upheaval of the underlying strata more or fewer millions
of years ago, or whether it is a mass of harder material which
withstood the powerful descending currents known to have swept in
primaeval times across the country from east to west, the geologists
must decide. Our present concern is with the fine old feudal relic
perched on the summit, and which, like Lancaster Castle, belongs to
the days of Roger de Poictou and his immediate successors, though a
stronghold of some kind no doubt existed there long previously--a
lofty and insulated rock in a country not abounding in strong military
positions, being too valuable to be neglected even by barbarians. The
probability is, that although founded by Roger de Poictou, the chief
builders were the De Lacys, those renowned Norman lords whose
headquarters were at Pontefract, and who could travel hither, fifty
miles, without calling at any hostelrie not virtually their own. They
came here periodically to receive tribute and to dispense justice.
There was never any important residence upon the rock. The space is
not sufficient for more than might be needed for urgent and temporary
purposes; and although a gentleman's house now stands upon the <DW72>,
it occupies very little of the old foundation.
The inside measurement of the keep is twenty feet square; the walls
are ten feet thick, and so slight has been the touch, so far, of the
"effacing fingers," that they seem assured of another long seven
centuries. The chapel was under the protection of the monks of Whalley
Abbey. Not a vestige of it now remains; every stone, after the
dismantling of the castle in 1649, having been carried away, as in so
many other instances, and used in the building of cottages and walls.
After four generations, or in little more than a hundred years, the
line of the De Lacys became extinct. Do we think often enough, and
with commensurate thankfulness, of the immense service they and the
other old Norman lords rendered our country during their lifetimes?
The Normans, like the Romans, were scribes, architects, reclaimers of
the waste, instruments of civilisation--all the most artistic and
interesting relics of the Norman age Old England possesses bear Norman
impress. How voiceful, to go no further, their cathedrals--Hereford,
Peterborough, Durham, Gloucester! Contemplating their castles, few
things more touch the imagination than the presence, abreast of the
aged stones, of the shrubs and flowers of countries they never heard
of. Here, for instance, sheltering at the knee of old Clitheroe Castle
Keep, perchance in the identical spot where a plumed De Lacy once
leaned, rejoicing in the sunshine, there is a vigorous young Nepalese
cotoneaster. Surely it is the gardener, perpetuator of the earliest of
ennobling professions, who, by transfer of plants and fruits from one
country to another, shows that art and taste co-operating, as at
Clitheroe, do most literally "make the whole world kin." How welcome
will be the volume which some day will be devoted to thorough survey
of the benevolent work! From whatever point approached, the ancient
keep salutes the eye long before we can possibly reach it: no one who
may seek it will pronounce the visit unrewarded.
[Illustration: CLITHEROE CASTLE]
Nor will the tourist exploring Lancashire think the time lost that he
may spend among the sea-beaten remains of the Peel of Fouldrey,--the
cluster of historic towers which forms so conspicuous an object when
proceeding by water to Piel Pier, _en route_ for Furness Abbey and the
Lakes. The castle owes its existence to the Furness abbots, who,
alarmed by the terrible raid of the Scots in 1316, repeated in 1322,
temp. Edward II., discreetly constructed a place for personal safety,
and for deposit of their principal treasures. No site could have been
found more trustworthy than the little island off the southern extreme
of Walney. While artillery was unknown Fouldrey must have been
impregnable, for it was not only wave-girt but defended by artificial
moats, and of substance so well knit that although masses of tumbled
wall are now strewn upon the beach, they refuse to disintegrate. These
huge lumps are composed partly of pebbles, and of cement now hard as
rock. The keep is still standing, with portions of the inner and outer
defences. Traces of the chapel are also discoverable, indicating the
period of the erection; but there is nothing anywhere in the shape of
ornament. The charm of Fouldrey is now purely for the imagination.
Hither came the little skiffs that brought such supplies to the abbey
as its own broad lands could not contribute. Here was given the
welcome to all distinguished visitors arriving by sea, and from
Fouldrey sailed all those who went afar. To-day all is still. No
voices are heard save those of the unmusical seafowl, and of the waves
that toss up their foam--
"Where all-devouring Time
Sits on his throne of ruins hoar,
And winds and tempests sweep his various lyre."
"Peel," a term unknown in the south of England, was anciently, in the
north, a common appellation for castellets built as refuges in times
of peril. They were often no more than single towers, square, with
turrets at the angles, and having the door at a considerable height
above the ground. The word is variously spelt. Pele, pile, pylle, and
two or three other forms, occur in old writers, the whole resolving,
apparently, into a mediaeval _pelum_, which would seem to be in turn
the Latin _pila_, a mole or jetty, as in the fine simile in Virgil,
where the Trojan falls smitten by a dart:
"Qualis in Euboico Baiarum litore quondam
Saxea pila cadit," etc.--_Aeneid_, ix. 710, 711.
Fouldrey itself is not assured of immortality, for there can be no
doubt that much of the present sea in this part of Morecambe Bay
covers, as at Norbreck, surface that aforetime was dry, and where
fir-trees grew and hazel-nuts. Stagnant water had converted the ground
into moss, even before the invasion of the sea; for peat is found by
digging deep enough into the sands, with roots of trees and trunks
that lie with their heads eastwards. Walney, Fouldrey, and the
adjacent islets, were themselves probably formed by ancient inrush of
the water. The beach hereabouts, as said by Camden, certainly "once
lay out a great way westward into the ocean, which the sea ceased not
to slash and mangle ... until it swallowed up the shore at some
boisterous tide, and thereby made three huge bays." Sand and pebbles
still perseveringly accumulate in various parts. Relentless in its
rejection of the soft and perishable, these are the things which old
ocean loves to amass.
The castle was dismantled by its own builders at the commencement of
the fifteenth century, probably because too expensive to maintain.
From that time forwards it has been slowly breaking up, though gaining
perhaps in pictorial interest; and seen, as it is, many miles across
the water, never fails to excite the liveliest sentiments of
curiosity. One of the abbots of Furness was probably the builder also
of the curious old square tower still standing in the market-place of
Dalton, and locally called the "Castle." The architecture is of the
fourteenth century.
Furness Abbey, seven miles south-west of Ulverston, once the most
extensive and beautiful of the English Cistercian houses,--which held
charters from twelve successive kings, and whose abbots had
jurisdiction, not only ecclesiastical but civil, over the whole of the
great peninsula formed by the Duddon, the Leven, Windermere, and the
sea,--still attests in the variety and the stateliness of the remains
that the "pomp and circumstance" of monastic authority must here have
been played forth to the utmost limit. In its day the building must
have been perfect alike in design and commodiousness. The outermost
walls enclosed no less than sixty-five acres of ground, including the
portion used as a garden. This great area was traversed by a clear and
swiftly flowing stream, which still runs on its ancient way; and the
<DW72>s of the sequestered glen chosen with so much sagacity as the
site, were covered with trees. To-day their descendants mingle also
with the broken arches; these last receiving comfort again from the
faithful campanula, which in its season decks every ledge and
crumbling corbel, flowering, after its manner, luxuriantly--a reflex
of the "heavens' own tinct," smiling, as Nature always does, upon the
devastation she so loves to adorn. The contrast of the lively hues of
the vegetation with the gray-red tint of the native sandstone employed
by the builders, now softened and subdued by the touch of centuries,
the painter alone can portray. When sunbeams glance through, falling
on the shattered arcades with the subtle tenderness which makes
sunshine, when it creeps into such places, seem, like our own
footsteps, conscious and reverent, the effects are chaste and
animating beyond expression. Even when the skies are clouded, the long
perspectives, the boldness with which the venerable walls rise out of
the sod, the infinite diversity of the parts,--to say nothing of the
associations,--render this glorious ruin one of the most fascinating
in our country.
Furness Abbey was founded in the year 1127, the twenty-sixth of Henry
I., and sixty-first after the Norman Conquest. The original patron was
the above-named Stephen, Earl of Boulogne, afterwards King of England,
a crowned likeness of whom, with a corresponding one of his queen,
Matilda, still exists upon the outer mouldings of the east window. The
carving is very slightly abraded, probably through the sculptor's
selection of a harder material than that of the edifice, which
presents, in its worn condition, a strong contrast to the solid,
though simple, masonry. The Furness monks were seated, in the first
instance, on the Ribble, near Preston, coming from Normandy as early
as 1124, then as Benedictines. On removal to the retired and fertile
"Valley of Nightshade," a choice consonant with their custom, they
assumed the dress of the Cistercian Order, changing their gray
habiliments for white ones, and from that day forwards (7th July 1127)
they never ceased to grow steadily in wealth and power. The dedication
of the abbey, as usual with the Cistercians, was to Our Lady, the
Virgin Mary. The building, however, was not completed for many years,
transition work being abundant, and the lofty belfry tower at the
extreme west plainly not older than the early part of the fifteenth
century, by which time the primitive objection with the Cistercians to
aspiring towers had become lax, if not surrendered altogether. The
oldest portions in all likelihood are the nave and transepts of the
conventual church, the whole of which was completed perhaps by the
year 1200. Eight pillars upon each side, alternately clustered and
circular, their bases still conspicuous above the turf, divided the
nave from the aisles, the wall of the southern one still standing.
Beneath the window of the north transept the original Early Norman
doorway (the principal entrance) is intact, a rich and delectable arch
retiring circle within circle. Upon the eastern side of the grand
cloister quadrangle (338 feet by 102) there are five other
deeply-recessed round arches, the middle one leading into the
vestibule of the Chapterhouse--the fretted roof of which, supported by
six pillars, fell in only about a hundred years ago. The great east
window, 47 feet in height, 23-1/2 in width, and rising nearly from the
ground, retains little of its original detail, but is imposing in
general effect.
[Illustration: FURNESS ABBEY]
Scrutinising the various parts, the visitor will find very many other
beautiful elements. With the space at our command it is impossible
here even to mention them, or to do more than concentrate material for
a volume into the simple remark that Furness Abbey remains one of the
most striking mementoes England possesses, alike of the tasteful
constructive art of the men who reared it and of the havoc wrought,
when for four centuries it had been a centre of public usefulness, by
the royal thirst, not for reformation, but for spoil. The overthrow of
the abbeys no doubt prepared the way for the advent of a better order
of things; but it is not to be forgotten that the destruction of
Furness Abbey brought quite a hundred years of decay and misery to
its own domain.
[Illustration: FURNESS ABBEY]
Of Whalley Abbey, within a pleasant walk from Clitheroe, there is
little new to be said; few, however, of the old monasteries have a
more interesting history. The original establishment, as with Furness,
was at a distance, the primitive seat of the monks to whose energy it
owed its existence having been at Stanlaw, a place at the confluence
of the Gowy with the Mersey. In Greenland itself there is not a spot
more desolate, bleak, and lonely. It was selected, it would seem, in
imitation of the ascetic fathers of the Order, who chose
Citeaux--whence their name--because of the utter sterility. After a
time the rule was prudently set aside, and in 1296, after 118 years of
dismal endurance, the whole party migrated to the green spot under the
shadow of Whalley Nab where now we find the ruins of their famous
home. The abbey grounds, exceeding thirty-six acres in extent, were
encircled, where not protected by the river, by a deep trench, crossed
by two bridges, each with a strong and ornamental gatehouse tower,
happily still in existence. The principal buildings appear to have
been disposed in three quadrangles, but the merest scraps now remain,
though amply sufficient to instruct the student of monastic
architecture as to the position and uses of the various parts.
Portions of massive walls, dilapidated archways, little courts and
avenues, tell their own tale; and in addition there are piles of
sculptured stones, some with curiously wrought bosses bearing the
sacred monogram "M," referring to the Virgin, to whom, as said above,
all Cistercian monasteries were dedicated. The abbot's house did not
share in the general demolition, but it has undergone so much
modernising that little can now be distinguished of the original
structure. The abbot's oratory has been more fortunate, and is now
dressed with ivy.
The severest damage to this once glorious building was not done, as
commonly supposed, temp. Henry VIII., nor yet during the reign of his
eldest daughter, when so great a panic seized the Protestant
possessors of the abolished abbeys, and the mischief in general was so
cruel. "For now," says quaint old Fuller (meaning temp. Mary), "the
edifices of abbeys which were still entire looked lovingly again on
their ancient owners; in prevention whereof, such as for the present
possessed them, plucked out their eyes by levelling them to the
ground, and shaving from them as much as they could of abbey
characters." Whatever the time of the chief destruction wrought at
Furness, that of Whalley did not take place till the beginning of the
reign of Charles II.
Third in order of rank and territorial possessions among the old
Lancashire religious houses came Cokersand Abbey, founded in 1190 on a
bit of seaside sandy wilderness about five miles south of Lancaster,
near the estuary of the streamlet called the Coker. There is no reason
to believe that the edifice was in any degree remarkable, in point
either of extent or of architectural merit. Nothing now remains of it
but the Chapter-house, an octagonal building thirty feet in diameter,
the roof supported upon a solitary Anglo-Norman shaft, which leads up
to the pointed arches of a groined ceiling. The oaken canopies of the
stalls, when the building was dismantled, were removed, very properly,
to the parish church of Lancaster.
Burscough Priory, two miles and a half north-east of Ormskirk, founded
temp. Richard I., and for a long time the burial-place of the Earls of
Derby, has suffered even more heavily than Cokersand Abbey. Nothing
remains but a portion of the centre archway of the church. Burscough
has interest, nevertheless, for the antiquary and the artist; the
former of whom, though not the latter, finds pleasure also in the
extant morsel of the ancient priory of Cartmel--a solitary gateway,
standing almost due west of the church, close to the little river Ea,
and containing some of the original windows, the trefoil mouldings of
which appear to indicate the early part of the fourteenth century. The
foundation of the edifice, as a whole, is referred to the year 1188,
the name then given being "The Priory of the Blessed Mary of
Kartmell." The demolition took place very shortly after the fatal
1535, when the church, much older, was also doomed, but spared as
being the parochial one. Contemplating old Cartmel, one scarcely
thinks of Shakspere, but it was to the "William Mareshall, Earl of
Pembroke," in _King John_, that the Priory owed its birth.
Of Conishead Priory, two miles south of Ulverston, there are but atoms
remaining, and these are concealed by the modern mansion which
preserves the name. The memory of good deeds has more vitality than
the work of the mason:--the monks of Conishead were entrusted with the
safe conveyance of travellers across the treacherous sands at the
outlet of the Leven; the Priory was also a hospital for the sick and
maimed. Upholland Priory, near Wigan, dates from 1319, though a
chantry existed there at a period still earlier. One of the lateral
walls still exists, with a row of small windows, all covered with ivy.
Some fragments of Penwortham Priory, near Preston, also remain; and
lastly, for the curious there is the never-finished building called
Lydiate Abbey, four miles south-west of Ormskirk, the date of which
appears to be temp. Henry VIII., when the zeal of the Catholic
founders received a sudden check. The walls are covered with ivy,
"never sere," and the aspect in general is picturesque; so calmly and
constantly always arises out of the calamities of the past nutriment
for pleasure in the present.
X
THE OLD CHURCHES AND THE OLD HALLS
Christianity in Lancashire--so far, at all events, as concerns the
outward expression through the medium of places of worship--had a very
early beginning, the period being that of Paulinus, one of the
missionaries brought into England by Augustine. In 625 the kingdom of
Northumbria, which included the northern portions of the modern county
of Lancaster, had for its monarch the celebrated Edwin--he who
espoused the Christian princess Edilberga, daughter of the king of
Kent--the pious woman to whom the royal conversion was no doubt as
largely owing as to the exhortations of the priest who found in her
court welcome and protection. The story is told at length by Bede.
There is no necessity to recapitulate it. The king was baptized, and
Christianity became the state religion of the northern Angles.
Paulinus nowhere in his great diocese--that of York--found listeners
more willing than the ancestors of the people of East Lancashire; and
as nearly as possible twelve and a half centuries ago, the foundations
were laid at Whalley of the mother church of the district so
legitimately proud to-day of a memorial almost unique. Three stone
crosses, much defaced by exposure to the weather, still exist in the
graveyard. They are considered by antiquaries to have been erected in
the time of Paulinus himself, and possibly by his direction; similar
crosses occurring near Burnley Church, and at Dewsbury and Ilkley in
Yorkshire. The site is a few yards to the north of that one afterwards
chosen for the abbey. The primitive Anglo-Saxon churches, it is
scarcely requisite to say, were constructed chiefly, and often
entirely, of wood.[41] Hence their extreme perishableness, especially
in the humid climate of Lancashire; hence also the long step to the
next extant mementoes of ecclesiastical movement in this county; for
these, with one solitary exception, pertain, like the old castles, to
the early Norman times. The Saxon relic is one of the most interesting
in the north of England; and is peculiarly distinguished by the
mournful circumstances of the story which envelops it, though the
particular incidents are beyond discovery. At Heysham, as before
mentioned, four miles from Lancaster, on the edge of Morecambe Bay,
there is a little projecting rock, the only one thereabouts. Upon the
summit formerly stood "St. Patrick's Chapel," destroyed ages ago,
though the site is still traceable; fragments of stonework used in the
building of the diminutive Norman church beneath, and others in the
graveyard, adding their testimony. That, however, which attracts the
visitor is the existence to this day, upon the bare and exposed
surface of the rock, of half a dozen excavations adapted to hold the
remains of human beings of various stature--children as well as
adults. These "coffins," as the villagers call them, tell their own
tale. Upon this perilous and deceitful coast, one dark and tempestuous
night a thousand years ago, an entire family would seem to have lost
their lives by shipwreck. The bodies were laid side by side in these
only too significant cavities; the oratory or "chapel" was built as a
monument by their relatives, with, in addition, upon the highest point
of the hill, a beacon or sort of rude lighthouse, with the maintenance
of which the priest and his household were charged. On this lone
little North Lancashire promontory, where no sound is ever heard but
that of the sea, the heart is touched well-nigh as deeply as by the
busiest scenes of Liverpool commerce.
[41] Thus in conformity with their general architectural
practice, and as expressed in the Anglo-Saxon word for "to
build"--_getymbrian_.
The church architecture of the Norman times has plenty of examples in
Lancashire. It is well known also that many modern churches occupy old
Norman and even Saxon sites, though nothing of the original structure
has been preserved. The remains in question usually consist, as
elsewhere, of the massive pillars always employed by the Norman
architects for the nave, or of the ornamented arch which it was their
custom to place at the entrance of the choir. Examples of Norman
pillars exist at Colne, Lancaster, Hawkshead, Cartmel, Whalley, and
Rochdale; the last-named, with the arches above, bringing to mind the
choir of Canterbury Cathedral; at Clitheroe we find a chancel-arch;
and at the cheerful and pretty village of Melling, eleven miles
north-west of Lancaster, a Norman doorway, equalled perhaps in merit
by another at Bispham, near Blackpool. Chorley parish church also
declares itself of Norman origin, and at Blackburn are preserved
various sculptured stones, plainly from Norman tools, and which
belonged to the church now gone, as rebuilt or restored in the De Lacy
times. The most ancient ecclesiastical building in Lancashire is
Stede, or Styd, Chapel, a mile and a half north of the site of
Ribchester. The period of the erection would appear to be that of
Stephen, thus corresponding with the foundation of Furness Abbey. The
windows are narrow lancet; the doors, though rather pointed, are
enriched with Norman ornaments; the floor is strewed with ancient
gravestones. In this quiet little place divine service is still, or
was recently, held once a month.
Whalley Church, as we have it to-day--a building commemorative in site
of the introduction of the Christian faith into this part of
England--dates apparently, in its oldest portion--the pillars in the
north aisle--from the twelfth century. The choir is a little later,
probably of about 1235, from which time forwards it is evident that
building was continued for quite 200 years, so that Whalley, like York
Minster, is an epitome of architectural progress. The sedilia and
piscina recall times antecedent to the Reformation. Every portion of
the church is crowded with antiquities, many of them heraldic; very
specially inviting among them are the stalls in the chancel, eighteen
in number, transferred hither from the conventual church at the time
of the spoliation. The luxuriant carving of the abbot's stall is in
itself enough to repay an artist's journey. At the head of one of the
compartments of the east window we have the Lancastrian rose; the
flower of course tinctured gules, and almost the only representation
of it in the county:
"Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,
But dare maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me."
I _Henry VI._, ii. 4.
The floral badge of the house of Lancaster, it may be well to say, is
the purely heraldic rose, the outline being conventionalised, as is
the case also with the white rose of York. When used as the emblem of
England, and associated with the thistle and the shamrock, the queen
of flowers is represented as an artist would draw it--_i.e._
truthfully to nature, or with stalk, leaves, and buds, the petals
still, as in the Lancastrian, of a soft crimson hue, "rose-colour"
emphatically. The titles of the various subjects are all in old black
letter.
The history of Cartmel Church reads like a romance. The original
building was of earlier date than the Conquest, but changes
subsequently made bring it very considerably forwards--up indeed to
the time of Edward III. It was then that the windows of the south
aisle of the chancel were inserted, and painted as usual in that
glorious art-epoch, as shown by the few portions which remain. Other
portions of the glass were probably brought from the priory
when broken up by the unhallowed hands of Henry VIII., under whose
rule the church was threatened with a similar fate, but spared, in
answer to the cry of the parishioners, who were allowed to purchase it
at an indulgent price, with the loss of the roof of the chancel. Thus
laid open to the rain and snow, these were allowed to beat into it for
eighty years, with results still plainly visible upon the woodwork. A
partial restoration of the fabric was then effected, and within these
last few years every part has been put in perfect order.
The ground-plan of this interesting old church is that of a Greek
cross. The nave, sixty-four feet in length (Furness exceeding it by
only a few inches), leads us through angular pillars, crowned with the
plain abacus, to a choir of unusual proportionate magnitude; and here,
in contrast to the pointed nave-arches, the form changes to round,
while the faces are carved.
In one of the chapels to which the chancel-arches lead there is some
fine perpendicular work. Similar windows occur in the transepts; and
elsewhere there are examples of late decorated. The old priory-stalls,
twenty-six in number, are preserved here, as at Whalley.
Externally, Cartmel Church presents one of the most curious
architectural objects existing in Lancashire, the tower being placed
diagonally to the body of the edifice, a square crossways upon a
square, as if turned from its first and proper position half-way
round. What particular object was in view, or what was the motive for
this unprecedented deviation from the customary style of building,--a
parallel to which, in point of the singularity, is found, perhaps,
only in Wells Cathedral,--does not appear. We owe to it, however, four
pillars of great beauty and strength, necessarily placed at the points
of the intersection of the transepts.
The interior of the church is encrusted with fine monuments, many of
them modern, but including a fair number that give pleasure to the
antiquary. The most ancient belong to a tomb upon the north side of
the altar, within a plain arch, and inscribed, upon an uninjured slab
of gray marble, in Longobardic characters, _Hic jacet Frator Willemus
de Walton, Prior de Cartmel_. Opposite this there will be found record
of one of the celebrated old local family of Harrington--probably the
Sir John who in 1305, when Edward I. was bound for Scotland, was
summoned by that monarch to meet him at Carlisle. An effigy of the
knight's lady lies abreast of that of the warrior; the arch above it
is of pleasing open work, covered with the grotesque figures of which
the monks were so fond.
Had exact annals been preserved of early church-building in Lancashire
in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, they would tell most
assuredly of many important foundations. The beginning of Eccles
Church, near Manchester, on the west, is referred by the archaeologists
to about the year 1120, but probably it is one of the two mentioned in
"Domesday Book" in connection with Manchester. The first distinct
reference to Eccles occurs in the "Coucher Book" of Whalley Abbey, or
about thirty years later than 1120. The Whalley monks held large
estates both in Eccles and the neighbourhood, with granaries,
etc.,--the modern "Monton" is probably a contraction of "Monks' Town,"
and the very name is thought to indicate a church settlement.
Ecclesiastical relics of age quite, or nearly, corresponding are found
also near Preston, especially in the tower and chancel near the church
of Walton-le-Dale, the former of no great elevation, but very strong,
buttressed and embattled. Placed in a skilfully chosen position on the
crest of a little hill near the confluence of the Darwen with the
Ribble, the aspect of the old place is distinctly picturesque; the
site at the same moment explaining the local appellation of "Low
Church,"--the Anglo-Saxon _low_ or _law_ denoting an isolated
eminence, as in the case of Cheshire Werneth Low and Shuttlings Low.
The date assigned to this ancient tower is 1162; to about thirty years
after which time the oldest existing portions of Samlesbury, a few
miles distant, appear to belong, the relics of the original here
including the baptismal font. Didsbury Church, near Manchester,
represents a chapel built about 1235, originally for the private use
of the lord of the manor and a few families of local distinction, but
a century afterwards made parochial.[42]
[42] The existing church dates only from 1620, and in many of
its details only from 1852 and 1855.
There are numerous indications also of ecclesiastical energy, if not
of enthusiasm, temp. Edward III., to which period seem to belong the
choir of Rochdale Church, with its rich window tracery, the choir,
probably, of Burnley Church, and perhaps the older portions of Wigan
Church. As happens with many others, the history of the last-named is
very broken. A church existed at Wigan in 1246, but the larger portion
of the present pile belongs to two centuries later. That it cannot be
the original is proved by the monument to the memory of Sir William
Bradshaigh and the unfortunate lady, his wife, the principal figure
in the legend of Mab's, or Mabel's cross. The knight is cross-legged,
in coat of mail, and in the act of unsheathing his sword; the lady is
veiled, with hands uplifted and conjoined as if in prayer. The deaths
of these two occurred about the time of the Flemish weavers' settling
in Lancashire, and of Philippa's intercession for the burghers of
Calais.
Manchester "old church," since 1847 the "Cathedral," was founded, as
before stated, in 1422, the last year of Henry V. and first of Henry
VI.--that unhappy sovereign whose fate reflects so dismally upon the
history of Lancashire faithfulness. The site had previously been
occupied by an edifice of timber, portions of which are thought to
have been carried away and employed in the building of certain of the
old halls for which the neighbourhood was long noted, the arms of the
respective families (who, doubtless, were contributors to the cost of
the new structure) being displayed in different parts. But there does
not appear to be any genuine ground for the belief; and at a period
when oak timber was so readily procurable as in the time of Henry VI.,
it is scarcely probable that men who could afford to build handsome
halls for their abode would care to introduce second-hand material,
unless in very small quantity, and then merely as commemorative of
the occasion. Choice of a quarry by the builders of the new church was
not in their power. They were constrained to use the red-brown friable
sandstone of the immediate vicinity, still plainly visible here and
there by the river-side. The exterior of the building has thus
required no little care and cost to preserve, to say nothing of the
injury done by the smoke of a manufacturing town. There was a time
when Thoresby's quotation from the Canticles in reference to St.
Peter's at Leeds would have been quite as appropriate in regard to the
Manchester "Cathedral"--"I am black, but comely." The style of the
building, with its square and pinnacled tower, 139 feet high, is the
florid Gothic of the time of the west front and south porch of
Gloucester. The interior, in its loftiness and elaborate fretwork, its
well-schemed proportions and ample windows, excites the liveliest
admiration. The chancel-screen is one for an artist to revel in; the
tabernacle work is, if possible, more beautiful yet.
The second best of the old Lancashire ecclesiastical interiors belongs
to Sefton, near Liverpool, a building of the time of Henry VIII., upon
the site of a pre-Conquest church. The screen, which contains sixteen
stalls, presents a choice example of carved work. There is also a
fine carved-canopy over the pulpit, though time with the latter has
been pitiless. Striking architectural details are also plentiful with,
in addition, some remarkable monuments of Knights Templars with
triangular shields. Sefton church is further distinguished as one of
the few in Lancashire more than a hundred years old which possesses a
spire, the favourite style of tower in the bygones having been the
square, solid, and rather stunted--never in any degree comparable with
the gems found in Somerset, or with the circular towers that give so
much character to the churches of Norfolk and Suffolk. A very handsome
octangular tower exists at Hornby, on the banks of the Lune, built
about the middle of the sixteenth century. Winwick church, an ancient
and far-seen edifice near Warrington, supplies another example of a
spire; and at Ormskirk we have the odd conjunction of spire and square
tower side by side. Leland makes no mention of the circumstance--one
which could hardly have escaped his notice. The local tale which
proposes to explain it may be dismissed. The probability is that the
intention was to provide a place for the bells from Burscough Priory,
some of the monuments belonging to which were also removed hither when
the priory was dissolved.
Many remains show that in Lancashire, in the time of Henry VIII., the
spirit of church extension was again in full flow. Indications of it
occur at Warrington, Burnley, Colne, and St. Michael-le-Wyre, near
Garstang, also in the aisles of Middleton Church, and in the towers of
Rochdale, Haslingden, Padiham, and Warton, near Lancaster. Here,
however, we must pause; the history of the old Lancashire churches
treated in full would be a theme as broad and various as that of the
lives and writings of its men of letters. There is one, nevertheless,
which justly claims the special privilege of an added word, the very
interesting little edifice called Langho Chapel, four miles from
Blackburn, the materials of which it was built consisting of part of
the wreck of Whalley Abbey. Sculptured stones, with heraldic shields
and other devices, though much battered and disfigured, declare the
source from which they were derived; and in the heads of some of the
windows, which resemble the relics of others at the Abbey, are
fragments of glass in all likelihood of similar origin. The
date of the building would seem to have been about 1557, though the
first mention of it does not occur until 1575. How curious and
suggestive are the reminders one meets with in our own country
(comparing the small with the great), of the quarrying of the
Coliseum by the masons of mediaeval Rome!
In old halls, mansions, and manor-houses, especially of
sixteenth-century style, Lancashire abounds. A few are intact, held,
like Widnes House, by a descendant of the original owners; or
preserved through transfer to some wealthy merchant or manufacturer
from the town, who takes an equal pride in maintaining the integrity
of all he found--a circumstance to which we are indebted for some of
the most beautiful archaeological relics the county possesses. On the
contrary, as would be expected, the half-ruined largely predominate,
and these in many cases are now devoted to ignoble purposes. A
considerable number of stronger substance have been modernised, often
being converted into what are sometimes disrespectfully called
"farmhouses," as if the home of the agriculturist were not one of the
most honourable in the land;--now and then they have been divided into
cottages. Still, they are there; attractive very generally to the
artist in their quaintness, always dear to the antiquary and
historian, and interesting, if no more, to all who appreciate the fond
care which clings to memorials of the past, whether personal or
outside, as treasures which once lost can never be recovered. They
tell of a class of worthy and industrious men who were neither barons
nor vassals, who had good taste, and were fairly well off in purse,
and loved field-sports--for a kennel for harriers and otter hounds is
not rare,--who were hospitable, and generous, and mindful of the poor.
The history of these old halls is, in truth very often, the history of
the aboriginal county families. As wealth increased, and abreast of it
a longing for the refinements of a more elevated civilisation, the
proprietors usually deserted them for a new abode; the primitive one
became the "old," then followed the changes indicated, with departure,
alas! only too often, of the ancient dignity.
In the far north a few remains occur which point to a still earlier
period, or when the disposition to render the manorial home a fortress
was very natural. Moats, or the depressions they once occupied, are
common in all parts, even where there was least danger of attack. In
the neighbourhood of Morecambe Bay the building was often as strong as
a castle, as in the case of the old home of the Harringtons at
Gleaston, two miles east of Furness Abbey. These celebrated ruins,
which lie in a hollow in one of the valleys running seawards, are
apparently of the fourteenth century, the windows in the lower storey
being acutely pointed single lights, very narrow outside, but widely
splayed within. Portions of three square towers and part of the
curtain-wall connecting them attest, with the extent of the enclosure
(288 feet by 170 where widest), that the ancient lords of Aldingham
were alike powerful and sagacious. On the way to Gleaston, starting
from Grange, a little south of the village of Allithwaite, Wraysholme
tells of similar times, though all that now remains is a massive
tower, the walls 3-1/2 feet thick as they rise from the sod. It was
near Wraysholme, it will be remembered, that according to tradition
and the ballad, the last of the English wolves was killed. The fine
old tower of Hornby Castle, the only remaining portion of a stronghold
commenced soon after the Conquest, is of much later date, having been
built in or about 1520. That without being originally designed to
withstand the attack of a violent enemy, more than one of these
substantial old Lancashire private houses held its own against
besiegers in the time of the civil wars is matter of well-known
history. Lathom House (the original, long since demolished) has
already been mentioned as the scene of the memorable discomfiture of
Fairfax by Charlotte, Countess of Derby, the illustrious lady in whom
loyalty and conjugal love were interwoven.
The Elizabethan halls so termed, though some of them belong to the
time of James I., are of two distinct kinds,--the half-timbered,
black-and-white, or "magpie," and the purely stone, the latter
occurring in districts where wood was less plentiful or more costly.
Nothing in South Lancashire, and in the adjacent parts of Cheshire,
sooner catches the eye of the stranger than the beautiful old
patterned front of one of the former;--bars vertical and horizontal,
angles and curves, mingling curiously but always elegantly, Indian ink
upon snow, many gables breaking the sky-line, while the entrance is
usually by a porch or ornamental gateway, the windows on either side
low but wide, with many mullions, and usually casemented. The features
in question rivet the mind so much the more because of the proof given
in these old half-timbered houses of the enduring vitality of the
idea of the Gothic cathedral, and its new expression when
cathedral-building ceased, in the subdued and modified form
appropriate to English homes--the things next best, when perfect, to
the fanes themselves. The gables repeat the high-pitched roof; the
cathedral window, as to the rectangular portion, or as far as the
spring of the arch, is rendered absolutely; the filagree in
black-and-white, ogee curves appearing not infrequently, is a varied
utterance of the sculpture; the pinnacles and finials, the
glass, and the porch complete the likeness. Anything that can be
associated with a Gothic cathedral is thereby ennobled;--upon this one
simple basis, the architecture we are speaking of becomes artistic,
while its lessons are pure and salutary.
Drawing near, at the sides of the porch, are found seats usually of
stone. In front, closing the entrance to the house, there is a strong
oaken door studded with heads of great iron nails. Inside are chambers
and corridors, many and varied, an easy and antique staircase leading
to the single upper storey, the walls everywhere hidden by oaken
panels grooved and carved, and in the daintier parts divided by fluted
pilasters; while across the ceilings, which are usually low, run the
ancient beams which support the floor above. So lavish is the
employment of oak, that, when this place was built, surely one thinks
a forest must have been felled. But those were the days of giant
trees, the equals of which in this country will probably never be seen
again, though in the landscape they are not missed. Inside, again, how
cheery the capacious and friendly hearth, spanned by a vast arch;
above it, not uncommonly, a pair of huge antlers that talk of joy in
the chase. Inside, again, one gets glimpses of heraldic imagery,
commemorative of ancient family honours, rude perhaps in execution,
but redeemed by that greatest of artists, the Sunshine, that streaming
through shows the colours and casts the shadows. Halls such as these
existed until quite lately even in the immediate suburbs of
Manchester, in the original streets of which town there were many
black-and-white fronts, as to the present moment in Chester, Ludlow,
and Shrewsbury. Some of the finest of those still remaining in the
rural parts of Lancashire will be noticed in the next chapter. Our
illustrations give for the present an idea of them. When gone to decay
and draped with ivy, like Coniston Hall, the ancient home of the le
Flemings, whatever may be the architecture, they become keynotes to
poems that float over the mind like the sound of the sea. In any case
there is the sense, when dismemberment and modernising have not
wrought their mischief, that while the structure is always peculiarly
well fitted for its situation, the outlines are essentially English.
It may be added that in these old Lancashire halls and mansions the
occurrence of a secret chamber is not rare. Lancashire was always a
stronghold of Catholicism, and although the hiding-places doubtless
often gave shelter to cavaliers and other objects of purely political
enmity, the popular appellation of "priest's room," or "priest's
hole," points plainly to their more usual service. They were usually
embedded in the chimney-stacks, communication with a private cabinet
of the owner of the house being provided for by means of sliding
shutters. Very curious and interesting refuges of this character exist
to this day at Speke, Lydiate, Widnes, and Stonyhurst, and in an old
house in Goosenargh, in the centre wall of which, four feet thick,
there are two of the kind. In a similar "hole" at Mains Hall, in the
parish of Kirkham, tradition says that Cardinal Allen was once
concealed.
XI
THE OLD HALLS (_continued_)
Although the few perfect remaining examples of the old timbered
Lancashire halls are preserved with the fondest reverence by their
owners, the number of those which have been allowed to fall into a
state of partial decay diminishes every year. They disappear, one by
one, perhaps inevitably, and of many, it is to be feared, not a trace
will soon be left. Repairs and restorations are expensive; to preserve
such buildings needs, moreover, a strong sense of duty, and a
profounder devotedness to "reliquism," as some author terms it, than
perhaps can ever be expected to be general. The duty to preserve is
plain. The wilful neglect, not to say the reckless destruction of
interesting old buildings that can be maintained, at no great cost, in
fair condition and as objects of picturesque beauty, is, to say the
least of it, unpatriotic. The possessors of fine old memorials of the
past are not more the possessors in their own right than trustees of
property belonging to the nation, and the nation is entitled to insist
upon their safe keeping and protection. The oaks of Sherwood,
festooned with stories of Robin Hood and Maid Marian, are not more a
ducal inheritance, than, as long as they may survive, every
Englishman's by birthright. Architectural remains, in particular, when
charged with historical interest, and that discourse of the manners
and customs of "the lang syne," are sacred. Let opulence and good
taste construct as much more as they please on modern lines. Every
addition to the architectural adornment of the country reflects honour
upon the person introducing it, and the donor deserves, though he may
not always receive, sincere gratitude. Let the builder go further,
pull down, and, if he so fancies, reconstruct his own particular work.
But no man who calls himself master of a romantic or sweet old place,
consecrated by time, has any right, by destroying, to steal it from
the people of England; he is bound not even to mutilate it. There are
occasions, no doubt, when to preserve is no longer practicable, and
when to alter may be legitimate; we refer not to these, but to
needless and wanton overthrow--such as unhappily has had examples only
too many. There was no need to destroy that immemorial mansion,
Reddish Old Hall, near the banks of the Tame, now known only through
the medium of a faithful picture;[43] nor was there excuse for the
merciless pulling to pieces of Radcliffe Old Hall, on the banks of the
Irwell, a building so massive in its under-structure that the utmost
labour was required to beat it down. We need not talk of Alaric, the
Goths, and the Vandals, when Englishmen are not ashamed to behave as
badly.
[43] In the Chetham Society's 42nd vol., p. 211.
[Illustration: DARCY LEVER, NEAR BOLTON]
Of the venerated and unmolested, Speke Hall is, perhaps, the oldest in
South Lancashire that remains as an example of the "magpie," or
black-and-white half-timbered style. It stands upon the margin of the
estuary of the Mersey, a few miles above Liverpool, with approach at
the rear by an avenue of trees from the water's edge. As with all the
rest of its class, the foundations are of solid masonry, the house
itself consisting of a framework of immensely strong vertical timbers,
connected by horizontal beams, with diagonal bracings, oak in every
instance, the interstices filled with laths upon which is laid a
peculiar composition of lime and clay. The complexion of the principal
front is represented in our drawing, but no pencil can give a perfect
idea of the repose, the tender hues, antique but not wasted, the
far-reaching though silent spell with which it catches and holds both
eye and fancy. Over the principal entrance, in quaint letters, "This
worke," it is said, "25 yards long, was wolly built by Edw. N., Esq.,
Anno 1598." The N. stands for Norreys, the surname of one of the
primitive Lancashire families, still represented in the county, though
not at Speke. A baronial mansion belonging to them existed here as
early as 1350, but of this not a stone that can be recognised remains.
A broad moat once surrounded the newer hall, but, as in most other
instances, the water has long since given way to green turf.
Sometimes, in Lancashire, the ancient moats have been converted into
orchards. Inside, Speke is distinguished by the beauty of the
corridors and of the great hall, which latter contains some carved
wainscoting brought from Holyrood by the Sir Wm. Norreys who, serving
his commander, Lord Stanley, well at Flodden, A.D. 1513, got leave to
despoil the palace of the unfortunate monarch there defeated. The
galleries look into a spacious and perfectly square central court of
the kind usually pertaining to these old halls, though now very seldom
found with all four of the enclosing blocks of building. The court at
Speke is remarkable for its pair of aged yew trees; one of each
sex, the female decked in autumn with its characteristic scarlet
berries--a place for trees so exceptional that it probably has no
counterpart. Everywhere and at all times the most imperturbable of
trees, yews never fail to give an impression of long inheritance and
of a history abreast of dynasties, and at Speke the association is
sustained perfectly.
[Illustration: SPEKE HALL]
[Illustration: HALE HALL]
Near Bolton there are several such buildings, all in a state of
praiseworthy preservation. In the time of the Stuarts and the
Republicans they must have been numerous. Smithills, or Smethells, a
most beautiful structure placed at the head of a little glen, occupies
the site of an ancient Saxon royal residence. After the Conquest, the
estate and the original hall passed through various successive hands,
those of the Ratcliffes included. At present it is possessed,
fortunately, by one of the Ainsworth family above mentioned (p. 125),
so that, although very extensive changes have been made from time to
time, including the erection of a new east front in stone, and the
substitution of modern windows for the primitive casements, the
permanency of all, as we have it to-day, is guaranteed. The interior
is rich in ancient wood-carving. Quaint but charmingly artistic
decoration prevails in all the chief apartments; some of the panels
are emblazoned in colours; everywhere, too, there is the sense of
strength and comfort. In the quadrangle, open on one side, and now a
rose-garden, amid the flower-borders, and in the neighbouring
shrubberies, it is interesting to observe once again how the botanical
aspect of old England is slowly but surely undergoing transformation,
through the liberal planting of decorative exotics.
Speke suggests the idea of botanical metamorphosis even more
powerfully than Smithills. At each place the ancient occupiers, full
of the native spirit of "never say die," the oak, the hawthorn, and
the silver birch,--trees that decked the soil in the days of
Caractacus,--wonder who are these new-comers, the rhododendrons and
the strange conifers from Japan and the antipodes. They bid them
welcome all the same. As at Clitheroe, they stand arm in arm; we are
reminded at every step of the good householder "which bringeth forth
out of his treasure things both new and old."
Hall i' th' Wood, not far off, so called because once hidden in the
heart of a forest containing wild boars, stands on the brow of a
precipitous cliff at the base of which flows the Eagley. Possessed of
a large bay window, Hall i' th' Wood may justly be pronounced one of
the best existing specimens of old English domestic architecture--that
of the franklins, or aboriginal country gentlemen, not only of
Lancashire, but of the soil in general, though some of the external
ornaments are of later date than the house itself. The oldest part
seems never to have suffered "improvements" of any kind; in any case,
Hall i' th' Wood is to the historian one of the most interesting spots
in England, since it was here, in the room with the remarkable
twenty-four-light window, that Crompton devised and constructed his
cotton-machine. The noble old trees have long since vanished. When
the oaks were put to death, so large were they that no cross-cut saw
long enough for the purpose could be procured, and the workmen were
obliged to begin with making deep incisions in the trunks, and
removing large masses of the ironlike timber. This was only a trifle
more than a century ago.
Turton Tower, near Bolton, an old turreted and embattled building,
partly stone, partly black-and-white, the latter portion gabled,
originally belonged to the Orrells, afterwards to the Chethams, the
most distinguished of whom, Humphrey Chetham, founder of the Chetham
Free Library, died here in 1653. The upper storeys, there being four
in all, successively project or overhang, after the manner of those of
many of the primitive Manchester houses. The square form of the
building gives it an aspect of great solidity; the ancient door is
oak, and passing this, we come once again upon abundance of elaborate
wood-carving, with enriched ceilings, as at Speke. Turton has, in
part, been restored, but with strict regard to the original style and
fashion, both within and without.
The neighbourhood also of Wigan is celebrated for its old halls,
pre-eminent among which is Ince, the ancient seat of the Gerards,
and the subject of another of our sketches. Ince stands about a mile
to the south-east of the comparatively modern building of the same
name, and in its many gables surmounting the front, and long ranges of
windows, is not more tasteful as a work of art than conspicuous to the
traveller who is so fortunate as to pass near enough to enjoy the
sight of it. Lostock Old Hall, black-and-white, and dated 1563,
possesses a handsome stone gateway, and has most of the rooms
wainscoted. Standish Hall, three and a half miles N.N.W., is also well
worth a visit; and after these time is well given to Pemberton Old
Hall, half timbered (two miles W.S.W.), Birchley Hall, Winstanley
Hall, and Haigh Hall. Winstanley, built of stone, though partly
modernised, retains the ancient transom windows, opposing a quiet and
successful resistance to the ravages of time and fashion. Haigh Hall,
for many ages the seat of the Bradshaigh family (from which, through
females, Lord Lindsay, the distinguished Lancashire author and
art-critic, descended), is a stately mansion of various periods--the
chapel as old apparently as the reign of Edward II. Placed upon the
brow of the hill above the town, it commands a prospect scarcely
surpassed by the view from Billinge.
[Illustration: HALL IN THE WOOD]
The old halls of Manchester and the immediate neighbourhood would a
hundred years ago have required many chapters to themselves. It has
already been mentioned that a great portion of the original town was
"black-and-white," and most of the halls belonging to the local
gentry, it would seem, were similar. Those which stood in the way of
the fast-striding bricks and mortar of the eighteenth century and the
beginning of the nineteenth, if not gone entirely, have been mutilated
beyond recognition. In the fields close to Garratt Hall partridges
were shot only seventy or eighty years ago: to-day there is scarcely a
fragment of it left! Hulme Hall, which stood upon a rise of the red
sandstone rock close to the Irwell, overlooking the ancient ford to
Ordsall,--once the seat of the loyal and generous Prestwich
family,--is remembered by plenty of the living as the point aimed for
in summer evenings by those who loved the sight of hedges covered with
the white bells of the convolvulus--Galatea's own pretty flower.
Workshops now cover the ground; and though Ordsall Hall, its neighbour
across the water, not long ago a mile from any public road, is still
extant, it is hall only in name. Ordsall, happily, is in the
possession of a firm of wealthy manufacturers, who have converted the
available portions into a sort of institute for their workpeople.[44]
Crumpsall Old Hall; Hough Hall, near Moston; Ancoats Old Hall, now the
Ancoats Art Gallery; Barton Old Hall, near Eccles; Urmston Old Hall,
and several others, may be named as examples of ancient beauty and
dignity now given over to the spirit of change. Leaving them to their
destiny, it is pleasant to note one here and there among the fields
still unspoiled, as in the case of "Hough End," a building of modest
proportions, but an excellent example of the style in brick which
prevailed at the close of the reign of Elizabeth; the windows
square-headed, with substantial stone mullions, and transomed. Hough
End was originally the home of the Mosleys, having been erected by Sir
Nicholas Mosley, Lord Mayor of London in 1600, "whom God," says the
old biographer, "from a small and low estate, raysed up to riches and
honour." One of the prettiest of the always pretty "magpie" style is
Kersall Cell, near the banks of the Irwell, at Agecroft, so named
because on the site of an ancient monkish retreat or hermitage, the
predecessor of which in turn was a little oratory among the rocks at
Ordsall, lower down the stream, founded temp. Henry II. Worsley Old
Hall, another example of "magpie," though less known to the general
public than the adjacent modern Worsley Hall, the seat of the Earl of
Ellesmere, is one of the most imposing edifices of its character in
South Lancashire. With the exception of Worsley Hall, Manchester
possesses no princely or really patrician residences. The Earl of
Wilton's, Heaton Park, though well placed, claims to be nothing more
than of the classical type so common to its class.
[44] Messrs. R. Howarth & Co., whose "weaving-shed," it may be
added, is the largest and most astonishing in the world.
When relics only exist, they in many cases become specially
interesting through containing some personal memorial. Barlow Hall,
for instance, originally black-and-white, with quadrangle, now so
changed by modernising and additions that we have only a hint of the
primitive aspect, is rich in the possession of an oriel with stained
glass devoted to heraldry. One of the shields--parted per pale,
apparently to provide a place for the Barlow arms, not inserted--shows
on the dexter side those of Edward Stanley, third Earl of Derby, in
seventeen quarterings--Stanley, Lathom, the Isle of Man, Harrington,
Whalley Abbey, Hooton, and eleven others. The date of this, as of the
sundial, is 1574.
The country immediately around Liverpool is deficient in old halls of
the kind so abundant near Bolton and Manchester. This perhaps is in no
degree surprising when we consider how thinly that part of Lancashire
was inhabited when the manufacturing south-east corner was already
populous. Speke is the only perfect example thereabouts of its
particular class, the black-and-white; and of a first-class
contemporaneous baronial mansion, the remains of the Hutte, near Hale,
furnish an almost solitary memorial. The transom of the lower window,
the upper smaller windows, the stack of kitchen chimneys, the antique
mantelpiece, the moat, still untouched, with its drawbridge, combine
to show how important this place must have been in the bygones, while
the residence of the Irelands. It was quitted in 1674, when the
comparatively new "Hale Hall" was erected, a solid and commodious
building of the indefinite style. Liverpool as a district is
correspondingly deficient in palatial modern residences, though there
are many of considerable magnitude. Knowsley, the seat of the Earl of
Derby, is eminently miscellaneous, a mixture of Gothic and classical,
and of various periods, beginning with temp. Henry VI. The front was
built in 1702, the back in 1805. Croxteth Hall, the Earl of Sefton's,
is a stone building of the negative character indicative of the time
of Queen Anne and George I. Childwall Abbey, a mansion belonging to
the Marquis of Salisbury, is Gothic of the kind which is recommended
neither by taste nor by fidelity to exact principles. Lathom, on the
other hand, is consistent, though opinions vary as to the amount of
genius displayed in the detail--the very part in which genius is
always declared. Would that there existed, were it ever so tiny, a
fragment of the original Lathom House, that noble first home of the
Stanleys, which had no fewer than eighteen towers, without reckoning
the lofty "Eagle" in the centre--its outer walls protected by a fosse
of eight yards in width, and its gateway one that in nobleness would
satisfy kings. Henry VII. came here in 1495, the occasion when "to the
women that songe before the Kinge and the Quene," as appears in the
entertaining Privy Purse Expenses of the royal progress that pleasant
summer, there was given "in reward, 6s. 8d." So thorough was the
demolition of the old place that now there is no certain knowledge
even of the site. The present mansion was built during the ten years
succeeding 1724. It has a rustic basement, with double flight of
steps, above which are rows of Ionic columns. The length of the
northern or principal front, including the wings, is 320 feet; the
south front overlooks the garden, and an abundantly wooded park. An
Italian architect, Giacomo Leoni, was entrusted with the decoration of
the interior, which upon the whole is deservedly admired.
Ince Blundell is distinguished, not so much for its architecture, as
for the collection of works of art contained in the entrance-hall, a
model, one-third size, of the Pantheon. The sculptures, of various
kinds, above 550 in number, are chiefly illustrative of the later
period of Roman art, though including some gems of ancient Greek
conception; the paintings include works of high repute in all the
principal continental schools, as well as English, the former
representing, among others, Paul Veronese, Andrea del Sarto, and Jan
Van Eyck. The Ince Blundell collection is certainly without equal in
Lancashire, and is pronounced by connoisseurs one of the finest of its
kind in the country.
The neighbourhood of Blackburn is enviable in the possession of
Hoghton Tower, five and a half miles to the W.S.W., a building
surpassed in its various interest only by Lancaster Castle and the
abbeys; in beauty of situation little inferior to Stirling Castle, and
as a specimen of old baronial architecture well worthy of comparison
with Haddon Hall. The estate was in the possession of the Hoghton
family as early as temp. Henry II., when the original manor-house,
superseded by the Tower, stood at the foot of the hill, by the
river-side. The existing edifice dates from the reign of Elizabeth,
having been erected by the Thomas Hoghton whose departure from "Merry
England" is the theme of the pathetic old ballad, "The Blessed
Conscience." He was one of the "obstinate" people who, having been
educated in the Catholic faith, refused to conform to the requirements
of the new Protestant powers, and was obliged in consequence to take
refuge in a foreign country, dying an exile at Liege, 3d June 1580.
"Oh! Hoghton high, which is a bower
Of sports and lordly pleasure,
I wept, and left that lordly tower
Which was my chiefest treasure.
To save my soul, and lose the rest,
It was my true pretence;
Like frighted bird, I left my nest,
To keep my conscience.
"Fair England! now ten times adieu!
And friends that therein dwell;
Farewell, my brother Richard true,
Whom I did love so well--
Farewell, farewell, good people all,
And learn experience;
Love not too much the golden ball,
But keep your conscience."
[Illustration: HOGHTON TOWER]
The "Tower," so called, occupies the summit of a lofty ridge, on its
eastern side bold and rugged, steep and difficult of access, though to
the north and west sloping gently. Below the declivity meanders the
Darwen, in parts smooth and noiseless; but in the "Orr," so named from
the sound, tumbling over huge heaps of rock loosened from the opposite
bank, where the wall of stone is almost vertical. In the time of its
pride the hill was almost entirely clothed with trees, but now it is
chiefly turf, and the extent of the prospect, which includes the
village of Walton-le-Dale, down in the valley of the Ribble, is
enjoyed perfectly. The ground-plan of the building presents two
capacious courts, the wall with three square towers in front, the
middle one protecting the gateway. The outer court is large enough for
the easy movement of 600 men; the inner one is approached by a noble
flight of steps. The portion designed for the abode of the family
contains noble staircases, branching out into long galleries, which
lead, in turn, to the many chambers. One of the rooms, called James
the First's, is wainscoted. The stay of his Majesty at Hoghton for a
few days in August, 1617, has already been referred to. It is this
which has been so admirably commemorated in Cattermole's best
painting. With a view to rendering his picture, containing some fifty
figures, as historically correct as might be possible, the artist was
assisted with all the records and portraits in existence, so that the
imagination has little place in it beyond the marshalling. Regarded as
a semi-ruin, Hoghton Tower is a national monument, a treasure which
belongs not more to the distinguished baronet by whom it has lately
been in some degree restored after the neglect of generations, than,
as said above, like all others of its kind, to the people of England,
who, in course of time, it is to be hoped, will rightly estimate the
value of their heirlooms.
Stonyhurst, now the principal English Jesuit College, was originally
the home of the Sherburne family, one of whom attended Queen Philippa
at Calais, while upon another, two centuries later, Elizabeth looked
so graciously that, although a Catholic, she allowed him to retain his
private chapel and domestic priest. It was under the latter that the
existing edifice took the place of one more ancient, though the
builder did not live to complete his work. The completion, in truth,
may be said to be yet barely effected, so many additions, all in
thorough keeping, have been projected. Not that they interfere with
the design of the stately original, its lofty and battlemented
centre, and noble cupolas. The new is in perfect harmony with the
old, and the general effect, we may be sure, is no less imposing to-day
than it was three hundred years ago. The interior corresponds; the
galleries and apartments leave nothing to be desired: they are stored,
moreover, with works of art, and with archaeological and historical
curiosities; so richly, indeed, that whatever the value of the museums
in some of the Lancashire large towns, in the entire county there is
no collection of the kind that can take precedence of Stonyhurst. The
house was converted to its present purpose in 1794, when the founders
of the College, driven from Liege by the terrors of the French
Revolution, obtained possession of it. They brought with them all they
could that was specially valuable, and hence, in large measure, the
varied interest of what it contains. In the philosophical apparatus
room there is a _Descent from the Cross_, by Annibale Caracci.
Elsewhere there are some carvings in ivory, and a _Crucifixion_, by
Michel Angelo, with ancient missals, a copy of the Office of the
Virgin which belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots, and antiques of
miscellaneous character innumerable, those of the Christian ages
supplemented by a Roman altar from Ribchester. A curious circumstance
connected with Stonyhurst is, that the house and grounds occupy, as
nearly as possible, the same area as that of the famous city which
once adorned the banks of the Ribble.
[Illustration: STONYHURST]
A pilgrimage to the neighbourhood of Stonyhurst is rewarded by the
sight of old fashioned manor-houses scarcely inferior in manifold
interest to those left behind in the southern part of the county.
Little Mitton Hall (so named in order to distinguish it from Great
Mitton, on the Yorkshire side of the stream) supplies an example of
the architecture of the time of Henry VII. The basement is of stone,
the upper storey of wood; the presence-chamber, with its embayed
window-screen and gallery above, and the roof ceiled with oak in
wrought compartments, are alike curious and interesting. Salesbury
Hall, partly stone and partly wood, once possessed of a quadrangular
court, now a farmhouse, was originally the seat of the Talbots, one of
whom, in 1580, was Keeper of the Records in the Tower of London.
Salmesbury, monographed by Mr. James Croston, dates from the close of
the fourteenth century. This is a truly fascinating old place, the
inner doors all without either panel or lock, and opened, like those
of cottages, with a latch and a string. Townley Hall, near Burnley,
one of the most ancient seats in the county, is rich in personal
history. The banks of the Lune in turn supply examples of the ancient
mansion such as befit a valley picturesque in every winding, Hornby
Castle and Borwick Hall counting as chief among them.
The list of Lancashire remains of this character could be considerably
enlarged. Scarisbrick and Rufford, near Ormskirk; Yealand Redmayne,
nine miles north of Lancaster; Swarthmoor, Extwistle, and many others,
present features of various interest, and in the aggregate supply
materials for one of the most delightful chapters still to be written
for the history not only of Lancashire but of England. But here we
must desist.
XII
THE NATURAL HISTORY AND THE FOSSILS
An extended account of the flora of Lancashire, or of its fauna, or of
the organic remains preserved in the rocks and the coal strata, is
impossible in the space now at command: it is not demanded either by
pages which profess to supply no more than general hints as to where
to look for what is worthy or curious. A bird's-eye view of
Lancashire, its contents and characteristics, would nevertheless be
incomplete without some notice, however brief, of the indigenous trees
and plants, the birds ordinarily met with, and the fossils. The zest
with which natural history has been followed in Lancashire, for over a
century, has resulted in so accurate a discrimination of all the
principal forms of life, that the numbers, and the degree of diffusion
of the various species, can now be spoken of without fear of error. In
those departments alone which require the use of the microscope is
there much remaining to be done, and these, in truth, are practically
inexhaustible.
Being so varied in its geology, and possessed of a hundred miles of
coast, Lancashire presents a very good average flora, though wanting
many of the pretty plants which deck the meadows and waysides of most
of the southern counties. The wild clematis which at Clifton festoons
every old thorn is sought in vain. In Lancashire no cornfield is ever
flooded as in Surrey with scarlet poppies; the sweet-briar and the
scented violet are scarcely known, except, of course, in gardens; even
the mallow is a curiosity. Many flowers, on the other hand, occur in
plenty, which, though not confined to Lancashire, are in the south
seldom seen, and which in beauty compare with the best. Mr. Bentham,
in his _Handbook of the British Flora_, describes 1232 native
flowering plants, and 53 of the cryptogamia--the ferns and their
allies--or a total of 1285. Of these the present writer has personally
observed in Lancashire more than 500. In the remoter corners another
score or two, without doubt, await the finding. In any case, the
proportion borne by the Lancashire flora to that of the entire island
is, in reality, much higher than the figures seem to indicate, since
quite a sixth part of the 1285 consists of plants confined to three
or four localities, and thus not entitled to count with the general
vegetation of the country. It is not, after all, the multitude or the
variety of the species found in a given spot that renders it enviable.
The excellent things of the world are not the rare and costly ones,
but those which give joy to the largest number of intelligent human
beings; and assuredly more delight has arisen to mankind from the
primrose, the anemone, and the forget-me-not, than from all the
botanist's prizes put together. Better, moreover, at any time, than
the possession of mere quantity, the ceaseless pleasure that comes of
watching manners and customs, or a life-history--such, for example, as
that of the Parnassia. Not to mention all that precedes and follows,
how beautiful the spectacle of the milk-white cups when newly open,
the golden anthers kneeling round the lilac ovary; then, after a
while, in succession rising up, bestowing a kiss, and retiring, so
that at last they form a five-rayed star, the ovary now impurpled. In
connection with the dethronement of the natural beauty of the streams
in the cotton manufacturing districts, it is interesting to note that,
while the primroses, the anemones, and the forget-me-nots, that once
grew in profusion, here and there, along the margins, have
disappeared, the "azured harebell"[45] holds its own. Even when the
whitethorn stands dismayed, the harebell still sheets many a <DW72> and
shelving bank with its deep-dyed blue.
[45] Usually miscalled "blue bell," _vide_ "The Shakspere
Flora."
On the great hills along the eastern side of the county, and
especially in the moorland parts, the flora is meagre in the extreme.
Acres innumerable produce little besides heather and whortle-berry.
When the latter decreases, it is to make room for the empetrum, or the
Vitis Idaea, "the grape of Mount Ida"--a name enough in itself to fling
poetry over the solitude. Harsh and wiry grasses and obdurate rushes
fill the interspaces, except where green with the hard-fern.
Occasionally, as upon Foledge, the parsley-fern and the club-moss tell
of the altitude, as upon Pendle the pinguicula and the cloud-berry.
The hills behind Grange are in part densely covered with juniper, and
the characteristic grass is the beautiful blue sesleria, the colour
contrasting singularly with that of the hay-field grasses. The
choicest of the English green-flowered plants, the trulove, _Paris
quadrifolia_, is plentiful in the woods close by, and extends to those
upon the banks of the Duddon. Everywhere north of Morecambe Bay, as
these names go far to indicate, the flora is more diversified than to
the south; here, too, particular kinds of flowers occur in far greater
plenty. At Grange the meadows teem with cowslips, in many parts of
Lancashire almost unknown. Crimson orchises--Ophelia's "long-purples,"
the tway-blade, the fly-orchis, the Lady's tresses, the
butterfly-orchis, that smells only after twilight, add their charms to
this beautiful neighbourhood, which, save for Birkdale, would seem the
Lancashire orchids' patrimony. The total number of orchideous plants
occurring wild in the county is fourteen; and of these Birkdale lays
very special claim to two--the marsh epipactis and the _Orchis
latifolia_. In the moist hollows among the sand-hills, called the
"slacks," they grow in profusion, occurring also in similar habitats
beyond the Ribble. The abundance is easily accounted for; the seeds of
the orchids, of every kind, are innumerable as the motes that glisten
i' the sunbeam, and when discharged, the wind scatters them in all
directions. The orchids' Birkdale home is that also of the parnassia,
which springs up less frequently alone than in clusters of from six or
eight to twenty or thirty. Here, too, grows that particular form of
the pyrola, hitherto unnoticed elsewhere, which counts as the
Lancashire botanical specialty, looking when in bloom like the lily
of the valley, though different in leaf, and emulating not only the
fashion but the odour. It would much better deserve the epithet of
"Lancashire" than the asphodel so called, for the latter is found in
bogs wherever they occur. Never mind; it is more than enough that
there is whisper in it of the "yellow meads," and that in high summer
it shows its bright gold, arriving just when the cotton-grass is
beginning to waft away, and the sundews are displaying their diamonds,
albeit so treacherously, for in another week or two every leaf will be
dotted with corpses. No little creature of tender wing ever touches a
sundew except under penalty of death. Only two other English
counties--York and Cornwall--lend their name to a wild-flower, so that
Lancashire may still be proud of its classic asphodel.
No single kind of wild-flower occurs in Lancashire so abundantly as to
give character to the county, nor is it marked by any particular kind
of fern. The most general, perhaps, is the broad-leaved sylvan
shield-fern (_Lastrea dilatata_), though in some parts superseded by
the amber-spangled polypody. Neither is any one kind of tree more
conspicuous than another, unless it be the sycamore. Fair dimensions
are attained by the wych-elm, which in Lancashire holds the
place given south of Birmingham to that princely exotic, the
_campestris_--the "ancestral elm" of the poet, and chief home of the
sable rook--a tree of comparative rarity, and in Lancashire never
majestic. The wild cherry is often remarkable also for its fine
development, especially north of the sands. The abele, on the other
hand, the maple, and the silver willow, are seldom seen; and of the
spindle-tree, the wayfaring-tree, and the dogwood, there is scarcely
an example. They do not blend in Lancashire, as in the south, with the
crimson pea and the pencilled wood-vetch. When a climber of the
summer, after the bindweed, ascends the hedge, it is the Tamus, that
charming plant which never seems so much to have risen out of the
earth as to be a cataract of foliage tumbling from some hidden fount
above. Wood-nuts are plentiful in the northern parts of the county;
and in the southern wild raspberries, these equal in flavour and
fragrance to those of garden growth, wanting only in size. Bistort
makes pink islands amid hay grass that waits the scythe. Foxgloves as
tall as a man adorn all dry and shady groves. The golden-rod, the
water septfoil, and the Lady's mantle, require no searching for. At
Blackpool the sea-rocket blooms again towards Christmas. On the
extremest verge of the county, where a leap across the streamlet would
plant the feet in Westmoreland, the banks are dotted for many miles
with the bird's-eye primula.
THE BIRDS[46]
[46] Condensed in part from the chapter on Lancashire Birds in
_Manchester Walks and Wild-flowers_, 1858, long since out of
print.
With the Lancashire birds, as with the botany, it is not the
exhaustive catalogue that possesses the prime interest. This lies in
the habits, the odd and pretty ways, the instincts, the songs, the
migrations, that lift birds, in their endless variety, so near to our
own personal human nature.
Adding to the list of birds known to be permanent residents in Great
Britain, the names of those which visit our islands periodically,
either in summer or winter, the total approaches 250. Besides the
regular immigrants, about a hundred others come occasionally; some,
perchance, by force of accident, as when, after heavy weather at sea,
the Stormy Petrel is blown ashore. In Lancashire there appear to be,
of the first-class, about seventy: the summer visitors average about
thirty; and of winter visitors there have been noticed about a score,
the aggregate being thus, as nearly as possible, one-half of the
proper ornithology of the country. The parts of the county richest in
species are naturally those which abound in woods and well-cultivated
land, as near Windermere, and where there are orchards and plenty of
market-gardens, as on the broad plain south-west of Manchester, which
is inviting also in the pleasant character of the climate. Here, with
the first dawn of spring, when the catkins hang on the hazels, the
song-thrush begins to pipe. The missel-thrush in the same district is
also very early, and is often, like the chief musician, remarkable for
size, plumage, and power of song. Upon the seaside sand-hills it is
interesting to observe how ingeniously the throstle deals with the
snails. Every here and there in the sand a large pebble is lodged, and
against this the bird breaks the shells, so that at last the stone
becomes the centre of a heap of fragments that recall the tales of the
giants and their bone-strewed caverns. This, too, where the
peacefulness is so profound, and where never a thought of slaughter
and rapine, save for the deeds of the thrushes, would enter the mind.
The snails are persecuted also by the blackbirds--in gardens more
inveterately even than on the sand-hills--in the former to such a
degree that none can refuse forgiveness of the havoc wrought among the
strawberries and ripening cherries. Both thrush and blackbird have
their own cruel enemy--the cunning and inexorable sparrow-hawk. When
captured, the unfortunate minstrel is conveyed to an eminence,
sometimes an old nest, if one can be near, and there devoured. In
almost all parts of Lancashire where there are gardens, that cheerful
little creature, the hedge-sparrow or dunnock, lifts up its voice.
Birds commence their song at very various hours. The dunnock usually
begins towards sunset, first mounting to the loftiest twig it can
discover that will bear its weight. The sweet and simple note, if one
would hear it to perfection, must be caught just at that moment. The
song is one of those that seem to be a varied utterance of the words
of men. Listen attentively, and the lay is as nearly as may be--"Home,
home, sweet, sweet home; my work's done, so's yours; good night, all's
well." Heard in mild seasons as early as January, the little dunnock
sings as late as August. It rears a second brood while the summer is
in progress, building a nest of moss, lining it with hair, and
depositing five immaculate blue eggs. The robin, plentiful everywhere
in the rural districts, and always equal to the production of a
delightful song, never hesitates to visit the suburbs even of large
and noisy towns, singing throughout the year, though not so much
noticed in spring and summer, because of the chorus of other birds.
The country lads still call it by the old Shaksperean name:
... "The ruddock would,
With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr'd moss besides."--_Cymbeline_, iv. 2.
The great titmouse is almost as generally distributed as the robin,
and in gardens never a stranger, being busy most of its time looking
for insects. Were coincidences in nature rare and phenomenal, instead
of, to the contemplative, matter of everyday delight, we should think
more of its note as the token of the time of blooming of the
daffodils. Making the oddest of noises, as if trying to imitate other
birds, poor innocent, it only too often gets shot for its pains, the
sportsman wondering what queer thing can this be now? The blue
titmouse, like the great, would seem to be very generally diffused.
Exquisite in plumage, it attracts attention still more particularly
while building, both the male and the female working so hard. The
meadow pipit, or titling, loves the peat-mosses (those decked with the
asphodel), upon which the nests are often plentiful, a circumstance
the cuckoos, when they arrive, are swift to take advantage of. No bird
that builds on the ground has more work to do for the "herald of
summer." From the end of April onwards--the cuckoo arriving in the
third week--the titlings, whether they like it or not, get no respite.
The young cuckoos are always hungry, and never in the least anxious to
go away. How exemplary the fondness of the cuckoo for its mate!
Though apparently void of affection for its offspring, no bird, not
even the turtle-dove, is more strongly attached to the one it has
taken "for better for worse." Where either of the pair is seen, the
other is sure never to be far away. Greenfinches and chaffinches are
plentiful, the song of the former sweet, though monotonous, the latter
rendered liberally, and always welcome. The chaffinch becomes
interesting through choice of materials so very curious for its
nest. One has been found--where but in Lancashire could it
occur?--constructed entirely of raw cotton. The nest-building and the
choice of abode constitute, in truth, a chapter in bird-life more
charming even than the various outflow of the melody. The pied
wagtail goes to the very localities that most other birds
dislike--rough and stony places, near the water and under bridges; the
tree-sparrow resorts to aged and hollow oaks, rarely building
elsewhere; the long-tailed titmouse constructs a beautiful little nest
not unlike a beehive, using moss, lichens, and feathers; while the
redpole prefers dead roots of herbaceous plants, tying the fibres
together with the bark of last year's withered nettle-stalks, and
lining the cavity with the glossy white pappus of the coltsfoot, just
ripe to its hand, and softer than silk. The common wren,--a frequent
Lancashire bird,--a lovely little creature, sometimes with wings
entirely white, and not infrequently with a few scattered feathers of
that colour, is one of the birds that prefigure character in man. When
the time for building arrives the hen commences a nest on her own
private account, goes on with it, and completes it. Her consort
meantime begins two or three in succession, but tires, and never
finishes anything. Among the Lancashire permanent residents, and birds
only partially periodical, may also be named, as birds of singular
attractiveness in their ways,--though not perhaps always tuneful, or
graceful in form, or gay in plumage,--the skylark that "at heaven's
gate sings"; the common linnet, a bird of the heaths and hedgerows,
captured, whenever possible, for the cage; the magpie, the common
bunting, the yellow-ammer, the peewit, and the starling or shepster.
The starlings travel in companies, and lively parties they always
seem. The "close order" flight of the peewit is well known; that of
the starling is, if possible, even more wonderful. The sudden move to
the right or left of thousands perfectly close together upon the wing;
the rise, at a given signal, like a cloud, from the pastures where
they have been feeding, is a spectacle almost unique in its
singularity. Near the sea the list is augmented by the marsh bunting,
the curlew, and gulls of different kinds, including the kittiwake. In
very tempestuous seasons gulls are often blown inland, as far as
Manchester, falling when exhausted in the fields. They also come of
their own accord, and may be seen feeding upon the mosses. Upon the
sand-hills a curious and frequent sight is that of the hovering of the
kestrel over its intended prey, which here consists very generally of
young rabbits. The kestrel has little skill in building. Talents
differ as much in birds as in mankind. Seldom its own architect, it
selects and repairs an old and deserted crow's or magpie's nest, or
any other it can find sufficiently capacious for its needs.
The history of the Lancashire summer visitants is crowded with
interest of equal variety. The nightingale stays away. She has come
now and then to the edge of Cheshire, but no farther. Very often,
however, she is thought to have ventured at last, the midnight note of
the sedge-warbler being in some respects not unlike that of Philomel
herself. The earliest to arrive, often preceding the swallows, appear
to be the wheatear and the willow-wren. The sand-martin is also a very
early comer. It cannot afford, in truth, to be dilatory, the nest
being constructed in a gallery first made in some soft cliff, usually
sandstone. While building it never alights upon the ground, collecting
the green blades of grass used for the outer part, and the feathers
for the lining, while still on the wing. The advent of the cuckoo has
already been mentioned. In the middle of May comes the spotted
fly-catcher, an unobtrusive and confiding little creature; and about
the same time the various "warblers" make their appearance. The males
usually precede the females by a week or two; the black-cap going,
like the hedge-sparrow, to the highest pinnacle it can find, and
singing till joined by the hen; while the garden-warbler keeps to the
bushes and gardens, and is silent till she arrives. The whinchat, the
yellow wagtail, and the stone-chat, haunter of the open wastes where
gorse grows freely, never forget. Neither do the dotterel and the
ring-ouzel, the latter in song so mellow, both moving on speedily into
the hilly districts. To many the voice of the corncrake, though harsh
and tuneless, becomes a genuine pleasure, for she is heard best during
those balmy summer evening hours while, though still too light for the
stars, the planets peer forth in their beautiful lustre, clear and
young as when first noted by the Chaldean shepherds, bryony in bloom
in the hedgerows, "listening wheat" on either hand.
The winter visitants comprehend chiefly the fieldfare and the redwing.
In October and November these birds, breeding in Norway and Sweden,
appear in immense flocks. Winging its way to the vicinity of farms and
orchards, the one piercing cry of the redwing may be heard overhead
any still night, no matter how dark. Siskins come at uncertain
intervals; and in very severe seasons the snow-bunting is sometimes
noticed.
Such are the ornithological facts which in Lancashire give new
attraction to the quiet and rewarding study of wild nature. The few
that have been mentioned--for they are not the hundredth part of what
might be cited were the subject dealt with _in extenso_--do not
pretend to be in the slightest degree novel. They may serve,
nevertheless, to indicate that in Lancashire there is lifelong pastime
for the lover of birds no less than for the botanist.
THE FOSSILS[47]
[47] One or two paragraphs condensed from the seventh chapter of
_Summer Rambles_, 1866. Long since out of print.
Although the new red sandstone, so general in the southern parts,
offers scarcely any attractions to the palaeontologist, Lancashire is
still a rich locality in regard to fossils. The coal-fields and the
mountain limestone, the latter so abundant near Clitheroe, make
amends. The organic remains found in the mountain limestone almost
invariably have their forms preserved perfectly as regards clearness
and sharpness of outline. The history of this rock begins in that of
primeval sea; the quantity of remains which it entombs is beyond the
power of fancy to conceive, large masses owing their existence to the
myriads, once alive, of a single species of creature. A third
characteristic is that, notwithstanding the general hardness, the
surface wears away under the influence of the carbonic acid brought
down by the rain, so that the fossils become liberated, and may often
be gathered up as easily as shells from the wet wrinkles of the sands.
Access to the mountain limestone is thus peculiarly favourable to the
pursuits of the student who makes researches into the history of the
life of the globe on which we dwell. How much can be done towards it
was shown forty or fifty years ago by the Preston apothecary, William
Gilbertson, whose collection--transferred after his death to the
British Museum--was pronounced by Professor Phillips in the _Geology
of Yorkshire_ at that moment "unrivalled." Gilbertson's specimens were
chiefly collected in the small district of Bolland, upon Longridge,
where also at considerable heights marine shells of the same species
as those which lie upon our existing shores may be found, showing that
the elevation of the land has taken place since their first appearance
upon the face of the earth.
The quarries near Clitheroe and Chatburn supply specimens quite as
abundantly as those of Longridge. Innumerable terebratulae, the
beautiful broad-hinged and deeply-striated spirifers, and the
euomphalos, reward a very slight amount of labour. Here, too, are
countless specimens of the petrified relics of the lovely creatures
called, from their resemblance to an expanded lily-blossom and its
long peduncle, the crinoidea, a race now nearly extinct. A very
curious circumstance connected with these at Clitheroe is that of some
of the species, as of the _Platycrinus triacontadactylos_, or the
"thirty-rayed," there are myriads of fossilised _heads_ but no bodies.
The presumed explanation of this singular fact is, that at the time
when the creatures were in the quiet enjoyment of their innocent
lives, great floods swept the shores upon which they were seated,
breaking off, washing away, and piling up the tender and flowerlike
upper portions, just as at the present day the petals of the pear-tree
exposed to the tempest are torn down and heaped like a snowdrift by
the wayside, the pillar-like stems remaining fast to the ground. There
is no need to conjecture where the _bodies_ of the creatures may be.
At Castleton, in Derbyshire, where the encrinital limestone is also
well exhibited, there are innumerable specimens of these, and few or
no examples of heads. The bodies of other species are plentiful at
Clitheroe, where the actinocrinus is also extremely abundant, and may
be detected, like the generality of these beautiful fossils, in nearly
every one of the great flat stones set up edgeways in place of stiles
between the fields that lie adjacent to the quarries.
The organic remains found in the coal strata rival those of the
mountain limestone both in abundance and exquisite lineaments. In some
parts there are incalculable quantities of relics of fossil fishes,
scales of fishes, and shells resembling mussels. The glory of these
wonderful subterranean museums consists, however, in the infinite
numbers and the inexpressible beauty of the impressions of
fern-leaves, and of fragments of the stems--well known under the names
of calamites, sigillaria, and lepidodendra--of the great plants which
in the pre-Adamite times composed the woods and groves. In some of the
mines--the Robin Hood, for instance, at Clifton, five miles from
Manchester--the roof declares, in its flattened sculptures, the
ancient existence hereabouts of a vast forest of these plants. At
Dixonfold, close by, when the railway was in course of construction,
there were found the lower portions of the fossilised trunks of half a
dozen noble trees, one of the stone pillars eleven feet high, with a
circumference at the base of over fifteen feet, and at the top, where
the trunk was snapped when the tree was destroyed, of more than seven
feet. These marvellous Dixonfold relics have been carefully preserved
by roofing over, and are shown to any one passing that way who cares
to inquire for them. Beneath the coal which lies in the plane of the
roots, enclosed in nodules of clay, there are countless lepidostrobi,
the fossilised fruits, it is supposed, of one or other of the
coal-strata trees. Two miles beyond, at Halliwell, they occur in equal
profusion; and here, too, unflattened trunks occur, by the miners
aptly designated "fossil reeds." Leaves of palms are also met with.
The locality which in wealth of this class of fossils excels all
others in South Lancashire would appear to be Peel Delph. In it are
found calamites varying from the thickness of a straw to a diameter of
two or three feet, and as round as when swayed by the wind of untold
ages ago. The markings upon the lepidodendra are as clear as the
impress of an engraver's seal. In another part there is a stratum of
some four feet in depth, consisting apparently of nothing besides the
fossil fruits called trigonocarpa and the sandy material in which they
are lodged. With these curious triangular nuts, no stems, or leaves,
or plant-remains of any description have as yet been found associated.
All that can be said of them is that they resemble the fruits of the
many-sided Japanese tree called the salisburia.
At Peel Delph again a stratum of argillaceous shale, five or six feet
in thickness, contains innumerable impressions of the primeval ferns,
the dark tint thrown forward most elegantly by the yellow of the
surface upon which they repose. The neighbourhood of Bolton in general
is rich in fossil ferns, though Ashton-under-Lyne claims perhaps an
equal place, and in diversity of species is possibly superior.
* * * * *
Thus whether considered in regard to its magnificent modern
developments in art, science, literature, and useful industries, its
scenery and natural productions, or its wealth in the marvellous
relics which talk of an immemorial past, Lancashire appeals to every
sentiment of curiosity and admiration.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation were retained.
*** | {
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Cybaeus sanctus est une espèce d'araignées aranéomorphes de la famille des Cybaeidae.
Distribution
Cette espèce est endémique du Japon.
Publication originale
Komatsu, 1942 : 最勝洞産蜘蛛 (Spiders from Saisho-do caves). Acta Arachnologica, Tokyo, , , (texte intégral) .
Liens externes
Notes et références
Cybaeidae
Espèce d'araignées (nom scientifique)
Faune endémique du Japon | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
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{"url":"https:\/\/www.x-mol.com\/paper\/math\/tag\/106\/journal\/112894","text":"\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\n\nTrapping sets significantly influence the performance of low-density parity-check codes. An $(a, b)$ elementary trapping set (ETS) causes high decoding failure rate and exert a strong influence on the error floor of the code, where $a$ and $b$ denote the size and the number of unsatisfied check-nodes in the ETS, respectively. The smallest size of an ETS in $(3, n)$-regular LDPC codes with girth\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nLuiza H. F. Andrade; Rui F. Vigelis; Charles C. Cavalcante\n\nWe propose a generalization of the quantum relative entropy by considering the geodesic on a manifold formed by all the invertible density matrices $\\mathcal{P}$. This geodesic is defined from a deformed exponential function $\\varphi$ which allows to work with a wider class of families of probability distributions. Such choice allows important flexibility in the statistical model. We show and discuss\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nJorge P. Arpasi\n\nIn this work is provided a definition of group encoding capacity $C_G$ of non-Abelian group codes transmitted through symmetric channels. It is shown that this $C_G$ is an upper bound of the set of rates of these non-Abelian group codes that allow reliable transmission. Also, is inferred that the $C_G$ is a lower bound of the channel capacity. After that, is computed the $C_G$ of the group\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nFabiano Boaventura de Miranda; Cristiano Torezzan\n\nIn this paper we present a vector quantization framework for Gaussian sources which combines a spherical code on layers of flat tori and the shape and gain technique. The basic concepts of spherical codes in tori layers are reviewed and two constructions are presented for the shape by exploiting the $k\/2$-dimensional lattices $D_{k\/2}$ and $A^{*}_{k\/2}$ as its pre-image. A scalar quantizer is\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nLuciano Panek; Jerry Anderson Pinheiro; Marcelo Muniz Alves; Marcelo Firer\n\nWe consider on $\\mathbb{F}_{q}^{n}$ metrics determined by posets and classify the parameters of $1$-perfect poset codes in such metrics. We show that a code with same parameters of a $1$-perfect poset code is not necessarily perfect, however, we give necessary and sufficient conditions for this to be true. Furthermore, we characterize the unique way up to a labeling on the poset, considering\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nAlexander Schaub; Olivier Rioul; Jean-Luc Danger; Sylvain Guilley; Joseph Boutros\n\nMotivated by a security application on physically unclonable functions, we evaluate the probability distributions and R\u00e9nyi entropies of signs of scalar products of i.i.d. Gaussian random variables against binary codewords in $\\{\\pm1\\}^n$. The exact distributions are determined for small values of $n$ and upper bounds are provided by linking this problem to the study of Boolean threshold functions\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02020-01-08\nGerardo Vega; Jes\u00fas E. Cu\u00e9n-Ramos\n\nThe calculation of the weight distribution for some reducible cyclic codes can be reduced down to the corresponding one of a particular kind of irreducible cyclic codes. This reduction is achieved by means of a known identity (see [3,Theorem 1.1]). In fact, as will be shown here, the weight distribution of some families of reducible cyclic codes, recently reported in several works ([2,5,7,11,12]),\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2020-01-08\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02019-11-20\nSara D. Cardell; Joan-Josep Climent; Daniel Panario; Brett Stevens\n\nIn this paper we construct $\\mathbb{F}_2$-linear codes over $\\mathbb{F}_{2}^{b}$ with length $n$ and dimension $n-r$ where $n = rb$. These codes have good properties, namely cyclicity, low density parity-check matrices and maximum distance separation in some cases. For the construction, we consider an odd prime $p$, let $n = p-1$ and utilize a partition of $\\mathbb{Z}_n$. Then we apply\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2019-11-20\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02019-11-20\nJo\u00e3o Paulo da Silva; Julio L\u00f3pez; Ricardo Dahab\n\nThe security of public-key systems is based on the difficulty of solving certain mathematical problems. With the possible emergence of large-scale quantum computers several of these problems, such as factoring and computing discrete logarithms, would be efficiently solved. Research on quantum-resistant public-key cryptography, also called post-quantum cryptography (PQC), has been productive in recent\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2019-11-20\n\u2022 Adv. Math. Commun. (IF\u00a00.734) Pub Date\u00a0:\u00a02019-09-04\nAlexandre Fotue-Tabue; Edgar Mart\u00ednez-Moro; J. Thomas Blackford\n\nGalois images of polycyclic codes over a finite chain ring $S$ and their annihilator dual are investigated. The case when a polycyclic code is Galois-disjoint over the ring $S,$ is characterized and, the trace codes and restrictions of free polycyclic codes over $S$ are also determined giving an analogue of Delsarte's theorem relating the trace code and the annihilator dual code.\n\n\u66f4\u65b0\u65e5\u671f\uff1a2019-09-04\nContents have been reproduced by permission of the publishers.\n\ndown\nwechat\nbug","date":"2020-08-09 14:29:45","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8080589175224304, \"perplexity\": 972.654864864656}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2020-34\/segments\/1596439738555.33\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20200809132747-20200809162747-00300.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
UNLEASHED 800 East 96th Street, Indianapolis, Indiana 46240 USA Visual Basic Professional developer tools and services for individual developers or small teams. Free Ebooks Download Websites,pdf,epu, mobi,azw,azw3. This is a Visual Basic 2015 tutorial Visual Basic 2015 was released in 2015. It comes as part of the Visual Studio Community 2015 package.
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Using Visual Basic 2015, developers can build cutting-edge applications that run practically anywhere: on Windows desktops, new Windows 10 devices. Visual Studio 2015 Cheat Sheet Window Management Drag Off Floating Tab Wells Ctrl+clickfor multi-select Maximize Floating Window Double-clickon title. Aug 26, 2015 NET languages, Microsoft Visual Studio 2015 Unleashed is a deep dive into the Visual Studio tool. Specifically, this book provides solid. Visual Basic 2010 unleashed / Alessandro Del Sole. p. cm. . Bulk Sales. Pearson offers excellent discounts on this book when ordered in quantity UNLEASHED precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and Part II Object-Oriented Programming with Visual Basic. ASP.NET eBooks - IT eBook free library Beginning ASP.NET for Visual Studio 2015 Beginning ASP.NET for Visual Studio 2015 is your ultimate guide to the latest. Jul 24, 2015 . Visual Basic 2015 Unleashed is the most comprehensive, practical . If you want to leverage all of VB 2015's power IT eBooks - Free Download eBooks Library Dive into the world of SQL on Hadoop and get the most out of your Hive data warehouses. Download free Android Programming eBooks in pdf format or read Android app development books online.
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Download free ASP.NET eBooks in pdf format or read ASP.NET books online. | {
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\section{Introduction and the main results}
\subsection{Introduction}\label{ss:intro}
The lace expansion has been successful in rigorously proving mean-field
critical behavior for various models, such as
self-avoiding walk \cite{bs85}, percolation \cite{hs90p}, lattice trees and
lattice animals \cite{hs90l}, oriented percolation \cite{ny93}, the contact
process \cite{s01}, the classical Ising and $\varphi^4$ models
\cite{s07,s15}.
It provides (a way to derive) a formal recursion equation for the two-point
function $G_p(x)$, which is similar to the recursion equation for the
random-walk Green function $S_p(x)$ generated by the non-degenerate
(i.e., $D(o)<1$) 1-step distribution $D(x)$ and the fugacity $p\in[0,1]$:
\begin{align}\lbeq{rw-conv}
S_p(x)=\delta_{o,x}+(pD*S_p)(x),
\end{align}
where, and in the rest of the paper, $(f*g)(x)\equiv\sum_yf(y)\,g(x-y)$
is the convolution of two functions $f,g$ on $\Zd$.
The formal recursion equation for $G_p(x)$ is of the form
\begin{align}\lbeq{lace-intro}
G_p(x)=\varPi_p(x)+(\varPi_p*pD*G_p)(x),
\end{align}
where $\varPi_p(x)$ is a series of the model-dependent lace-expansion
coefficients. It is natural to expect that, once regularity of $\varPi_p$ (e.g.,
absolute summability) is assured for all $p$ up to the critical point $\pc$,
the asymptotic behavior of $G_{\pc}(x)$ should be the same (modulo constant
multiplication) as that for the random-walk Green function $S_1(x)$. If so,
then sufficient conditions for the mean-field behavior, called the bubble
condition for self-avoiding walk and the Ising model \cite{a82,ms93} and the
triangle condition for percolation \cite{an84}, hold for all dimensions above
the model-dependent upper-critical dimension $\dc$, which is $2m$
for short-range models, where $m=2$ for self-avoiding walk and the Ising model
and $m=3$ for percolation.
In recent years, long-range models defined by power-law couplings,
$D(x)\approx|x|^{-d-\alpha}$ for some $\alpha>0$, have attracted more
attention, due to unconventional critical behavior and crossover phenomena
(e.g., \cite{apr14,bpr14,csIV,lsw17}). Under some mild assumptions,
we have shown \cite[Proposition~2.1]{csIV} that, for $\alpha\ne2$ and
$d>\alpha\wedge2$, the random-walk Green function $S_1(x)$ is asymptotically
$\frac{\gamma_\alpha}{v_\alpha}|x|^{\alpha\wedge2-d}$, where
\begin{align}\lbeq{gamma}
\gamma_\alpha=\frac{\Gamma(\frac{d-\alpha\wedge2}2)}{2^{\alpha\wedge2}\pi^{d/2}
\Gamma(\frac{\alpha\wedge2}2)},&&&&
v_\alpha=\lim_{|k|\to0}\frac{1-\hat D(k)}{|k|^{\alpha\wedge2}}
\equiv\lim_{|k|\to0}\sum_{x\in\Zd}\frac{1-e^{ik\cdot x}}{|k|^{\alpha\wedge2}}D(x).
\end{align}
For short-range models with variance $\sigma^2=\sum_x|x|^2D(x)<\infty$,
the asymptotic behavior of $S_1(x)$ is well-known to be
$\frac{d}2\Gamma(\frac{d-2}2)\pi^{-d/2}\sigma^{-2}|x|^{2-d}$,
which is consistent with \refeq{gamma} for large $\alpha>2$. The
crossover occurs at $\alpha=2$, where the variance $\sigma^2$ diverges
logarithmically and $S_1(x)$ was believed to have a log correction to the
above standard Newtonian behavior.
An example of $D(x)\approx|x|^{-d-\alpha}$ is the compound-zeta distribution
(see \refeq{eg123} for the precise definition). It has been shown \cite{csIV}
that this long-range distribution for $\alpha\ne2$ also satisfies a certain
bound on the ``derivative" $|D^{*n}(x)-\frac12(D^{*n}(x+y)+D^{*n}(x-y))|$ of
the $n$-step distribution. Thanks to this extra bound, we have shown
\cite[Theorem~1.2]{csIV} in a unified fashion for all $\alpha\ne2$ that,
whenever $d>\dc\equiv(\alpha\wedge2)m$ (with a large spread-out parameter
$L$), there is a model-dependent constant $A$ close to 1 (in fact, $A=1$ for
$\alpha<2$) such that $G_{\pc}(x)\sim\frac{A}{\pc}S_1(x)$. One of the key
elements to showing this result is (slight improvement of) the convolution
bounds on power functions \cite[Proposition~1.7]{hhs03} that are used to prove
regularity of $\varPi_p$ in \refeq{lace-intro}. However, since those convolution
bounds are not good enough to properly control power functions with log
corrections, we were unable to achieve an asymptotic result for
$\alpha=2$, until the current work.
In this paper, we tackle the marginal case $\alpha=2$. The headlines
are the following:
\begin{itemize}
\item
$S_1(x)\sim\frac{\gamma_2}{v_2}|x|^{2-d}/\log|x|$ whenever $d>2$,
where $\gamma_2$ is in \refeq{gamma}, but $v_2$ is redefined as
\begin{align}\lbeq{vdef}
v_2=\lim_{|k|\to0}\frac{1-\hat D(k)}{|k|^2\log(1/|k|)}.
\end{align}
\item
$G_{\pc}(x)\sim\frac1{\pc}S_1(x)$ whenever $d\ge\dc$ (with a large spread-out
parameter $L$). This also implies that other critical exponents take on their
mean-field values for $d\ge\dc$ (including equality).
\end{itemize}
The latter solves the conjecture \cite[(1.29)]{csIV}, extended all the way down
to $d=\dc$. It also confirms a part of predictions in physics
\cite[(3)]{bpr14}: the critical two-point function for percolation was proposed
to decay as $|x|^{\alpha\wedge(2-\eta)-d}$ whenever $\alpha\ne2-\eta$, where
$\eta=\eta(d)$ is the anomalous dimension for short-range percolation and is
believed to be nonzero for $d<6$, and as $|x|^{2-\eta-d}/\log|x|$ whenever
$\alpha=2-\eta$.
We should emphasize that the proof of the asymptotic result in this paper is
rather different from the one in \cite{csIV} for $\alpha\ne2$. In fact, we do
not require the $n$-step distribution $D^{*n}$ to satisfy the aforementioned
derivative bound. Because of this, we can cover a wider class of models to
which the same result applies, and can simplify the proof to some extent.
Although the same proof works for $\alpha<2$ (see
Remark~\ref{remark:new1step} below), we will focus on the marginal case
$\alpha=2$.
Before closing this subsection, we remark on recent progress in the
renormalization group analysis for the $O(n)$ model, which is equivalent to
self-avoiding walk when $n=0$ and to the $n$-component $|\varphi|^4$ model
when $n\ge1$. Suppose that the above physics prediction is true for the
$O(n)$ model as well, and that $\eta>0$ for $d<4$. Then, we can take a small
$\varepsilon>0$ to satisfy
$\alpha=\frac{d+\varepsilon}2\in(\frac{d}2,2-\eta)\ne\varnothing$, hence
$d=2\alpha-\varepsilon<\dc$, and yet $G_{\pc}(x)$ is proven to decay as
$|x|^{\alpha-d}$ \cite{lsw17}. This ``sticking" at the mean-field behavior,
even below the upper-critical dimension, has been proven by using a rigorous
version of the $\varepsilon$-expansion.
In the next subsection, we give more precise definitions of the concerned
models.
\subsection{The models and the main results}
\subsubsection{Random walk}\label{sss:rw}
Let
\begin{align}\lbeq{veee}
\veee{x}_r=\frac\pi2(|x|\vee r)\qquad[x\in\Rd,~1\le r<\infty],
\end{align}
where $|\cdot|$ is the Euclidean norm. We require the 1-step distribution
$D(x)$ to be bounded as
\begin{align}
&D(x)\asymp\tfrac1{L^d}\veee{\tfrac{x}L}_1^{-d-\alpha}\nn\\[5pt]
&\quad\stackrel{\text{def}}\Leftrightarrow\quad\exists c>0,~\forall x\in\Zd,
~\forall L\in[1,\infty):~c\le\frac{D(x)}{\frac1{L^d}\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^{-d
-\alpha}}\le\frac1c,
\end{align}
where $L$ is the spread-out parameter.
Let $\hat D$ and $D^{*n}$ be the Fourier transform and the $n$-fold
convolution of $D$, respectively:
\begin{align}
\hat D(k)&=\sum_{x\in\Zd}e^{ik\cdot x}D(x)\qquad[k\in[-\pi,\pi)^d],\\
D^{*n}(x)&=
\begin{cases}
\delta_{o,x}&[n=0],\\
\sum_{y\in\Zd}D^{*(n-1)}(y)\,D(x-y)&[n\ge1].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
We also require $D$ to satisfy the following properties.
\begin{assumption}[Properties of $\hat D$]\label{assumption:hatD}
There is a $\Delta=\Delta(L)\in(0,1)$ such that
\begin{align}\lbeq{1-hatDbd1}
1-\hat D(k)
\begin{cases}
<2-\Delta\quad&[\forall k\in[-\pi,\pi]^d],\\
>\Delta&[|k|>1/L],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
while, for $|k|\le1/L$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{1-hatDbd2}
1-\hat D(k)\asymp (L|k|)^{\alpha\wedge2}\times
\begin{cases}
1&[\alpha\ne2],\\
\log\frac\pi{2L|k|}\quad&[\alpha=2].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
Moreover, there is an $\epsilon>0$ such that, as $|k|\to0$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{1-hatDasy}
1-\hat D(k)=v_\alpha|k|^{\alpha\wedge2}\times
\begin{cases}
\big(1+O(L^\epsilon|k|^\epsilon)\big)&[\alpha\ne2],\\
\big(\log\frac1{L|k|}+O(1)\big)\quad&[\alpha=2],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
where the constant in the $O(1)$ term is independent of $L$.
\end{assumption}
\begin{assumption}[Bounds on $D^{*n}$]\label{assumption:D}
For $n\in\N$ and $x\in\Zd$,
\begin{gather}
\|D^{*n}\|_\infty\le O(L^{-d})\times
\begin{cases}
n^{-d/(\alpha\wedge2)}&[\alpha\ne2],\\
(n\log\frac{\pi n}2)^{-d/2}\quad&[\alpha=2],
\end{cases}\lbeq{Dnsupbd}\\
D^{*n}(x)\le n\frac{O(L^{\alpha\wedge2})}{\veee{x}_L^{d+\alpha\wedge2}}\times
\begin{cases}
1&[\alpha\ne2],\\
\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1\quad&[\alpha=2].
\end{cases}\lbeq{Dnxbd}
\end{gather}
\end{assumption}
It has been shown \cite{csI,csIII,csIV} that the following $D$ is one of the
examples that satisfy all the properties in the above assumptions:
\begin{align}\lbeq{eg0}
D(x)=
\begin{cases}
\dpst\frac{\veee{x}_L^{-d-\alpha}}{\sum_{y\in\Zd\setminus\{o\}}\veee{y}_L^{-d
-\alpha}}\quad&[x\ne o],\\[1pc]
0&[x=o].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
Another such example is the following compound-zeta distribution \cite{csIV}:
\begin{align}\lbeq{eg123}
D(x)=\sum_{t\in\N}U_L^{*t}(x)\,T_\alpha(t)\qquad[x\in\Zd],
\end{align}
where, with a probability distribution $h$ on $[-1,1]^d\subset\Rd$ and the
Riemann-zeta function $\zeta(s)=\sum_{t\in\N}t^{-s}$,
\begin{align}
U_L(x)&=\frac{h(x/L)}{\sum_{y\in\Zd\setminus\{o\}}h(y/L)}\qquad[x\in\Zd],\\
T_\alpha(t)&=\frac{t^{-1-\alpha/2}}{\zeta(1+\alpha/2)}\qquad[t\in\N].
\end{align}
We assume that the distribution $h$ is bounded, non-degenerate,
$\Zd$-symmetric and piecewise continuous, such as
$h(x)=2^{-d}\ind{\|x\|_\infty\le1}$.
Since the proof of
\refeq{Dnsupbd} for $\alpha=2$ is only briefly explained in \cite[(1.19)]{csIV},
we will provide a full proof in Section~\ref{s:rw}.
Let $S_p$ be the random-walk Green function generated by the 1-step
distribution $D$:
\begin{align}\lbeq{green}
S_p(x)=\sum_{\omega:o\to x}p^{|\omega|}\prod_{j=1}^{|\omega|}
D(\omega_j-\omega_{j-1})\qquad[x\in\Zd],
\end{align}
where $o\in\Zd$ is the origin, $p\ge0$ is the fugacity and $|\omega|$ is the
length of a path $\omega=(\omega_0,\omega_1,\dots,\omega_{|\omega|})$.
By convention, the contribution from the zero-step walk is the Kronecker delta
$\delta_{o,x}$. It is convergent as long as $p<1$ or $p=1$ with
$d>\alpha\wedge2$. One of the main results of this paper is completion of
the asymptotic picture of $S_1$ for all $\alpha>0$, as follows.
\begin{theorem}\label{theorem:S}
Let $d>\alpha\wedge2$ and suppose $D$ satisfies
Assumptions~\ref{assumption:hatD}--\ref{assumption:D}.
Then, for any $p\in[0,1]$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{Squbd}
S_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}\le\frac{O(L^{-\alpha\wedge2})}{\veee{x}_L^{d-\alpha
\wedge2}}\times
\begin{cases}
1&[\alpha\ne2],\\
\dfrac1{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\quad&[\alpha=2].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
Moreover, there are $\epsilon,\eta>0$ such that, for $L^{1+\eta}<|x|\to\infty$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{S1asy}
S_1(x)=\frac{\gamma_\alpha/v_\alpha}{|x|^{d-\alpha\wedge2}}\times
\begin{cases}
\dpst\bigg(1+\frac{O(L^{\epsilon})}{|x|^\epsilon}\bigg)&[\alpha\ne2],\\[1pc]
\dpst\frac1{\log|x|}\bigg(1+\frac{O(1)}{(\log|x|)^\epsilon}\bigg)\quad
&[\alpha=2],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
where the constant in the $O(1)$ term is independent of $L$.
\end{theorem}
\subsubsection{Self-avoiding walk}
Self-avoiding walk (sometimes abbreviated as SAW) is a model for linear
polymers. Taking into account the exclusion-volume effect among constituent
monomers, we define the SAW two-point function as
\begin{align}\lbeq{SAW-2pt}
G_p(x)=\sum_{\omega:o\to x}p^{|\omega|}\prod_{j=1}^{|\omega|}
D(\omega_j-\omega_{j-1})\prod_{s<t}(1-\delta_{\omega_s,\omega_t}),
\end{align}
where the contribution from the zero-step walk is $\delta_{o,x}$, just as in
\refeq{green}. Notice that the difference between \refeq{green} and
\refeq{SAW-2pt} is the last product, which is either 0 or 1 depending on
whether $\omega$ intersects itself or does not. Because of this suppressing
factor, the sum called the susceptibility
\begin{align}\lbeq{susceptibility}
\chi_p=\sum_{x\in\Zd}G_p(x)
\end{align}
is not bigger than $\sum_{x\in\Zd}S_p(x)$, which is $(1-p)^{-1}$ when $p$ is
smaller than the radius of convergence 1, and therefore the critical point
\begin{align}\lbeq{critpt}
\pc=\sup\{p:\chi_p<\infty\}
\end{align}
must be at least 1. It is known \cite{ms93} that, if the bubble condition
\begin{align}\lbeq{bubblecond}
G_{\pc}^{*2}(o)=\sum_{x\in\Zd}G_{\pc}(x)^2<\infty
\end{align}
holds, then
\begin{align}\lbeq{chiMF}
\chi_p\asymp(\pc-p)^{-1},
\end{align}
meaning that the critical exponent for $\chi_p$ takes on its mean-field value 1.
\subsubsection{Percolation}
Percolation is a model for random media. Each bond $\{u,v\}\subset\Zd$ is
assigned to be either occupied or vacant, independently of the other bonds.
The probability of a bond $\{u,v\}$ being occupied is defined as $pD(v-u)$,
where $p\ge0$ is the percolation parameter. Since $D$ is a probability
distribution, the expected number of occupied bonds per vertex equals
$p\sum_{x\ne o}D(x)=p(1-D(o))$. Let $G_p(x)$ denote the percolation
two-point function, which is the probability that there is a self-avoiding path
of occupied bonds from $o$ to $x$. By convention, $G_p(o)=1$.
For percolation, the susceptibility $\chi_p$ in \refeq{susceptibility} equals
the expected number of vertices connected from $o$. It is known
\cite{an84} that there is a critical point $\pc$ defined as in \refeq{critpt}
such that $\chi_p$ is finite if and only if $p<\pc$ and diverges as
$p\uparrow\pc$. It is also known that, if the triangle condition
\begin{align}\lbeq{trianglecond}
G_{\pc}^{*3}(o)=\sum_{x\in\Zd}G_{\pc}(x)\,G_{\pc}^{*2}(x)<\infty
\end{align}
holds, then $\chi_p$ diverges in the same way as \refeq{chiMF}.
There is another order parameter $\theta_p$ called the percolation probability,
which is the probability of the origin $o$ being connected to infinity. It is
known \cite{ab87,dct16,m86} that $\pc$ in \refeq{critpt} can be characterized
as $\inf\{p\ge0:\theta_p>0\}$ and that, if the triangle condition
\refeq{trianglecond} holds, then
\begin{align}\lbeq{thetaMF-perc}
\theta_p\asymp p-\pc,
\end{align}
meaning that the critical exponent for $\theta_p$ takes on
its mean-field value 1, i.e., the value for the survival probability of the
branching process.
\subsubsection{The Ising model}
The Ising model is a model for magnets. Let $\Lambda\subset\Zd$ and define
the Hamiltonian (under the free-boundary condition) for a spin configuration
$\varphi=\{\varphi_v\}_{v\in\Lambda}\in\{\pm1\}^\Lambda$ as
\begin{align}
H_\Lambda(\varphi)=-\sum_{\{u,v\}\subset\Lambda}J_{u,v}\varphi_u
\varphi_v,
\end{align}
where $J_{u,v}=J_{o,v-u}\ge0$ is the ferromagnetic coupling and is to satisfy
the relation
\begin{align}
D(x)=\frac{\tanh(\beta J_{o,x})}{\sum_{y\in\Zd}\tanh(\beta J_{o,y})},
\end{align}
where $\beta\ge0$ is the inverse temperature. Let
\begin{align}\lbeq{therm-av}
\Exp{\varphi_o\varphi_x}_{\beta,\Lambda}=\sum_{\varphi\in\{\pm1\}^\Lambda}
\varphi_o\varphi_x\;e^{-\beta H_\Lambda(\varphi)}\Bigg/\sum_{\varphi\in\{\pm
1\}^\Lambda}e^{-\beta H_\Lambda(\varphi)}.
\end{align}
Using $p=\sum_{x\in\Zd}\tanh(\beta J_{o,x})$, we define the Ising
two-point function $G_p(x)$ as a unique infinite-volume limit of
$\Exp{\varphi_o\varphi_x}_{\beta,\Lambda}$:
\begin{align}
G_p(x)=\lim_{\Lambda\uparrow\Zd}\Exp{\varphi_o\varphi_x}_{\beta,\Lambda}.
\end{align}
It is known \cite{l74} that the susceptibility $\chi_p$ defined as in
\refeq{susceptibility} is finite if and only if $p<\pc$ and diverges as
$p\uparrow\pc$. It is also known \cite{abf87,dct16} that $\pc$
is unique in the sense that the spontaneous magnetization
\begin{align}
\theta_p=\sqrt{\lim_{|x|\to\infty}G_p(x)}
\end{align}
also exhibits a phase transition at $\pc$. (Unlike the case for percolation,
the continuity of $\theta_p$ in $p$ has been proven for all dimensions, as
long as $J_{o,x}$ satisfies a strong symmetry condition called the reflection
positivity \cite{adcs15}.) Furthermore, it is known \cite{a82,af86} that, if the
bubble condition \refeq{bubblecond} holds for the critical Ising model, then
\begin{align}\lbeq{thetaMF-Ising}
\chi_p\asymp(\pc-p)^{-1},&&
\theta_p\asymp\sqrt{p-\pc},
\end{align}
meaning that the critical exponents for $\chi_p$ and $\theta_p$ take on their
mean-field values 1 and $1/2$, respectively.
\subsubsection{The main results}
Let
\begin{align}\lbeq{dcdef}
\dc=(\alpha\wedge2)\times m,&&
m=\begin{cases}
2\quad&[\text{SAW and Ising}],\\
3&[\text{percolation}],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
where $m$ is the number of $G_{\pc}$ involved in the bubble/triangle
conditions \refeq{bubblecond} and \refeq{trianglecond}.
In the previous paper \cite{csIV}, we investigated asymptotic behavior of
$G_{\pc}(x)$ for $\alpha\ne2$, $d>\dc$ and $L\gg1$ (see
Theorem~\ref{theorem:previous}). In the current paper, we investigate
the marginal case $\alpha=2$, for which the variance of $D$ diverges
logarithmically, and prove the following:
\begin{theorem}\label{theorem:main}
Let $\alpha=2$ and $d\ge\dc$ (including equality) and suppose that $D$
satisfies Assumptions~\ref{assumption:hatD}--\ref{assumption:D}.
Then there is a model-dependent $L_0<\infty$ such that, for any $L\ge L_0$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{IRbd}
G_{\pc}(x)\le\delta_{o,x}+\frac{O(L^{-2})}{\veee{x}_L^{d-2}\log\veee{\frac{x}
L}_1}.
\end{align}
Moreover, there is an $\epsilon>0$ such that, as $|x|\to\infty$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{main}
G_{\pc}(x)=\frac1{\pc}\frac{\gamma_2/v_2}{|x|^{d-2}\log|x|}\bigg(1+\frac{O(1)}
{(\log|x|)^\epsilon}\bigg),
\end{align}
where the $O(1)$ term is independent of $L$.
\end{theorem}
Due to the log correction to the standard Newtonian behavior in
\refeq{IRbd}--\refeq{main}, we can show that the bubble/triangle conditions
hold, even at the critical dimension $d=\dc$. For example, the tail of the sum
in the bubble condition \refeq{bubblecond} can be estimated, for any
$R>1$, as
\begin{align}
\sum_{x:|x|>R}G_{\pc}(x)^2\approx\int_R^\infty\frac{\mathrm{d}r}r~
\frac{r^{4-d}}{(\log r)^2},
\end{align}
which is finite even when $d=4$, due to the log-squared term in the
denominator. Also, by the convolution bounds in Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}
below,
which is one of the novelties of this paper, we can show that $G_{\pc}^{*2}(x)$
for $d\ge4$ is bounded above by a multiple of $|x|^{4-d}/\log|x|$. Therefore,
the tail of the sum in the triangle condition \refeq{trianglecond} can be
estimated as
\begin{align}
\sum_{x:|x|>R}G_{\pc}(x)\,G_{\pc}^{*2}(x)\approx\int_R^\infty
\frac{\mathrm{d}r}r~\frac{r^{6-d}}{(\log r)^2},
\end{align}
which is finite even when $d=6$, again due to the log-squared term in the
denominator. Therefore:
\begin{corollary}
The mean-field results \refeq{chiMF}, \refeq{thetaMF-perc} and
\refeq{thetaMF-Ising} hold for all three models with $\alpha=2$ and
sufficiently large $L$, in dimensions $d\ge\dc$ (including equality).
\end{corollary}
\smallskip
\begin{remark}
{\rm
\begin{enumerate}
\item
In the previous paper \cite{csIV}, we investigated the other case
$\alpha\ne2$ and proved the following:
\begin{theorem}[Theorems~1.2 and 3.3 of \cite{csIV}]\label{theorem:previous}
Let $\alpha\ne2$ and $d>\dc$ and suppose that $D$ satisfies
Assumptions~\ref{assumption:hatD}--\ref{assumption:D} and the following
bound on the ``derivative" of $D^{*n}$: for $n\in\N$ and $x,y\in\Zd$ with
$|y|\le\frac13|x|$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{Dnxdiffbd}
\bigg|D^{*n}(x)-\frac{D^{*n}(x+y)+D^{*n}(x-y)}2\bigg|\le n\,\frac{O(L^{\alpha
\wedge2})\,\veee{y}_L^2}{\veee{x}_L^{d+\alpha\wedge2+2}}.
\end{align}
Then, there is a model-dependent $L_0<\infty$ such that,
for any $L\ge L_0$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{IRbdprevious}
G_{\pc}(x)\le\delta_{o,x}+\frac{O(L^{-\alpha\wedge2})}{\veee{x}_L^{d-\alpha
\wedge2}}.
\end{align}
As a result, the bubble/triangle conditions \refeq{bubblecond} and
\refeq{trianglecond} hold, and therefore the critical exponents for $\chi_p$
and $\theta_p$ take on their respective mean-field values. Moreover,
there are $A=1+O(L^{-2})\ind{\alpha>2}$ and $\epsilon>0$ such that, as
$|x|\to\infty$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{previous}
G_{\pc}(x)=\frac{A}{\pc}\frac{\gamma_\alpha/v_\alpha}{|x|^{d-\alpha\wedge2}}
\bigg(1+\frac{O(L^\epsilon)}{|x|^\epsilon}\bigg).
\end{align}
\end{theorem}
\smallskip
The extra assumption \refeq{Dnxdiffbd} is hard to verify in a general setup.
However, we have shown \cite{csIV} that the compound-zeta distribution
\refeq{eg123} for $\alpha\ne2$ satisfies \refeq{Dnxdiffbd}. In fact, as
explained in Section~\ref{ss:xIRbd} (see also Remark~\ref{remark:new1step}),
the proof of Theorem~\ref{theorem:main} for $\alpha=2$ also works for the
case $\alpha<2$, so that we do not have to require \refeq{Dnxdiffbd}
for $\alpha\le2$, but not for $\alpha>2$. This is somewhat related
to the fact that the
multiplicative constant $A$ in \refeq{previous} becomes 1 for $\alpha\le2$.
\item
The possibility to extend the mean-field results down to $d=\dc$ was already
hinted in \cite[Theorem~1.1]{hhs08}, where we have shown that, for $d>\dc$
and $L\gg1$, the Fourier transform $\hat G_p(k)$ obeys the following infrared
bound, uniformly in $k\in[-\pi,\pi]^d$ and $p<\pc$:
\begin{align}\lbeq{kIRbd}
\hat G_p(k)=\frac{1+O(\delta_m)}{\chi_p^{-1}+p(1-\hat D(k))},
\end{align}
where
\begin{align}
\delta_m=\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\mathrm{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}~\frac{\hat D(k)^2}
{(1-\hat D(k))^m}.
\end{align}
In fact, we can follow the same line of proof of \cite[Theorem~1.1]{hhs08} to
obtain \refeq{kIRbd}, as long as $\delta_m$ is sufficiently small. However,
for $\alpha=2$ and $d\ge\dc$ (including equality), we have
\begin{align}
\delta_m\le\underbrace{\int_{|k|>1/L}\frac{\mathrm{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}~
\frac{\hat D(k)^2}{\Delta^m}}_{\because\,\refeq{1-hatDbd1}}
+\underbrace{O(L^{-2m})\int_{|k|\le1/L}\frac{\mathrm{d}^dk}{(|k|^2
\log\frac\pi{2L|k|})^m}}_{\because\,\refeq{1-hatDbd2}}=O(L^{-d}).
\end{align}
Therefore, by taking $L$ sufficiently large and using monotonicity in $p$,
we obtain
\begin{align}
G_{\pc}^{*m}(o)=\lim_{p\uparrow\pc}G_p^{*m}(o)=\lim_{p\uparrow\pc}
\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\mathrm{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}~\hat G_p(k)^m<\infty,
\end{align}
as long as $d\ge\dc$, hence the mean-field results for all $d\ge\dc$.
\end{enumerate}
}
\end{remark}
\section{Analysis for the underlying random walk}\label{s:rw}
In Section~\ref{ss:green}, we prove Theorem~\ref{theorem:S} for $\alpha=2$
(the results for $\alpha\ne2$ have been proven in \cite{csIV}).
In Section~\ref{ss:D*n}, we complete the proof of \refeq{Dnsupbd} for $\alpha=2$.
\subsection{Proof of Theorem~\ref{theorem:S}}\label{ss:green}
The results for $\alpha\ne2$ are already proven in
\cite[Proposition~2.1]{csIV}. The proof of \refeq{Squbd} for $\alpha=2$ is
easy, as we split the sum at
$N\equiv\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^2/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1$ and use \refeq{Dnxbd} for
$n\le N$ and \refeq{Dnsupbd} for $n\ge N$, as follows:
\begin{align}\lbeq{Spubd-proof}
S_q(x)-\delta_{o,x}&\le\sum_{n=1}^ND^{*n}(x)+\sum_{n=N}^\infty\|D^{*n}
\|_\infty\nn\\
&\le O(L^{-d})\bigg(\frac{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}{\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^{d+2}}
\sum_{n=1}^Nn+\sum_{n=N}^\infty(n\log n)^{-d/2}\bigg)\nn\\
&\le O(L^{-d})\bigg(\frac{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}{\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^{d+2}}
N^2+\frac{N^{1-d/2}}{(\log N)^{d/2}}\bigg)~
=\frac{O(L^{-d})\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
It remains to show \refeq{S1asy} for $\alpha=2$. First, we rewrite $S_1(x)$
for $d>2$ as
\begin{align}
S_1(x)=\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,\frac{e^{-ik\cdot x}}
{1-\hat D(k)}&=\int_0^\infty\text{d}t\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\text{d}^dk}
{(2\pi)^d}\,e^{-ik\cdot x-t(1-\hat D(k))}.
\end{align}
Let
\begin{align}\lbeq{Tdef}
\mu\in(0,\tfrac2{d+2}),\hskip4pc
T=\frac{(\frac{|x|}L)^2}{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{1+\mu}}.
\end{align}
Then, for $|x|>L^{1+\eta}$ (so that $\delta_{o,x}=0$),
\begin{eqnarray}\lbeq{I1ubd}
I_1&\equiv&\int_0^T\text{d}t\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,
e^{-ik\cdot x-t(1-\hat D(k))}\text{d}t\nn\\
&=&\int_0^T\text{d}t\,e^{-t}\sum_{n=0}^\infty\frac{t^n}{n!}\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}
\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,e^{-ik\cdot x}\hat D(k)^n\nn\\
&=&\int_0^T\text{d}t\,e^{-t}\bigg(\delta_{o,x}+\sum_{n=1}^\infty\frac{t^n}{n!}
D^{*n}(x)\bigg)\nn\\
&\stackrel{\refeq{Dnxbd}}\le&\frac{O(L^2)\log\frac{|x|}L}{|x|^{d+2}}\,T^2~
=\frac{O(L^{-2})|x|^{2-d}}{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{1+2\mu}},
\end{eqnarray}
which is an error term.
Next, we investigate $S_1(x)-I_1$. Let
\begin{align}\lbeq{Rdef}
\omega=\frac1{\eta\log L}\in(0,1),\hskip4pc
LR=\bigg(\frac{|x|}L\bigg)^{-\omega}.
\end{align}
Then, we can rewrite $S_1(x)-I_1$ as
\begin{align}\lbeq{S1dec2}
S_1(x)-I_1&=\int_T^\infty\text{d}t\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}
\,e^{-ik\cdot x-t(1-\hat D(k))}\text{d}t\nn\\
&=\int_T^\infty\text{d}t\int_{|k|\le R}\frac{\text{d}^d
k}{(2\pi)^d}e^{-ik\cdot x-v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}}+\sum_{j=2}^4I_j,
\end{align}
where
\begin{align}
I_2&=\int_T^\infty\text{d}t\int_{|k|\le R}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,
e^{-ik\cdot x}\Big(e^{-t(1-\hat D(k))}-e^{-v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}}\Big),\\
I_3&=\int_{R<|k|\le1/L}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,\frac{e^{-ik\cdot x-T
(1-\hat D(k))}}{1-\hat D(k)},\\
I_4&=\int_{[-\pi,\pi]^d}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}\,\frac{e^{-ik\cdot x-T
(1-\hat D(k))}}{1-\hat D(k)}\,\ind{|k|>1/L}.
\end{align}
For $I_2$, we first note that, by \refeq{1-hatDasy},
\begin{align}
\Big|e^{-t(1-\hat D(k))}-e^{-v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}}\Big|\le O(L^2)t|k|^2
e^{-v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}}.
\end{align}
Let $s=v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}$ and $r=|k|\le R$. Since $|x|>L^{1+\eta}$,
we have
\begin{gather}
\frac{\text{d}s}s=\bigg(2-\frac1{\log\frac1{Lr}}\bigg)\frac{\text{d}r}r\ge\bigg(
2-\frac1{\log\frac1{LR}}\bigg)\frac{\text{d}r}r>\bigg(2-\frac1{\omega\eta
\log L}\bigg)\frac{\text{d}r}r=\frac{\text{d}r}r.
\end{gather}
Therefore, for $d>2$,
\begin{eqnarray}\lbeq{I2ubd}
|I_2|&\le&O(L^2)\int_T^\infty\text{d}t~t\int_0^R\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^{d+2}
e^{-v_2tr^2\log\frac1{Lr}}\nn\\
&\le&O(L^2)\int_T^\infty\text{d}t~t\int_0^{v_2tR^2\log\frac1{LR}}\frac{\text{d}s}
s~\bigg(\frac{s}{v_2t\log\frac1{LR}}\bigg)^{(d+2)/2}e^{-s}\nn\\
&\stackrel{\refeq{Rdef}}\le&O(L^{-d})\bigg(\log\frac{|x|}L\bigg)^{-(d+2)/2}
T^{1-d/2}\nn\\
&\stackrel{\refeq{Tdef}}=&\frac{O(L^{-2})|x|^{2-d}}{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{2-(d-2)
\mu/2}},
\end{eqnarray}
which is an error term because
\begin{align}
2-\frac{(d-2)\mu}2\stackrel{\refeq{Tdef}}>2-\frac{d-2}{d+2}=1+\frac4{d+2}>1.
\end{align}
For $I_3$, since \refeq{1-hatDbd2} holds and
$\log\frac\pi{2L|k|}\ge\log\frac\pi2>0$ for $|k|\le1/L$,
there is a $c>0$ such that
\begin{align}
|I_3|\le O(L^{-2})\int_R^{1/L}\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^{d-2}e^{-cL^2Tr^2}=O(L^{-d})
T^{1-d/2}\int_{cL^2TR^2}^{cT}\frac{\text{d}s}s~s^{(d-2)/2}e^{-s}.
\end{align}
Since $TR^2\to\infty$ as $|x|\to\infty$ (cf., \refeq{Tdef} and \refeq{Rdef}),
the integral is bounded by a multiple of
$(L^2TR^2)^{(d-4)/2}e^{-cL^2TR^2}$, which is a bound on the incomplete gamma
function. Therefore, for $N\in\N$ large enough to
ensure $2N+4>d$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{I3ubd}
|I_3|\le O(L^{-d})\frac{(LR)^{d-4}}Te^{-cL^2TR^2}
&\le\frac{(LR)^{d-4}}T\frac{O(L^{-d})}{(L^2TR^2)^N}\nn\\
&=\frac{O(L^{-2+(2N+4-d)(1-\omega)})(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{(1+\mu)(N+1)}}
{|x|^{d-2+(2N+4-d)(1-\omega)}}\nn\\
&\hskip-1.1pc\stackrel{|x|>L^{1+\eta}}\le\frac{O(L^{-2})(\log\frac{|x|}
L)^{(1+\mu)(N+1)}}{|x|^{d-2+(2N+4-d)(1-\omega)\eta/(1+\eta)}},
\end{align}
which is an error term.
For $I_4$, we use \refeq{1-hatDbd1} and a similar argument to \refeq{I3ubd}
to obtain that, for $N\in\N$ large enough to ensure
$2(N\eta-1)/(1+\eta)>d-2$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{I4ubd}
|I_4|\le O(1)e^{-T\Delta}
&\le\frac{O(1)}{T^N}\le\frac{O(L^{2N})(\log\frac{|x|}L)^N}{|x|^{2N}}
\stackrel{|x|>L^{1+\eta}}\le\frac{O(L^{-2})(\log\frac{|x|}L)^N}
{|x|^{2(N\eta-1)/(1+\eta)}},
\end{align}
which is an error term.
So far, we have obtained
\begin{align}\lbeq{S1dec2rewr}
S_1(x)=\int_T^\infty\text{d}t\int_{|k|\le R}\frac{\text{d}^dk}{(2\pi)^d}e^{-ik
\cdot x-v_2t|k|^2\log\frac1{L|k|}}+\sum_{j=1}^4I_j.
\end{align}
To investigate the above integral, we introduce $\xi\equiv x/|x|$ and change
variables as $\kappa=|x|k$.
Then, by changing time variables as $\tau=\frac{v_2t}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L$,
the integral in \refeq{S1dec2} can be written as
\begin{align}\lbeq{S1dec3}
&|x|^{-d}\int_T^\infty\text{d}t\int_{|\kappa|\le|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}
{(2\pi)^d}~\exp\bigg(-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\frac{v_2t|\kappa|^2}{|x|^2}
\log\frac{|x|}{L|\kappa|}\bigg)\nn\\
&=\frac{|x|^{2-d}}{v_2\log\frac{|x|}L}\int_{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}
L}^\infty\text{d}\tau\int_{|\kappa|\le|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}
{(2\pi)^d}~\exp\Bigg(-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{\log
\frac{|x|}{L|\kappa|}}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\Bigg)\nn\\
&=\frac{|x|^{2-d}}{v_2\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg(\int_0^\infty\text{d}\tau\int_{\Rd}
\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~e^{-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau|\kappa|^2}
-\sum_{j=1}^3M_j\bigg),
\end{align}
where
\begin{align}
M_1&=\int_0^{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L}\text{d}\tau\int_{\Rd}
\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~e^{-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau|\kappa|^2},\\
M_2&=\int_{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L}^\infty\text{d}\tau\int_{|\kappa|
>|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~e^{-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau|\kappa|^2},\\
M_3&=\int_{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L}^\infty\text{d}\tau\int_{|\kappa|
\le|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~e^{-i\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau
|\kappa|^2}\Bigg(1-\exp\bigg(\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{\log|\kappa|}
{\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg)\Bigg).
\end{align}
Notice that the first term in the parentheses in \refeq{S1dec3} gives the
leading term:
\begin{align}\lbeq{S1dec4}
\int_0^\infty\text{d}\tau\int_{\Rd}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~e^{-i
\kappa\cdot\xi-\tau|\kappa|^2}=\int_0^\infty\text{d}\tau~\frac{e^{-1/(4
\tau)}}{(4\pi\tau)^{d/2}}&=\frac{\Gamma(\frac{d-2}2)}{4\pi^{d/2}}=\gamma.
\end{align}
For $M_1$, since
$|x|^2/(v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L)=\frac{L^2}{v_2}(\log\frac{|x|}L)^\mu\to\infty$,
we obtain that, for $N\in\N$ large enough to ensure $2N+4>d$,
\begin{align}
M_1=\int_0^{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L}\text{d}\tau~\frac{e^{-1/(4\tau)}}
{(4\pi\tau)^{d/2}}
&=\frac1{4\pi^{d/2}}\int_{|x|^2/(4v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L)}^\infty\frac{\text{d}s}s~
s^{(d-2)/2}e^{-s}\nn\\
&\le O(1)~\bigg(\frac{|x|^2}{v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg)^{(d-4)/2}e^{-|x|^2
/(4v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L)}.
\end{align}
Using the exponentially decaying term yields
\begin{align}\lbeq{M1bd}
M_1\stackrel{\forall N}\le\frac{O(1)}{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{(2N+4-d)\mu/2}},
\end{align}
which gives an error term as long as $2N+4>d$.
For $M_2$, changing the order of integrations and changing variables as
$r=|\kappa|^2\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L$ yields
\begin{align}
|M_2|&\le\int_{|\kappa|>|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}\int_{\frac{v_2T}
{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L}^\infty\text{d}\tau~e^{-\tau|\kappa|^2}\nn\\
&=\int_{|\kappa|>|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}~\frac1{|\kappa|^2}
\exp\bigg(-|\kappa|^2\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L\bigg)\nn\\
&=O(1)\,\bigg(\frac{|x|^2}{v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg)^{(d-2)/2}
\int_{v_2TR^2\log\frac{|x|}L}^\infty\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^{(d-2)/2}e^{-r}\nn\\
&=O(1)\,(|x|R)^{d-4}\frac{|x|^2}{v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}\,e^{-v_2TR^2\log\frac{|x|}L}.
\end{align}
Using the exponentially decaying term and $|x|>L^{1+\eta}$ as in
\refeq{I3ubd}--\refeq{I4ubd}, we obtain that, for $N\in\N$ large enough
to ensure $2N+4>d$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{M2bd}
|M_2|\le\frac{O(1)(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{(N+1)\mu}}{(\frac{|x|}L)^{(2N+4-d)(1
-\omega)}}\stackrel{|x|>L^{1+\eta}}\le\frac{O(1)(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{(N+1)
\mu}}{|x|^{(2N+4-d)(1-\omega)\eta/(1+\eta)}},
\end{align}
which gives another error term.
For $M_3$, we first note that, since $|\kappa|\le|x|R=(|x|/L)^{1-\omega}$,
\begin{align}
\Bigg|1-\exp\bigg(\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{\log|\kappa|}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg)
\Bigg|&\le\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{|\log|\kappa||}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\,\exp\bigg(
\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{\log|x|R}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg)\nn\\
&=\tau|\kappa|^2\frac{|\log|\kappa||}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\,e^{(1-\omega)
\tau|\kappa|^2}.
\end{align}
Then, by changing the order of integrations and changing variables as
$s=\omega|\kappa|^2\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L$, we obtain
\begin{align}
|M_3|&\le\frac1{\log\frac{|x|}L}\int_{|\kappa|\le|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}
{(2\pi)^d}~|\kappa|^2|\log|\kappa||\int_{\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}
L}^\infty\text{d}\tau~\tau\,e^{-\omega\tau|\kappa|^2}\nn\\
&=\frac1{\log\frac{|x|}L}\int_{|\kappa|\le|x|R}\frac{\text{d}^d\kappa}{(2\pi)^d}
~\frac{|\log|\kappa||}{\omega^2|\kappa|^2}\bigg(1+\omega|\kappa|^2\frac{v_2
T}{|x|^2}\log\frac{|x|}L\bigg)e^{-\omega|\kappa|^2\frac{v_2T}{|x|^2}\log
\frac{|x|}L}\nn\\
&=\underbrace{\frac{O(1)}{\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg(\frac{|x|^2}{v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}
\bigg)^{(d-2)/2}}_{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{-1+(d-2)\mu/2}}\int_0^{\omega v_2TR^2\log
\frac{|x|}L}\frac{\text{d}s}s~\bigg|\log\frac{s|x|^2}{\omega v_2T\log\frac{|x|}
L}\bigg|s^{(d-2)/2}(1+s)e^{-s}.
\end{align}
Using the triangle inequality
\begin{align}
\bigg|\log\frac{s|x|^2}{\omega v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg|\stackrel{\refeq{Tdef}}
\le\bigg|\log\frac{L^2s}{\omega v_2}\bigg|+\mu\log\log\frac{|x|}L,
\end{align}
we obtain
\begin{align}
&\int_0^{\omega v_2TR^2\log\frac{|x|}L}\frac{\text{d}s}s~\bigg|\log\frac{s|x|^2}
{\omega v_2T\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg|s^{(d-2)/2}(1+s)e^{-s}\nn\\
&\le\underbrace{\int_0^\infty\frac{\text{d}s}s~\bigg|\log\frac{L^2s}{\omega
v_2}\bigg|s^{(d-2)/2}(1+s)e^{-s}}_\text{convergent as long as $d>2$}+\big(
\Gamma(\tfrac{d-2}2)+\Gamma(\tfrac{d}2)\big)\mu\log\log\frac{|x|}L\nn\\
&=O(1)\bigg(1+\log\log\frac{|x|}L\bigg).
\end{align}
As a result,
\begin{align}\lbeq{M3bd}
|M_3|\le\frac{O(1)\log\log\frac{|x|}L}{(\log\frac{|x|}L)^{1-(d-2)\mu/2}}
\stackrel{\mu<\frac2{d+2}}\le\frac{O(1)\log\log\frac{|x|}L}{(\log\frac{|x|}
L)^{4/(d+2)}},
\end{align}
which gives another error term.
Summarizing \refeq{S1dec2rewr}--\refeq{S1dec3} and \refeq{S1dec4}, we arrive at
\begin{align}
S_1(x)=\frac{|x|^{2-d}}{v_2\log\frac{|x|}L}\bigg(\gamma-\sum_{j=1}^3M_j\bigg)
+\sum_{j=1}^4I_j,
\end{align}
with the error estimates \refeq{I1ubd}, \refeq{I2ubd},
\refeq{I3ubd}--\refeq{I4ubd}, \refeq{M1bd}, \refeq{M2bd} and \refeq{M3bd}.
This completes the proof of Theorem~\ref{theorem:S} assuming the properties
in Assumptions~\ref{assumption:hatD}--\ref{assumption:D}.
\QED
\subsection{Proof of the bound \refeq{Dnsupbd} on $\|D^{*n}\|_\infty$
for $\alpha=2$}\label{ss:D*n}
For $n=1$,
$\|D\|_\infty=O(L^{-d})$ is obvious. For $n\ge2$, we recall that
$\|D^{*n}\|_\infty$ is bounded as (cf., \cite[(A.2) and (A.4)]{csI})
\begin{align}\lbeq{D*n-unibd-pr}
\|D^{*n}\|_\infty\le O(L^{-d})\int_0^1\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^de^{-nr^2\log
\frac\pi{2r}}+\|D\|_\infty(1-\Delta)^{n-2}.
\end{align}
Since the second term decays exponentially in $n$, it suffices to show that
\begin{align}
\int_0^1\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^de^{-nr^2\log\frac\pi{2r}}\le O\big((n\log
\tfrac{\pi n}2)^{-d/2}\big).
\end{align}
Let $t=n^{-1/4}$ (so that $nt^2=\sqrt n$). Notice that
$\log\frac\pi{2r}\ge\log\frac\pi2>0$ for $r\le1$. By changing variables as
$s=nr^2\log\frac\pi2$, we have
\begin{align}
\int_t^1\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^de^{-nr^2\log\frac\pi{2r}}
&\le O(n^{-d/2})\int_{\sqrt n\log\frac\pi2}^\infty\frac{\text{d}s}s~s^{d/2}
e^{-s}\le O(n^{-\frac{d+2}4})\,e^{-\sqrt n\log\frac\pi2},
\end{align}
which decays much faster than $O((n\log\frac{\pi n}2)^{-d/2})$. For the
remaining integral over $r\in(0,t)$, we change variables
as $s=nr^2\log\frac\pi{2r}$. Then, there is a $c>0$ such that
\begin{gather}\lbeq{changeofvariables}
\frac{\text{d}s}s=\bigg(2-\frac1{\log\frac\pi{2r}}\bigg)\frac{\text{d}r}r\ge
\bigg(2-\frac1{\log\frac\pi{2t}}\bigg)\frac{\text{d}r}r\ge c\frac{\text{d}
r}r,\\[5pt]
r=\sqrt{\frac{s}{n\log\frac\pi{2r}}}\le\sqrt{\frac{s}{n\log\frac\pi{2t}}}
=\sqrt{\frac{s}{n(\frac14\log n+\log\frac\pi2)}}\le\sqrt{\frac{4s}{n\log\frac
{\pi n}2}}.
\end{gather}
Therefore,
\begin{align}
\int_0^t\frac{\text{d}r}r~r^de^{-nr^2\log\frac\pi{2r}}\le\frac{4^{d/2}}{c
(n\log\frac{\pi n}2)^{d/2}}\int_0^{nt^2\log\frac\pi{2t}}
\frac{\text{d}s}s~s^{d/2}e^{-s}\le\frac{4^{d/2}\Gamma(\frac{d}2)}
{c(n\log\frac{\pi n}2)^{d/2}},
\end{align}
as required.
\QED
\section{Analysis for the two-point function}\label{s:2pt}
In this section, we use the lace expansion \refeq{lace-intro} to prove
Theorem~\ref{theorem:main}. First, in Section~\ref{ss:basic}, we summarize
some known facts, including the precise statement of the lace expansion for the
two-point function. Then, in Section~\ref{ss:xIRbd}, we prove the infrared
bound \refeq{IRbd} by using convolution bounds on power functions with log
corrections (Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}) and bounds on the lace-expansion
coefficients (Lemma~\ref{lemma:diagbds}). The proofs of those two lemmas
follow, in Sections~\ref{ss:convbds}--\ref{ss:diagbds}, respectively. Finally, in
Section~\ref{ss:asymptotics}, we prove the asymptotic behavior \refeq{main}
and complete the proof of Theorem~\ref{theorem:main}.
\subsection{List of known facts}\label{ss:basic}
The following four propositions hold independently of the value of $\alpha>0$.
\begin{proposition}[Lemma~2.2 of \cite{csIV}]\label{proposition:Gcont}
For every $x\in\Zd$, $G_p(x)$ is nondecreasing and continuous in $p<\pc$ for
SAW, and in $p\le\pc$ for percolation and the Ising model. The continuity up
to $p=\pc$ for SAW is also valid if $G_p(x)$ is uniformly bounded in $p<\pc$.
\end{proposition}
\begin{proposition}[Lemma~2.3 of \cite{csIV}]\label{proposition:RWbds}
For every $p<\pc$ and $x\in\Zd$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{RWbds}
G_p(x)&\le S_p(x),&&
pD(x)\le G_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}\le(pD*G_p)(x).
\end{align}
\end{proposition}
\begin{proposition}[Lemma~2.4 of \cite{csIV}]\label{proposition:subpcbd}
For every $p<\pc$, there is a $K_p=K_p(\alpha,d,L)<\infty$ such that,
for any $x\in\Zd$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{subpcbd}
G_p(x)\le K_p\veee{x}_L^{-d-\alpha}.
\end{align}
\end{proposition}
\begin{proposition}[\cite{bs85} for SAW; \cite{hs90p} for percolation;
\cite{s07} for the Ising model]\label{proposition:lace-exp}
There are model-dependent nonnegative functions on $\Zd$,
$\{\pi_p^{\sss(n)}\}_{n=0}^\infty$ ($\pi_p^{\sss(0)}\equiv0$ for SAW) and
$\{R_p^{\sss(n)}\}_{n=1}^\infty$, such that, for every integer $n\ge0$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{lace-precise}
G_p=
\begin{cases}
\delta+(pD_{\ne}+\pi_p^{\sss(\le n)})*G_p+(-1)^{n+1}R_p^{\sss(n+1)}
&[\text{SAW}],\\[5pt]
\pi_p^{\sss(\le n)}+\pi_p^{\sss(\le n)}*pD_{\ne}*G_p+(-1)^{n+1}R_p^{\sss(n+1)}
\quad&[\text{percolation \& Ising}],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
where the spatial variables are omitted (e.g., $G_p$ for $G_p(x)$,
$\delta$ for $\delta_{o,x}$) and\footnote{The recursion equation
\cite[(1.11)]{csIV} is correct for percolation and the Ising model,
but not quite for SAW, as long as $D(o)>0$. To deal with such $D$,
the definition \cite[(1.13)]{csIV} of $\varPi_p$ needs slight modification.
See \refeq{Pidef-SAW} below.}
\begin{align}\lbeq{pilen}
D_{\ne}=D-D(o)\delta,&&
\pi_p^{\sss(\le n)}=\sum_{j=0}^n(-1)^j\pi_p^{\sss(j)}.
\end{align}
Moreover, the remainder term obeys the following bound:
\begin{align}\lbeq{errorbds}
R_p^{\sss(n+1)}\le
\begin{cases}
\pi_p^{\sss(n+1)}*G_p&[\text{SAW}],\\[5pt]
\pi_p^{\sss(n)}*pD*G_p\quad&[\text{percolation \& Ising}].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
\end{proposition}
Before proceeding to the next subsection, we derive the unified expression
\refeq{lace-intro} from \refeq{lace-precise}. To do so, we first assume
$p<\pc$ and $\sum_j\|\pi_p^{\sss(j)}\|_1<\infty$, which has been verified for
$\alpha\ne2$, $d>\dc$ and $L\gg1$ in \cite{csIV} and is verified in the next
subsection for $\alpha=2$, $d\ge\dc$ and $L\gg1$. Then, by \refeq{errorbds},
we can take the $n\to\infty$ limit to obtain
\begin{align}\lbeq{lace-precise-limit}
G_p=
\begin{cases}
\delta+(pD_{\ne}+\pi_p)*G_p\quad&[\text{SAW}],\\
\pi_p+\pi_p*pD_{\ne}*G_p&[\text{percolation \& Ising}],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
where $\pi_p=\lim_{n\to\infty}\pi_p^{\sss(\le n)}$. For percolation and the
Ising model, if $pD(o)\|\pi_p\|_1<1$ (also verified for $\alpha\ne2$, $d>\dc$
and $L\gg1$ in \cite{csIV}, and for $\alpha=2$, $d\ge\dc$ and $L\gg1$ in the
next subsection), then
\begin{eqnarray}
G_p&=&\pi_p+\pi_p*pD*G_p-pD(o)\pi_p*\underbrace{G_p}_\text{replace}\nn\\
&=&\pi_p+\pi_p*pD*G_p-pD(o)\pi_p*\Big(\pi_p+\pi_p*pD*G_p-pD(o)\pi_p*G_p\Big)
\nn\\
&=&\big(\pi_p-pD(o)\pi_p^{*2}\big)+\big(\pi_p-pD(o)\pi_p^{*2}\big)*pD*G_p+\big(
-pD(o)\big)^2\pi_p^{*2}*\underbrace{G_p}_\text{replace}\nn\\
&=&\big(\pi_p-pD(o)\pi_p^{*2}\big)+\big(\pi_p-pD(o)\pi_p^{*2}\big)*pD*G_p\nn\\
&&+\big(-pD(o)\big)^2\pi_p^{*2}*\Big(\pi_p+\pi_p*pD*G_p-pD(o)\pi_p*G_p\Big)\nn\\
&\vdots&\nn\\
&=&\varPi_p+\varPi_p*pD*G_p,
\end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{align}\lbeq{Pidef-perc&Ising}
\varPi_p=\pi_p+\sum_{n=1}^\infty\big(-pD(o)\big)^n\pi_p^{*(n+1)}.
\end{align}
For SAW, if $pD(o)+\|\pi_p\|_1<1$ (also verified for $\alpha\ne2$, $d>\dc$ and
$L\gg1$ in \cite{csIV}, and for $\alpha=2$, $d\ge\dc$ and $L\gg1$ in the next
subsection), then
\begin{eqnarray}
G_p&=&\delta+pD*G_p+\big(-pD(o)\delta+\pi_p\big)*\underbrace{G_p}_\text{replace}
\nn\\
&=&\delta+pD*G_p+\big(-pD(o)\delta+\pi_p\big)*\Big(\delta+pD*G_p+\big(-pD(o)
\delta+\pi_p\big)*G_p\Big)\nn\\
&=&\Big(\delta+\big(-pD(o)\delta+\pi_p\big)\Big)+\Big(\delta+\big(-pD(o)\delta
+\pi_p\big)\Big)*pD*G_p\nn\\
&&+\big(-pD(o)\delta+\pi_p\big)^{*2}*\underbrace{G_p}_\text{replace}\nn\\
&\vdots&\nn\\
&=&\varPi_p+\varPi_p*pD*G_p,
\end{eqnarray}
where
\begin{align}\lbeq{Pidef-SAW}
\varPi_p=\delta+\sum_{n=1}^\infty\big(-pD(o)\delta+\pi_p\big)^{*n}.
\end{align}
\subsection{Proof of the infrared bound \refeq{IRbd}}\label{ss:xIRbd}
Let $\alpha=2$, $d\ge\dc$ and
\begin{align}\lbeq{lambda}
\lambda=\sup_{x\ne o}\frac{S_1(x)}{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}
=O(L^{-2}).
\end{align}
Define
\begin{align}\lbeq{g-def}
g_p=p\vee\sup_{x\ne o}\frac{G_p(x)}{\lambda\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}
L}_1}.
\end{align}
We will show that $g_p$ satisfies the following three properties:
\begin{enumerate}[(i)]
\item
$g_p$ is continuous (and nondecreasing) in $p\in[1,\pc)$.
\item
$g_1\le1$.
\item
If $\lambda\ll1$ (i.e., $L\gg1$), then $g_p\le3$ implies $g_p\le2$ for every
$p\in(1,\pc)$.
\end{enumerate}
Notice that the above properties readily imply
$G_p(x)\le2\lambda\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1$ for all $x\ne o$ and
$p<\pc~(\le2)$. By Proposition~\ref{proposition:Gcont}, we can extend this
bound up to $\pc$, which completes the proof of \refeq{IRbd}.
It remains to prove the properties (i)--(iii).
\paragraph{\it Proof of (i).}
It suffices to show that
$\sup_{x\ne o}G_p(x)/\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1$ is continuous in
$p\in[1,p_0]$ for every fixed $p_0\in(1,\pc)$. First, by the monotonicity of
$G_p(x)$ in $p\le p_0$ and using Proposition~\ref{proposition:subpcbd}, we have
\begin{align}
\frac{G_p(x)}{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\le\frac{G_{p_0}(x)}
{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\le\frac{K_{p_0}\veee{x}_L^{-d-2}}
{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}=\frac{K_{p_0}}{\veee{x}_L^4/\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
On the other hand, for any $x_0\ne o$ with $D(x_0)>0$, there is an
$R=R(p_0,x_0)<\infty$ such that, for all $|x|\ge R$,
\begin{align}
\frac{K_{p_0}}{\veee{x}_L^4/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\le\frac{D(x_0)}
{\veee{x_0}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x_0}L}_1}.
\end{align}
Moreover, by using $p\ge1$ and the lower bound of the second inequality
in \refeq{RWbds}, we have
\begin{align}
D(x_0)\le pD(x_0)\le G_p(x_0).
\end{align}
As a result, for any $p\in[1,p_0]$, we obtain
\begin{align}
\sup_{x\ne o}\frac{G_p(x)}{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}
=\frac{G_p(x_0)}{\veee{x_0}_L^{2-d}\log\veee{\frac{x_0}L}_1}\vee\max_{x:
0<|x|<R}\frac{G_p(x)}{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
Since $G_p(x)$ is continuous in $p$ (cf., Proposition~\ref{proposition:Gcont}) and the
maximum of finitely many continuous functions is continuous, we can conclude
that $g_p$ is continuous in $p\in[1,p_0]$, as required.
\QED
\paragraph{\it Proof of (ii).}
By Proposition~\ref{proposition:RWbds} and the definition \refeq{lambda} of $\lambda$, we readily
obtain
\begin{align}
g_1=1\vee\sup_{x\ne o}\frac{G_1(x)}{\lambda\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}
L}_1}\le1\vee\sup_{x\ne o}\frac{S_1(x)}{\lambda\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\le1,
\end{align}
as required.
\QED
\paragraph{\it Proof of (iii).}
This is the most involved part among (i)--(iii), and here we use the lace
expansion. To evaluate the lace-expansion coefficients, we use the following
bounds on convolutions of power functions with log corrections, whose proof is
deferred to Section~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}.
\begin{lemma}\label{lemma:conv-bds}
For $a_1\ge b_1>0$ with $a_1+b_1\ge d$, and for $a_2,b_2\ge0$ with
$a_2\ge b_2$ when $a_1=b_1$, there is an $L$-independent constant
$C=C(d,a_1,a_2,b_1,b_2)<\infty$ such that
\begin{align}\lbeq{conv1}
&\sum_{y\in\Zd}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\\
&\le\frac{C\,\veee{x}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{b_2}}\times
\begin{cases}
L^{d-a_1}&[a_1>d],\\
\log\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1&[a_1=d,~a_2=1],\\
(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{0\vee(1-a_2)}&[a_1=d,~a_2\ne1],\\
\veee{x}_L^{d-a_1}&[a_1<d,~a_1+b_1>d],\\
\veee{x}_L^{b_1}(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{0\vee(1-a_2)}&[a_1<d,~a_1+b_1=d,
~a_2+b_2>1].
\end{cases}\nn
\end{align}
\end{lemma}
Assuming $g_p\le3$ and Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}, we prove in
Section~\ref{ss:diagbds} the following bounds on the lace-expansion
coefficients $\{\pi_p^{\sss(n)}\}_{n=0}^\infty$ (recall that
$\pi_p^{\sss(0)}\equiv0$ for SAW) in \refeq{lace-precise}.
\begin{figure}
\begin{align*}
{}_{\raisebox{-2pc}{$o$}}\!\!\!\raisebox{-3pc}{\includegraphics[scale=.4]
{sawIsing}}\!\!\!{}_{\raisebox{-2pc}{$x$}}
&&&&
o\raisebox{-2.5pc}{\includegraphics[scale=.4]{perc}}x
\end{align*}
\caption{\label{fig:ell}
Examples of the lace-expansion diagrams for SAW and the Ising model (left) and
percolation (right). The factor $\ell$ in \refeq{elldef} is the number of
disjoint paths (in red) from $o$ to $x$ using different sets of line segments.}
\end{figure}
\begin{lemma}\label{lemma:diagbds}
Let (cf., \refeq{dcdef} for the definition of $m$)
\begin{align}\lbeq{elldef}
\ell=\frac{m+1}{m-1}=
\begin{cases}
3\quad&[\text{SAW \& Ising}],\\
2&[\text{percolation}].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
Suppose $g_p\le3$ and $p<\pc$.
Under the same condition as in Theorem~\ref{theorem:main},
we have
\begin{align}\lbeq{D*G-bd}
(pD*G_p)(x)\le O(\lambda)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}
\qquad[x\in\Zd].
\end{align}
Moreover, for SAW,
\begin{align}\lbeq{pijbds-SAW}
\pi_p^{\sss(j)}(x)\le
\begin{cases}
O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}&[j=1],\\[5pt]
\dpst O(\lambda)^{j+1}\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}
L}_1)^3}\quad&[j\ge2],
\end{cases}
\end{align}
and for the Ising model and percolation,
\begin{align}\lbeq{pijbds-Ising&perc}
\pi_p^{\sss(j)}(x)\le
\begin{cases}
\dpst O(L^{-d})^j\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda)^2\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}
{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}\quad&[j=0,1],\\[1pc]
\dpst O(\lambda)^j\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}
&[j\ge2].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
\end{lemma}
Consequently, we have $\sum_j\|\pi_p^{\sss(j)}\|_1<\infty$ for $d\ge\dc$ and
$L\gg1$. Then, by using \refeq{errorbds} for $p<\pc$, we obtain
$\lim_{n\to\infty}\|R_p^{\sss(n)}\|_1=0$ and \refeq{lace-precise-limit} with
\begin{align}\lbeq{smallpibds}
|\pi_p(x)|\le
\begin{cases}
\dpst O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^3)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3}&[\text{SAW}],\\[1pc]
\dpst\big(1+O(L^{-d})\big)\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^2)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell
(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}&[\text{Ising \& percolation}].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
This implies that, for SAW (cf., \refeq{Pidef-SAW}),
\begin{align}\lbeq{Pidef-SAW-factor}
\underbrace{pD(o)}_{O(L^{-d})}\delta_{o,x}+|\pi_p(x)|\le O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}
+O(\lambda^3)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3},
\end{align}
hence $pD(o)+\|\pi_p\|_1<1$ for $d\ge\dc$ and $L\gg1$. Also, for the Ising
model and percolation (cf., \refeq{Pidef-perc&Ising}), since
$L^{-d}=O(\lambda)$ for $d\ge2$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{Pidef-perc&Ising-factor}
pD(o)|\pi_p(x)|\le O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^3)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2
-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell},
\end{align}
hence $pD(o)\|\pi_p\|_1<1$ for $d\ge\dc$ and $L\gg1$. We note that,
for all three models,
\begin{align}\lbeq{ell2-d}
\ell(2-d)=-d-2-(\ell-1)(d-\dc).
\end{align}
By repeated applications of \refeq{Pidef-SAW-factor} and
Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}, $\varPi_p(x)$ for SAW obeys the bound
\begin{align}\lbeq{varPi-bd-SAW}
&|\varPi_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}|\le\sum_{n=1}^\infty\big(pD(o)\delta+|\pi_p|\big)^{*
n}(x)\nn\\
&\le\underbrace{\sum_{n=1}^\infty O(L^{-d})^n}_{O(L^{-d})}\delta_{o,x}
+\sum_{n=1}^\infty\sum_{j=1}^n\binom{n}jO(L^{-d})^{n-j}O(\lambda^3)^j
\underbrace{\frac{O(L^{-2-2(d-4)})^{j-1}\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3}}_{\because\,\text{Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}}}\nn\\
&\le O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^3)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3}\underbrace{\sum_{n=1}^\infty n\Big(O(L^{-d})
+\underbrace{O(\lambda^3L^{-2-2(d-4)})}_{O(L^{-2d})}\Big)^{n-1}}_{O(1)}.
\end{align}
Similarly, by repeated applications of \refeq{smallpibds},
\refeq{Pidef-perc&Ising-factor} and Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds},
$\varPi_p(x)$ for the Ising model and percolation obeys the bound
\begin{align}\lbeq{varPi-bd-perc&Ising}
|\varPi_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}|&\le|\pi_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}|+\bigg(|\pi_p|*
\underbrace{\sum_{n=1}^\infty\big(pD(o)|\pi_p|\big)^{*n}}_{\le
\text{ RHS of \refeq{varPi-bd-SAW}}}\bigg)(x)\nn\\
&\le O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^2)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3}.
\end{align}
By weakening the $O(\lambda^3)$ term in the right-most expression of
\refeq{varPi-bd-SAW} to $O(\lambda^2)$, $\varPi_p(x)$ for all three models
enjoys the unified bound
\begin{align}\lbeq{varPi-bd}
|\varPi_p(x)-\delta_{o,x}|&\le O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}+O(\lambda^2)\frac{
\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}.
\end{align}
As a result,
\begin{align}\lbeq{hatPi(0)bd}
|\hat\varPi_p(0)-1|\le O(L^{-d})+O(\lambda^2)\underbrace{\sum_x
\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}}_{O(L^{-2-(\ell-1)
(d-\dc)})}=O(L^{-d}),
\end{align}
and
\begin{align}\lbeq{hatPidiffbd}
|\hat\varPi_p(0)-\hat\varPi_p(k)|\le O(\lambda^2)|k|^2\underbrace{\sum_x|x|^2
\frac{\veee{x}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^\ell}}_{O(L^{-(\ell-1)
(d-\dc)})}\le O(\lambda^2)|k|^2.
\end{align}
Now we are back to the proof of (iii). First, by summing both sides of
\refeq{lace-intro} over $x$ and solve the resulting equation for $\chi_p$,
we have\begin{align}\lbeq{lace-again}
\chi_p=\hat\varPi_p(0)+\hat\varPi_p(0)p\chi_p=\frac{\hat\varPi_p(0)}{1-p\hat
\varPi_p(0)}.
\end{align}
Since $\chi_p<\infty$ (because $p<\pc$) and $\hat\varPi_p(0)=1+O(L^{-d})>0$
for large $L$, we obtain
\begin{align}
p\hat\varPi_p(0)\in(0,1),
\end{align}
which implies $p<\hat\varPi_p(0)^{-1}=1+O(L^{-d})\le2$, as required.
Next, we investigate $G_p(x)$. By repeated applications of \refeq{lace-intro}
for $N$ times, we have
\begin{eqnarray}
G_p(x)&=&\varPi_p(x)+(\varPi_p*pD*G_p)(x)\nn\\
&=&\varPi_p(x)+(\varPi_p*pD*\varPi_p)(x)+\big((\varPi_p*pD)^{*2}*G_p\big)(x)
\nn\\
&\vdots&\nn\\
&=&\bigg(\varPi_p*\sum_{n=0}^{N-1}(pD*\varPi_p)^{*n}\bigg)(x)+\big((\varPi_p*
pD)^{*N}*G_p\big)(x).
\end{eqnarray}
Notice that, by \refeq{ell2-d}, \refeq{varPi-bd} and
Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}, there are finite constants $C,C',C''$ such that
\begin{align}\lbeq{+ity}
(\varPi_p*D)(x)&\ge(1-CL^{-d})D(x)-C'\lambda^2\sum_y\frac{\veee{y}_L^{\ell(2
-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^\ell}D(x-y)\nn\\
&\ge(1-CL^{-d}-C''\lambda^3)D(x),
\end{align}
which is positive for all $x$, if $L$ is large enough (see
Remark~\ref{remark:new1step} below). Therefore,
\begin{align}\lbeq{new1step}
\cD(x)=\frac{(\varPi_p*D)(x)}{\hat\varPi_p(0)}
\end{align}
is a probability distribution that satisfies
Assumptions~\ref{assumption:hatD}--\ref{assumption:D} (see computations
below). By this observation, we can take the limit
\begin{align}
0\le\big((\varPi_p*pD)^{*N}*G_p\big)(x)=\big(\underbrace{p\hat\varPi_p(0)}_{\in
(0,1)}\big)^N\underbrace{(\cD^{*N}*G_p)(x)}_{\le\chi_p}\xrightarrow[N\to\infty]{}0,
\end{align}
so that
\begin{align}\lbeq{newID}
G_p(x)=\bigg(\varPi_p*\sum_{n=0}^\infty\big(p\hat\varPi_p(0)\big)^n\cD^{*n}
\bigg)(x)=(\varPi_p*\cS_{p\hat\varPi_p(0)})(x),
\end{align}
where $\cS_q$ is the random-walk Green function generated by the 1-step
distribution $\cD$ with fugacity $q\in[0,1]$, for which \refeq{Squbd} holds.
By \refeq{varPi-bd} and Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}, we obtain that,
for $x\ne o$,
\begin{align}
G_p(x)&\le\big(1+O(L^{-d})\big)\cS_1(x)+\underbrace{\sum_{y(\ne o)}\frac{O
(\lambda^2)\veee{y}_L^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^\ell}\bigg(
\delta_{y,x}+\frac{O(\lambda)\veee{x-y}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1}
\bigg)}_{O(\lambda^4)\veee{x}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
Suppose $\cS_1(x)\le(1+O(\lambda^3))S_1(x)$ holds for all $x$.
Then, for $x\ne o$,
\begin{align}
G_p(x)&\le\big(1+O(\lambda^3)\big)S_1(x)+O(\lambda^4)\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}
{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}~\stackrel{L\gg1}\le~2\lambda\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}
{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1},
\end{align}
as required.
It remains to show $\cS_1(x)\le(1+O(\lambda^3))S_1(x)$ for all $x$. This is
not so hard to verify, as explained now. First, by \refeq{+ity} and its opposite
inequality with all negative signs replaced by positive signs,
\begin{align}
\bigg|\frac{\cD(x)}{D(x)}-1\bigg|=O(\lambda^3).
\end{align}
Also, by \refeq{hatPi(0)bd}--\refeq{hatPidiffbd} and \refeq{1-hatDbd2},
\begin{align}
\frac{1-\hat\cD(k)}{1-\hat D(k)}\stackrel{\refeq{new1step}}
=1+\underbrace{\frac{\hat D(k)}{\hat\varPi_p(0)}}_{1+O(L^{-d})}
\underbrace{\frac{\hat\varPi_p(0)-\hat\varPi_p(k)}{1-\hat D(k)}}_{O(\lambda^3)}
=1+O(\lambda^3).
\end{align}
Similarly,
\begin{align}\lbeq{v2again}
\frac{1-\hat\cD(k)}{|k|^2\log(1/|k|)}=\underbrace{\frac{1-\hat D(k)}{|k|^2\log(1
/|k|)}}_{\to v_2,~\because\,\refeq{vdef}}+\underbrace{\frac{\hat D(k)}{\hat
\varPi_p(0)}\frac{\hat\varPi_p(0)-\hat\varPi_p(k)}{|k|^2\log(1/|k|)}}_{\to0,~
\because\,\refeq{hatPidiffbd}}~\xrightarrow[|k|\to0]{}v_2.
\end{align}
Therefore, for $L$ large enough, $\cD$ satisfies all
\refeq{1-hatDbd1}--\refeq{Dnsupbd} with the same constants as $D$ (modulo
$O(\lambda^3)$ terms). Similar analysis can be applied to show that $\cD$
also satisfies \refeq{Dnxbd} with the same constant as $D$. As a result,
we can get $\cS_1(x)\le(1+O(\lambda^3))S_1(x)$ for all $x$.
This completes the proof of (iii), hence the proof of the infrared bound
\refeq{IRbd}.
\QED
\begin{remark}\label{remark:new1step}
{\rm
The above proof works as long as $\alpha\le2+(\ell-1)(d-\dc)$ (cf.,
\refeq{+ity}), then we can define the probability distribution \refeq{new1step}
by taking $L$ sufficiently large.
For short-range models investigated in \cite{h08,hhs03,s07}, on the other hand,
since $\alpha$ is regarded as an arbitrarily large number, there is no way for
\refeq{+ity} to be nonnegative for every $x$. In this case, we may have to
introduce a quite delicate function $E_{p,q,r}(x)$ as in \cite{csIV,hhs03} that
is required to satisfy some symmetry conditions. Since we do not need such
a function for all $\alpha\le2$ and $d\ge\dc$, the analysis explained in this
subsection is much easier and more transparent than the previous one in
\cite{csIV,hhs03}. This is also related to the reason why the multiplicative
constant $A$ in the asymptotic expression \refeq{previous} becomes 1 for
$\alpha\le2$.
}
\end{remark}
\subsection{Convolution bounds on power functions with log corrections}
\label{ss:convbds}
In this subsection, we prove Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}. First, we rewrite
the sum in \refeq{conv1} as
\begin{align}
\sum_{y\in\Zd}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}
&=\sum_{y:|x-y|\le|y|}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}
L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\nn\\
&\quad+\sum_{y:|x-y|>|y|}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}
L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\nn\\
&=\sum_{y:|x-y|\le|y|}\bigg(\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}
L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\nn\\
&\hskip5pc+\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{b_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\bigg).
\end{align}
Notice that the ratio of the second term to the first term in the parentheses,
which is
\begin{align}
\frac{\dpst\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{b_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{a_2}}}{\dpst\frac{\veee{x
-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}}
=\bigg(\frac{\veee{x-y}_L}{\veee{y}_L}\bigg)^{a_1-b_1}\bigg(
\frac{\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1}{\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1}\bigg)^{a_2-b_2},
\end{align}
is bounded above by an $L$-independent constant $C\in[1,\infty)$ as long as
$a_1>b_1$, or $a_1=b_1$ and $a_2\ge b_2$. Therefore,
\begin{align}\lbeq{conv1-pr1}
\sum_{y\in\Zd}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}
\le2C\sum_{y:|x-y|\le|y|}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}
L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}.
\end{align}
Now we consider the following cases separately: (a) $a_1>d$, (b) $a_1=d$,
(c) $a_1<d$ and $a_1+b_1\ge d$.
\begin{enumerate}[(a)]
\item
Let $a_1>d$. Since $|x-y|\le|y|$ implies $|y|\ge\frac12|x|$, and since
\begin{align}\lbeq{veee-lbd}
\veee{\tfrac{x}2}_L\ge\frac12\veee{x}_L,&&
\log\veee{\tfrac{x}{2L}}_1\ge\frac{\log\frac\pi2}{\log\pi}\log\veee{\tfrac{x}
L}_1,
\end{align}
we obtain
\begin{align}
\sum_{y:|x-y|\le|y|}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}
\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\le\frac{O(1)
\veee{x}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{b_2}}\underbrace{\sum_{y\in\Zd}
\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}}_{O(L^{d-a_1})}.
\end{align}
\item
Let $a_1=d$. First we split the sum as
\begin{align}\lbeq{conv1-pr2}
\sum_{y:|x-y|\le|y|}=\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|\le\frac32|x|)}}
+\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|>\frac32|x|)}}.
\end{align}
For the first sum, since $|x-y|\le|y|$ implies $|y|\ge\frac12|x|$ (so that
\refeq{veee-lbd} holds), and since
\begin{align}\lbeq{veee-loglog}
\log\veee{\tfrac{3x}{2L}}_1\le\frac{\log\frac{3\pi}4}{\log\frac\pi2}\log
\veee{\tfrac{x}L}_1,\hskip3pc
\log\log\veee{\tfrac{3x}{2L}}_1\le\frac{\log\log\frac{3\pi}4}{\log\log
\frac\pi2}\log\log\veee{\tfrac{x}L}_1,
\end{align}
we obtain
\begin{align}\lbeq{conv1-pr3}
\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|\le\frac32|x|)}}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-d}}
{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}
L}_1)^{b_2}}&\le\frac{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{b_2}}
\sum_{y:|x-y|\le\frac32|x|}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-d}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}
L}_1)^{a_2}}\nn\\
\le\frac{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{b_2}}&\times
\begin{cases}
1&[a_2>1],\\
\log\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1&[a_2=1],\\
(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{1-a_2}&[a_2<1].
\end{cases}
\end{align}
For the second sum in \refeq{conv1-pr2}, since $|y|>\frac32|x|$ implies
$|x-y|\ge\frac13|y|$, and since
\begin{align}\lbeq{veee-lbd2}
\veee{\tfrac{y}3}_L\ge\frac13\veee{y}_L,&&
\log\veee{\tfrac{y}{3L}}_1\ge\frac{\log\frac\pi2}{\log\frac{3\pi}2}\log
\veee{\tfrac{y}L}_1,
\end{align}
we obtain
\begin{align}
\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|>\frac32|x|)}}\frac{\veee{x
-y}_L^{-d}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{b_2}}\le\frac{O(1)}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{a_2+b_2}}
\underbrace{\sum_{y:|y|>\frac32|x|}\veee{y}_L^{-d-b_1}}_{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{-
b_1}},
\end{align}
which is smaller than \refeq{conv1-pr3}.
\item
Let $a_1<d$ and $a_1+b_1\ge d$. Similarly to the case (b), we split the sum as
in \refeq{conv1-pr2} and evaluate each sum by using \refeq{veee-lbd} and
\refeq{veee-lbd2}. Then, by discarding the log-dumping term
$(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{-a_2}$, the first sum
in \refeq{conv1-pr2} is bounded as
\begin{gather}\lbeq{conv1-pr4}
\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|\le\frac32|x|)}}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}
{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}
L}_1)^{b_2}}\le\frac{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{b_2}}
\underbrace{\sum_{y:|x-y|\le\frac32|x|}\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}_{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{d
-a_1}}
\end{gather}
while the second sum in \refeq{conv1-pr2} is bounded as
\begin{gather}
\sum_{\substack{y:|x-y|\le|y|\\ (|y|>\frac32|x|)}}\frac{\veee{x-y}_L^{-a_1}}
{(\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1)^{a_2}}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}
L}_1)^{b_2}}\stackrel{\because\,|x-y|\ge\frac13|y|}\le O(1)\sum_{y:|y|>\frac32
|x|}\frac{\veee{y}_L^{-a_1-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^{a_2+b_2}}\nn\\
\le\frac{O(1)\veee{x}_L^{d-a_1-b_1}}{(\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^{a_2+b_2}}\times
\begin{cases}
1&[a_1+b_1>d],\\
\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1&[a_1+b_1=d,~a_2+b_2>1],
\end{cases}
\end{gather}
which is smaller (resp., larger) than \refeq{conv1-pr4} if $a_2>1$ (resp.,
$a_2<1$). This completes the proof of Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds}.
\QED
\end{enumerate}
\subsection{Bounds on the lace-expansion coefficients}\label{ss:diagbds}
In this subsection, we prove Lemma~\ref{lemma:diagbds}. Suppose that $g_p\le3$
and
$p<\pc$. Since $G_p(y)=\delta_{o,y}+G_p(y)\ind{y\ne o}$ for all three models,
we have
\begin{align}\lbeq{D*Gbd1}
(D*G_p)(x)=D(x)+\sum_{y\ne o}D(x-y)\,G_p(y).
\end{align}
The first term is easy, because
\begin{align}
D(x)=\frac{O(L^2)}{\veee{x}_L^{d+2}}=O(\lambda)\frac{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}
{\veee{\frac{x}L}_1^4}\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}\le O(\lambda)
\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
For the second term in \refeq{D*Gbd1}, we use $g_p\le3$ and
Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds} as
\begin{align}
\sum_{y\ne o}D(x-y)\,G_p(y)\le\sum_{y\in\Zd}\frac{O(L^2)}{\veee{x-y}_L^{d
+2}}\frac{3\lambda\veee{y}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1}\le O(\lambda)
\frac{\veee{x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
This completes the proof of \refeq{D*G-bd}.
To prove \refeq{pijbds-SAW}--\refeq{pijbds-Ising&perc}, we repeatedly apply
Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds} to the diagrammatic bounds on $\pi_p(x)$ in
\cite{hhs03,s07}. For example, the lace-expansion diagram in
Figure~\ref{fig:ell} for SAW and the Ising model can be bounded as follows.
Suppose for now that each line segment, say, from $x$ to $y$, represents
$3\lambda\veee{x-y}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{x-y}L}_1$, i.e., the assumed
bound on the nonzero two-point function. Then, by using
Lemma~\ref{lemma:conv-bds} (to perform the sum over $w$), we can show
that, for $d\ge4$,
\begin{align}
\raisebox{-1.9pc}{\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{sawIsing1}}~~\le4^{d-1}
\bigg(3\lambda\frac{\log\pi}{\log\frac\pi2}\bigg)^2C~~\raisebox{-1.9pc}
{\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{sawIsing2}}~,
\end{align}
where the indicies in the parentheses are summed over $\Zd$. This is due to
the following computation: for $d\ge4$,
\begin{align}
&\sum_w\frac{3\lambda\veee{y-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y-w}L}_1}\frac{3
\lambda\veee{z-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{z-w}L}_1}\bigg(\frac{3\lambda
\veee{w-x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{w-x}L}_1}\bigg)^2\nn\\
&\qquad\times\Big(\ind{|y-w|\le|w-x|}+\ind{|y-w|\ge|w-x|}\Big)\Big(\ind{|z-w|
\le|w-x|}+\ind{|z-w|\ge|w-x|}\Big)\nn\\
&\le\sum_w\frac{3\lambda\veee{y-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y-w}L}_1}\frac{3
\lambda\veee{z-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{z-w}L}_1}\bigg(\frac{3\lambda
\veee{w-x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{w-x}L}_1}\bigg)^2\underbrace{\ind{|y-w|\le
|w-x|}}_{\Rightarrow|w-x|\ge\frac12|y-x|}~\underbrace{\ind{|z-w|\le|w-x|}}_{
\Rightarrow|w-x|\ge\frac12|z-x|}\nn\\
&\quad+[\text{3 other cases}]\nn\\[5pt]
&\le(3\lambda)^2\frac{3\lambda\veee{\frac{y-x}2}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y-x}
{2L}}_1}\frac{3\lambda\veee{\frac{z-x}2}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{z-x}{2L}}_1}
\bigg(\underbrace{\underbrace{\sum_w\frac{\veee{y-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{
y-w}L}_1}\frac{\veee{z-w}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{z-w}L}_1}}_{\le C\veee{y-
z}_L^{2-d}/\log\veee{\frac{y-z}L}_1}+[\text{3 other cases}]}_{\le4C}\bigg)\nn\\
&\le4^{d-1}\bigg(3\lambda\frac{\log\pi}{\log\frac\pi2}\bigg)^2
C~\frac{3\lambda\veee{y-x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y-x}L}_1}\frac{3\lambda
\veee{z-x}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{z-x}L}_1}.
\end{align}
By repeated application of the above inequality, we will end up with
\begin{align}
\raisebox{-1.9pc}{\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{sawIsing1}}~~&\le\Bigg(4^{d-1}
\bigg(3\lambda\frac{\log\pi}{\log\frac\pi2}\bigg)^2C\Bigg)^5~~\raisebox{-1.8pc}
{\includegraphics[scale=0.3]{sawIsing3}}\nn\\
&\le\underbrace{\Bigg(4^{d-1}\bigg(3\lambda\frac{\log\pi}{\log\frac\pi2}\bigg)^2
C\Bigg)^5(3\lambda)^3}_{O(\lambda)^{13}}\frac{\veee{x}_L^{3(2-d)}}{(\log
\veee{\frac{x}L}_1)^3},
\end{align}
which is smaller than \refeq{pijbds-SAW}--\refeq{pijbds-Ising&perc}, by a
factor $O(\lambda)^5$ for SAW, in particular. This is because, in fact, not
every line segment is nonzero. The situation for the Ising model and
percolation is harder, because most of the line segments can be zero-length,
which do not have small factors of $\lambda$. However, the convolution
$pD*G_p$ shows up repeatedly, which has a small factor of $\lambda$, as
in \refeq{D*G-bd}. This also provides a bound on the main contribution from
$\pi_p^{\sss(1)}(x)$, as
\begin{align}
(pD*G_p)(o)\delta_{o,x}\le3\bigg(D(o)+\sum_{y\ne o}\frac{O(L^2)}{\veee{y}_L^{d
+2}}\frac{3\lambda\veee{y}_L^{2-d}}{\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1}\bigg)\delta_{o,x}
=O(L^{-d})\delta_{o,x}.
\end{align}
This completes the sketch proof of Lemma~\ref{lemma:diagbds}.
\QED
\subsection{Proof of the asymptotic behavior \refeq{main}}
\label{ss:asymptotics}
First we recall \refeq{newID}. Since
$\chi_p=\hat\varPi_p(0)/(1-p\hat\varPi_p(0))$ diverges as $p\uparrow\pc$,
while $\hat\varPi_p(0)=1+O(L^{-d})$ uniformly in $p<\pc$, we have
$\pc\hat\varPi_{\pc}(0)=1$. Therefore,
\begin{align}\lbeq{Gpcasy1}
G_{\pc}(x)=\varPi_{\pc}*\cS_1(x)=\underbrace{\hat\Pi_{\pc}(0)}_{1/\pc}\cS_1(x)
+\sum_{y\ne o}\Pi_{\pc}(y)\big(\cS_1(x-y)-\cS_1(x)\big).
\end{align}
The asymptotic expression of $\cS_1(x)$ is the same as that of $S_1(x)$. This
can be shown by following the proof of \refeq{S1asy} and using the limit
\refeq{v2again}.
To investigate the error term in \refeq{Gpcasy1}, we first split the sum as
\begin{align}\lbeq{splitting}
\sum_{y\ne o}~=\sum_{y:0<|y|\le\frac13|x|}+\sum_{y:|x-y|\le\frac13|x|}
+\sum_{y:|y|\wedge|x-y|>\frac13|x|}\equiv~{\sum_y}'+{\sum_y}''+{\sum_y}'''.
\end{align}
For $\sum_y''$, since $|x-y|\le\frac13|x|$ implies $\frac23|x|\le|y|$ (so that
a similar inequality to \refeq{veee-lbd} or \refeq{veee-lbd2} holds), we
have that, for large $|x|$,
\begin{eqnarray}\lbeq{f*g''}
\bigg|{\sum_y}''\varPi_{\pc}(y)\big(\cS_1(x-y)-\cS_1(x)\big)\bigg|
&\stackrel{\refeq{varPi-bd}}\le&\frac{O(\lambda^2)|x|^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log
|x|)^\ell}\underbrace{\sum_{y:|x-y|\le\frac13|x|}\big(\cS_1(x-y)+\cS_1(x)
\big)}_{O(\lambda)|x|^2/\log|x|}\nn\\
&=&O(\lambda^3)\frac{|x|^{-d-(\ell-1)(d-\dc)}}{(\log|x|)^{\ell+1}}.
\end{eqnarray}
Similarly, for $\sum_y'''$ for large $|x|$,
\begin{eqnarray}\lbeq{f*g'''}
\bigg|{\sum_y}'''\varPi_{\pc}(y)\big(\cS_1(x-y)-\cS_1(x)\big)\bigg|
&\stackrel{\refeq{varPi-bd}}\le&\frac{O(\lambda)|x|^{2-d}}{\log|x|}
\underbrace{\sum_{y:|y|>\frac13|x|}\frac{O(\lambda^2)|y|^{\ell(2-d)}}{(\log
|y|)^\ell}}_{O(\lambda^2)|x|^{-2-(\ell-1)(d-\dc)}/(\log|x|)^\ell}\nn\\
&=&O(\lambda^3)\frac{|x|^{-d-(\ell-1)(d-\dc)}}{(\log|x|)^{\ell+1}}.
\end{eqnarray}
It remains to investigate $\sum_y'$. For that, we first use \refeq{S1asy} and
the $\Zd$-symmetry of $\varPi_{\pc}$ to obtain that, for large $|x|$,
\begin{align}\lbeq{sum'}
&\bigg|{\sum_y}'\varPi_{\pc}(y)\big(\cS_1(x-y)-\cS_1(x)\big)\bigg|\nn\\
&\le\underbrace{\frac{\gamma_2}{v_2}}_{O(\lambda)}{\sum_y}'|\varPi_{\pc}(y)|
\bigg|\frac12\bigg(\frac{|x+y|^{2-d}}{\log|x+y|}+\frac{|x-y|^{2-d}}{\log|x-y|}
\bigg)-\frac{|x|^{2-d}}{\log|x|}\bigg|\nn\\
&\quad+\underbrace{\sum_{y:0<|y|\le\frac13|x|}|\varPi_{\pc}(y)|}_{O(\lambda^3)}
\frac{O(\lambda)|x|^{2-d}}{(\log|x|)^{1+\epsilon}}.
\end{align}
Then, by Taylor's theorem,
\begin{align}
|x\pm y|^{2-d}&=|x|^{2-d}\bigg(1\pm2\frac{x\cdot y}{|x|^2}+\frac{O(|y|^2)}
{|x|^2}\bigg)^{(2-d)/2}\nn\\
&=|x|^{2-d}\bigg(1\pm(2-d)\frac{x\cdot y}{|x|^2}+\frac{O(|y|^2)}{|x|^2}\bigg),\\
\log|x\pm y|&=\log|x|+\log\frac{|x\pm y|}{|x|}=\log|x|\pm\frac{x\cdot y}{|x|^2}
+\frac{O(|y|^2)}{|x|^2},
\end{align}
which implies
\begin{align}
\bigg|\frac12\bigg(\frac{|x+y|^{2-d}}{\log|x+y|}+\frac{|x-y|^{2-d}}{\log|x-y|}
\bigg)-\frac{|x|^{2-d}}{\log|x|}\bigg|\le \frac{O(|y|^2)|x|^{-d}}{\log|x|}.
\end{align}
Therefore, the first term on the right-hand side of \refeq{sum'} is bounded by
\begin{align}\lbeq{f*g':|x|>2L}
\frac{O(\lambda)|x|^{-d}}{\log|x|}\underbrace{\sum_{y:0<|y|\le\frac13|x|}\frac{O
(\lambda^2)\veee{y}_L^{-d-(\ell-1)(d-\dc)}}{(\log\veee{\frac{y}L}_1)^\ell}}_{O
(\lambda^2)}=O(\lambda^3)\frac{|x|^{-d}}{\log|x|}.
\end{align}
This completes the proof of Theorem~\ref{theorem:main}.
\QED
\section*{Acknowledgements}
The work of AS was supported by JSPS KAKENHI Grant Number 18K03406.
The work of LCC was supported by the grant MOST 107-2115-M-004 -004 -MY2.
We are grateful to the Institute of Mathematics and Mathematics Research
Promotion Center (MRPC) of Academia Sinica, as well as the National Center
for Theoretical Sciences (NCTS) at National Taiwan University, for providing
us with comfortable working environment in multiple occasions. We would also
like to thank the referees for their comments to improve presentation of this
paper.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 8,089 |
Q: Popup dialog for editing record using Grid.MVC in a ASP.NET MVC3 I am using Grid.MVC available at http://gridmvc.azurewebsites.net/, which provides functionality for displaying the data in grid nicely, where filtering, sorting, paging is nicely done. This is the way the data in Grid looks at the moment.
So far so good. To display the data I am using the following controller and .cshtml
Controller
/// <summary>
/// Brings List Of Customers
/// </summary>
/// <returns></returns>
[HttpGet]
public ActionResult CustomerList()
{
CustomerListViewModel custList = new CustomerListViewModel();
List<CustomerViewModel> custVMList = new List<CustomerViewModel>();
custVMList = custRepository.GetCustomers();
custList.customers = custVMList;
return View(custList);
}
The .cshtml for the same is
@model IEnumerable<DataAccess.Models.CustomerViewModel>
@*Using Twitter Bootstrap API*@
<link href="@Url.Content("~/Content/Gridmvc.css")" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" />
<script src="@Url.Content("~/Scripts/gridmvc.min.js")" type="text/javascript"> </script>
<script src="@Url.Content("~/Scripts/js/bootstrap.min.js")" type="text/javascript"> </script>
<link href="@Url.Content("~/Content/bootstrap/css/bootstrap.min.css")" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" />
<link href="@Url.Content("~/Content/bootstrap/css/bootstrap-responsive.min.css")" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" />
@using GridMvc.Html
@{
ViewBag.Title = "Customers List";
}
@Html.Grid(Model).Columns(columns =>
{
columns.Add(m => m.CustomerName).Titled(" Name ").Sortable(true).SortInitialDirection(GridMvc.Sorting.GridSortDirection.Ascending).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.Address1).Titled("Address1").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.Address2).Titled("Address2").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.City).Titled("City").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.County).Titled("County").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.ContactName).Titled("Contact Name").Sortable(true).Filters.ToString();
columns.Add(m => m.Email).Titled("Email Address").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.ReferenceNumber).Titled("Reference Number").Sortable(true).Filterable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.ModifiedOn).Titled("Modified On").Filterable(true).Sortable(true);
columns.Add(m => m.CustomerId)
.Titled("Edit")
.Sanitized(false)
.Encoded(false)
//.RenderValueAs(o => Html.ActionLink("Edit", "EditCustomer", "Customer", new { CustomerId = o.CustomerId }, new { title = "Please click here to edit the record", @class = "modal-link" }).ToHtmlString());
.RenderValueAs(d => Html.ActionLink("Edit", "EditCustomer", "Customer", new { CustomerId = d.CustomerId }, new { @class = "modal-link" }));
}).WithPaging(4)
<br />
<br />
@Html.ActionLink("Click to Add Customer", "AddCustomer", "Customer", new { @class = "modal-link" })
<!-- Modal -->
<div id="myModal" class="modal hide fade" tabindex="-1" role="dialog" aria-labelledby="myModalLabel"
aria-hidden="true">
<div class="modal-header">
<button type="button" class="close" data-dismiss="modal" aria-hidden="true">
×</button>
<h3 id="myModalLabel">
Edit Customer</h3>
</div>
<div class="modal-body">
<p>
Loading…</p>
</div>
<div class="modal-footer">
<button class="btn btn-primary" data-dismiss="modal" aria-hidden="true">
Close</button>
</div>
</div>
<script type="text/javascript">
//this script reset modal each time when you click on the link:
$(function () {
$(".modal-link").click(function (event) {
event.preventDefault();
$('#myModal').removeData("modal");
$('#myModal').modal({ remote: $(this).attr("href") });
});
})
</script>
When I click on Edit button, the complete record loads in the Popup window like below. By the way this is using Twitter Bootstrap styles.
So far so good.
The controller and .cshtml are
/// <summary>
/// Brings a Specific Customer
/// </summary>
/// <param name="CustomerId"></param>
/// <returns></returns>
[HttpGet]
public ActionResult EditCustomer(Guid CustomerId)
{
CustomerViewModel cusVM = custRepository.GetCustomer(CustomerId);
return View(cusVM);
}
/// <summary>
/// Editing Customer
/// </summary>
/// <param name="cusVM"></param>
/// <returns></returns>
[HttpPost]
public ActionResult EditCustomer(CustomerViewModel cusVM)
{
if (ModelState.IsValid)
{
custRepository.EditCustomer(cusVM);
return RedirectToAction("CustomerList", "Customer");
}
else
{
return PartialView(cusVM);
}
}
The .cshtml for the Edit customer is
@model DataAccess.Models.CustomerViewModel
@{
Layout = null;
}
@using (Html.BeginForm())
{
@Html.ValidationSummary(true)
<fieldset>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.CustomerName)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.CustomerName)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.CustomerName)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.Address1)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.Address1)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.Address1)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.Address2)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.Address2)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.Address2)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.City)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.City)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.City)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.County)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.County)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.County)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.ContactName)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.ContactName)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.ContactName)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.Email)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.Email)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.Email)
</div>
<div>
@Html.HiddenFor(model => model.CustomerId)
</div>
<div class="editor-label">
@Html.LabelFor(model => model.ReferenceNumber)
</div>
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.EditorFor(model => model.ReferenceNumber)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.ReferenceNumber)
</div>
<p>
<input type="submit" value="Save" class="btn btn-primary" />
</p>
</fieldset>
}
I am using server side validations. The customer model is.
using System.ComponentModel.DataAnnotations;
using System;
namespace DataAccess.Models
{
/// <summary>
/// Class Holds the List Of Properties of a Customer
/// </summary>
public class CustomerViewModel
{
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "Customer Name")]
public string CustomerName { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "Address1")]
public string Address1 { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "Address2")]
public string Address2 { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "City")]
public string City { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "County")]
public string County { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
[Display(Name = "ContactName")]
public string ContactName { get; set; }
[Required]
[DataType(DataType.Date)]
[Display(Name = "Email")]
public string Email { get; set; }
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
public Guid CustomerId { get; set; }
[DataType(DataType.Text)]
public string ReferenceNumber { get; set; }
[DataType(DataType.Date)]
public DateTime ModifiedOn{ get; set; }
}
}
When there are no validations errors then it saving the data and loading the customerList Grid page.
Problem
When there are validation errors its redirecting to a EditCustomer with validations messages. How can I make the validations errors to be displayed in the Popup window.
This is the way it displays the errors in a plain page.
.
How can I make the errors to be displayed in Popup window itself.
A: You need to look more closely at AJAX validation and client side validation. Basically what's happening is the partial view you are loading which contains your edit form does not have validation bound to it since it was loaded after the initial page load. You can try adding this to your page (JQuery):
$.validator.unobtrusive.parse('#formId');
where formId is the ID of your HTML form. You also need to use Ajax.BeginForm helper instead of Html helper you're using.
Beyond that take a look at post:
ASP.NET MVC client validation with partial views and Ajax
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 1,783 |
{"url":"http:\/\/mymathforum.com\/algebra\/3441-points-intersection-circle.html","text":"My Math Forum Points of intersection of a circle.\n User Name Remember Me? Password\n\n Algebra Pre-Algebra and Basic Algebra Math Forum\n\n July 22nd, 2008, 04:59 PM #1 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2008 Posts: 10 Thanks: 0 Points of intersection of a circle. What would the points of intersection of the circle x^2 + ( y - 1 )^2 = 25 and y = - 7x + 26 be using the system of equations to solve?\n July 23rd, 2008, 02:59 AM #2 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Jun 2008 From: New Zealand Posts: 20 Thanks: 0 Re: Points of intersection of a circle. Substituting $y= -7x + 26$ into $x^2 + (y - 1)^2= 25$, we have $x^2 + (-7x + 26 - 1)^2= 25$ $x^2 + (-7x + 25)^2= 25$ $x^2 + 49x^2 - 350x + 625= 25$ $50x^2 - 350x +625= 25$ $50x^2 - 350x +600= 0$ $x^2 - 7x +12= 0$ $(x - 3)(x - 4)= 0$ So $x_1= 3$ or $x_2= 4$ When $x_1= 3$, $y_1= -7x_1 + 26 = 5$ when $x_2= 4$, $y_2= -7x_2 + 26 = -2$ Thus the two points are (3, 5) and (4, -2)\n July 23rd, 2008, 10:49 AM #3 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2008 Posts: 10 Thanks: 0 Re: Points of intersection of a circle. Thank you so much. How would i find the length of the chord in radical form for that answer?\n July 23rd, 2008, 02:14 PM #4 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Jun 2008 From: New Zealand Posts: 20 Thanks: 0 Re: Points of intersection of a circle. The length of the chord is the distance between (3, 5) and (4, -2). To find the distance between $(x_1, y_1)$ and $(x_2, y_2)$, use the following formula: $D= \\sqrt{(x_1 - x_2)^2 + (y_1 - y_2)^2}$ The answer in radical form is $\\sqrt{50}= 5\\sqrt{2}$\n July 23rd, 2008, 04:11 PM #5 Newbie \u00a0 Joined: Jul 2008 Posts: 10 Thanks: 0 Re: Points of intersection of a circle. Would i do the same kind of a thing to find the distance from the center of the circle to the chord?\n\n Tags circle, intersection, points\n\n Thread Tools Display Modes Linear Mode\n\n Similar Threads Thread Thread Starter Forum Replies Last Post Herc11 Linear Algebra 1 July 7th, 2013 04:06 AM math221 Calculus 1 February 4th, 2013 05:46 AM Andromedus Algebra 18 February 3rd, 2012 12:03 PM nom Algebra 1 August 15th, 2010 03:08 AM chetjan Algebra 11 November 6th, 2009 01:11 PM\n\n Contact - Home - Forums - Cryptocurrency Forum - Top\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2019 My Math Forum. All rights reserved.","date":"2019-10-22 02:09:13","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 19, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.4297497272491455, \"perplexity\": 1581.0692523259208}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": false}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-43\/segments\/1570987795403.76\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191022004128-20191022031628-00247.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Brasilien deltog med 97 deltagare vid de olympiska sommarspelen 1952 i Helsingfors. Totalt vann de en guldmedalj och två bronsmedaljer.
Medaljer
Guld
Adhemar da Silva - Friidrott, tresteg.
Brons
José da Conceição - Friidrott, höjdhopp.
Tetsuo Okamoto - Simning, 1 500 meter frisim.
Källor
1952 i Brasilien
Nationer i olympiska sommarspelen 1952
1952 | {
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Stranded!
Billionaire Gibb Martin loves risk almost as much he loves a well-made suit. But when his business partner and longtime friend suddenly bails on a major venture to get married...well, that's one risk Gibb isn't willing to take. Now he just needs to charter a plane to Florida so he can stop the wedding—fast!
Normally, bombshell pilot Sophia Cruz would have told Slick City Boy exactly where to go. Unfortunately, she really needs cash—even if it does come from an overprivileged guy with a very fine backside. But then disaster strikes midair, and Sophia is forced to crash-land the plane....
Now they're alone on a stunning deserted island—and surrounded by temptation. And this is one collision they won't be able to walk away from!
"You're sort of a jerk, you know that?"
He clenched his determined jaw. "It doesn't matter as long as I get what I want." He strode purposefully toward her plane.
Hmm. Now Sophia was beginning to understand why that blond babe, usually at his elbow, looked so uptight 90 percent of the time. However, she certainly got the push-pull attraction of Gibb Martin. While part of her wanted to throttle him, another part wanted to kiss him. He was, after all, tall, with handsome good looks and a hot body.
All the more reason not to fly him to Key West.
So why had she agreed?
Dear Reader,
Crash Landing is my final book for Harlequin Blaze in the Stop the Wedding! series. The idea for the series was three road trips as three couples race across the country to stop what they consider to be an ill-conceived wedding. With an added little twist—one road trip by land, one by sea and one by air.
The theme of Crash Landing is "money isn't everything" as billionaire venture capitalist Gibb Martin sets off on an ill-fated trip in a Piper Cherokee with spunky bush pilot Sophia Cruz.
Once upon a time I took flying lessons, and I drew on those experiences to create Sophia. My husband is an airline mechanic, so he helped me with some of the technical details about how to crash a plane and then get it flying again. (You should have heard our detailed conversations about ferrules and thimbles.) I've also visited Costa Rica and Key West. I could write a hundred books set in both those fascinating places. Being raised in Texas, I know a little Spanish, but have to admit I spent time on the Babelfish website. Research is fun!
So kick back, relax, get yourself something fruity to drink and let Crash Landing whisk you away to a beautiful tropical island paradise....
Feliz lectura,
Lori Wilde
Crash Landing
Lori Wilde
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lori Wilde is a New York Times bestselling author and has written more than forty books. She's been nominated for a RITA® Award and four RT Book Reviews Reviewers' Choice Awards. Her books have been excerpted in Cosmopolitan, Redbook and Quick & Simple. Lori teaches writing online through Ed2go. She's also an R.N. trained in forensics and she volunteers at a women's shelter. Visit her website, www.loriwilde.com.
Books by Lori Wilde
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
30—A TOUCH OF SILK
66—A THRILL TO REMEMBER
106—PACKED WITH PLEASURE
123—AS YOU LIKE IT
152—GOTTA HAVE IT
175—SHOCKINGLY SENSUAL
230—ANGELS AND OUTLAWS*
260—DESTINY'S HAND*
346—MY SECRET LIFE**
399—CROSSING THE LINE†
411—SECRET SEDUCTION†
423—LETHAL EXPOSURE†
463—THE RIGHT STUFF††
506—ZERO CONTROL
518—HIS FINAL SEDUCTION
561—SWEET SURRENDER
648—INTOXICATING
737—NIGHT DRIVING‡
742—SMOOTH SAILING‡
*The White Star
**The Martini Dares
†Perfect Anatomy
††Uniformly Hot!
‡Stop the Wedding!
To get the inside scoop on Harlequin Blaze and its talented writers, be sure to check out blazeauthors.com.
To all my readers, past, present and future.
Thank you so very much for reading.
Without you, I'm nothing.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Excerpt
1
THE CRAZY AMERICAN WAS still in a business suit?
Sophia Cruz lounged in the hammock outside the exclusive retreat in the Costa Rican volcanic mountain range of Cordillera of Tilarán.
Bosque de Los Dioses, or Forest of the Gods, was accessible only by bush plane and it lay twenty-five miles north of Monteverde, the nearest village and Sophia's hometown. The resort was hush-hush, a place where the rich, famous and high-powered came for a secret hideaway.
Sophia herself was neither rich, famous, high-powered nor looking to escape anything. She'd been born and raised in these mountains and it was her home. Over the years, she'd seen many outsiders come and go, but she'd never seen one as intensely stressed-out as the sandy-haired man wearing a gray silk Armani suit in the muggy summer weather.
Two weeks.
He'd been at Bosque de Los Dioses for two weeks and she had never once seen him in blue jeans or shorts or sandals or even a short-sleeved shirt. Always the suit and tie and expensive leather shoes as if he was in a New York City boardroom instead of a tropical paradise.
Why?
The question fascinated her. He fascinated her.
She dipped the brim of her well-worn straw cowgirl hat, the band decorated with a purple orchid that she'd plucked from a nearby vine. And pushed her heart-shaped pink sunglasses up on her nose to study him through the rose-tinged lenses.
Hombre guapo.
He paced the length of the veranda of the luxury tree house bungalow nestled in the tops of the Flame of the Forest and Ron-Ron trees, a cell phone pressed to his ear. The sunlight reflected off the thick platinum link chain bracelet at his broad wrist. The bracelet was like the rest of him, polished, sleek but underneath the shiny exterior undeniably masculine.
Although she had not asked, he was clearly a wealthy businessman, brash, entitled and constantly in motion. Who else rushed, rushed, rushed to get to the same place everyone else was going?
"Eventually, no matter where you are from, you end up in the graveyard," her father often said. "Might as well take your time getting there and enjoy the view."
That was the Costa Rican way—slow and easy and grateful for what you had. Then again, no other country had views like this. Perhaps it was easier to be philosophical when surrounded by so much beauty.
And speaking of views...
This one was as delicious as el casado.
No, maybe not el casado since it meant "married" in Spanish because the meal was the perfect marriage of beans, rice, fried plantains, salad and some kind of meat. Traditionally, it was the noon meal and had been named for the fact it was the usual food wives packed for their husbands to brown bag to work. This man looked as far from an attentive husband as he could get and the thought of him brown bagging anything made her chuckle.
Sunlight glinted off his golden hair cut short in a neat style that flattered his features—firm chin, but not big-jawed. If it hadn't been for the broken nose he might have been too pretty and Sophia had to admit she had a thing for blonds. Growing up around so many dark-haired men had given her a sharp appreciation for flaxen locks.
Mmm. She licked her lips.
His name, according to the credit card he'd used to pay for his flight, was Gibb Martin. He was close to six feet tall and moved with the sleek grace of a jaguar, lean and athletic, as if his skin could barely contain his excessive masculine energy. She imagined running her hands over his biceps and her palms tingled.
Although she couldn't see them from here, Sophia knew he possessed piercing, no-nonsense gray eyes, that when they were directed at her, made her feel as if he could see straight into her soul.
Sophia shivered.
He'd caught her with those eyes the day she'd flown him in from the Libera Airport. He'd thanked her for the flight, shook her hand and held it for just a moment too long. Her heart had skipped a beat and she couldn't help feeling that it was a watershed moment.
Or maybe that had all been in her imagination.
He'd had a woman with him after all. A tall, skinny blonde with pouty lips, pixie haircut and breasts the size of pillows, quite a contrast to Sophia's own short stature, well rounded hips, waist-length black hair and rather modest endowments. When she was a teenager, her brothers had teasingly called her Tortita, the Spanish word for pancake. Luckily, she'd sprouted a bit since then, but not much.
The blonde had not seemed happy. She'd complained about everything—the smallness of the plane, the sticky humidity and the fact that the cookies and crackers that Sophia kept onboard for guests were not gluten-free. Then again, in the blonde's defense, the American had barely looked up from his laptop computer the entire flight and she ended up feeling sorry for her.
Two weeks had passed and the blonde still wasn't happy. She came out on the balcony, hands sunk onto her hips, rocking a red G-string bikini so small it could have doubled as a pair of shoelaces.
Frump. Compared to a woman like that, Sophia was a dumpy dowager in cutoff blue jeans and a white crop top.
"Gibby!" Blondie yelled at him.
He frowned in irritation, motioned at the phone, gave her a hush-this-is-an-important-call glower.
Poor Blondie. He had no time for his gorgeous girlfriend.
The blonde scowled. "If you don't get off the damn phone and take me somewhere fun I'm flying back to Miami tonight."
He pressed the phone against his chest, stepped close to whisper something to her and then playfully swatted her bottom.
Blondie giggled.
Something in Sophia's mouth tasted as bad as a green plantain. Jealous much?
Jealous? Of course not. Why would she be jealous of a drop-dead model with million mile legs who had a rich, handsome man on a string? A handsome man who ignored her most of the time. Sophia would never settle for that. She would demand burning passion.
Blondie held out her palm and looked sheepish.
He fished in his back pocket for his wallet and from where Sophia was laying it looked like he pulled out an American Express black card and dropped it into her palm. The blonde closed her fingers around the card, leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Buying her off.
Sophia snorted. How could she be jealous of that?
Since his arrival, Gibb Martin had either been on the phone or in meetings with the cadre of other businessmen that Sophia had flown in, while the blonde had spent her time at the Bosque de Los Dioses luxury spa.
Sophia's oldest sister, Josephina, worked at the spa as a massage therapist. In order to work for or contract with Bosque de Los Dioses you had to sign a confidentially agreement; they could only gossip about the clientele with each other and even then they had to make sure no one overheard their conversations.
A few minutes later, Josie came out of the employee entrance, toting her own brown bag casado. "Hola."
"What's up?"
Although they had been raised in a bilingual household, Josie preferred to speak Spanish, while Sophia thought of English words before the Spanish equivalent popped in her mind. Probably because she'd lived with her aunt in California the year after their mother had died and being so young, she'd had no trouble adapting to that culture. Sophia set the hammock to rocking by pushing against the palm tree with her big toe.
"Nothing new." Josie plunked down on the cement bench beside the rows of empty hammocks strung from the trees for the guests to enjoy. At this time of the afternoon almost everyone was out on an excursion. "How about you?"
"Waiting to take a fare to Libera at two."
"How is El Diablo holding up these days? That plane is as old as I am." Josie was forty-one, fourteen years older than Sophia and she'd been married to her high school sweetheart, Jorge, for more than half her life. They had three children who were high school age.
"I've got the plane running like a top."
El Diablo was the contrary 1971 Piper Cherokee 180F she'd inherited from their father after he'd retired two years ago. She was the only one of the seven Cruz offspring who'd had any interest in flying.
No one had begrudged her the gift of the plane. Her siblings considered the plane a burden, not a blessing, and granted it was something of a heap, but it was how she made her living. Flying tourists into the Cloud Forest where only bush planes could go. She dearly loved flying and had just finished aircraft maintenance school so she could keep El Diablo in the best flying condition possible.
Josie unwrapped homemade beef tamales from the plantain leaf they had been cooked in. "You've made Poppy very proud."
Sophia sneaked another glance at Gibb Martin's tree house bungalow. Blondie had come out on the veranda and was leaning against the balcony railing. The woman waved at her sister Josie and smiled.
Josie waved and smiled back.
"You know her?"
"Every day on my massage table for the last two weeks. She's my two o'clock appointment and she tips big with her boyfriend's credit card. I will smile and wave at her all day if that's what she wants."
"She seems a bit superficial." Okay, that was snide. Contrite, Sophia popped three fingers over her mouth.
"Stacy is a cover model," Josie said. "What else would you expect from her?"
"Something a bit less cliché?"
"Does your prickly tongue have anything to do with the fact that she's the girlfriend of that handsome American venture capitalist you keep staring at?"
"I do not stare at him."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, maybe a little, but how often do you see blond men around here? It's not him personally. It's just his hair."
"Uh-huh."
"It is."
Josie nodded at an overweight bald guy in his thirties who was horsing around with his buddies on one of the rope footbridges that linked the bungalows to the main lodge. "You are telling me that you would stare at that man if he had blond hair?"
"Yes, sure," she lied.
Josie snorted. "By the way, the venture capitalist stares back at you too when you're not looking."
"He does?" she asked, surprised to hear her voice come out an octave higher.
Josie nodded. "He stares hard."
Sophia gulped, ducked her head, and felt heat flush her cheeks. Hey, what was this? She wasn't a blushy-gushy kind of girl.
Josie sent her a knowing glance. "Things are not going well with Emilio?"
"What?" Sophia startled. "No. Emilio is great—"
"But Emilio is in San Jose and Mr. Tall, Blond and Handsome is here?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Her sister was wrong. She wasn't that fickle. Was she?
"Sophia," Josie wheedled. "You can tell me. What is it?"
Sophia shrugged. The bark on the palm tree at the end of the hammock had sloughed off from where the ropes had rubbed it. "It's nothing really."
Josie clucked her tongue, shook her head. Sophia had never been able to keep anything from her older sister.
"Emilio and I are sliding more toward solid friendship than red-hot romance," she admitted. "We have not even made love yet."
"But you've been dating what, two months?"
"My point exactly. Only five dates in two months. If this relationship was headed somewhere important, should we not pine for each other every time we are apart? Am I wrong?"
"You expect too much," Josie said. "Emilio is a nice man. He would make a good husband and father."
"And that's enough?"
Josie gave a knowing smile, dusted crumbs from her fingers and got to her feet. "What else is there?"
"Passion for one thing."
"Passion fades. That's when friendship counts."
"You make marriage sound so boring." Sophia yawned.
"Not at all. As time goes on, you will learn to value other things above passion."
"That might work for you," she said. "But me? I want sparks. All the time. Fireworks or nothing."
Josie made a quiet chiding noise. "You're more like Mother than you think. You've got her starry-eyed idealism."
"There's nothing wrong with setting my standards high."
"There is having high standards and then there are unrealistic expectations."
"If Mother hadn't believed in passionate love that lasted she wouldn't have stayed in Costa Rica and had seven children."
"True, but look at everything she gave up."
"For love."
"It wasn't easy for her. Starting over in a new country. Learning another language. Navigating a strange culture."
"But she did it because she loved Poppy so much. That's what I want. Someone who'd swim the deepest ocean for me."
"You're not going to start singing are you?"
"I might," Sophia teased, splayed a hand to her chest and sang an off key rendition of "I'd Climb the Highest Mountain," except she didn't know most of the words and ended up stumble-humming it.
"You are not getting any younger, mi hija. Soon your best child-bearing years will be behind you."
"Thanks for that." Sophia crossed her legs. The orchid slid off the brim of her hat, landed on her nose. Sophia brushed it aside.
"You can't keep hitting the snooze button on your biological clock." Josie pressed her lips into a disapproving line.
"I'm not even remotely thinking of babies yet."
"I know, but you should be."
"I'm not done having fun yet."
"Babies are a different kind of fun."
"Uh-huh. If you say so."
"You love your nieces and nephews."
"I do. Stop trying to sell me on motherhood. When I find the right relationship—packed with tons of passion—the rest will take care of itself." Sophia's eyes were on the hombre who was going to pace a hole right through the wooden planks of the balcony.
Josie canted her head. "The American isn't right for you."
"Of course he's not. I never thought he was. He's caviar and I'm black beans, but a girl needs her sexual fantasies, right?"
"Give Emilio a chance," Josie advised and picked up her sandwich bag. "Bring him to Sunday dinner."
"We'll see."
Josie pointed a finger at her. "Just bring him."
Sophia rolled her eyes. Their mother had died of bacterial meningitis when Sophia was twelve and after Sophia had returned from living in California with Aunt Kristi, Josie had taken over as Mother Hen and sometimes she could be a bit overbearing. "Sí."
"I mean it."
Sophia made shooing motions at her. "Go back to rubbing that rich cover model's backside."
"I love you," Josie said sweetly over her shoulder.
"You're not going to make me feel like a brat."
"Even if you are being one?" Josie laughed and went into the spa.
Sophia pursed her lips and looked back to Gibb Martin's bungalow. Blondie was gone, but he was still pacing and talking on the phone.
Did the man ever slow down? Take a deep breath? Relax? Enjoy himself for half a second?
She shifted her gaze to the sky and estimated the time by the sun's position. She never wore a watch. Two o'clock was perhaps thirty minutes away. Just enough time to fuel the plane and do her flight checks. Yawning, she rolled out of the hammock and stretched big, reaching for the clouds, her crop top rising up high with her movements.
Gibb Martin leaned over the railing of his balcony.
He was watching her!
Her stomach churned and she had the strangest feeling that something monumental was about to happen.
Those compelling gray eyes stared straight at her. Thank God for her sunglasses.
A slow smile slid across his face.
Excitement shot through her and she suppressed a smug grin. He might not be paying Miss Cover Model much attention, but he was certainly focused on her.
What she did next wasn't noble, but it was human. She pretended she hadn't seen him watching her. She swept off her cowgirl hat, tilted her head back, and ran her fingers through her long hair, fluffing it up in a sexy, just-rolled out of bed style and bit down on her bottom lip to make it puffy.
Bad girl, bad. Mala. Mala.
She strolled away, emphasizing each sway of her hips, and headed for the plane. Was that the heat of his gaze she felt on her shoulders?
Casually, she turned, looked up at the balcony, only to find it empty.
Her face flamed hot as she realized she'd strutted for an audience of no one.
Idiot.
Never mind. It didn't matter. It wasn't even a flirtation. That's how limited their exchanges had been, a few furtive glances, a handshake that lingered a bit too long, that's all there was to it.
But the fact that she was fantasizing about a good-looking stranger who had a cover model girlfriend told Sophia that this thing with Emilio simply wasn't working for her. They would be better off as friends.
It was time to tell him that.
After work, she had planned to fly to San Jose for a cookout with Emilio. In spite of the provisions she'd packed in an Igloo cooler this morning, she would forego the cookout, sit him down and make it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more than friendship from him.
Was she stupid for cutting loose a good guy who would make a wonderful husband? Maybe. But something told her that she did not have to settle. Somewhere out there was a good man who would also ignite passion in her heart and she wasn't going to stop looking until she found him.
2
THROUGH THE OPEN wooden slats of the bamboo blinds, Gibb watched the sexy little bush pilot's butt bounce. He shouldn't be looking. He was here with Stacy after all, but there was something about the sultry Costa Rican that had captured him from the minute he'd laid eyes on her in Libera Airport.
And this thing with Stacy had just about run its course. Two years was already eighteen months longer than he'd anticipated it would last. Both of them had known from the beginning it wasn't a long-term relationship. He required a poised, beautiful woman on his arm to take to business functions and she had wanted someone with an unlimited expense account.
They'd met each other's needs at the time, but now they were starting to get on each other's nerves. Stacy continually accused him of being a workaholic—hey, how did she think he paid for her shopping sprees?—and he'd wearied of her constant bid for his attention. Bringing Stacy with him to Bosque de Los Dioses had been a mistake and not just because he wanted to flirt with the pilot.
She was examining her plane, doing a preflight check, and as she reached up to inspect the flaps, her white crop top moved up to expose even more of her smooth, tanned skin. Sunlight glimmered off her gold navel ring and her long black hair swung just above the curve of her back.
Gibb gulped. She curved in all the right places. The white cotton top stretched over breasts the size of perfectly ripe peaches. His mouth watered instantly.
She wore cutoff blue jean shorts with frayed threads dangling down her firm thighs. The pink straw cowgirl hat was tipped back on her head, and the matching pink heart-shaped sunglasses slid halfway down her pert little nose. The woman had a thing for pink. On the flight in, she'd smelled of delicious pink grapefruit, fresh, clean and tartly sweet.
What did she have on beneath those jeans? Pink boy shorts? A pink thong? Maybe nothing at all?
His body heated all over.
Hang on there, Martin. He might not be a long-term commitment kind of guy, but when he was in a relationship—no matter how casual—he didn't mess around.
"You're a serial monogamist," his best friend Coast Guard Lieutenant Scott Everly often teased. It was true, he never dated more than one woman at a time.
Gibb's cell phone rang.
He stepped back from the window, pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID.
Speak of the devil.
Scott had been dodging his calls of late and Gibb wondered if it was because his buddy was having second thoughts about leaving the Coast Guard. He and Scott were going into business together on this clandestine, environmentally green project that promised to revolutionize the way people traveled.
That was what Gibb was doing here in Cordillera of Tilarán. The planning stage was finally complete. And although the patent was still pending, it was only a matter of time until it was granted. He had complete confidence in that. The inventor would be arriving next week. It was time to start building the prototype track for the breakthrough monorail system that would extend the thirty miles from Bosque de Los Dioses to Monteverde.
Building the prototype track here would serve two purposes. One, it would eventually make Bosque de Los Dioses accessible by some other mode of transportation besides bush plane. And two, the remote location and thick vegetation discouraged the corporate spies that had dogged him. Twice in the last two years, spies from Fisby Corp had burned him by stealing the ideas he'd invested in and getting them to market before he did. He wasn't going to allow that to happen again.
That's where Scott was to come in. He was the only one Gibb trusted to handle his private security. They'd been talking about partnering up for the past two years, ever since Gibb had first invested in this project. They'd just been waiting for Scott's commission with the Coast Guard to be over to get started on it. Waiting, however, was making Gibb antsy. The longer it took, the more likely it was that someone would rip off the idea before the patent was granted.
Gibb hit the talk button. "Guy, where have you been?"
"Falling in love," Scott replied.
Gibb laughed. "So when are you getting out of the Coast Guard? How long before you can get to Costa Rica? I need you here."
"I'm serious," Scott said. "I've fallen in love with the most amazing woman. She's smart and sexy and—"
Gibb snorted. "Stop pulling my leg. We're ready to hit the ground running. I have to tell you that arranging to have supplies delivered up here, while trying to keep things tightly under wraps has been nothing short of a logistical nightmare."
"You're not listening to me."
"Sure I am, you're madly in love. Good. Great. Congrats. Now when can I expect you?"
"She's the daughter of Jack Birchard, the renowned oceanographer, but Jackie is a damn fine oceanographer in her own right," Scott went on as if he hadn't said a thing.
Gibb scratched his head. "You're serious?"
"I'm stone cold in love, buddy."
"Okay." Gibb plowed fingers through his hair, tried not to fret. "What does Jackie think about you living in Costa Rica for a couple of years?"
"I'm not leaving the Coast Guard."
"C'mon. We've talked about this forever. I can't do it without you."
"Sure you can."
"All right, I don't want to do it without you. This project has the potential to make us billionaires."
"You're already a billionaire, Gibb."
"Not now I'm not. Not after all I've got invested in this technology."
"Aw, so now you're only a multi-millionaire? How will you ever survive?"
"Scott, I can't believe you're doing this to me. Remember when we were kids, camping out in a tent in your parents' backyard? Even then we talked about working together someday, but you had to go off and join the Coast Guard."
"You were supposed to join with me," Scott reminded him.
"Is it my fault that I get seasick?"
Joining the Coast Guard was the best thing Gibb had never done. If he had joined the Coast Guard, he wouldn't have invented a popular gaming app that had made him a multi-millionaire and started him on the road to becoming a venture capitalist, investing in other people's ideas.
He had a knack for spotting trends before they took off and it paid big dividends. Charismatic forward thinker, Wealth Maker Magazine had called him. Unfortunately, that had made him a target for the unscrupulous looking to get in on his action. Forcing Gibb to become even more secretive and suspicious of others than he already was. Scott was the one person in the whole wide world that he trusted with his life.
"No, just like it's not my fault that I fell in love."
"You're leaving me hanging?"
"I'm sorry, Gibb, but I've found something more. I don't want to end up like you."
Two whips of hurt and anger lashed through him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't want to be consumed by work the way you are."
An accusing silence stretched over the miles between them.
"If I wasn't consumed by work, I wouldn't be where I am today," he said.
"Where are you, Gibb?"
"At the top of the freaking world."
"Alone."
"I'm not alone. I have a cover model girlfriend and my Bentley and my beach house and—"
"I'm getting married on Saturday in Key West on the Fourth of July, aboard the Sea Anemone, Wharf 16 at 4:00 p.m. I hope you'll be there."
It wasn't until this very moment that Gibb understood exactly how much he'd been looking forward to not only working with Scott, but bringing him in on this deal. It was Gibb's way of paying his buddy back for the time Scott had literally saved his life.
Gibb pushed the platinum bracelet up on his wrist. Scott had a matching bracelet. They'd bought the man jewelry together, a symbol of their brotherhood and undying friendship after that crazy diving trip to the Great Barrier Reef where Gibb had been barbed in the chest by a stingray. Only Scott's quick action and first aid training had prevented Gibb from removing the barb. He'd come within seconds of ending up like the famous crocodile hunter, Steve Irwin.
Reflexively, Gibb rubbed his chest. "This Saturday?"
"This Saturday."
"But it's Wednesday!"
"I know."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Because Jackie and I just got engaged."
"What? Why so fast?"
"When it's right, it's right. We can't wait any longer to be together."
"So she's pregnant."
"No, she's not pregnant." Scott sounded irritated.
"Whoa, back up the truck. I talked to you six weeks ago and you didn't say a word about this Jackie woman. How long have you known her?"
"A month," Scott confessed, not sounding the least bit sheepish.
"A month! You're marrying someone you've only known a month?"
"Don't rain on my parade. She's the love of my life," Scott growled.
Taken aback, Gibb blinked. He couldn't believe this was his childhood buddy. "I recall you saying a time or two that you were never getting married."
"Dumb. That was back when I was dumb and stupid. I'd never been in love before. I never knew it could feel like this."
"I recall you once said the same thing about that waitress in Panama." Who in the hell was this woman who'd woven such a spell over Scott?
"That was lust. There's a big difference. I know that now. You'll know it too when you find it."
Gibb frowned. "Hang on, this too will pass."
"No. No, it won't." Scott sounded adamant.
"You say that now—"
Scott cut him off. "Can we expect to see you at the wedding?"
"There shouldn't be a wedding. You're throwing away all our plans, and re-upping in the Coast Guard when you'd planned to get out and—"
"Sorry, but meeting Jackie has changed everything."
"I get that. It's what scares me."
"Come to the wedding if you want, but you're not changing my mind."
"This is craziness!" Gibb yanked at the knot of his tie. "You've lost your mind over a piece of—"
"Don't say it," Scott threatened.
Gibb was so upset that he couldn't stop himself from saying it. "Tail."
A dial tone sounded in his ear.
His very best buddy on the planet had just hung up on him. Shocked, Gibb stared at the phone. Disturbing how fate could turn life on a whim.
* * *
SOPHIA WAS FILLING up the gas tank on El Diablo when Gibb Martin came stalking up to her, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight and a determined expression on his lips.
"I need you to fly me to Key West, Florida," he demanded.
She cocked an eyebrow at him, holstered the nozzle back into the pump. "What bit you?"
"I want to leave right now." He tapped the face of his Rolex with an impatient finger.
"Mosquito? Botfly? Hornet?"
If he were a cartoon, steam would be shooting out of his ears. "No joking around. Time is of the essence."
She lifted one shoulder. "Sorry, amigo."
"I'll pay handsomely."
"No can do."
"What?" He looked stunned that she'd refused him.
"N.O. Nada."
"How much would it take to change your mind?"
"Money is not the issue."
"What is?"
"Well, for one thing, I already have a 2:00 p.m. fare."
"They can wait. Call another bush pilot."
What an arrogant tool he was. "My, we have a grand sense of our own importance, don't we?"
Gibb snorted, pressing his lips into a firm line. "This is an emergency."
"An emergency?" That changed everything. Why was she such a smart mouth? "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said contritely. "Did someone die?"
"Worse."
Sophia put a hand to her heart. "What is worse than death?"
"Marriage."
Confused, Sophia pushed her hat back on her head. "Someone is getting married? That is your emergency?"
"Yes." His voice was flat, brooking no more questions.
Sophia questioned anyway. "You're against marriage?"
"Not in general. Not for most people. It's just not my personal bailiwick."
"Bailiwick?"
"It means sphere of knowledge."
She grimaced. "Fan-cy."
"Once upon a time I hired a vocabulary coach, deal with it."
She raised both palms. "Communication doesn't work unless you can speak so that others understand you."
"Andalé, andalé." He made shooing motions at her. "How's that for communication?"
"Have you been watching old Speedy Gonzales cartoons?"
"It's not the correct word?" His face colored.
"Not if you don't mind sounding like a cartoon mouse. Vámonos or rápido might be what you're looking for."
"Well, let's vámonos, rápido, rápido."
"There's one thing I'm still unclear on."
He exhaled loudly. "What's that?"
"How is marriage an emergency?"
"I have to stop the wedding."
"Ah, I see." She nodded.
"See what?"
"You are still hung up on a former lover and she has broken your heart by marrying another before you could reconcile."
"No, no." He shifted, jammed his hands in his pockets and leaned in closer to her. "That's not it at all."
She caught a whiff of his scent—kumquat, leather, musk—nice cologne. "Then what is it?"
"She's all wrong for him."
"Who?"
"He has only known her a month," Gibb muttered.
"Who?"
"It's ridiculous."
"Why?"
"A month!" Gibb exclaimed. "My best friend is getting married to a woman that he's only known for one month."
"Oh, I see. That clearly is the end of the world."
"Would you marry a man you'd only known for a month?"
Sophia grinned, trying to get him to lighten up. "Depends on the man."
He scoffed, "Don't tell me you're one of those."
"One of what?"
"Die-hard romantics."
"I have not found my true love but that doesn't mean I don't believe he's not out there somewhere."
Gibb raised his face to the sky. "Please, spare me the love impaired."
"What is wrong with love?"
"It muddles the brain. Clouds your judgment. Makes you do dumb things like get married to someone you've only known a month."
"But what if this woman makes your friend truly happy?"
"She doesn't. He just thinks she does."
"How do you know that for sure?"
"Look, I don't have time to stand around here dissecting it to death. My best buddy is about to make the biggest mistake of his life. I have to leave immediately for Key West to save him from himself."
"You can't tell him this over the telephone?"
"He hung up on me." Gibb sounded highly offended. "And when I tried to call him back, he wouldn't answer and he's disabled his voicemail."
"I can see why. Clearly, you are overreacting."
He held up both palms. "Look, I don't need your opinion. I just need your flying expertise. How much would you charge to fly me to Key West right now?"
Sophia cast a glance over her shoulder at El Diablo. She'd never flown any farther than Belize. "My plane is not equipped to fly such a long distance. It's over fifteen hundred kilometers to Key West."
He waved a hand. "You can do it. I've watched you fly passengers in and out for the last two weeks. You're an excellent pilot."
He had been watching her? Sophia's cheeks warmed. His flattery was dangerous. Damn this desire to show off her piloting skills and prove him right. "Thank you very much for the compliment, but the gas tanks on a plane this size only hold so much fuel. We would have to stop to refuel."
"So we stop. Let's go." He opened the pilot's door of the plane and motioned for her to hop in.
She stepped over to shut the door. "You are a very annoying man."
"How much?" He took out his wallet, started pulling out several one-hundred-dollar bills. "Two thousand do it?"
Sophia blinked. Two thousand dollars? That would pay off her debt from mechanic school. "You will pay for the fuel, as well?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"You are a desperate man."
"Yes, yes, I am. I'm also a rich one and I always get what I want."
"Not this time." Sophia folded her arms over her chest. "On top of everything else, there is a tropical depression brewing in the Caribbean."
"It could easily go way north of Florida."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"When is it expected to hit landfall?"
She shrugged. "Weather is unpredictable, two days, maybe."
"Two days?" he blurted. "We will be in Key West long before that."
"The storm could hit sooner," she said, arguing with herself as much as with him.
"Or later."
"True."
"It might even dissipate altogether."
"I am not in the habit of gambling with the lives of my passengers."
"Look," he said. "You can check the weather along the way, if the storm moves faster than expected I'll admit defeat and take it as a sign that Scott and Jackie are meant to be."
"Can you accept that?"
"You're the pilot. Once we're in the air, you're in control of that plane."
Hmm, interesting admission for someone who seemed to be something of a control freak. Could she trust him to keep his word? "It's not as simple as jumping into the plane and taking off. I'll have to make a flight plan, get permission to fly into the airspace of the other countries along the way."
He had run out of cash, but he was now tugging out a plethora of credit cards. "Three thousand."
Sophia moistened her lips. How high was he willing to go?
Lunacy. It was sheer lunacy to even consider flying him to Florida, but the part of her that loved a challenge wanted to give it a go. See if she could do it. If nothing else, she would learn what she and El Diablo were really made of.
Priorities, Sophia.
It was a lesson her mother had repeated to her often. She did have a tendency to put adventure ahead of responsibility. Besides, she was supposed to go over to Emilio's house for a cookout tonight. In fact, this was the night she'd decided to have "the talk" with him. Then again, what would it hurt to delay breaking bad news?
"Mr. Martin, I will happily fly you to Libera with my current passengers and there you can catch the next plane to Florida," she offered.
He looked uneasy. "That solution doesn't work for me."
"Why not?" Puzzled, she canted her head, studied him intently.
"I do not have to explain myself to you."
"You don't have your own jet? A rich man like you?"
"I do have my own jet, but that's none of your business."
"Oh," she said. "I get it. You don't want anyone tracking your whereabouts."
He seemed relieved. "Yes. Your discretion in this matter is very important to me. Can I trust you?"
"Of course." If she couldn't keep a secret she would have been out of a job a long time ago. Her sister Josie was the only person she could confide in about such things.
The couple from Argentina that she was supposed to fly to Libera arrived at the plane. A bellhop in a golf cart with their bags in the back followed behind the couple.
"Here are my passengers, Mr. Martin. I'm sorry about your dilemma but—"
Gibb pivoted on his heel to face the male passenger, a distinguished-looking gray-haired man in his mid-fifties. "How much for you to take another bush plane to the airport?"
"Pardon, señor?" the man asked.
Gibb waved the cash at him. "How much? I need this plane."
"You are not thinking rationally, Mr. Martin," Sophia pointed out. It surprised her that the cool blond American could be so filled with passion. To the couple, she said, "He is trying to stop a wedding."
"Ah, amor," said the woman. "Isn't that romantic? He wants to claim his woman before she marries someone else."
Sophia noticed that Gibb did not bother to correct the woman's erroneous assumption.
The Argentinean wasn't losing out on the opportunity. He plucked the bills from Gibb's hand and tucked them into his pocket. "The plane is all yours, señor." He put an arm around his wife's waist. "How can we stand in the way of true love?"
"You're willingly giving up your seats? You could miss your connecting flight while waiting on another bush plane to arrive."
"We are flying standby," the Argentinean said. "If we miss one flight..." He shrugged. "We'll catch another."
The bellhop gave them a ride back to the lodge in the golf cart.
Gibb held out both arms. "Problem solved. Let's hit the road, Amelia."
"My name is Sophia. Sophia Cruz."
"Amelia Earhart reference not doing it? I thought every woman pilot loved to be compared to Amelia."
"That's presumptive and sexist. See, I know big words, too."
"So you don't like Amelia Earhart?"
"You did not remember my name, did you?"
"So I forgot your name," he admitted sheepishly. "Sorry."
"My dog apologizes better than that." Okay, so she was stretching the truth a bit. Her dog died last year. Her heart twinged at the thought of Trixie. She'd had her for fourteen years and missed her deeply.
"Dogs are all about apology. Which is why I don't have one."
"Why? Because you hate creatures who have more love in their little toe than you do in your entire body."
"No," he said. "I actually love dogs, but I'm never home and I'd have to apologize to the poor thing for hiring someone to take care of it and then I'd feel guilty. Well, you see where I'm going with this."
"Not really."
"Doesn't matter. Can we do this thing?"
She should say no. The sensible thing would be to say no. Most anyone else would say no. He was pushy and arrogant and exasperating, but at the same time, a thrill ran through her at the thought of flying all the way to Florida. Still, was it prudent? Only one person could tell her if it was worth the risk, if indeed El Diablo could make the long trip. She'd have to ask her father.
Gibb was already climbing into the plane.
"Not so fast, Norte," she said.
One eyebrow shot up on his forehead and the opposite corner of his mouth quirked up at the same time. "Norte?"
"Norte means someone who comes from the north, usually from the U.S.A. Isn't that what you are?"
"The way you said it, it sounds derogative."
"No." She slowly shook her head. "That is all on you. If you think that being from the U.S.A. is derogative, that's your belief system not mine."
He stood straighter, stiffened his back. "I do not believe that it's a bad thing to be from the U.S."
"Neither do I, so why are you taking offense at the word Norte?" she asked.
He pointed at her. A slow smile crept across his face. "You're a sly one, Ms. Cruz."
She feigned an affronted expression. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're messing with my head."
"If you did not have a chip on your shoulder, I could not knock it off."
"Can we just get this show on the road?"
"Before I agree to this arrangement, I must first make some phone calls."
He tapped his wrist. "Time's wasting."
"That's a bracelet, not a watch."
"All the same, you get the sentiment. It's the universal sign for hurry up."
"Norte," she muttered.
"That time you were being derogatory."
"You're sort of a jackass, you know that?"
He clenched his determined jaw. "It doesn't matter as long as I get what I want."
Now she was beginning to understand why Blondie looked annoyed ninety percent of the time, but Sophia certainly understood the push-pull attraction to Gibb Martin. While part of her wanted to throttle him, another part of her wanted to kiss him.
All the more reason for her not to take him to Key West.
So why did she agree?
3
GIBB PACED OUTSIDE THE plane and repeatedly checked his watch. C'mon, C'mon. He didn't have all day. He tried several times to call Scott while Sophia was preoccupied, but his buddy was still not picking up. Hey, can you blame him? You acted like a jerk.
For Scott's own good!
They had known each other since they first swapped sandwiches on the kindergarten playground. Gibb had readily pawned off his lobster roll for Scott's plain old peanut butter and grape jelly sammie. Scott had taken one bite of the lobster roll and started crying and demanded to swap back. They laughed about it now. How dumb they'd both been to prefer PB and J to lobster. How clueless Gibb's mother had been about the appropriate lunch for a five-year-old.
That was Gibb's mother all the way. Winnie had exquisite luxury tastes and assumed everyone else did, too, even though when he was growing up, they'd had a beer budget that did not match with her champagne thirst.
On more than one occasion, the cops had come to their front door to tell her she had to make restitution on bounced checks or she would end up in jail. Somehow, she'd always manage to skirt the law until she hit the jackpot by marrying Florida real estate mogul, James Martin, who legally adopted Gibb when he was seven. And Gibb had been trying to prove himself worthy of James's largesse ever since.
"It is settled."
The smell of plumeria, sweet and exotic, wafted over him and he looked up to see Sophia. The woman possessed gorgeous brown eyes with impossibly long dark lashes. A hot tug of attraction pulled at him.
"Settled yes or settled no?" he asked.
"For three thousand dollars, plus you pay the price of fuel, I will fly you to Key West."
He had thought for sure she was going to say no and he would have to risk hiring a jet in Libera and pray the spies weren't that close. He'd gone through all kinds of machinations to get to Bosque de Los Dioses. First by buying two airline tickets to Europe that had gone unused for him and Stacy. Then hiring a small private plane to Nicaragua, checking into a low-rent motel in San Carlos under an assumed name, and from there hired a car to drive them to Libera. He thought he'd adequately covered his tracks. But, if any of his competitors found out he was in Costa Rica, well, two years' worth of work and a hundred million dollars would be shot all to hell.
"Hot damn. Let's go."
"Will your companion be joining us?" Sophia asked.
"Who?" he asked, and then realized she was talking about Stacy. "No. She's got spa treatments and whatnot to keep her occupied while I'm gone."
"Do you have luggage?"
"No time. Don't need any."
"Don't you at least want to change?" She waved at his business suit.
"I'm good. Let's hit it."
Sophia held out her palm. "I will require payment up front."
He handed over a credit card, and couldn't help noticing what pretty hands she had. Long, slender fingers, nails painted a soft salmon color. It was unusual for a petite woman to have such long fingers.
"I will be right back." She trotted off again, headed toward the airport's employee entrance.
His palms were unexpectedly sweaty and his knees felt slightly shaky. Was he that nervous she would turn him down? Or was he simply amped up over Scott's crazy news? Either way, the shakiness was disconcerting. Why did he care so much about what Scott decided to do with his life?
Sophia returned a few minutes later with his credit card and a sunny smile.
He pocketed his card. "Now can we leave?"
"Almost. I must finish my flight check first."
Gibb got into the passenger seat and impatiently drummed his fingers against the dashboard as she went through the checklist. He kept thinking of Scott and his project and how if he couldn't talk his buddy out of marriage it was going to upend all his plans.
Sophia climbed into the cockpit, doffed her pink cowgirl hat, tossed it in the back and donned a headset. She communicated with the airport in Libera and a few minutes later they were rolling down the narrow dirt landing strip. Just when it seemed they were about to run out of road and fall off the mountain plateau, the plane was smoothly airborne and they were flying through a thick white mist.
The resort was at five thousand feet. Gibb knew small planes like this one maxed out at ten thousand feet, but Sophia didn't even take them that high. She leveled off their ascent so they were just skimming over the cloud-shrouded mountain range.
It was a mystical sight—the smoky clouds, wafting lazily around them, parting here and there to reveal shades of deep tropical green or craggy blue-gray rock formations. The view took his breath away.
Sophia sat relaxed in the seat, her dark hair curling sexy tendrils around her face, an otherworldly smile on her full pink lips, her hands loose on the yoke. The pink-and-white V-neck quarter-length T-shirt that she wore clung snuggly to her smallish but firm breasts. Tanned, shapely legs worked pedals on the floor that controlled the rudders.
He moved his left arm at the same time she moved her right, and their elbows bumped. A staggering streak of lust shot from his elbow to his shoulder and arrowed straight down to his groin. Instantly, he jerked his arm away.
So did she.
"Sorry," he mumbled, his heart punching hard against his chest.
The seats in a plane this small were disturbingly close. He should have sat in the back. Why hadn't he sat in the back?
Sophia stared intently out the windshield. She had a delicate profile—a diminutive nose, gently sloped forehead, small but well-formed chin—that complimented her petite stature. Not a complex face that an artist might find a challenge to sketch, but a fun face, an open face, a happy face.
Looking at her made him smile. He did not want to smile.
There was no swelling of peppy music, no Ferris Bueller, "Oh Yeah" deep-based chorus, but the feeling that his life was about to change and change big, dug into Gibb and clung tight.
She guided the plane with what seemed to be an innate ease. Gibb had never thought of flying as anything more than a skill that anyone who put their mind to it could learn, but right now, watching her, his old belief disappeared, replaced by a deep certainty that there was such a think as a natural born pilot. She had an effortless, light touch on the controls and her sense of timing was impeccable. It was as if she'd strapped the airplane onto her, the way an old west gunslinger strapped on a holster, and the plane started to breathe with her.
Something told him he would relive this moment again in his dreams—the point where the cocky cowgirl became the consummate aviatrix and she was transformed. He felt transformed just by sitting next to her. He would be able to lie in bed at night, close his eyes and be with her again on wings of air, floating into a sweet, deep peace. If he could eat this moment, it would taste like one perfect bite of amazing amuse-bouclé—bitter, sweet, salty, sour, savory, piquant.
"I never tire of the beauty." Sophia breathed.
"Impressive." Gibb didn't take his eyes off her.
She turned her head, caught him staring. Her smile deepened. "What would Blondie say?"
He blinked. "Who?"
"Your girlfriend."
It took him a moment. "Oh, Stacy. She'd probably be texting or tweeting or something and never notice the scenery."
"I wasn't talking about the scenery."
"No?"
"What would she say about the way you are staring at me?"
"I'm not staring at you. I was studying the instrument panel," he lied smoothly, his stomach roiling and unsettled.
"Uh-huh."
Well, damn, if she didn't want men to look at her, she shouldn't wear shorts like that. "You do have nice legs."
"So does Blondie."
He blew out his breath. "I think you must have gotten the wrong idea about Stacy and I."
"I think I understand it pretty well."
"We're just..." What were they?
Sophia turned toward him, arched an eyebrow. "Friends with benefits?"
The benefit part was right, the friend part, not so much. "Could we talk about something else?"
"It is your three thousand dollars. We can talk about whatever you want."
Silence stretched out wide as the sky. He had to fix that. He should ask Sophia something else. "How long have you been a pilot?"
"I got my pilot's license when I was sixteen," she said proudly.
"Wow, that's young."
"My father's a pilot. This was his plane. He gave it to me when he retired."
"Why did he retire?"
"He's losing his sight."
"That's a shame."
Sophia nodded. "Yes. Poppy is like a bird with a broken wing. It's very sad."
"You speak English like a native," he said. "Much better than my Spanish."
"I was bilingual even as a kid. I have dual citizenship. My mother was an American," she said. "We visited her family in California every Christmas."
"Where abouts in California?"
"Ventura."
"Really? I have a beach house in Santa Barbara."
"Of course you do," she said.
"What's that tone all about?"
"What tone?"
"The tone that says there's something wrong with having a lot of money."
She gave a half laugh that sounded more like a snort. "You are imagining things, Mr. Martin. I do not have a tone."
Was he? "You don't have anything against wealthy people?"
"Why would I have such an attitude? If it were not for the rich and powerful and famous who come to Bosque de Los Dioses, I would not have a job."
"Because I know how some rich people can be. They can be very demanding. I'm sure you have to put up with a lot."
A sly smile flitted across her face. "Ah."
"Ah, what?"
She shook her head.
"What is it?"
"You are the one with the prejudice against the wealthy."
"What! That's crazy. I'm worth over a billion dollars." Well, until this last investment, but he would be back up there again soon. "Why would I be prejudice against rich people? That's like saying I'm prejudiced against myself."
"Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Prejudiced against yourself?"
What kind of question was that? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No."
"You weren't born into money," she said.
How had she guessed? He raised his chin. "What makes you assume that?"
"That chip sitting on your shoulder."
"I don't have a chip—" Shut up. Don't argue with her. It doesn't matter.
"Were you?" she asked. "Born rich?"
"No," he admitted.
"So you are a self-made man."
"There's that tone again. You're mocking me."
"You are mistaking my jovial nature for mocking."
"Am I?" Gibb shook his head. The woman was turning him inside out and he couldn't say why. Sure she was cute and sexy, but so were a million other women. What was it about this one that stoked him and frustrated him and challenged him and made him want to grab her up and kiss her until neither one of them could breathe?
"This is going to be a very long flight, isn't it?"
"It sure is shaping up that way."
More silence. This time he wasn't going to say anything. He could sit here forever and be quiet if need be. Not a word. Not another word was going to pass his lips.
She looked out over the nose of the plane, and with the slightest moments, shifted the plane northward. Underneath her breath she was softly humming, "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
"Okay," he blurted. "You're right. Maybe I do have a chip on my shoulder."
"I know."
Did she have to sound so damn cheerful about it? Gibb clamped his teeth together. Not another word.
"About that chip on your shoulder?" she ventured.
"Yes?"
"It's due to a sense of inadequacy."
"Inadequacy? Where are you getting this stuff?"
"Why else would you resent what you are?"
"I don't resent who I am."
"Don't you?"
"Thank you, oh, doctor of psychology." He wiped his brow. "Okay, I'll bite."
"Bite what?"
"The bait."
"What bait?"
While she might speak English like a native, the idioms seemed to throw her. "You throw out a challenging line like it's the bait. So here I am, biting it like a fish."
"Um, all right."
"What do you mean by the chip on my shoulder is due to a sense of inadequacy?"
Sophia shrugged. She was totally nonchalant. How did one get to be so blasé about everything? "You feel like you don't deserve your riches."
Gibb coughed, tugged at his collar. He felt like she'd taken an endoscope and shoved it down his throat and could see everything that was happening inside his gut. Exposed. He felt totally exposed and he didn't like it, not in the least.
She glanced at him. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he said tightly and coughed again.
"Sometimes the high altitude—"
"It's not the altitude."
"Maybe if you took off your tie."
"I'm fine."
Momentarily, she held up both palms, before her beautiful hands settled back down on the yoke. That smile of hers could seriously blind a guy. It was unnatural to be that happy.
Gibb took off his tie, undid the top button of his dress shirt. Instantly, he could breathe better.
She laid an index finger over her lips. "Shh, I promise that I won't tell anyone if you take off the jacket, too."
"I'm good."
"As you wish."
A long silence began as they passed over blue water and a lot of land. He hadn't been this knocked off balance since the last time a corporate spy ripped him off.
She was back to humming, "Don't Worry, Be Happy." It ought to be illegal for anyone to be this cheerful.
He stared out the side window, studied lush green ground sliding by. How many times had he flown over a place like this, oblivious to the lives of the people below? "How did you know?"
She startled as if she had forgotten that he was in the plane with her. "Know what?"
"That I wasn't born wealthy."
She clicked her tongue. "You work so hard. Too hard."
"Rich people work hard."
"Old money knows how to relax, new money scrambles. You scramble like you're afraid someone will take it all away."
"Now you sound like a fortune cookie."
She seemed to take no offense at that. "Maybe. And you spend money heedlessly. I saw you give Stacy that limitless black credit card. She is at the spa every day splurging on treatments with your money. People who are born rich tend to be frugal."
"That's a generalization."
"True."
"So what if I work hard and spend easily?" Stop being defensive. You don't owe her an explanation. "I still don't see how you drew your conclusion."
"In two weeks time you never took off the suits."
He ran a hand over the sleeve of his silk Armani.
"Not once."
"I took them off to go to bed."
"But not when people could see you. I had to ask myself why. Why does this handsome, successful man drive himself so hard? He's supposed to be on vacation and he never takes off the suit. What is he so afraid of?" She paused. "And then it hit me."
"What did?"
"You never felt loved for who you were."
Goose bumps spread over his arms at the same time the hairs on the nape of his neck lifted. He tried to laugh, but he just exhaled harshly.
"So you drove yourself hard in order to get recognition. Status became everything."
His throat worked, but no words came out.
"You became adept at charming others. You adopted whatever image worked. It's why you wear expensive suits—status, attention getting, uniform of the wealthy."
Gibb's mouth dropped open. How did she know!
"You came to feel that it was not okay to be who you really were, that in order to be loved, you had to take on the feelings and identity of those whose love you wished to win."
He wanted to deny it. He felt the need to contradict her, but he was so floored that he simply couldn't find the words.
"Deep down inside," she went on, "you believe that no matter how much success you achieve you'll always be a failure. You feel like a fraud."
He planned to say, "Hell, no, you're crazy, you're nuts," but instead Gibb simply nodded and said, "Empty."
"This friend of yours that you're flying to see. The one you want to stop from getting married. He's known you a long time?"
"Yeah." Gibb grunted.
"Before you were rich."
"Uh-huh."
"He's the only one who knows who you really are, isn't he?"
Was the woman some kind of psychic or just perceptive as hell? "How...how can you possibly know this?"
She met his gaze. "Why, it's written all over you. Anyone who bothers to look past the suit can see it."
4
BESIDES FLYING, Sophia's one great talent was the ability to read people quickly. She couldn't explain her skill. It was intuitive. Perhaps it came from being the youngest of seven, where in order to get her way, she had to figure out what everyone else's angle was and use it to her advantage. Or maybe it was simply because she loved people, and found them fascinating.
Unfortunately, she'd learned the hard way that most people did not enjoy being sized up. Usually, she kept her opinions to herself, but something about Gibb had loosened her tongue.
Now he sat there scowling at her as if she'd given him a bad tarot card reading. For many hours it would be just him and her together in this tiny cockpit.
"You should be proud that you are a self-made man," she said, trying to smooth things over.
"But you see, I'm not."
"If you weren't born rich and you're not a self-made man, then where did you get your money from?" she asked.
"My mother married a rich man. He adopted me."
"And he died and left you all this money?"
"No, James is still very much alive."
"He simply gave you a billion dollars?"
"Of course not. I earned my own money."
"Then you are a self-made man."
Gibb shook his head. "I couldn't have done it without James's connections."
"So you are in the same business he's in?"
"No. He's in real estate, I made my first few million creating a game app for phones when that industry was just taking off."
"Like Angry Birds?"
"Something along those lines."
"What is the app called?"
"Zimdiggy."
"Oh! I've played that game. It's fun. I love all the detailed levels. Have you invented more game apps?"
"I sold out to a big gaming company, then I became a venture capitalist. I'm not really an idea guy."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm more of a moneyman, backing other people's inventions. I seem to have a knack for predicting the next big thing and I'm not afraid to take risks."
It was odd, this self-effacing side of him. It didn't match with his confident outer persona.
"Really? You'd rather work yourself into the ground just to keep getting richer than do something fun that you love?"
"It's not about getting richer. It's about seeing how much I can achieve."
"So achievement is your passion, not creating your own game apps?"
"This way, I help other people achieve their dreams."
"Your game app helps people. I can't tell you how much Zimdiggy kept my mind distracted while I sat at my father's hospital bed after his eye surgery."
A brief smile flitted over his lips.
"When do you get to enjoy the fruits of your labor?" she asked.
"My labor is the fruit," he said it as if he really believed it, but a faraway expression in his eyes belied the words.
Poor guy. He was unhappy and didn't even know it, but she wasn't about to point that out. He'd just deny it anyway. "So see, you are self-made."
"I wouldn't have made it without my adopted father's help."
"What's wrong with that?"
"I feel like I'm only where I'm at by a twist of fate. If James had married someone other than my mother, some other guy would be here instead of me."
"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Martin."
"Gibb," he said. "Call me Gibb, we've got a long flight ahead of us and when you call me Mr. Martin, I think of my stepfather."
"Even though he adopted you, you still don't think of him as your father?"
"He's a tough man to get to know. I don't want to sound ungrateful because he's done a lot for me and my mother, but he and I never really bonded, you know?"
Sophia didn't know. Her father was her best friend. "So you are an only child."
"Yes."
"What happened to your real father?"
"Who knows? Dead maybe, or in prison? He left my mom when I was a baby. I never knew him."
"You have no desire to seek him out?"
"None at all."
How sad. She cast a sideways glance over at him. The man was a tight ball of barely contained energy, his hands curled into fists against his upper thighs. She remembered how he'd paced the balcony of his bungalow, restless as a tiger. He was not a man who sat still easily.
A sweet shiver, like fingers gliding over piano keys, ran up and down her spine.
Beneath the kumquat and leather notes of his cologne, she caught the scent of something deeper, more primal and masculine. Raw, sexual heat from his body radiated across the confined space, and crashed headlong into her.
Did he feel it, too? Or was it all in her imagination?
His gaze flicked to her legs again and something in his eyes flared hot. Oh, yes. He was feeling it, too.
When was the last time she'd felt such a strong instant attraction to anyone? His gaze tracked from her legs to her breasts with an expression so sultry she could hardly breathe. Um, never?
Who was she kidding? A man like Gibb Martin could never be interested in her. Not for the long haul at any rate.
She wouldn't need him for the long haul. One hot night in his arms would do the trick.
Mmm. It was a delicious but dangerous thought.
Just thinking about having sex with him had her going soft and pliant in all the right places.
That light gray silk suit had clearly been tailored to fit his body. His hair was as sandy as the beaches of Limon, and cut short and neat.
She lowered her eyelids, looked at him through the fringe of her lashes, hoping he would think that she was inspecting the instrument panel and not him.
Be honest, Sophia.
No point lying to herself. She was flat out ogling him. Who wouldn't ogle? The man had splendid bone structure and firm, elegant muscles—hard, but not bulky.
He was magnificent.
Gulping, she shifted her attention back to the landscape. They had passed over the center of Costa Rica, which, at its widest point, was only one hundred and eight miles across, and were headed toward the Caribbean Sea. Before long, they would be entering Nicaraguan air space.
"Sophia," Gibb murmured.
Had he said her name or had she imagined it. Between the sound of the engine and the headset, she had trouble hearing him.
She turned her head again to find him staring at her. "Yes?"
"Are you married?"
The question took her by surprise, so did the heated flush that raced to her cheeks. She held up her left hand so he could see it was bare of a ring.
"Boyfriend?"
Good question. She still hadn't told Emilio that they would not be taking their relationship to the next level. He was such a nice guy, but it wasn't fair of her to string him along when she did not have any romantic feelings for him.
She studied the instrument panel, the tachometer reading, the fuel system cluster, the altimeter and temperature gauges. Everything was fine.
"Sophia?"
"Emilio is not my boyfriend any more so than Stacy is your girlfriend," she finally answered.
"Ah," he said. "A friend with benefits."
She owed him no explanation about her relationship status. She would let him think whatever he wanted.
"So no one serious?"
Why was he asking? She lifted a shoulder. "I'm too young to get serious."
"How old are you?"
"Did anyone ever tell you that it's not polite to ask a woman her age." She maneuvered the plane through puffs of late-afternoon cloud.
"I'm thirty-two," he volunteered.
He was older than she would have guessed. "Twenty-six," she admitted.
"And you're still not ready to settle down?"
"Are you?"
He chuckled. "No, no, I'm not."
That killed the conversation.
Good. She needed to concentrate on what she was doing. They were about to cross over into Nicaragua. She radioed the nearest air tower with her intentions and was cleared. They were cruising along at seven thousand feet and a hundred and thirty knots per hour.
But soon, the silence got to her, which was odd. Normally, she was happy as a clam when she was in the air and nothing upset her equilibrium. She canted her head, studied him from the corner of her eye.
He was handsome enough to be a movie star, especially when he flashed that grin. He was such an enigma. On the one hand, a serious workaholic, underneath though, there was a playful side he'd buried long ago to please a stepfather who, from Gibb's account, withheld affection while at the same time, freely gave him material things. Such mixed messages must be very confusing.
"May I ask you a personal question?" she asked.
"Nothing has stopped you so far," he said.
"You do not have to answer if you don't want to."
"Let's hear it. What's on your mind?"
"What is it that you want most in life, Mr. Martin?"
"Gibb," he said. "You can call me Gibb. Maybe you should tell me what I want, Sophia, since you just did such a good job of reading me."
"Ah, but if I do it for you then you don't have to do any soul searching."
"Soul searching is overrated. I'm more goal oriented than emotive."
"You're avoiding the question."
"You said I didn't have to answer."
"I've changed my mind. Emote."
"Anyone ever tell you that you can be a bit bossy?"
"In other words, you have no idea what it is that you want from life?"
"I want for nothing. I'm living the dream."
"And yet, you do not seem happy."
For a long time he said nothing. "What do you mean?"
"Never mind. I don't know you. I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, really. Go on. I want to hear your thoughts."
"It's just that..."
"What?"
"When will you have enough money to earn your stepfather's love?"
"That's not what I'm doing."
"All right."
"It's not."
"You never did answer my question about what it is you want."
"Food. I'm starving. I forgot to eat lunch. You got anything to eat?" he asked.
She didn't poke his answer. She'd done enough prodding. "There are snacks in a box in the seat behind you."
He undid his seat belt; twisted around, found the box of snacks. "Hey, graham crackers. I haven't had those since I was a kid."
"They're my favorite."
"You ever make s'mores?"
"I've got the makings for s'mores in that box."
"And so you do!" he said, pulling out a bag of marshmallows and some chocolate bars. "How come you fly around with the makings for s'mores in your plane?"
"I take my nieces and nephews out camping sometimes."
He crunched a graham cracker, held one out to her.
She took the cracker and their fingers brushed in the handoff. His touch ignited something hot and irresistible inside her. To distract herself, she stuck the cracker in her mouth.
"I haven't made s'mores since Scott and I camped out in his parents' backyard, like I said," Gibb mused.
Sophia tried to imagine him as a young boy, but she couldn't picture it. "Maybe you two could make s'mores again. Once you break up his wedding."
"You're making me sound like an ass."
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
"Sounds to me like you're feeling guilty," she commented.
"About how long do you think it will take for us to get to Key West?" he asked.
"Factoring in fuel stops, depending on the weather, I'd say at least fifteen hours. Maybe fourteen, if we're lucky and don't run into a headwind, but it could be longer."
"Is this as fast as the plane will go?"
"Yes. If you wanted faster, you should have called for a private jet."
"Privacy is more important than speed at this point," he said.
"Then sit back and relax and let me do my job."
"I'm not very good at that."
"What? Letting go of control or relaxing?"
"Either. Both."
"All the more reason to surrender," she said.
"Easy to say, not so easy to do."
"Close your eyes and take a deep breath."
"I'd—"
"I'm the pilot," she interrupted. "It's an order."
"Are you always this bossy?"
"Only with certain clients."
He surprised her by closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.
Sometime later, she peeked over at him again. Gibb was sound asleep. Good.
They had passed over Nicaragua and were above the Caribbean Sea. She peered out the window and through the wisp of clouds, spied a petite lush green jungle island with a thin apron of beach lying due south. The island looked completely uninhabited, no roads, no structures, too small and isolated for anyone to live there. It wasn't even on the aerial map. What a thrill. Discovering a place she'd never known existed.
For the next several minutes, she navigated smoothly through patches of harmless midlevel, horizontal altostratus clouds with a flat, uniform structure. The fine mist of the altostratus parted easily and caused no turbulence.
She had radioed the last tower before leaving Nicaraguan airspace. She'd wanted an update on the tropical storm brewing in the Caribbean and received an all clear about the weather. So it was something of a surprise when she sailed through the last batch of stratus clouds and came face-to-face with a wide, vertical band of wooly clouds. They were in the exact direction where they needed to fly.
Sophia sighed. "Shoot."
Gibb opened one eye. "What is it?"
"Cumulus."
"Cum what?" He straightened in the seat, opened his other eye and instantly wore a cocky expression on his handsome face.
She ignored his innuendo, ignored the spark of sexual awareness zipping through her. "Cumulus clouds. Although at this elevation they're called alto cumulus. A small street of them might be just bumpy, but they can be dangerous for small planes to fly through because they are formed in unstable air that is always trying to rise higher."
"So there is a chance for updrafts."
"Yes, and if the cumulus clouds gain moisture at higher altitudes, they turn into cumulonimbus clouds."
"Sounds like sex on a bus," he teased.
"It's not funny," she said. As happy-go-lucky and adventuresome as Sophia might be, when it came to flying, she did not make jokes or take weather lightly.
"What does this mean?"
"It means I'm not laughing about the cumulus clouds."
"Not that," he said. "Can we fly through them?"
"We could, but it could be much more than just a bumpy ride. Look how wide and thick they are. I wouldn't know the extent of how far they ranged until we were in the middle of them. And it might take as long as an hour to do it and I simply can't risk that."
"Don't you have some kind of radar or sonar or something to tell you this stuff?"
"Who do you think I am? The weatherman? You see anything on this 1971 control panel that looks like it could track a storm?"
"No."
"This plane isn't built for long-haul flying. I tried to tell you that."
"So what do we do?"
"We fly around the clouds."
"How long will that take?"
"It's weather. I don't have a crystal ball."
"Can you call a tower and ask?"
"There are no manned towers out here. I could call UNICOM, but they'd just tell me to fly around it."
Gibb drummed his fingers against the door. "Dammit."
"You said earlier that privacy is more important than speed. I'll get you there in plenty of time to break up your friend's wedding, even with the delay."
"I thought the tropical storm was two days away."
"This isn't part of the storm. If it were, the air traffic controllers in Nicaragua would have advised me to land. We're okay on that score."
Gibb chuffed out his breath, stabbed his fingers through his hair.
"You don't take detours in stride, do you?" she asked.
"Why should I?"
"Can't control Mother Nature."
The cumulus clouds were getting closer, stretching out across the corridor of their immediate path. The only part of the sky clear of cumulus clouds was due south. The opposite direction of where they needed to go.
Having little alternative, Sophia headed south. She wouldn't admit it to Gibb, but she was nervous. She'd never flown over the Caribbean and the army of cumulus clouds was not making life any easier. Still, there was no reason for any real alarm.
Everything was looking good, until she directed the plane eastward, hoping to skirt the cumulus clouds, and got caught up in a ferocious headwind. It pushed back against El Diablo with a speed of more than a hundred and sixty knots per hour.
Sophia battled against the wind, trying to hold the plane steady. The nose kept dipping and she struggled to keep it up. They rolled like a body surfer trying to navigate the waves off Oahu's North Shore. Her hands tensed on the yoke, tightening muscles all the way up to her shoulders.
"What's going on?" Gibb demanded.
"Hush!" Sophia snapped.
To her surprise, he did.
She took the plane lower, hoping the maneuver would lessen the push of the headwind, dropping down to four thousand feet. The Caribbean sparkled impossibly blue below them.
They were making no headway. Salmon swimming upstream had a better chance of getting where they were going. Initially, she'd hoped the headwind would slack off, but it only seemed to grow stronger. Her gaze focused on the gas gauge, less than half a tank remaining.
"We have to go back," she told Gibb.
"Why?"
"We're running low on fuel."
"We're running out of gas? I thought you fueled up before we left."
"We did, but a headwind this strong pulls fuel from the tank like water running out of a flushing toilet. If I don't make a decision right now, we won't have enough gas to make it back to Nicaragua."
"Is there somewhere closer we could land, fuel up and wait for the weather conditions to improve?"
Or even put him on a commercial liner. Truth be told, she was ready to get rid of Gibb Martin and get back to her nice, simple life of ferrying tourists back and forth from Libera to Bosque de Los Dioses.
"Well?"
She blew out her breath. "There's Island de Providencia."
"Let's go there."
"One problem."
"What's that?"
"The island lies due north. We'd have to fly right through the cumulus clouds to get there."
"Do we have enough gas to make it?"
"Theoretically, but there's no guarantee. Not with the strength of these headwinds. Not in this plane where I cannot fly above the cumulus clouds."
"So returning to Nicaragua is our best option?"
"Yes."
He swore under his breath.
"What is the big deal? Is stopping your friend's wedding worth risking our lives over?"
"I just wish there was an alternative to returning to Nicaragua."
"Well, there's not." Sophia turned the plane back in a southerly direction. Once they were headed west, the headwind would become a tailwind, and at that point, an advantage.
That's when the engine sputtered.
It was probably just an air bubble in the fuel line, nothing to worry about. She kept turning El Diablo, but to be on the safe side, she went down another thousand feet.
"What was that?" Gibb asked.
"Just a stutter in the engine," she reassured him.
"It doesn't sound good."
"It's an old plane. These things happen sometimes."
Gibb looked skeptical. "You're worried about it, too. That's why you've dropped altitude."
"No reason to be alarmed. It's always better to be safe than sorry," she said. Okay, she could handle this. She'd been trained by the best—her father.
"Yes, but your plane should at least be airworthy."
She glared at him. "My plane is plenty airworthy."
The engine sputtered again.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Most likely it's a cylinder misfiring from running the fuel mixture too rich," she said, ignoring the prickle of anxiety crawling through her stomach. She kept El Diablo in peak condition, but still... "Easy fix. I'll just lean up the mixture."
"What does that mean?"
"Leaning it up adds air to the fuel ratio." She pulled back on the orange handled fuel rod, while at the same time, keeping her eye on the tachometer, until the needle hit the optimal revolutions per minute on the gauge.
"Why didn't you already lean it up?"
"Because you want richer fuel at a higher altitude." She paused, listened to the engine, and heard nothing. Felt nothing. Good. That seemed to have fixed it.
She settled back into the seat. They were headed due west now. The tension eased from her shoulders. Sophia was about to reach for the radio to call into the nearest tower, when the engine sputtered again, this time louder and longer.
"So much for the fuel mixture theory," Gibb said.
Alarmed, but determined not to show it, she ran through her head all the possible causes for the engine cutting out. Maybe it was bad spark plugs? But she'd just changed them out a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she hadn't tightened down a wire?
She dropped down another five hundred feet.
"You take this puppy any lower and I'm going to need to put on my swim trunks."
If she hadn't had all her attention on the plane, she might have teased him and told him she didn't know he owned a pair of swim trunks. Or had an erotic fantasy about how sexy he would look bare-chested and dressed for a swim. As it was, she clenched her teeth tight and remembered everything she'd learned about how to make an emergency landing. It was something every pilot was taught, but hoped never to use.
The engine sputtered a forth time.
Her heart pounded. Don't panic, don't panic. "Gotta get this plane on the ground and take a look at that engine," she muttered to herself.
"What?" Gibb sat up straighter. "Where?"
"There." She pointed at the small, uninhabited island they'd flown over earlier.
"What's that?"
"An island."
"The size of a breath mint."
The engine sputtered, shuddered. "You got any better ideas?" she asked.
"You mean besides a crash landing?"
"An emergency landing," she corrected. "I'm going to do my best not to crash."
"We're going to crash!"
"There's a small strip of beach," she persisted as they flew closer. However, at this lower altitude she could see the spot was not nearly as big as she'd first thought and what there was of it was littered with driftwood and coconuts.
Not ideal at all, but it was their only option.
The engine sputtered again, cut out. Had to be the stupid carburetor. What could be wrong with the carburetor?
"Hang on," she yelled. "We're going down."
5
THE BELLY OF the plane skimmed the tops of the thick jungle forest. Fronds and branches slapped and scraped against metal producing a loud screeching noise. Gibb cringed, and grabbed on to his seat with both hands to brace himself for the fall and speared a glance at Sophia.
Sweat beaded her brow, her top teeth were sunk deep into her bottom lip, but her eyes were narrowed in grim determination and her expression declared, Come hell or high water, I'm landing this plane on this island.
That is, unless they overshot it.
Which, considering the compact size of the island and the thinness of the beach, seemed more likely with every passing second.
Damn those spies who'd freaked him out so much he'd chartered a plane that had no business doing anything more than ferrying tourists from airports to mountaintop resorts. Damn Scott for being so irrational and marrying a woman he'd only known for a month.
Hey, while you're at it, why not damn yourself? You're the one who allowed emotion to overrule common sense and you're the one who told her to keep flying instead of turning back like she wanted to.
Yes, okay, damn his hide for that.
Honestly, he was amazed at her calm skill. He knew grown men who would be whimpering like little girls in a similar situation. Hell, a yelp or two might have jumped out of his throat.
But Sophia was in complete control. Well, as much as anyone could be in control during a forced landing. Nervous as he was, he still had the utmost confidence in her ability to land this thing without killing them.
Unsecured items bounced around the cockpit. The box of snacks flew open, raining cookies, crackers, candy bars, marshmallows and bags of chips all around them. Stuff in the back of the plane shifted, slid, skidded.
With all the flying he'd done in his life, he'd grown lackadaisical. Taken it for granted that any plane he was on would stay airborne. Statistics bore him out. The chances of being killed in a plane crash were miniscule, but planes did go down. Small, old planes more so than others.
Hubris. He was full of hubris thinking he was immune. When had this sense of entitlement overtaken him? That he was somehow too special for any plane he was flying in to experience a mishap? He hadn't been born that way. In fact, when he was a kid, he'd felt anything but special. Maybe that was the reason why he'd worked so hard to be rich—the need to be special.
Where had that flash of insight come from? He wasn't particularly self-aware. He had, in fact, on more than one occasion, been accused of being oblivious in regard to his inner motivations. C'mon, who sat around and thought about stuff like that?
Apparently, during an emergency landing, he did.
The wheels touched down hard.
Gibb's head snapped back, his teeth clacked together. Had they hit the ground or something else? Hell, he had his eyes squeezed closed and every muscle in his body was coiled tight as new box springs.
The plane jolted, shuddered, stopped.
"We're okay," Sophia said.
Gibb wiped his sweaty palms over his knees and pried his eyes open.
The plane was tilting to the left. The late-afternoon sun shining through the windshield illuminated drifting dust motes on a shaft of light. Everything was
eerily silent.
Then the back end of the plane dropped a few inches.
They both jumped. Laughed nervously.
"Best crash landing I've ever had," he said.
"How many crash landings have you had?"
"First one."
"So you're really experienced."
He shouldn't be smiling in this situation, or teasing, but he couldn't help it. "Seen it all."
"Aren't I lucky to be with the most experienced passenger in the world."
Hey, she was teasing back. Why not? "How about you?" he asked. "How many times have you crash landed?"
Her cute little chin hardened. "I'm not in the habit of crashing planes if that's what you're suggesting."
Oops, he'd gone too far. He raised both palms and surrendered. "I wasn't taking potshots at your flying abilities."
"It sounded like you were."
"Now your mechanic's abilities..." He shrugged, gave her a deadpan expression. "Maybe."
She looked as if she'd just bitten into a lemon when she was expecting an orange. "I'm my own mechanic."
Great. Open mouth insert foot yet again. "Joke. I was joking."
"I overhauled the engine this year in mechanic school. With the teacher's supervision, I might add."
"You just finished mechanic school?" Ouch. He had to stop stepping on her toes.
"I'm a good mechanic," she bristled. "Top in my class."
"I'm sure you were."
"I was the only woman in the class."
Anything he said at this point was bound to backfire. Go with an honest compliment. "Really, that landing was amazing."
"You're just trying to placate me."
He was. "Look, I have a tendency to spout stuff off the top of my head. Ignore me."
"I did a thorough flight check before we took off and two weeks ago I did routine maintenance, changed the oil and spark plugs. Sometimes things just happen in spite of excellent maintenance."
"You're feeling guilty. Don't feel guilty. I was joking. You're easygoing. I thought you would get the joke."
"Easygoing about life, not about my plane."
"Duly noted. No more plane jokes."
"But what if it's my fault?" she fretted. "What if I didn't tighten a loose wire or—"
"Listen, if it was your fault, then you can feel guilty, but even if the malfunction was somehow your fault, you did land us safely. You get props for that." This was odd. He was the customer. He should be the one obsessing about the crash, not trying to make her feel better. But the poor woman looked so woebegone.
"I should have known ahead of time about that stack of cumulus clouds. I should have—"
"Spilled milk," he said. "Let it go. No point wringing your hands over something that's already happened. Let's just get a towel and mop up that milk."
Problem solver. That was his M.O. If you could fix a problem, then just fix it. If not, figure out how to move on. No point wallowing in recrimination or pointing fingers. Deal with the situation as it was. The plan had worked for him so far.
"I'm so sorry."
Gibb unbuckled his seat belt. "Don't apologize. Find out what happened to the plane and repair it so we can be on our way again."
"That sounds good," she said. "And of course I will try to do that, but it might not be as easy as it sounds. Complications have a way of arising."
"We find a complication, we'll deal with it."
She unbuckled her own seat belt, looked around at the debris littering the cockpit and sighed deeply. "Like the majority of North Americans, you're extremely goal oriented. If there is a ball, you must kick it. If there is food, you must eat it. If there is a mountain you must climb it."
"Costa Ricans don't care about goals?" Actually, this was part of the problem he'd encountered while trying to get things done in Costa Rica. People moved at a snail's pace compared to life in the U.S.
"Ticos are generally more interested in relationships than outcomes," she said. "We would rather enjoy our family and friends than rush around chasing some meaningless goal," she said.
"Meaningless? You call making money meaningless?"
"Do you have more than you can spend?"
"More money than I could spend in ten lifetimes."
"Then why does making more money matter?"
The question stopped him cold. He had no answer. "I'm going to Key West because of a relationship," he said. "If my purpose was a goal, I would let my friend make a big mistake and I'd stay focused on my project."
"Instead you are in neither place. I am sorry, Mr. Martin."
"Stop apologizing. I'm cool with the fact we had to crash land. Things happen. I get that. Let's just get a move on and get things repaired so we can fly out of here ASAP."
She looked dubious. "It would be a good idea to manage your expectations. I will try my best, but there might not be a quick fix."
"You said you were part American, now's the time to draw on that Yankee ingenuity and kick the lamentations to the curb." He pounded his fist into his palm in a gesture he used to get his employees fired up.
"This is why people find some Americans off-putting. They tend to think that their way is always the best way."
He straightened the lapels of his jacket. So what if he thought his way was the best way? Didn't everyone? You did what worked for you. That's why it was your way. "I put you off?"
"I didn't say me. I was simply pointing out cultural differences. I get to do that since I have roots in both cultures."
"I understand your point, but can we save the cultural sensitivity discussion for later? I'm kind of in a hurry here."
She shook her head and he could have sworn she mumbled, "Impossible."
He decided to let it go, pulled the latch on the door, and tried to shove it open. It moved, but no more than an inch before it hit something and wouldn't budge any farther. "What the...?"
"One of those expectations that requires management," she said lightly.
He huffed. Okay, he was in another country. There was always some culture shock involved. He could handle it. Just as long as she got this heap running in time to get him on his way to Florida to stop Scott's 4:00 p.m. wedding on Saturday.
Sophia tried her door and it opened with ease. She crooked a finger at him. "This way."
He climbed out, following her.
She stood on the beach at the front of the plane, surveying their situation, her delicate hands resting on her curvy hips.
He imagined her in a red string bikini and his heart rate kicked up a notch. Down, boy. Not the time, nor the place. Think of something else.
The plane wasn't level. The tire on the pilot's side of the plane was sunk into the sand. The other tire was parked on a large fallen tree. Jungle vines were whipped around the door handle. That's what had prevented him from getting out. But other than the imbalanced landing position, the plane didn't look too bad.
"What now?" he asked.
"I have to find out what made the engine sputter. If it's something repairable, I'll repair it. Then we have to figure out how to get the plane on even ground so that we can take off from the beach."
He glanced over his shoulder. The sea was only a couple of yards behind them. There certainly didn't seem to be enough of a makeshift runway to achieve liftoff, not that he knew much about it. He had to find another way off this island as quickly as he could. No offense against Sophia Cruz's mechanical skills or her flying abilities, but Gibb felt insecure without a backup plan.
"I'll get my tools," she said and crawled back inside the plane.
Gibb pulled his cell phone from his pocket and walked a short distance away. To the left of the plane lay a thicket of jungle trees, much like those found in the rain forest of Costa Rica. The island might not be big, probably no more than five miles long and three miles across, but it was high. Rocky outcroppings in the middle of the island jutted a good thousand feet into the air. He tried the phone.
No service.
Well, what did you expect way out here in the middle of nowhere? Certainly not cell phone reception. Grunting, he pocketed the device.
Sophia emerged from the plane with a red canvas tool bag. She had her pink cowboy hat fixed firmly on her head. "You're not going to get cell phone reception."
"So I figured. Show me how to use the radio. I want to call for help."
"We're probably out of range from an air tower," she said. "And besides, by the time we could get someone out here, I could have the plane repaired."
"In time to take off tonight?" He eyed the sun dipping toward the horizon.
"Probably not," she said. "I'm not taking off in the dark. Not from here."
"What if it's not an easy fix?"
"Let us cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Humor me. Let me try the radio."
"If you insist, but even if you did manage to raise someone on the radio, they're not going to helicopter Navy SEALs in here to rescue you. They'll send a boat, but not until daylight. We'll be here for the night, so chill."
"I don't do that very well," Gibb growled.
"Then make yourself useful."
"How's that?"
Her critical gaze skated over him, as she took in his suit. Fine. It wasn't beachwear, but he hadn't known he was going to end up on the beach.
"You could help me, hand me tools as I need them, or..."
He didn't much like the sound of that. Too passive. "Or what?"
"Go gather some driftwood and make a fire."
He stared at her. "A fire?"
"You do know how to make a fire, don't you?" She made rubbing motions as if she were using kindling. "Just rub two sticks together and glow."
Gibb grinned. "Nice riff on Lauren Bacall's character in Key Largo."
"To Have and Have Not."
"To have what?"
"The movie. The line isn't from Key Largo. It's from To Have and Have Not."
"No kidding?"
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"Maybe. I don't really know you."
She drew herself up to her full five foot two. "I am not a liar, Mr. Martin."
He was putting her off again. "I'll take your word for it. From now on I'll assume you're telling the truth. How do you know so much about old movies?"
"My mother was a movie buff. Sometimes when I'm feeling sentimental, I watch the classics."
"I wouldn't have suspected you had a sentimental bone in your body, Amelia."
"Why? Because I'm a pilot?"
"Because you're so grounded."
She laughed. "You missed the part about me being a pilot?"
"I'm not talking about your profession, but rather your personality."
"Thanks. I think." She turned and walked away.
He hadn't made a campfire in so long. When, and if, he ever found himself in need of a fire, he paid someone to make it for him. "What do we need a fire for?"
She stopped and looked at him over the shoulder as if he were the dumbest creature to ever roam the earth. "Light. Heat. Keep the mosquitoes away. To cook dinner."
"Dinner? Where are we going to get food? Beyond those junk food snacks in the plane."
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile. "If you're going to start the fire, I suggest you collect driftwood before it gets too dark to see where you're walking."
"I can gather all the driftwood in the world, but how am I supposed to light it without a match or lighter?"
"If you ask nicely, I'll let you use the matches in my emergency kit." She gave him a dazzling smile.
The smile did something to him. Lit him up inside in a way that left him feeling decidedly unsettled. "I'll just get at it, then."
"You do that," she said. "Now that you have a goal, I'm sure you feel better."
Dazzled and dazed, Gibb left her to gather wood. He was out of sorts from the crash landing, that's all this attraction was, nothing more. Yeah, okay, she was gorgeous and her legs in those skimpy cutoffs made him feel as if he'd just swallowed his own tongue, but it was nothing more than lust with an element of added danger.
With any luck, they'd be on their way by morning. As long as he kept his hands to himself, he ought to be fine.
Gibb swiveled around for another look.
Sophia was bent over, examining the plane's fixed landing gear, her delectable little fanny in the air. The pockets of her cutoff jeans stretched tight.
His tongue was notably plastered to the roof of his mouth and he instantly grew as stiff as an ironing board. Ignoring the sand filling his dress shoes, he turned and started picking up driftwood before he did something drastic that he could not undo.
Like seduce her.
* * *
SOPHIA TOED HER sneakers off—her mind worked better when her feet were bare—and set about inspecting the plane. Her toes sank into the sand, anchoring her to the earth. Grounded. A reminder to focus on what she was doing and keep her mind off how absurdly sexy Gibb looked standing on the beach in his fancy clothes. She half expected a men's fashion photographer to pop up and start snapping pictures of him.
Here was the thing. Gibb aroused her in a way no man ever had. That passion she'd told Josie about. Every time Gibb's hot-eyed gaze landed on her, she felt as if she would burst into flames.
Simmer down. She didn't have to act on her feelings. Except she and Gibb were stuck on an isolated island in the Caribbean Sea with nothing to do but either fix the plane or wait to be rescued. As of yet, she didn't know what was wrong with El Diablo.
Maybe she could repair it, maybe not.
She had taken off without doing anything more than filing a flight plan. They were out of radio contact range from any air tower. Her family had no idea where she was and when she'd gone to make those phone calls, one of them had been to Emilio breaking their date so he wouldn't be expecting her, either. The flight plan of a small plane flying into Key West could easily get overlooked in the shuffle. It might be days before either she or Gibb were missed.
Days spent alone together on a deserted island with a sizzling sexual energy surging between them.
C'mon. What's wrong with a little sexual thrill? A fling? A hot encounter meant to go absolutely nowhere but give them complete pleasure?
Yeah, it sounded good on the surface, but Sophia had a sneaking suspicion that a few wild days with Gibb would never be enough. Even now, just thinking about making out with him caused her body to tingle in all the right places.
She grabbed a tool. Must find out what's wrong with the plane. Must get this flying devil back in the air, pronto. Not just to get the impatient Mr. Martin to Key West on time to ruin his buddy's wedding, but to save her own skin. She was not going to, would not, could not have a sexual tryst with him.
A few minutes later, she discovered what had caused the engine to sputter. Whew, it was a minor fix. But her relief was short-lived as she soon stumbled across a bigger problem created by the bumpy touchdown. A problem not so easily resolved. Totally disheartening. Shoulders slumping, she took a step backward and ran smack dab into Gibb.
"Easy." His hand closed around her elbow.
She sucked in air. His body heat surrounded her along with his manly scent. She wrenched away from his grip and scuttled to one side.
Hallelujah, he'd finally taken off his tie and suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. About time.
Except now, his honed biceps were clearly visible and his muscles were even more impressive than she imagined they would be. He'd also taken off his shoes and rolled his pant legs up to his knees. Sand dusted his toes. On anyone else, it would have looked dorky. But somehow, he managed to still look both stylish and rakishly handsome. Business executive cool 101 or how to dress when crashed on a deserted island.
Seriously, he was too perfect.
An orange sun faded into the dusk as royal-blue twilight crowded the sky overhead. A mosquito buzzed at her ear and she batted it away.
His eyes never left her face.
"What is it?" she asked, unnerved.
He dazzled her with a toothy smile set to "stun" and nodded down the beach at a surprisingly large pile of driftwood with rocks ringed around it to create a fire pit.
Wow. He'd done all that? She was duly impressed.
"Those matches. I need them now," he said.
"Um, sure."
He kept staring at her.
"I'll just go get them out of the cargo hold." She walked backward toward the rear of the plane. She didn't want him looking at her butt again. Why had she worn shorts this short?
His smile never wavered. The breeze ruffled his sandy-blond hair and raised goose bumps over her skin. What would it be like to pull him down in the sand and ravage him? She'd never made out on the beach before, odd considering she came from a country that bordered the sea. But you know what? Out here in the middle of nowhere, she wouldn't mind giving it a go with Gibb.
Knock it off.
She had no choice but to turn her back on Gibb in order to dig the matches out of the cargo hold. She knew, without peeping over her shoulder, that he was still staring at her.
Hormones fluttered inside her like butterflies dancing around spoiled bananas. Her good intentions disappeared with the setting sun. Darkness had a way of making a girl feel so naughty. Why make out on the gritty sand when there was a nice blanket right here in the back of her plane?
Quit it!
Curling her fingers around the lightweight thermal blanket, she closed her eyes. He was a guest at the place where she worked. Hands off, no fraternization with the guests. It was a good gig and she certainly did not want to do anything that would cause her to lose her contract with them.
"Can't find the matches?"
Her eyes flew open. There was Gibb at her elbow looking sexy enough to seduce her without saying a word.
"Here." Her voice was shaky as she passed him the matches.
Their fingers touched.
Talk about igniting the flame. She was almost panting.
His smile said he knew every wayward thought flying through her head because they were flying through his, too. Weakly, she sank against the side of the plane, the blanket clutched to her chest as he strode off.
This time, she was the one to stare at his butt.
6
WITH THE WIND blowing off the water and the sun's vanishing act, the temperature was cooling down. Sophia wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl and wandered over to the fire pit. Gibb squatted to light an accumulation of dried leaves, sea grasses and twigs. After several minutes of nurturing the fledgling fire, he built it into a crackling blaze.
"Now." He straightened. "What were you saying earlier about cooking something to eat? I'm starving."
"I have a cooler with iced beer, wieners and hot dog buns in the plane."
"You carry wieners with you wherever you go?"
"Not normally, but I was heading over to my friend's house for a cookout after work before you demanded that I fly you to Florida."
"Would this be your male friend?"
"Yes."
"I would say that I'm sorry I interrupted your evening, but I'm not."
What did he mean by that? She glanced up and met his eyes—eyes full of desire.
For her!
Her stomach knotted and she tightened her grip on the blanket. Emilio didn't know yet that they were only going to be friends. She felt so disloyal lusting after Gibb when Emilio was back home unaware. She was absolutely, positively not doing anything with Gibb, no matter how much his sultry looks made her body shiver.
"I'll go get the cooler," she mumbled, ducking her head. Making eye contact with him was dangerous. Already, she felt edgy, achy and the sexual tension increased with every passing second.
"Stay put. I'll fetch the cooler," he said. "You're shivering."
Not from the cold, but from being so near him. "Okay."
He trotted away and for a few minutes she breathed easier until he returned with the red Igloo cooler and she made the mistake of meeting his eyes again.
Whoosh! Five alarm blaze.
From inside of her. Not out.
She'd never experienced anything like this. Not ever. Too bad it was the kind of passion she'd always been searching for. Why did she have to find passion with a wealthy American? She belonged in his world about as much as a biplane belonged in the space program. And in her world, he was just another client, someone for her to fly where he needed to go.
Except right now, they weren't in either of their worlds. This was a strange no-man's-land and that was the problem. No ground rules. No code of ethics. No road map.
Gibb set down the cooler and scanned the area.
"What are you looking for?"
"Something to use to skewer the wieners on."
Sophia burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You."
"What about me?" He found a dead tree limb and broke off a couple of small branches.
"Never in a million years would I have expected you to skewer wieners."
"Why not? I don't look capable of wiener skewering?"
"Caviar skewering, maybe, but wieners?" She shook her head. Then again, looks could be deceiving. With looks like his, he could have any woman he wanted skewering wieners for him.
"Do you think I have a stick up my spine simply because I have money?"
"Yes, sort of."
"What did I do to lead you to that assumption?"
"You wear a suit. Every single day while you are at a mountain resort."
"I wasn't there on vacation."
"So I gathered from your constant phone calls."
A suspicious expression crossed his face. "You've been watching me."
"I have."
He dropped the tree branches and stalked closer.
She stepped back
His eyes were narrowed. His body tensed.
Her stomach fluttered. Every time he stared at her, it knocked her off-kilter. "What is wrong?"
He moved closer. It was too close. "Are you a spy?"
"Please do not get in my face," she said calmly, even though her knees wobbled.
"Are you a spy? It's a simple question. Yes or no?"
Where was this coming from? What was he talking about? "A spy?"
"You heard me."
"For who?"
"Anyone. Everyone. Fisby Corp."
"Who?" She blinked.
He still hadn't backed off. His face settled into lines. "If you're not a spy, why were you watching me?"
"Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
"Why have I been watching you?" She swept a hand at his clothes. "Look at you. A gorgeous, exciting man in an Armani suit shows up in my quiet little corner of the world and I'm not supposed to look?"
A toothy grin broke through the frown and his shoulders relaxed.
"I am not a spy. You are simply..." she paused, searching for the right phrase "...eye candy."
* * *
"YOU THINK I'M gorgeous and exciting?"
"Oh, please, don't even pretend you don't know you're the sexiest thing on two legs."
He raked his gaze over her. "Look who's talking."
Sophia dug her bare toe in the ground. He said that now, but she could not compete with the likes of Blondie.
"So are we cooking those wieners or not?" She changed the subject. There was already enough tension between them, best to smooth over the spy accusations.
He retrieved the tree branches, skewered the wieners and handed one to her. They sat side by side on the sand roasting the meat and drinking beer.
"Why did you think I was a spy?"
"I'm sorry about accusing you," he said. "I'm jumpy about it."
"Why would someone be spying on you?"
Gibb cast a glance over his shoulder as if he suspected someone was watching them right now.
"Relax," she said. "For better or worse, it's only you and me out here."
"I've been burned by spies twice in two years."
"Fisby Corp?"
"Yes."
"Here, hold this." Sophia handed him her skewered wiener roasted to perfection. She rose up, dusted the sand from her bottom and went to the Igloo chest to retrieve hot dog buns and the squeeze bottle of mustard. "Continue."
"Because I invest in innovative products and entrepreneurs that I believe can earn me a high rate of return on my investments, there are a lot of people who want to copy what I'm doing or even steal from me and the people I've invested in."
"Which is why you wanted me to fly you to Key West instead of summoning your own jet to Libera. Someone could be tracking you."
"Exactly."
She put mustard on the buns and one by one, took the roasted wieners from him, slid them off the tree branches and nestled them into the hot dog buns. She passed one to Gibb, took one for herself and sat cross-legged back down beside him.
For a moment, they ate in companionable silence. It was nice; nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and whispering surf. A half-moon lit the sky.
"These spies are after whatever project you've invested in that's brought you to Bosque de Los Dioses?" she asked.
"That's right. Although to be honest, I can't say there are spies for sure. I've just gotten paranoid."
"Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, fool me a third time and—"
"You've got it." He nodded. "People start questioning my reputation and business suffers."
"But why Bosque de Los Dioses? Why not somewhere else in the world?"
"Costa Rica is well known for its environmentally conscious philosophy. It was a good fit with my project."
"So this is an ecological advancement?"
"It is. Plus the seclusion of Bosque de Los Dioses makes it a perfect place to build our prototype in as much secrecy as possible."
"Except Costa Rica is not known for, shall we say, an aggressive work ethic."
"You have hit the nail on the head in regard to the development issues I've run into."
"This is all very exciting." She rubbed her palms together. "Innovations and spies, high corporate drama going on in my little corner of the world. Can you talk about it at all?"
Gibb hesitated.
"I'm not a spy, I swear." She raised the palm of one hand, put the other down flat like she was pledging on a bible. Her mother had loved courtroom dramas, too.
"I won't get into the details," he said. "It's pretty technical anyway, but I can tell you this much, if the invention works the way the inventor believes it will, it has the potential to revolutionize the way people travel."
"Without oil or gas I'm assuming since it's a green technology."
"Correct. The prototype power source for the special track system will extend from Bosque de Los Dioses to Monteverde, connecting the resort to the nearest village."
"Wait a minute, let me understand this. You're connecting the mountain retreat that is currently inaccessible except by hiking or bush plane to the nearest village, so that people can go up to Bosque de Los Dioses by another means of transportation."
His wide smile brightened his face. "That's right. If everything goes according to plan, we'll be able to—" He broke off. Eyes widening, he stared at her. "I'll put you out of business."
She put a hand to her throat, swallowed hard. "It sounds like it."
Gibb rubbed a palm across his mouth. "Sophia, it never occurred to me that my project would impact your business."
"Why would it?" She shrugged, kept her voice even. What was she supposed to do? She specialized in taking tourists around Cordillera of Tilarán. It was her niche market. There were a couple of other bush pilots in the area, but it was not super competitive.
"It probably won't put you out of business completely," he said. "You might suffer a drop in income, but you can make up for it in other ways."
"You think so?"
He looked uneasy. "Sure."
"You know nothing about my finances. I have to make a certain amount to afford fuel and insurance and upkeep on the plane. That drop in income that you shrug off like it is inconsequential would be enough to ground me."
"There will always be people who want to fly over the mountains," he said. From the expression on his face, he thought this was a lame assurance, too.
"People come to Costa Rica for the ecotourism. Why take a gas guzzling old plane when they can hop on Gibb Martin's spectacular green transportation system." She hugged herself, leaned in closer to the fire.
"It might not even work. The project is a big gamble."
"If you didn't believe in it, you wouldn't have thrown your time and money into it."
"This transportation system will transform the way people travel, Sophia. It will benefit millions."
"And only a few bush pilots will be out of a job."
"It will create more jobs and Costa Rica will be at the forefront of the technology."
He was right. She knew it. Slap a "selfish" label on her. She'd found the one thing in the world she loved more than anything else and the man sitting across from her was putting it in jeopardy.
"I know it's a shock, but you have years to adjust. The track won't even be completed for at least two years, possibly much longer since we're in Costa Rica."
"Score one for me," she said, trying to joke, but it came out sounding sarcastic.
"I'll help you get another flying job. Hell, you could work for me," he said.
"Oh, I'm sure your current pilot would love having a little bush pilot in the cockpit with him."
"You'd need to have more training, of course, but it's a thought."
"I get it. When you run into a problem, you throw money at it and expect it to go away."
Gibb stood up and stalked over to her. He grasped her chin and gently but firmly forced her to look at him. "That's not what this is about."
She wrenched away from him. "It sure feels like it. You tell me your project is going to implode my world and, by the way, here's some money, go get more training and then come work for me?"
"I'm trying to forge a relationship here, Sophia. Between you and me. I made a mess and I want to clean it up. Earlier today you accused me of caring more about my goals than people. I'm trying to show you that's not true."
"Giving me a job to prove you have fantastic relationship skills doesn't make you people oriented. With you, making money will always come first."
"You don't know me well enough to make that assumption."
She raised both palms, got to her feet. "You're right, I don't know you personally, but you've been on my radar for two weeks and I have to say, actions do speak louder than words."
"Sophia, I regret that I've hurt you—"
"I'm fine. I'm walking away from this discussion. You're going to do what you're going to do and it's up to me to take care of myself. I'll find an answer on my own. I'm not your problem."
"It doesn't have to be like this. There's a solution."
"I don't want to talk about this anymore." She strode back to the plane. Rich men. Pfttt.
She reached El Diablo, rested her head on the wing. She was accusing Gibb of a lot of things, but she had her faults, too. Chief among them, she hated change. Life was easy for her. She was her own boss, set her own hours. She was only twenty-six and owned her own plane. She liked her life and did not want to adjust to a new way of being. In the grand scheme of things, if his project could make life better for many people, she was the one who had to adapt.
Spoiled. She was spoiled. She was the baby of the family and people had indulged Sophia her entire life. Something occurred to her then that had never occurred to her before. Maybe her brothers and sisters weren't as happy as she'd thought about Poppy having given her the plane. Or that she'd been the one he taught to fly. When the others were growing up, he'd been too busy making a living, then too grief stricken once their mother had passed away. Maybe her siblings had kept their opinions to themselves because it was habit, something they just did. Spoil their baby sister.
It had the ring of truth. While she might be adept at sizing up others, when it came to putting herself under the microscope, she looked the other way.
Sophia reached out a hand, stroked one of El Diablo's rivets and murmured, "We could certainly use something revolutionary to travel in now."
"Did you find out what's wrong?"
She let out a startled, "Eek!" She hadn't heard Gibb come up behind her. Stealthy billionaire.
He touched her shoulder. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I'm sorry for getting upset," she said. "It was just an unpleasant surprise. Like you said, it will take years to build the prototype. Who knows? Maybe by then I will decide to get married, have a big brood and give up flying."
"You'll never give up flying," Gibb said staunchly. "You love it too much."
"You're probably right, but the point is, who knows what the future holds? Things can turn on a peso."
He nodded. "What did you find out about the plane?"
"It was something minor, excess water in the fuel tank. Normally when there is water in the fuel it settles to the bottom and is siphoned out, but fighting that strong headwind sloshed the water around and it accumulated in the carburetor, causing the engine to sputter. All I had to do was drain off the water, problem solved."
Gibb did a little jig that looked so comical on him that she almost smiled. "Great! So we can take off at dawn?"
"Um," Sophia said, hating to break the bad news to him. "Not so fast."
He stopped in mid–happy dance. "What?"
"We hit a palm tree during the emergency landing."
"And?"
"Remember when the plane dropped after we stopped?"
"Yes." He sounded wary.
"A cable on the right rudder broke."
"But you can fix it, right?"
She blew out her breath. "I don't have the proper equipment to repair a broken cable."
"Could you jerry-rig it?"
"Possibly, but I don't know if I can repair it to the level that I trust a jerry-rigged cable to get us very far."
"We could shoot for Island de Providencia."
"With miles of nothing but ocean between here and there. If we have to land in the water..."
He jabbed a hand through his hair. "What else can we do? You said we probably couldn't raise an air tower on the radio."
"No, but when a plane flies over, we can contact them and have them radio for help."
"So all we can do is wait for an aircraft to fly over?"
"Yes. I will still try to competently rig the cable, but I don't recommend holding your breath."
"Either way, it could take days before we're rescued?"
"That's correct."
He muttered a curse word.
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. I'm just frustrated by the circumstances." He pulled a palm down his face.
"You could look at it this way. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you it's time to reevaluate your life."
He stared at her as if she'd suggested he start wearing crystals and chanting "om." She'd merely been trying to help make him feel better about the situation. She wasn't all that happy about being stuck here any more than he was. Her family would be frantic.
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with the way I live my life." He folded his arms over his chest.
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," she backpedaled. They couldn't seem to have a conversation without conflicting with each other. "I'm not accusing you of anything."
But he wasn't listening. Apparently, she'd pushed one of his hot buttons.
"I'm the American dream," he declared.
"But you're not in America now, are you?"
"I sure as hell wish I were," he said and stalked off into the darkness.
7
HE SHOULDN'T HAVE snapped at Sophia. She'd simply been trying to help him gain a better perspective on things. Gibb knew that. He also knew she was right and that's what irritated him. Lately, his life had taken on a sameness that gnawed at him—work, work and more work. To escape the feeling, he worked even harder, but things seemed to be falling apart. First the spies, then the jam-up on the patent grant and now Scott's defection because he didn't want, in his words, to be consumed by work the way Gibb was.
He was already a billionaire. What was he trying to prove? That he could be richer than everyone?
Being a billionaire wasn't much help to him now when he couldn't even summon a plane to fly him out of here. He paced toward the shore, stared off at the ocean glimmering in the moonlight. Who was he really?
"Gibb?"
He turned to face Sophia.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize," he said. "You weren't wrong."
She was so beautiful standing there, representing everything he did not have—freedom, fun, happiness.
"So all that glitters is not gold?" she whispered.
"I don't have fun anymore. Tonight, cooking hot dogs over a campfire was the most fun I've had since..."
Well, when was the last time he'd had real fun? Sure, he got a thrill from driving his Bentley fast down the Pacific Coast highway, but when was the last time he'd done that? And while it was thrilling, it didn't make him feel like a kid again the way being with Sophia did.
"We seem to be butting heads at every turn," she said.
"I know. I don't want it to be that way. I like you, Sophia. I really do."
She grinned at him. "You want to make s'mores?"
What a smile.
It made him want to lasso the moon, pull it down from the sky and gift it to her on a platinum platter. Except Sophia didn't need all that. She was happy just as she was. How did a person get to be so happy?
She held out her hand to him and he took it. Just like that the fence was mending.
In two minutes they were making s'mores and laughing as gooey chocolate and marshmallows dripped down their chins. Sophia flicked out a delicious pink tongue to lick away the chocolate. Gibb's body reacted instantly and he could not take his gaze from her face.
She caught him watching her. "Oops. That was sloppy."
He moved closer.
Her eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Probably making a big mistake," he said.
"Wh—"
But she got no further. He gathered her into his arms and kissed those lips he'd been aching to kiss since the minute he'd first stepped into her plane two weeks ago. He'd ignored the attraction because he'd been with Stacy, but he could deny it no longer. His desire for Sophia was off the charts. It wasn't going to lead anywhere. It couldn't lead anywhere. He didn't have any condoms, but he simply could not go the rest of his life without knowing what it would feel like to kiss her.
Her lips parted and she sank against his chest with a sweet little moan.
Gibb swallowed the sound, swallowed the chocolatey, graham cracker taste of her. Her lips were soft, pliant and sweet. He held her cradled in his arms, exploring her with equal parts of wonder and desire. He felt so alive, so vibrant.
It's just the situation. You're stranded. Alone. It's an adventure. But in his heart, he knew it was more than that. She drew him to her with a magnetic pull he couldn't begin to explain, didn't want to explain in case it ruined the moment.
Hey, he was living in the moment. When was the last time he'd done that? Had he ever done that?
She tunneled her fingers through his hair, clearly enjoying this as much as he was. He had not misread the signals. She was into him, too.
"Sophia," he murmured her name around their joined lips. "Sophia."
Her scent filled his nose, so sultry and feminine. With her tongue she tentatively traced his lips. He met that wicked little tip with his own tongue, sending things moving faster. He pushed past her parted teeth and explored the dimensions of her mouth. The finest wine in the world did not taste this rich, this satisfying.
Gibb's body responded fully, his erection growing hard against her thigh. He could not hide how much he wanted her. In fact, he did not want to hide it.
"Oh," she said breathlessly.
"I'm sorry," he said. "We'll stop. I just couldn't live one second longer without tasting you."
"What if..." She pulled back, her smile wide and inviting. "What if I wanted more than a kiss?"
"Do you?" he asked huskily.
"I... Yes..."
"We shouldn't."
"I know. I have a boyfriend and you have a girlfriend and I'm not a cheater."
"Neither am I, but this thing we're feeling..."
"It can't go anywhere," she whispered. "Not beyond this island."
"Why not?" he asked, feeling suddenly desperate. Why was he feeling so desperate? The need inside him had caught him off guard, stunned him. He couldn't think. All he could do was feel and he wanted to feel what it was like to be inside her.
She laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"I could never be with a man like you. Not for anything more than a good time."
"Why not?"
"Ticos are all about family and you are not all about family."
"I could be."
She shook her head.
"Maybe. I've never tried. I want to try with you."
"You are not thinking clearly. You don't even know me."
"I know I want you more than I've ever wanted any woman." His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear himself speak. Where was this coming from? Why did he feel so out of control? And why did being out of control feel so good?
"You would soon realize I do not fit in your world. Can you imagine taking me to one of your high-society events? I have no idea what's the right fork to use or what to wear in the company of—"
"Do you think I care about stuff like that?"
"You do care about stuff like that."
"How can you say that? You barely know me."
"My point exactly. We hardly know each other."
"What we're feeling has to mean something."
"I think it means we would have a very good time in bed."
"Nothing more?"
She shook her head again.
Why did his stomach feel so hollow? "Where do we go from here?"
"Let's get some sleep," she said in a shaky voice. "As soon as it's first light I will get to work on the plane and see if I can jerry-rig the cable so that it's strong enough to get us to Island de Providencia."
"And then what?"
"You take a plane to Key West to stop your friend from marrying the woman he loves, and I get El Diablo repaired properly and fly home."
"And after that?"
She met his eyes. "There is no after that."
Gibb swallowed. She made good sense. But there was one problem with that. All his life he'd done the sensible thing. The right thing. On the surface, it had served him well, but it had also brought him here. To this point where he was wondering precisely what his life was all about.
Maybe that's what this feeling for Sophia was. A reaction to the choices he'd made, the realization that without someone to share his life with, all the hard work, all the money in the world didn't mean a thing. Maybe that's why he really wanted to stop Scott from getting married. He didn't want his buddy to find the happiness that had escaped him, because if he did, Gibb would be completely alone. For all these years, he'd dated women who only wanted him for what they could get from him—beautiful women that made for pretty trinkets on his arm but had no substance. And when he met Sophia, he knew instantly that she had substance. She was a woman who made her own living, a woman who was happy in her own skin, a woman who was deeply loyal to those she loved.
He stepped away from her. "Too bad," he said. "I think we could have had something special."
* * *
WHAT HAD HE meant by "we could have had something special"? Special sex? Or special something else?
Sophia lay on her back on the blanket beside Gibb, staring up at the starry sky. The fire had burned down to nothing more than warm, glowing embers. She should never have kissed him back, but it had been so worth it. The man could kiss. No doubt about it. Sophia touched her lips.
That was the problem, of course. If he'd been a terrible kisser she wouldn't be awake long after midnight, mulling it over.
She cut her gaze at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing rhythmic. Was he asleep?
What was this special thing? It was lust to be sure, but there was a strong undercurrent of something additional—something deeper, more mysterious than lust. What was it? The feeling wasn't easy camaraderie like what she had with Emilio. Judging from the way Gibb made her feel—hot, breathless, achy all over—it was something far more complicated.
But they'd only been together for twelve hours. What kind of feelings could develop in twelve hours? Sure, they'd been watching each other for two weeks. Covertly flirting with lingering glances and sly smiles, but it had been nothing more than that. These last twelve hours had escalated things between them to an entirely other level.
Maybe it was the crash landing? Emergency situations had a way of bringing people closer together. Maybe that's what this was. They were dependent on each other and had only each other. It created a bond that would otherwise not have been created.
Oh, why had she let him kiss her? She could have stopped it. One palm planted against his chest and a firm "no" would have halted everything. Now, she knew precisely what she'd been missing in the romance department.
A whimper escaped her lips. What had she been thinking? Now she wanted more, more, more.
You weren't thinking. Just like you weren't thinking when you agreed to fly him to Key West.
He'd been staring out to sea, shoulders straight, hands clenched into fists, and she dumbly walked over to him full of apology and concern.
Instantly, she was afraid he hated her, but when he turned around and she saw that sheen in his eyes, she'd known it wasn't anger. In fact, it was why he was so prickly when he was around her—he was fighting an attraction he didn't want to feel. He didn't dislike her, not at all. In fact, it was the opposite. He'd been turned on.
By her!
He was as taken with her as she was with him. So much so that he'd crossed the line of propriety when Sophia knew he'd never have done so if it hadn't been for being alone on a deserted island. Yes, maybe he shouldn't have kissed her, but she most certainly shouldn't have encouraged it. If she'd drawn a line in the sand, he would have backed off.
Instead, she'd melted in his arms quicker than warmed chocolate and hot marshmallows on a graham cracker.
When his lips met hers, a mist of lust and unbelievable passion had curled around her brain, coaxed her forward into a "what if" dream. What if she were his girlfriend? What if they were to become a couple? What if he was as sensational a lover as he was a kisser? The things he could show her! The places they would go!
Stop it. The dream wasn't real. What was she thinking? He was a billionaire and she was nothing but a simple bush pilot. That kiss had wrecked her reasoning.
Honestly, though, how could she regret that moment with him? She might never be kissed like that again. He kissed the way she wished Emilio kissed. Kissed the way handsome men in telenovelas kissed—deeply, passionately, heartfelt.
Overhead a shooting star crossed the sky and before she knew what she'd done, Sophia made a wish, a wish for so much more than a single kiss.
That's when it occurred to her. Exactly how much trouble she was in. They could be stuck here for as long as a week, with no one else around, nowhere else to go, nothing to do but pretend their sexual attraction didn't exist...surrounded by a hypnotic ocean, the sweet fragrance of jungle flowers.
A week?
If they were here a week there was no way on earth that Sophia would be able to keep her hands to herself. Not when the sexiest man alive was lying right next to her.
* * *
STRONG RAYS OF sunlight jerked Sophia awake at dawn. For one disoriented minute, she forgot where she was. Blinking, she sat up, pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Her gaze strayed to the spot beside her and then she remembered—the plane crash, eating s'mores, kissing Gibb Martin, everything.
But now, she was alone.
Where was Gibb?
Alarmed, but trying not to panic, she leaped to her feet, searched around for her shoes and found them off to one side of the blanket. She'd lain beside Gibb on that blanket, dreamed of making love to him.
Where had he gone?
Footprints in the sand led toward the forest thicket. Maybe he'd left in search of coconut, bananas or mangos for breakfast. Sophia followed the footprints until they disappeared into the trees.
She stepped past the coconut palms to the green fronds of banana trees and resurrection ferns, past tightly wrapped bromeliads. The farther she went, the thicker the vegetation grew. There were mango trees filled with plump fruit, tall ciebas stretching for the sky, strangler trees and the medicinal smell of eucalyptus. Moss and lichen slicked the forest floor covering the craggy outcroppings of rock.
The jungle was alive with activity. Colorful birds twittered from the trees. She spied a blue-gray tanager, a pair of crimson-fronted parakeets and white winged doves. A bevy of buzzing hummingbirds flitted from one brightly colored flower to another. There were heliconia, pink torch ginger, passionflowers and bougainvillea. Butterflies and moths fluttered about. She recognized thoas swallowtails, a banded peacock, zebra longwings and giant sphinx moths. A red-eyed tree frog stared at her from a banana leaf and she spied a lungless salamander as it scuttled near her feet.
Sophia held her breath. So beautiful! It was an island paradise that rivaled the beauty of Costa Rica. A wave of homesickness hit her and then she heard the sound of water rushing over rocks. A sound she heard every day of her life except for the year she lived in California with her aunt's family.
A waterfall.
The noise drew her deeper into the forest. Maybe Gibb had come into the jungle looking for food, heard the waterfall and decided to make for fresh water.
And even if he hadn't, a quick shower in the cool water sounded heavenly, especially since her hair and clothes smelled like smoke from their campfire.
She trudged through the thick undergrowth. Living in Cordillera of Tilarán, she was accustomed to the humidity, but the altitude of her volcanic mountain home kept the heat at bay. Here, already, it was at least eighty degrees and the day had only just begun. She longed for the ocean breeze that couldn't reach this far into the dense tropical landscape. But the island wasn't that big. She had to come upon the waterfall soon.
She paused to take a break, plucked a ripe banana from a tree and ate it for energy. Sweat beaded her forehead and she swiped it off with the back of her hand. She resumed her walk, the increasing sound of the waterfall drawing her nearer.
She skirted a strangler tree, pushed through a clump of ferns taller than she was and there it was.
The waterfall.
With a very naked Gibb Martin standing beneath it.
Sophia's mouth dropped open. A punch of pure animal lust hit her low in the belly. He was more magnificent than she'd ever imagined.
His back was to her.
Unbidden, her gaze slid down the full length of his body, starting at the top of his dark head and slipping over the sharp angles and honed muscles of his exquisite frame. His shoulders were broad, his waist lean.
And his butt was so impressive she bit back a whimper of desire. She crouched, not wanting him to see her. She wanted to feast her eyes on him to her heart's content.
She scrutinized the hard planes of his back only slightly obscured by the curtain of falling water. He made a quarter turn, giving her a view of his fine rib cage. Her heart thundered, galloped faster.
He was so athletic and his muscles bespoke hours upon hours spent at the gym. There was nothing soft about him. He was a rock, strong and stalwart, unmoved by the blasting force of the water.
She shuddered and the most feminine part of her softened, moistened.
He leaned forward, braced his arms on the rock face in front of him, ducked his head and allowed the water to sluice down his exquisite back. The water darkened his sandy-blond hair to the color of refined honey. The glistening strands were plastered sleekly to his head.
Torn between lust and guilt over spying on the guy, Sophia pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth and let out a long, slow sigh. Her blood raced hotly through her veins and the sweat was back on her forehead, but this time it wasn't from the heat.
Her stomach dipped and she took a deep breath. She'd never felt so out of control and she loved the sensation.
And when he turned just a little bit more, giving her a side shot of his rock hard abs, she gasped. She'd never felt pure joy before from looking at a man. She wanted to kiss him from head to toe.
He was wet and smooth and, frankly, beautiful. A work of art.
Compelled by a force that she could not resist, Sophia crept closer, tiptoeing through the thicket of greenery, her pulse pounding through her veins. She trod a thin path along the spongy ground.
The gurgling water churned her erratic thoughts. Wanna touch him. Wanna stroke him. Wanna taste him. Want him to touch and stroke and taste me.
The uncontrollable urge to see more of him consumed her. She edged into a small clearing where a beam of sunlight managed to trickle through the treetops. She spied his clothes lying neatly folded on a large rock. She resisted the impish temptation to steal his clothes, but oh, boy, just thinking about it had her fanning herself.
His muscles flexed as he washed himself and she simply could not look away.
At last! She had seen him without his suit on. It had definitely been worth the wait.
Head thrown back, face turned up to catch the water flow, eyes tightly closed, he moved and Sophia saw every inch of him in all his naked glory.
And he was totally erect. The man had a lot to be proud of.
Perspiration sweltered on her upper lip. Sophia pressed a palm to her mouth, her breath coming out in short, shallow pants. It was crazy to be this overwhelmed, but she could not pry her eyes off him. A dangerous heat pooled low in her body, spread outward to her limbs in a languid tingle.
Get out of here before he catches you watching him!
Except she could not make herself move and then he did something that sent her over the edge.
Gibb touched himself where Sophia ached to touch him.
Desire claimed her then. Total and complete, and with a force so strong it shoved every other thought, idea, dream and image from her mind. She would not—could not—leave this spot, even if her life depended on it.
8
UNDERNEATH THE SOOTHING fall of water, Gibb gritted his teeth and struggled against what his body was urging him to do. He hadn't slept a wink last night. Lying next to Sophia, it had been impossible to sleep. Her body was so lush and tempting, all he wanted to do was touch her, kiss her and make love to her on the sand.
Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he'd risen just before dawn and wandered into the jungle. That's when he'd heard the rushing water and decided to investigate. Maybe exploration would distract him from these ever-present thoughts of Sophia.
After he saw the waterfall, he figured why not use the cold-shower cure? Except that it didn't seem to be working. In fact, all he could think about was what it would be like to have Sophia underneath the waterfall. He shuddered hard as he imagined exactly what it would be like to sink into her sweet body.
He thought about how she'd tasted last night as his lips had claimed hers. How firm her breasts had felt pressed against his chest. How soft her skin had been beneath his palms. How her dark eyes had lit with a hungry fire that matched his own.
She'd captured his imagination in a way no other woman ever had. He was spellbound.
His erect shaft throbbed painfully. If he made love to her, he would cross a line that he'd never before crossed—starting a new relationship before he'd finished an old one. He might be something of a player, but he'd never been a cheater. His stepfather might not have known how to show him love, but he'd drilled honor and integrity into Gibb's head.
Then there was the fact that his head was not in the right place. He was upset over losing Scott as a partner. His need for Sophia might be nothing more than an urge to feel close to someone at a time when everything seemed to be falling apart.
Except deep down, he knew that wasn't true. He would have been attracted to her anytime, any place, anywhere. He found her that compelling.
And that sexy.
She was what he'd been searching for all his life but never dared articulate. If he dared to let himself care for her, she would change him in a hundred different ways.
All of them good.
So what was he afraid of?
Love.
That word. He had no idea what it really meant. But whenever he looked at Sophia, his heart squeezed and he starting thinking what if?
You don't know her.
But he wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything about her.
He touched himself, but in his fantasy, it was Sophia's delicate hand rubbing his shaft. Every nerve ending in his body sizzled as he imagined cupping her breasts as the water drenched them.
A groan slipped from his lips.
In his mind's eye, he pressed a tongue to the hot pulse of her throat and tasted honey. He brushed his lips against her nipples, felt the pink peaks stiffen. He pressed a hand to her chest, felt the dash of her pulse. He was out of control and he knew it, but he didn't care.
His imagination was so vivid, so real that he could almost hear the sound of her soft moans. "Take me, Gibb. Take me now."
He squirmed, arched his back. His hand moved harder, faster, his thoughts of her, only her, his raven-haired, brown-eyed goddess.
His breath came in short gasps and his brain cried out, "Sophia. Sophia. Sophia."
* * *
OH, MY.
Sophia resisted the urge to step forward as she watched Gibb pleasure himself. It was rude, it was voyeuristic, but she found it impossible to look away because it was so incredibly arousing.
Not only did she not look away or leave, but her own hand strayed naughtily to the waistband of her shorts.
What are you doing, Sophia Maria Cruz?
She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and smiled. She was making herself feel better. Scratching an itch. Taking care of this crazy desire in exactly the same way Gibb was.
Once they relieved the pressure, then they could concentrate solely on getting off this island, and they would do it without the messy complication of actually having sex with each other. It was a win-win scenario, particularly when Gibb didn't know that she was in on it with him.
She unsnapped her denim shorts and slid down the zipper. She drew in deep breaths of the thick, humid air and licked her lips.
Gibb rubbed the end of his erection.
Sophia closed her eyes for a second, imagined putting his mouth right where she was touching, drawing moans from her now parched lips. How erotic this was....
She pretended her fingers were Gibb's fingers moving lightly over her skin. Her body ached for him as she continued watching him. He slowed his pace, lengthened the strokes. Mimicking his movements, she pleasured herself long and slow, savoring the damp heat of her body, touching the tender place where she'd imagined he was touching.
"Gibb," she breathed his name on a sigh.
She had hid behind a bush in case he did open his eyes. She didn't want him to get a sudden surprise if he should finish before she did.
It felt so good. She'd never done such an audacious thing, making love to herself in broad daylight out in the open and it felt shockingly free. And yet why not? There was no one to see her, only Gibb.
What would he say if he knew? Would he think it was sexy? Be embarrassed or alarmed at her outrageous behavior. Then again, he had no room to argue, standing up there on that outcropping of rocks underneath the waterfall.
He was her most vivid fantasy come to life.
He quickened his pace, his movements growing frantic.
Sophia followed suit and slipped a caressing finger inside of her hot, wet femininity and a shuddering moan passed over her lips.
Velvet.
A second finger followed the first and she wanted to believe it was Gibb inside her, but no matter how hard she tried, fingers could not approximate a man's taut body. She whimpered. This wasn't working the way she thought it would. It only made her want him more.
She closed her eyes and kept them closed as she thought of his big body over hers. His warm breath on her face and neck. His teasing touch everywhere.
Her entire body tensed. She pinched one of her nipples with her left hand, envisioned Gibb's teeth lightly nipping at her. She arched her back and thrust her hips upward.
Yes, Gibb, yes.
The release was on her, quicker than she anticipated, rocking her body.
Suddenly chagrinned, she grabbed her loose clothing. Her face felt flushed. Her heart rate bounded at a speeding clip. What had she done? Instead of sating herself, her climax only seemed to fuel her desire. She wanted Gibb and nothing short of having him would stop this burning need.
She willed herself to calm down and darted a glance back to the waterfall just in time to see Gibb obtain his own release.
Too bad she hadn't been there to share it with him.
"Sophia," he cried out.
Startled, she jumped, thinking he'd caught her. That he knew exactly everything she'd just done. Anxiety mixed with excitement as she scrambled to explain herself.
She opened her mouth to tell him she hadn't seen anything, but he sank down on his knees below the rushing water, his eyes still tightly closed.
It dawned on her that he hadn't seen her at all. He'd simply called out her name at his moment of release. While he pleasured himself, Gibb had been fantasizing about her, just as she'd been fantasizing about him.
Emotionally moved, she wanted to go to him, plant kisses all over his face, tell him how excited and honored she was that she was the one that had affected him so. It was humbling and awe inspiring and it made her even more aroused than she'd been before. But she dared not do that.
Instead, Sophia moved away as quietly as she could, praying he did not open his eyes before she disappeared.
* * *
FEELING LESS RELIEF than he thought he would, Gibb returned to the beach. He found Sophia working on the rudder at the back of the plane, tools strung out on the ground around her.
"Morning!" he called.
She jumped and looked up, a guilty expression on her face. "Morning," she mumbled, not meeting his gaze.
Good. He didn't really want to look her in the eyes, either. He was still feeling unsettled over what he'd done under that waterfall.
She was breathing fast, too, as if she'd just sprinted a mile in under four minutes, her breasts rising and falling with each accelerated breath. She walked around the left side of the plane.
He followed.
What was she so unnerved about?
Gibb couldn't keep his gaze off her, which was a serious problem. He had to get off this island for so many reasons. He needed to stop Scott from making a mistake. His endeavor back at Bosque de Los Dioses was wide open to corporate spies without him there. But most of all, this attraction to Sophia was getting absolutely out of control. If he stayed around her much longer, he didn't think he could stop himself from seducing her. She was that irresistible.
"I was out scouting for breakfast," he said.
"Oh?"
He pulled fruit from the pockets of his jacket that was still damp from the waterfall spray. "Bananas, mangoes, passion fruit, this place is crazy with passion..." Why did he hesitate after he said the word passion? "...fruit."
"Um, thanks." She dusted off her palms on the seat of her shorts and ducked her head, but not before he saw that her cheeks were bright pink. Was she embarrassed about something?
He thrust a banana at her.
She seemed caught off guard, but accepted the offering.
A steady silence stretched between them as they munched on the fruit. It was not one of those comfortable silences that couples who have been together a long time fall into easily. No, this was one of those edge-of-your seats, sexual tension type silences that seemed to go on forever.
Dammit.
He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. That was the central problem. If these feelings were one-sided, then he could have ignored them and the self-pleasuring under the waterfall would have sufficed. But he and Sophia were like two pieces of flint sparking off each other. Sooner or later, they were bound to ignite. All the more reason to get off this island as soon as possible.
"So," they said in unison.
"You go first." He swept a hand at her.
"No, no, what were you going to say?"
"It's not important. What's on your mind?"
"I had nothing of consequence to say, either."
There it was again, that pesky silence.
"I was just..." they said in the same breath.
Gibb laughed. "Okay, one of us is going to have to say what we're thinking."
Sophia looked so alarmed by that comment he had to wonder just what it was that she had been thinking.
"You," she said, "you tell me what you were thinking."
Um, well, he wasn't going there. "I was just wondering if you have a better handle on what it will take to repair your plane."
She grimaced. "The cable could be jerry-rigged enough to get us to Island de Providencia, if I could find something to substitute for a ferrule."
"What's a ferrule?"
"It's a cylindrical joint that can be slipped over a cable and crimped to secure it. A thimble would help mightily, too."
Gibb scratched his head. "You mean like a sewing thimble?"
Sophia laughed. "You're not the least bit mechanically minded, are you?"
He raised a palm. "Guilty as charged. Mechanical as a bumblebee."
"A thimble is a metal sleeve that protects a loop from wear. We could do without the thimble since we're not trying to go far."
"Is there anything on the plane that you can use to fashion into a ferrule?"
"I can't come up with anything I can use as a stand-in. I was about to rummage through the back of the plane and see if that would inspire some creative thinking."
Slowly, she began to unpeel the banana.
His gaze was glued to her fingers. Her movements were so languid and gentle he couldn't help wondering what they would feel like if—
Knock it off, Martin. Stop looking at her hands.
Her lips closed down over the tip of the banana.
To distract himself from the vision, he picked up a plump mango, dried the fruit against the sleeve of his suit and took a bite. The sweet juices filled his mouth, ran down his chin.
Sophia quickly removed a napkin from her hip pocket. She leaned over to dab the juice from his face.
The gesture was so intimate, so unexpected that Gibb's body started to react all over again. How could he get hard again so soon after having an orgasm? Sophia magic. That's all there was to it.
"Thanks," he said gruffly.
She handed him the crumpled napkin and took a step back.
A third elongated silence filled the space between them.
"Would you like to see the broken cable?" she said at last.
As if he could offer any kind of useful input. But it would be something to do besides stand here and feel foolish. "Yeah, sure."
She led him to the rear of the plane and pointed to the rudder. "See here?"
Sure enough, the metal cable had been sheared clean in two. He could not even begin to imagine how she would jerry-rig that. Any lingering hopes he'd had of flying out of here today evaporated.
Don't panic, Scott's wedding isn't until Saturday. It's only Thursday morning. There's still a chance. Slim, but the chance was there. He'd hold on to that hope.
Gibb shook his head. "I can't imagine how you would repair this."
"Let me show you." She found a stick and drew a picture in the sand to illustrate how, if she could find a metal ring of some kind, she could loop it around the cable to secure it in place. "But the trick is that it has to be a piece of metal that I could crimp with pliers or a hammer, while at the same time being sturdy enough to hold the cable closed." She frowned. "I don't think I have anything like that on the plane."
He leaned in and took another look at the cable. In doing so, his elbow accidentally grazed against her breast.
Simultaneously, they both jumped apart.
Sophia sucked in her breath.
"Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It was totally an accident."
"I didn't think otherwise."
"That's good because it wasn't otherwise. I didn't intentionally graze your boob."
She chuckled. "Your apology is making things worse."
He cringed. Never mind that his entire elbow was tingling and his blood churned. "It is, isn't it?"
"This is an uncomfortable situation."
"It really was an accident."
"I'm not talking about the boob graze."
"What are you talking about?"
She lowered her long, thick eyelashes and sent him a coy smile.
A sudden, disturbing thought ran through his head and somehow he just knew that she'd seen him underneath the water. Immediately, his face was hot. He moistened his lips.
He heard a low buzzing sound, like a bee inside his brain. His mind clouded—confused, alarmed, ashamed, he turned away from her.
"Plane," she said.
"What?" He blinked.
She pointed to the sky. "Overhead. It's a plane."
That's where the buzzing was coming from.
Their eyes met.
"The radio!" they cried in unison. What was this tendency they had to say the same thing at the same time?
They raced back to her side of her plane and ran for the door. Their hands landed on the handle at the same time.
They both leaped back as if burned.
Simultaneously, they reached forward again and damn, if their hands didn't collide once more.
"Stand back!" Sophia yelled.
Yes, ma'am. Although it went against his natural instinct, he stepped aside and allowed her to take the lead. This was her plane after all and her radio.
She yanked the door open, hopped inside, put on her headset and fiddled with the dials.
"Dammit," she cried, trying to find the radio frequency of the aircraft that was passing overhead. "Why didn't I have the radio on?"
Gibb blew out his breath, jammed fingers through his hair. Already, he could no longer hear the sound of the plane.
Sophia was speaking into the headset, but he could tell she hadn't made contact, that she was just throwing the information out there, hoping against hope the plane would pick it up.
For several minutes, she repeated her call letters and a mayday message. Finally, in frustration, she yanked off the headset and stormed away from the plane. She stalked to the water's edge and arms akimbo, stared out at the ocean.
"What happened?" he asked, coming up behind her.
"Something's wrong with the radio. I could hear them, but apparently they couldn't hear me. We just lost our only real way of getting off this island."
* * *
"IT'S OKAY," GIBB SAID.
Sophia shook her head. "It's not okay. I promised I'd get you to Key West and I failed."
"Look, it's not your fault. You did the best you could. These things happen."
She spun on her heels to face him. "It is my fault. I knew better than to try to fly you to Key West in El Diablo, but I let money and a sense of adventure convince me I could do it. Ego. It was pure ego. This is what happens when you get too big for your britches."
Gibb cast a long appraising glance at her body. "You look just right for your britches to me."
"Don't try to make me feel better."
"Why should I kick you when you're down? You're doing a good enough job of that."
"I failed you. I should have turned back the minute I saw those cumulus clouds, but oh, no, I had to be a hotshot."
"I'm the one who pressured you to keep going, remember?"
"I was the pilot." She placed a hand over her heart. "I was the one who allowed you to pressure me."
"Now I see your American side is coming out."
"What do you mean?"
"You're being way too hard on yourself."
"No," she denied. "I'm not being hard enough."
"How's that?"
Sophia raised her chin. "Because there is another reason why I did not want to turn back."
He arched a sexy eyebrow. "What reason?"
"You," she admitted, knowing full well she was treading into dangerous territory.
A smile darted across his face and amusement danced in his gray eyes. He had such remarkable eyes. "Me?"
"I wanted to spend time with you."
"Really?" He said it as if he didn't believe her.
She nodded. "I wanted to be around you since the day I picked you up at the Libera airport. I knew you had a girlfriend, hey, I had a boyfriend, but I didn't care. That's how selfish I was. I wanted to be with you and last night, when you kissed me, I wanted more."
He gulped visibly. "You did?"
"I did. I'm a terrible person, coveting a man I can't have."
"You're not terrible. In fact, you're the opposite of terrible. You're smart and funny and sunny and honest."
"Now you're just trying to make me feel better." But she noticed he did not deny that she could not have him.
"So what if I am? There's nothing wrong with trying to make someone feel better and I am telling the truth."
Sophia drew in a breath so deep it made her lungs shudder. "I'm just so frustrated about all this."
"What?" he asked with a sly grin. "The plane problems or the way you feel about me."
"Both."
"Hey, look at it this way, you wanted to spend time with me, now you get to do a whole lot more of that than if we hadn't crashed."
Her face heated. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."
"How do you mean?"
"I'm supposed to be the laid-back, chilled one and you're supposed to be the hard-driving, let's-get-the-show-on-the-road one. Role reversal."
"It's because we make a good team," he said. "One is up when the other is down and vice versa. We level each other out."
Sophia liked the sound of that. It was true. She couldn't help smiling. "So what do you suggest? Crack open a coconut and lay on the beach and wait for someone to notice we're missing and send out a search party?"
"There is that. I wouldn't have picked this for a vacation, but now that we're stuck here, we might as well make the best of it."
"I can't believe you are saying this. This is such an about-face for you."
"Hey, it's my way of trying to control the fact that I can't control what's happening."
That twisted logic did make sense. Sort of. "It might take Blondie a while to realize you're not back. That black credit card of yours has no spending limit."
"Ah, but your family will sound the alarm."
She frowned, nibbled her bottom lip. "I hate to think how worried my family will be."
"You filed a flight plan. Eventually, we'll be found."
"Yes, but because of the cumulus clouds, I veered off course. It might take quite some time."
"I'm a man of influence. The search party will be aggressive. We will be found." He wasn't bragging, just stating a fact.
"But what about your friend that is marrying the wrong woman? You will not be there to bring him to his senses."
Gibb shrugged. "Maybe it's the universe's way of telling me that I need to let my friend make his own mistakes."
"Can you accept that?"
"What choice do I have?"
"When did you turn philosophical?"
"A day with you is already starting to rub off on me. Wanna go get that coconut?" He winked.
It was tempting. Relax and let nature take its course was the Costa Rican way, but it was a source of pride for Sophia that she would get Gibb to his destination.
"I can't take a break," she said. "I have to go see what happened to the radio. I can't believe the bad luck of a broken rudder cable and a busted radio all because of a little water in the carburetor."
"What's your strategy?"
"Fix the radio first. It's the way we'll most likely get rescued. After I finish that, I'll figure out a way to repair that rudder cable."
"What if I wanted you to just hang out with me?"
"I wouldn't believe you for a second. I know what you're really like, Gibb Martin, and it's taking everything you have in you not to tell me to get my fanny in that cabin and fix that radio."
"All right," he said. "I won't stand in your way. But what am I supposed to do while you're working on that?"
"Make yourself useful."
"In what way?"
"Go fishing," she said. "There's only one wiener left, so you might as well use that for bait."
"How do I catch fish without a fishing pole?"
"You're the man who invented Zimdiggy, are you not?"
"I am."
"Then use your imagination." With that, she climbed into the plane and set to work examining what had gone wrong with the radio.
9
USE HIS IMAGINATION, huh? If Sophia only knew how fertile his imagination was, she would not suggest he use it.
Gibb could see her inside the plane, her head bent, her face covered by that jaunty pink hat and his body reacted. Fighting off his baser urges, he took a step forward. He hadn't been fishing in years. About the same length of time it had been since he'd started a campfire.
He reached the door of the plane that she'd left open and peered around the corner. "Can I dig around in your emergency-supply bag?"
"Dig away," she mumbled without looking up at him.
Gibb searched through the canvas bag. He found a bar of soap—wished he'd known that when he took his waterfall shower—matches in a watertight bag, flares, two flashlights and extra batteries, a bag of peanuts, four bottles of water, a Swiss Army knife, candles, a first aid kit and a sewing kit.
Ah ha. Perfect!
All he had to do was braid several strands of thread together to create a fishing line, light a candle, wax up the threads to strengthen the line, bend a sewing needle, tie the line to a stick and bait the hook with the leftover wiener.
An hour later, Gibb cast his makeshift line into the water, where he could already see fish skimming below the crystal-clear water. He lay back in the sand and got comfortable. If someone had told him two days ago he'd be leisurely fishing off a Caribbean island with sewing thread and a needle, he would have laughed. Now, he felt inordinately proud of himself.
A shadow fell over him and he looked to see Sophia standing there.
"What is it?"
"If you're going to lie out here in the sun, you need the hat, not me." She dropped her cowgirl hat down over his face.
The hatband smelled of her hair, sweet, floral, feminine. He pushed the hat up on his face with the tip of his thumb and watched her sashay away. You can put that swing in my backyard anytime.
He grinned, settled the hat back down over his face and felt his body relax. He was beginning to see why people took vacations. He must have dozed off, because he jerked awake some time later when the pole he held loosely in his hand gave a tug.
A bite! He had a bite.
Excited, he yanked on the line.
The string pulled tight against him. The fish was big. So big he feared it would break the threads. "Sophia! Sophia!"
She popped out of the plane. "What is it?"
"I caught a fish." It had been so long since he'd been fishing, he forgot what to do.
"Well, pull it in."
"I'm afraid it'll get away."
"Wade out and catch it. You're fishing in shallow water."
"Oh." He hadn't thought about that. He stuck the pole in the ground and bent to roll up the pant legs of his suit. His father would be appalled.
When he finished, he straightened and reached for the pole, only to discover that the fish had pulled it out of the sand and was dragging it out to sea.
"Hey, come back here!" Gibb splashed after the pole and managed to grab hold of it.
But the fish gave another jerk and Gibb fell face forward into the water.
He came up sputtering but still managed to keep his hands wrapped tightly around the pole. "You're not getting away you..."
He and the fish played tug of war for a few minutes, but finally he managed to drag it ashore. It was a good ten-pounder. Feeling as pleased with himself as when he scored a big return on an investment, he slogged back to shore, the flopping fish held triumphantly in his hand.
"Woman!"
Sophia appeared. "You bellowed?"
"Your he-man returns with grub." For effect, he grunted like a caveman.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. "You look all of twelve years old."
"What a rush! It was amazing." A pump of endorphins lit him up like the Las Vegas strip. The morning was warm, but he was wet. He shivered. From the damp or from something far more complicated? "What kind of fish is this?"
"Snook."
"Is it edible?"
"Delicious."
"Ha!"
"I like seeing you this way." She canted her head and studied him with an expression that made his entire life up to this very moment worth living. The look was filled with so much more than sexual attraction. It was beyond friendship. It was bigger, richer, fuller, magnified, leaving him tongue-tied and speechless.
How incredibly beautiful she was with her glossy black hair shining in the sun. Her smile dug deep down inside him and for one moment Gibb felt a sudden urge to turn and run, but there was nowhere to go. Besides, he was filled with wonder and awe. And he might as well admit it, fear, because these kinds of thoughts did scare a guy, didn't they? And Sophia stirred all kinds of crazy feelings inside him.
It wasn't just that her dark brown eyes seemed to shine brighter. It wasn't that her breasts were pert, poking through her bra and that devastating little crop top. It wasn't even her flat, taut, caramel-colored belly that he tried not to pointedly stare at. The unbelievable part was that in the short time they'd been apart—her working on repairing the radio, he fishing—he missed her. Sophia seemed to have taken on a lustrous, incredible glow that he hadn't noticed before. Who had changed? Him or her? Or maybe they both had?
"Sophia." He breathed.
"Yes?"
"You look..." He couldn't think of a word to fit her image, but he sure was staring.
She stood barefooted, sand covering her sexy little toes painted a pearly peach color and she put a hand to her cheek. "Do I have something on my face?"
He shook his head, opened his mouth to tell her she was the most gorgeous creature he had ever clamped eyes on, but no words came out. The craven urge to run overtook him again but even if he could have sprouted wings, he couldn't fly. His feet were rooted to the spot, ground deep like a thousand-year-old sequoia.
And if the gasping fish hadn't flopped against his leg, Gibb could have stared at her until the end of time.
"You're sopping wet," she said. "Strip off."
"Wh-what?" he stammered.
"Out of those clothes." She snapped her fingers. "Take them off. Now. You'll catch your death of cold."
He started to argue that being wet and cold didn't cause illness, but why miss an opportunity like this? "Strip off everything?" He grinned slyly.
Her cheeks colored. "Um, keep your underwear on, of course. They will dry fast in this heat. I'll spread your suit out on the airplane's wing for the sun."
"What do I do with this?" He held up the fish.
"Here, give me that." She took the fish from him, holding it by the line. "Off with the clothes."
"Yes, ma'am." He'd shrugged off his wet jacket.
She held out her free arm and he draped his jacket over her elbow. There was no mistaking the lusty look in her eyes. No doubt about it. This woman would be very responsive in bed, or on the ground for that matter.
His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. "I feel so cheap," he teased.
She snorted and turned her head, but a second later, he caught her eyeing him again.
He started humming, "The Stripper," as he finished unbuttoning his shirt and whisked it off. When he stepped forward to drape the shirt over his jacket on her arm, he saw she was trembling.
Truth be told, so was he.
"What happened to your chest!" she exclaimed.
Gibb put a hand to the puckered puncture wounds in the center of his sternum. "Stingray."
"My gosh. Like the Crocodile Hunter?"
"Exactly like the Crocodile Hunter," he confirmed.
"When did it happen?"
"Ten years ago. My buddy and I were diving off the Great Barrier Reef."
Sophia hissed through clenched teeth. Her concern touched him. "How did you manage to survive being barbed in the chest?"
"Through the quick thinking of my friend Scott."
"The guy whose marriage you want to stop?"
"Yes." Gibb rubbed the scar. It didn't hurt anymore, but the memory of that intense pain still lingered. "If Scott hadn't been there to stop me from pulling the barb out, I would have likely died. It's a natural instinct to want to pull it out."
"Scott saved your life."
Gibb nodded. "Because of the medical training he'd received in the Coast Guard, he knew just what to do."
"And now you believe it's your turn to save him?"
"Well, despite what I said earlier, marriage isn't quite life or death, still, I have to make sure he knows what he's getting into."
"You must have suffered a great deal."
"No biggie." He shrugged. Honestly, he didn't really like talking about it. To derail the conversation, he unsnapped the fastener on his pants.
Her gaze drifted lower, following the movements of his hand.
Gibb eased the zipper down. Teasing her a bit, but it backfired. He was aroused and the minute he took his pants off she was going to know exactly how much he wanted her.
She seemed to catch on and quickly turned her back to him. "Hurry," she said in a husky voice. "I don't have all day."
"Um, could you back up here so I can use your shoulder to help me balance while I strip my pants off. When they're wet, they stick to skin."
"So I've noticed," she mumbled as she backed up toward him, her arms outstretched, fish held in one hand, his clothes in the other.
"You know," he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. "This could be a sitcom episode."
Her muscle twitched beneath his palm. "Gilligan's Island."
"I'd be the professor," he said, balancing on one leg as he peeled off his soaking-wet pants.
"Not hardly. You're Thurston Howell the third."
"Hey," he protested, shifting to the other leg. "I'm not that old."
"Okay, I'll give you that. Mr. Howell was older, but you've got the same outlook on life—money, money, money. Plus, he was a dapper dresser just like you."
"That's stereotyping."
He tugged off the other pant leg. The warm breeze hit his wet skin and the erection he'd been working on stiffened. Good thing her back was to him. He was also glad he preferred boxers to briefs, although more than one girlfriend had made fun of him for that. Calling him old-fashioned. Hey, his underwear was pure silk and cost a hundred dollars a pair. Once you've had that kind of luxury, it was hard to go back. Oh, god, he was like Thurston Howell the third.
"Be happy that I didn't say you reminded me of Gilligan or the Skipper," Sophia pointed out.
"I suppose I should take my strokes where I can get them."
The word "strokes" seemed to hang orphaned in the air. Or maybe it was just his imagination since he'd been dreaming of stroking Sophia in a thousand different ways.
"So who am I on the island?" she asked. "Mary Ann or Ginger?"
"Hands down, Mary Ann."
"Why Mary Ann?"
"Are you kidding me? Petite, dark hair, spunky." He added his trousers to the pile of clothes on her arm and took the fish from her. He held the snook up in front of him to block her view of...ahem...down under in case she should face him.
"And cute as a button," Sophia said with disdain.
"What's wrong with cute?"
"Why not Ginger? Why don't you see me as Ginger?"
He felt caught off guard by the question. Why would she even want to be Ginger? Mary Ann had substance. Ginger was all flash. "She has red hair."
"That's superficial. What if Ginger had black hair? Could I be Ginger then?"
"Ginger would never have black hair."
"But what if she did?"
"Ginger is tall."
"So what? Height is not everything."
"Are you getting mad at me?"
She turned around, her nostrils flared. "What's Ginger got that I don't have?"
"Nothing! That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"Just once," Sophia said. "I'd like to be sexy and slinky like Ginger."
"Believe me, sweetheart, you're plenty sexy," Gibb said.
"Blondie is a Ginger, isn't she?"
"Stacy? Yeah, she's a Ginger."
"See, even you like Ginger better."
"I do not like Ginger better."
"Then why are you with her?"
"Why, Sophia, are you jealous?"
She tossed her head back, sending a cascade of black hair rippling over her shoulders. "I wish I was tall and slinky."
"Don't get me wrong, Ginger has her place, but Mary Ann?" Gibb shook his head. "She's the woman you want by your side when the chips are down."
"The chips are down now," she said.
"They most certainly are."
Sophia looked pleased and he wanted to laugh out loud with joy that he'd pleased her. "Go take care of the fish," she said. "I will spread your clothes out to dry."
"I'm on it."
As Sophia walked away, Gibb couldn't help thinking that neither Mary Ann nor Ginger could hold a candle to her.
* * *
"YOU ARE A very good cook," Sophia announced over a late lunch of grilled snook and mangoes.
Gibb sat across from her on a rock wearing black silk boxers. It was all she could do to keep from sneaking glances at him.
"Mmm. This is delicious," she carried on.
"I'm a man of many talents," he bragged.
"Humility not being one of them," she teased.
He winked at her.
Sophia's body heated and she got so flustered, she couldn't hold his gaze. Whatever was going on with them seemed to have escalated by warp speed. Probably because he was nearly naked and his honed, muscled chest was on display right there in front of her. She had a strong urge to run her tongue over the irregular edges of his scar.
"I repaired the radio," she blurted because she couldn't take any more of this flirtatious banter or how his silk boxer shorts flattered his legs. She was hanging on by her fingernails here.
Gibb's eyes brightened. "Excellent. I knew you could do it. What was wrong?"
"A cable inside the radio got crimped, I'm guessing during the course of the bumpy landing. I had to take the entire radio apart to find what it was but once found it was a quick fix. All I had to do was uncrimp the cable. We're good to go the next time a plane flies over."
"That's a step in the right direction."
"Next problem to solve is the rudder."
"Is there enough light left to tackle that today?"
Sophia eyed the sky. It was three o'clockish, not even twenty-four hours had passed since they'd touched down on the island. "It's not the light that's the issue. We have the campfire and flashlights. The main issue is that I still haven't come up with a possible replacement for a ferrule."
She had racked her brain trying to think what she could use as a substitute. "If only there was some kind of linkage, a chain—"
An idea started to form. It was illusive at first, but in her mind she kept seeing a link. Mentally, she chased after the image trying to remember where she'd seen such a thing.
"Sophia?"
"I've got it!" She jumped to her feet.
"Got what?"
The platinum bracelet that Gibb wore was perfect. She could dismantle it, take out two links from the chain, position the broken cable through the links and hammer the chain so hard around the cable that the forged metal wouldn't allow the cable to separate in flight. At least long enough to get them to the Island de Providencia. Of course, that meant destroying what was undoubtedly an expensive piece of jewelry. Her gaze flew to his right wrist.
It was bare.
"Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"That chain you wear around your wrist. If I take out a couple of links, they'd do as a makeshift ferrule. Where is the bracelet? You had it on last night."
Gibb's hand went to his wrist and he muttered a curse.
"Did it come off in the water while you were fishing? Let's go look for it."
"No." He shook his head. "I took if off this morning when I showered beneath the waterfall. It must still be there."
An extra blast of heat went over Sophia as she remembered that morning at the waterfall. She ducked her head so her eyes would not give her away. Suddenly, her body ached exactly as it had when she'd spied on him.
"Let's go find it," she said, charging ahead of him into the jungle, but then made herself stop. She didn't want him to know she knew where the waterfall was. If he ever found out she'd seen him...
He came up behind her.
"Which way?" she asked, hoping her nose would not grow from feigning ignorance.
He took her elbow. "This way."
She dissolved at his touch. His bare chest was so close. All she'd have to do was reach out a hand and she could strum his defined ribs with her fingertips. A jolt of awareness electrified her. They were about to return to the scene of the crime so to speak.
Gibb went ahead of her. The thin path through the thick foliage was too narrow for walking abreast. He pushed aside thick fronds, held them back until she'd passed by them. The waterfall pattered, the sound drawing them closer to it.
She ran her gaze over his naked back. He was all sinew and muscles, straight out of a fantasy. She thought about the scar on his chest and she imagined stroking it with her fingers.
The silk boxer shorts flowed like water when he moved, dark and silky. It made her think of dark nights and naughty deeds. Everything about him, from his intelligent gray eyes, to the sleek way he made her feel privileged to be in his extraordinary company.
That was the problem of course. A woman like her would never be in the company of a man like him outside of a plane crash on a deserted island. This was fantasy. She knew that, did not believe that it could ever be anything more. As long as she kept that straight, anything that happened between them would be fine.
Her gaze strayed down his spine to the waistband of his boxer shorts. The air fairly vibrated with his masculine energy and it stirred the thick sexual undercurrent that had been brewing between them for the past two weeks.
The sound of the waterfall grew nearer. The afternoon sun peeped through the trees here and there, casting long shadows through the jungle.
Gibb turned slightly, held out his palm.
He wanted her to take his hand?
Thrilling, absolutely thrilling, and scary to boot.
He wriggled his fingers at her.
Sophia accepted his hand and allowed him to lead her deeper into the forest. His grip was firm, warm. She felt secure in a way she'd never quite felt before. It was a fairy tale. Surreal.
Keep your mind on what you're doing. Get that bracelet, get back to the plane, work as fast as you can to repair that cable and you might be able to get out of here before sunset.
And before she completely gave in to temptation.
Her breath was already coming out labored in the humid air. It felt as if they were moving languidly through water. Time crawled as she became infinitely aware of everything—the feel of Gibb's palm pressed against hers, the way the rippling muscles in his arm stood out, how she and Gibb seemed to be connected by so much more than just their hands.
The waterfall became louder, along with the pounding of Sophia's pulse as she recalled exactly what she'd done that morning when she'd watched Gibb. Heat swamped her.
He parted the fronds in front of them and there it was, the waterfall, bathed in a swath of sun as colorful birds flitted through the sheltering trees. A shimmering rainbow glowed at the top of the fall, several feet above their heads. Cooling spray splashed her heated skin. Her gaze went to the spot on the opposite side of the pool where his clothes had been left folded on the closest rock.
Gibb's hands tightened around hers and Sophia's stomach dipped and swirled. Was he reliving this morning's events, as well? She held on to him. The lusty part of her was hoping for a kiss.
But Gibb simply stopped, his eyes narrowed. Sharp, smart eyes that missed nothing. Intense eyes that belied his youthful age. He was accustomed to being cautious, guarded.
Metal glimmered in the yellow light.
"There it is!" she exclaimed. Salt. Disappointment tasted like salt in her mouth. Had she not wanted to find the bracelet? Sophia shook off the thought. No way. She was happy. Elated. Ready to get off this island in fact. Ready to be on her way.
"Where?" he asked.
"Right there." She pointed.
"I don't—"
But before Gibb could finish speaking, a black and brown spider monkey scampered down from a strangler tree, snatched up the bracelet with one hand, and with the toes of one of his long back legs swung away on a vine like Tarzan.
10
"GET THAT monkey!" Sophia shouted.
Gibb was already on it, tearing through the dense foliage, Sophia on his heels.
The monkey chattered, apparently enjoying the game.
"Come back here," Gibb yelled.
The monkey grinned wide, flashed a row of teeth and dangled the bracelet a few feet above Gibb's head, taunting him.
Stretching his arm wide, Gibb jumped up, tried to snag the bracelet from the monkey's paw. Futile. He knew it. But Sophia was watching.
The monkey let loose with a gleeful noise and leisurely reached out with his other paw and grabbed another vine. Two quick swings, and he vanished from their sight.
"Dammit!" Gibb swore.
Sophia giggled.
"It's not funny." He glowered.
She slapped her hand over her mouth and struggled to look serious. "The situation is not funny, but you swearing at a monkey makes me smile."
"Well," he said sheepishly, "I'm glad I amuse you."
"Also, when you jump..."
"Yes?"
"You, um...jiggle."
He put a hand over his private parts. "You weren't supposed to be watching that."
A mischievous light sparked in her eyes. "Now what woman would not be staring at a guy with a fit body like yours?"
Not to be outdone, Gibb raked his gaze over her body. She sure filled out those shorts.
Sophia was the first one to look away. She moved ahead of him, pushed back fronds and vines and charged heedlessly into the forest. "C'mon."
"Get real," he called after her. "We don't stand a chance of catching him."
"I don't know about you, but I'm not a defeatist. Think positive."
"Okay, I'm positive we don't stand a chance of catching him."
The monkey chattered up ahead, unseen among the leaves.
"See, he's laughing at us. He knows we're up a creek without a paddle."
Sophia kept going, her curtain of long black hair swaying against her waist as she moved. What an image. It only took her a few steps and she was out of sight, too.
"Hey, wait up," he said, rushing after her. The verdant air smelled of spoiled fruit. Gibb stepped on a rotten mango and it squashed messily beneath his foot. Ugh. He swiped his foot against moss growing on a tree root. He felt as if a hundred pairs of luring eyes were watching, sizing him up as a potential meal.
The tropical forest was Sophia's territory, not his. Give him a boardroom or a cocktail party over a wild jungle and jewelry-stealing monkeys any day of the week. That platinum bracelet had cost him five thousand dollars, but money wasn't the issue. The real value of the "gent's band" as the jeweler in Australia had called it, was what it represented—his bond with Scott.
Yes, the infernal jungle was unpleasantly sultry and the monkey was annoyingly irritating, but what about the rainbows and waterfall and fishing and campfire s'mores? Had to take the good with the bad, right?
He followed the leaves still trembling from her recent passage. Vines and twigs scraped his body. He wished he had on more than silk boxer shorts and Gucci loafers. He stepped over fallen trees, skirted an anthill crawling with black ants so big they looked like licorice jelly beans with legs, tread carefully over soft ground and startled when he almost touched a long green snake so camouflaged he didn't see it until its quick red tongue flickered at hm.
"Sophia?" Gibb called out. Where had she gone?
"Shh," she hissed.
Slowly, Gibb inched forward through the vegetation. After some minutes, he found her standing perfectly still in a small clearing.
"What is it?" he whispered.
Sophia pointed upward.
The spider monkey that had stolen his bracelet was perched high in the top of a tree and sitting beside him on the branch were two other monkeys.
Gibb craned his neck. "All right, you found him. What now?"
She tapped her forehead. "Let me think."
The platinum glimmered in the sunlight. One of the other monkeys scooted closer to the first monkey and tried his best to look completely nonchalant.
"Maybe if we could tempt them with some fruit..." Sophia mused, stroking her chin with her thumb and forefinger.
"They've got fruit all around them. Why would they come down here where we are?"
"You got any better ideas?"
He did not.
Suddenly, the second monkey made a grab for the bracelet. The first monkey screamed and shoved the second monkey who slipped from his perch. He chattered angrily at the first monkey, snatched up a vine and swung to a nearby tree.
"A day at the zoo," Gibb muttered.
"Have you ever been to the San Diego Zoo?"
That seemed a random reference. "Sure. Have you?"
"My aunt Kristi took me there many times while I lived with her. I think she thought that seeing all the animals would keep me from being homesick."
"Did it? Keep you from being homesick?"
Sophia shook her head.
"It had to be hard for you so far away from home when you were so young."
She kept her eyes trained on the monkeys, but her shoulder muscles tensed. "It was fun, too, playing with my cousins. I missed them when I returned to Costa Rica."
"How long did you live with your aunt and her family?"
"A little over a year." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
It was clearly a tender topic and he wasn't sure why. He should probably stop quizzing her, but she was so fascinating that he wanted to know everything about her. "How was it that you came to live with your aunt's family?"
She paused for so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer. "Never mind," he rushed to say. "It's none of my business."
"My mother died of bacterial meningitis when I was twelve."
"Ah, Soph, I'm so sorry." Now he felt like a jerk for being nosy. "That had to be tough."
Sophia shrugged, but her eyes were sad. "It was a long time ago, but I still remember that zoo. I loved the monkeys most of all because they were so much like people."
"Funny," he said, "that you liked the zoo when you were raised among animals in the wild."
"Here's the thing. I took my home for granted until I went to the zoo. It was only then that I recognized that not everyone was as privileged to see these beautiful creatures in their natural habitat. Going to the zoo made me feel so very lucky and I'm thrilled there was such a wonderful place for people to come and see animals that they might otherwise never have the chance to see." Her face took on a pensive quality that made him feel as if he were the most deprived man on the face of the earth.
"I get it, Soph."
The first monkey stuck the bracelet in his mouth. He bit down on it, took it out of his mouth, studied it and then bit on it again as if testing to see if it was real. A third monkey closed in on the first. This one wasn't playing coy. He was clearly intent on getting his hands on the bracelet. He puffed up his chest and made quarrelsome noises that Gibb imagined was something along the lines of "hand it over, buddy," in primate speak.
The thieving monkey bared his teeth at the third and held the bracelet behind his back like a kid playing keep away. The second monkey popped back up again behind the first monkey while he was fending off the third monkey.
The second monkey snagged the bracelet and took off, making a deriding noise.
The monkey who'd originally made off with the bracelet let out a shriek and the chase was on. Three monkeys swung and shook the trees, jabbering at each other like trash-talking professional boxers.
"Why do I feel like I'm on an episode of Punked?" Gibb mumbled.
Sophia elbowed him in the ribs. "Keep moving. If they get away we have no chance of getting that bracelet back."
Not knowing what else to do, he followed her once more. "You are clearly an optimist, Sophia Cruz."
"I can't believe you are such a pessimist," she tossed over her shoulder as she plunged deeper into the jungle. "As successful as you are, I thought you would have learned by now that you have to see past external appearances in order to achieve goals. Just because all seems lost doesn't mean that's the case."
"It sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"When my father gave me El Diablo everyone laughed at me. No one except my father thought I could make a go of a bush charter service."
"How did that make you feel?"
"More determined than ever. I am very headstrong when I set my mind to something. Besides, I had Poppy on my side. All it takes is one person to believe in you."
The way that James had believed in him. His adopted father might not have been demonstrative or ever told Gibb that he loved him, but he'd set the bar high and held Gibb to that standard.
"It wasn't easy," she went on. "El Diablo was not in the best shape. The plane had been grounded for over a year before my father finally came to terms with the fact he was never going to fly again."
"That couldn't have been easy for either one of you."
"I remember the day Poppy came to me and said, 'Mi, hija, I have been a vain man, unable to admit when my race is run, but it is not right for a beautiful bird like El Diablo to stay grounded simply because I am. It is his destiny to fly and you are the one I want to fly him.' Then he gave me the keys and hugged me and we both started crying."
"I can't get over the amount of courage it took for you to succeed in spite of the naysayers."
"'Daydreamer,' they all called me. 'Just like your mother.' But they did not know that daydreaming is how you see the big picture. I looked past the obstacles, fixed my gaze on my goal and went after what I wanted." She cocked her head and grinned. "That, plus I've read Jonathan Livingston Seagull like nine hundred times."
"You have an amazing spirit, Sophia Cruz." He heard the admiration in his voice, acknowledged he did admire her deeply.
"So take a page from my notebook and believe that we can get that bracelet back."
"There's optimism and then there's pipe dreaming."
"But how do you know it's only a pipe dream until you try?"
"I'm optimistic when things are within my control," he said. "When things are out of my hands...then that changes the playing field."
"You can never tell when the tide will turn."
Gibb slogged through the dense underbrush. His feet kept slipping on the slick lichen and the silk boxers were swishing against his thighs, causing a friction rub. "I could do with a turning tide right about now."
Sophia disappeared from his view again. Damn, he better pick up the pace if he didn't want to get left behind in the jungle. He wished he had his phone to use the GPS. He shoved aside a banana leaf and she wasn't there. It would be so easy to get lost in here. One big green frond looked pretty much like another.
"Sophia? You there?"
No reply.
"Soph?"
Well, he'd be lying if he said his pulse hadn't kicked into overdrive. What if something had happened to her? Disturbing images of a jaguar snatching her up in its jaws raced through his head, but when Sophia reached out a hand from the overgrowth, slapped her palm over his mouth and pulled him up beside her, what he felt was—
Utterly aroused.
Her soft breasts were pressed against his back, her palm tasted both sweet and salty against his lips and her elbow was crooked around his neck. Her sexy scent invaded his nostrils, fanned the flames burning inside him.
"Don't say a word," she whispered in his ear, her voice low and her breath warm and ticklish against his skin.
Silk boxer shorts didn't disguise a thing. Gibb closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and fought a losing battle against nature. The only saving grace? She was behind him.
"They're close to the ground." She removed her hand from his mouth.
Who? What? Huh? What was she talking about?
Chattering and rustling came from the nearby trees.
Oh, yes, the monkeys. Gibb opened his eyes.
Just inches above their heads sat the three monkeys playing tug-of-war with the bracelet.
"Don't move," she murmured. "They're so busy fighting that they haven't noticed we're here."
They stood like that, not moving, Sophia's lush body pressed to him. At this point, he was so worked up that he didn't give a damn about the bracelet. Which, considering he'd worn it every day for the past ten years, was saying something.
The spider monkeys swatted at each other, slapped and bickered.
"Monkeys are interesting," he observed, determined to get a handle on his desire by grabbing hold of anything that could shift his attention.
"They are," Sophia concurred.
The monkey who currently had the bracelet jerked his head up, spied them, let out a screech and took off through the trees, the other two hot on his trail.
"Come on," Sophia said. "Let's go."
Gibb groaned. "How long are we going to do this?"
"Until we get that bracelet back." The grit in her voice spoke of the kind of determination it took to be a venture capitalist.
He smiled. "Let's get it, then."
They were so deep into the forest now that no sunlight filtered through. Everything was shaded and shadowed and the air was distinctly cooler. From far behind them came the faint roar of the waterfall. They'd been out here for hours. Even if by some miracle they managed to get their hands on the bracelet now there was no way Sophia could repair the plane in time to fly out of here before sunset. Another day. They'd lost another whole day, but sometimes admitting defeat was the best plan of action.
He was just about to say this, when the miracle happened.
The monkey dropped the bracelet—plunk—right there at Sophia's feet. She snatched it up with a triumphant hand. "Got it."
The monkey screamed and started jumping up and down on the branch. His cohorts joined in.
"You snooze, you lose," Sophia told the monkeys and slipped the bracelet into the front pocket of her shorts.
One monkey snatched a passion fruit from a tree and chucked it at them.
"Hey!"
The second monkey joined in, then the third.
It was a monkey melee as they pelted Gibb and Sophia with passion fruit.
"Ouch!" Sophia raised an arm to protect her face. "Vicious little freaks."
"C'mon." Gibb grabbed her hand. "Let's get out of here."
Laughing, they ran through the trees, sticky with passion-fruit juice. Once they were out of range of the ill-tempered simians, they stopped running and paused to catch their breath.
"Boy, are monkeys sore losers," she muttered.
He met her gaze and they started laughing all over again.
"You've got stuff on your ear," he said, leaning in to flick away the glob of fruit seeds with his thumb.
She stared deeply into his eyes and he had the sensation that he was falling into her welcoming arms.
"What now?" he murmured.
"I don't know about you, but I need to rinse off. Let's see if we can retrace our steps and find the waterfall."
Gibb glanced around them. "How can you retrace your steps in the jungle? I mean, plunk me down in Manhattan or Miami or Paris and I'm your guy. But this place?" He shook his head. "Your bailiwick."
"We'll try to follow the sound of the water. If worse comes to worse, we'll eventually find the ocean. This is an island, after all."
"Lead the way."
It was odd, being the follower for once. He was normally a hard-charging dynamo, rampaging from one project to another. But he wasn't too proud to admit when he was out of his league.
They tramped through the jungle for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than thirty minutes. He was more than ready to get back to the beach and into some clothes.
The vegetation started to thin and the sound of the waterfall was growing louder when Sophia stopped so abruptly, Gibb almost plowed into the back of her.
"Look," she said breathlessly. "Oh, Gibb, just look!"
He peered over her shoulder to see what she was pointing at, but he was too distracted by her scent to pay much attention. Her breathing was coming in quick little inhales and exhales of air, her sensual lips were parted, her gaze transfixed, the blue vein at the hollow of her throat pulsed rapidly.
She was excited.
And her excitement excited him. Everything about her turned him on.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Ghost orchids," she whispered.
"Huh?" Finally, he wrenched his gaze from her and looked to see what she was talking about. Dazzling white flowers hung suspended from a thin network of vines wrapped around the base of a number of bald cypress trees.
"One of the rarest orchids in the world," she said. "Do you know how special this sighting is?"
"Pretty unique?"
"It's a once-in-a-lifetime find." Legs shaking, she edged forward. "The ghost orchid."
Gibb examined the flowers with new respect. Anything that had the power to reduce tough little Sophia to trembling deserved his reverence.
The luminous white flowers had no leaves and hardly any stem. In fact, they seemed to be suspended in midair. He'd never seen flowers shaped quite like this. They resembled albino frogs with long legs extended.
"Magic," Sophia murmured, running her fingertips over the slender petal. "Pure magic."
As the twilight deepened, the flowers took on an ethereal glow. From the shadows descended a flurry of giant moths almost as big as hummingbirds. They fluttered about, from flower to flower, hungrily drinking sweet nectar.
"I can't believe we are lucky enough to be here to witness this! Amazing. Sharing this moment with you is something I will remember for the rest of my life."
She was going to remember him for the rest of her life? Exaltation swelled Gibb's chest, made him catch his breath. Impulsively, he reached for her hand, squeezed it.
For the longest time, they stood there, holding hands and watching the flying ballet. Breathing in the calliope of fragrance—an effervescent aroma, fresh and clean with undertones of grapefruit, moss, vanilla and the barest hint of star anise. The hot, steamy jungle night enfolded them. Insects chirped. Unseen creatures rustled through the foliage. The queenly orchids glowed, beguiling beacons in the sultry darkness.
Suddenly, Sophia giggled.
"Wanna share?"
"The nickname of the sphinx moth." She kept giggling.
"What is it?"
"The flying tongue."
"Oh, ho?" He grinned at her.
"Only the sphinx moth can pollinate the ghost orchid. They have six-inch tongues."
"Only six inches?"
She giggled again. "Trust a man to make that comment. The sphinx moth follows the scent of the ghost orchid like bees involved in a pollen orgy."
"That's erotic imagery." He was already aroused.
"The ghost orchid is erotic," she purred.
He lowered his lashes, studied her through the fringe.
Sophia spun in a half circle. Like a sprite among the sexy jungle plants, arms extended wide, she lifted her face to stare up at the thick canopy of trees and murmured again, "Magic."
Gibb could not take his eyes off her. Yes, yes it was. Magic unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He had to agree. The scent was as intoxicating as the finest wine. It swelled and surged on the night breeze like symphony music, a heady rush of exuberant notes.
Sophia had stopped spinning and was staring at him now with heavy-lidded eyes. Gibb caught his breath, knew she felt it, too—this headlong craving to be joined.
He gave her the most sensuous look he could muster and the one she sent him in return smoldered with sexual intensity. He aimed a notorious smile at her.
Her answering grin was just as deadly, reaching straight through to his heart.
What a woman—sexy, beautiful, compelling! He loved the way she loved life. He thought he'd known how to enjoy what he had. He drove fast cars, dined in four-star restaurants, traveled to places around the globe, but now he knew that he'd experienced it all wrong. Money had buffered him from true, honest living. And he'd missed so much—exploring new places, finding rare orchids in the wilderness, and the simple things like catching fish and showering under a waterfall. He would have experienced none of this without her.
Admittedly he could not think of another person on earth he'd rather share these experiences with.
When he looked at her he saw all the things he had not realized he needed. A woman who liked him for who he really was, not the wallet or the image or what prestige they thought they could get from being with him. He wanted to keep Sophia near his heart night and day. But of course, even if he could do that, he would not. Sophia was like a butterfly. She had to be free to shine.
How she'd lit up his world when he'd never even known he was in the dark.
And that expression on her face. It was a come-to-me look if he'd ever seen one.
"Sophia," he said. "I want you so badly I can't breathe."
"I want you, too," she murmured.
"I don't want you to regret this. Are you sure you're just not intoxicated with the joy of finding the ghost orchid?"
"I am intoxicated. With you."
"But see, that's the thing. Intoxication wears off and you wake up the next morning hung over and full of apology."
Her eyes met his. "I won't regret this. In fact, if we don't make love, that I will regret."
"How can you know for sure?"
"Because passion like this only comes along once in a lifetime. I've been fighting the attraction tooth and nail since you climbed into my plane."
"I know," he said huskily, "so have I."
"But being here." She held her arms wide again. "Among these rare and beautiful flowers, you realize you can't pass up once-in-a-lifetime opportunities when fate presents you with them. I want to grasp the brass ring, Gibb."
"You're absolutely certain?" he rasped.
"I've never been more certain of anything ever."
Gibb couldn't keep his hands off her any longer. He forgot all the reasons why this was not smart and he simply acted. He moved toward her.
Eyes sparkled impishly, and her smile was smug. She stepped toward him, too.
Oh, she knew full well what she did to him.
She toed off her sneakers.
He kicked out of his loafers.
She grabbed hold of the hem of her skimpy little crop top and wrestled it off over her head.
He stopped breathing.
When she dropped her shirt to the ground, giving him a stunning view of her gorgeous breasts filling a pretty pink bra he'd guessed was under there, his heart leaped.
He gulped.
"Are you planning to stand there and stare at me all evening or are you going to unhook my bra?" she whispered in a sleek voice as lovely as the ghost orchids surrounding them. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and gave him a look that said, Mister, I'm gonna turn you inside out.
Part of Gibb wanted to fall to his knees and worship at her beautiful feet, but the alpha male in him rejected the idea and pulled her into his arms.
Thoroughly, ravenously, he kissed her and she kissed him back with the same starving wildness. It had never been like this for him.
Ever.
He wondered if it was special for her, too, or if it was just sex.
She made a low noise and arched, exposing her neck to him. He planted his lips to the sweet spot, while his hands slipped around her to find the clasp of the bra.
"Wait," she said suddenly, pushing him back. "Do you have a condom?"
"In my boxer shorts?"
She gave a high cry of frustration, fisted her hand and pounded lightly on his chest. "In my fantasies, I didn't even think about condoms."
"You've been having fantasies about me?"
"What do you think I've been doing for the past two weeks while I stared at you? Guessing your balance sheet?"
Maybe women before her had, but he was so pleased to hear that she'd been fantasizing about him that he almost panicked because they had no condoms. But then he said, "Sweetheart, there are all kinds of ways we can pleasure each other."
Her smile went sly and she brought up an index finger to stroke his cheek. "Back up."
His mind was so addled it wasn't sure what she was asking of him. "What?"
"Back up against the tree."
He took a step backward, felt the bald cypress at his back, and when he turned his head, he found himself staring at a ghost orchid. "Now what?"
"Hang on. It's going to be a helluva ride." Then she dropped to her knees in front of him, tugging his boxer shorts down around his ankles as she went.
Holy—
He couldn't even finish the thought, he was so aroused and crazy for her. It was completely selfish of him to go first, but he promised in return he'd make her feel so good that she'd always remember him. He'd take his time pleasing her, wanting her to fully experience the moment. Meanwhile, he clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes.
Her soft fingers took hold of him and his shaft became titanium beneath her touch. All the moisture evaporated from his mouth. Blown. His mind was completely blown.
And she was just getting started.
When the tip of her tongue touched his skin he unraveled. All thoughts flew from his brain and he knew nothing except the feel of her silky mouth on his hot cock.
What an incredible woman she was and how lucky was he. No doubt about either of those two thoughts. He opened his eyes and glanced down at her and his pulse stammered.
Even pressed against the tree, he was knocked off balance. The smell of ghost orchids filled his nose and his knees trembled. Now he knew what the saying "feel the earth move" meant.
She spread her palms over his bare buttocks to steady him, and when she drew him fully into her mouth, Gibb's eyes rolled back in his head. She was licking and stroking and teasing as if she couldn't get enough of him.
He certainly could not get enough of her.
Systemically, she dismantled him with her mouth, leaving him breathless and immobile. Someone could have yelled, "Fire!" and he wouldn't have been able to move.
The heat built inside him. Gibb groaned. So good. So damned good.
Her hands slid all over his body. It felt as if she possessed a hundred fingers and ten tongues to do all those amazing things to him.
His chest expanded, tightened. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He touched her head. Such beautiful hair.
"Yes," he hissed, her hair a silky glide beneath his fingers. "Yes, yes, yes."
Sophia worked her magic, with her fingers, and her tongue, leading him somewhere new. He'd been with his share of women, but none had ever made him feel this way. He was consumed. Overtaken. It felt like the most erotic dream in the world.
But this wasn't a dream.
This was really happening.
She was beyond beauty. She was pure life, pure joy. Her mouth moved over him without caution or fear. She pushed him past his knowledge of himself. He had never before been so physically possessed. She rocked his world.
In the haze, Gibb heard the soft beating of moth wings as they suckled at the ghost orchids.
Relentlessly, Sophia sent him beyond the boundaries of his endurance. He was aching, throbbing. He threw back his head and let loose with a primal cry, pleading for release from this magnificent torture, for the ecstasy he could almost touch.
Soon. Please, please let it happen soon. If it didn't, he feared his heart would explode.
He tried to hold back, tried to resist but he could not. She was too damned wonderful.
A bolt of fire rolled along his nerve endings to lodge in the dead center of his throbbing shaft. And then he left the earth, gasping and trembling into the delicious darkness. Lost. He was completely lost. She made it happen.
He blinked, looked down. Finally, he saw her through the haze.
Sophia was sitting at his feet, smiling coyly.
Gibb pitched forward onto his knees and the cushion of soft moss, and then collapsed onto his side. He shuddered, panted for air and tried to wrap his mind around what had just occurred.
Sophia curled up on nature's carpet beside him, rested her head against his back.
In that precious moment, Gibb wanted to change everything about his life and find a whole new way of being.
11
"YOUR TURN," Gibb said after his heart rate slowed and he was breathing normally again. "I've been fantasizing about doing this to you from the minute we left Bosque de Los Dioses."
Too overwhelmed by what she'd done to him, Sophia could not speak. She looked up to find Gibb's eyes on hers. It was clear that he did not think any less of her for her boldness, and in fact, he looked immensely happy.
He rolled her over onto her back on the mossy earth. She went breathless, staring at his washboard abs. Fascinated, Sophia could not look away. He put any athlete to shame.
He was glorious, all biceps and triceps and gluts and hamstrings. She couldn't ever remember having such a well-built lover and she would never forget him.
And his face...
Right now, he was staring at her with those stormy gray eyes that sent goose bumps fleeing up her arm and sweet shivers slivering down her spine.
His jaw was chiseled, his cheekbones sharp, his sandy hair cut in a short, no-nonsense style—all business, this one—nothing frivolous about him.
The setting was magical. Ghost orchids bloomed around them, filling the air with their rich scent. The golden sun had disappeared. Time stretched out before them, languid and endless. She forgot all about getting off the island. Why would she ever want to leave paradise?
He lowered his head and kissed her slowly, gently. She closed her eyes, inhaled him, savored each delicious taste. A minute later, he pulled back and smiled down at her so tender, so genuine, that emotion blocked her throat.
"Gibb," she said. "We have to talk."
"Yes, I need to know everything. Likes, dislikes, how much pressure, how—"
She put an index finger to his lips. "Shh."
He said nothing, just stared deeply into her eyes.
"Listen." Sophia paused, not sure how to phrase what she had to say.
"All ears, Amelia."
She couldn't help smiling. There was just something about him that made her want to smile all the time. "We need to set up some ground rules here."
"I might have given the impression I'm a sophisticated guy," he said, "but when it comes to sex, the basics work for me. I don't need anything kinky." He wriggled his eyebrows. "That is unless there's something you want to try."
"I'm not talking about those kinds of ground rules," she said.
He cocked his head. "I'm not really following you."
She made a little X over his heart. "I'm talking about emotional ground rules."
"Oh." His eyes clouded. "Those ground rules."
Sophia gathered her courage. She liked Gibb, probably more than she had any right to like him, but this had to be said. If they didn't get this straight right up front, she was so afraid she would get lost in the passion. She'd spent her life waiting for this ground-shaking feeling and now that it was here, she was terrified of where it might—or might not—lead. That was the scary part, the not knowing where she stood.
"I'm listening," he prompted.
"We don't know what will happen once we go back to our regular lives."
"What do you want to have happen?"
Happily-ever-after cried her heart, but she was too timid to say that. They hardly knew each other, although forced proximity had accelerated their relationship. They were so different. They came from completely different worlds. Was passion enough? For the first time, she understood what Josie had been trying to tell her when she said there were other things of value in a loving relationship beyond passion.
"I don't want to get hurt," she whispered.
A look that she couldn't read passed over his eyes. He nodded. "I understand. I want to keep things light, too. We can do that. You're right. Good idea to set ground rules. We can relieve some tension and enjoy our time together."
"Yes," she said, even though she wanted him to say, "Forget it, let's jump headfirst into this thing." She knew that was utterly unrealistic. If she was smart, she'd call a stop to this right now, but she wanted him so much.
Pathetic.
Still, wasn't one night of intense passion better than nothing at all?
"I just didn't want you to confuse fun for something else," she said in a scratchy voice.
"No worries. I'm a big boy."
"That's good."
"Okay." He dropped his lips to her throat. "Now where were we? Oh, yes, let's get you out of those clothes."
She'd never been particularly modest, but suddenly, she felt shy as his fingers slipped around her back to unhook her bra.
Her breasts bounced free.
Gibb was eyeing them lustily, the heat of his gaze caused her nipples to pucker.
Embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her chest. "My brothers used to call me Tortita."
"What does that mean?"
"Pancake."
He laughed.
She pretended to be affronted. "You don't have to agree with them."
"On the contrary, I disagree with them heartily." He lowered his eyelashes and murmured, "Perfect."
Overwhelmed by the hungry look on his face, she closed her eyes.
He cupped her face in both his hands and then he stopped. She wanted to open her eyes, to see what was going on, but she didn't want to meet his gaze. Too worried about the emotion she might spot in his eyes.
She could feel his breath on her cheeks. He said nothing. Neither did she. A minute ticked by. Sounds of the jungle at night heightened the tension.
Do something! Kiss me. Touch me. Anything.
Finally, she could stand the suspense no longer and cautiously opened one eye.
Gibb was looking at her as if she were a precious treasure he'd found on the beach. His lips landed on hers, a searing brand.
She sighed, threaded her fingers through his hair.
He stroked her chin and the gesture was so tender Sophia felt the urge to burst into tears. Hormones, she told herself. That's all it was. She could not afford to love this guy. They had no future together.
Because no matter how much Gibb wanted her sexually, he really didn't want her for happily ever after. She knew this, even if he did not. She was too content for a goal-driven man like him. He needed someone as rich as he was, someone who understood how to navigate his world.
That most decidedly was not her. She might be half American by birth, but she was pure Costa Rican by nature. She loved her life. Wanted for nothing.
Except for passionate love.
Which she had right this minute. So what if it couldn't last?
She thought he was quivering, and then realized that it was she, shaking so hard the thick, humid air seemed to ripple.
He burned hot kisses from her throat to her breasts, his beard stubble rubbing her skin in a wholly erotic rasp. He was smooth and accomplished, no doubt about it. He knew exactly where to linger, tease and cajole. His hand went to the snap of her denim shorts.
She whimpered his name.
He slid the zipper down.
She stopped breathing.
"Raise your hips," he instructed.
She obeyed.
He slipped her shorts and underwear off of her in one smooth motion, leaving her exposed and trembling.
"Mmm," he growled low in his throat. "You smell so good."
He began a slow slide from the tender flesh of her breasts on down to where she most wanted him to go. He trailed silent kisses over her rib cage to her taut, flat belly, and then veered down to lick the warm, damp patch of skin between her legs.
Sophia came unglued.
"Ah," he said. "You like that."
"Yes," she gasped.
He paused there, driving her mad with need. Her muscles tensed and then every nerve ending in her body started tingling as she tried to anticipate his next move.
Gibb surprised her by reaching up to skim his fingers over her face, outlining the plane of her cheeks with the pads of his fingertips like a blind man learning Braille. With incredible lightness, he stroked the base of his palm over her collarbone.
"Sophia," he breathed.
She smiled.
His hand trailed back to the triangle of hair and he stared deeply into her eyes. She was so ready for him.
"Please," she said softly.
Slowly, he stroked and teased her, and she rode the flow of emotions, embracing the swell of pleasure and desire and discovery. His warmth enveloped her and she experienced a sense of safety with him that she'd rarely felt before. He lifted her to a place she'd never known existed.
She moaned and pushed her pelvis against his hand, arching her back in the soft jungle carpet. She drifted on the edge of a dark peak, engulfed by the feel of him, the dampness of the night, the smell of ghost orchids, the music of his breathing and the sight of his gorgeous, muscular body. Sophia wanted him too much. The passion was consuming her. She'd slipped too far.
A bittersweet thought seized her. As wonderful as this moment was, it could not last. She closed her eyes, determined to ignore the sadness. Besides, this was all she needed, this brief slice of delight.
He cradled his head against her thigh. He ran one hand down and then up the opposite leg, before tickling higher on the returning stroke.
"Your touch," she whispered. "Unbelievable."
She shuddered as his lips skipped over the last firm curve of her thigh, stopping just short of her core. Her body was on fire for him.
Gibb moved his head closer, slightly touching his lips to her intimate folds. He showered her there with rich, tender kisses.
Her senses swam with each movement he made.
He curved his palm over her soft mound and, reaching the spot where her skin began to part, he stroked her gently. His hot mouth found her willing center. She curled her fingers into her palms, cried out in the darkness.
His tongue did wicked, wicked things that sent her pulse spiking and just when he had her writhing and breathless, he retreated.
"No, no," she said. "Don't you dare tease me!"
He laughed.
She reached down and gripped his shoulders for support.
"You taste so good," he murmured and went back to what he was doing and she exhaled a big sigh. He put his tongue to her most sensitive spot and it was like switching on a light in a darkened room.
"Yes, yes," she cried. "You know exactly where and how to touch me. How do you know that?"
"You're very responsive," he said. "Your body tells me what to do."
He kissed and caressed her, cupping his hands around her buttocks to lift her higher. His warm breath sent a humming sensation vibrating up through her body.
Automatically, she arched against his mouth. "Don't stop, don't stop," she chanted.
Gibb kept it up, giving her everything she craved.
Moaning loudly, she tensed, feeling the sweet pressure building inside her. His tongue obliterated everything. She could do nothing except focus on that one sensitive spot.
Unbearable. How sweet his seductive torture was. She thrashed against him.
Gradually, he released her, but kept his tongue playing across her soft skin. He toyed with her until she cried out his name over and over. He owned every inch of her body. She was his, in the palm of his hand. She would do anything he asked.
She made a strangled noise. Close. She was so very close.
"Hold on, baby. The wait will be worth it," he promised.
And then it happened, uncontrollable spasms gripped her body and she shattered against the most amazing mouth in the whole wide world.
* * *
SOPHIA WAS NAKED, bristling with sexuality, her veins fire and fervor, muscles melted soft, tendons stretched loose, body sore and liquid.
Who knew a man could do such incredible things with a tongue? Gibb had fallen asleep beside her, his legs intertwined with hers. She curled her toes and smiled into the darkness.
She and Gibb were as much a part of nature as the night birds and creatures prowling the underbrush. She let out a long, slow breath, felt her body relax. Many people would be terrified not knowing what lurked in the shadows, but Sophia had been raised in a tropical forest. The sounds and smells were as comforting to her as a lullaby.
Home.
The rustling did not scare her. No, what really concerned her was the man beside her. Gibb was from a completely different kind of jungle. One that was not as easy to predict as hers.
She turned her head, flipping her hair up from behind her back where it pulled and basked in his body heat. Nothing could have prepared her for the depth of emotions tightening her stomach. It had been so easy to get caught up in the vortex of their attraction, but once ensnared, how hard was it going to be to get out of this unscathed?
Sex was just sex. Right?
That's what people tried to tell you and maybe sometimes it was, but when you had this kind of chemistry with another person...well...it was as if her heart had split open wide and the sun was pouring both into her and out of her, bathing everything in an impossibly bright light.
She closed her eyes, swallowed past the lump in her throat. It was too bad she hadn't felt anything like this for Emilio. He was a good man, a great friend and probably even a competent lover.
Or so she'd assumed, until Gibb.
Now, nothing or no one could ever compare to him.
Terrifying, that what she'd just experienced was the pinnacle of her love life. After Gibb, every other man would pale in comparison.
She reached up to touch Gibb's face in the darkness. Traced his nose with her index finger, such a masculine nose, straight and commanding. He was so vibrant, so virile. Why couldn't he have been a normal man with a normal job? Not a billionaire so far out of her reach it was laughable.
That was enough regret. She had to change her thinking. Even though this had been the hottest sexual encounter of her life, she could not romanticize it. No more imagining far-flung places, no more dreaming about what it would be like to wake beside him every morning. Most likely it wouldn't be all that great anyway. He was a workaholic. No doubt he was up before dawn, spent an hour at the gym before a limo picked him up to whisk him off for a sixteen-hour day at the office.
Eventually, her memory of this romantic rendezvous would fade and every once in a while, whenever she saw something that reminded her of him—El Diablo for instance or spider monkeys or passion fruit—she'd smile slyly and leave everyone guessing why.
Until Gibb, she had believed she would never settle for anything in a relationship except fiery passion. Now she knew firsthand that passion was a double-edged sword that cut both ways. While passion was the most intoxicating thing, it robbed you of your reasoning, dazzled your body and dazed your mind.
With this kind of passion, how did anyone ever get anything done? She and Gibb would be in bed ninety-nine percent of the time. He'd lose his billions. She'd never fly again.
Ah, but she would fly in a wholly different way.
She bit her bottom lip. Floated in the drunken embrace of lovemaking's afterglow. What would it be like with him all the time?
That was just the thing, wasn't it? Maybe this was fair warning. A danger signal. Ease off. Don't go any further. Stop now and turn back before it's too late.
But if switching off her need for him was that easy, she wouldn't be here right now, basking in this bliss. She shivered, remembering the feel of his lips on her skin.
Gibb moved, reached out, and tugged her closer. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Gibb?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you awake?"
"No."
"That was...you were...I mean...well, I'm speechless."
"Me, too, sweetheart," he murmured.
She buried her face against his neck, inhaled his scent. She felt as if she were walking barefoot across a high line wire. One slip and she'd be electrified.
Who was she kidding? She was gone already.
She could hear the hammering of his heart. Her heart was hammering, too.
Shouldn't she get up? Put some distance between them so she could think this thing through? Ah, but it was so easy to rest against him, so easy to allow herself to get swept away. Not smart. Not smart at all, but she'd been raised to do what she loved. That if she lived with heart and passion that she would be wealthy in the ways that counted.
Unexpected tears rose to her eyes and her nose burned. She pressed her lips together. No. Nothing to cry about. This was beautiful and she would enjoy every last second of it and when it was gone, well, she prayed she'd be strong enough to let go.
Slowly, she drifted off to sleep.
She was having an erotic dream. She and Gibb were doing all kinds of interesting things to each other with food—smearing chocolate syrup over their bodies and licking it off, eating strawberry Pop Rocks and kissing, feeding each other from clusters of ripe red grapes. So immersed was she in the dream, that at first she thought the faraway buzzing sound was part of the dream. That maybe Gibb had found a beehive and he was raiding it for honey to use in their sex play.
It took a few minutes for the noise to fully seep into her consciousness. Airplane. Not bees at all. It was the sound of an airplane engine.
Sophia blinked awake, cocked her head to listen. Was it really an airplane or just her dream?
The familiar droning lit her up inside. No dream. It was a plane.
She flung Gibb's arm off her chest. Jumped to her feet. The darkness of the jungle was slipping away. Dawn was approaching.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Gibb asked groggily. He sat up, rubbed his eyes.
Even in her haste, Sophia could not stop herself from casting a glance over his naked body. Hombre sexy.
"Soph?"
She pointed toward the sky. "Plane."
Instantly he was on his feet. "The radio. We have to get to the radio."
"Clothes. Shoes."
"On it."
She searched the dark ground and her fingers hit material. Silk. She thrust his boxer shorts at him. He handed Sophia her cotton crop top.
"Hurry, hurry."
"We'll never make it to the beach in time," he muttered.
"Don't think negatively."
"Do you know the way out of here?"
"I think I do. I heard the ocean waves during the night. I don't think we're all that far from the beach."
"But what if where we come out is on the opposite side of the island from the plane?"
"We have to try."
"You're daydreaming."
"Exactly. Remember where daydreaming got me," she reminded him.
They found their shoes and put them on.
The airplane noises were growing fainter. Still, the plane would be in radio range even when they could no longer hear the engine. It all depended on how long it took them to get to the beach.
"Come on," she cried, and grabbed Gibb's hand.
12
STUMBLING OVER ROOTS and vines, they ran toward where she thought the beach might be, following the lulling sound of the ocean. All around them animals and insects scurried out of their way.
After several minutes, Sophia was out of breath, but Gibb was an iron man, taking the lead and battling back the vegetation so she could follow him unimpeded. Who knew the city man was in better physical condition than a woman who'd grown up walking mountains? He was something else. Even in haste, she couldn't help appreciating his body. The man had a lot to be proud of.
She was beginning to despair that they wouldn't make it to the beach in time. The sound of the airplane engine was long gone, but there was still hope. Since the plane had been flying at an altitude low enough for them to hear it, there was a possibility that the pilot spotted El Diablo on the beach. Wishful thinking, yes, but then again, maybe it was a rescue plane.
A man like Gibb Martin did not go missing without people noticing, but it had still been dark when she'd first heard the engine. Had it been too dark for the pilot to see her plane?
While she and Gibb had been out having frantic sex, they might have lost their opportunity to be rescued for several days. Why, then, was she not upset by the prospect of spending more time on the island alone with Gibb?
Um, remember, you don't have any condoms.
Stranded on a deserted island with the sexiest man alive. A man she had dynamite chemistry with and no condoms. It was her definition of torture.
At last, she could see the faint glow of dawn filtering through the trees as the vegetation grew sparser. They were almost to the frustration.
Gibb broke through the last column of fronds. He paused, looked back and waited for her.
"Go, go." Panting, she waved at him. "Get to the radio."
"No," he said and held out his palm. "We're in this together."
Touched, she slipped her hand into his.
He gripped her tight. "We're a team."
They stepped over a fallen log, skirted a clump of felled coconuts and their feet hit sand.
El Diablo sat at least five hundred yards away.
She groaned. More running.
"You can do it," Gibb encouraged. "I have complete faith in you."
"Easy for you to say. Your legs are much longer than mine. I have to take two steps for every one of yours."
From the ocean on the other side of El Diablo a small boat bobbed in the water.
"Hey, look." Gibb grinned at her. "We can slow down. Someone's here to save us."
Sophia squinted into the pale sunlight and an uneasy feeling spread over her. That second sense she seemed to have about people, was warning her. She stopped.
Gibb took a few more steps before he realized she was not keeping up with him. He halted, turned back.
Instinct told her to step back into the tree line.
"Sophia?" he said. "What is it?"
She put an index finger to her lips, shook her head.
"What's wrong?" he whispered.
She kept walking backward, step-by-step and crooked her index finger at him.
"Soph?" He frowned, looked from her to the boat and back again.
For a moment, she thought that he was not going to follow her and she would have to say something. Although the people in the boat probably weren't close enough to hear them, she didn't want to take any chances.
This island most likely belonged to Columbia like the nearby Island de Providencia. Maybe they were drug smugglers who hid their cache of drugs on the island. A ripple of fear moved through her and she kept walking until she was hidden from view.
Gibb came after her. "Sophia, what's going on?"
"Shh." She crouched down, hid behind a banana tree and peeked around the wide leaves.
The boat was getting closer. There were three men in it.
Gibb crouched beside her. "You want to clue me in about what's happening here?"
"I don't know."
"Hmm, so you don't know why we're hiding out from our rescuers?"
"We don't know that they are here to rescue us. Better to err on the side of caution."
"If they're not here to rescue us, who do you think they are?"
She shrugged. "Pirates. Drug smugglers. Who knows? This island is remote and we have nothing to defend ourselves with."
"We could lob coconuts at them, or hey, passion fruit. They really stung when the monkeys pelted us with them."
She glowered at him.
"You're serious about this?"
"Yes."
"Wow." Both eyebrows shot up on his forehead.
"We are alone. We do not know who these men are. We have no way of communicating with the outside world."
"Don't you think you're being a bit paranoid?" he said. "What if they came here to look for us and we're so busy hiding that they leave and no one comes by for a good long time?"
What if that did happen? Sophia bit her bottom lip. What if her instincts were wrong?
Gibb said nothing for a few minutes. They crouched together as the boat grew nearer and nearer. It was going to come ashore right where El Diablo was grounded.
"Look, I understand why you're nervous. You're a woman. It's important not to be too trusting around men you don't know, but after last night, I figured you'd trust me to take care of you."
"It's not that I don't trust you," she said. "I just have a bad feeling about this."
"Any particular reason why?"
"The boat is old and looks to be in poor condition. Would rescuers arrive in such a boat?"
"You make a good point."
The boat was close enough now that they could hear the men speaking. She couldn't make out the words but it was clear they were speaking Spanish.
Gibb scooted closer to her. "Can you hear what they're saying?"
"They're still too far away."
"Sophia, I respect your intuition, but I can't simply hide here and let the opportunity to be rescued pass us by. If we get out of here today, I can still make it to Florida before Scott's wedding."
"Will you let that go already?"
"I can't," he said. "You were right before when you said that I focus more on goals than relationships. Scott is important to me. It's time for me to put friendship ahead of money."
"So what is your plan? Just walk right out there and say, 'Hola'? You don't even speak Spanish."
"Let's say they aren't here to rescue us. Just some fishermen who saw the plane and curiosity got the better of them. I'm certain that I could convince them to take us to Island de Providencia for the right price. I do know the Spanish word for money."
"I bet you know the word 'money' in a hundred languages." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder.
"It's a plan. You wanted to know my plan. That's it."
"Pirates do not take credit cards. And since you are an American, they will assume you are rich. Those expensive silk boxer shorts would cement the impression. They'll take you hostage and I don't even want to think about what they might do to me."
That got through to him. He curled his hand around her shoulder. "You really are serious."
"Let's just wait and listen to their conversation when they come ashore. If it's about fishing and concern that someone's plane crashed, then we'll come out of hiding."
"All right," he agreed.
She had convinced him, but now Sophia had to wonder if maybe she was being too suspicious. Could this feeling be a subconscious desire to spend more time alone with Gibb, rather than a real sixth sense about the men in the boat?
The boat landed on the beach.
The hairs on the back of Sophia's neck stood up. Something was definitely not right here.
The men climbed out of the boat and walked over to El Diablo. One of the men picked up Gibb's suit pants from where she'd left the garment drying on the wing of the plane. He spoke to his companions. They laughed.
"What did he say?" Gibb asked.
"The pilot must be a naked rich man," she translated.
"Naked is a bit of an overstatement."
She flicked a glance at his butt in those silk boxer shorts. "Not by much."
"And what's with the assumption that I'm rich?"
"Thieves are pretty good at spotting expensive things. There are times when a fancy suit is a drawback. Wear shorts once in a while, why don't you?"
"So they do know we're here," he said inanely.
"The crashed plane was pretty self-evident."
The other two men motioned for the first to come back to the boat. The man tossed Gibb's pants over the wing.
Gibb stood up. "They're leaving."
"No, they're not."
The men removed a large blue plastic tub from the boat.
Gibb squatted down again. "What do you suppose they have in that thing?"
"Drugs. Pirate treasure. A body. Who knows?"
"For a happy woman you can go to some pretty dark places."
She made a pipe-down motion. "They're talking."
The man that had found Gibb's pants pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. A map.
"Maybe they're lost," Gibb said.
"Shh."
The tallest of the men made another trip to the boat and returned with two digging spades. That looked ominous. They were speaking low and she could only catch snatches of Spanish words—harvest, shears, potting soil.
Gibb nudged her with his elbow. "What are they talking about?"
Sophia crinkled her nose. "Gardening supplies."
"They're gardeners?"
She shook her head just as the tallest man again reached into the boat. The man with the map thumped it with his hand and said, "Fantasma," at the same time the tallest man retrieved what he'd gone after, slung it over his shoulder.
"Do you know who they are?" Gibb asked.
"I do. They're orchid thieves and they've got a gun."
* * *
SOPHIA'S INTUITION HAD been right. The men were up to no good and the appearance of a shotgun was disturbing. However, this could work to their advantage if they were careful. Stay hidden here until the men disappeared into the jungle after the orchids, then he and Sophia could steal their boat and motor off to Island de Providencia.
Before Gibb had a chance to voice his plan, Sophia grabbed his elbow and pulled him deeper into the tropical forest.
"Where are we going?"
"To save the ghost orchids."
He balked, dug his heels in. "I hate to point out the obvious, but shouldn't we be waiting until they go into the jungle and then we take off in their boat?"
She stared at him like he had suggested she kick a kitten. "We can't let them steal the orchids."
"Sure we can. It will keep them occupied while we get away."
"You don't get it. These are ghost orchids. The rarest orchids in the world."
"I agree, it's sad for beautiful wild orchids to fall into the hands of smugglers, but they do have a shotgun and I don't want to end up on the wrong end of—"
Sophia wasn't listening. She turned and moved along the way they'd come.
Ah, hell, he was going to have to follow her. There was one drawback to a passionate woman. When she set her mind on something, it was set.
"Wait," he called as loud as he dared. The worst thing that they could do would be to get separated.
She waited for him to catch up to her. "We'll have to be quick," she whispered.
He had no idea what she was thinking of, but at this point, he simply took it on faith. She had been right about the men in the boat. That shotgun made him a firm believer in her female intuition.
It took him and Sophia fifteen minutes to find their way back to the orchids.
"We don't have much time." She pulled the Swiss Army knife from her pocket and started hacking viciously at vines. "Gather them up as I cut them."
He was totally confused. "What are we doing?"
"Last ditch effort to save the orchids." She was a jungle ninja, running and cutting vines.
Stunned, he started gathering the downed vines, measuring roughly six to eight feet in length. What she was doing made no sense, but he trusted her.
By the time she finished slashing, she was panting and her cheeks were flushed. She cut at least a dozen vines.
"Tie a slipknot by folding the vine in two sections. One side should be several feet long, the second side only a few inches, like this." She demonstrated as she talked. "Now pull the folded end of the vine up several inches so that you form three loops like this."
"I'll do it, sure, but can you tell me what we're making?"
"Snare nooses."
"You mean like trappers once used to catch wild animals?"
"Exactly. Pay attention. String the right loop and pull it tight, but make sure to keep a noose in the end. The end of the knot should be large enough to slip the vine through. Finally, slide the long end of the vine through the knot."
He was highly skeptical that this crazy plan would work, but he indulged her. They could always go back to his plan while the smugglers were busy digging up orchids. The one thing that bothered him though was the shotgun.
"How's this?" he asked, holding up the snare noose he'd made.
"Looks good. That's two. Keep going. The more we have the more likely we are to catch them."
"You plan on catching these men with vines?"
"My brothers caught me in a snare noose more than once."
"Really?" He was impressed.
"But I was a kid and didn't weigh much. Like I said, this is a last ditch effort to save the ghost orchids."
"Is there really that much of a market for illegal orchids?"
"One ghost orchid plant alone would be worth thousands. The tragedy is, I seriously doubt these men are accomplished horticulturists and orchids are delicate. They'll steal them all in the hopes that one or two plants will make it."
"How do you know so much about orchids?"
"Orchids were the reason my American mother came to Costa Rica. They were her greatest passion until she met my father." Sophia tied three snare nooses before he finished his second.
"She sounds like quite a woman, your mother. Must be where you get your spunk."
She flashed him a tense smile. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Granting me this chance. I know saving an endangered flower is probably not a big deal to you..."
He looked her squarely in the eye. "Sophia, I appreciate rare and beautiful things."
Her lips parted and her eyes flared warm and grateful. Had she understood he was talking about her?
She cast a glance over her shoulder. "Let us listen and see if we can hear them coming."
They worked in silence until they'd made a dozen nooses. They heard noises in the forest, but no human footsteps. Not yet.
"What now?" Gibb asked.
"We set the snares." She showed him how to set the traps. They had six hidden and set on the jungle floor when they heard the men's voices.
"They're coming," he said. "We have to leave. I'm not going to risk them finding you."
"The more snares we get—"
"Sophia," he said firmly, brooking no argument and taking hold of her arm. "Let's go. Now."
* * *
THEY HID AMONG the vegetation on the opposite side of the clearing from where they'd set the traps.
Sophia rubbed her sweaty palms against her shorts. Humidity plastered her hair to her head. This had to work. If it didn't work the beautiful orchids would be destroyed. It was probably illogical, this determination to try to save the orchids. Gibb's plan had been much more rational. Steal the smugglers' boat while they were stealing the orchids and get away to safety. But that would mean leaving both the orchids and El Diablo vulnerable and she couldn't do that without making a last ditch effort to stop the thieves.
Her knees were starting to ache from crouching. Where were those orchid thieves? They had a map. What was taking them so long?
Gibb rested a hand on her shoulder and immediately she was soothed. "Patience."
She shifted her position to kneel on the ground. Her heartbeat throbbed loudly in her ears. The smell of ghost orchids filled the air. Gibb had looked straight at her when he said he appreciated rare and beautiful things. Well, in her eyes, he was the rare and beautiful thing, as rare and beautiful as a ghost orchid, whereas she was as common as a weed.
It was comforting to have him with her. They did make a great team and she was surprised at how easily he'd picked up fashioning noose snares. Gibb Martin was a quick study and she was lucky to have known him.
She wrapped her arms around herself as sadness wrapped her in its damp arms. Soon, this adventure would be over and she and Gibb would return to their own lives and be nothing more to each other than a sweet memory of a short, red-hot affair. Don't think about it now. Orchid thieves are coming. Be on guard.
Male voices and the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard. The men were not far away.
"¿Qué crees que sucedió a la gente en el avión?"
Gibb squeezed her arm.
Sophia pressed her lips to his ear, breathed in his masculine scent and whispered, "They're wondering where we are. If they catch us..."
He slipped his arm around her waist, held her against him, and gave her a look that said I would die before I let them hurt you.
In front of them, the vegetation parted and the first man appeared. It was the one who had found Gibb's suit and he was carrying the shotgun.
Ice froze Sophia's blood.
The man took one look at the orchids, and his eyes widened. "Ah, la orquídea fantasma!" he exclaimed.
The other two men appeared carrying the blue plastic tub and the garden spades. They dropped their load and stood staring with their mouths hanging open.
The ghosts were a spectacular sight, but Sophia knew the men were seeing the flowers not for their rare beauty, but for the many dollars they would bring.
The first man settled the shotgun down on top of the blue plastic tub.
Sophia tasted hope. Maybe, just maybe, this loco idea of hers would work. Beside her, Gibb tensed, ready to spring into action.
The three men rushed forward at once, but time seemed to slow curiously. Sophia held her breath.
The first man hit a noose snare seconds before the others. The trap snagged his ankle, and the long end of the vine jerked him upward into the bald cypress where Gibb had secured the other end. Blindsided, the man screamed out.
His buddies whipped around, distress on their faces. The second man stepped backward into another snare noose and he too was flung upward. The two men dangled upside down, blinking and looking confused.
The third man sprang for the shotgun.
This was what Sophia had dreaded, that not all the snares would work and one or more of the men would get away.
Gibb leaped to his feet, charged through the clearing like an enraged bull elephant, letting loose with a frightening war cry.
Caught off guard, Sophia fell backward onto her butt.
The third man grabbed up the gun, pivoted. He was going to shoot Gibb! If Gibb got shot it would be all her fault.
"No!" Sophia screamed.
But Gibb was quicker. Head down, he rammed the man in the kidneys like a linebacker sacking a quarterback. The shotgun flew from the man's hands.
Sophia didn't even remember how she'd got there. Raw instinct and emotion must have driven her. One minute she was there on the ground, the next minute she had the shotgun in her hands, and she was standing over the orchid thief, the barrel pressed flat against his belly, one eye closed as she stared down the site.
With a cocky flourish, she threatened, "No se mueven." Don't move.
13
GIBB CHUCKLED ALL the way back to the plane as they marched the three wannabe orchid smugglers ahead of them. Again and again, he pictured that priceless moment when Sophia jammed the gun into the thief's belly and spouted that classic line, her long dark hair swirling around her, her eyes narrowed, her face intense.
She was the coolest woman in the world. What a badass, his little Sophia!
They'd found duct tape amid the orchid harvesting supplies and made good use of it by binding the sullen men's hands behind their backs. They were none too pleased to have been bested by a woman.
That made Gibb chuckle even more. Don't mess with the daughter of an orchid-loving mother.
When they arrived at the beach, Gibb made the men get into the boat. Keeping the shotgun pointed at them just in case they got some silly idea about trying to escape, he stepped over to the plane where Sophia was rummaging for her tool kit.
"You were impressively awesome back there," he told her.
"Not so bad yourself. Head butting the guy."
"See, proof that we make a good team."
Her eyes sparkled.
"Sophia..." He paused, not sure what he wanted to say.
She took his platinum bracelet from her pocket. "Are you ready for this?"
Was he? Sure, he wanted to get off the island, but once they were on their way, everything would change. This had been a special moment in time and he didn't want it to end, but it wasn't reality. They both knew that.
He gulped. Nodded.
"I'll have to destroy the bracelet. You do understand that."
"Yes."
"Just making sure because I know it's a symbol of your bond with your buddy."
"I appreciate that."
She stared deeply into his eyes. "We don't have to do it, you know? Now that we have the boat."
His chest tightened. "It would take us much longer to get to Island de Providencia by boat and we would be abandoning your plane."
"I see." She looked disappointed, as if she wanted to take longer to get to civilization. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on his part.
"See what?"
"You're still determined to break up your friend's impending marriage."
"Yeah," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. "I guess I am."
She shook her head.
"What?"
"It all comes down to what you're willing to sacrifice, doesn't it?"
Gibb frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Give up the symbol of your brotherhood with Scott." She dangled the bracelet from her fingers. "Or give up control."
The scar on his chest twinged. He pressed his knuckles against it. Was she right? Was this all a bid for control on his part?
"Symbol loses," she said and took a pair of wire cutters from her tool kit and handed them to him. "You do the honors."
After glancing over at the men in the boat who glowered at him, he set down the shotgun. Gibb gripped the handle of the cutters, slipped the short, sharp blade between the links. Images flashed through his mind of that trip to the Great Barrier Reef. The stingray attack. The pain. Scott's face blurring as Gibb slipped in and out of consciousness. Then later, when they got their matching bracelets and strapped them on their wrists simultaneously.
To severe the bond or not?
Preserve the bracelet, but by doing so miss the opportunity to stop Scott from making a grave mistake. Or snap the link and hopefully achieve his goal.
His eyes met Sophia's. She waited patiently. "Are you pretty sure this will work?"
"I think so, but there's no guarantee."
You had to take a big risk to gain big, right? Just do it. Just make a decision and act. That had always been the secret of his success. Why was he waffling now?
Resolutely, Gibb clipped the bracelet.
* * *
IN LESS THAN an hour, Sophia repaired the rudder cable and they took off from the island. Gibb was back in his suit, although it was a little worse for wear.
They gave the men in the boat water before they left them. When they arrived in Island de Providencia they would send the authorities to apprehend the thieves.
The takeoff was smooth, professional, the rudder patch job made with links from his platinum bracelet worked. But of course, Sophia was both an accomplished pilot and mechanic.
During the short flight, they spoke of nothing important—the clean shower they wanted to take, the good meal they hoped to eat. Sophia mused about getting a new cable put on her rudder. Gibb tried to keep from being obvious when he sneaked glances over at her. God, the woman was stunning in so many ways. Neither one of them spoke about the sexy night they'd spent in the jungle. Already, it seemed so far away.
They landed on Island de Providencia a little after one o'clock on Friday afternoon. Had it really been less than forty-eight hours since they'd left Bosque de Los Dioses? It seemed a lifetime ago.
Sophia headed for the FBO to see if they had a mechanic on duty who might be willing to replace the cable. Before she left, he slipped her a credit card. "To grease the wheels."
She started to protest, but he balked. "Your plane broke because of me and I said I would cover all expenses. Take it."
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
They lingered for a moment, and then she turned and walked inside the building, leaving Gibb with a choice to make. When should he have his private jet come pick him up? At this point, he couldn't worry about whether spies were tracking his plane or not. Getting a commercial flight out of here would be a logistical nightmare.
The issue was how close did he want to cut it?
He used a cell phone app to calculate the time and distance from Miami, where his corporate jet was hangered, to Island de Providencia. The flight would take four to five hours. He could be in Key West before midnight if he asked his pilot to leave now.
Or...
Just then, Sophia came out of the FBO smiling and waving his credit card.
Or, he could have his pilot pick him up early tomorrow morning and have one last night with Sophia. His heart knocked at the thought.
He pocketed his phone and moved toward her.
Note to self. Buy plenty of condoms.
She hurried over to him.
"Hi." Gibb smiled back, feeling sappy and romantic.
"Hi," Sophia answered breathlessly.
"Did you find someone to replace the cable?"
"It seems to be my lucky day. They have a cable that fits my plane and they can install it this afternoon. The credit card you gave me to grease the wheels went a long way. Thank you."
"I was thinking," he said, "since we're both waiting on transportation, after we report the orchid thieves to the police, that maybe we could get a motel room, have a shower, buy some clean clothes, grab a bite to eat..."
"Make love?" she dared.
He lowered his eyelids. "That, too."
She surprised him by leaning in to plant a quick kiss on his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."
* * *
BY 7:00 P.m. that evening they were sitting on the patio of a beachside bungalow drinking rum cocktails with little pink umbrellas in them. Sophia wore a red spaghetti-strap sundress that Gibb had bought at an overpriced tourist boutique and he had on khaki shorts and a blue V-neck T-shirt. They were enjoying the sunset and eating sweet-flesh langostino with their fingers.
She gave him the once over. "I like seeing you this way. Relaxed, unhurried, loose."
"I have to admit, I like being this way. It's nice. Being here with you is nice."
"Ditto."
They sighed in contented unison. Too bad it couldn't last forever.
"Mmm," Sophia said, popping the last langostino into her mouth and licking her fingers. "Beats the heck out of wieners."
"I don't know about that. I really enjoyed our campfire cookout." Playfully, he reached out to run his foot along the back of her calf.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" she murmured.
"What's that?"
"The box of condoms you bought."
Gibb's grin stretched from one side of his face to the other. "Say the word, sweetheart, and I'm there."
She got to her feet, held her hand out to him. "Word."
He guided her into the bungalow and they fell into bed like it was the most natural thing ever. There was no awkwardness between them. Everything flowed like they were a couple who had been dancing the tango together every day for fifty years.
Gibb undressed her slowly. Kissing her between each step. Down her arm went one spaghetti strap and he gave her three kisses, one on the lips, and two on the neck.
He went on like this for the longest, loveliest time and then he stopped, took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to him. "Should we talk about this?"
She shrugged. "What is there to say?"
"I thought after everything that has happened we might want to explore the possibility—"
She shook her head. "There is no need to define what we are doing. No need to give it a name. Just be in the moment, Gibb. Enjoy what is in front of us."
"Are you sure this is what you want?"
"We have tonight. It's enough. Tomorrow you will fly east and I will fly west. We will go our separate ways."
"We'll see each other again. When I return to Bosque de Los Dioses."
"We should not continue our relationship after tonight. What we had on that island, what we're about to have on this island, won't hold up in the light of day. The flame will burn out in the clash of our real worlds. In your heart you know that." She splayed a palm over his scarred chest. "There is nothing wrong with seizing the moment and sucking every last ounce of pleasure from it and then letting go."
His eyes glittered in the dim light. "Is that what you really want?"
"Yes," she lied.
She did not want him to say something that would give her hope, because she knew they were a mismatched pair. Soon enough, he would go back to his hectic world and come to see that the time he'd spent with her was nothing but a lovely interlude. She was okay with that. Just as long as she didn't have hope that they could be anything more than they already were—temporary lovers.
They looked at each other and the fire rolled over them. The passion they felt for each other could no longer be denied. They finished stripping off their clothes in a mad frenzy, foreplay be damned.
Her bare belly was pressed against his flat, rippled abdomen and his hard erection nudged between her thighs.
An erotic energy zapped through her entire system. His mouth claimed hers while his hand began to explore. His fingers made circles at her navel while his lips teased hers. She closed her eyes, savoring everything.
Then his tongue arrived at the peaks of her jutting breasts. His tongue flicked out to lick over one nipple, while his thumb rubbed the other aching bud.
Her eyes flew open and she lifted her head up off the mattress. She had to see what he was doing to make her feel so good. Her gaze latched on to his lips as she watched him drawing her nipple in and out of his mouth.
His tongue laved her sensitive skin as he suckled her. She writhed against him, trying to push her body into his, needing more. Silken ribbons of fevered sensation unfurled straight to her throbbing sex. Her inner muscles contracted.
"I want to feel you inside me, Gibb. I want you now."
He reached for the box of condoms resting on the bed, ripped it open, yanked one out, but sent the rest of the packets flying around the room.
"Here, let me." She took the condom from him with trembling hands and sheathed his hard shaft.
She positioned him, inviting him in.
He moaned low in his throat, a uniquely masculine sound of pleasure and lowered his body down over hers. He was kissing her again, her mouth, her nose, her eyelids, her ears. He was over her and around her and at last, he was inside of her.
"Sophia," he whispered her name, soft as the ocean waves outside the open window. The one word caressed her ears as he rotated his hips to tease and torment her.
His eyes glowed in a soft light from the tiki torches on the patio shining through the window, his thrusts gentle and slow. He captured her lips, roughly, but lovingly and their mouths clung as he increased the tempo of their mating.
"More," she begged. "Please more."
He quickened the pace. Sophia raised her hips, egging him on.
Soon, she could not tell where he began and she ended. No separation. Their connection was absolute and it filled them in every sense.
She all but hummed with joy. Their oneness made her feel strong and resilient. It rippled through her, stoked her desire.
His body stiffened and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in as deep as he could go. Release claimed them both and he called out her name in a low, guttural cry.
Sophia awoke sometime later to find herself cradled in the crook of Gibb's arm, his hand gently stroking her hair. Her head was nestled against his chest and she could hear the steady thumping of his heart.
Home. It felt like home in his arms.
No. She must not think like that. Could not think like that. It was simply too dangerous.
The urgency of their previous mating had died down and in its place was a gentle softness. His fingers massaged her scalp, sending sweet shivers skipping down her spine.
She traced the ridges of the scar on his chest with a finger. His lips touched her temple and drew a path of kisses down to her cheek.
Immediately her body responded.
"Enjoy," he murmured, smoothing his palm over her shoulder.
But how could she enjoy when he was running his other hand over her breasts, lightly teasing her nipples? He shifted and his mouth replaced his hand, his tongue sucking gently on her beaded peaks. And there went those exploring fingers, tracing down her midriff and sliding between her thighs.
He didn't make a misstep. Every stroke took the intensity up a notch. He kissed the underside of her chin, his lips wickedly hot. Then he turned her on her side and placed his hip against her butt. He bent her right leg and edged in closer, positioning himself to sink into her from behind.
Now, with him deep inside her, she felt every twitch of his muscles. He lit her up, a match to gasoline.
"Ah, my Sophia," he whispered. "My beautiful, beautiful Sophia."
In that moment, an emotion unlike anything she'd ever before experienced overtook her. She couldn't name it, but she felt it to the center of her soul.
He moved purposefully, the rhythm easy and languid. He was, after all, a purposeful man. She whimpered and pressed against him, urging him to pick up the pace, but he only laughed and went even slower.
The pressure built, tight and heavy. She was acutely aware of every breath, every pulse beat. He cupped her buttock as he slid in and out, building momentum, working toward something grand.
Soft mewling sounds escaped her throat, slipped into the darkened room to mingle with his pleasure-induced groans. His mouth burned the back of her neck, hot and erotic, tender and loving, but he never lost the rhythm. Their bodies were joined, fused, perfectly matched. Each movement elicited more delight, more surprise.
Then he rolled onto his back, took her with him, turning her around until she straddled him. Their gazes met and Sophia dropped into the exciting comfort of his eyes. He locked his hands around her waist, helping her move up and down on his hard, long shaft.
Swept away, she quickened the pace. Gibb met her challenge, raising his hips up, digging his heels into the mattress, giving her a ride to end all rides. He kept at it, chasing her pleasure with a devotion that dizzied her.
Higher and higher he drove her toward climax. She smiled at him and he laughed with delight. At the peak, she cried out his name.
He followed right behind her, and together they flew high into the blue sky, soared the wind currents and touched the stars.
He held on to her protectively as she buried her face at his neck. She drew in the scent of him. This was the smell of their lovemaking. They clung to each other, quivering and spent.
Gibb stroked her, murmured sweet nothings until her heart rate returned to normal and her body had stilled.
"I've never felt so special," she whispered.
"That's because you are special." He lifted her chin, looked deeply into her eyes again. "You are one in a billion, Sophia Cruz."
14
SOPHIA'S PLAN WAS to creep out of the motel room before dawn, sneak like an orchid thief into the night before Gibb awoke. The thought of goodbye choked her up inside, but she'd no more than laid her hand on the doorknob, her clothes clutched to her chest so she could dress in the outer room, when he said, "Running out on me, Amelia?"
She paused, turned back to look at him. He was propped up on his elbows, his hair sexily mussed, his eyes dark and inviting. It took everything she had in her not to crawl back into bed with him and make love to him all over again.
"Um," she said. "I thought I'd just get out of your hair."
He sat up, patted the end of the mattress. "Come here."
She shouldn't go, but damn her she did, creeping back to him, using her red sundress to conceal her nakedness. "What is it?"
"I just wanted you to know that the last two days have been the best of my life."
She laughed. "That's kind of sad. We crash landed on a deserted island, had passion fruit chucked at us by spider monkeys, thwarted orchid thieves—"
"My point exactly. Being with you is fun, Sophia."
"If we were together all the time it wouldn't be like this. It's only because things were strange and new. A big adventure."
He picked up her hand, pressed his lips against her knuckles. "You think the way we steam up the sheets isn't special?"
"It's special." She nodded. "But we come from different worlds."
"Cultural differences can be negotiated with understanding and patience."
"That's not the difference I'm talking about. I'm American enough to bridge that gap."
He stroked her cheek with a finger. "What is it, then?"
"You're rich, I'm not. You're a mover and shaker who is always reaching for the stars. I'm perfectly content spending my life just flying tourists from Libera to Bosque de Los Dioses." She gave him a sad smile. "Although eventually, when you get your transportation system up and running, I won't even have that."
"I told you that you could come work for me."
She stood up, put on the sundress, backed away from him. If he kept touching her, she would agree to anything he asked. "I'm not Cinderella waiting for some handsome prince to sweep me off my feet. I'm not Blondie. I need an equal partnership, not a sugar daddy."
"I wouldn't try to control you."
She had to laugh at that. "Of course you would. You can't help yourself. You control people through your money. That's why money is so important to you. Your best friend can't even live the life he wants without your interference. You simply can't accept that Scott would rather be with the woman he loves than make millions on a project with you. You've got to understand something, Gibb. Money isn't everything."
"But Scott can't love her," he insisted.
"Why not?"
"Because Scott has only known her a month."
"That's a whole lot longer than we've known each other," she said quietly and walked out the door.
* * *
ALL THE WAY to Florida, Gibb thought of Sophia.
Everything she'd said about him was true. He did use money to control people. The need to control every outcome was what drove him to make more and more money when he already had more than he could ever spend.
She was also right that they barely knew each other, but he had such strong feelings for her. Feelings he'd never had before about anyone. Was this the way Scott felt about his Jackie? That was a startling thought.
He might not be able to woo Sophia, but after a woman like that, one thing was for sure, he could not go back to Stacy. He tried to call Stacy from the jet to tell her they needed to talk, but he got voice mail and decided to hang up. He'd deal with that later.
His pilot touched down in Miami first where Gibb changed out of the blue T-shirt and khaki shorts he'd bought on Island de Providencia and put on a suit. After that, he returned to the airport and took his jet to Key West, arriving just after two o'clock. He hired a car to take him to Wharf 16 where the wedding was being held on the Sea Anemone.
Workers, deep in preparation, scurried to and fro.
Gibb stopped a woman with a clipboard who looked official. "Can you tell me where I might find the groom?"
She pointed behind him.
Gibb turned to see his buddy standing there in his Coast Guard dress blues. He offered up a big smile, but Scott wasn't buying it.
"If you're here to start trouble, just turn around and walk away," Scott growled. "Jackie is the woman I love with all my heart and soul. You're my best friend in the whole world, Gibb, but I will not tolerate one unkind word said against her."
Gibb surrendered.
"If you can't be happy for us, you can go." Scott pointed toward the car Gibb had driven up in.
"I didn't come here to break the two of you up."
Scott stared at him in disbelief. "No?"
"All right, I admit it. I originally came here to try to talk you out of marrying a woman you barely know, but somewhere over the Caribbean Sea—" on a little deserted island to be precise "—I altered my thinking."
Scott crossed his arms over his chest, a suspicious expression on his face. "What happened to cause this change of heart?"
"I understand now."
"Understand?" Scott's brows dipped in a perplexed frown. "Wait. What are you saying? Did you meet someone?"
Gibb thought of Sophia and he clinched his jaw, shrugged.
"There's a woman?" Scott sounded positively
gleeful.
"Yes," Gibb forced the word past his lips.
Scott rubbed his palms together. "So what's she like? Tell me everything."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Ah, I get it. You haven't told her that you love her yet."
"I..." Was he ready to say the L word out loud? "It's complicated."
"It's only complicated if you make it complicated."
"I don't really know her," he admitted. And yet, he felt as if he knew her better than he knew anyone else in the world. He knew exactly what happened when he tickled the back of her knee and what she looked like first thing in the morning. He knew she had more courage in her little finger than most people did in their entire bodies. And talk about passion! The woman was off-the-charts passionate—about flying, about orchids, about sex. Whatever she did, she threw herself into it one hundred percent.
"This special woman got a name?" Scott asked.
"Sophia. Sophia Cruz."
"Costa Rican?" Scott guessed.
"Half American by birth, fully Costa Rican by nature."
"Ah," he said. "She's laidback."
"Yeah."
"Easygoing."
"That, too."
"Exactly what a hard-driving guy like you needs."
No denying it. Sophia had taught him so many things in such a short amount of time. Chief among them was that smelling the roses was worth slowing down for and that money truly wasn't everything. Other people had tried to tell him that, but none had shown him the way Sophia had.
With Sophia, he finally saw the path to a different life. One he never knew existed.
"What does Sophia do for a living?"
"She's a pilot."
"Skilled," Scott said. "And I'm guessing smart as a whip."
"She is."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
Scott's mouth dropped open, then he snapped it shut and scoffed. "Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You have love in the palm of your hand and you're going to walk away from her?"
Was he? Gibb wasn't sure anymore.
Scott looked sad and disappointed. "You're a tougher case than I thought."
Why was it so difficult for him to admit he was falling in love? "Like I said, I don't really know her."
"Yeah?" Scott cocked an eyebrow. "Let me put it to you in a language you understand. What do you do before you fund a product or invest an upstart business?"
"Figure profit and loss."
"So let's make it all about money since that's your emotional currency."
"I resent that." He felt as if he were choking and loosened his tie.
"Have you changed in some fundamental way?"
"I'm working on it. I'm trying."
"Okay, tell me this. What do you like most about Sophia?"
Gibb smiled. "I like how calm she stays in the face of a crisis and how everything makes her smile. When she smiles it's like the sun coming out after a month of rain. And she wears this sassy pink straw cowboy hat cocked back on her head and she's got long, thick, straight jet-black hair. How she doesn't allow me to snow her with nonsense. Scott, she has the most amazing power to see right through me, to the kid I used to be. You know, how I was before my mom married James and I started turning myself inside out to prove I was worthy of James's love and respect. Sophia puts me in touch with that kid who I've tried so hard to run away from. She..." He paused to take a breath.
"Sounds very special," Scott finished quietly.
"Yes. Yes, she is."
"Now let's look at the loss side of the column. What is the downside of pursuing a relationship with Sophia?"
"We're night and day. She's down-to-earth and I drive a Bentley. She lives in a secluded mountain range in Costa Rica and I own homes in Miami, Santa Barbara and Aspen."
"You didn't always."
"I know."
"Here's the big question. What is it that you are so afraid of?"
Gibb snorted. "Honestly?"
"I've found it's the best policy."
"I'm afraid I don't know how to be ordinary anymore. I'm out of touch with the real world, Scott."
"When was the last time you did something ordinary?"
Gibb grinned. "I made campfire s'mores with Sophia."
"She's good for you."
"I know."
"So what are you still doing here, Gibb?"
"I was hoping you'd let me be your best man, unless you've got someone else for the task. Ah, hell, what am I saying? Of course you've already got a best man—"
"I do," Scott said, "and I'm looking right at him."
"You didn't ask someone else already?" Gibb was surprised at the rush of gratitude that filled him. Scott was not only forgiving him for his behavior but he still considered him his best man.
"I did ask my dad's closest friend Carl to step in, but he said if you showed up and wanted the job, he'd happily serve as an usher instead."
"Really?" It was ridiculous how happy this was making him. He clamped his teeth together to keep his eyes from misting up. Scott was a damn good friend. Better than he deserved.
Scott clapped him on the shoulder. "I hoped you would change your mind and come to your senses and wish the best for me and my bride."
"Thanks, guy," Gibb said, and then shut his mouth before he got choked up.
Scott touched the platinum bracelet on his right wrist. "Remember what we said the day we bought these?"
Gibb's fingers went to his own bare wrist. "Blood brothers forever."
"Hey, what happened to your chain?"
"Long story. I'll tell you at the reception."
"Doesn't matter, does it? The chain is just a symbol. It's what it represents that counts. I'm just so glad you're here."
"Me, too."
"C'mon. I'll introduce you to Jackie, but after the wedding, I want you to do something for me."
"Anything. You name it."
"Get yourself on that corporate jet and get your ass back to Costa Rica and tell Sophia that you're in love with her."
"What if..." Gibb swallowed hard and then finally voiced what he had feared most. "What if she doesn't feel the same way about me?"
"You're good at taking risks, but this doesn't sound like a risk at all to me. The list of profits is long and there's honestly nothing on the loss side of the equation."
"But if I tell her I love her and she doesn't reciprocate I don't think I can stand losing her."
"Buddy," Scott said. "What if she does love you right back? Do you really want to walk away and cut your losses before you ever find out?"
* * *
SIX HOURS LATER, after Scott and his bride had sailed off on the Sea Anemone, Gibb paced the lobby of a private hangar at Key West International Airport. He was waiting for a lightning storm to pass before he and his pilot could take off for Costa Rica.
He'd only been there a few minutes, but he was terrible at waiting.
Calm down, amigo, where's the fire? Sophia's laughing voice whispered to him.
Immediately, he smiled and stopped pacing. Blowing out a deep breath, he plunked down in a lounge chair to watch the evening news on the big-screen TV. At this hour of the night, he was the only one around.
"In financial news," the anchor said, "communications giant Fisby Corp has announced they own the patent to an innovative ecological transportation system destined to change the way the world travels." On the TV screen there was a detailed picture of the travel system that was eerily similar to the one that Gibb had invested in. "Stay tuned for more on the story after the commercial break."
What? Not again!
Gibb jumped to his feet, unable to believe what he'd just heard. Despite all his precautions, a corporate spy had zinged him again! How in the hell had Fisby managed to get a patent through before his inventor?
The broadcast resumed and the news anchor picked up the story again. The camera flashed to a live action shot of the CEO of Fisby Corp climbing into his stretch limo with a beautiful blonde woman on his arm—a woman that Gibb knew intimately. The woman who loved giving his black credit card a good workout.
Stacy.
She was the corporate spy all along. He'd been sleeping with the enemy.
Stunned, he stared at the TV, waited for the anger to hit him, braced for feelings of betrayal and indignation, but oddly, those feelings didn't come.
He sat back down on the chair. Well, what do you know? Stacy was the corporate spy. He had to give credit where credit was due. She'd certainly pulled the wool over his eyes.
All at once, the situation tickled his funny bone.
Gibb threw back his head and laughed, laughed until fat tears rolled down his face. Laughed until the receptionist behind the desk gave him a strange look. Two years' worth of work and hundreds of millions of dollars down the tubes and he didn't even care.
"Thank you, Stacy," he told the screen. "You just let me out of a prison of my own making."
Free. For the first time since he'd sold his Zimdiggy game app, he felt free.
15
"WHY ARE you so mopey, mi hija?" Her father kissed Sophia's head as she sat at the kitchen table staring out the window.
She reached up to touch her father's face, felt uneven patches of beard mixed with smooth skin. Since he'd been losing his sight, he did a patchwork job of shaving himself, but he was fiercely independent and refused to let anyone else shave him. "How do you know I'm mopey, Poppy?"
"I need eyes to know when my youngest niña is sad? How blind do you think I am? You do not sing. There is no smile in your voice. You have been like this since you returned from your failed trip to Key West. What is wrong, mi hija?"
How could she tell her father that ever since she left Gibb three days ago in the bungalow at Island de Providencia, she felt as if she'd been slogging through a fog thicker than the daily mist surrounding Bosque de Los Dioses?
She had discovered firsthand that the downside of great passion was a shattered heart if things did not work out. Passion was not all it was cracked up to be.
But as tempting as it might have been to act as if nothing had happened on that island and slip back into her easy relationship with Emilio, she simply could not bring herself to do it. Once she had tasted real passion, she could never settle for little more than pleasant companionship, even if she and Gibb were not destined to be together.
The day she'd gotten home, she went to see Emilio and told him that while she valued their friendship, she could not in good conscience keep dating him. It turned out that he had been feeling the same way.
"You can still patch things up with Emilio," her father murmured. "It is not too late."
"But, Poppy, I do not love him."
"Ah," her father said, "I understand. You love another."
"Yes," she whispered, "I do, but he doesn't love me back."
"Then he is a very stupid man."
"I think he's just afraid to let himself love."
"Then he is very, very stupid. Love is nothing to be afraid of."
She drew her knees to her chest, hugged herself. "It hurts so much, Poppy."
"I know, mi hija." He squeezed her hand tightly and shuffled off to the living room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Sophia dropped her head into her hands. She had been such a fool, hoping against all hope that somehow she had a chance with Gibb. Loco. She was loco. She knew that, but she could not stop thinking about him.
Misery rolled around inside her like a boulder, crashing and smashing, doing irreparable damage. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but the pain was so big she could barely do more than suck in a whistle of air through her teeth.
The previous evening, Josie had come over with a weak smile and a big box of tissues. She'd cried and talked and it had helped a little, but the sadness that seeped into her bones was there to stay. After her sister left, she watched her mother's old VHS tape of To Have and Have Not, and bawled her eyes out when the crucial line came. Did you ever really get over a broken heart?
She reached for the tissues Josie had left on the table the night before and considered whether to go for the beer in the fridge or the ice cream in the freezer, when her cell phone rang.
For one idiotic second, she thought, Gibb!
She snatched her phone from her pocket, looked at the caller ID and her hopes vanished. It was her aunt Kristi from Ventura.
"Hello?" she mumbled, barely able to hold the sniffles at bay.
"Sophia, honey, Josie told me you've just had your first broken heart."
"Oh, Auntie," she said and the sobs overtook her.
"Sweetheart," Kristi said. "You just need to get away and I want to give you a giant hug. Come on up and stay with us for as long as you need to. Your cousins and I will meet you at the airport."
She'd seen her mother's family every couple of years and the invitation couldn't have come at a better time. Gibb would be returning to the mountain soon to work on his secret project. It would be so hard to be near him and not give in to the attraction. Much better to leave the country and give herself some distance to get over him. Besides, once his project was complete, she would be out of a job. Maybe now was the time to look into other opportunities for employment. Who knew what the future might hold?
After all, she was lucky. She had something Gibb did not have, a large supportive family who loved her enough to rally around her when she was suffering. She was richer than he would ever be.
"Are you coming?" her aunt asked.
"Yes, Auntie," she said firmly before she had a chance to talk herself out of it. "Yes, thank you for inviting me. I'm on my way."
* * *
THE MINUTE GIBB'S plane touched down in Libera in the wee hours on Wednesday morning, four days after he'd last seen Sophia, he realized he had no idea where she lived. He had her cell phone number, but he didn't want to do this over the phone. He had to see her face-to-face.
After the Fisby Corp announcement, he'd had some things to take care of, but once business was out of the way, he'd come back to Cordillera of Tilarán as quickly as he could.
He stalked up to the operations center that he knew she flew out of, but the doors were locked and he did not see El Diablo on the tarmac behind the ten-foot chain fence. For a second, he panicked, worrying that she had not made it home from Island de Providencia and he cursed himself for not calling sooner to make sure she was safe. But he'd wanted to surprise her.
Calm down. Her plane is probably in a hanger.
Now what? He couldn't wait until the operations center opened. He had to see her right now. What to do? He paced back and forth.
Maybe he should just call her? But what if she refused his call? Or worse, answered the phone only to tell him that she did not want to see him.
An old white Ford pickup truck drove up to the center and a man got out.
"Hola!" Gibb greeted him forcefully. "I am looking for Señorita Sophia Cruz. Do you know where I can find her?"
The man shrugged. "Not here."
Well, clearly not, since the place was closed up. Frustrated, Gibb ran a hand through his hair. "Do you know where I can find her?"
"Are you a customer? If you want to hire a plane to Bosque de Los Dioses, give me thirty minutes and I can take you."
He grasped the man's arm, stared at him hard. "No, I want Sophia. Sophia is the one I need. The only one."
The man raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, señor. She has moved to California."
* * *
SOPHIA WAS WALKING along Ventura beach at sunset. Overhead, seagulls cried. It was better here than at home. Here, she did not keep imagining she saw Gibb every time she turned a corner.
Except there was a tall muscular blond man approaching her. Her pulse leaped.
Don't be silly. It's not him. He's in Bosque de Los Dioses working on his precious project.
Still, her ridiculous imagination couldn't help pointing out that he had a beach home in Santa Barbara and Ventura wasn't all that far south of it.
A kid was running along the sand with a bright purple bat-wing kite. The wind caught it, lifted it high. Sophia stopped to watch the boy, appreciating the child's love of a simple activity like kite flying.
"I haven't flown a kite since I was that age," said a voice behind her, a very familiar voice.
Sophia turned to see that the blond man she'd caught a glimpse of earlier was indeed Gibb.
"Hello, Sophia," he said softly.
"What...what are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
She swallowed hard. "Me?"
He stepped closer. Tension hung heavily in the air. "You."
"Why are you looking for me?"
"I found out you left Bosque de Los Dioses. I chased you away from your home."
"If the invention you are investing in takes off, I won't have a job there anyway. It's better that I start a new life now. Begin adjusting."
"So you're not running away to avoid seeing me?"
Unable to hold his gaze, she turned to look out at the ocean. "I...it's less painful not being near you."
"I came to tell you something." Gibb reached for her. Lightly, gently, he cupped her elbow in one hand, cradled her chin in the other and guided her face back to his.
Hope. So much darn hope crowded her chest. "And what is that?"
"That you were right."
"What about?" A million emotions jolted through Sophia like tiny shocks of electricity.
"Everything." He stared at her, into her. "About me having to be in control. About there being more to life than money."
"What caused you to realize that?"
"Well, for one thing, the corporate spies caught me again. They got a patent for the green transportation technology I'd invested in before we did."
"I'm sorry to hear that. How do these spies keep stealing your secrets when you are so careful?"
Gibb snorted. "Because I was sleeping with the enemy."
Sophia cocked her head. "I do not understand."
"Stacy. She was the corporate spy. How do you like them apples?"
"She betrayed you!"
"And ran up quite a bill on my credit card while doing it."
"Good thing she is not here right now." Sophia scowled. "Or I would have to call her out for hurting you."
Gibb smiled. "I have no doubt that you would. You could take her, too." He winked. "I've seen you in action. You are a woman to be reckoned with."
She notched her chin up. "When something or someone I love is threatened, you bet I am."
Suddenly, it occurred to her that she'd inadvertently told him she loved him. She slapped her fingers over her mouth, tried to figure out how to backtrack without making things worse.
His smile widened.
"And the other thing?"
He drew her to him. "What other thing?"
"That made you realize I was right?"
"Losing you, Sophia. I love you. And it broke my heart when you walked out on me."
"It broke mine, too," she murmured.
His gray eyes searched her face. "I missed you fiercely."
"I missed you, too."
He kissed her then, running one hand up the nape of her neck, spearing his fingers through her hair. A gust of wind blew against them. The sun was sinking fast. The kid with the kite was hauling it in for the night.
"Did you get to Key West in time to stop your friend from getting married?" she asked.
"I did."
"You must be very happy. You got what you wanted."
He moved closer to her. "I didn't try to break Scott and Jackie up."
"No?"
"No," he lowered his voice.
"Why not?"
"For one thing, I saw how happy she made him and for another..."
"What?" Sophia prodded.
"I realized how completely happy you make me."
"But we hardly know each other."
"Oh," Gibb said. "That's where you're wrong. I know you have the cutest little birthmark on your left hip and that you can fix a broken rudder cable with a platinum bracelet. I know that I always want you on my side whether it's a passion-fruit fight with spider monkeys or stopping orchid thieves with snare nooses."
"That was fun, wasn't it?"
"I know that I can't get enough of you." He dipped his head to kiss her again. "And that I want to wake up every morning of my life to find you lying next to me."
"That sounds very nice." She plucked at the collar of his shirt.
"There's a reason I didn't come looking for you sooner," he said.
"And what reason is that?"
"I had business to take care of since the project at Bosque de Los Dioses is a no go."
"What are you going to do now?" She planted a kiss on his neck at the V of his collar.
"I thought I'd take your advice, stop worrying about making money and instead worry about having fun and doing what pleases me."
"Mmm," she said. "That sounds very fun."
"And I want to start by making love to you."
"I definitely like the sound of that."
He bent and swept her off her feet, scooping her into his arms and carrying her down the beach. She wrapped her arms around his neck, never once took her gaze off him. Her heart was overflowing with joy and a hundred other wonderful feelings.
"I have an idea," he said.
"About what?"
"A new game app."
Sophia smiled. "You're going back to creating games?"
"My first love," he said, staring deeply into her eyes.
"What will you call this one?" she murmured, snuggling her face against his chest.
"Sophia and the Orchid Thieves."
She laughed. Would this man always surprise her so? "Terrific. Tell me about the game."
"Well," he said, "there's this amazing girl named Sophia and she flies her own airplane and she goes on exciting adventures."
"Sounds like a superhero."
"Oh, Sophia is much tougher than a superhero."
"So does Sophia go on these adventures all on her own?"
"No. She's got a handsome sidekick."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know yet. You can name him if you want."
"Gibb will do," she said. "And he's a savvy, charming billionaire, with a hint of international intrigue."
"Are you sure? Is that the man you really want for Sophia?"
"Darling," she told him. "I love you. There is no other."
Epilogue
Former venture capitalist Gibb Martin has returned to his roots and, by doing so, he has surpassed his previous standing at 1153 on our list three years ago by a full one thousand positions with the release of his sensational new gaming app. Sophia and the Orchid Thieves.
Martin says, "The credit for my success goes entirely to my beautiful wife, Sophia. I'm a better man because of her."
We think Martin is being too humble, reviews for Sophia and the Orchid Thieves have garnered a unanimous thumbs-up from the gaming community. But no one can deny that his feisty Costa Rican bride has caused a marked change in Martin who shifted his focus from business to pleasure after Fisby Corp scooped him three times in two years. Most recently by getting to market first with a transportation system that was supposed to revolutionize the way people travel.
Unfortunately for Fisby, the invention had a huge design flaw and the entire project had to be scrapped. Maybe that will serve as a lesson to Fisby that it's better to come up with your own ideas than to appropriate them from others. Many were surprised when Martin did not pursue legal action against Fisby but not Martin's adopted father, real estate mogul, James Martin.
"Gibb is a changed man," says the senior Martin. "Finding love has altered the way he looks at the world. I couldn't be prouder of my son."
If skyrocketing sales of Sophia and the Orchid Thieves is any indication, love is surely the way to go.
—Wealth Maker Magazine
"THEY CAN SAY THAT a hundred times and not be wrong," Gibb said, taking the magazine away from Sophia and settling down on the sofa beside her in their treetop bungalow amidst the clouds of Cordillera of Tilarán.
"What part?" she teased, cradling her swollen belly. "That the sales of Sophia and the Orchid Thieves are skyrocketing?"
"The part about love surely being the way to go."
"Uh-huh."
"Who knew three short years ago that one airplane ride to stop a wedding would start all this?" Gibb rested his head on her belly.
She smiled and placed her hand over his.
"Imagine." He raised his head and looked deeply into her eyes. "A son."
"Imagine," she murmured. "A husband who gets to stay home all day doing what he loves."
"Imagine." He laughed. "Having a mother who flies through the air doing what she loves and can single-handedly fight off orchid thieves."
"We are the two luckiest people in the world." Sophia's heart was full to bursting.
"I do love creating games," Gibb said. "But I love you more and that love grows bigger each day and will soon include our children, too."
"Only one so far."
"Ah," he said, "but we are just getting started."
"And to think we owe it all to a crash landing." She laughed.
Gibb pulled her into his arms and gave her a long, deep kiss and Sophia realized that she truly had the best of both worlds. Red-hot passion and a true partnership destined to last a lifetime.
* * * * *
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1
SPECIAL AGENT RYAN VAIL tossed the brochure on the bed. The amazingly comfortable-looking bed, which was a far cry from most of the rat holes he'd been stuck with on various FBI stings and stakeouts. The Color Canyon Resort and Spa was a decadent oasis in the middle of the Las Vegas desert built for people with cash to spend and a yen for excitement and being pampered.
Ryan settled against the headboard, the puffy comforter billowing around him. Straight ahead was a forty-two-inch flat-screen TV. There was a wing chair, a leather love seat, an extravagantly stocked minibar and, if he turned his head to the right, beyond the private patio was a view of a nice little courtyard with a pool and spa pool all in the shadow of the Spring Mountains. It might be February in the rest of the world, but in the Vegas desert it was a balmy seventy-two degrees with copious sunshine on the docket for the rest of the week.
He grinned, pulled out his cell phone and went right to speed dial text.
You're gonna die when you see the bathtub.
He hit Send, adjusted the pillow behind him and checked out his work stuff. Another email update on Delilah Bridges, one of the cotherapists in charge of this barbecue. Four people ran the Intimate At Last retreat weekends, all suspects in a major blackmail scheme. Unfortunately for them, they'd unwittingly targeted a friend of James Leonard, the Deputy Director of the FBI.
Ryan's phone rang, and he knew it was his partner without even looking. "Jeannie Foster. How's my favorite witness for the State?"
"Shut up, you bastard," she said, her voice echoey, as if she were speaking in a vast hall. Or a toilet stall.
Of course, he'd taken a picture of the big-enough-for-a-party whirlpool tub, which he promptly sent her. A moment later, the mother of two cursed him with her usual flair.
"I hate court. I hate lawyers. I hate judges. And don't even get me started on juries. Get me the hell out of here, Ryan."
"It should be over soon, right?"
"Probably around the time of the next ice age. Jesus, they love to hear themselves talk."
"In a few hours you'll forget all about them. This place is something else. If I'm going to be forced to sleep with you, I'm glad it's in this beauty of a bed. Which is actually more comfortable than mine at home."
Jeannie laughed. "It's not the bed, honey, it's all your extracurricular activity. I think you'd have to find a titanium mattress to keep up."
"You're hilarious."
"Nothing is hilarious today," she said. "You get the new updates on Delilah?"
"Yeah."
Her sigh was long and filled with frustration. "Interesting about her father and his criminal record, but dammit, still nothing usable. With all the data we've collected, you'd think we'd have uncovered something more viable."
"Everyone makes mistakes. But," he added, "I'm going to be such a perfect mark, they're gonna wet themselves waiting to get to me. We'll be out of here in a few days."
"I thought you said the accommodations were super deluxe?"
He grinned. This is why he liked his partner, despite the fact that she could be a stick in the mud, what with being married and a mom. She was quick...and needed a vacation as badly as he did after the intensity of the past two months preparing for this sting. "Right. Maybe it'll take the whole week."
"There we go. I have to get back to the torture chamber. I hear they're planning on using the rack next."
"Hey, I'm gonna sign off on this phone, but Ryan Ebsen's cell and laptop haven't finished charging. If there's a God, I should be asleep when you arrive, so don't wake me."
"Coming off another late night, Romeo?"
"None of your business. Go be a witness."
"I'll talk to you in the morning," she said, and then she was gone, and he was faced with the prospect of what to do with the rest of the afternoon.
It would be more fun to play craps or hang out in one of the casino bars, but from the moment he'd checked in, FBI Special Agent Ryan Vail was locked in a vault for the duration of his stay, replaced by the fictitious Ryan Ebsen. Husband of the equally fictitious Jeannie Ebsen. Son of Felicia and Bob from Reseda, California.
Ryan sifted through the file, studying the cover story he already knew inside and out. But when you pretended to be someone else, there was no such thing as too much prep. Ebsen was a regional manager for a business software firm. His lovely bride of nineteen months didn't work because she didn't need to. Not because he brought in enough money to live their extravagant life, but because she had a trust fund. A very hefty trust fund.
But Mrs. Ebsen had been spending a little too much time at the club lately with a very handsome tennis coach, which made Ryan itchy. He doubted they were sleeping together, but there was always a risk that if she started to feel as if the honeymoon was over, she could find solace in the tennis pro's arms. It had been Ryan Ebsen's idea to attend this couple's retreat week, where they would "Learn how to transition to the deeper, more meaningful stage of a committed relationship."
Mr. Ebsen, the scoundrel, really, really wanted to make the marriage work. He'd grown attached to their Brentwood home, the Manhattan pied-à-terre, his Ferrari, the first-class travel. He'd even decided to break things off with Roxanne, the gorgeous receptionist at his office. He was nothing if not serious about this intimacy crap.
He continued to read the email from his team in White Collar Crimes back in L.A. The first report of blackmail had come shortly after a weekend Intimate At Last retreat in Los Angeles, and since it dealt with some historic artwork and blackmail, the L.A. team had taken point on the investigation and now this sting operation. The Vegas office was up to speed, of course. No one wanted a turf war, but there was a time limit on this gig, because in a matter of weeks, the suspects were moving their base of operation to Cancún, Mexico.
So he was on the clock. Since the missus wasn't here, he'd unpack, take a swim, order room service, charge his equipment and himself. Far from the carnal night Jeannie imagined, he'd been up till dawn talking the Long Beach P.D. out of putting his old man in jail. The stubborn idiot had been drunk off his ass again, trying to pick a fight with a half-dozen marines. It was like dealing with a rebellious teenager, only his father was in his fifties.
So sleep tonight, and tomorrow, he and Jeannie would be the very picture of a cookie-cutter couple: powdered sugar on the outside, but filled with lots and lots to lose if a certain trust-fund wife found out about her philandering hubby.
After he'd checked out the room service menu, and thank God there was an expense account because, Jesus, the prices, he opened up his suitcase while he found the sports channel on the TV. His thoughts weren't on the scoreboards, however, but on the reason he needed this operation to succeed beyond all expectations. Deputy Director Leonard was looking to fill a staff position in his Washington, D.C., office. Ryan was a contender in a very narrow pool of candidates. And now that he was in the spotlight, he was going to make damn sure he was a shining star.
* * *
ANGIE WOLF SIGHED WHEN SHE heard the voices of the rest of the White Collar Crimes team coming in from their break on the outdoor patio. Damn, it seemed as if they'd left two minutes ago, not nearly enough time for her to breathe let alone hear herself think.
They were a great bunch: competent, dedicated and generally nice people with whom she got along well considering work colleagues were always a crapshoot. But the past two months had been brutal. She'd spent way too many hours in the office and right now she'd give anything to be alone, preferably on a ten-mile run with nothing more to worry about than beating her last record.
Even as she heard them close in on the bullpen, she stayed just as she was, legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed, one heel on her desk, leaning back in her chair as far as she could. The fresh air would've been nice, but two of the team members smoked and that she could do without.
"Hey, how come you didn't come out for the lifting of the Red Bulls?"
Angie smiled at Paula, another Special Agent who'd been in charge of the artwork aspect of the operation. The painting in question was a Reubens, stolen during World War II and recovered in the late 1990s. It was worth millions, and had been "gifted" to a New Mexico art gallery, which had then sold it to an anonymous private collector.
The transaction had been legal on the surface, but the granddaughter of the original owner was certain her grandfather had been blackmailed into giving away the family treasure. The Deputy Director of the FBI had been friends with the family since birth.
And now, if Angie's White Collar Crimes team had done their jobs right, the task force was days away from zeroing in on the blackmailers.
Angie realized Paula was still waiting for an answer. Break time was definitely over. "Haven't we spent enough quality time together? Two months of eighty- and ninety-hour weeks? I mean, come on."
Paula flopped into her chair and turned it so she faced Angie. "You can take a break when you're dead. Or tonight, when we go out for drinks. That one, you're not getting out of. We'll use force if necessary."
"You and what army?"
"Me, for one." It was Brad Pollinger, Angie's partner in the field. He was followed into the room by several other members of the group, all of whom cheerfully let her know that they weren't above using every dirty trick in the book to get her to join them.
"Fine. But I'm having exactly one beer." The bullpen was pretty full now, with only Fred MIA, but he was perennially late.
"Don't you have any fun?" Paula eyed Angie's sturdy low-heeled pumps propped on the desk. Comfort won over fashion every time for Angie. "Ever?"
"I have plenty," she said, although her definition of fun leaned more heavily toward achievement than clubbing. Whether it was cutting a few seconds off her morning run or working on side projects that could get her to the next stage of her ten-year plan, she wasn't much of a party gal.
She'd always been a big believer in setting short-term goals that fed directly into long-term strategies. Even though she'd stopped being a competitive runner, she still kept up the discipline and used the skills she'd picked up as a kid to keep herself on task.
From the beginning of this assignment, she'd realized the potential. With her computer programming skills and familiarity with investigation protocols she could make a significant contribution. And she had.
Angie's new program had led to the revelation about Delilah Bridges's father, that he'd been arrested under an alias for robbery on four separate occasions. It wasn't much as far as real leads went, but it was still a piece of an ever-expanding puzzle. The broader the picture, the more likely the pieces that didn't appear to connect would suddenly come together.
She'd worked damn hard on coding that sucker, a search engine with such a sexy algorithm it had given the guys in Cyber Crimes nerdgasms.
It had also been noteworthy enough to put her in the running for the position with the Deputy Director in Washington D.C. She wanted that job, badly. It would be a huge feather in her cap, the kind of promotion that would set her apart from the crowd. And it would put her squarely in the arena of real power, where she intended to not just stay, but thrive.
"Jeannie's the one having all the fun," came a voice from three desks down. "Can you imagine pretending to be Ryan Vail's wife all week?"
Angie stared at Sally Singer, a normally sedate forensic accountant, checking to see if she was serious.
"Um, yeah, I think Jeannie wins this round," Paula said, laughing, and God, looking a little envious.
Were they crazy? Ryan Vail was a hell of an agent, but he was a player of epic proportions. Everyone knew about his exploits. And while he kept his personal life separate from his work life, he hadn't even tried to keep his reputation from spreading. Legend had it that he'd "entertained" four different Victoria's Secret models, although no one was clear if that had been at the same time or not.
She had to give it to him. His technique was subtle and effective. To her own mortification, his charm had almost worked on her. Admittedly it had been at a party and they'd both had too much to drink, but it still embarrassed her to think about it. Nothing would have come of it, though, because the last thing she wanted was to be another notch on Vail's belt.
"I think you guys are nuts. This week isn't going to be easy for either of them," Brad said as he rolled a quarter over the backs of his fingers in what he called a dexterity exercise, but was in truth his way of coping without cigarettes. "Sharing a bed? Intimacy exercises? I mean, what the hell would intimacy exercises even be?"
"Oh, brother. If you have to ask I feel sorry for your wife," Angie said, and the rest of the crew laughed.
God, she hoped that cut the conversation short because she knew exactly what the exercises would entail. Lots of touching, kissing, maybe even getting naked and she absolutely could not think about Ryan in that context. At least not at work.
"I should have been the one to go undercover with him," Paula said. "Seriously. I would've appreciated the experience so much more than Jeannie."
Brad's laugh was more about disbelief than amusement. "You have a boyfriend."
Paula gave them an innocent smile. "It's not cheating if you're doing it for a case. That's like vacation sex but you still get paid."
"Like hell it's not cheating," he said to more laughter, which said more about their long hours and how punchy they all were than it did about the quality of the humor. "Angie should've been the one to go undercover with Vail. No offense to Jeannie but you two would've looked more like the Ebsens."
Angie snorted, and not with any grace. "Me and Vail? Yeah, right."
Paula shrugged. "You know I hate agreeing with Brad, but I see what he's saying." She tilted her head, glancing at Angie's shoes again. "The right clothes and hair and you two would look as if you'd stepped off the cover of In Style."
Angie chuckled. No one else did. Was it conceivable they were teasing her because they knew about her thing for Ryan? No, not possible. She barely glanced at him when he was in the office. Absolutely no one knew. Except for Liz, and Liz didn't count. As her closest friend who also happened to be an FBI agent in the San Diego office, she knew almost everything about Angie. But certainly no one at work had an inkling that Angie might have thought about Ryan in a sexual context. A few times. "Shut up. All of you. As if I'd ever volunteer for an assignment with Vail."
"You liar," Paula said, a little louder than was appropriate in the bullpen. "I've seen you check out that ass. Everyone with a pulse has checked out that ass."
"I've got a pulse," Brian said. "Trust me. I have never—"
"I meant people who were into that kind of guy."
"I have," Sally said, raising her hand without a bit of shame. "And Angie, my dear friend, as cool as you play it, I've seen you blush when he walks by."
"Probably because Vail had done something to blush about." Angie was terrified she'd start blushing right this minute. The subject needed to be changed, although it wouldn't hurt to make a definitive statement. "I mean, come on. To sleep in the same bed as him? To act like his wife? Palmer could've offered to pay off my car loan and no way in hell would I have—"
Assistant Director Gordon Palmer walked into the bullpen, and Angie swung her feet off the desk. Everyone else in the room sat up straight, dropping the banter like hot coals. "We have a problem," he said, as if his demeanor hadn't already tipped them off.
Palmer was a good man, a fair boss and someone who had a knack for assigning the right agents to the right tasks, unlike several A.D.s she could mention. "Agent Foster is being held over in court. Indefinitely. We've been trying to get a postponement, but the judge won't budge."
Angie's chest tightened as if pressed by a vise. All their work, all the hours they'd spent putting this sting together....This was the final Intimate At Last retreat being held in the United States.
"However," Palmer said, turning toward Angie with purpose. Had he overheard? Was this part of the joke? No, he wasn't the type. "There is one solution."
The pressure in her chest got so heavy she could hardly breathe. "Oh, my God."
"You're up to speed with every aspect of the case," Palmer said, making it very clear he was completely serious. "You helped build the cover stories. I feel certain that you can pull it off."
"Wouldn't Paula be a better choice?" she said, her voice tight and her hands gripping her chair as if her life depended on it. "She was just saying..."
Paula shook her head, all business. "I don't know the cover, not like you do."
Palmer walked to Angie's desk. "I can't order you to do this," he said, softly now, for her ears only. "And there will be no negative repercussions if you aren't comfortable taking over the assignment. I realize it's a sensitive situation. No one's going to blame you for declining to step in."
The very thought of sleeping in the same bed as Ryan Vail made her skin tingle, made her want to hide under her desk. For all his colorful reputation, he would be a perfect gentleman, she had no doubt, but that didn't mean she could be a perfect lady. Knowing she'd never be with Ryan in real life had no effect whatsoever on what she did with him in her fantasies. The idea of actually sleeping with him... She felt sick with panic.
Taking her own idiotic issues out of the equation, there were several practical reasons to turn down the assignment. She might have helped with the cover stories, but she couldn't step directly into Jeannie's shoes.
However, she couldn't dismiss the short- and long-term benefits of saying yes. She didn't want to let down the team. And if she'd thought writing the search engine code would get her noticed, agreeing to the undercover work would put her front and center in the Deputy Director's radar.
She weighed the pros and cons: pretending to be Ryan's wife all week versus nailing the job in D.C.
She stood. "We don't have much time. Jeannie and I aren't close to the same size so I'll have to get a new wardrobe. We'll need to put my paperwork and computer cover in place faster than is humanly possible."
A.D. Palmer shook her hand. "Thank you, Wolf. Or should I say, Mrs. Ebsen."
ISBN: 9781460309940
Copyright © 2013 by Laurie Vanzura
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
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® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
} | 3,485 |
title: "Java meets Promises"
date: "2015-12-23T09:33:00.169Z"
path: "/posts/java-meets-promises"
category: Java
cover: https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1434672583789-40c5328ad46a?ixlib=rb-0.3.5&q=80&fm=jpg&crop=entropy&s=634d15151c2883d47d3979970080a400
tags:
- programming
- java
- promises
---
Coming from a JavaScript background, dealing with asynchronous processes in Android proved itself to be really cumbersome.
Using anonymous classes to a handle success and error cases right inside the view layer led to a huge mix of classes, empty methods, and undeletable dead code really quickly.
What I missed the most was :
- Anonymous functions
- Promises
My first resolution was to install [RetroLambda](https://github.com/orfjackal/retrolambda) by [@orfjackal](https://github.com/orfjackal) and embrace the future of Java using lambda expressions !
And then a new baby was born …
## … Introducing Promiser
Promiser is a small library written in Java 8 and aiming to simplify making asynchronous processes and handling success/error callbacks.
Inspired by JavaScript Promises specification and AngularJS $http service, Promiser lets you write code in a more functional way.
<script src="https://gist.github.com/YannickDot/79f35abcca53ac68434a.js"></script>
You can now handle result and error cases like this :
<script src="https://gist.github.com/YannickDot/1d4cf85ba38033b2d4dc.js"></script>
Promiser library is available on Github for [Vanilla Java](https://github.com/YannickDot/promiser-java) and [Android](https://github.com/NodensN/android-promiser).
We've got some ideas planned for the future development of Promiser (for example implementing the ```.then(…)``` syntax, so feel free to help us out! 😉
*This post was initially posted in [Yummypets Developers](https://medium.com/yummypets-developers) on Medium.*
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 5,170 |
{"url":"https:\/\/cs.stackexchange.com\/questions\/106019\/why-is-this-a-proof-by-contradiction-for-this-algorithm-isnt-this-a-direct-pro","text":"# Why is this a proof by contradiction for this algorithm? Isn't this a direct proof instead?\n\nFirst Slide: Find Max(A)\n\n1. \/\/ INPUT: A[1..n] - an array of integers\n2. \/\/ OUTPUT: an element m of A such that m >= A[j], for all 1 <= j <= A.length\n3. max = A[j==1]\n4. for j = 2 to A.length\n5. if max < A[j]\n6. max = A[j]\n7. return max\n\nProof: Suppose the algorithm is incorrect. Then for some input A, either:\n\n1. max is not an element of A or\n2. A has an element A[j] such that max < A[j]\n\nMax is initialized to and assigned to elements of A - so (1) is impossible.\n\nAfter the j-th iteration of the for loop (lines 4 - 6), max >= A[j]. From lines 5,6 max only increases. Therefore upon termination, max >= A[j] which contradicts (2).\n\nEnd Of Slides\n\nThis algorithm (first slide) finds the max element in the array. This is a proof by contradiction. Isn't this algorithm already proved when it gets to max >= A[j] in the last line of the second slide. Is which contradicts (2) even necessary? Because in the second slide you showed max is in the array, and then you met the condition of a maxium m: an element m of A such that m >= A[j] for all 1 <= j <= A.length.\n\nThis seems to be two proofs in one. And since it seems to me that the direct proof happens first, then the proof by contradiction is redundant and therefore not necessary. Am i missing something here? Is this only a proof by contradiction? Or is it a direct proof instead?\n\nThe image below is just the slides 1 and 2 that I transcribed above. From York University.\n\n\u2022 The proof assumes the opposite of what is to be proved then shows a contradiction. So it is a proof by contradiction. And so it is not a direct proof. It happens to prove that the algorithm is correct. \"when it gets to max >= A[j]\" it has gotten there by having assumed the opposite of what is to be proved; it has not proved \"max >= A[j]\" having assumed nothing. Indeed since it assumed something that happens to be false, anything can be derived thereafter before discharging that assumption. \u2013\u00a0philipxy Mar 25 at 8:46\n\u2022 Don't use images as main content of your post. This makes your question impossible to search and inaccessible to the visually impaired; we don't like that. Please transcribe text and mathematics (note that you can use LaTeX) and don't forget to give proper attribution to your sources! \u2013\u00a0dkaeae Mar 25 at 10:22\n\nYou seem to think the structure of the proof is:\n\n1. suppose the algorithm is incorrect;\n2. prove that the algorithm is, in fact, correct;\n3. this contradicts 1., so the algorithm is correct.\n\nThat's almost, but not quite true. Step 2 doesn't prove that the returned value $$\\mathrm{max}$$ is bigger than every element of the array, which is what would be required to prove that the algorithm is correct. It just proves that $$\\mathrm{max}$$ is bigger than the specific array value that was supposed to be a counterexample in step 1.\n\nBut, as Yuval has pointed out, the proof is much easier if you forget about contradiction completely and prove that $$\\mathrm{max}$$ is in the array (identical to the given proof) and then show that $$\\mathrm{max}$$ is at least as big as every array element (identical to the proof except \"for all\u00a0$$j$$\" instead of just for one supposed counterexample.\n\n\u2022 When it says \"after the j-th iteration of the for-loop (lines 4 - 6) max >= A[j]\" is it talking specifically about the index of the assumed counter example A[j]? When I initially read this proof I was thinking about j taking on all the values, so I was thinking at the end of each iteration max >= A[j]. And this is why I guess I was thinking along the lines of a direct proof. \u2013\u00a0user100752 Mar 27 at 6:03\n\u2022 @user100752 Yes, it's specifically the $j$ in point 2. \u2013\u00a0David Richerby Mar 27 at 10:10\n\nIt's a proof by contradiction that could easily be rewritten as a direct proof.\n\nTo rephrase it as a direct proof, we divide it into two claims:\n\n1. $$max$$ is an element of $$A$$.\n2. $$max \\geq A[j]$$ for all $$j$$.\n\nWe can conclude that $$max = \\max(A)$$.","date":"2019-12-07 20:32:55","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 10, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.7430205345153809, \"perplexity\": 536.9960346296505}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-51\/segments\/1575540501887.27\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191207183439-20191207211439-00449.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
{"url":"https:\/\/www.lmfdb.org\/L\/rational\/2\/912","text":"Results (28 matches)\n\nLabel $\\alpha$ $A$ $d$ $N$ $\\chi$ $\\mu$ $\\nu$ $w$ prim $\\epsilon$ $r$ First zero Origin\n2-912-228.227-c0-0-1 $0.674$ $0.455$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 228.227 $$0.0 0 1 0 1.73066 Artin representation 2.912.4t3.a Artin representation 2.912.4t3.a.a Modular form 912.1.b.b Modular form 912.1.b.b.911.1 2-912-228.227-c0-0-0 0.674 0.455 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 228.227$$ $0.0$ $0$ $1$ $0$ $1.19071$ Artin representation 2.912.4t3.b Artin representation 2.912.4t3.b.a Modular form 912.1.b.a Modular form 912.1.b.a.911.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-14 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 -1 1 1.85542 Elliptic curve 912.d Modular form 912.2.a.d Modular form 912.2.a.d.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-16 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $-1$ $1$ $2.02959$ Elliptic curve 912.f Modular form 912.2.a.f Modular form 912.2.a.f.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-17 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 -1 1 2.18943 Elliptic curve 912.h Modular form 912.2.a.h Modular form 912.2.a.h.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-2 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $1$ $0$ $1.09773$ Elliptic curve 912.c Modular form 912.2.a.c Modular form 912.2.a.c.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-3 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 1 0 1.11654 Elliptic curve 912.e Modular form 912.2.a.e Modular form 912.2.a.e.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-4 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $1$ $0$ $1.19093$ Elliptic curve 912.g Modular form 912.2.a.g Modular form 912.2.a.g.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-5 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 1 0 1.36058 Elliptic curve 912.j Modular form 912.2.a.j Modular form 912.2.a.j.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-6 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $1$ $0$ $1.38415$ Elliptic curve 912.l Modular form 912.2.a.l Modular form 912.2.a.l.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-7 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 1 0 1.41228 Elliptic curve 912.k Modular form 912.2.a.k Modular form 912.2.a.k.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-8 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $1$ $0$ $1.45577$ Elliptic curve 912.i Modular form 912.2.a.i Modular form 912.2.a.i.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c1-0-11 $2.69$ $7.28$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$1.0 1 -1 1 1.72203 Elliptic curve 912.b Modular form 912.2.a.b Modular form 912.2.a.b.1.1 2-912-1.1-c1-0-12 2.69 7.28 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $1.0$ $1$ $-1$ $1$ $1.72460$ Elliptic curve 912.a Modular form 912.2.a.a Modular form 912.2.a.a.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c3-0-37 $7.33$ $53.8$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$3.0 3 -1 1 1.39324 Modular form 912.4.a.c Modular form 912.4.a.c.1.1 2-912-1.1-c3-0-40 7.33 53.8 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $3.0$ $3$ $-1$ $1$ $1.47951$ Modular form 912.4.a.g Modular form 912.4.a.g.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c3-0-42 $7.33$ $53.8$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$3.0 3 -1 1 1.50319 Modular form 912.4.a.d Modular form 912.4.a.d.1.1 2-912-1.1-c3-0-45 7.33 53.8 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $3.0$ $3$ $-1$ $1$ $1.56883$ Modular form 912.4.a.f Modular form 912.4.a.f.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c3-0-52 $7.33$ $53.8$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$3.0 3 -1 1 1.78418 Modular form 912.4.a.h Modular form 912.4.a.h.1.1 2-912-1.1-c3-0-7 7.33 53.8 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $3.0$ $3$ $1$ $0$ $0.586226$ Modular form 912.4.a.a Modular form 912.4.a.a.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c3-0-35 $7.33$ $53.8$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$3.0 3 -1 1 1.36287 Modular form 912.4.a.e Modular form 912.4.a.e.1.1 2-912-1.1-c3-0-11 7.33 53.8 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $3.0$ $3$ $1$ $0$ $0.770432$ Modular form 912.4.a.b Modular form 912.4.a.b.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c5-0-5 $12.0$ $146.$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$5.0 5 1 0 0.331161 Modular form 912.6.a.c Modular form 912.6.a.c.1.1 2-912-1.1-c5-0-52 12.0 146. 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $5.0$ $5$ $1$ $0$ $1.02939$ Modular form 912.6.a.e Modular form 912.6.a.e.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c5-0-76 $12.0$ $146.$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$5.0 5 -1 1 1.38057 Modular form 912.6.a.d Modular form 912.6.a.d.1.1 2-912-1.1-c5-0-89 12.0 146. 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $5.0$ $5$ $-1$ $1$ $1.66622$ Modular form 912.6.a.f Modular form 912.6.a.f.1.1\n2-912-1.1-c5-0-24 $12.0$ $146.$ $2$ $2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19$ 1.1 $$5.0 5 -1 1 0.676239 Modular form 912.6.a.a Modular form 912.6.a.a.1.1 2-912-1.1-c5-0-38 12.0 146. 2 2^{4} \\cdot 3 \\cdot 19 1.1$$ $5.0$ $5$ $-1$ $1$ $0.888915$ Modular form 912.6.a.b Modular form 912.6.a.b.1.1","date":"2022-01-18 10:09:22","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9860468506813049, \"perplexity\": 994.7840014541907}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": false, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2022-05\/segments\/1642320300810.66\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20220118092443-20220118122443-00396.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
<?php
namespace Inventory\Controller;
use Zend\ServiceManager\ServiceLocatorInterface;
use Zend\ServiceManager\FactoryInterface;
/**
*
* @author Nguyen Mau Tri - ngmautri@gmail.com
*
*/
class DashboardControllerFactory implements FactoryInterface
{
/**
*
* {@inheritdoc}
*
* @see \Zend\ServiceManager\FactoryInterface::createService()
*/
public function createService(ServiceLocatorInterface $serviceLocator)
{
$container = $serviceLocator->getServiceLocator();
$controller = new DashboardController();
$sv = $container->get('doctrine.entitymanager.orm_default');
$controller->setDoctrineEM($sv);
$sv = $container->get('Inventory\Infrastructure\Persistence\DoctrineItemReportingRepository');
$controller->setItemReportingRepository($sv);
$sv = $container->get('Inventory\Infrastructure\Persistence\DoctrineItemListRepository');
$controller->setItemListRepository($sv);
return $controller;
}
} | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 8,482 |
package net.slreynolds.ds.model;
import java.util.ArrayList;
import java.util.Collections;
import java.util.List;
/**
*
*/
final public class NodeArray extends GraphPoint {
private final boolean _inlineValues;
private final GraphPoint[] _elements;
public NodeArray(NamedID ID, String name, int length, int generation, boolean inlineValues) {
super(ID, name, generation);
if (length < 0) {
throw new IllegalArgumentException("length must be non-negative");
}
_elements = inlineValues ? new GraphPoint[length] : null;
_inlineValues = inlineValues;
}
@SuppressWarnings("unchecked")
public List<GraphPoint> getElements() {
return _inlineValues ? a2l(_elements) : (List<GraphPoint>)Collections.EMPTY_LIST;
}
private static <T> List<T> a2l(T[] ta) {
List<T> ts = new ArrayList<T>();
for (T t : ta) {
ts.add(t);
}
return ts;
}
@Override
public boolean areValuesInlined() {
return _inlineValues;
}
public void set(int i, GraphPoint gp) {
_elements[i] = gp;
}
public int getLength() {
return _inlineValues ? _elements.length : 0;
}
@Override
public NodeArray putAttr(String key, Object value) {
return (NodeArray) super.putAttr(key, value);
}
@Override
public NodeArray removeAttr(String key) {
return (NodeArray) super.removeAttr(key);
}
@Override
final public boolean isNode() {return false;}
@Override
final public boolean isArray() { return true; }
@Override
public String toString() {
StringBuilder sb = new StringBuilder("NodeArray [");
if (this.hasAttr(Named.CLASS)) {
sb.append( this.getAttr(Named.CLASS));
sb.append(' ');
}
if (_elements != null) {
sb.append("# elements=" + getLength());
}
sb.append(']');
return sb.toString();
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 3,235 |
Q: Node.js "Cannot read property 'length' of undefined I have this node.js app (using socket.io) that is going to be used for monitoring changes made to network configuration changes in a production environment. It monitors a spool directory for new files then pushes the info to a web client. When I try to run it I get "ERROR: Cannot read property 'length' of undefined." Any help would be appreciated.
#!/usr/bin/env node
// Runtime configuration
const SPOOLDIR = process.env['HOME'] + "/spool"; // Where to collect files
const INTERVAL = 5000; // How often to scan
const GRACE = 2000; // Minimum age of file before processing
// Dependency modules
const fs = require("fs");
const os = require("os");
const util = require("util");
const app = require('http').createServer(handler)
const io = require('socket.io')(app);
// Global variables:
// - File cache: stat structures by filename
var CACHE={};
// Mini C STDIO printf/fprintf routines :)
//
const STDOUT=1;
const STDERR=2;
const fprintf = function(fd, fmt) {
utilfmt_args = Array.prototype.slice.call(arguments, 1);
var str = util.format.apply(null, utilfmt_args);
fs.writeSync(fd, str);
}
const printf = function() {
Array.prototype.unshift.call(arguments, STDOUT);
fprintf.apply(null, arguments);
}
const startFileScan = function() {
fs.readdir(SPOOLDIR, processFileResults);
}
const processFileResults = function(err, files) {
fprintf(STDERR, "processFileResult: %d file(s) found in %s\n", files.length, SPOOLDIR);
if (err!=undefined) {
fprintf(STDERR, "Can't read spool directory %s: %s\n", SPOOLDIR, err.code);
return;
}
// Expire any items from the cache that are no longer present
for (var f in CACHE) {
if (files.indexOf(f)==-1) {
// fprintf(STDERR, "Removing file %s from cache\n", f);
delete CACHE[f];
}
}
// Check any files that are there for modifications, processing them if so
var currentFile = undefined;
const doStat = function(err, stats) {
if (err) {
fprintf(STDERR, "Error stat()ing %s: %s\n", currentFile, err.code);
} else {
if (currentFile!==undefined) {
// fprintf(STDERR, "Checking file %s with mtime %s against cache\n", currentFile, stats.mtime);
if (!(currentFile in CACHE) || !(CACHE[currentFile].getTime()==stats.mtime.getTime())) {
if (stats.mtime.getTime() + GRACE < Date.now()) {
// fprintf(STDERR, " Updating cache for file %s with mtime %s\n", currentFile, stats.mtime);
CACHE[currentFile]=stats.mtime;
// fprintf(STDERR, " File %s has been modified longer than %d ms ago: scheduling for processing\n", currentFile, GRACE);
process.nextTick(outputDiffReport, currentFile, CACHE[currentFile]);
}
}
}
currentFile = files.pop();
if (currentFile===undefined) {
// fprintf(STDERR, "File scan completed: re-scheduling next scan\n");
process.nextTick(function() { setTimeout(startFileScan, INTERVAL); });
} else {
fs.stat(SPOOLDIR + "/" + currentFile, doStat);
}
};
process.nextTick(doStat);
}
// App library routines
//
const outputDiffReport = function(filename, mtime) {
// fprintf(STDERR, "Processing file %s\n", filename);
var data="";
try {
data = fs.readFileSync(SPOOLDIR + "/" + filename, { encoding: "utf8" });
} catch(err) {
fprintf(STDERR, "Can't read incoming filename %s: %s\n", filename, err.code);
}
content = data.split(/\n/).filter(function(x) { return x.match(/^[+\-#\[]/); }).join("\n");
// content = data.split(/\n/).filter(function(x) { return ! x.match(/^\s*$/); }).join("\n");
io.emit('update', { 'content': content,
'mtime': mtime.toISOString(),
'file': filename
});
fs.unlink(SPOOLDIR + "/" + filename, function() {});
}
// HTTP bootstrap handler routine. Serves out the client HTML
function handler (req, res) {
fs.readFile(__dirname + '/index.html',
function (err, data) {
if (err) {
res.writeHead(500);
return res.end('Error loading index.html');
}
res.writeHead(200);
res.end(data);
});
}
process.on('uncaughtException', function(err) {
console.log("ERROR: ", err.message);
process.exit(1);
});
app.listen(8080);
process.nextTick(startFileScan);
A: When processFileResults is called, it will either get an error as first param, or it will succeed and give you null as first param and the files as the second.
Before you try to access the files, you should check for the error and handle it. Also, it doesn't make sense semantically to check if error is undefined, since it can only be null or an error.
const processFileResults = function(err, files) {
if (err) {
fprintf(STDERR, "Can't read spool directory %s: %s\n", SPOOLDIR, err.code);
return;
}
fprintf(STDERR, "processFileResult: %d file(s) found in %s\n", files.length, SPOOLDIR);
}
A: Turned out to be a permissions issue with the spool directory. The user I created to run the program did not have read access to it.
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 4,333 |
Category: Contest
Posted on February 25, 2019 December 20, 2018
The music business has at all times been notoriously unpredictable, and the previous A&R maxim that the cream always rises to the highest is much from a given. In many cultures, music is a vital a part of people's way of life, because it performs a key function in spiritual rituals , ceremony of passage ceremonies (e.g., graduation and marriage), social activities (e.g., dancing ) and cultural activities starting from amateur karaoke singing to taking part in in an beginner funk band or singing in a neighborhood choir Individuals could make music as a interest, like a teen enjoying cello in a youth orchestra , or work as knowledgeable musician or singer.
This fall, MIT Music and Theater Arts supplied six music tech topics, together with: 21M.080 (Introduction to Music Know-how); 21M.359 (Sound and Music Computing); 21M.361 (Electronic Music Composition I); 21M.380 (Performing With Computers); 21M.385 (Interactive Music Programs); and 21M.387 (Fundamentals of Music Processing).
Established by an Act of Congress in 1798, the United States Marine Band is America's oldest repeatedly energetic skilled musical group. Browse our big collection of Worship, Gospel, modern Christian, children' and Classical music, plus find this 12 months's award winners, featured artists, and WOW collections.
To organize its college students to become the performers, teachers, therapists, composers, historians and music business leaders of the future, the Conservatory provides an educational experience steeped in the tradition of nice musical training and the talents needed for successful 21st century careers.
In one other, college students experimented with stay coding using Gibber, a creative instrument for audiovisual performance and composition. Indian classical music is likely one of the oldest musical traditions on this planet. The album does not function founding member and bassist Mark Bedford, who was on hiatus from the band on the time.… Read More..
School Music Society Home
Finding and organising exhibits on your band can be a time consuming and irritating expertise. In lots of cultures, music is an important part of individuals's way of life, because it performs a key function in spiritual rituals , rite of passage ceremonies (e.g., commencement and marriage), social actions (e.g., dancing ) and cultural actions ranging from newbie karaoke singing to enjoying in an amateur funk band or singing in a group choir Folks may make music as a hobby, like a teen taking part in cello in a youth orchestra , or work as an expert musician or singer.
In genres requiring musical improvisation , the performer typically plays from music where solely the chord modifications and type of the music are written, requiring the performer to have an important understanding of the music's construction, harmony and the styles of a selected style (e.g., jazz or nation music ).
Manhattan School of Music is one of the world's premier music conservatories for classical music, jazz, and musical theatre. Stutter was the debut studio album from English band James, launched in July 1986. Within the music trade, this could mean that they've twenty years expertise as a sound modifying engineer or a music producer.
Some musical kinds concentrate on producing a sound for a efficiency, whereas others deal with producing a recording that mixes together sounds that were never performed "reside." Recording, even of essentially stay styles resembling rock, often makes use of the power to edit and splice to produce recordings that could be thought of "better" than the actual efficiency.
Some works, like George Gershwin 's Rhapsody in Blue , are claimed by each jazz and classical music, whereas Gershwin's Porgy and Bess and Leonard Bernstein 's West Side Story are claimed by both opera and the Broadway musical custom. On the identical time, however, the particular songs that turned hits were different in different worlds, just as cumulative-advantage theory would predict.… Read More..
The Web has proven to be the place music can be discovered, reviewed, discussed, shared, and bought. The Grasp of Arts diploma, which takes one to 2 years to complete and often requires a thesis , is typically awarded to college students finding out musicology, music history, music concept or ethnomusicology. Efficiency is the bodily expression of music, which occurs when a music is sung or when a piano piece, electrical guitar melody, symphony, drum beat or other musical half is played by musicians.
To carry out music from notation, a singer or instrumentalist requires an understanding of the rhythmic and pitch components embodied in the symbols and the performance practice that is associated with a bit of music or a genre. It additionally meant that individuals may hear music from different elements of the nation, and even totally different elements of the world, even if they might not afford to journey to those locations.
Students are just extremely fascinated with these courses," says Egozy, who spearheads the Music Technology program, drawing on his expertise as a musician (clarinetist for the Radius Ensemble ) and his expertise as the co-founder and former chief scientist of Harmonix Music Programs, which generated over $1 billion in annual sales worldwide.
The lead single, "Bad!", was released on November 9. The album's options embrace drummer for the pop-punk band Blink-182, Travis Barker and American rapper Kanye West; XXXTentacion can be expected to be a posthumous feature on West's forthcoming album Yandhi.
In standard music, jazz, and blues, the usual musical notation is the lead sheet , which notates the melody, chords, lyrics (if it's a vocal piece), and structure of the music. Many cultures have sturdy traditions of solo efficiency (in which one singer or instrumentalist performs), similar to in Indian classical music, and in the Western art-music custom.… Read More..
Music Movies On Vimeo
Posted on February 6, 2019 December 20, 2018
The music business has always been notoriously unpredictable, and the previous A&R maxim that the cream at all times rises to the highest is way from a given. In all the social-affect worlds, the most popular songs were rather more in style (and the least widespread songs have been less well-liked) than in the impartial condition. Sound Recording – the copyright of the recording itself (what you hear, all the production) as distinguished from the copyright of the music (words and music owned by the songwriter or publisher).
Native Texan David Crowder grew his ministry and music as one mission, writing songs for the church he began with Chris Seay whereas at Baylor College. Travel back in time with the musicians you know, again before you knew them. A Pentatonix Christmas is the fifth studio album by American a cappella group Pentatonix.
The school affords a lot of undergraduate music majors, together with Bachelor of Music (B.M.) levels in Commercial Music , Composition , Music Schooling (Pre-Teacher Certification) , Music and Worship , and Performance Applications focusing on the liberal arts are additionally obtainable, together with Bachelor of Arts (B.A.) in Music degrees with Music Theory and Performance emphases.
ABC moved to the EMI label, the place they recorded the album Abracadabra, a tightly produced fusion of early Nineteen Nineties techno sounds and 1970s dance grooves which was met with muted crucial approval and appreciation from the band's fan base. These degrees present students with a grounding in music principle and music historical past, and plenty of college students also research an instrument or learn singing method as part of their program.
The research of Western artwork music is more and more widespread outdoors of North America and Europe, such because the Indonesian Institute of the Arts in Yogyakarta , Indonesia , or the classical music programs which can be available in Asian international locations reminiscent of South Korea, Japan, and China.… Read More..
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Instagram is bringing some new options to its Tales format, including a new countdown sticker, and question stickers that can be used in Reside movies and to share music suggestions. One of many notable composers of Western Classical music was, Ludwig Van Beethoven, who gifted the world with musical masterpieces regardless of of being paralyzed with deafness at very younger age (twenty eight). Maybe it is a reason why pop songs and rocks are also fairly well-liked immediately.
This fall, MIT Music and Theater Arts supplied six music tech topics, including: 21M.080 (Introduction to Music Expertise); 21M.359 (Sound and Music Computing); 21M.361 (Electronic Music Composition I); 21M.380 (Performing With Computer systems); 21M.385 (Interactive Music Techniques); and 21M.387 (Fundamentals of Music Processing).
To perform music from notation, a singer or instrumentalist requires an understanding of the rhythmic and pitch components embodied within the symbols and the efficiency apply that's related to a chunk of music or a genre. It also meant that folks may hear music from different components of the country, and even different parts of the world, even when they might not afford to travel to these areas.
Using a multitrack system, a band and their music producer might overdub many layers of instrument tracks and vocals, creating new sounds that might not be potential in a reside efficiency. Homophony : a clear melody supported by chordal accompaniment Most Western fashionable music songs from the nineteenth century onward are written on this texture.
One research signifies that "positive have an effect on and quality-of-work have been lowest with no music, whereas time-on-job was longest when music was eliminated." (Lesiuk, 2005, pp.173-191) On the other hand, "constructive temper change and enhanced notion of design" (Lesiuk, pp.173-191) had been complemented with the addition of music.
I didn't know actually what a chord was until high school," she says, "and I needed to use computer science to give different individuals like me alternatives they wouldn't have with out the assistance of technology" — resembling the chance to compose and play music with out conventional musical training, she says.… Read More.. | {
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\section{Introduction}
News that is misleading or deceptive has become a major social issue. Much of the information published online is unverifiable, exposing our civilization to unknown dangers. Every day, the amount of news content produced skyrockets. However, unlike newspapers, which only print a certain amount of content each day, making articles online is relatively inexpensive. Additionally, many of these news stories are generated by automated algorithms\cite{doi:10.1177/1461444819858691}, lowering the cost of news production even more. Several news organizations aim to attract readers' focus by employing news headlines unrelated to the main content to draw traffic to news stories among the competition. News headlines are well-known for forming first impressions on readers and, as a result, determining the contagious potential of news stories on social media. People in information-overloaded digital surroundings are less inclined to read or click on the entire content, preferring to read news headlines. As a result, deceptive headlines may contribute to inaccurate views of events and obstruct their distribution. The headline incongruity problem in Bangla news is addressed in this study, which involves determining if news headlines are unrelated to or distinct from the main body text. Fig.~\ref{into_img} depicts a scenario in which readers could expect to learn precise information about picnic places and picnic spot traders based solely on the headline; however, the news content comprises a Bangla movie advertisement. Because the body text is only accessible after a click, many readers will ignore the discrepancy if they only read the news headlines. Inconsistency in content is becoming more of a concern, lowering the quality of news reading.
Researchers have suggested a number of realistic techniques to address the detection problem as a binary classification utilizing deep learning based on manual annotation (i.e., incongruent or not). A neural network technique is used to learn the features of news headlines and body text in a new way [6]. These techniques, however, face two significant obstacles.For starters, current models focus on recognizing the link between a short headline and a lengthy body text that can be thousands of words long, which makes neural network-based learning difficult.\\
Second, the lack of a large-scale dataset makes training a deep learning model for detecting headline inconsistencies, which involve a variety of factors, more difficult. The headline incongruity problem is solved using a Bangla graph-based hierarchical dual encoder (BGHDE) in this study. It captures the linguistic interaction between a Bangla news headline and any size of body text. By integrating the headline and body paragraph text content as nodes, it makes use of the hierarchical architecture of news stories. On one hand, this method builds a network with nodes for headlines, and on the other hand, it creates a graph with nodes for body paragraphs. Then, between these nodes, we link undirected edges.
The BGHDE is trained to calculate edge weights on a large number of headline and paragraph nodes, with the more relevant edge weight being given. Then, by aggregating information from surrounding nodes, BGHDE updates each node representation. The iterative update technique propagates relevant data from paragraph nodes to the headline node, which is important for spotting content inconsistencies. In this paper we basically followed the data preparation and modeling part from the paper \cite{9363185} and tried to reproduce the work for Bangla. However, our contribution can be summarized as below:
\begin{enumerate}
\item We propose a graph-based architecture for the first time to detect incongruity between Bangla's new headline and body text.
\item We provide an approach for synthetic data generation and made all the code and pre-processed dataset publicly available\footnote{https://github.com/aminul-palash/bangla-news-incongruity-detection}.
\item We have analyzed and presented our model performance both on synthetic dataset and real-world datasets. Apart from news dataset we also tested our model performance, how it can detect irrelevant comments on manually collected comments from social networking cites like Facebook and YouTube.
\end{enumerate}
The findings demonstrate that the proposed method can be utilized to detect inconsistencies in real-world Bangla news reports. As shown in Figure-\ref{into_img}, even for new themes like picnic locations and traders, BGHDE can successfully detect anomalies in headlines and body content. The remainder of this article will be discussed in the following manner: Section 2 begins with a summary of the research on headline incongruity detection and the use of neural graph networks with text. The data creation procedure is then introduced in section 3. Finally, Section 4 discusses the baseline models that were tested in this work. The proposed model is then thoroughly discussed. In Section 5, we give the experimental setup for model evaluation, as well as a discussion of the results obtained from various kinds of Bangla news and empirical study in the field. Finally, we consider the study's implications in terms of combating online infodemics and news fatigue. Finally, Sections 6 and 7 conclude the paper with a discussion of the study's shortcomings as well as future research opportunities in the field of news incongruence detection.
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.5\linewidth]{figures/figure_1502_up.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{A graph illustration of an incongruent headline problem between the headline and the body paragraphs The inconsistency between paragraph 3 and other texts is represented by a separate color node in the graph.}
\label{into_img}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
\section{Related Works}
In the present era of the digital world, people are more likely to skim through the headlines and perceive information using both direct memory measures and more indirect reasoning measures\cite{Ecker2014TheEO}. Thus, misleading information can lead to cause more harm. There have been a lot of machine learning algorithms used. Despite the lack of a large-scale realistic dataset being the main issue with this challenge, some studies were able to obtain good results by utilizing manually annotated small-scale datasets. An attention-based hierarchical dual encoder model is used to detect incongruity between the headline and the news body\cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-1811-07066}. They have also published a million-scale dataset and introduced augmentation techniques to enhance the training data.
Both incongruity detection and stance detection are related as they share a common basis: to identify the relationship between a brief piece of content and a long piece of content. The goal of the 2019 Fake News Challenge was to encourage the development of stance detection models. For false news identification, a multi-layer perceptron model with one hidden layer\cite{DBLP:journals/corr/RiedelASR17} propagated lexical and similarity features such as bag-of-words (BOW), term frequency (TF), and term frequency-inverse document frequency (TF-IDF). However, the winner of the contest for Fake News Challenge 2019 used the XGBoost\cite{DBLP:conf/kdd/ChenG16} algorithm with extracted hand-crafted features. One of the recent studies used semantic matching\cite{DBLP:conf/icmla/MishraYCL20} dependent on inter-mutual attention by generating synthetic headlines that corresponded to the news body content and original news headline to detect the incongruities. However, for low-resource languages like Bengali, this kind of work is rare due to a lack of well-developed datasets. In the paper\cite{DBLP:conf/lrec/HossainRIK20} , they explored neural network models and pre-trained transformer models to detect fake news for fake news detection in Bangladesh. They've also released an annotated Bangla news dataset that can be used to create an automated fake news detector.
Graph neural network (GNN) is semi-supervised learning which utilizes graph-structured data \cite{DBLP:journals/corr/KipfW16}. GNN models can learn hidden layer representations by encoding local graphs and features of vertices while maintaining the linear model scales of graph edges. The fundamental advantage of GNN models over traditional models such as recurrent neural networks (RNN) and convolutional neural networks (CNN) is that GNN models embed relational information and pass it on to neighbor nodes during training. As a result, GNN models have succeeded miraculously in NLP tasks like question-answering
\cite{DBLP:journals/corr/abs-1809-02040, DBLP:journals/corr/abs-1905-06933} , relationship extraction \cite{DBLP:conf/emnlp/Zhang0M18} and knowledge base completion \cite{DBLP:conf/esws/SchlichtkrullKB18}.
Fake news detection using GNN models has become a common practice nowadays. The paper \cite{DBLP:conf/icde/ZhangDY20} introduced FAKEDETECTOR, an automatic fake news detector model based on explicit and hidden text features that constructs a deep diffusive network model to simultaneously learn the representations of news articles, producers, and subjects.The Hierarchical Graph Attention Network was also used by the researchers, which use a hierarchical attention method to identify node representation learning and then employs a classifier to detect bogus news. \cite{DBLP:conf/ijcnn/RenZ21}.
To the best of our knowledge, our work is the first to detect incongruity between news headline and body for Bangla. In our work, we proposed a Bangla graph-based hierarchical dual encoder (BGHDE) model for automatic detection of Bangla news headline and body.
\section{Datasets for detecting Headline In-congruence Problem}
We propose an approach for detecting incongruity between Bangla news headlines and content where we specifically tackle three significant challenges for preparing the dataset. We followed the same approach from this paper \cite{9363185} for preparing our dataset for bangla language. The first is the scarcity of manually annotated training datasets, as well as the high expense of creating them. The second is the length of news stories, which can often be long and arbitrary, making them challenging to model for machine learning. The last one is the paragraph creation from the Bangla news corpus, as our news dataset doesn't contain any paragraph separation. In the sections below, we'll go over each obstacle in detail.
There are millions of news articles over the internet, and previously, the ground truth was manually annotated in earlier investigations \cite{inproceedings}, \cite{inproceedingsdataset}. However, it is almost impossible to annotate ground truth for each news manually. Therefore, although some previous studies created manually annotated datasets, we adopt an automated approach for creating the annotations.
To begin with, we gather news stories from reputable target news sources. Then we pick a collection of target news articles at random to manipulate, i.e., change them to look like incongruent news sources.
For the news pieces chosen for alteration, we replace some paragraphs with paragraphs obtained from other news sources. This collection of parts is created individually and is not used for training or testing. We carefully monitor the alteration process to ensure that no news stories are duplicated.
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{figures/Fig02502.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{An illustration of how news items with incongruent headlines are created. Paragraphs from samples articles mixed with target news articles randomly. Total five types of data mix-up processes shown (Type I, Type II, Type III, and Type IV).}
\label{fig:data-gen}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
The news corpus that we use in this paper comes from a renowned
The news corpus that we employ in this paper comes from the famous Bangla news site Prothom Alo\footnote{https://www.kaggle.com/furcifer/bangla-newspaper-dataset}, which consists of over 400k authentic Bengali news articles.
The figure \ref{fig:data-gen} shows The overall workflow of incongruent level data preparation \cite{9363185}. There is one target news article and one sample news article. In our case, we select sample news articles randomly from the real news corpus. The sample news content paragraphs are then blended in with the intended news content. The maximum number of paragraphs that can be switched is determined by the number of paragraphs in the target news article. We randomly manipulate paragraph swapping processes that address different difficulty levels on the target news article.
From Figure \ref{fig:data-gen}, there is a total of four types of samples that can be generated by the generation process. But we don't pick the first two types (I and II) for preparing our training datasets so that we can keep consistent same distribution with the original and generated news content in length. So we keep types three and four (III and IV) for preparing our synthetic training datasets.
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\setlength{\tabcolsep}{10pt}
\caption{Statistics of our Bangla data}
\scalebox{1}{
\begin{tabular}{ll|cc|cc}
\toprule
& & \multicolumn{2}{c|}{\textbf{Headline}} & \multicolumn{2}{c}{\textbf{Content}} \\
\midrule
\textbf{Dataset} & \textbf{Samples} & \textbf{Avg.} & \textbf{Std} & \textbf{Avg.} & \textbf{Std} \\
\midrule
Train & 228000 & 5.58 & 1.45 & 319.35 & 205.41 \\
Dev & 120000 & 5.58 & 1.43 & 319.01 & 241.06 \\
Test & 120000 & 5.57 & 1.43 & 323.55 & 214.124 \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabular}
}
\label{tab-dataset}
\end{table}
As there was no paragraph separation on our collected dataset, we had to separate paragraphs synthetically based on the number of sentences on the news content. Thus, we split the news article by paragraph, where each paragraph contains five, ten, twenty, and so on sentences based on the length of news content.
Furthermore, we preprocessed the data by removing unnecessary punctuation from both headline and body content. We also discarded the news data that contains small body content.
\section{Methodology}
Our goal is to determine if the content of the news article matches the news headline. First of all we extracted semantic information from the data as the distributed representation of words and sub-word tags has proven effective for text classification problems. Therefore,
we used pre-trained bangl word embedding, where an article is represented by the mean and the standard deviation of the word vector representation. For this experiment we used Bengali GloVe 300-dimensional word vectors pre-trained embedding\footnote{https://github.com/sagorbrur/GloVe-Bengali}, and our coverage rate was 43.34\%.
For detecting news incongruities, we adopt a Graph Neural Network (GNN) based architecture following \cite{9363185}. GNN is a type of deep learning method that can be used for processing data represented as a graph \cite{scarselli2008graph} for making node-level, edge-level, and graph-level analyses.
Our proposed Bangla graph-based hierarchical dual encoder (BGHDE) illustrated in figure \ref{fig:model_arch} takes the headline and paragraph contents into account to detect incongruency in an end-to-end manner. Our proposed architecture is followed from this paper \cite{9363185} which implement an incongruity detection method for english dataset.The architecture consists broadly of four steps which we describe briefly below.
First of all, the BGHDE creates a graph that is undirected representing its innate structure for each news article, After that, it was utilized to train the neural network with graph structure. Finally, a hierarchical Gated Recurrent Unit (GRU)-based bidirectional Recurrent Neural Network(RNN) framework is utilized to generate a representation with node structure of each headline text and paragraph text, as well as context-aware paragraph representation.
A group of nodes called vertex represents the headlines text and each corresponding paragraph of the Bangla news material. The edge of the graph represents the link between headlines and its corresponding paragraphs of the Bangla news.
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{figures/Fig03502.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{An overview of our proposed model for Bangla news incongruity detection.}
\label{fig:model_arch}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
Secondly, to avoid undesirable flattening of the node representation between the congruent and incongruent paragraphs during GNN propagation, the next step is to learn the edge weights of the input graph representation.
We employ the paragraph congruity value as a label to supervise the edge weights during the cross-entropy loss.
Because of this edge-level monitoring, the BGHDE can assign larger weights to congruent paragraphs and lower weights to incongruent paragraphs, allowing congruent paragraphs to communicate more information to the headline node than incongruent paragraphs alone.
Later, the node characteristics are transmitted into surrounding nodes in the third phase using the established graph structure and trainable edge weights from the GNN framework. In an edge-weighted form, BGHDE uses the convolutional graph network (GCN) aggregation function. \cite{kipf2017semisupervised}
Finally, the incongruity of scores of news pieces is predicted for the last stage. The GNN graph classification problem is the same as this. The global-level graph representation and the local-level node representation must be fused together, BGHDE adapts a fusion block presented in\cite{wang2019dynamic}
\section{Experiments}
The title and the appropriate paragraphs of the subsequent body text are encoded using a single-layer GRU with 200 hidden units. In contrast, a single-layer bidirectional GRU with 100 hidden units is used to encode the paragraph-level RNN. There are three GNN layers, each with 200 hidden units. Hidden unit dimensions of 200, 200, and 100 for the FC layers applied after feature propagation on the graphs, respectively. We use the Adam optimization algorithm \cite{kingma2014adam} to train the model, starting with an initial learning rate of 0.001, which is decayed every three epochs by a factor of 10. We use 120 samples for each mini-batch during training. We clip the gradients with a threshold of 1.0. The hyperparameter for tradeoffs for edge loss is set to 0.1. We use pre-trained Bangla\footnote{https://github.com/sagorbrur/GloVe-Bengali} GloVe \cite{pennington2014glove} embedding consisting of 300-dimensional vectors to initialize the word embeddings.The number of words that appear at least eight times in the training dataset determines the size of the embedding matrix's vocabulary. The model has 1,214,702 total trainable parameters. We obtained an accuracy of 0.9560 and an AUC score of 0.9860 on the validation set. We show the loss and paragraph and document accuracy obtained during training in Figure \ref{fig:model-loss}.
We use PyTorch \cite{Paszke2019PyTorchAI} and PyTorch Geometric \cite{Fey2019FastGR} frameworks to implement the model and Google colab to run the experiments.
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.85\linewidth]{figures/Fig04502.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{Left plot represents training and validation loss and the right plot represents accuracy of the validation data during training.}
\label{fig:model-loss}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
\section{Results and Discussion}
To validate our process, we conduct rigorous quantitative and qualitative analyses. We conducted a large-scale experimental analysis to evaluate our proposed Bangla graph-based hierarchical dual encoder (BGHDE).
We performed an evaluation based on criteria like accuracy on both paragraph-wise and whole document or news article calculated while all types of a common evaluation matrix for the predictive model also added.
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{figures/Fig05502.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{Examples of some partial representation of news articles that contains incongruity between headline and content paragraphs, colored paragraph are the in-congruence paragraph}
\label{fig:data-examples}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\linewidth]{figures/Fig06502.pdf}
\vspace{-0.5em}
\caption{Incongruity detection on comments data}
\label{fig:data-comment}
\vspace{-1.0em}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Performance Evaluation on Synthetic Dataset}
Figure \ref{fig:data-examples} illustrates some examples of incongruent data detected by our proposed model on synthetic test datasets. Our tested dataset contains news from both Bangladeshi\footnote{https://www.kaggle.com/ebiswas/bangla-largest-newspaper-dataset} and West Bengal\footnote{https://www.kaggle.com/csoham/classification-bengali-news-articles-indicnlp} news articles which helps to analyze the model performs better Table \ref{tab-results} shows the model's performance on different datasets when it was used to detect headline inconsistencies.
\begin{table}[ht]
\setlength{\tabcolsep}{4pt}
\centering
\caption{Second table}
\scalebox{1}{
\begin{tabular}{lccc|cccc}
\toprule
\multirow{2}{*}{Dataset} & \multirow{2}{*}{Size} & \multirow{2}{*}{Acc(para)} & \multirow{2}{*}{Acc(doc)} & \multicolumn{4}{c}{\textbf{Evaluation}} \\
& & & & Precision & Recall & F1 Scr & Support \\
\midrule
Prothom alo & 6000 & 0.9658 & 0.9918 & 0.98.80 & 0.9956 & 0.9918 & [3000 3000] \\
bdnews24 & 2000 & 0.9175 & 0.94.50 & 0.7554 & 0.913 & 0.9431 & [1000 1000] \\
Ananda bazar & 1000 & 0.9175 & 0.9450 & 0.9623 & 0.97 & 0.9431 & [500 500] \\
ebela & 5000 & 0.9192 & 0.9702 & 0.970 & 0.9704 & 0.9702 & [2500 2500] \\
zeenews & 5000 & 0.9026 & 0.9542 & 0.9511 & 0.9576 & 0.9543 & [2500 2500] \\
Ittefaq & 8000 & 0.9445 & 0.9866 & 0.9812 & 0.9922 & 0.9866 & [4000 4000] \\
Jugantor & 6999 & 0.9494 & 0.9862 & 0.9830 & 0.9893 & 0.9861 & [3458 3477] \\
\bottomrule
\end{tabular}
}
\label{tab-results}
\end{table}
\subsection{Evaluation on Real world Dataset}
To see how effective our dataset and proposed models are in detecting incongruent headlines in the real world. We've conducted this process by collecting data containing actual articles in which any form of the generation process has not modified the body text.
It is difficult to annotate read news containing incongruity manually, and we perform inference on a real news dataset without annotations. After that, we evaluated our model performance manually. But we achieved very poor performance. For example, the datasets we used have no paragraph separation, and we need to separate the articles into paragraphs randomly. Another one is that we only train our model on synthetic datasets.
We also evaluated our proposed model on detecting incongruent comments Figure \ref{fig:data-comment} on different sites like YouTube, Facebook, and various Bangla news sites. As a result, we collected more than two hundred comments data containing relevant and irrelevant comments with corresponding news articles.
We achieved an accuracy of 0.73 on the Bangla comments dataset.
\section{Conclusion and Future Work}
For the first time, a graph neural network was used to handle the headline incongruity problem in Bangla news stories. We discovered a few false-positive scenarios when a model misinterpreted a coherent article for an incongruent headline using manual annotations. Although the computer accurately predicted the label, according to the idea of headline incongruity, such a "briefing" item does not mislead readers by delivering false information. Our findings suggest that more research is needed in the future to improve data generation and gathering processes. The findings of the evaluation experiments, however, reveal that the proposed technique accurately detects such deception. We hope that our research helps to create more trustworthy online news ecosystems in Bangla.
\bibliographystyle{502}
| {
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Q: Using Fastboot in Terminal Xubuntu 12.10 Im trying to Unlock my Bootloader on my HTC One X+ but i always get stuck on using fastboot being unable to find my device. It gets stuck on the "fastboot oem get_identifier_token" command with < waiting for device > .
I have ADT and Fastboot on my laptop but its unable to find my device no matter how many times I try it. I have Debugging Enabled and its in Fastboot mode on my phone showing up with "Fastboot USB"
Does anyone have a solution to this or a way to get around it? Any help is greatly appreciated.
A: Maybe a little late in answering... ADB will work fine, but to use fastboot you need to run commands as superuser e.g. sudo fastboot erase cache
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 5,284 |
{"url":"http:\/\/blog.amit-agarwal.co.in\/2011\/10\/18\/compare-files-excluding-lines\/","text":"# Compare files excluding certain lines.\n\nQuick tip, you can use any expression for the sed commands in the (). With this trick you can redirect the stdout of 2 commands to the diff command. This might become very useful, if you want to compare 2 files, excluding the first\u00a0 line.\n\ndiff <(sed '1d' file) <(sed '1d' file2)\n\nMore interesting example is where the string ABC is converted to abc before comparing in the second file with the following command:\n\ndiff file <(sed 's\/ABC\/abc\/g' file2)\n\nThis site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.","date":"2019-08-20 12:30:09","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": false, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.8153045773506165, \"perplexity\": 5479.717484489851}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": false, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.3, \"absolute_threshold\": 20, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-35\/segments\/1566027315329.55\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20190820113425-20190820135425-00183.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
require 'spec_helper'
describe 'selinux::restorecond' do
include_context 'RedHat 7'
it { should contain_concat('/etc/selinux/restorecond.conf') }
it { should contain_concat__fragment('restorecond_config_default') }
end
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 4,918 |
We are still working on the english version of this website. We try to finish this as soon as possible.
In 1992 Robert J. Marzano developed an educational model that focuses on the students learning process. Marzano based his ideas on Bloom, Piaget, Kolb, Yeany and Vygotsky. The model is based on a concept of constructive learning. That means learning is viewed as a process that allows the student to construct a view of the world from experience. The model can serve as a foundation for lesson preparation for a teacher.
A positive learning environment is important in this dimension. These are the basic conditions in the classroom: a good atmosphere, material facilities, the type of tasks and the involvement of the students in the learning process.
The verbal and non-verbal role of the teacher in this sense is important. The teacher needs to have a positive attitude towards students. Students need to feel important to teachers and fellow students. A teacher has to be aware that his behaviour affects the learning of his students. If a student is asked a question, the teacher should give the student time to answer. Even when the response is incorrect, the teacher should approach this in a positive way: �good thinking, but I was looking for a different answer." Clear rules and requirements provide harmony and security in the classroom. When violations of the rules occur a teacher doesn�t have to take immediate disciplinary action, humour is often a good solution. If a teacher gives an assignment, it should be clear and explicit. The assignment has a better chance of succeeding if the student sees the additional value of this assignment: "If you do this exercise properly, you can do the more difficult assignment."
Learning is only functional when the new knowledge is in line with existing knowledge. "Acquiring knowledge involves a subjective process of interaction between what we already know and what we want to learn. We are always using what we know to interpret what we don't know. If we can't link new content to something we already know, learning is much more difficult."
This knowledge is focused on learning-processes like procedures, reading maps, doing experiments and writing an essay. Acquiring procedural knowledge happens in three phases. First a teacher explains the skill. Then the student has time to practice, and eventually the students should master the skill. For example, in higher grades pupils must be able to complete a translation and transcription based on a piece of DNA. The teacher explains the lesson purpose (dimension 1) and tries to relate to the personal experiences of students (for instance by mentioning a link to cancer). Then the teacher demonstrates the exercise. This demonstration teaches students the building blocks of DNA and RNA. After the demonstration the students have to compose a polypeptide-chain from a piece of DNA. The teacher provides the code a piece of double stranded DNA, translates it into RNA, and looks up the matching amino acids together with the students. In the last phase the students have practiced the skill so often that they can apply it automatically. (Internalizing).
This includes knowledge of and the learning of facts. Here are three phases to recognize Marzano: First, the knowledge to relate to and build on existing knowledge. Then the knowledge has to be organized. This may involve the use of diagrams, charts and models. Finally, this knowledge is stored. The storage of knowledge is enhanced by linking the knowledge to images. Think of the famous quote: "A picture can say a thousand words.". You can start your first lesson by asking what the students already know about biology. This way, you combine dimension 1 and 2. Letting your students do the talking makes them realize how much they already know. Because you are building a bridge between existing knowledge and the new program, you are using dimension 2. For instance: Students brainstorm about existing knowledge, the teacher then writes all the terms mentioned on the blackboard. The teacher divides this knowledge into themes.
In dimension 2, the emphasis is on knowledge, and understanding and learning new skills. However, students need to go one step further. They must apply new knowledge and skills and develop their own associations, views and insights. In the third dimension the challenge is to expand, refine and deepen the declarative knowledge acquired in dimension 2.
Compare: Identifying differences and /or agreements.
Classifying: groups, naming groups etc.
Inducing: draw conclusions based on different kinds of evidence (see illustration).
Deducing: deriving statements from a general rule.
Analyzing errors: detection of errors in reasoning.
Abstracting: Recognizing underlying themes or general patterns.
In this dimension Marzano describes how a student can use knowledge meaningfully. The ultimate goal of gathering knowledge, is applying it. By applying this knowledge, the student learns much more. In biology, many abstract themes are discussed, such genetic manipulation. You can have students do a presentation with role playing. For instance a politician, environmental activist etc. Students play a role that enables them to view the subject from different angles.
Not only substantial knowledge is important, but a good attitude also helps a student in his learning process. "It might be better to help students develop mental habits that will help them learn on their own whatever they need or want to know." Marzano called this a productive habit. According to Marzano, there are three major productive habits.
The five dimensions are not to be seen as separate units, or as a sequence in learning. Dimensions 2, 3 and 4 are related to cognitive skills. These skills relate to acquiring (new) knowledge and skills. Dimension 1 and 5 are necessary for the other dimensions to succeed. Dimension 1, 2 and 3 can be used consecutively in learning. In the first dimension, the student gets acquainted with a subject. If a teacher introduces the topic in a stimulating way, and relates to the experiences of students, it is a good foundation for dimension 2 and 3. In the last two dimensions the knowledge is taught and structured. There are differences between dimension 2 and 3. In the second and third dimension of the Marzano design, the skills are arranged according to the guidelines of taxonomy by Bloom. According to this classification, facts belong to the most concrete level. The mind skills in the 3rd dimension, such as abstracting, belong to a higher taxonomy. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 1,360 |
To purchase John Brandon's new novel,
A Million Heavens, please visit our store.
Eli Horowitz: During the writing of your first book and most of the second, you were bouncing around from city to city, working a variety of warehouse-type jobs. For A Million Heavens, you've had a more settled, writerly life. How has that affected things?
John Brandon: Well, less writing takes place in the writerly life because the writerly life includes teaching classes and giving readings and organizing author visits and reading theses and devising syllabi and serving on committees and advising journals and applying for jobs/fellowships and drafting letters of recommendation and asking for letters of recommendation and blurbing books etc, etc, etc. When we were off the literary grid, nothing was expected of me but to show up on time and be ready to lift things, so when I got off work I was fresh-minded and exercised and my will was undefeated.
But yeah, somehow this book got written. I'd like to think my life circumstances have little to do with the fiction I produce. When you sit down with the blank paper, it doesn't really matter what you were doing twenty minutes before or who likes you or doesn't like you or whether you're poor or rich or whether you have a cushy office or write in a coffee shop. Nothing can save you from the blank paper and nothing can stop you from writing.
EH: While this book still feels very Brandony, Brandonish, Brandonian, it seems to have a sunnier attitude towards humanity—at least, no one gets a fork in the eyeball in this one. Was this an intentional change? Do you have a newfound optimism, or is New Mexico just less eye-gougey than Arkansas?
JB: I wouldn't have the attention span to write a book that wasn't fighting back against me. I feel exactly as unsure now as when I was writing Arkansas. With Arkansas I was doing a bunch of small violences that came together to define a world. I was dealing with people in their early twenties who were getting genuinely meaner and more doomed by the day. In Citrus County I was dealing with one major violence that defined the world of a few characters, characters who, for their own reasons, aspired to be mean. The one big event happened in Citrus and then I was writing in the shadow of that event the rest of the book. My characters were adolescents, which both frees and handcuffs you.
In A Million Heavens, the challenge was juggling lots of characters, and being able to treat them all differently but fairly. I was trying to create the illusion of randomness, but certain aspects of the book are highly planned. I wanted happy endings and sad endings and middling endings. I wanted some of the characters to be strongly connected, some weakly, some not at all. I was trying to create a randomness that to me equates with realism, but of course none of it is truly random and lots of it could only happen in a book. These troubles kept me interested. And yeah, I guess a sunny outlook was something new for me too. Sunny is probably overstating it, but you're right, there are no forks in the eye.
And you're also right that Arkansas is the most eye-gougey state in the country, while New Mexico is near the least eye-gougey, just behind Minnesota and North Carolina.
EH: What else made New Mexico the right setting for this book?
JB: New Mexico is a place I didn't spend enough time in to know too well—like where every car wash and Bank of America are—but well enough to get a feeling from. It's magical. It's remote. It's people living where no humans should be living. It's a place that doesn't offer any help, like shade.
EH: You don't really describe how any of your characters look, but I got the sense that I would find Cecelia pretty. Is that your subtle genius or just my fertile imagination?
JB: If you were going to hit on Cecilia, what would be your opening line?
EH: John, I don't "hit on" girls—I engage them in mutually enriching courtship rituals. Opening lines are for amateurs. Which is not to say I'm not an amateur. But opening lines? Come on.
In any case, Cecelia does strum charmingly. The whole book is full of very convincing songs and songwriting—a rare thing in literature, I think. Do you have any musical background?
JB: My parents took me to piano lessons when I was little and it was a whole failure. Then, around ninth grade, I made them buy me a guitar and I took lessons. Failure. I have no musical talent. To say I wish I could write songs would be the same as saying I wish I could give birth to a red panda. I've always thought there should be a documentary where you see how every song on an album gets written. You see the moment of each song's genesis—a germ discovered during a jam session or the lead singer is driving along in his pickup and something just comes to him, or whatever—and then you see how the song is collaborated on, or not, how the bridge is decided upon, how the song changes before it's time to go to the studio, how the producer influences the sound. I know there are movies of bands recording, but I want to see everything before that. Probably not possible.
EH: Outside your novels, you write almost exclusively about college football. But college football never appears within your novels. Why is that?
JB: Those are worlds I keep separate. I have that girls' basketball stuff in Citrus County, but it's treated comically, and college football isn't comical to me. It's like politics are to some people, or music to some other people—if you make any passing mention of college football, I'm ready to talk about it for six or seven hours. I have no ironic distance, no opening through which I could make fiction of it. And I have an arrogant, cranky voice (my natural voice) I use for writing about college football that wouldn't work for fiction.
EH: Did you get into Friday Night Lights?
JB: I've seen a few episodes. I remember ridiculously good-looking young people and then that great coach. I love the coach. No matter how many times anybody says it, "Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose" is the greatest philosophy for life anyone has yet come up with. It's all you need to think about. I aspire to it. It's true, you can't lose. I'm tearing up. See, I have no ironic distance with football.
EH: Were any other books a particular inspiration for this one?
JB: It's kind of embarrassing how directly influenced I was on this book. There's this guy named Tom Drury who wrote a book called The End of Vandalism. There's a boatload of characters, some of them running in the same circles, some not, lots of storylines, and when they talk to each other it's in the funniest deadpan you've ever heard. There's a book Padgett Powell wrote called Mrs. Hollingsworth's Men, which employs unrealistic/dreamy elements inventively and to great purpose. There are the stories of Joy Williams, in which the settings are recognizable, named places, but seem excitingly off-kilter and over-unified. Her settings seem to have concerns of their own that mix up with the concerns of the characters. Read "The Yard Boy" again. I'm stealing from more writers than that, but these are the three that readily spring to mind.
EH: How did you approach the semi-magical elements of this book? I mean, it sort of has an angel. And a maybe-immortal wolf. Are you some kind of hippie?
JB: I knew from the start there would be magic. I've never been big into the idea that everything in a book needs to be correct, like if armadillos don't roam north of a certain latitude line and your story takes place just north of that you can't have an armadillo in it, or like there has to be lots of authenticating jargon or that the War of 1812 has to take place in 1812. Like if someone says to me, "There aren't any hills in Pine Bluff," my response is, "Well, except in my novel. In my novel, I needed hills in Pine Bluff so there are hills in Pine Bluff. Anyway, isn't there a bluff?" I've always found it more rewarding to take stuff I only sort-of know about and fill in the rest how I wish it to be. I think including the supernatural is an extension of that ethic, for me. I knew with that first Reggie section I had to be matter-of-fact, and that if the reader was okay with it then they'd be okay with whatever other magic came later.
EH: Have you ever seen a wolf in the wild?
JB: I saw a wolf in Wyoming. The wolf was across a river from us, wide and fast-moving enough that the neither we nor the wolf felt threatened. Of course, somewhere in your soul you feel fear when a wolf stares at you, but then it kept picking its way down the river's edge and out of sight.
EH: What about a bear?
JB: My bear sightings have never been quite as lovely. I've seen them in national parks, seeming tame, with hundreds of people taking pictures of them. I almost hit one with my truck. Why are you asking me about bears?
EH: I don't know—they just seem like another thing people may or may not have seen in the wild.
JB: Are there coyotes in the Bay Area? They're supposed to be everywhere now. New York City. Elementary schools.
EH: I believe Peter Coyote lives in Marin, yes—not sure about the rest of his family. But let's stay on topic. Did the book evolve much along the way? For example, did it ever have a plotline about a dude with a bunch of brains in his apartment?
JB: As you know, Eli, the original draft had a guy who had pest problems in the form of living brains inhabiting his spare room. It's a testament to my agreeable nature and non-artistic temperament that I agreed to let him be cut out. Luckily, I've sold the idea to a major network which is going to make a TV series out it. They're deciding whether it should be a sitcom or an hour drama. Their confusion in this matter is a testament to my complex tragicomic sensibilities. There are a lot of testaments to me, if you look hard enough.
What was your problem with the brain-pests anyway? Did you have aspirations to be an editor when you were in college, or was the first time you considered it when someone said to you, "Hey, want to edit a novel?"
EH: I can't remember any aspirations at all, or at least none so comprehensible or finite as to have actual words or occupations attached to them. It happened pretty close to the way you say—82% fluke, like most worthwhile things in life.
JB: When it comes to editing novels, are there principles or philosophies that you carry into each new book, or do you wing it? Are there statements you could make about editing that would start with "I always" or "I never"? This is for all the kids out there who want to be editors.
EH: The only universal principles I'd admit to are vague to the point of meaninglessness and/or drippiness. Like, "Listen." Or, "Read." Or, "Try." Standard human-being stuff, mostly. There's no one way books should be, obviously, so there's no one way they should be edited.
JB: Editors have to know everything. They have to be as smart, in a way, as all their writers put together. How do you get smart? Do you read a lot of thick nonfiction books and dry magazine articles? Can you get smart watching TV? In this busy modern world, how can a person who's not so smart become smart, a person with children and a job? Is it possible?
EH: Did I sound smart during our editing of this book? You know full well that I certainly did not. I'd just mumble a hundred vague half-sentences until I accidentally said something useful, which we'd both immediately clutch hold of. The key to that process was our mutual acceptance of our mutual cluelessness.
As for becoming smart, it's probably too late—but at least you have a child. He still has a chance! Get some old encyclopedias—they're still mostly correct, and very inexpensive—and fill the basement with beanbag chairs.
JB: Your mother puts horseradish in her cranberry sauce. Where'd she get that brilliant idea?
EH: It took me a long time to give in to that. In my early years, there were some dark episodes of her sneaking broccoli into mashed potatoes, yams into burgers, things like that. So I guess I became suspicious that this horseradish gambit was another of those scams. But you're right, it's delicious. For that matter, maybe I should go back and give the yam-burgers another try.
No Matter How You Slice it, We've Been Stuck in This Elevator for Three Days
Hall & Joyce Carol Oates' Greatest Hits
The McSweeney's Books Preview of Adam Levin's Hot Pink.
by Adam Levin
A McSweeney's Books Q and A with Sheila Heti, author of The Middle Stories
The McSweeney's McMullens Q&A with Lisa Hanawalt, Illustrator of Benny's Brigade
by Elsie and Theo
A Q&A with Zubair Ahmed, author of City of Rivers | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 2,310 |
namespace rsocket {
class MockStats : public RSocketStats {
public:
MOCK_METHOD0(socketCreated, void());
MOCK_METHOD1(socketClosed, void(StreamCompletionSignal));
MOCK_METHOD0(socketDisconnected, void());
MOCK_METHOD2(
duplexConnectionCreated,
void(const std::string&, rsocket::DuplexConnection*));
MOCK_METHOD2(
duplexConnectionClosed,
void(const std::string&, rsocket::DuplexConnection*));
MOCK_METHOD1(bytesWritten, void(size_t));
MOCK_METHOD1(bytesRead, void(size_t));
MOCK_METHOD1(frameWritten, void(FrameType));
MOCK_METHOD1(frameRead, void(FrameType));
MOCK_METHOD2(resumeBufferChanged, void(int, int));
MOCK_METHOD2(streamBufferChanged, void(int64_t, int64_t));
};
} // namespace rsocket
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 2,147 |
{"url":"https:\/\/brilliant.org\/discussions\/thread\/test-how-many-newlines-are-required-to-let-indent\/","text":"# test: how many newlines are required to let indent create a \"box\"?\n\nbox-1: it seems not to be possible to start with a box without having a line with text before the box. because empty lines between this box and the start will be deleted automatically. line below\n\nline above box0: no empty line between this box and the lines below and above. line below\n\nline above\n\nbox1: only one empty line between this box and the line above.\n\n\nline below\n\nline above box2: only one empty line between this box and the line below.\n\nline below\n\nline above\n\nbox3: one empty line between this box and the line above and one between this box and the line below.\n\n\nline below\n\nconclusion: to create a \"box\" by using indent (4 spaces), before the box there has to be a line with text(even invisible, like ~) followed by an empty line.\n\nfinal box: nothing below\n\n\nNote by Num Ic\n5\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nThis discussion board is a place to discuss our Daily Challenges and the math and science related to those challenges. Explanations are more than just a solution \u2014 they should explain the steps and thinking strategies that you used to obtain the solution. Comments should further the discussion of math and science.\n\nWhen posting on Brilliant:\n\n\u2022 Use the emojis to react to an explanation, whether you're congratulating a job well done , or just really confused .\n\u2022 Ask specific questions about the challenge or the steps in somebody's explanation. Well-posed questions can add a lot to the discussion, but posting \"I don't understand!\" doesn't help anyone.\n\u2022 Try to contribute something new to the discussion, whether it is an extension, generalization or other idea related to the challenge.\n\nMarkdownAppears as\n*italics* or _italics_ italics\n**bold** or __bold__ bold\n- bulleted- list\n\u2022 bulleted\n\u2022 list\n1. numbered2. list\n1. numbered\n2. list\nNote: you must add a full line of space before and after lists for them to show up correctly\nparagraph 1paragraph 2\n\nparagraph 1\n\nparagraph 2\n\n[example link](https:\/\/brilliant.org)example link\n> This is a quote\nThis is a quote\n # I indented these lines\n# 4 spaces, and now they show\n# up as a code block.\n\nprint \"hello world\"\n# I indented these lines\n# 4 spaces, and now they show\n# up as a code block.\n\nprint \"hello world\"\nMathAppears as\nRemember to wrap math in $$ ... $$ or $ ... $ to ensure proper formatting.\n2 \\times 3 $2 \\times 3$\n2^{34} $2^{34}$\na_{i-1} $a_{i-1}$\n\\frac{2}{3} $\\frac{2}{3}$\n\\sqrt{2} $\\sqrt{2}$\n\\sum_{i=1}^3 $\\sum_{i=1}^3$\n\\sin \\theta $\\sin \\theta$\n\\boxed{123} $\\boxed{123}$\n\nSort by:\n\n@Frisk Dreemurr if the comments gets to small, then the display style can be adjusted by clicking on the 3 stripes and then select the other the view.\nafair percy told me that.\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nThanks, I figured that out, Percy told me that in Brilliant before as well\n\nAs for the note, I always do what I do in the next comment...\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nHey @Frisk Dreemurr, you active?\n\n- 2\u00a0months, 1\u00a0week ago\n\nHowdy, I am Flowey! Flowey the Flower!\n\n\\(\\)\n\n\n\n>Hmmm... You're new to the UNDERGROUND, aren'tcha? Golly, you must be so confused.\n\n\n\n\\(\\)\n\n\\(\\)\n\n\n\nSomeone ought to teach you how things work around here! I guess little old me will have to do. Ready? Here we go!\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\n@num IC, this is exactly what I type to get the following...\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nHowdy, I am Flowey! Flowey the Flower!\n\n\n\nHmmm... You're new to the UNDERGROUND, aren'tcha? Golly, you must be so confused.\n\n\n\n\n\nSomeone ought to teach you how things work around here! I guess little old me will have to do. Ready? Here we go!\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nty good hint. i used 4 spaces to create that \"box\". i ll try that \">\".\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 3\u00a0weeks ago\n\nHow did it go? Does it work well?\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 1\u00a0week ago\n\ni have tried it only once.\n\nit works ;-) i used this note to test if it is possible to post a many pic solution.\nand then deleted it.\ni hope the notification has not bothered you.\n\n- 4\u00a0months, 1\u00a0week ago","date":"2021-05-13 09:42:09","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 18, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9333533644676208, \"perplexity\": 4385.617388059851}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-21\/segments\/1620243990584.33\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20210513080742-20210513110742-00043.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
using System.Collections.Immutable;
using Microsoft.CodeAnalysis.DocumentationComments;
namespace Microsoft.CodeAnalysis.MetadataAsSource
{
internal partial class AbstractMetadataAsSourceService
{
private abstract class AbstractWrappedNamespaceOrTypeSymbol : AbstractWrappedSymbol, INamespaceOrTypeSymbol
{
private readonly INamespaceOrTypeSymbol _symbol;
protected AbstractWrappedNamespaceOrTypeSymbol(INamespaceOrTypeSymbol symbol, bool canImplementImplicitly, IDocumentationCommentFormattingService docCommentFormattingService)
: base(symbol, canImplementImplicitly, docCommentFormattingService)
{
_symbol = symbol;
}
public abstract ImmutableArray<ISymbol> GetMembers();
public abstract ImmutableArray<ISymbol> GetMembers(string name);
public abstract ImmutableArray<INamedTypeSymbol> GetTypeMembers();
public abstract ImmutableArray<INamedTypeSymbol> GetTypeMembers(string name);
public abstract ImmutableArray<INamedTypeSymbol> GetTypeMembers(string name, int arity);
public bool IsNamespace => _symbol.IsNamespace;
public bool IsType => _symbol.IsType;
}
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 6,425 |
{"url":"http:\/\/rationalwiki.org\/wiki\/RationalWiki:Saloon_bar\/Archive162","text":"# RationalWiki:Saloon bar\/Archive162\n\nThis is an archive page, last updated 18 June 2012. Please do not make edits to this page.\n\n## What website is this?\n\nMemes or GTFO!\n\nI was just wondering because I saw a bunch of meme pictures in WIGO and I thought I was on Reddit. RachelW (talk) 20:52, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nWhat's a nice girl like you doing on WIGO:BLOGS? Occasionaluse (talk) 21:10, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## The Roberts Court\n\nSo now that the 9th Circuit has cleared the way for Perry v. Brown to move to the Supreme Court, a commentator on a HuffPost article has put it very nicely: expect the worst from the Roberts Court, and if we don't get the worst, expect some serious \"legal tap-dancing\" to avoid deciding anything worthwhile. 18:16, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nDepends on what you mean by the robert's court. Like everything else in the last 2 (?) years (can't remember when the last woman was added) all will come down to one man - Kennedy. And one very good thing to remember is he was the author of the Opinion for Romer V. Evans, 1996. And he makes it quite clear in his Opinion his view that gays are a discriminated minority who deserve to be a protect class. --GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 18:20, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nNot sure... because the Chief Justice gets to assign the opinions and decide the scope of the questions to be decided - i.e. very narrow or very broad - Roberts is probably more influential on this one.--talk 20:26, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nOH, i agree with that, sorry. I meant to suggest that when the case comes, it is likely to go \"our\" way. But as you say, how much that has to do with anything in the country at large, is to be seen. Roberts has consistently avoided anything that is not narrow in scope, even when a more broad reading would be the more appropriate way to go.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 20:40, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nYeah, if it goes to the Supreme Court (and I think it will), I'll be looking at it with cautious optimism. It's hard to do so after the recent nonsense in Florence v. Board of Chosen Freeholders and Golan v. Holder, but I don't see the same kind of elements at play here. Q0 (talk) 21:04, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat is cautious optimism? Is that like lending someone a dollar and only expecting fifty cents back? Radioactive Misanthrope 19:33, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nRight. Or maybe that I think I'll probably get the dollar back, but I'm going to bet against it just in case. ..great, I've made this into an analogy for the debt crisis. Q0 (talk) 20:08, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Goddamn fucking clouds obscuring my fucking enjoyment of rare astronomical event. Fuck\n\nThat is all. AceModerator 23:27, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nChemtrails. It's all about the chem. Try putting on a tin foil hat & boiling some vinegar over a camp-stove in your garden. That might help. \u0174\u00ea\u00e2\u015d\u00ea\u00ee\u00f4\u00ee\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 23:39, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\n(EC) If you didn't live in a third world country, you'd know that that big thing in the sky is the sun, and it's there every day. Radioactive Misanthrope 23:39, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nOf course we in NZ know of the sun. It is, after all, our god. AceModerator 23:42, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nActually, all I have is goddamn fucking clouds right now as well. If only I didn't live in smoggy Pittsburgh with their steel mills and, oh, wait. It is only clouds. Aboriginal Noise Punkrock 23:44, 5 June 2012 (UTC)\nFFS, I had no clouds and just bloody forgot about the rare astronomical event. damnit. --GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 00:33, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat \"rare astronomical event\" are you people going on about? Doctor Dark (talk) 01:11, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe Transit of Venus, son. AceModerator 01:12, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI'd planned to go to the nearby lake where a bunch of astronomy people were gathering, but ultimately didn't feel like getting ready and driving.--il'Dictator Mikal 01:23, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy physics teacher is gonna be pissed. Peter Blessed are the cheesemakers 01:55, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nHosed by clouds as well. Was clear enough until ~2 hours beforehand, then rained until sunset. Q0 (talk) 02:28, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere were some thin clouds but not enough to block anythingil'Dictator Mikal 02:33, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nWeather was iffy here so I watched it live through the web; hooray for modern video streaming! --BMcP - Just an astronomy guy 13:00, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n### Selected highlights\n\nFor those that didn't see it - some pretty pictures and movies available from NASA. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 16:45, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Tao of Woo\n\nInteresting article about Deepak Chopra in the latest Skeptic magazine. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 09:26, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nChopra fails to live up the first syllable of his last name.--WickerGuy (talk) 23:37, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nBut he has frequently debated the editor of Skeptic, Michael Shermer.--WickerGuy (talk) 23:38, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nDepends on how you define \"debate.\" Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 23:52, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nLOL!! Only in the most formal sense of the word [1]--WickerGuy (talk) 00:42, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## That settles it...\n\nScienceTM has determined Britain's most beautiful face. Clearly no subjectivity here. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:59, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI love ScienceTM, far more than actual science!--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 18:05, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI went out with someone even more beautiful last night; unfortunately it wasn't my wife, and my wife was with me.\u00a0:( \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 18:37, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nP.S. Rising terminals really get on my tits. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 18:39, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh yes, I believe that study was published in the journal Science??. 18:41, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nHopefully, it was your mother, your daughter, or your sister. otherwise if your wife reads this, you are in a world of hurt. heheh. By teh way, since \"Science\" has a way to detect beauty, does that mean we can ***finally*** get ride of beauty pagents?--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 18:42, 6 June 2012 (UTC) (Hate edit conflicts)\nHeh, my wife knows nothing of this site. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 19:36, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nScienceTM has declared that Britain's most beautiful woman isn't Samantha Brick? I am shocked. Shocked. El TajDon't make me do stuff 18:54, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n[2][3][4][5] - David Gerard (talk) 20:17, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nHasn't this sort of thing been around for ages? There's an \"ideal\" face made of golden ratios that's often used as a template for facial reconstruction surgery. theist 10:39, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nScience fiction author dead at 91. Posted here and not on a WIGO because voting on people's deaths is tacky. And also because I want to read you all arguing about classic sci-fi. Radioactive Misanthrope 20:59, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI liked Ray Bradbury. Fahrenheit would be my favorite of his. His longer stuff never really caught on with me, though. I love science-fiction and I am glad he wrote science fiction. A shame he passed, I'll always have fond memories of his work--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 22:03, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nWell fuck me. gnostic 10:52, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nDamn fine author. It's always sad to see someone as brilliant as that go. Lord of Reckless Noise Hooray! I'm helping! 14:29, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nFunnily enough, my fave RB book isn't sci-fi: Something Wicked This Way Comes. --PsyGremlin\u041f\u043e\u0433\u043e\u0432\u043e\u0440\u0438\u0442\u0435! 14:51, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Serious question about Syria - opinions matter!\n\nAnother slaughter in Syria. I'm curious what people's views are, on the role of world powers stepping in. My own view is that if you are going to claim to be a \"world leader\", and you are going to every claim some kind of moral superiority \"USA is the Best, cause we are Democracy\" or some crap, you must act to in intervention when innocents are being slaughtered by governments or other \"parties\". We failed to act in rowanda. I think not moving in is \"fail\" too. But i'm curious what others of you think.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 22:55, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI think that countries have to look to their own affairs. In real life, most foreign interventions are not carried out for humanitarian reasons, but for strategic ones, and \"humanitarian\" interventions often do more harm than good; I seem to recall that the reason we did not intervene in Rwanda was because we were still catching guff for our failed intervention in Somalia. ListenerXTalkerX 23:58, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI mostly agree with LX, but if the Arab League were to want to put their foot down on Syria, or if, say, the AU put forth a plan to intervene to stop genocide\/mass abuses in a country in their backyard, that might be another question. Theory of Practice \"I never set out to hit anybody. It's just that a lot of people got hit.\" -- Andy Roberts 00:03, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\"In real life, most foreign interventions are not carried out for humanitarian reasons, but for strategic ones, and \"humanitarian\" interventions often do more harm than good...\" Ditto. The currently fashionable brand of Samantha Power-style liberal internationalism also serves as a handy way to direct attention away from the all the tinpot dictators on our dole. There's something in the Bible about splinters, beams, and eyes that applies here. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 00:26, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nYep, LX is correct. When states move to intervene, and you want to know why, the first thought should always be to follow the money. In the US, the powers that be don't view American society as actually so prosperous and utopian that it can just save the rest of the world on a regular basis, even if they wanted to do so. Remember, this is a country that regularly lets citizens die due to poverty, lack of shelter, no escape from national disasters (Katrina), etc. This is also a country that is deeply in debt. So, the idea is not 'how can we help these poor people?' (a question not even asked domestically), it's 'what can we gain from this political opportunity?'.\nWhat makes this even more obvious with Syria is looking at how fucking easy it would be to sell. I mean, they sold Kosovo on less than this, and they sold it to nearly every political affiliation in America at that. So why don't they do it this time? Perhaps they still think Assad can regain control. The West really had no serious quarrel with him when it came down to it. He allowed foreign investment, moved toward liberalizing the economy, and regularly spoke to religious moderation. As is shown time and time again, the question of democracy doesn't even come into play until it's politically relevant.\nAnother big factor is that Iraq and Afghanistan have politically handcuffed US direct intervention to some degree. Just look at the rhetoric over Libya: how not only did they stress that there would be no ground troops, but that the US wouldn't even play a big part. Look over there, even Sweden is involved - you can't complain! But Syria is more complicated. You can't just arm a rebellion and support it from the air right now. If you want regime change (and that is not the issue, the real issue is that the turmoil itself is bad for business and trade), you probably have to go all in... and that's a big investment. Q0 (talk) 02:12, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nCan you imagine the clusterfuck that would ensue if the US invaded--humanitarian pretenses or not--another Arab country, one that borders Lebanon, Israel, and Iraq? God, the mind boggles at how bad the blowback could be. Theory of Practice \"I never set out to hit anybody. It's just that a lot of people got hit.\" -- Andy Roberts 03:51, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nThe cynic might claim it's always about the money. I'm not so sure. As ever, it's much more complicated than that. It's as much to do with domestic support, foreign objection (in this case Russia and China), risk of failure, cost, effectiveness of other options such as sanctions or supporting an uprising, risk of loss of regional prestige, etc. It's a complex cost-benefit analysis of everything from genuine altruism to financial and political advantage. Ajkgordon (talk) 08:07, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nGenerally opposed to foreign intervention myself, and unless there is a direct threat to our safety or well-being (us being whatever nation you happen to be a citizen of), I cannot see any reason to get involved in some other country's civil war.--BMcP - Just an astronomy guy 10:31, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nOf course it is not always about money, but it is almost always about some strategic concern. ListenerXTalkerX 01:56, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Toronto and plastic bags\n\nIt's a huge shock here (our dumbfuck mayor is red-baiting while the idea actually came from his inner circle), but is it a good or bad idea? Osaka Sun (talk) 04:17, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIt's a good idea. In France they've been done away with. Now my grandparents shop with sturdier and very permanent cloth bags.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 04:19, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n(Well, to be factual, they are not really \"done away with\" in France or Europe. They are just a very expensive cost the shopper pays directly. I think we paid .50 E (so .80 usd) for each bag we needed at LeClerc, and they were just as cheep and flimsy as any Safeway bag here.) Cloth or sturdy plastic bags are easy enough to buy. Most of the shoppers here in Colorado use cloth for grocery shopping, though things like Target or Walmart and all clothing stores still have plastic. I'd love to see it all go. Bring your own bag or pay! GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 04:33, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nDon't know when you were last there but the big supermarkets like Leclerc, Carrefour, etc. no longer have the flimsy \"disposable\" plastic bags - the government was talking about banning them from the large stores but I can't remember if it passed or not. But they do sell the larger more robust ones for around twenty cents which you can then exchange for free when they're worn out. Ajkgordon (talk) 08:18, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nWe were in Fosse last in 2010, setting Mom's apt up for the summer, and LeClerc had nice thick bags, and flimsy \"disposable\" bags still. All the local grocers and corner stores still used plastic, though they would not give you one unless you asked. LIDL didn't have any of the disposable, just the thick reusable or the cloth. By the way, the plastic bags you buy are HUGE. What's up with that? --GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 13:08, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nThey're for all the vin, of course. Ajkgordon (talk) 13:42, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nAh the vin, so much vin, so damn cheep! You can buy wine, scotch, or beer in grocery stores, but not asprin. France is weird. \u00a0;-)GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 14:08, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nEven weirder, you can buy alcohol and drink it in petrol stations. Ajkgordon (talk) 14:23, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nohhkay. That's taking their issue with Drinking and Driving seriously. \u00a0;-) but as long as they only give out paper bags! GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 14:26, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nHere in the wilds of Minnesota, we still use that antiquated relic, the paper bag. ListenerXTalkerX 04:37, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nThey still offer them here but 99% of the time, people use plastic.il'Dictator Mikal 06:14, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nThey certainly shouldn't be banned entirely: with all the attention given to 'recycle' especially, reuse shouldn't be ignored. They have their uses, especially when you need disposability. Though if they were biodegradable... Peter Blessed are the cheesemakers 07:52, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nBiodegradability isn't particularly an issue. Once it's in a landfill it's there and it's no particular concern whether the organic plastic takes 10 years or 10,000 years to break down to CO2 and H2O. The harm comes from the additives that leech out of it while it does break down; dyes to colour the bags, plasticisers to make them flexible and so on. These smaller molecules come out pretty quick and get into the water table from landfills. Also, considering extremely efficient polyethylene used to make these things (just think about the strength-to-weight ratio of them next time you handle a plastic bag) and that the degradable ones have poorer strength and performance, it's possibly a false economy where you'll consume more resources to make them all degradable and you still have the plasticisers and dyes leeching out in a landfill anyway. narchist 10:50, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nBad. Outside the fact that Toronto has much more important problems than the danger of bags made of thin plastic, I just hate the idea of limiting people's choices in such a manner when it likely won't change much of anything. I have several of those reusable grocery bags myself but occasionally go for the plastic ones as they get reused as small garbage bags (saving me money but not having to buy said small garbage bags), and carry bags for lunches, with their final fate ending up in the large recycle bin that sits in my complex (along with all the other plastic, metal, paper, and glass I get rid of).--BMcP - Just an astronomy guy 10:28, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nFuck the environmental reasons, I avoid or obsessively reused them just because I don't want to end up tits deep in pastic bags at home. sshole 10:43, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nA couple of years ago when we helped out the local Round Table with their Christmas lunch delivery, we visited an old biddy who had great piles of plastic bags and empty cereal packets stacked all over her house. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 11:00, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy husband's mom (the one in Fosse) is from Vietnam and has a \"child of poverty\" mentality where she saves EVERYTHING. When we got to her office, we found bags filled with bags. Hundreds of them from how many years? And what is the point of having disposable if they aren't able to be recycled? Here, none of the plastic recyclers will take them. So you just have to throw them away. GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 13:11, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nPlastic bags kill leatherback turtles. When floating in the ocean they look exactly like jellyfish but they're not quite as easy to digest. This is particularly a problem in the Irish Sea. Silver Sloth (talk) 13:24, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nBecause they're mass produced from the minimum amount of plastic possible. This makes it incredibly efficient to make them, but they're more or less useless to recycle them. Collecting them and transporting them, cleaning them, then shredding them back into the composite materials, then reprocessing them back to something else... I'd be highly impressed if it took less than 10x the energy and resources to recycle one bag as it takes to produce a new one. sshole 13:29, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh. That's really just sad. (the non recycleable part, but also the turtles). I saw a docu about the \"floating island\", which is made of junk that hits our oceans. most of it is plastic bags, but there are balloons and plastic 6-pack, and fishing line, and styrophome cups and and and... it's horrible. In millions of years, will future critters find a stratum of plastic - not unlike the K\/T event, showing humans short love affair with the stuff? GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 14:17, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe \"floating island of junk\" thing is mostly bad journalism and, ahem, environmental alarmism, which probably means that we need an article on it.\u00a0:) Junk in the seas is still a problem, though.--ZooGuard (talk) 17:21, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh please do! I thought it was 100% real, and some big ol' thing out there floating around.... GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 17:35, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's not entirely impossible that there'd be a mark in the geological column due to us, though it's more likely to be noticed as a marked increase in certain isotopes due to nuclear testing. gnostic 14:20, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere is already a \"mark in the gelogical column due to us\", it's usually called \"archaeological sites\".\u00a0:) Archaeologists have a love\/hate relationship with ancient junk. Look up wp:midden, for example.--ZooGuard (talk) 17:21, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Romania travel suggestions?\n\nHey folks, I've fallen into an opportunity to travel to Romania for a week this summer, specifically to Sibiu and T\u00e2rgu Mure\u0219 in Transylvania. Some of you bastards seem worldly; has anybody been there? Suggestions\/advice? I've already got travel insurance and a voltage converter.--Martin Arrowsmith (talk) 06:06, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIf one of my Ex's is to be believed; you should avoid Romania and spend all your time in Bulgaria; this is the limit to my advice beyond \"look at what interests you\" and other generic statements.--il'Dictator Mikal 06:12, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nAvoid spending the night in creepy old castles in the Carpathian mountains.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 09:58, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nGarlic, enjoy it as much as you can. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 11:01, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nTransylvania is great if you like picturesque scenery & medieval buildings, but don't waste any time in Bucharest, even en route, as it's a dreary dump. I recommend a visit to Sighi\u0219oara as well as Sibiu. W\u00eb\u00e4\u015d\u00eb\u00ef\u00f6\u00ef\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 12:39, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Ouch...\n\nHalf-way down the article citing another article mentions \"It's not until halfway through the article that the writer bothers to mention that the source of this survey, BAAM, makes money selling anger management therapy and providing one-to-one sessions for children.\"--WickerGuy (talk) 23:42, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Because evolution!\n\nSlightly old, but this is quite a wonderfully quarter-baked article, even for Daily Caller. Secularists should join Gawd's Own Party because evolution! Also, your puny primate brains are too primitive to understand von Hayek! Give it up...? Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 23:33, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nHaha, always love this kind of stuff. And here I thought it was God's invisible hand, not the \"God of Government\". Q0 (talk) 00:45, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's the old trope that lefties advocate \"big government\". Some lefties just want good government that enforces policies that protect the public from predatory business practices and other forms of malfeasance.\nShe claims that anyone who believes in evolution should advocate untrammeled capitalism. It's an old form of Social Darwinism in spite of her disclaimer to the contrayr. Note how she first propagates a total misunderstanding of Dawkin's \"Selfish Gene\" and then switches to a slightly more accurate understanding, but without clarifying the switch in this paragraph:\n\"Not only are these men and women of politics unable to \u201cdesign\u201d our lives, their selfish genes often put them at odds with the needs of those they represent [promoting common misunderstanding of Dawkins - WG]. People who understand human evolution see that we are evolved to propagate our genes. And many times altruism helps do that.[Better understanding, but after sowing seeds of misdirection-WG] But politicians and bureaucrats are unlikely to display altruism when our modern regulatory state allows them the ability to rent-seek and regulate on behalf of themselves, their kin, and their allies with impunity.\"\nLater \"In contrast to the liberal perspective that humans can be molded into ideal self-sacrificing beings, evolutionists understand that people are born with an evolved mental architecture \u2014 an architecture which can be altruistic, but needs incentives to do so. [Oh, really? What evolutionary psychologist said it just that way?-WG]\"\nThen \"This doesn\u2019t mean accepting Social Darwinism (which is a collectivist [Huh?????-WG] philosophy tangentially related to evolutionary theory) but rather to apply what they know about the emergence of spontaneous order and the possible selfishness of human nature to political theory.\"\nNow, she keeps saying \"if secularists believe..., why don't they....?\"\nMy question is if Christians believe in universal sinfulness, why do they distrust big government, but NOT big business?? In theological terms, the Republican party believes in an Immaculate Conception of the private sector.\nGeorge Lakoff, we need you.--WickerGuy (talk) 01:09, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nNobody needs post-1995 Lakoff. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 01:14, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n(There is post 1995 Lakoff? God I'm old)GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 02:43, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere is, but don't worry, you're not missing anything. Though it's not as bad as post-2009 Fodor. (shudder) Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 02:49, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nWomen fire and dangerous things was probably the first real contemporary modern philo of language i'd read. It was both intersting and boring as all fuck at the same time. I hated it, cause he writes sooooo densly (?), but the ideas were ripe. I'm not sure the year of Lakoff and Johnson's metaphors we live by, but that, too was an intersting book. neither even touched on politics, so i'm curious what he's writing now, if it's semi political.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 02:55, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's god-awful. See Mixing Memory again to watch Lakoff get torn about 50 new assholes. I even like embodied cognition stuff, but Lakoff's version of it is sheer crankery -- at least the form of it he's been peddling in recent years. Stick with Edelman or Damasio if you want embodiment. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 03:11, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe bit that gets me there is the assertion that if you don't have the legislation to enforce something, these nice capitalists will be altruistic out of the goodness of their hearts (\"But politicians and bureaucrats are unlikely to display altruism when our modern regulatory state allows them the ability to rent-seek and regulate on behalf of themselves\"... but surely even without legislation they'd do it out of the goodness of their hearts anyway and they'd just so happen to conform to those rules and not mind them being their (much in the same way I don't mind laws against murder because I don't have any intention of murdering someone). Clearly, those nice capitalists are doing a bang up job of all that altruism and compassion while the government's back is turned. This also seemed to be the central thesis of Penn & Teller's disability episode. I wasn't 100% sold when P&T argued it, I'm definitely 0% sold the way Kennedy argues it. bomination 01:21, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's not an argument, it's just a bunch of glibertarian tropes and bumper sticker slogans thrown in a blender. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 01:43, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's amazing to me that someone can simultaneously believe in nature over nurture (to the point of misappropriating science to that cause - evolution, race and intelligence, etc), and in the market's ability to solve the very serious problems that result from that kind of worldview. For all it's worthlessness, social darwinism is at least coherent as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Meanwhile, here you're starting with the same false premises, inserting even more of them, and expecting utopia.\nReminds me of a great line from The Education of David Stockman: \"The whole thing is premised on faith,\" Stockman explained. \"On a belief about how the world works.\" Q0 (talk) 02:51, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500 My only real familiarity with post-1995 Lakoff was interviews on the podcast \"Point of Inquiry\". Thanks much for the link, Neb.--WickerGuy (talk) 04:15, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Sanal Edamaruku\n\nIndian skeptic Sanal Edamaruku was arrested at the behest of the Catholic Church for exposing a \"miraculous\" statue. If anyone wants to support him they can do so here. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 21:29, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nArrested? for being right? sighs...GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 22:18, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere are a couple segments about this that were on Indian TV you can find. [6] [7] Q0 (talk) 02:18, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nDon't think he's actually been physically arrested yet, the police are still considering it and it looks as if he might have to leave the country to avoid incarceration. [8] Mick McT (talk) 15:24, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nI've read all the articles and i still don't get \"on what authority\". India is not a theocratic state.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 21:40, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe relevant law is this. It's like a draconian version of hate speech laws, not a blasphemy law as such since it covers \"offences\" against any religion, not one specific one. W\u1ebd\u00e3\u0161\u1ebd\u0129\u00f5\u0129\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 23:32, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## There are times when you just wipe your hand down your face in disbelief\u2026\n\nGreece is suddenly looking like it's falling over more than just a financial cliff.-- Jabba de Chops 19:34, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAnd now he's claiming that the footage is manipulated and she hit first. Vulpius (talk) 20:38, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nHe is? But didn't it originally go out live? Manipulating a live TV feed implies some scary technology!--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 10:40, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nAuthoritarianism is scary stuff... if they do this kind of thing on live TV, what happens in their normal lives? Q0 (talk) 01:08, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Debbie Schlussel\n\nWe have her mentioned as an Ann Coulter wannabe. She could use an article. Normally she spends most of her time on paranoid Muslim-baiting, but her recent ignorant anti-Polish rant provoked a massive outrage after being reported by a Polish daily. Angry Poles now appear to make up the vast majority of her audience. --Tweenk (talk) 00:41, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nCan't even get to her site right now -- is it getting that hammered by angry Poles?\nI'd take \"Ann Coulter wannabe\" one step further (though I think I may be the first person to term her that on this site.) I'd call her \"Ann Coulter, sans the dignity and class.\" MDB (talk) 11:58, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nStarter article written MDB (talk) 12:34, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nSo does she run with the rapture ready crowd? They only seem to have one article by her, though. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:15, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nConsidering she's Jewish, probably not. MDB (talk) 17:19, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nYeah, it links back to her site anyway. It's pretty bad when you're trying to use names like Chuck Baldwin and Debbie Schlussel to lend credibility to your end times conspiracy site. At least spring for the top-shelf stuff like Alex Jones. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:27, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n@MDB: Yes, the site is down due to the angry mob. The gist of what she wrote (link) is that Poles were eager participants in the Holocaust and helped murder millions of Jews in Nazi death camps. This is basically the most offensive thing you can say about Polish history, and it was picked up by the Internet edition of a major Polish daily. On her FB page, she wrote an even more inflammatory response screenshot here at the bottom. This was deleted by Facebook along with the link to her rant, which she also apparently removed from the front page of her blog. --Tweenk (talk) 18:57, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Mr. Rogers remixed\n\nToday in unnecessary auto-tuning... Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 12:01, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## WordPress users\n\nIf anyone here uses WordPress for their blog and wants to make linking to RationalWiki easier, I have adapted the Wikipedia autolink plugin to link to RationalWiki content using [R: ] as an analogue to the WP plugin's [W: ] syntax. It's justa quick hack and not really worth making a huge fuss about, but if you want a copy feel free to email me and I will send you a copy. JzG (talk) 12:34, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nPsy 'n' Pi will probably be interested. gnostic 14:39, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nToo bad they won't let me install plugins. \u0422yrannisPlead 18:38, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Article Title suggestion\n\nI think there might be some value in an article exploring Christianity's desire to prevent portrayals of their Big Man in a way they don't like. I'd like to write an article that focuses on this, with sub headings of Jesus Christ Superstar, Last Temptation of Christ and Life of Brian (among any others people add) to show that Xianity is not all that different from Islam in trying to protect images. But I have no idea what you might call such an article. --GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 15:39, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nChristian blasphemies? Nihilist 15:59, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nI think there's a fundamental difference though. While some Christians might be offended by some depictions of Christ (disrespectful, inaccurate, etc.), Islam actually discourages or forbids (depending on sect) depictions of sentient beings altogether. I think it's only some fundamentalist Calvinists who object to images of Christ and God. Ajkgordon (talk) 16:05, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nReading this makes me think of how history of the catholic church is (if not covered up) de-emphasized and obscured until the first time many learn anything about it is a classical\/medieval political history course in college or something. In the same way people are sometimes not taught about the bad things their country has done (Trail of Tears was the only mention of injustice against indigenous peoples in my 4 years of high school US history and that was given about a week and then native americans were never spoken of again) to a certain extent people avoid educating others on all of the bad things that religions have done. Many times mentioning the ridiculous corrupt popes of the renaissance gets the answer 'but we're not like that NOW, that's the past and we don't do that anymore!' But that's not an excuse for having a free pass to be too-awkward-to-teach-people-about, and while I'm pretty sure popes don't hire prostitutes for mass orgies anymore, awareness of history often is the key to understanding the present. \u00b1KnightOfTL;DRyeah, well you fight like a cow! 16:17, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nOTOH, there's still some bogus nuggets of anti-Catholicism that are \"conventional wisdom.\" Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:10, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nAJK - I think you need to understand that there are two things happening in Islam. There is the fact that you should not depict Mo, and there is the fact that outsiders should not criticize mo. Within Islam, those are looked at very differently. When the BBC did a production about Mohommudh's childhood, they talked with experts on how offensive it would be to recreate Mo as a child, show Mo on horseback in battle, show Kadisha and Aiesha, etc. And the answer came back \"we'd prefer if you didn't, but if you do it historically, in context of studying the faith, 'eh'\". However, if Mo were depicted as a child abuser, or shown in any bad light, it would have been a very big deal. The prohibition against depicting Mo is more or less an internal prohibition. But showing Mo in a light that is disfavorable is what brings out the zelots.\nAs for this article, it was not going to be any form of comparison, but more just something that is a way to show how often some in the Christian community have come out in strength against any message in the media that is not their own. I think it could be an article, but it might end up more an essay - though around here the difference between those is often blurred.\u00a0:-)GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 17:20, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500 The article could be called Heretical Fiction about Jesus. You should include novels like D.H. Lawrence's The Man Who Died, George Moore's The Brook Kerith (Jesus converts to Buddhism at the end), and Robert \"I,Claudius\" Graves' King Jesus (J's biological father turns out to be King Herod!)\nTotally agree that the Islamic issue is entirely different.--WickerGuy (talk) 17:30, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nSounds like an interesting idea for an article. For the fiction, you can add Saramago's \"wp:The Gospel According to Jesus Christ\" and Pullman's \"wp:The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ\". wp:Piss Christ might be included under if it's in the article too. --Benod (talk) 18:07, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nPersonally, I think it would be better to incorporate WfG's examples into an article on films about the life &\/or death of Jesus, which would include background info on the films as well as controversy in response to them, and could also include straightforward Christian fodder like The Greatest Story Ever Told and The Passion of the Christ. Novels could maybe be dealt with in a separate article. WeaseloidMethinks it is a Weasel 18:13, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\"Censorship of blasphemy\" for a title, maybe? Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 18:31, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nForgot to mention Gore Vidal's Live from Golgotha.--WickerGuy (talk) 20:35, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe Catholic Church is apparently trying to get some guy tried for blasphemy in India.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 21:09, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nSee Sanal Edamaruku above. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 21:36, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## In case anyone has missed me...\n\n... you'd best practice your aim! #rimshot#\n\nI've not been posting here in a while since I've got a great new job that keeps me rather busy.\n\nBut things are going quite well with me. I have an amazing new boyfriend, and I am finally quitting smoking. I've been smoke-free since Friday morning. (Okay, I'm on the patch, but it's working great.)\n\nWhat'd I miss? MDB (talk) 11:48, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nCongrats, congrats & congrats!! Outside of that, not much. CP's been pretty dead, so we're looking at Hurlbut for our fundie entertainment. Trent wants your money and Ace is bitching. Again. Oh yes, and Human was complaining about all the right-wing authoritarians on the site, responsible for driving off MC. --PsyGremlinSiarad! 11:56, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI didn't say they were \"right wing\". Get your facts straight before you make them up, child. \u0127uman 04:28, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nMC was \"banned\" by the authoritarian right wing of this site. They were wrong. They were nasty and hateful. --\"Shut up, Brx.\" 06:03, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nThanks!\nAs an aside, the new job and the new boyfriend both tie in with quitting smoking. My new job is as a contractor at the National Cancer Institute, and, as I remarked, \"I realize the innate hypocrisy of taking smoke breaks while working at the National Cancer Institute\". And the new boyfriend is a former smoker himself, and is encouraging me to give it up myself. MDB (talk) 12:14, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nRemind me, who are you? \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 12:26, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nResident semi-theist and big ol' homo. MDB (talk) 12:27, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nYou mean there's only one? \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 12:41, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI tried the patch MDB and kept falling off the wagon... Two weeks ago I got one of the electronic cigarettes and have not smoked tobacco since. Frankly I don't mind my addiction to nicotine, I just don't want to fill my lungs with tar\/other chemicals. If the patch fails you I would suggest giving it a go. 64.28.252.223 (talk) 14:21, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nThanks, but the patch has been working great for me. Well, so far. I'm six days in without a cigarette. MDB (talk) 17:13, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nA relative of mine was hilarious on patches. Just wrapped up in a blanket in the corner shivering, muttering, moaning and swearing at people 18 hours a day for a couple of weeks. Is that actually normal? pathetic 17:21, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nI haven't had any problems at all with the patches. Well, except for figuring out how to light them. #rimshot# MDB (talk) 18:37, 6 June 2012 (UTC)\nHeart attack followed by two days in hosp = stopped smoking on 22nd March. Also saves \u00a370+ per week. Scream!! (talk) 00:44, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nWow, that's like $109 at current rates. How much did you smoke\/how much do smokes cost over there? I paid around$7\/pack in Maryland, and Maryland has some of the highest cigarette taxes in the country. MDB (talk) 15:06, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nMinimum \u00a35.20 \/pack 20 ($8 ish) average \u00a37.40 pack ($11.40 ish). @ 1.5 packs \/day soon mounts up. Automatic tax increase every year see here. Scream!! (talk) 16:55, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nLook at how shit this top section looks with those fucking polls there. AceModerator 09:22, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nI agree with this and with Human's recent efforts to simplify.--talk 09:44, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## I made a photos, part deux\n\nNihilist 17:48, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI'll try to say it nice: RationalWiki is not a social network. It serves partially as one, but its main focus is elsewhere. It relies on charitable donations for server space and bandwidth (points the banner above). Please, please don't waste both by treating RW as a photo forum.--ZooGuard (talk) 17:59, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nA bit harsh. Isn't it nice to occasionally have some interesting photos in the off-topic board? CrundyTalk nerdy to me 21:56, 7 June 2012 (UTC)\nNo kidding... people post whatever they want here, that's the whole point of this page. Maybe twelve photos is a bit much, of course; the Forum might be better for that sort of thing.--talk 00:23, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nYeah, because the extensive goat recipe collection is \"in mission.\" sterileevolutionist story telling 01:38, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n'Tis too. We can stare at them. JzG (talk) 12:36, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nLove 'em!\u00a0:-D The little boy is so cute! Refugeetalk page 08:08, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## First-Generation Atheists\n\nI'm fairly sure that most atheists in America are first-generation atheists (that is, atheists whose parents were not atheists), but I do not have a good source to back that up. Does anyone know where I can find some reliable statistics to this effect? Has a study ever been done on the subject? Apokalyps2547 (talk) 02:59, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAs far as i can tell from those who i've met; yes, most are first or, depending on how young your parents are, second generation atheists. as for reliable sources; got none. --il'Dictator Mikal 04:38, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nI haven't read all these papers, but you might find something here or here. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 12:09, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nLooking at this recent poll It looks like the number of athiests is growing faster than the population. I would conclude that the implication is that they are \"converts\" to atheism. Others could interpret the data differently though.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 12:14, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe small but growing popularity of summer camps for children of humanists, agnostics, and atheists suggests the second-generation may be growing although first-gen is likely still a majority. (I'm on the staff and board of such a camp.)--WickerGuy (talk) 17:27, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhy would there need to be such a camp? --\"Shut up, Brx.\" 17:31, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe same reason theres camps for everything else under the sun. Why does one of the local museums here offer a curator 2 week long camp? (which was actually pretty fun)--il'Dictator Mikal 17:36, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nCause kids have 3 months of free time, and their parents still work. (Who came up with this system should be shot!). So anyone who doesn't have a stay-at-home parent has do now find daycare and programs for kids. And that means \"camps\". Many many many of these camps are run by religious groups, and having one focusing on secular issues is probably a welcome site for atheists. Course as soon as your kid gets his or her own intersts, you can start sending them off to band camp, chess camp, science camp, cheerleading camp, or whatever floats your kid's boat. (Oh, boat camp!)GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 17:44, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nHey; the three month break is nice. IT helps the method I use for paying for college won't cover summer classes either. --il'Dictator Mikal 17:45, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n(EC) I think it's more like the concept of a secular camp, not so much \"atheist camp\" in the same way that there are \"Jesus Camps\". Not everyone wants to be in Boy Scouts, for example, because of their Christian-hate spewing, so there has to be a more secular versions to give to (such as 4-H). Plus, the vast majority of Americans who don't proselytize, regardless of their religious views, so they send the kids where they won't be proselytized to (that way the parents can control the message).-- Seth Peck (talk) 17:53, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\non the original topic, it would seem to me that the real issue isn't 2nd generation atheists, but 2nd generation Atheists. (out and proud, if you will). I think quite a few of the adults in Boulder, who were hippies in the 70's have no real concept of god and did not teach it to their kids, but there was no movement to identify as Atheist, so the kids I met probably didn't even know what their parents believed, cause it just wasn't an issue in the early 90s. Now, people who self identify as atheists on a political (?) spectrum are not only raising non-believing kids, but ones who are standing up and challenging things they find questionable. GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 17:52, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy wife is a third generation atheist.--talk 03:41, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhere'd you find such a catch? Nihilist 03:52, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nWas someone in the family tree a Red diaper baby, perhaps? ListenerXTalkerX 03:54, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nHer grandfather was a scientist and a member of a national skeptics society.--talk 04:56, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nFirst Gen atheist here. I don't intend for my generations to necessarily continue though; I intend to show my children various beliefs, as well as the rationalist point of view, and let them decide for themselves. Mr. Anon (talk) 04:49, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIndeed. I guess it depends on the type of atheist you are, but I don't think it really should be a generational thing. Hopefully one's children will believe certain things because they have found them to be true, rather than because they mindlessly religiously echo their parents' views.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 05:32, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nYour upbringing is still going to be a factor even in a \"disinterested\" reading of the evidence. I'm a first gen. as well, but considering my family's background, it's not really all that surprising. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 18:19, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Film\n\nI just saw a trailer for \"Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter\". Am I having a stroke or is this actually a thing? CrundyTalk nerdy to me 22:21, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nNot only does it seem to be a thing, it seems to be a thing that I want to see. If they pull it off I'll be officially impressed.\nOn the plus side, it seems to be calling all Confederates vampires. -- 22:32, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's from a book by the author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and is part of the same craze of kitsch tongue-in-cheek exploitation movies\/novels that seem to be all the rage since Deathproof & Planet Terror (Zombieland, Hobo with a Shotgun, Cowboys & Aliens, etc.) \u20ac\u20b3\\$\u00a3\u0398\u012a\u00d0Methinks it is a Weasel 23:13, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nThe author of the novel also wrote the screenplay for Tim Burton's Dark Shadows movie.--WickerGuy (talk) 23:36, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nLast night while rushing to get my father a last minute birthday gift, I saw a DVD for a film called \"Ozombie: Axis of the Evil Dead\", in which a zombified Osama Bin Laden leads zombie taliban in... zombie...stuff, I guess. What surprised me the most was that this was in ASDA, and the film had apparently made it into whatever chart ASDA uses for its DVD section. X Stickman (talk) 02:19, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nZMD is pretty awesome. \u0422yrannisPlead 12:04, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nNude Nuns with Big Guns is a thing. d hominem 16:21, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere's a genre named nunsploitation and Wikipedia has an article on it? I don't have the words... Vulpius (talk) 00:02, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere should be a WP category called \"Wait, Wikipedia actually has an article on this??\" d hominem 10:37, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nSo going to see this movie. The one thing that I don't like about it so far is that it shows Abe Lincoln doing a bunch of badass stuff, like break trees with a single ax swipe, and then says that it is all part of vampire hunting. In reality, Abe was just that badass for the sake of being badass. Mr. Anon (talk) 04:51, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI saw the trailer in a theater a while ago before some movie. The axe choreography is honestly impressive enough that I was convinced it was all CGI or camera trickery before I looked closer. Of course, with a terrible eye for that sort of thing, it still might be, but it's enjoyable either way. AntiDeathPill (talk) 08:28, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAnd don't forget Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies. (WARNING! ASYLUM ALERT!) --PsyGremlinKhuluma! 09:11, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nFucking Asylum... moral 12:02, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nI generally have the following rule with movies: if it has the word \"vs\" in it, it's probably not very good. Mr. Anon (talk) 16:11, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy general rule for that is if it's main advertising hook is \"from the writer(s)\/producer(s)\/director(s) of...\" postate 20:15, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nAsylum's Sherlock Holmes rip-off has a T-Rex. I have to see it. Woodgod (talk) 21:54, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n@Anon, there's always \"Vampires Vs. Zombies\"--il'Dictator Mikal 04:32, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nSounds lame compared to Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 18:22, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n### More\n\nI just got home from Prometheus and IT'S LIKE THEY TOOK ALIEN AND CRANKED EVERYTHING UP TO 11 MY GOD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE 03:47, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nSo should I go see it tomorrow or... \u0422yrannisPlead 03:57, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nDo you like morally unsettling sci-fi? Do you like sci-fi thrillers? Do you like Alien? Do you like Michael Fassbender, Noomi Rapace and Charlize Theron? If so then yes. 04:01, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nYes. Yes. Yes. Who? \u0422yrannisPlead 04:02, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## The unicorn templeton is now alive\n\nHooray! Bootmiiwanna play nomic? 19:43, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nthe what?--il'Dictator Mikal 20:15, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\ntl;dr. theist 20:23, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nsigh. \u0422yrannisPlead 21:31, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Room Color\n\nSo for some reason watching 80's action movies inspired me to clean my room and start rearranging it\/preparing it for when we have to put the new carpet in; and I have to ask for more opinions\/ones that actually make sense, what is a good color for a bedroom that isn't white or yellow? --il'Dictator Mikal 07:35, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nMagnolia. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 07:58, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat color is the carpet? You could paint a complementary color, like if it's a combo pink\/white, then pale pink, or if it's gold\/green, maybe gold. The most calming and relaxing bedroom I ever stayed in was a pale green color, really relaxing. Refugeetalk page 08:02, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nSame color as i have now, just new; kinda goldish. --il'Dictator Mikal 08:04, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nThis sounds a bit counter-intuitive, but bedrooms can be nice for a darker color if the hangings and furniture matches. Darker colors can be more private and intimate than lighter or vivid colors, so if you have cosy furnishings and a good window (to keep the room from feeling all tiny and cave-like) it can work. \u00b1KnightOfTL;DRlavishly loquacious 14:02, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nI did mine in a nice sage. Neutral but color. most anything we bring in matches. I sponged it, with a lighter sage, so it's really fluid.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 19:11, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nOn walls, darker colours may seem an exciting idea, but they can end up being oppressive, depending on lighting. Magnolia or peach is a good safe option. You could still offset it with a darker carpet or rugs if you wanted to experiment with darker colours. W\u0113\u0101\u015d\u0113\u012b\u014d\u012b\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 20:23, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy bedroom originally belonged to my father, who is a night worker, so it was painted and has dark green carpet. The neat thing is a old rag was used to do the painting, so the wall has this neat \"jungle foliage\"-like texture to it. Hung up a few appropriate souvenirs (a piece of driftwood from a lake, a gift shop gunpowder horn, some assorted polished rocks on hardwood selves) and matching furniture, and it feels like I'm sleeping in a jungle expedition camp. Neat little theme. --CoyoteSans (talk) 04:07, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Should this be taken out?\n\nThis discussion was moved to Talk:Rick Santorum. 15:33, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Margaret Wente.\n\nIt's time. Read any \"article\" from her, and an Angry Dome will be provided for your intellectual sanity. Osaka Sun (talk) 01:58, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nWho is this? Why is she so terrible? Could you link to some examples?--talk 06:05, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nLet me google that for you--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 06:13, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt is silly to start a topic of conversation about someone and provide no information or context for them.--talk 06:17, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nSeems to want to be the Canadian Ann Coulter. Already in the to-do list. 174.118.208.93 (talk) 06:19, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n### What's in a name\n\nSplit from the above\nSo a Globe and Mail columnist who's a climate truther? Btw, is there a better term for that? I've grown to dislike \"climate denier.\"--talk 06:21, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nAdded a link of her comparing Toronna's bag ban to the temperance movement. An all-round crank that's probably worthy of mention - the fact that she's won journalism awards is indeed frightening. 174.118.208.93 (talk) 06:26, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nAn alternative is \"climate change septic\"\u00a0:) Or \"delayer\". Or \"skeptic\" in scare quotes. Or the suitable for every kind of pundit \"clueless blowhard\".--ZooGuard (talk) 07:01, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nI don't really like \"skeptic\" because it misuses the word. Presumably we are all skeptics. But I'm not keen on \"denier\" either. The problem with \"truther\" is that I don't think that would make much sense outside of the US.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 10:08, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nIs there anything particularly wrong with \"denialist\"? gnostic 10:42, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nMmmm. Now you ask me specifically I'm not sure.... In the end, they are denying the science in the same way as AIDS denialists. So I take that back.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 16:16, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nNo, but \"anthropogenic climate change denialist\" is rather unwieldy. There ought to be some one- or two-word phrase to cover this. W\u00e8\u00e0\u0161\u00e8\u00ec\u00f2\u00ec\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 11:10, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nACCD (yipes, unwieldy indeed!) have the pithy pejorative \"warmists\" for us. We need something similar.--talk 11:40, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nAnd \"coldists\" just doesn't work. sshole 12:29, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nHow about \"nevergreens\". It's pretty cheesy, but could sortof work as a catch-all term for anti-environmentalists. According to our environmentalism article, greens are opposed by \"grays\" but I've never heard this usage elsewhere. \u0429\u0454\u0430\u0437\u0454\u044e\u0456\u03b4Methinks it is a Weasel 15:40, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500I've read suggestions to use \"contrarian.\" By comparison \"skeptic\" implies principled scientific skepticism, which is not the case, and the denialists have gotten some mileage out of \"denialist\" by shrieking about how unfair it is to be lumped in with \"holocaust deniers.\" \"Contrarian\" implies knee-jerk opposition without the baggage of \"denialist.\" Doctor Dark (talk) 17:17, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nClimate contrarian or climate crank does have the bonus of alliteration. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 18:26, 10 June 2012 (UTC)\nI could happily throw myself behind \"nevergreen\". \"Crank\" is often someone who puts ill-thought ideas out there. It's not always the case with denialists because they don't really put out their own crank theories in the same way that our normal cranks do - although the alliteration is good. sshole 18:10, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Done template\n\n{{User:Bootmii\/done}} First option: default is \"Done\", set to \"n\", \"no\" or \"notdone\" for \"Not done.\"\n\nUsually occurs after a request, to show that what has been requested has been done.\n\nFor \"Not done,\" you would use it to show that it was not done. I will supe it up soon, so keep an eye on any changes! Bootmii(Nomic) 10:12, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIf someone has requested a condition for \"not done and will not be done\", Not done and will not be done. Just kidding, Done.\n\nBootmii(Nomic) 10:21, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nHahaha, I'm totally going to use this where totally unnecessary. ONE \/ TALK 11:21, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\ngoing to use this where totally unnecessary done.\nFFS NO ONE CARES. \u0422yrannisPlead 12:36, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh god more wikicruft. Thanks for your enthusiasm but please put it to effective use, Bootmii. 00:49, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI think it is more like he is desperate for someone to play nomic with him. \u0422yrannisPlead 01:02, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI've played nomic before, so i COULD play nomic with Bootmii, but i like doing it with people i actually know, atleast more then the people here. --il'Dictator Mikal 04:58, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## New \"liberal code words\"...\n\n...include \"climate change\" and \"sea level rise.\" On the bright side, these people will no doubt increase enthusiasm for funding space exploration. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 16:49, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nRead the comments. Some guy is writing global warming denial poetry. MDB (talk) 17:03, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n(EC) A very charitable reading would be that these words are considered \"liberal codewords\" by the target audience, and that the proposed measures would be the same stuff with the different label. Kind of like the way some polls find out that people say they don't \"believe in evolution\", but if the question is broken down to more specific claims, they have no problem with almost everything that evolution is (common descent, etc.)--ZooGuard (talk) 17:08, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nDon't make me read the bottom of the internet! Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:09, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nThat's a very apt way to put it. Comments sections are on the bottom of articles, and they are nearly the worst the internet has to offer. I don't know if it was intentional, but I must say it's brilliant.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 17:22, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nI can't take credit for it, but I don't know where it came from. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:27, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nLike most memes, XKCD. --JeevesMkII The gentleman's gentleman at the other site 21:48, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nI thought most memes came from 4chan. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 21:57, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nYou'd think they'd shape up seeing as how sea levels are actually rising.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 17:22, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nWait, I get it now -- if liberals are \"coastal elites,\" then rising sea levels will really piss off the liberals! Genius! Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 22:17, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Help\n\nhttp:\/\/www.sciencedirect.com\/science\/article\/pii\/S0273117705014341 is returning a 404 error and I simply cannot understand why. 02:56, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nWorks for me. Are you on your home ISP? Have you tried rerouting it through a proxy, like by directing translate.google.com to translate it from Korean to English?--talk 03:31, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh, the link works fine! It's just that it is returning a 404 even though it appears to work. 03:36, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Giving blood\n\nDear god in heaven, i just came back from probably the worst experience on a blood draw. The woman couldn't find my vein. Instead of calling someone who could, or trying the other arm, she pushed the needle in and out and scooted it around till i felt this sharp pain up my arm and she said casually \"oh, i blew your vein\". The other nurse (hearing that) came over, took over moved to my other arm and found blood in one gentle \"poke\". i have a bruise the size of rhode island on my arm!--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 20:39, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nThat happened to a friend of mine the first (and only) time she tried to give blood. Luckily the veins on the inside of my elbow pop right out when they put that band thingy on, so I've never had a problem. Cow...Hammertime! 20:43, 8 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy father faints every time he sees his own blood. Quite funny to watch. I'm still waiting out the \"visit to Latin America\" waiting time before I can give again. \u0422yrannisPlead 11:57, 9 June 2012 (UTC)\nLifetime deferral here. Don't get me started... MDB (talk) 11:38, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n@ MDB: \"Your\" lifetime deferral is one of the few reasons I'm hesitant to donate more regularly--Th. Bernhard (talk) 09:40, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Why we need different medical coverage in the US\n\nthis is a whiny \"why\", but a why none the less. I just got back a test for Vitamin D levels. The normal level per this office is 20-100ng\/ml. My levels are 21. Because it's all standardized per the insurance co, the doctor cannot advise me on taking supplements unless I pay full price for the consult, cause the pre-pay would not apply since the test shows I'm \"within\" the correct levels. Jesus jumping frogs on a popsicle stick. All this so the heads and owners of insurance can make sure they don't lose 20 bucks on my exam by having to pay for it. (And if this is just for a stupid f'ing consult about over the counter D, no wonder people have such problems trying to get coverage for their real medical issues).--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 18:37, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nYou don't need supplements, you just need to get out more. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 19:01, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nNo surprise there, the US insurance industry is just one massive scam. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 21:55, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\"get out more\" yeah... that's what started this whole conversation with my doc. We are in colorado, where the UV rays are nasty or something. You are always supposed to wear sun screen or get skin cancer. there is, apparently, no inbetween. WE put our newborns into sunscreen. As the same time, obese women are always at risk for lower vitamin d, so should \"go out more\". The Colo Dept of Health has issued suggestions that obese women and children (women, cause we tend to wear more sunscreen, actually) should get their levels checked. Not going out into the sun. I am a sterotypical libraryrat who thinks the sun is somehow the enemy!--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 22:38, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nSo, your Vitamin D is normal, but you want to take supplements? Single payer wouldn't help you get what you want, because the single payer system is even more interested in outcomes and the outcome for giving people supplements they don't need is emptier pockets, not healthier patients. Every dollar spent making you feel all happy because you got your pills is another dollar not available to heal people who are actually sick. 82.69.171.94 (talk) 12:52, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Forced birthers\n\nMichigan's latest anti-abortion bill is not too different from all the other ones, except for this part: \"The legislation does not allow late-term abortions in cases of rape, incest or fetal defect, such as a missing brain or spine.\" Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 22:06, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nJesus Christ, you'd think even the pro-life crowd could figure that missing a brain excludes you from \"life.\" That there is some blunt stupidity.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 22:14, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nI think that bill is all the proof you'd need that you can live without a brain. --JeevesMkII The gentleman's gentleman at the other site 22:22, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nI just.... I truly do not get when women became walking wombs... and i don't get the \"sanctity of life\" when at best that life will be a few days of truly horrifying suffering - for parents and child.--GodotWhen I graduated, Cognative Science of Religion didn't even exist! now it's everywhere 22:35, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nWords fail me. \u0422yrannisPlead 23:25, 11 June 2012 (UTC)\nThey probably mean ancephalic children. Such children are alive by most reasonable standards, at least at birth, and sometimes for a considerable time afterwards if the breathing reflex functions. They aren't people but neither (by my reasoning) are normal healthy newborn babies. Ancephalic babies have a neural tube defect which means most of the brain didn't form. They can exhibit certain reflexes in response to damage, but the neural logic needed for what we understand by \"feeling\" pain isn't present, in fact without a functioning brain they are mindless, the closest thing our species has to a movie zombie, capable only of simple reflexes and with no consciousness or will.\nIf they survive birth they will usually be allowed to die peacefully in the hours or days following. Our instincts (it looks like a baby, albeit a horribly damaged one) tell us to feed it and keep it warm, so usually people do that much but it dies eventually. It's extremely distressing for the mother anyway. 82.69.171.94 (talk) 13:38, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nSo you're saying conservatives want to raise an army of zombies? Occasionaluse (talk) 13:53, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI thought that was why they had Fox News!\nThank you thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the roast goat, it's delicious! And don't forget to tip your servers! MDB (talk) 14:05, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nOnce again it's a sign of their screwed up thinking - the child MUST be born at all costs. What happens to it afterwards is not our problem. --PsyGremlinTala! 14:41, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nAnd it is so horrendous. If ancephalic condition can be identified early, I as a mother and as a walking pregnant woman would like to just end the pregnancy for me, for my body, though not really \"for the child\" as it won't have any awareness. But there are other conditions, specifically Downs Syndrom, that my husband and I have talked at length about, \"in case\" of an unplanned pregnancy. a mother, a family should have the right to decide if they believe it's right to bring those conditions into the world. I am so tired of religious people in power thinking they know more than I do about my life, my values, my wants and desires. GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 16:34, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI don't understand the religious aspect of this issue at all. OK, so if the child is aborted, then it never goes to heaven and it's murder. But if it's going to die as soon as it comes out, it's somehow OK because it died on its own and it's not murder? And then you argue it's about saving the souls of children... yet don't realize that 1) not every child is going to be 'saved' even if it is healthy; there are people out there that aren't religious and don't baptize\/otherwise initiate children, 2) if a child is going to die during or shortly after childbirth, it's not going to be 'saved' anyway? The religious aspects of the argument are totally nonsensical and apply only to a narrow, NARROW demand of their community, which is the fact that Abrahamic religions in particular are quite often permanently stuck in amass-more-followers, convert-everybody mode as laid down in their bronze and iron age holy books when they were breaking out of being a cult and absorbing as many other practices and their followers as possible. So it's not 'THINK OF THE BABIES' that a lot of these laws call to my mind, but 'THINK OF THE PEOPLE NOW ALLOWED TO NOT ACT IN THE WAY I MANDATE.' When a law is made based on ONE group's social consciousness that binds ALL groups, it immediately makes the resulting society more like that one group. On the part of the religious endorsing the law, they likely see it as a good thing; a society more like their vision is less full of supposed sinners. But it's inherently wrong to bind people who aren't part of that group and make them live their lives in the image of another. \u00b1KnightOfTL;DRgarrulous en guerre 16:57, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI could understand the logic if this was a ban on all abortions (which is probably what the bill's supporters really want) but regulating against all late-term abortions without reasonable exceptions doesn't make a whole lot of sense, unless we accept that foetuses are endowed with human rights at exactly 20 weeks, even the ones without a brain. \u0429\u0454\u0430\u0437\u0454\u044e\u0456\u03b4Methinks it is a Weasel 17:35, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI don't know of any denomination that teaches that the fetus would be denied heaven if it perished before birth versus after birth (as it would make any miscarriage most troubling theologically); although several do indeed teach that any level of abortion for any reason is murder.--BMcP - Just an astronomy guy 18:48, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nNot birth specifically, but some denominations (especially old school Catholicism) hold that babies must be baptised in order to get to heaven. Some Catholics believe that unbaptised babies (which would also include aborted foetuses) go to Limbo. \u03a8\u03a3\u0394\u03be\u03a3\u0393\u03a9\u0399\u00d0Methinks it is a Weasel 19:34, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAs repugnant as the bill is, this is a political strategy. When bills this horrible pass houses of the state's congress, it will spark backlash from the other side. Such immense backlash will appear to moderates as two polar opposites yelling at each other, which will drive down voter turnout. Low voter turnout always favors the right wing. Mr. Anon (talk) 19:51, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI was just going to say that. You said it better, and without the cussing that is on my tongue every time i talk about this. It's call moving the frame as well. You push the \"extreme' anti-abortoin, as \"nomral\" anti abortion, than what was \"normal\" anti abortion becomes \"comprimise and we are with women, see, we accept rape as an exception\" type stuff. GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 22:18, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## RW vs CP Alexa rankings\n\nThis discussion was moved to Conservapedia talk:What is going on at CP?. 07:17, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## \"Generation is failing at face to face\"\n\nSo i saw this in yesterdays paper; and every time i see this statement its annoying as hell to me; because i know my generation, and it is not failing at face to face talking because of the internet; will the generations coming now\/next be worse off because of it, maybe, but it isnt a problem now like they want to say.--il'Dictator Mikal 00:34, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIt's a bunch of nonsense. The idea is supposed to be that technology is causing us all to become distant from each other, to the point where we lack an emotional connection to society. I'll be the first to speak to the opposite idea: that the only reason I ended up with that connection was because of the internet itself. For years and years when I was younger, I separated myself from the world and didn't want to be a part of it whatsoever. And as a kid in many parts of the world, if you've developed some sort of ethics at all, and yet you constantly have to deal with things like religious hypocrisy, sexism, racism, and other dehumanizing acts, why would you want to be part of society in the first place? It was mostly through the internet that I was able to realize that humanity was not all like that, actually had much to offer, and made me want to actually change things for the better.\nThe most distressing part of these arguments is that they always gloss over the things that do actually cause us to become distant, paranoid, and isolated individuals. You know, like gun culture (stand your ground and castle laws being the natural course of it), rabid consumerism, gated communities and de facto segregation, wars, divisive politicians, etc. Q0 (talk) 04:30, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nSo do you two think that the increasing level of technology involved in social interactions is having no effect, or only no deleterious effect?--talk 04:40, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nNot to the level they say; atleast, not yet. And i can't say for sure on the younger ones who've had even more years with tech then mine and part of the gen after mine. --il'Dictator Mikal 05:01, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nMaybe there's some grain of truth to it, but this narrative seems to largely be red meat for the technophobes and hypochondriacs. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 06:16, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's another way to live an \"isolated\" social life, and it's probably more of a enabler than books\/mail\/telephones\/television\/etc because it basically combines all those into one convenient blob of interaction, but that's all it is (socially speaking). Besides, I was bad at \"face to face\" way before I got AOL. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 06:21, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nP.S. - Those articles always seem to ignore webcams, VoIP, and those fancy PDA-phones youngsters use nowadays. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 06:24, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nYou are disputing the fundamental right of every generation to opine about what's wrong with the next generation, more commonly known as the \"These damn kids today\" phenomenon. Voxhumana (talk) 06:24, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt's called \"O tempora, O mores\" (\"Oh the times, oh the customs!\" - from Cicero)... which also gives you a clue how old this complaint is.--talk 08:19, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nOh there's definitely an effect. I see a lot more positive than negative, though. What irks me is that this is incredibly low on the list of crises of modernity, and even on just problems caused by technology, and so it diverts focus from the real issues. Q0 (talk) 08:07, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Why did Red warheads sell info about our Chinese Clinton to the thermonuclears?\n\nYear of the Rat: How Bill Clinton Compromised U.S. Security for Chinese Cash Moonshot926 (talk) 05:59, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nOh joy, your back again. Go away. --il'Dictator Mikal 06:10, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nSince this has nothing to do with anything, here is my counterpoint:\nWhy did the Wolf Goddess of the Harvest smite us with occasional droughts and poor harvests? Read the book called Wolf & Spice, Volume 1. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 06:15, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nReally can't be arsed. Are you selling something? \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 06:50, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nIf you mean me, no, I just like the book. Figured it was just as valid as whatever Moonshot is preaching. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 07:24, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI was really addressing Moonshine. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 10:34, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Filthy, rapist penguins\n\nWho knew that penguins are a bunch of terrifying rapists? At least the infamous homosexual necrophiliac duck is in good company. Radioactive Misanthrope 07:39, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nPlease try to be accurate. They're actually gay, pedophile, necrophiliac rapists, and are thus clearly atheist liberals. Voxhumana (talk) 07:47, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nThose deviants were dead set on giving a bad name to the rich monogamous culture of penguinkind!\nNext thing I know, someone's going to pull out that liberal nonsense about them having different mates each year, and mention that March of the Penguins was actually a French film. Blasphemy! Q0 (talk) 08:20, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Give us your gold\n\nCats4Gold, get 'em while they're hot. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 10:35, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nOMIGOD THAT IS SO CUTE!--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 13:21, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Remember the anthrax attacks?\n\nThanks to Cracked we learn it had nothing to do with al-Qaeda. Oh yes, and all those Toyotas were fine too. --PsyGremlinTal! 15:20, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nDoes RW have something about that phenomenon? The \"I'm sure I was pressing the brake\" thing I mean, not people sending Anthrax in the post. I know it had happened before Toyota. I think it's sometimes called Unintended Acceleration. It should probably link onto an article about people being lousy witnesses (that stuff is really scary, you think your memory works and then you see a video and it's not how you remembered at all) as well because that's related to all sorts of woo from UFO abduction to Autism. 82.69.171.94 (talk) 17:45, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nI don't know if the Toyota brake fault was to blame but my brother-in-law's brother went over a cliff on California Highway 1 in his Prius. His wife died and he was in traction for weeks. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 20:20, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nThat's a horrible story, GK. AceModerator 20:48, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat a shame. Could have had a really cool Thelma and Louise-themed funeral... Occasionaluse (talk) 20:52, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nThat sucks, man. Wait, isn't your brother-in-law's brother also your brother-in-law?--talk 01:26, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nTo be explicit it was my wife's sister's husband's brother. And to pile on the injury his new partner died of heart failure in May, 5 years to the day after his first wife. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 07:16, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## 100 reasons why evolution is SO stupid\n\nhttp:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=ga33t0NI6Fk 24.189.254.24 (talk) 21:36, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAmazing, I'm convinced. AceModerator 22:51, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nPoe, maybe?RandonGeneration (talk) 23:18, 12 June 2012 (UTC)\nWho, Kent Hovind? W\u00eb\u00e4\u015d\u00eb\u00ef\u00f6\u00ef\u010fMethinks it is a Weasel 06:07, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nTotally. He was obviously being ironic when he evaded taxes while running a creationist theme park. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 09:38, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Another burst of bilge from Creation.com\n\nQuite revolting this time. Stalin read Darwin, made him a mass murderer. AceModerator 03:35, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI'm sure Gandhi believed in evolution, he did great things. Mr. Anon (talk) 03:52, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nI don't really get the argument as these cretins think people should read the Bible but Stalin read the Bible and was somehow swayed by TOoS? They came up with similar bile about Anders Breivik, in his manifesto there were six mentions of Darwin but around a hundred to \"our Lord Jesus\". \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 07:30, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nI think the main point is to leave readers with the association of evolution = gawdless cawmunizm! You don't need an argument, you just need people to remember, \"Hey, didn't that Stalin fellow kill people because EVILution?!\" Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 08:48, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nGandhi was a massive racist and slept with young girls, so... narchist 08:36, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nAnd Hitler was endorsed by the Catholic Church. About as relevant. Voxhumana (talk) 10:30, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nLet's not give them any ideas! bomination 12:14, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI often think this sort of stuff doesn't really matter, but someone seriously said to me today, \"Have you ever seen the film 180?\"--talk 10:32, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nI seriously doubt that this affects anybody but the already converted. I doubt anybody with half a mind has said evolution doesn't exist and the world is 6,000 years old, purely based on the fact that somebody bad also believed in it. Hitler loved dogs - does that make me a Nazi? --PsyGremlinSprich! 13:14, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Attention Cox suckers\n\nNew series of The Infinite Monkey Cage starts next Monday. \u0413\u0435\u043d\u0433\u0438\u0441Our ignorance is God; what we know is science. 08:42, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAh. Thanks for that.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 13:52, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nScientist: \"going to mars costs about as much as a banking crisis\". comedian:\"is it possible the banking crisis was just a ruse, and they have an escape ship ready?\" heh. Thanks for the link, GK. I love this show.\u00a0:-) --GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 14:58, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Illustrated Guide to Criminal Law- a very interesting webcomic\n\nI recommend to anybody curious about the matter. It's certainly clearing things up on my end.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 20:08, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Austrian School\n\nYou guys never discussed r\/skeptic's take on the article. It might be relevant. 174.118.208.93 (talk) 00:39, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nBetter to take it up in the talk page, this place scrolls by too fast. \u0127uman 03:49, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## White nationalists are ultra-conservative Christians\n\nHow often do you hear liberals claiming this? They will use as \"proof\" false claims that Santorum and Romney are WNists. Here's an actual white nationalist: really conservative huh? Why do liberals think keeping porn legal is more important than real issues like saving the economy from socialism? (talk) 03:58, 16 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## A friend posted this\n\non facebook, and one must wonder what several of them would be thinking about obama being with them, let alone jackson must be thinking--il'Dictator Mikal 03:30, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAwful. Is he the demonkrat equivalent of that loon Norton? --MtDPrematurely Indeterminate 04:01, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nJackson was a man from a time when the issues were completely different from today, and parties were different from today. Today he would be a racist and a kook who is afraid of central banking. Back then he was an advocate for the individual's rights and a champion of the middle class.\nMore surprising is Wilson being with Obama. Wilson was the last openly racist President, and every commander in chief called for civil rights, at least in lip service. Mr. Anon (talk) 04:06, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nThat's not realistic. In Jackson's time there were plenty of abolitionists, and people who were, you know, against the whole idea of Indian extermination. Both were significant stances, even among the privileged politicians of the day. Half of the states had abolished slavery at the time of his presidency, for goodness sake.\nOh, and the 'kooks' who are afraid of central banking are called Republicans these days. The only thing that prevents them from still flipping out over it is that they've had 'their' guys in control of it for quite some time now. Imagine the shitstorm if Obama decided to nominate a guy who wanted to do some serious regulating (not to say he's actually for such a thing...). Q0 (talk) 11:12, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nMost abolitionists would still be called racist by todays standard. il'Dictator Mikal 12:01, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhile there were abolitionists, slavery at the time was not an issue. The few abolitionists that existed at the time were radical. When slavery did become an issue in the 1850s, it was only on the matter of the expansion of slavery. Yes, there were free states, but it was widely understood at the time that slavery was a state's issue.\nBut in any case, I was not defending him. I was saying how he was viewed at the time. Mr. Anon (talk) 15:44, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\"When slavery did become an issue in the 1850s\" what history did you look at?--il'Dictator Mikal 16:29, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nSlavery is one of the biggest \"revisionist\" topics I've seen in modern history classes. The civil war had very very very little to do with slavery, yet it is presented as if the north wanted to end slavery and they were willing to go to war over it. And making lincon into this massive anti-slavery guy and \"best friend to black people\" (or whatever) ignores most of his entire political history and positions. he emancipated the slaves, but let's not think it was a humanitarian act, it was very much a calculated politcial one. GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 16:50, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt seems as if the statement \"The Civil War was not about slavery\" has been taken to mean \"The Civil War was not fought to abolish slavery,\" which is basically true. The institution of slavery is at the core of the underlying causes of the North\/South conflict, though, regardless of how the war began. 16:58, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n(ec)You been reading too much Thomas DiLorenzo lately? Might want to go back and hit the books. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:00, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nSee, that's what I disagree with. The civil war was largely an issue about self governance, states rights v. Federalism, economic powers and self regulation of those powers. Slavery was actually working itself out - it was not at the time, a large issue for Presidents or National Politics, and it was not a large issue for the north and the south individuals on a general scheme. It BECAME an issue as a response to the threats to secede, but it was not a large force at all, nor an \"underlying conflict\". This idea that the North cared much at all about slavery is factually wrong. They were as racist as the south, less the \"owning people\" part. There is ample evidence in political discussions, state meetings, and the records of Congress and their battles that slavery was quite easily ignored by most people. Some, sure, wanted to end slavery. But it was not the issue of the day, the way we revision it to have been. The North and South were culturally so different, the war was bound to happen. largely urban, industrial and a more spread out wealth vs. aggrarian, with extremely small pockets of wealth, and substantially more poverty among the white citizens who could not own land, or hold businesses. I think modern society does not like that we were so apathetic about slavery, cause it's quite embarrassing, so they make it a major part of the Civil war, when it was more than anything, simply a demarcation line of who went on which side.GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 17:07, 13 June 2012 (UTC) EC with Neb\nBlue has already pointed out the conflation you've made. Put down the shovel and read this. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 17:32, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nIt doesn't gel, since the emphesis in congress was never on slavery, but you are better read than I, so i'll slink away and hide in my shame.\u00a0:-) (Well, Anon at least states things more to how I see them. I place lots of emphesis on what was being debated in politics, but I guess that's not nearly an open enough mind).GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 17:44, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nAlright, let's address a few things.\n\n1. The slavery debate heated up in the 1840s, but before then the issue was not heavily debated in Congress. The main issues were southern and western expansion before that.\n2. The Civil War to the South was largely about slavery; the South feared that Lincoln would threaten their slavery laws, and seceded as a result.\n3. The North, on the other hand, mainly united against the South because they believed in a strong federal government that could not be superseded by state's rights.\n4. Lincoln, the political genius that he was, managed to twist the war into being about slavery in 1863 with the issuing of the Emancipation Proclamation, where he managed to make the North believe that slavery being abolished would help the South.\n5. Lincoln, before he came into office, was not even an abolitionist. His main platform was to prevent slavery from expanding into the colonies. No abolitionist would even dare run for the Republican nomination for President.\n6. Lincoln was able to become an abolitionist after the 1864 election because, conveniently, there were hardly any slave states left in the Union to oppose him.\n\nHopefully that clears up a few misunderstandings here. Mr. Anon (talk) 17:21, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n1. Your statements on slavery are silly. It was a big deal from day one of the republic, and the only things that kept it from blowing up immediately were: a) that preserving the union stayed a higher priority until the Civil War; and b) that the privileged class could focus on other worries that weren't so 'far away' from their own lives. Early American leaders like John Adams, John Quincey Adams, Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Paine all spoke out against it. Even Benjamin Franklin, who kept slaves, eventually freed them and wrote strongly against the institution. That was in in the 1780s, when Massachusetts went as far as interpreting 'all men' as including black men. Laws that abolished slavery went back all the way to the 1650s in places like Rhode Island. Obviously the sentiment increased over time, but defending American presidents who supported slavery - given there was opposition to it from the start - is a bad practice. The fact that latent racism was a part of even the abolitionist movements only makes it a stronger statement.\n2. This is correct. The South feared both the economic and social effects that abolishing slavery would have on them, and resented federal taxes and tariffs they thought were benefiting the North at their expense.\n3. Not so sure about that one. State's rights, even at that time, were usually just a convenient arguing point for whatever you happened to support. These were serious arguments, but they weren't so much based on the principle of federalist vs anti-federalist as they were on the actual matter at hand. For example, when Andrew Jackson could use the federal government for Indian removal, he did, but when he couldn't he'd immediately claim state's rights (see Worcester v. Georgia). Meanwhile, he was busy enforcing the federal government's power over South Carolina while rallying against the central bank.\n4. Northern war elements considered slavery as a key rallying point long before the Emancipation Proclamation, though. War generals had already - for over a year - freed slaves as they went along. Lincoln was playing to popular sentiment.\n5. True about Lincoln, but you've got the abolitionist thing backwards. The first Republican presidential nominee's slogan was \"Free soil, free silver, free men\" for goodness sake. Lincoln played the middle ground.\n6. Pretty much, though it's not like he couldn't have done it beforehand, if he really wanted to.\nHaving said all that, I definitely agree with the sentiment expressed by Godot in that there is revisionism to make it look like the Civil War was more about the moral aspect of slavery than it actually was. On the ground, in the militias and armies of the North, slavery was something to rally against, to make the miserable war seem like it had meaning. To most of the politicians, though, it was about economics and power. Most of the Northern poor and immigrants didn't really care one way or the other; they weren't in a position to, struggling just to stay alive and make something for themselves.\nTo be clear though, my claim in this discussion is that it is right to criticize early American leaders for their support of slavery, not that any particular politicians were heroes (in fact, that's what disgusts me so much about the original image posted here). Sorry for the wall of text. Q0 (talk) 23:57, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nMost of our dispute centers around the slavery thing.\nYes, many Presidents at that point had paid lip service to bashing slavery. None of them had made any serious proposals to abolish it. Please remember that there was a big difference between a politician disliking slavery and a politician being an abolitionist. The Republican party's platform was really only about stopping the expansion of slavery, and even then the party only was created in the 1850s. Any disputes about slavery prior to that were about the spread of slavery into colonies. No politician until Lincoln even suggested a national abolishing of slavery.\nThe reason for this was control over Congress. Southern states controlled the Senate and much of the House, and even in the North many people believed slavery was a state's rights issue. Before 1860, you could probably count the number of people in congress who advocated for racial equality in one hand. Look at Douglas's debates with Lincoln. When he claimed that Lincoln was advocating for racial equality, he was trying to portray Lincoln as an extremist. To even seem like a moderate, Lincoln had make racist rhetoric and say clearly \"I have no intent to end slavery\". And remember, this was in Illinois.\nFurthermore, about the North not caring about slavery as much in the context of the civil war, 4 slave states stuck with the North. They did not do so because they had a sudden change of heart about slavery. They did so because they did not believe they had constitutional authority to secede. Even then though, Lincoln admitted in his private letters that if he made the war outright about slavery too soon, those states would instantly secede. Mr. Anon (talk) 00:56, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy argument isn't that it was politically expedient to call for racial equality, but that the sentiment existed and was popular enough that every American leader had (privately at the very least) considered and debated it. It only follows that they should be open to criticism. Lincoln, as I said before, continually took the moderate approach and was ever the politician. Just as it's silly to brand him a racist, it is to paint him as a champion abolitionist. Either way, there's no doubt he'd be a hell of a lot more open to the idea of a black president than freaking Andrew Jackson. Again, we're talking about the guy who fought to keep slave power, and murdered Native Americans by the thousands. He should be remembered for these things. There's just no sense in glorifying it. Q0 (talk) 14:12, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Conservapedia spoof articles\n\nHave they been deleted? If so, why? And has anyone got copies of them? Sphincter (talk) 00:08, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nIf the people who did it had any brains, which they probably did, there should be a category for something like \"talk pages for deleted ... articles\". The content will all still be in the history. \u0127uman 03:51, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nSome of them have been deleted, as an attempt to remove the endless list of such things. There was a project by some very dedicated users here to cut away a lot of the less-funny crap. If there is an article you thought was particularly worth keeping, of course, we can still do that.--talk 07:43, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nPersonally I was gutted to see the Hebden Bridge and Blaenau Ffestiniog articles go. Both were priceless gems and I felt that it was part of RW to preserve them for posterity. However, that's the way it goes nowadays. Bad Faith (talk) 14:17, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat? They've been deleted? Are the lunatics taking over the asylum here as well? \u00a0Lily\u00a0Inspirate me. 15:03, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nMelchester also? What a bunch of humourless twits. \u00a0Lily\u00a0Inspirate me. 15:10, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nI keep hearing how \"fun\" this place was \"back then\". And how \"funny\" all these amazing CP articles were. I was here \"then\", and while it was fun, it was the people - not any particular cp articles - that made it fun. And \"funny\" articles? I read everything that was dumped. I saw none of these amazing, comedy masterpieces that everyone seems to be tragically missing. I do love things like the CP musical - but to the best of my wikiging \"goggle\" skills, that still exists. What doesn't exist are endless rehashes of Andy bashing. At some point, making fun of an idiot who refuses to change, ceases to be all that \"fun\", \"interesting\" or \"informative\". I know, I know, I'm just a stick in the mud who hates fun. --GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 15:33, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nHebden Bridge, Blaenau Ffestiniog and Melchester were three high quality spoof articles that existed on CP for quite a while. They were, to my mind, as well crafted as the Arboreal Octopus. What they weren't were \"endless rehashes of Andy bashing\". I'd love to show you why but my wiki-foo isn't up to it. Whilst the vast majority of what was thrown out was trash, in this case, three babies were thrown out with the bath water. Bad Faith (talk) 15:40, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nBabies & bath water too, as far as I'm concerned. \u00a0Lily\u00a0Inspirate me. 15:41, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n(EC) Apparently there are forces in full effect here. -- Seth Peck (talk) 15:42, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nNot by me, kiddo. \u00a0Lily\u00a0Inspirate me. 16:05, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n@Seth: Close but no cigar. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 16:16, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nIf anyone is interested I've put personal copies\nYou may have to be British to appreciate many of the jokes. Bad Faith (talk) 16:01, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Should we make an article about The Gesundheit Institute?\n\nThey seem to be ripe for deconstructing since: 1. They promote pseudosciences like homeopathy, and acupuncture. 2. They're founder had crappy movie based him. What do you think?Ryantherebel (talk) 19:46, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nFine, as long as you include the obligatory joke about sneezing.\u00a0:) --ZooGuard (talk) 19:50, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nAcupuncture isn't a pseudoscience. Acupressure, sort of. Acutonics, definitely. -- Seth Peck (talk) 20:19, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nSeeing as how they promote complimentary alternative medicine in addition to regular treatment, I'd say go for it. Lord of Reckless Noise Hooray! I'm helping! 21:35, 13 June 2012 (UTC)\nI think the jury is still very much out as to whether acupuncture is medically useful. \"The efficacy of acupuncture is controversial. Its use for certain conditions has been tentatively endorsed by the United States National Institutes of Health, the National Health Service of the United Kingdom, the World Health Organization, and the National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine. Some scientists have criticized these endorsements as being unduly credulous and not including objections to or criticisms of the research used to support acupuncture's effectiveness... There is general agreement that acupuncture is safe when administered by well-trained practitioners using sterile needles and carries a very low risk of serious adverse effects.\" (full article and cited refs are here). The bottom line is there is no certain benefit, but no definite risk either (assuming sterile practice). The same can be said for reiki (although that has the added benefit of posing zero adverse risks apart from possibly falling off the massage table). Voxhumana (talk) 01:02, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhether it \"works\" or not, it's a pseudoscience, in that it's not science. By all means follow the red link and start typing! \u0127uman 03:54, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500\u2500I'm not sure that the term pseudoscience is really appropriate for acupuncture in all cases, since legitimate research is being done on the topic. Most of the arguments made about acupuncture may be pseudoscientific, but that doesn't mean the practice as a whole has to be. \u2014 Unsigned, by: ORavenhurst \/ talkDo You Believe That? 14:26, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nRE: \"what's the harm?\": http:\/\/whatstheharm.net\/acupuncture.html\nAs for the scientific research, there are all kinds of studies on all kinds of CAM \"treatments\". That doesn't make them any less woo. \"Pseudoscience\" may be the wrong term, if one is using a strict definition.--ZooGuard (talk) 14:44, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhether or not it fits the technical definition of pseudoscience, acupuncture is bullshit. The idea that the modulation of meridians can cure disease has no foothold in biology, chemistry, or physics - the only controversy is whether or not NCCAM should be defunded.\nAlso, please splain how acupuncture is not pseudoscience and acupressure is. This makes no sense. Corry (talk) 03:29, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\nCheck out some of the links above, also this. Yes, the whole \"meridians\" thing is BS, especially given that studies repeatedly show that where needles are placed makes no difference, but for some conditions treatment has been (generally tentatively) shown to be effective. Acupressure, on the other hand, lacks even tentative support. \u2014 Unsigned, by: ORavenhurst \/ talkDo You Believe That? 14:32, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Quadratic equations and the Polynomial theorem\n\nI'm confused by the quadratic equation. According to wp, the polynomial theorem, ensures 2 solutions for it, but I don't quite get it. If you can explain it in a simpler fashion, well, thanks, in advance.RandonGeneration (talk) 05:10, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nX= (-b + OR - sqrt(b2-4ac))\/2a One solution is for the positive square root, the other for the negative. \u0422yrannisPlead 05:13, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nOr, to put it in legible form, $ax^2+bx+c = 0 \\Rightarrow x = \\frac{-b \\pm \\sqrt{b^2-4ac}}{2a}$. For example, if $a=1,b=0,c=0$, your equation is $x^2$; this is equal to 0 only when $x=0$, which is the value the formula gives. ListenerXTalkerX 05:23, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nShow off\u00a0:P \u0422yrannisPlead 05:24, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nThanks, that makes sense now\u00a0:DRandonGeneration (talk) 05:28, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nLate to the party, but whatever. To make it even simpler, the quadratic formula solves the value for $x$, given an equation involving $x^2$ as a dominant term. Let's start by throwing away everything except $x^2$.\nThe first thing to know is that $x^2$ (by itself) must be positive, as whenever you multiply a real number by itself the result is positive.\nSecondly the root of $x^2$ can be resolved in only two ways. Either $x = 0$ (in which case $x^2$ also equals zero) or x MUST be both the positive or negative version of some real number. Hence if $x^2$ = 4, the x can be 2 or -2, and so on.\nNow that we know this much about x, the rest of the quadratic eqaution you started with serves to alter the value of x, and so the end result is not necessarily going to be both positive and negative. (Eg if the final result was $5 + \\sqrt2$ and $5 - \\sqrt2$, then both those results are positive). However the end result MUST still involve two values because of the $x$ to $x^2$ relationship (unless the whole thing equates to zero). Voxhumana (talk) 05:47, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nOne piece of pedantry: it is possible for there to be only one value in cases such as y=x2. My old maths teacher used to say that there were still two values but they were both the same, which always struck me as a bit silly. rpeh\u00a0\u2022TCE 07:44, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhat is silly about it? $x^2-2x+1=(x-1)\\cdot(x-1)$; the quadratic still has two factors. ListenerXTalkerX 07:54, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nDon't you start. rpeh\u00a0\u2022TCE 08:02, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nJust to throw in my tuppence: All quadratic equations can be expressed as a curve on a graph (if you've got a program or online tool to do that you can just plug in the equation to see the curve). The value of x is determined by where the curve crosses the x-axis (in other words, the value of x when y=0). Either the curve of the quadratic equation crosses the x-axis at two seperate points, so the quadratic has two real and distinct answers\/roots, or it just touches the x-axis, in which case the quadratic equation has one distinct, real root that is both values of x, or the curve doesn't cross the x-axis, in which case the equation has no real roots, so x has no real answer for when y=0. Of course, in the last situation, x still has two answers, it's just that the answers involve imaginary\/complex numbers. Will stick in pretty pictures in a moment. Of course, that only works for equations where the highest value power\/index is 2. For x3, x has three solutions, x4 has four solutions, so on and so forth.-- Jabba de Chops 13:36, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nDid not get that - Can someone explain the polynomial theorem pls?RandonGeneration (talk) 19:50, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nOkay, I'll take everything right back to basics, that way we should go from the bit you're getting to the bit you're not sure about, and hopefully find an answer:\n\u2022 Term: A term is something discrete, separated by a mathematical operator, within an expression or equation. So, for the expression x2+x+1, the terms are x2, x, and 1.\n\u2022 Constant: A constant is any term which is fixed and cannot change. In x2+x+1, the only constant present is 1.\n\u2022 Variable: A variable is any term which can take more than one value, and so can vary. In x2+x+1 both the x2 term and x term are variable. x could, in theory, be any number. Just plug the number you choose into an expression and it'll become an equation that spits out a number. (i.e if x=2 then for the expression x2+x+1 \u2192 x=22+2+1 \u2192 x=7).\n\u2022 Expression and Equation: An expression is just a statement. Unless you can simplify it, there's not a lot you can do to it. x2+x+1 is an expression. Once you stick an = sign on the end of an expression you create an equation. So x2+x+1=y is an equation. The value of y is variable, and is determined by whatever value x is. The most common way to change an expression into an equation is to use a function. Sounds scary, is very simple.\n\u2022 Function: A function is just a shorthand way of describing the outcome of an equation, without needing to determine the value of any variable in that equation. Most functions take the form f(x), so the expression x2+x+1 can be turned into an equation by saying x2+x+1=f(x). You can say that y=f(x), so x2+x+1=y.\n\u2022 Polynomial: A polynomial is an expression that is finite in length. In other words, if the expression that you're looking at only has numeric values as a power or index (i.e x2) then the expression is finite in length. However, expressions that contain things like xn are considered to be infinite in length, because n is a variable, and so can be any number. Infinite expressions cannot be polynomial, so now you know what they are, you can forget about them, at least for the rest of this.\n\u2022 Polynomial: A polynomial can only contain the mathematical symbols +, - or multiply between each term. It can only contain positive integer powers\/indices. It cannot contain a term where a constant is being divided by a variable, but can contain a term where the variable is being divided by a constant. So x2+x\/2+1 is a polynomial, x2+2\/x+1 isn't.\n\u2022 When solving a polynomial equation that has a given value (i.e. x2+x+1=-1) you are attempting to calculate the all the possible values of x that can be plugged into the equation (x2+x+1=) and give the answer (-1). A quadratic equation is very similar, except that it determines all the possible values of x when the equation equals 0. So, to make the polynomial equation a quadratic equation in this example we take the -1 across the other side of the equation, flip the sign, and then resimplify the equation: x2+x+1+1=0 \u2192 x2+x+2=0\n\u2022 When solving a quadratic, or polynomial, equation, we need to determine the values of x, but the equation, in this case, contains the terms of x and x2. That means that at some point x2 has to be calculated as x\n\u2022 To make x2=x is very simple. Say x2=4, then we remove the power\/index by moving it to the other side of the equation and flipping it. The opposite of an index is a root so: $x^2=4 \\Rightarrow x=\\sqrt{4}$. Now, whenever you square root something you'll get two answers, a positive and a negative, because two negative numbers multiplied together give a positive. This is often written as \u00b1. So x=\u00b12 or expressed another way, x=2 or x=-2. So, just in this example, you can see an equation as simple as x2=4 gives two answers.\n\u2022 So, 3 quick examples which highlight something discussed above: For x2=4 then x=2 or x=-2. For x2=0 then x still has two answers, x=+0 or x=-0, but for practicable reasons, this just gets written as x=0. For x2=-4 there are no real answers. There is no real number that can be multiplied by itself to give a negative number.\n\u2022 Now we make things a little more complicate. x2-x=0. This is still solvable, and very easy to do so. First simply the equation by finding the common factor. In this case that is x. So the equation can be rewritten as x.(x-1)=0, where . means multiply by. So here we have two terms, x and (x-1), both of which equal 0. The first value of x is easy to find. The first term is x, it's equal to 0, so x=0. But you also have to calculate the second term, (x-1). (x-1)=0 \u2192 x-1=0 \u2192 x=1. So for x2-x=0, x=0 or x=1.\n\u2022 Now a full on quadratic equation. We'll use the polynomial, x2+2x+1=4. Make it a quadratic equation by making the equation equal to 0, x2+2x-3=0. Plug the numbers into the formula $x = \\frac{-b \\pm \\sqrt{b^2-4ac}}{2a}$ to give $x = \\frac{-2 \\pm \\sqrt{2^2-(4 \\cdot 1 \\cdot -3)}}{2 \\cdot 1}$. This gives $x = \\frac{-2 \\pm \\sqrt{4+12}}{2} \\Rightarrow x = \\frac{-2 \\pm \\sqrt{16}}{2} \\Rightarrow x = \\frac{-2 \\pm 4}{2} \\Rightarrow x= \\frac{-2 +4}{2}$ or $x= \\frac{-2 -4}{2}$. So x=1 or x=-3.\nSo, a quick recap. It doesn't matter which path you use to get there, when x2 is calculated as x, it will always give two answers.\nNow, let's look at a simple cubic: x3+4x2+3x=0. We factorise it, using the common factor of x, which gives x.(x2+4x+3)=0. Hello, two terms; x, and a quadratic expression, x2+4x+3. We'll deal with the first term, x. x is equal to 0, so x=0. Simples. Now the second term. I won't bother with the formula for this one, because it's easy enough to factorise it. x2+4x+3=0 is the same as saying (x+3).(x+1)=0. Now we have two terms, (x+3) and (x+1), both of which are equal to 0. So, for (x+3)=0 then x=-3 and for (x+1)=0 then x=-1. So, we have an equation where the highest power is 3, and x gives three answers: x=0, x=-3 or x=-1.\nEssentially, that's polynomials, at least in regards to solving them. There is a thing called the polynomial remainder theorem, but given what you've said above, I don't think that was what you were having trouble with.-- Jabba de Chops 22:25, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nJust finished my test, thanks so much\u00a0:D:D:DRandonGeneration (talk) 20:23, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\nHope it went well!-- Jabba de Chops 23:38, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Making Good Arguments\n\nI swear I'm not trying to shove off research on you guys, it's just I would assume that a site housing so much information on counter-apologetics would know how to argue. Anyone know what it takes to make a good argument? I have explored logic and other things on the internet and understand logical fallacies, using evidence effectively and all that, but my arguments still always come out...wrong? I have taken criticisms from my profs, but I still can't figure out what I am doing wrong. Any resources anyone can mention would be appreciated. DavidVilla (talk) 06:46, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nDepends what you mean by argument. A kritik? A plan? If you just want to prove a point, make a syllogism. Real simple. --\"Shut up, Brx.\" 06:49, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n(EC) My first guess is that you are failing to kiss your professors' hind-quarters and\/or play to their prejudices. ListenerXTalkerX 06:50, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nThat works too. Once I found out one of my professors was a liberal caricature, all I had to do was make the occasional pejorative reference to Rupert Murdoch (Rupert Murdoch is Charles Foster Kane! And William Randolph Hearst! *spoiler* he's not. Not at all) or whatever and I was missing all kinds of classes and still on his good side. Probably not the most ethical way to carry yourself, though.--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 06:53, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nColleges that admit high-school dropouts do not generally attract the cream of the crop for professors. ListenerXTalkerX 07:03, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nHey, now! I was top 1% of the nation on my GED. And yeah, it was a community college--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 07:04, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nActually, my professor agreed with my premise from what I could tell...I was afraid I might have stumbled upon one of his pet interests, but that didn't seem to be the case. I was trying to prove a fairly simple point of a government belonging to a model. I thought I gave a convincing argument, but my prof offered things like \"lacks conviction\" (he's really not big on elaboration). DavidVilla (talk) 06:57, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nEvidence helps. Lots and lots of citations of things that actually happened. That's probably what he means by \"lacks conviction.\" That or your thesis statement was \"Maybe I'm right about this but I'm not totally sure\"--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 06:59, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nBe aware that a busy professor might just not have felt convinced - that's the sort of vague feedback you see from someone not really engaged in helpful criticism.\nThe components of an effective argument are that it is (a) based on solid premises, (b) suitable for the audience, (c) interesting, (d) centered around a clear logical link, and (e) properly structured. I'm probably forgetting some other stuff, but that's about the size of it.\nShould I elaborate?--talk 07:39, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWhenever I'm marking I'm constantly having to tell people to be specific (it's the second-most thing I write after \"citation needed\"). Making vague gestures and ideas isn't really going to get you anywhere, even in the most wishy-washy of essay subjects. You need to make very clear and precise statements about how you're saying relates to reality, and then show reality agreeing with that. Then, importantly, you need to show what other ideas would suggest, and show reality not agreeing with you. And then figure out what your own idea would not suggest you see, and go look for it. \"Hypothesis A suggests we shall never see B, so I'm going to try my hardest to find B, and when I can't find it, I can be more sure.\" but you can only do that if you make each logical step between your idea and your evidence crystal clear and unarguable. And that means exploring every alternative. Because the road between your evidence and your hypothesis is long, twisted and littered with a lot of junctions, and you need to show that every left or right turn away from that road doesn't lead anywhere meaningful. Hence why\/how I've just hammered out 5 pages justifying assigning one single NMR resonance to a particular chemical structure. Also, stay away from ever using words like \"clearly\" and \"obviously\" when making logical leaps because there is no such thing. bomination 07:50, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nFrom the sound of it, DavidVilla's is a soft-science class; that sort of rigorous testing and prediction might not be possible. In the hard sciences \u2014 or, at least, on the papers I graded and was graded on \u2014 they do not mark you off for \"lacking conviction,\" but for being wrong or not making yourself understood. ListenerXTalkerX 08:07, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nThis place is rotting my brain...when you wrote \"lacking conviction\", I substituted the word \"machismo\" in my mind...-- Seth Peck (talk) 15:45, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nIf it's anything like my English classes, they may just want you to act like you have a really strong opinion about whatever you're discussing. I usually framed essays as \"a viable interpretation\" of whatever literature and discussed alternatives, which drew similar criticism from the professors. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 10:08, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nIn my English classes, one was not allowed to be too sure of oneself, because that meant they had a thesis that was not \"debatable\" enough. ListenerXTalkerX 03:18, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\nMust be dependent on who's doing the grading. That was basically the feedback I got from the music and gender essay I helped out on - but then again, she was one of those rare academics that didn't use the \"softer\" attribute as an excuse to just make shit up. The feedback was very specific about \"you have not made your case here\" and \"this is a very definitive statement without evidence\". theist 10:18, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nGish Gallop -- works every time. What's this nonsense about \"lacking conviction\"? I never got feedback like that even on history papers. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 15:45, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nDo professors actually grade anything, any more? When I was a Grad student, we did all the grading. I did grade as a prof, but it was a community college, so there was no one to push my work onto. I never found \"taking my side\" to be of any value in an argument. I rather wanted you to show that what you were saying had internal merrit, but more importantly, fit the evidence presented in class. In that sense, my issue was far less what you thought (sadly) and far more that you were articulating facts I was supposed to be pounding into your head. GodotWhy is being ignorant something to be proud of? 16:17, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nI had several who graded exams themselves, leaving HW to TAs, but for PL there was no TA so the prof had to grade everything. We got our midterms back a few weeks before the final. One course was almost all peer graded as well.\u0422yrannisPlead 16:22, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nDepends on the size of the class. Profs usually grade all or most of the stuff for smaller seminar-style courses in my experience. Nebuchadnezzar (talk) 16:56, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nAlso, there's a trend to pawn it all off on dedicated teaching staff. Because you puh-huh-duh's need to be paid extra for teaching (usually) it works out cheaper to pay some salaried staff to do it and tell them it's their primary job so they have to do it all. sshole 17:39, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nMy graduate advisor was tenured and he still graded most of the exams for his classes, even the larger undergraduate ones. ListenerXTalkerX 03:16, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nJust to clarify...the \"lacks conviction\" was on a history paper about South African history. Part of the problem with that paper was that I got about half-way through the paper before realizing that part of my thesis would revolve around a literature review that I was beginning to think didn't exist and I wasn't about to do a grad paper in support of an undergrad paper just so I could site myself. However, that doesn't change the fact that he said lacks conviction on other parts of the paper as well...I am not sure if he just hates Jan Christaan Smuts or I suck at paper writing (it might be the former, as my other profs like my papers). DavidVilla (talk) 06:28, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nGood advice on arguments here.--Bob\"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence.\" 15:51, 15 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n## Water has memory\n\nDiscuss. --PsyGremlinSerm\u0101! 15:46, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\n\"This is interesting work, but Rey's experiments were not blinded and although he says the work is reproducible, he doesn't say how many experiments he did\"\nThat kinda sums it up, but apparently the study isn't even published yet, so it's hard to say. 99.50.98.145 (talk) 16:06, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n(Edit conflict) It's hardly the first time this claim has been made. I reckon that once published, this won't stand up to scrutiny. And this also begs the question that if water had memory, wouldn't tap water be a panacea? Of course, I don't know much about this thermo stuff. Maybe water does have memory. Still doesn't mean homeopathy works (there are plenty of studies to that effect)--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 16:09, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n*tosses an answer to the question-beggar* The \"memory of water\" is only one of the necessary prerequisites of homeopathy. The other, and much unlikelier one is the \"like cures like\" principle, which is pure magical thinking.--ZooGuard (talk) 16:28, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nCome to think of it, their conclusion is basically \"putting salt in water and then mixing it will alter its molecular structure.\" I thought we already knew that... 99.50.98.145 (talk) 16:25, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWe need a template, Oh jeez, not this bullshit again.\n\n. Doctor Dark (talk) 16:36, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nObligatory: \"In homeopathy, medicine properties remain in the liquid because water has memory!\" Vulpius (talk) 17:06, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nThere's also a massive difference between it altering the intermolecular interactions, remembering that structure for a long period of time, being able to encode multiple structures (aka, information) within it, for those structures to have a biological effect once ingested and diluted into the stomach, for that structure to transfer to a sugar pill when they do it in tablet form (and for all of the aforementioned properties to apply to the sugar pill too). In short, I don't think Tim Minchin will be carving \"fancy that!\" into the side of his cock any time soon. sshole 17:36, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nSome notes: the original New scientist article was published in 2003. The paper \"Can low-temperature thermoluminescence cast light on the nature of ultra-high dilutions?\" was eventually published in 2007, in the Homeopathy journal. Um, that's all. Voxhumana (talk) 22:22, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nWaha! Holy cow you're right, can't believe nobody's noticed until now. Wow. So I guess we can ignore this--\"Shut up, Brx.\" 22:25, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\nStudies like this sneak into New Scientist all the time. d hominem 22:32, 14 June 2012 (UTC)\n\nGiven the amount of 'stuff' in tapwater (being recycled several times) would water's memory improve (as 'more comples') or decrease (in the same way hard water is less capable of dissolving lead out of old pipes than soft water, and so is 'better' for you) over time? 82.44.143.26 (talk) 15:57, 15 June 2012 (UTC)","date":"2013-05-18 23:24:30","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 22, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.46949079632759094, \"perplexity\": 3892.347826996904}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2013-20\/segments\/1368696382920\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20130516092622-00011-ip-10-60-113-184.ec2.internal.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
Hylomys megalotis är en däggdjursart som beskrevs av Jenkins och M. F. Robinson 2002. Hylomys megalotis ingår i släktet Hylomys och familjen igelkottdjur. IUCN kategoriserar arten globalt som otillräckligt studerad. Inga underarter finns listade i Catalogue of Life. Artepitet i det vetenskapliga namnet är sammansatt av de grekiska orden megas (stor) och otos (öra) och syftar på djurets långa öron jämförd med andra släktmedlemmar.
Den långa och mjuka pälsen på ovansidan saknar liksom hos alla råttigelkottar spenar. Håren är huvudsakligen grå med en brun eller svart spets. Hylomys megalotis har en ganska lång svans och långa klor vid händer och fötter. I varje käkhalva förekommer 3 framtänder, en hörntand, 4 premolarer och 3 molarer. Artens skalle är mer långsträckt än hos andra släktmedlemmar. Kroppslängden (huvud och bål) är 115,5 till 134,5 mm och svanslängden är 82,8 till 91,3 mm. Djuret har 20.4 till 21,3 mm långa bakfötter och 20,9 till 23,2 mm stora öron.
Arten förekommer i centrala Laos. Individer hittades oftast nära grottor i kalkstensformationer. På grund av fötternas konstruktion antas att djuret har bra förmåga att klättra på kalksten. I utbredningsområdet finns lövfällande skogar och buskskogar sam landskap med bambu.
Källor
Externa länkar
Igelkottdjur
megalotis
Däggdjur i orientaliska regionen | {
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Q: Why is that minimum positive element in the ideals of linear combinations is the GCD of it's factors?
Why is that the smallest positive element in the ideals of the form $a_1\mathbb Z + a_2\mathbb Z+...$ is the greatest common divisor of the coefficients $a_1, a_2...$?
I have seen a proof of that minimum positive element divides all of other elements without remainder but i can't understand how it can be the greatest common divisor. I can understand that any element in the ideal will be a multiple of the common divisors of the coefficients since we can factorize them to be so, but i can't see why it is the GCD. I am looking for intuition.
A: The GCD of the $a_i$s is a linear combination over $\mathbb{Z}$ of the $a_i$ from euclid GCD algorithm, hence $d\mathbb{Z}\subseteq I$, $I$ being your addition ideal $\sum_i a_i\mathbb{Z}$. Also, as $d\mid a_i\;\forall i$, we get $I\subseteq d\mathbb{Z}$. So, $I=d\mathbb{Z}$.
So, GCD is $d$, and it is the smallest linear combination as $d$ being generator of $I$ has to be the smallest element.
| {
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\section{Introduction}
\label{sec:intro}
The nearly featureless morphologies of massive \ac{ETGs} and their radial surface brightness profiles have been a test benchmark for any theories of galaxy formation and evolution since the introduction of the $R^{1/4}$ law \citep{1953MNRAS.113..134D}. This simple analytical formula captures the high degree of central concentration of the light in these objects, but also the large radial extension of their light distribution \citep{2013ApJ...766...47H}. At the brightest end, the most luminous galaxies in the early-type family, the cD galaxies, are embedded in extended envelopes \citep{1986ApJS...60..603S}, with shallow surface brightness gradient profiles thus fading into the cluster of galaxies that surrounds them.
Recent observations show that massive, passively evolving galaxies are identified already at $z\sim 2.5$ \citep{2004Natur.430..184C}. In particular, galaxies in the ``red nuggets'' population are considered to be precursors of the nearby giant \ac{ETGs} \citep{2009Natur.460..717V,2010ApJ...714L..79C,2015ApJ...813...23V}, although with smaller sizes by a factor $\sim 3$ and higher central stellar velocity dispersions ($\sigma$) than the local \ac{ETGs} with similar stellar mass. Among different proposed formation models, the two-phase formation scenario \citep{2007MNRAS.375....2D,2010ApJ...725.2312O,2012ApJ...744...63O} is able to satisfy these observational constraints. In this model, the central region of \ac{ETGs} are formed in fast dissipative process early in the history of the universe ($z\geq 3$), while the evolution at low redshift is dominated by the assembly of a stellar halo, which is stochastically accreted as a consequence of mostly dry mergers \citep[see also][]{2013MNRAS.434.3348C}. Such a picture can be probed at low redshift by the observations of cD galaxies, where the processes of late mass accretion are believed to be extreme owing to the large occurrence of galaxy disruption processes that are inherent to the strong gravitational interactions within their massive dark halos.
Currently, several avenues are being pursued to identify the different signatures left by the dissipative (also dubbed {\it in situ}) and accretion (also dubbed {\it ex-situ}) processes in massive \ac{ETGs}. For instance, the radial gradients of the stellar populations (metallicity, age, abundance ratios) of \ac{ETGs} preserve information about accretion history \citep[e.g.,][]{2015MNRAS.449..528H,2016ApJ...833..158C}, and some attempts to determine gradients out to large radius were carried out using long-slit \citep{2010MNRAS.407L..26C,2011A&A...533A.138C}, multi-slit \citet{2016A&A...589A.139B} and \ac{IFU} \citep{2013ApJ...776...64G,2015ApJ...807...11G} spectroscopy. Alternatively, information about the accretion events may be present in the surface brightness profiles. See the recent results in \citet{2017arXiv170310835S} for decompositions that are motivated by the predictions of cosmological simulations, and \citet{2013ApJ...766...47H} and \citet{2005ApJ...618..195G} for the identification of galaxy and halo components in extended 2D photometric data.
One open question is whether the 2D surface brightness decomposition in multiple components is supported independently by the maps of the \ac{LOSVD} moments, e.g., whether these photometric components can be identified in the kinematic profiles also. Differently from late-type galaxies, where the bulge/disk decomposition of photometric and kinematic profiles is performed routinely \citep[e.g.,][]{2011MNRAS.414..642C}, the identification of the kinematic signatures of the inner and outer stellar components of \ac{ETGs} are hampered primarily by the low \ac{S/N} in the spectroscopic absorption line measurements, expecially at large galactocentric distances.
Recently, \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} dealt with the above question in cD galaxies, in the study of NGC~6166. They used a combination of deep long-slit observations with deep photometry and required that the photometric decomposition reproduced the radial gradients of the four LOSVD moments, i.e. $V$, $\sigma$, $h_3$, $h_4$. As a result, the best kinematic \& photometric model identified two spheroids with low S\'ersic indices ($n<4$), with very different surface brightnesses and radii, and also different systemic velocities and velocity dispersions. Because of the large value of its effective radius, the outer component was identified with the cD envelope of NGC~6166, and its large velocity dispersion supports the idea that its stars were stripped from galaxies orbiting in Abell 2199. These results highlight the importance of substructures to understand the 2D photometric and kinematic maps of ETGs, but they also raise interesting questions. Are these components useful parameterisations only, or do they comply with the scaling relations for galaxies, like the Faber-Jackson \citep{1976ApJ...204..668F} or the Fundamental plane \citep{1973A&A....23..259B,1987ApJ...313...59D,1987ApJ...313...42D} relations? Do they qualify as physically distinct components in these galaxies, like bulges and disks in spirals?
In this work, we study the cD galaxy NGC~3311, located at the core of the Hydra~I (Abell 1060) cluster, one of the nearest prototypical massive elliptical galaxies. Photometrically, NGC~3311 is the \ac{BCG} of the cluster, and has an extended and diffuse stellar halo on top of a high surface brightness central component. As shown by \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, the surface brightness profile of NGC~3311 requires more than one component to describe its overall asymmetry with respect to the galaxy's luminous center. Long-slit observations indicate that NGC~3311 has a velocity dispersion profile that rises from a central value of $\sigma_0\approx$\SI{175}{\kilo\meter\per\second} to $\sigma\approx$\SI{400}{\kilo\meter\per\second} at major axis distances of $20$ kpc \citep{2010A&A...520L...9V,2011A&A...531A.119R}. Moreover, features in the velocity dispersion profile are correlated with photometric \citep{2015IAUS..309..221H,hilker2017} and stellar population substructures \citep{2011A&A...533A.138C,2016A&A...589A.139B}. These studies indicate that NGC~3311 may also be described as a central galaxy surrounded by a cD envelope, similarly to NGC~6166,.
Our goal is to derive a coherent description of NGC 3311 that can account for both the surface brightness and the \ac{LOSVD}, to learn about its formation processes. Expanding on the approach used by \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B}, we perform a two-dimensional modeling of the data by matching simultaneously 2D surface brightness and \ac{LOSVD} moments maps. For this purpose, we use recently acquired new deep integral field observations for the central region of the Hydra I cluster with the \ac{MUSE} IFU, that allows a detailed study of the kinematics of NGC~3311 with unprecedented spatial resolution, together with deep V-band archival data.
We structure this work as follows. In Section~\ref{sec:kinematics}, we present the analysis of the \ac{MUSE} data set, including the mosaicing strategy of the observations, data reduction, methodology for \ac{LOSVD} measurement and validation of the results, and the analysis of the kinematics. In a companion paper \citep{hilker2017}, we also explore the kinematics of NGC~3311 at larger radii using multiple slit mask spectroscopy with FORS2 on VLT.
In Section~\ref{sec:photometry}, we perform a detailed photometric decomposition of NGC~3311 surface brightness with multiple spheroidal components. In Section~\ref{sec:modeling}, we carry out a unified model of both photometric and kinematic data using the method of finite mixture distribution. In Section~\ref{sec:discussion}, we discuss the implications of our results for the understanding of cD galaxies, the peculiar velocity of inner galaxy and envelope, the origin of their velocity and radial biases, and the strong radial variation of the LOSVD moments. We summarize and conclude our work in Section~\ref{sec:conclusion}.
Throughout this work, we adopt the distance to the Hydra~I cluster of $D=50.7$ Mpc, based on the Hubble flow with $H_0=70.5$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second\per\mega\parsec} \citep{2009ApJS..180..330K} assuming a radial velocity of \SI{3777}{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{1999ApJS..125...35S}, which results in $1''=0.262$ kpc. We assume an effective radius of $R_e=8.4$ kpc for NGC~3311 \citep{2012A&A...545A..37A}.
\section{Kinematic analysis of MUSE observations}
\label{sec:kinematics}
\subsection{Observations and data reduction}
\label{sec:reduction}
We carried out integral field observations of the core of the Hydra~I cluster using the \ac{MUSE} instrument \citep{2003SPIE.4841.1096H,2004SPIE.5492.1145B}, mounted at the Nasmyth focus of the UT4 8m telescope of the \ac{VLT}, under ESO programme 094.B-0711A (PI: Arnaboldi). Observations were taken in the wide field mode, that covers a $1\times 1$ arcmin$^{\rm 2}$ \ac{FOV} with spatial sampling of $0.2\times 0.2$ arcsec$^{\rm 2}$. In the case of NGC~3311, it corresponds to a region of $15.7\times 15.7$ kpc$^{\rm 2}$. The wavelength coverage is $4650\leq\lambda($\r{A}$)\leq 9300$ with resolving power varying between 2000 and 4000.
Fig.~\ref{fig:strategy} shows the mosaic of pointings adopted in our observations, including four fields, I, II, III and IV, with exposure times of \SI{730}{\second}, \SI{670}{\second}, \SI{1015}{\second} and \SI{1370}{\second} respectively. The first three fields are positioned along the major axis of NGC~3311 to probe the center of NGC~3311 and the NE substructure observed in X-ray \citep{2004PASJ...56..743H} and optical \citep{2012A&A...545A..37A} imaging, as well as in the metallicity map \citep{2016A&A...589A.139B}. We have an additional pointing, field IV, located next to HCC~007, a spectroscopically confirmed member of the cluster with a systemic velocity of $V=4830\pm13$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2008A&A...486..697M}, that is intended to cover the diffuse stellar tidal tail observed by \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}. The large companion NGC 3309 is also bound to the Hydra I cluster, with a central systemic velocity of $V=4099 \pm 27$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2008A&A...486..697M}. However, NGC 3309 does not seem to be interacting with NGC 3311, as indicated by the lack of distortions in the photometric profiles of both galaxies, and contributes to the surface brightness profile of NGC 3311 only at distances larger than 20 kpc \citep[see also Section \ref{sec:sercomponents}]{2012A&A...545A..37A}.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.98\linewidth]{muse_fields.png}
\caption[Area coverage of the MUSE observations of NGC~3311, in the core of at the Hydra~I cluster.]{Area coverage of the MUSE observations of NGC~3311, in the core of the Hydra~I cluster. The mosaicing consists of four fields; three are aligned with the photometric major axis (I, II, and III) and survey the central region of the galaxy and the NE substructure. The fourth pointing (field IV) is placed on the extended diffuse tail off the lenticular galaxy HCC~007. The V-band image from \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A} is used in the background, and the black lines show the V-band contours in the range from 21 to 23.5 mag arcsec$^{\rm -2}$ in intervals of 0.5 mag arcsec$^{\rm -2}$.}
\label{fig:strategy}
\end{figure}
The data reduction was executed with the MUSE pipeline \citep{2012SPIE.8451E..0BW}, run under the Esoreflex environment \citep{2013A&A...559A..96F}, that provides real-time visualization of the data processing. We used the standard recipes for the instrument for the reduction, which includes flat fielding, bias correction, wavelength calibration, sky subtraction, flux calibration and combination of the cubes. We masked out from the analysis only the saturated star observed in the upper region of field II and its diffraction spikes that are also observed in field III.
In this work, we are interested in the analysis of the \ac{LOSVD} of the stars in the stellar halo of NGC 3311 only.
The large population of globular low-mass systems in the central region of the Hydra I cluster core, including dwarf galaxies \citep{2008A&A...486..697M} and ultra-compact dwarfs \citep{2011A&A...531A...4M}, will be the subject of a forthcoming paper, and are masked in the current analysis. The masking of these sources is carried out on the white lamp images using the segmentation image produced by \textsc{Sextractor} \citep{1996A&AS..117..393B} using a $1.5\sigma$ threshold above the local continuum.
\subsection{Determination of the stellar line-of-sight velocity distributions}
\label{sec:kinmethod}
We extracted the kinematics with full spectrum fitting using the penalized pixel-fitting (\textsc{pPXF}) program \citep{2004PASP..116..138C}, which models the observations by a combination of spectral templates convolved with a \ac{LOSVD} parametrized as a Gauss-Hermite profile \citep[see][]{1993MNRAS.265..213G,1993ApJ...407..525V}. A review of \textsc{pPXF} is presented in \citet{2017MNRAS.466..798C}. In the following, we summarize the steps performed in our analysis.
Considering that we are interested in the study of the third ($h_3)$ and fourth ($h_4$) moments of the \ac{LOSVD}, we combined spectra from adjacent unmasked spaxels to increase the \ac{S/N} of the data with the Voronoi tesselation from \citet{2003MNRAS.342..345C}. We used the target signal-to-noise of $\text{S/N}\approx 70$ which, according to simulations from \citet{2004PASP..116..138C}, allows the recovery of the \ac{LOSVD} with a precision better than 5\% in the regime of the velocity dispersions found in NGC~3311, i.e., $\sigma>150$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}. However, this large \ac{S/N} would require the combination of the entire \ac{FOV} in fields III and IV, which would completely erase any spatial information. Therefore, in addition to the Voronoi binning, we also separated the data into a few radial bins. Fig.~\ref{fig:sn} illustrates the resulting binning scheme and the \ac{S/N} obtained in this combination process.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{sn_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption[Binning scheme and resulting S/N distribution of the spectra over the stellar halo in NGC ~3311.]{Binning scheme and resulting S/N distribution of the spectra over the stellar halo in NGC~3311 from the MUSE IFU data. Spatial bins are regions of constant S/N and color. Gray regions within the MUSE fields indicate masked spaxels, including low signal to noise (S/N $<10$) bins, saturated stars and its diffraction spikes, and all objects detected with \textsc{sextractor} which may contaminate the measurement of the LOSVDs of the stellar halo.}
\label{fig:sn}
\end{figure}
We fitted each spectrum with two kinematic components simultaneously, one for the stellar component, that is our main focus in this work, and another component for the gas emission, that is used to improve the fitting. The stellar \ac{LOSVD}s are calculated using \ac{SSP} templates from \citet{2010MNRAS.404.1639V}, constructed with stellar spectra of the MILES library \citep{2006MNRAS.371..703S,2011A&A...532A..95F}, considering a bimodal \acused{IMF} \acl{IMF} \citep[\acs{IMF}, see][]{1996ApJS..106..307V}, metallicities in the range $-0.66\leq$[Z/H]$\leq 0.40$, ages between 0.1 and 14 Gyr and two different alpha-element abundances (0 and 0.4). The gas \ac{LOSVD}s are computed using a set of Gaussian emission line templates including H$\beta$ ($\lambda 4861$), [O III] ($\lambda 4959$, $\lambda 5007$), H$\alpha$ ($\lambda 6565$), [N II] ($\lambda 6585$, $\lambda 6550$) and [S II] ($\lambda 6718$, $\lambda 6733$). Considering that the \ac{MUSE} spectra has a resolution that varies as a function of the wavelength, we homogenized the spectral resolution of the observations and templates to obtain a \ac{FWHM} of 2.9 \r{A}.
We used additive polynomials to correct for small variations in the flux calibration between the observations and templates. After the visual inspection of the results, we noticed that our initial constraints for the velocity dispersion in \textsc{pPXF} for the gas component ($\sigma<1000$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}) resulted in poor fittings because of template mismatch. To avoid such cases, we additionally constrain the fitting by assuming $\sigma_{\rm gas}<80$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}, which is approximately the velocity dispersion of emission lines in the central kiloparsec of NGC 3311, considering that we have not observed any occurrence of strong, broad emission lines.
The wavelength range of the fitting was shown to be of importance in our analysis. The combination of the MUSE observations and the MILES templates ranges allows the determination of the \ac{LOSVD} using a large wavelength range between $4700\lesssim \lambda ($\r{A}$)\lesssim 7500$. We tested the effect of using different wavelength ranges within this dominion, to check for consistency, and notice that the central velocity dispersion may increase by $\sim 30$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} depending on the inclusion wavelengths greater than $6000$ \r{A}. This effect is more critical in the center of NGC~3311, where emission lines are stronger, and where \ac{ISM} absorption lines can cause systematic effects in the derived \ac{LOSVD}s. A more detailed description of the effects of faint emission lines for the determination of the \ac{LOSVD} is presented in Appendix~\ref{sec:ism}. For simplicity and consistency, we restricted our analysis to wavelengths smaller than $5900$ \r{A}. Regions with strong residual sky lines, such as those found at $\lambda=4785$ \r{A}, $\lambda=5577$ \r{A}, and $\lambda=5889$ \r{A} are excluded from the fitting process. Fig.~\ref{fig:example} illustrates the results of our fitting for the central bin of NGC~3311. All velocities were corrected to the heliocentric velocity, calculated with the \textsc{IRAF} task \textsc{rvcorrect}.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.98\linewidth]{fieldA_bin0001.png}
\caption{Example of the fitting process with \textsc{pPXF} for the MUSE observations of the Hydra~I cluster core. The upper panel displays the observed spectrum (black), the best fit for the stellar component (red) and the best fit for the emission lines (blue). The lower panel shows the residuals of the fitting (solid black) and the standard deviation of the noise (dashed green).}
\label{fig:example}
\end{figure}
To test our method and have an initial evaluation of the results, we perform a comparison of our results with the literature in Fig.~\ref{fig:kinmajaxis}, where we show the radial profiles of the four moments of the \ac{LOSVD}s along the major axis of NGC 3311 at a position angle of \SI{40}{\degree}. To separate the results from the two sides of the galaxy, we folded the radial axis around the center adopting negative and positive radius for the data towards the northeast and southwest directions respectively. The upper two panels display the velocity and velocity dispersion from \citet{2011A&A...531A.119R}, who observed NGC~3311 using long-slit observations. We also show the results from \citet{hilker2017}, who observed the system using FORS2 `onion-shell'-like multi-slit spectroscopy to study the wide range of velocities in the extended stellar halo. To make the comparison of the long-slit data with 2D observations, we used data points whose luminosity-weighted center fall within pseudo-slits aligned with the long-slit observations using widths of \SI{20}{\arcsec} (\SI{5.24}{\kilo\parsec}) and \SI{40}{\arcsec} (\SI{10.48}{\kilo\parsec}) for the MUSE and FORS2 data respectively. This comparison indicates that our analysis is in good agreement with previous observations.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{kinprofile_sn70_linear_40deg.png}
\caption{Comparison of the profiles of the four moments of the LOSVDs from this work with literature data. Red circles show the results from long-slit observations of \citet{2011A&A...531A.119R} at the position angle of \SI{40}{\degree} and centered on NGC~3311. Blue (green) circles show the results from this work \citep{hilker2017} extracted along the same position angle within a pseudo-slit of \SI{20}{\arcsec} (\SI{40}{\arcsec}) width. The dashed yellow line in the first and second panel indicate the cluster's velocity and velocity dispersion according to \citet{2003ApJ...591..764C}. Positive (negative) radius indicate data points towards the southeast (northwest) direction from the center of the galaxy.}
\label{fig:kinmajaxis}
\end{figure}
There is considerable scatter in \ac{LOS} velocity and velocity dispersion in Fig. \ref{fig:kinmajaxis} at radii $>10$ kpc in both the southeast and northwest directions and the approach to the cluster values is not smooth. Following previous analysis by \citet{2011A&A...528A..24V} and \citet{2016A&A...589A.139B}, our current understanding of the scatter of the first (velocity) and second (velocity dispersion) moment measurements of the LOSVD is related to the presence of substructures, despite the masking of the localized high(-er) surface brightness sources. As shown in \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A} and \citet{2011A&A...528A..24V}, there is a group of dwarf galaxies with positive LOS velocities ($V_{\rm sys} > 4000$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}) that is seen in projection on top of the offset envelope \citep[see figures 14 and 18 in][]{2012A&A...545A..37A}. In addition to the dwarfs, there is the tidal tail off HCC 026 ($V_{\rm sys} = 4946$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}) that falls within our MUSE B pointing. The residual unmasked light from these satellites contributes to the averaged light of the different Voronoi bins, and increase the scatter in the measurements of the LOSVD moments. For example, contribution from these high velocity dwarfs will shift the measured first moments of the LOSVD to higher values, but their intrinsic velocity dispersion is much smaller than that of the diffuse envelope at the same distance for the center. See the results of the spectra decomposition in \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, Fig. 16, for further assessment of this point. As our goal is to characterize the large scale variations of the LOSVD moments in the halo and envelope with radius, we do not wish to model each single velocity measurement, i.e. the scatter, but the large scale variations only.
\subsection{Systemic velocity}
\label{sec:starvel}
Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap} shows the systemic velocity of NGC~3311 obtained with our MUSE observations. We have avoided poor fittings (S/N$<10$) and we also do not show the systemic velocity of dwarfs and other compact system identified in our analysis to highlight only the velocity field of NGC~3311. The typical uncertainty of \SI{6}{\kilo\meter\per\second} is calculated as the mean uncertainty considering all the data.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap}, the first important result is the difference between the systemic velocity in the galaxy center compared to the velocity in the outer regions. In a previous study of NGC~3311 \citep{2016A&A...589A.139B}, we showed that the stellar population properties indicate a separation between the central galaxy, and the cD envelope. A division between these two populations is the V-band surface brightness level of $\mu_V=22$ mag arcsec$^{\text{-2}}$ or, alternatively, the galactocentric distance of $R\approx R_e=8.4$ kpc. We compute the average velocity of the central galaxy within $R<R_e/8$ to be $3858 \pm 5$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}. The average velocity of the cD envelope from \ac{LOS} velocity measurements in the region $R>R_e$ is $V_{\rm cD}=3894\pm 14$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}. Based on these results, the relative radial velocity of the galaxy in relation to the outer stellar halo is $\Delta V = 36\pm 15$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}, measured solely by the variation of $\sigma$ in the integrated stellar light. We return to this point in Section~\ref{sec:pecvel}, where we derive the peculiar velocity of NGC~3311 based on our combined modeling of the photometric and kinematic data.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{vel_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption{Map of the LOS velocity ($V$) for NGC~3311 for all bins with S/N$>10$. The typical observational uncertainty for the LOS velocity is \SI{6}{\kilo\meter\per\second}.}
\label{fig:velmap}
\end{figure}
Another important result that can be derived from our 2D velocity mapping is the amount of the rotation of the system and its angular momentum, which are connected to its formation and merging history. In our \ac{MUSE} observations, we are able to study the rotation properties mostly in field I, that contains the central galaxy, but see \citet{hilker2017} for a detailed study these properties at large radius. We use the program \textsc{kinemetry} \citep{2006MNRAS.366..787K}, that generalizes the methodology of ellipse fitting with harmonic expansions to obtain surface brightness profiles of galaxies \citep[e.g.,][]{1987MNRAS.226..747J} to the velocity distribution for a rotating system. Fig.~\ref{fig:kinemetry} summarizes the results, indicating the kinematic semi-major axis ($a_{\rm kin}$) profiles for the rotation velocity ($V_{\text{rot}}$), the kinematic position angle (PA$_{\text{kin}}$) and minor-to-major axis ratio ($(b/a)_{\text{kin}}$), and the fifth-to-first harmonic ratio ($k_5/V_{\text{rot}}$).
The rotation velocity for the central galaxy increases as a function of the radius, but it is only \SI{30}{\kilo\meter\per\second} at its maximum at $R\sim R_e$, which is indeed smaller than the lowest velocity dispersion measured at the galaxy centre ($\sigma_0=175$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}). This result together with the small ellipticity of the system \citep[$\varepsilon=0.05$,][]{2012A&A...545A..37A} indicates an inner galaxy not supported by rotation, according to a simple $V/\sigma$ vs. $\varepsilon$ classification \citep[e.g.,][]{2007MNRAS.379..401E}. Moreover, the rotation obtained in this analysis is not even a good representation of the overall velocity map, as indicated by the ratio between the fifth harmonic term and the rotation velocity ($k_5 / V_{\text{rot}}$). In \textsc{kinemetry}, $k_5$ represents the first term that is not fitted as part of the cosine expansion of the velocity field, and thus indicates the amount of velocity gradient along the LOS that is not included in a rotation model. As a reference, the \textsc{ATLAS}$^{\text{3D}}$ survey, that investigated a volume-limited sample of 260 early-type galaxies \citep{2011MNRAS.414.2923K}, adopted the threshold of $k_5/V_{\text{rot}}=0.04$ as the maximum ratio for which a cosine model is a good description of the projected 2D velocity field. However, in the case of NGC~3311, $k_5 / V_{\text{rot}} > 0.04$ at all radii in the inner galaxy. Therefore, NGC~3311 is a slow rotator, similarly to other galaxies in the same mass class, in agreement with the recent findings from the MASSIVE survey \citep{2017MNRAS.464..356V}.
Besides the kinematic classification of NGC~3311, the \textsc{kinemetry} analysis indicates that substructures may have an important role in the description of the velocity field of this galaxy. This is hinted at by the occurrence of the variations in the kinematic position angle and axis ratio of the rotation model, as function of the radial distance. For instance, in the inner region ($a_{\rm kin}<2$ kpc) there is low support for the rotation model, and the kinematic position angle and axis ratio have strong variations. However, in an intermediate range ($2\lesssim a_{\rm kin}\lesssim 4.5$ kpc), the ratio $k_5/V_{\text{rot}}$ approaches the value expected for a regular rotator, with a constant axis ratio $(b/a)_{\rm kin}\approx 0.25$ and a regular change in the kinematic position angle. Then, in the next following radial range ($4.5\lesssim a_{\rm kin}\lesssim 7$ kpc), the rotation velocity becomes larger, but the kinematic position angle and axis ratio are approximately constant. Such variations in the geometric parameters of the radial profiles are typically found in surface brightness profiles of spiral galaxies \citep[e.g.,][]{2015MNRAS.453.2965B}, where bulges, disks and other components overlap in the \ac{LOS} to produce the surface brightness profiles.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.98\linewidth]{kinemetry.png}
\caption{Parameters of the rotation model calculated with \textsc{kinemetry} to describe the MUSE velocity field for NGC~3311. From top to bottom, the panels describe the rotation velocity ($V_{\text{rot}}$), the kinematic position angle (PA$_{\text{kin}}$) and minor-to-major axis ($(b/a)_{\text{kin}}$) and the fifth-to-first harmonic weight of the model($k_5/V_{\text{rot}}$) as a function of the kinematic semi major-axis $a_{\rm kin}$. The horizontal dashed line in the bottom panel indicates the maximum threshold value of $0.04$, for early-type galaxies set by the \textsc{ATLAS}$^{\text{3D}}$ survey. If the cosine function is a good approximation for the 2D velocity field, the $k_5/V_{\text{rot}}$ measured values would lie below this line.}
\label{fig:kinemetry}
\end{figure}
\subsection{Velocity dispersion}
\label{sec:sigma}
Fig.~\ref{fig:sigmap} shows the 2D velocity dispersion ($\sigma$) field of NGC~3311. Typical uncertainties in the measurements of the velocity dispersion are of \SI{12}{\kilo\meter\per\second}. The most important feature of Fig.~\ref{fig:sigmap} is the rising velocity dispersion with radius from the center of the galaxy, which is consistent with long-slit spectroscopy results \citep{2008MNRAS.391.1009L, 2010A&A...520L...9V, 2011A&A...531A.119R}. In the \ac{MUSE} data, we measure a central velocity dispersion of $\approx 175$\si{\kilo\meter\per\second}, reaching values of $\approx 750$\si{\kilo\meter\per\second} in the outermost data points (see also Fig. \ref{fig:kinmajaxis}).
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{sigma_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption{Same as Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap} for the LOS velocity dispersion ($\sigma$) of NGC~3311. The typical observational uncertainty for the LOS velocity dispersion is \SI{12}{\kilo\meter\per\second}.}
\label{fig:sigmap}
\end{figure}
Positive gradients for the LOS velocity dispersion profiles were reported in several \ac{ETGs} \citep[e.g.,][]{2008MNRAS.391.1009L,2009MNRAS.394.1249C}, including \ac{BCG}s such as IC~1101 \citep{1979ApJ...231..659D}, M87 \citep{2014ApJ...785..143M} and NGC~6166 \citep{2015ApJ...807...56B}. More recently, \citet{2017MNRAS.464..356V,2017arXiv170800870V} showed that such velocity dispersion profiles are common among luminous \ac{ETGs}. However, it is challenging to determine what the maximum velocity dispersion is from these observations and, in particular, whether these velocity dispersions obtained by integrated light reach the cluster's velocity dispersion values. This is directly observed in NGC~3311, as indicated in Fig.~\ref{fig:kinmajaxis}, as both the \ac{MUSE} (this work) and the FORS2 data \citep{hilker2017} reach the cluster's velocity dispersion value of $\sigma=724$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2003ApJ...591..764C}.
One interesting property of the 2D velocity dispersion field is the large-scale asymmetry along the photometric major-axis. The second panel of Fig.~\ref{fig:kinmajaxis} shows that the velocity dispersion profile rises faster and reaches the cluster velocity dispersion towards the northeast direction (negative $R$). This result indicates the effect of the large northeast structure observed both in X-ray \citep{2004PASJ...56..743H} and V-band imaging \citep{2012A&A...545A..37A}. However, considering only the most central region, $|R|<10$ kpc, the velocity dispersion profile has a steeper gradient in the opposite direction, that is, towards the southwest direction. When examining the systemic velocity (Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap}) and velocity dispersion maps (Fig.~\ref{fig:sigmap}), close to the isophote contour at $\mu_v = 22$ mag arcsec$^{-2}$ in the southeast most corner of the MUSE pointing I, we identify a subregion where the $\sigma$ values are in the range $255 - 300$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} and the LOS velocities are locally blueshifted, with respect to the average values along the same isophote. We consider it as an indication of the presence of kinematic substructure in the \ac{LOSVD} at that location. In section~\ref{sec:photometry} we will argue that this local variation of the velocity dispersion and LOS velocity is related to a new photometric substructure that is found in our analysis for the first time.
\subsection{Skewness $h_3$ and kurtosis $h_4$ 2D maps}
The higher-order deviations from a Gaussian \ac{LOSVD} are measured through the third ($h_3$) and fourth ($h_4$) order coefficients of the Gauss-Hermite expansion of the LOSVD \citep[see][]{1993MNRAS.265..213G,1993ApJ...407..525V}. Figs.~\ref{fig:h3map} and \ref{fig:h4map} show the 2D maps of $h_3$ and $h_4$ from our \ac{MUSE} observations, whose typical uncertainties are 0.02 and 0.03 respectively. The parameter $h_3$ is proportional to the skewness and measures the asymmetric (odd) deviations of the \ac{LOSVD}, i.e., whether the distribution has a blueshifted ($h_3<0$) or redshifted ($h_3>0$) tail. The parameter $h_4$ is proportional to the kurtosis of the \ac{LOSVD} and probes the symmetric (even) deviations of the \ac{LOSVD}, indicating either a more peaked ($h_4>0$) or top-hat ($h_4<0$) shape in relation with a Gaussian distribution. In steeply falling density regions, such as most of the regions covered in the \ac{MUSE} observations with the exception of the center, $h_4$ is also related to radial ($h_4>0$) or tangential ($h_4<0$) anisotropies.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{h3_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption{Same as Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap} for the skewness parameter ($h_3$) of NGC~3311. The typical observational uncertainty for $h_4$ is $0.02$.}
\label{fig:h3map}
\end{figure}
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{h4_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption{Same as Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap} for the kurtosis parameter ($h_4$) of NGC~3311. The typical observational uncertainty for $h_3$ is $0.03$.}
\label{fig:h4map}
\end{figure}
The distribution of the values of the skewness parameter $h_3$ in the area covered by our MUSE pointings has a median value of $-0.01$ with a standard deviation of $0.04$ and there is no (anti)correlation with the velocity gradient of Fig.~\ref{fig:velmap}. However, we note the presence of an annulus with slightly positive values of $h_3$ in the surface brightness range $21\leq\mu_V\leq22$ in Fig.~\ref{fig:h3map} that indicates a steeper leading tail of the \ac{LOSVD} at this location and a variation of $h_3$ with radial distance from the NGC~3311 center. The 2D map of the kurtosis parameter $h_4$ also shows variation with radial distance: the $h_4$ values are near zero in the very central regions, at the northern edge of pointing II and at the southern edge of pointing I, but are otherwise always positive, in the range $0.03 - 0.1$. The overall distribution of $h_4$ values has a positive median value of $0.05$ and a standard deviation of $0.03$.
Besides the spatial distribution of $h_3$ and $h_4$, their correlation with $V/\sigma$ contain information about the merging history of \ac{ETGs}. For instance, if the galaxy is a regular rotator, the LOSVDs are asymmetric with the prograde tail being steeper than the retrograde ones, i.e. the degree of asymmetry measured by $h_3$ correlates with $V/\sigma$ \citep{1994MNRAS.269..785B}. However, such correlations are erased in the occurrence of dry major mergers \citep{2014MNRAS.444.3357N}.
In Fig.~\ref{fig:h3h4} we investigate the correlations of $h_3,\,h_4$ with $V/\sigma$, and found little to none. When comparing our results with simulations from \citet{2014MNRAS.444.3357N}, and considering that we have a round and non-rotating galaxy, we conclude that NGC~3311 resembles those galaxies classified as {\it F type} in \citet{2014MNRAS.444.3357N}, i.e., galaxies formed mostly in dry mergers of already passive galaxies. However, the $h_4$ distribution vs. $V/\sigma$ is remarkably offset: the $h_4$ values scatter around a mean value of 0.05, while they are scattered around zero in simulations. The occurrence of positive $h_4$ values is also observed in other massive \ac{ETGs} \citep{2017MNRAS.464..356V,2017ApJ...835..104V}. In Section~\ref{sec:discussion}, we will discuss this issue further, in the framework of our modeling for the kinematics of NGC~3311.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.99\linewidth]{h3h4_sn70_w4500_5900.png}
\caption{Correlation between the Gauss-Hermite high-order moments $h_3$ (left) and $h_4$ (right) with $V/\sigma$.}
\label{fig:h3h4}
\end{figure}
\section{Photometric model for the surface brightness distribution in NGC~3311}
\label{sec:photometry}
So far, we focused primarily on the analysis of the kinematics of NGC~3311. As a next step, we wish to combine the above results with those from the imaging data to study the late mass assembly of the cD galaxy NGC~3311. For this purpose, we revisit the work of \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, who performed a 2D-modeling of the surface brightness in the core region of the Hydra~I cluster using deep V-band photometry, that led to the identification of a large, diffuse, off-centered envelope around NGC~3311. In this work, we extend the analysis to include the central region of the galaxy also to obtain a more accurate photometric decomposition for NGC~3311 light.
\subsection{Data and methods}
We use Johnson V-band imaging acquired with FORS1 \citep{1998Msngr..94....1A} at the \ac{VLT} for the observing programme 65.N-0459(A) (PI: Hilker), that we retrieve via the ESO Science Archive Facility. This image covers a field-of-view of $6.8' \times 6.8'$ slightly off-centered from NGC~3311, in order to avoid a bright star towards the northeast direction. We adopted the zero point ZP$=27.43\pm0.06$ from \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, and the extinction correction of $0.25$ mag derived from \citet{1998ApJ...500..525S}.
We used the \textsc{sextractor} program \citep{1996A&AS..117..393B} to detect sources in the field-of-view and produce a mask for the photometric fitting. Bright stars and several dwarf galaxies projected onto the main galaxies were masked manually. We also masked the dust lane at the center of NGC~3311. We used bright, not saturated stars in the field-of-view to estimate the \ac{PSF}, that was calculated using the \textsc{IRAF} task \textsc{psfmeasure} \citep{1986SPIE..627..733T}, adopting a \citet{1969A&A.....3..455M} profile. The resulting \ac{PSF} has a mean power-law slope of $\beta=2.956\pm0.09$ and a \ac{FWHM} of $0''.87\pm0''.09$.
We used the \textsc{galfitm} software \citep{2013MNRAS.435..623V}, an updated version of \textsc{galfit} \citep{2002AJ....124..266P}, to perform a parametric structural decomposition of the three main galaxies in the core of Hydra~I, including the cD galaxy NGC~3311, the large elliptical NGC~3309 situated Northwest of NGC~3311 in Fig.~\ref{fig:strategy}, and the S0 galaxy HCC~007 to the South of NGC~3311. We provide further details of the fitting method in what follows.
We built the \textsc{galfitm} models from the single S\'ersic profiles of the three galaxies, and include additional structural components, described with a S\'ersic parametric law, as required from the inspection of the results and the residuals of the model. This iterative method is similar to that applied by \citet{2013ApJ...766...47H}, who showed definite improvements in the decomposition of \ac{ETGs} surface brightness when additional components are added to single S\'ersic models. A priori, we had no particular constraints on the number of components, as our intent is to gain a good overall description of the light of NGC~3311, and we adopt the S\'ersic law because of its flexibility. We judged the photometric models on the basis of the optimization of the $\chi^2$ between models with the goal to achieve the maximum symmetric contribution to the light in NGC~3311 and identify any non-symmetric features.
Each S\'ersic component has seven free parameters, including four to describe the geometry -- central coordinates $X$ and $Y$, position angle of the semi-major axis $PA$ and minor-to-major axis ratio $q=b/a$ -- which are then used to calculate the isophotal distance $R$, plus three parameters to describe the light profile given by \citep{1968adga.book.....S}
\begin{equation}
I(R)=I_e\exp \left \{ -b_n \left [ \left ( \frac{R}{R_e}\right )^{1/n}-1\right ]\right \} \mbox{,}
\label{eq:sersic}
\end{equation}
\noindent where $R_e$ is the effective radius, $I_e$ is the intensity at the effective radius, $n$ is the S\'ersic index and $b_n\approx 2n - 0.32$ is a parameter that ensures that $R_e$ contains half the light of the galaxy \citep[see][]{1999A&A...352..447C,2003ApJ...582..689M}.
The sky subtraction is an important source of error in the photometric decomposition \citep[see][]{1996A&AS..118..557D}, and the V-band imaging does not contain any obvious regions where the sky brightness can be measured independently, as most of the field-of-view contains light from either the cD halo or possible other faint \ac{ICL} structures, such as streams and tidal tails \citep[see ][]{2005ApJ...631L..41M,2017ApJ...839...21I}. Therefore, we performed the sky subtraction along with the photometric modeling with \textsc{galfitm} by including a constant sky component as a free parameter to the fitting. Simulations by \citet{2007ApJS..172..615H} showed that the use of a variable sky level does not affect the parameters of the S\'ersic profiles strongly.
The main advantage of \textsc{galfitm} is the inclusion of a non-parametric component in the fitting, that is suitable to unveil faint and non-axisymmetric structures, such as tidal streams, by finding models for which the residuals are mostly positive. Interestingly, this idea is similar to the maximum symmetric model from \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, that allowed the identification of the off-centered envelope around NGC~3311.
\subsection{Photometric components for the NGC~3311 extended light distribution}
\label{sec:sercomponents}
Our final \textsc{galfitm} model for the light in the V band image of NGC~3311 is shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:photV}. It contains ten S\'ersic components, whose parameters are listed in Table~\ref{tab:galfitpars}. HCC~007 and NGC~3309 required three components each, and NGC~3311 required four components. We notice that the residual map has several positive, rather than negative, features, that comes as the result of the non-parametric components from \textsc{galfitm}. Considering that we have build a model based solely on the quality of the fitting, the model components are not necessarily associate to distinct physical structures. However, the number of components for each galaxy in our model is in agreement with results from the literature, as discussed below. Moreover, in Section \ref{sec:fmdapplication}, we will show that the kinematics of these systems support the idea that some of these structures are actually physically motivated.
\begin{table*}
\caption{Galfit parameters for the photometric model using S\'ersic components. (1) Identification of the galaxy. (2) Identification of the photometric component. (3-4) Central X and Y coordinates of the S\' ersic profiles relative to the center of the galaxies: NGC~3311 at $\alpha (J2000) $=10h36m42.7s and $\delta (J2000) =$-27d31m40.8s; NGC~3309 at $\alpha (J2000) =$10h36m35.6s and $\delta (J2000) =$-27d31m04.91s; and HCC~007 at $\alpha (J2000) =$10h36m41.18s and $\delta (J2000) =$-27d33m39.2s. (5) Absolute magnitude. (6) Effective radius. (7) S\'ersic index. (8) Minor-to-major axis ratio. (9) Position angle of the major axis. (10) Fraction of the light of the component relative to all other components in the same galaxy.}
\label{tab:galfitpars}
\centering
\scriptsize
\begin{tabular}{cccccccccc}
\hline
\hline
Galaxy & ID & X (kpc) & Y (kpc) & $M_{\rm tot}$ & $R_e$ (kpc) & n & $b/a$ & PA (degree) & $f$\\
(1) & (2) & (3) & (4) & (5) & (6) & (7) & (8) & (9) & (10)\\
\hline
\multirow{4}{6em}{NGC 3311}& A & $0.00 \pm 0.04$ & $0.00 \pm 0.07$ & $-18.2 \pm 0.5$ & $1.40 \pm 0.06$ & $0.51 \pm 0.05$ & $0.790 \pm 0.018$ & $54 \pm 7$ & $0.008$\\
& B & $0.14 \pm 0.05$ & $0.31 \pm 0.05$ & $-19.56 \pm 0.20$ & $2.96 \pm 0.17$ & $0.69 \pm 0.16$ & $0.820 \pm 0.012$ & $36.9 \pm 2.3$ & $0.030$\\
& C & $-0.33 \pm 0.06$ & $-0.58 \pm 0.15$ & $-21.29 \pm 0.10$ & $9.60 \pm 0.31$ & $0.85 \pm 0.04$ & $0.970 \pm 0.012$ & $-55 \pm 14$ & $0.147$\\
& D & $4.4 \pm 0.4$ & $7.4 \pm 0.5$ & $-23.15 \pm 0.12$ & $51 \pm 5$ & $1.04 \pm 0.07$ & $0.890 \pm 0.012$ & $59.7 \pm 3.5$ & $0.815$\\
\hline
\multirow{3}{6em}{NGC 3309}& E & $0.000 \pm 0.006$ & $0.000 \pm 0.006$ & $-18.44 \pm 0.06$ & $1.174 \pm 0.010$ & $0.150 \pm 0.012$ & $0.830 \pm 0.006$ & $47.8 \pm 1.8$ & $0.052$\\
& F & $0.057 \pm 0.016$ & $0.094 \pm 0.015$ & $-19.85 \pm 0.10$ & $2.451 \pm 0.034$ & $0.540 \pm 0.030$ & $0.820 \pm 0.006$ & $43.7 \pm 1.2$ & $0.190$\\
& G & $-0.07 \pm 0.04$ & $-0.22 \pm 0.04$ & $-21.345 \pm 0.024$ & $7.96 \pm 0.15$ & $1.13 \pm 0.05$ & $0.920 \pm 0.006$ & $54.2 \pm 3.2$ & $0.758$\\
\hline
\multirow{3}{6em}{HCC 007}& H & $0.000 \pm 0.010$ & $0.000 \pm 0.007$ & $-16.76 \pm 0.04$ & $0.539 \pm 0.012$ & $0.230 \pm 0.018$ & $0.800 \pm 0.024$ & $-32 \pm 4$ & $0.050$\\
& I & $0.007 \pm 0.023$ & $-0.001 \pm 0.017$ & $-18.60 \pm 0.04$ & $2.41 \pm 0.07$ & $0.830 \pm 0.030$ & $0.310 \pm 0.006$ & $-51.0 \pm 0.5$ & $0.274$\\
& J & $-0.50 \pm 0.06$ & $-0.044 \pm 0.035$ & $-19.6 \pm 0.4$ & $15 \pm 8$ & $3.3 \pm 0.6$ & $0.688 \pm 0.030$ & $-51 \pm 7$ & $0.676$\\
\hline
\hline
\end{tabular}
\normalsize
\end{table*}
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.98\linewidth]{galfit18.png}
\caption{Photometric model of the three main galaxies in the Hydra~I cluster core in FORS1 V-band image. Left: Observed V-band image calibrated with the zero-point from \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}. Center: \textsc{galfitm} model including the ten S\'ersic components listed in Table~\ref{tab:galfitpars}, obtained with the non-parametric fitting method. Right: Residual image (original minus model), normalized by the sigma image which contains the error and noise of the observations.}
\label{fig:photV}
\end{figure*}
{\it Three S\'ersic components for \ac{ETGs} $-$}
The components that are required to match the 2D light distribution in our model are consistent with those discussed in \citet{2013ApJ...766...47H} for a sample of isolated ETGs. These authors found that ETGs may be decomposed into three, and up to four, structural components when a bi-dimensional parametric fitting is carried out to reproduce the semi-major axis position angle and the ellipticity profiles consistently, in addition to the surface brightness profile. Our model returns values for the effective radii that are in good agreement with those from \citet{2013ApJ...766...47H}, whose typical values are $R_e\lesssim 1$ \si{\kilo\parsec}, $R_e\approx 2.5$ \si{\kilo\parsec} and $R_e\approx 10$ \si{\kilo\parsec} for decomposition with three components.
{\it Extended enevelope around NGC~3311 $-$}
The modeling of the light of NGC~3311 clearly requires an additional component, labeled as ``D'' in Table~\ref{tab:galfitpars}. Component D has a central offset of \SI{8.6}{\kilo\parsec} to the Northeast direction and has a much larger effective radius of \SI{51}{\kilo\parsec} with respect to the other three components. Fig.~\ref{fig:sbprofile} shows the surface brightness profile of NGC~3311 at a fixed position angle of \SI{55}{\degree}, which is approximately aligned with the semi-major axis from photometric component ``A''. This surface brightness profile shows that the off-centered D component is required to explain the excess of light at large galactocentric distances to the North-East of the galaxy center.
This component, the fourth, matches the off-centered envelope found by \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}, that is also associated with an X-rays secondary peak \citep{2004PASJ...56..743H,2006PASJ...58..695H} and an excess of metallicity in the stellar populations \citep{2016A&A...589A.139B}. Hence on the basis of the photometry, there is a structural component in the light of NGC~3311 that can be identified with a cD halo.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{sbprofile_model18_55deg.png}
\caption{Surface brightness profile along the photometric major axis at $P.A.=$\SI{55}{\degree}. \textit{Top:} Comparison of the V-band surface brightness (blue dots) with the best fit from \textsc{galfitm} (black solid line). Other solid lines indicate the surface brightness of the subcomponents indicated in Table \ref{tab:galfitpars} including A (orange), B (green), C (red) and D (purple). \textit{Bottom:} Residuals between the V-band surface brightness and the model. Positive (negative) radius indicate the distance from the center of NGC 3311 towards the southeast (northwest) direction.}
\label{fig:sbprofile}
\end{figure}
{\it Intracluster light in the Hydra~I core and asymmetric substructures in the light of NGC~3311 $-$}
A large scale characterization of the intracluster light (\ac{ICL}) in the Hydra~I cluster would require a larger field-of-view than the one available with the FORS1 V-band image. Nonetheless we would like to describe the three most noticeable features in our V-band image, that are related to the ICL in the core of the cluster, and may have implication for our kinematic analysis.
Fig.~\ref{fig:photres} shows a subsection of the residuals that highlights the presence of several \ac{ICL} substructures. The \ac{ICL} is formed by various mechanisms that unbound stars from their parent halos and may contain from 5\% to 50\% of all the stars in clusters \citep[see][]{2010HiA....15...97A,2011ARep...55..383T}. Simulations show the variety of shapes of these structures, including tails, plumes, and shells \citep[see][]{2006ApJ...648..936R,2007MNRAS.377....2M,2009ApJ...699.1518R,2015MNRAS.451.2703C} that have been unveiled observationally with deep photometry \citep[e.g.,][]{2005ApJ...631L..41M,2017ApJ...834...16M,2017ApJ...839...21I}.
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{residuals.png}
\caption{\ac{ICL} substructures observed in the residual map from the modeling of symmetric structures with \textsc{galfitm}. V-band contours are also shown for reference. Black squares represent the MUSE fields, and the colored polygons represent the three most evident substructures in this region.}
\label{fig:photres}
\end{figure}
A distinct feature is a large tidal tail first discovered by \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A} that is associated with the galaxy HCC~026, a spectroscopically confirmed member of the Hydra I cluster core \citep{2008A&A...486..697M}. In Fig.~\ref{fig:photres}, HCC~026 is in the upper part of the structure marked by the solid blue line; unfortunately, most of its light falls outside the mosaiced area of our \ac{MUSE} observations.
The large structure indicated by the dashed green line in Fig.~\ref{fig:photres} was also identified by \citet{2012A&A...545A..37A}. They suggested that it originates from a broad tidal tail off HCC~007. Our current study indicates that this structure is broader than previously reported, and it is connected to HCC~007 as indicated by the asymmetry of the residuals to the East of the center of HCC~007, after the subtraction of the parametric model.
Finally, the residual map displays a substructure located to the Southwest of NGC~3311, marked in Fig.~\ref{fig:photres} by the red dotted line. This substructure is located at the relative position $(-7, 14)$ kpc from the center of NGC~3311, and it falls partially within the field of view of Field~I in our MUSE observations. This structure to the southwest of NGC~3311 may be responsible for the blueshifted LOS velocity and the locally high velocity dispersion observed in the 2D maps in Figs.~\ref{fig:velmap} and \ref{fig:sigmap}. In Section~\ref{sec:modeling}, we provide additional kinematics and photometric evidence for this substructure. The current photometric model does not require a common shared halo including NGC 3311 and NGC 3309. The current \textsc{galfitm} models do not provide evidence for residual light West of NGC 3309. Constraints for additional light at larger radii may come for future wide field photometric data.
We conclude this section by stating that the S\'ersic parametric multi-component model produces an overall good match to the surface brightness distribution in the V-band image. The outcome of the current analysis shows the requirement for a fourth component to model the light of NGC~3311. This component has a central offset from the other three, and a very large effective radius (51 kpc), matching the morphological definition of a cD halo for \ac{BCG}s \citep{1964ApJ...140...35M,1965ApJ...142.1364M}. However, a point raised by \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} questions whether one is able to identify \textit{physically} distinct galaxy components from photometry alone. In the next section, we address this problem in NGC~3311, by coupling the photometry with the 2D kinematics from the new MUSE datacubes.
\section{Photometric and kinematic modeling of NGC~3311}
\label{sec:modeling}
The goal of this section is to construct a model that can combine the 2D \ac{LOSVD}s of NGC~3311 (Section \ref{sec:kinematics}) on the basis of the photometric components matching the V-band surface brightness (Section~\ref{sec:photometry}). Our approach is motivated by the work of \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B}, which we review in the following, before explaining our generalization.
In their work, \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} studied NGC~6166, the central galaxy of Abell 2199 and another prototypical cD galaxy. They obtained their kinematics from long-slit observations extending out to $100''$ ($\sim 60$ kpc) from the center of the galaxy using deep observations from the Hobby-Eberly telescope. The velocity dispersion profile of NGC~6166 increases with radius, reaching the cluster velocity dispersion value of \SI{819}{\kilo\meter\per\second}, similarly to the velocity dispersion profile NGC~3311. Besides, they revisited the photometric data of the system from a variety of sources to produce an accurate surface brightness profile, which they modeled using decompositions into either one or two S\'ersic components.
To combine the photometric and kinematic information, \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} modeled the \ac{LOSVD} profile as a luminosity-weighted superposition of two Gaussian \ac{LOSVD}s, each with its own velocity dispersion, whose luminosity follows the surface brightness of the S\'ersic components. By fixing the velocity dispersion of the combined model to values of $\sigma_{in}=300$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} and $\sigma_{out}=865$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} for the inner and outer components respectively, they have shown that the best model requires two components with the least overlap in radius. Specifically, the inner component had an effective radius $R_{e,1}=14.95''\approx 9$ kpc and a S\'ersic index $n_1=1.52$, whereas the outer component had $R_{e,2}=181.2''\approx 110$ kpc and $n_2=1.83$. However, the best combined model is not the best model according to the photometry alone, at least from a $\chi^2$ test. \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} argued that the surface brightness decomposition of the best combined photometric and kinematic model is slightly inconsistent with their photometric data, and thus caution about the use of photometry alone to infer the properties of the stellar halos.
Regarding our case, the photometric parameters of the best combined model from \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} resemble the parameters of our surface brightness decomposition for NGC~3311 (Table \ref{tab:galfitpars}), i.e. spheroids with low S\'ersic indexes ($n\lesssim 2$) and very different radii for the inner and outer components. Moreover, our photometric decomposition naturally indicates that the envelope surface brightness is approximately exponential, in agreement with previous findings \citep[e.g.][]{2007MNRAS.378.1575S,2011ApJS..195...15D}. Thus, we now ask the following question: if we suppose that the photometric decomposition of NGC~3311 is identifying structural components, can their kinematics be modeled to reproduce the MUSE LOSVD maps?
To answer this question, we generalize the model used by \citet{2015ApJ...807...56B} in the following ways: 1) we expand the analysis to a 2D approach, which is best suitable to explore the asymmetric surface brightness of NGC~3311, and exploit the capability of the \ac{MUSE} IFU data; 2) we allow non-Gaussian \ac{LOSVD}s for the components using a mixture model to predict the higher-order moments $h_3$ and $h_4$ also; and 3) we consider more than two components to account for all the structures observed in the surface brightness distrbution. In the next sections, we describe our modeling procedure in detail.
\subsection{The finite mixture distribution model}
In this section, we briefly review the mathematical background of a \ac{FMD}, a probabilistic model which represents a probability distribution as a superposition of components, following the description of the model from \citet{9780387329093}, and applied to the study of \ac{LOSVD}s. In this approach, the observed \ac{LOSVD} $\mathcal{L}(v)$ at a given location $\mathbf{X}=(X,Y)$ in the plane of the sky is represented as
\begin{equation}
\mathcal{L}(v) = \sum_{i=1}^{N}w_i\mathcal{L}_i(v)\mbox{,}
\label{eq:fmd}
\end{equation}
\noindent where $v$ is the \ac{LOS} velocity, $\mathcal{L}_i(v)$ indicate the probability distributions for the $i=1,...,N$ components, and $w_i$ are the weights, which follow the constraints $w_1+...+w_n=1$ and $w_i\geq 0$. In this approach, the quantities that describe $\mathcal{L}(v)$ are related to the expected value ${\rm E}[g(v)]$ of a generic function $g(v)$, defined as
\begin{equation}
{\rm E}[g(v)]=\int_{-\infty}^{+\infty}g(v)\mathcal{L}(v)dv\mbox{.}
\label{eq:ev}
\end{equation}
\noindent Given that the components of the mixture distribution are also probability distributions, we can also define the expected values of the components ${\rm E}_i[g(v)]$ substituting $\mathcal{L}(v)$ with $\mathcal{L}_i(v)$ in the equation above. Therefore, from equations \eqref{eq:fmd} and \eqref{eq:ev}, it follows that
\begin{equation}
{\rm E}[g(v)] = \sum_{i=1}^N w_i {\rm E}_i[g(v)]\mbox{.}
\end{equation}
The mean \ac{LOS} systemic velocity $\mu$ is obtained with $g(v)=v$, thus
\begin{equation}
\mu = {\rm E}[v] = \sum_{i=1}^N w_i \mu_i\mbox{,}
\end{equation}
\noindent where $\mu_i={\rm E}_i[v]$ are the mean systemic velocities of the components. Similarly, the \ac{LOS} velocity dispersion $\sigma$ is obtained with $g(v)=(v - \mu)^2$, thus
\begin{equation}
\sigma^2= {\rm Var}[v] = \sum_{i=1}^{N} w_i(\mu_i^2 + \sigma_i^2) - \mu^2\mbox{,}
\end{equation}
\noindent where $\sigma_i$ are the velocity dispersions of the components. In the mixture model, the $m$-th central moment is given by
\begin{equation}
{\rm E}[(v - \mu)^m] = \sum_{i=1}^{N}\sum_{j=0}^{m}\binom{m}{j}w_i(\mu_i-\mu)^{m-j}{\rm E}[(v-\mu_i)^j]\mbox{.}
\label{eq:centralmoments}
\end{equation}
Finally, the skewness $\gamma_3$ and the kurtosis $\gamma_4$ are then defined as
\begin{equation}
\gamma_3=\frac{{\rm E}[(v-\mu)^3]}{\sigma^3}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\gamma_4=\frac{{\rm E}[(v-\mu)^4]}{\sigma^4}\mbox{.}
\end{equation}
The \ac{FMD} model described so far section does not depend on the parametrization of the \ac{LOSVD}. However, we are interested in using a parametrization that is related to the observation, i.e., Gauss-Hermite distributions, where the parameters $h_3$ and $h_4$ are used to describe the skewness and the kurtosis of the \ac{LOSVD}, instead of $\gamma_3$ and $\gamma_4$. The relation between these quantities are then given by \citep[see the documentation of the task \textsc{xgauprof} for the GIPSY package, ][]{2001ASPC..238..358V}
\begin{equation}
h_3\approx \frac{\gamma_3}{4\sqrt{3}}\mbox{,}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
h_4\approx \frac{\gamma_4 - 3}{8\sqrt{6}}\mbox{.}
\end{equation}
\subsection{Application of FMD model to the LOSVDs of NGC~3311}
To apply the \ac{FMD} model, we assume that the observed \ac{LOSVD} at any given position $\mathbf{X}=(X,Y)$ is given by the luminosity-weighted mixture of the components in the surface brightness decomposition, each with its own \ac{LOSVD}. Therefore, the weights are calculated as
\begin{equation}
w_i(\mathbf{X}) = \frac{I_{V,i}(\mathbf{X})}{\sum_{j=1}^NI_{V,j}(\mathbf{X})}\mbox{,}
\end{equation}
where $I_{V,i}(\mathbf{X})$ is the V-band surface brightness of the component $i=1,...,N$ at $\mathbf{X}$. Implicitly, this simple modeling considers that the light traces the mass with a mass-to-light ratio that is constant within a given component and that this mass-to-light ratio is the same for all components.
According to the decomposition model described in Section~\ref{sec:photometry}, the surface brightness within the \ac{MUSE} observations is dominated by the four components of NGC 3311. This is illustrated in Fig.~\ref{fig:lightfraction}, which shows the weights of the individual components A to D as a function of the radius for a dense grid of points within fields I to IV. We also show the sum of all modeled components E to J, $w_{E-J}$, which indicates that the sum of the light in other spheroidal components in our observations is not greater than 5\%. We also provide the contribution of the sum of components A and B, indicated as $w_{A+B}$, which are possibly physically associated, as we discuss in the next section. In the actual modeling of NGC 3311, we re-normalize the weights to consider only components A to D.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{fraction_light.png}
\caption{Weights for the FMD model of NGC~3311 as a function of the radius within the MUSE fields. The four main components of NGC 3311, A, B, C and D, are shown individually. The component A+B indicates the sum of the first two components which are modeled as having the same kinematics. The component E-J indicates the cumulative contribution of all other photometric components which are not included in the kinematic modeling.}
\label{fig:lightfraction}
\end{figure}
Next we assume that each component has a unique \ac{LOSVD} characterized by a set of four parameters -- $\mu_i$, $\sigma_i$, $h_{3,i}$, $h_{4,i}$, that do not depend on position on the sky. Consequently, the spatial variation of the modeled \ac{LOSVD} is given only by the linear combination of the weights of the photometric components at the different sky positions. In this way, we are ignoring both ordered motions (rotation) and bulk motions within a given component. This approach resembles the use of isothermal spheres to describe the \ac{LOSVD}s, where the velocity dispersion does not vary spatially \citep[see][]{1987gady.book.....B}, and we allow these spheres to have non-zero skewness and kurtosis values.
\subsection{Fitting method}
\label{sec:fmdapplication}
Within the above assumptions, we then calculate $\mu_i$, $\sigma_i$, $h_{3,i}$, and $h_{4,i}$ for components $i=A,...,D$. As indicated in equation~\eqref{eq:centralmoments}, each central moment depends on the previous moments, so we carry out {\it iterative} fittings to calculate each of the set of parameters sequentially. For example, we compute $\mu_i$ directly from the maps, and then we calculated the velocity dispersions ($\sigma_i$) fixing $\mu_i$, and, so on up to $h_{4,i}$. These calculations were performed with the program \textsc{least\_squares} from the SciPy package \citep{Oliphant2007,Perez2011}, using the trust-region reflective gradient method \citep{Branch1999}, which allows a bound-constrained minimization of the parameters, and uncertainties were calculated using bootstrapping simulations.
We initially computed the \ac{FMD} models using four kinematic components, one for each photometric structure. This approach provided values for $\mu_i$, $\sigma_i$ and $h_{3,i}$ almost identical to the best model that we discuss in the remaining text, but we encountered problems in obtaining a meaningful value of $h_{4,B}$. To improve the fitting, we made two modifications to the procedure. Firstly, we used a robust fitting process instead of a simple weighted $\chi^2$ minimization, i.e. we used an approach that is less sensitive outliers. This was carried out using the minimization of a loss function $\rho(\chi^2)$ instead of the simple minimization of the $\chi^2$. In particular, we adopted a smooth approximation to absolute value implemented in the program \textsc{least\_squares} given by $\rho(\chi^2)=2(\sqrt{1+\chi^2}-1)$ \citep[see][]{Triggs2000}. This alleviated the problem by removing a few outliers from the analysis. However, a better solution for the problem is to assume that components A and B are, from the kinematics point of view, a joint component.
As discussed in the photometric modeling (see Section~\ref{sec:sercomponents}), we performed a photometric decomposition to obtain the best description of the surface brightness in NGC~3311, but it does not necessarily follow that all these components are physically distinct. A closer inspection of the center of NGC~3311 reveals the presence of a large dust lane, and the use of two compact components (A and B) in the center may be not related to physically independent components, but just as a way to describe the central component better from a mathematical perspective. This is the case of NGC~7507, studied by \citet{2013ApJ...766...47H}, where the use of an additional component increases the quality of the photometric decomposition considerably. We believe that the center of NGC~3311 is a similar case; that is, both components A and B are used to describe the surface brightness of the same entity, as it was indicated also by a very similar kinematics derived for these components when treated disjointly.
\subsection{Results}
The parameters of our best model are presented in Table~\ref{tab:gmm}. As discussed above, components A and B are treated with a unique \ac{LOSVD}, thus we refer to these components jointly as A+B. The resulting maps of the \ac{LOSVD}s are displayed in Fig.~\ref{fig:photkinmodel}, including the observed \ac{LOSVD}s (top panels), the best fit model for the \ac{FMD} model (middle panels), and the residuals between observations and models (bottom panels). To illustrate the radial profiles for the kinematics, Fig. \ref{fig:kinprofile} shows the comparison of the observed \ac{LOSVD}s with the models along a pseudo-slit orientated at a position angle of \SI{40}{\degree}, similar to the profiles presented in Fig. \ref{fig:kinmajaxis}, but now using a logarithmic scale for the radial direction to improve the visualization of the inner data points.
\begin{figure*}[t]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{model18_sn70_obs_model_resid.png}
\caption{Comparison of observed kinematics and the finite mixture model in NGC 3311. Top panels: Observed four moments of the \ac{LOSVD} in a Gauss-Hermite expansion, including systemic velocity ($V$), velocity dispersion ($\sigma$), and two high-order moments for the skewness ($h_3$) and kurtosis ($h_4$) of the distribution. Middle panels: Best fit for the finite mixture model according to parameters in Table \ref{tab:gmm} (see text for details). Bottom panels: Residuals between the observed fields on top and the best fit models in the middle panels.}
\label{fig:photkinmodel}
\end{figure*}
\begin{table*}
\caption{Gauss-Hermite profile parameters for the four photometric components in the finite mixture model.}
\label{tab:gmm}
\centering
\begin{tabular}{ccccc}
\hline
\hline
Component & $\mu_i$ (km / s) & $\sigma_i$ (km / s) & $h_{3,i}$ & $h_{4,i}$ \\
\hline
A+B & $3856.7 \pm 1.5$ & $152.8 \pm 2.6$ & $-0.056 \pm 0.008$ & $-0.076 \pm 0.019$ \\
C & $3836 \pm 6$ & $188 \pm 7$ & $0.000 \pm 0.020$ & $-0.010 \pm 0.027$ \\
D & $3978 \pm 13$ & $327 \pm 9$ & $-0.097 \pm 0.011$ & $0.036 \pm 0.012$ \\
\hline
\hline
\end{tabular}
\end{table*}
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{kinprofile_sn70_devauc_40deg.png}
\caption{Comparison of the radial profiles of the four moments of the \ac{LOSVD} observed along the semi-major axis at PA$=$\SI{40}{\degree} within a pseudo-slit of \SI{3}{\arcsec} width. Large blue circles indicate the observed values while small orange circles indicate the results for the finite mixture model. Negative (positive) radius indicate data points at the NE (SW) from the center of NGC 3311.}
\label{fig:kinprofile}
\end{figure}
{\it Evaluation of the model $-$}
The major limitation of our modeling are the results at large radii, where the model has a velocity dispersion that is usually smaller than the data. However, there are a number of reasons to explain this results. The first is the presence of substructure at large radii, which increases the scatter of the measured \ac{LOSVD}. Second, also at large radii, we are dealing with bins with low S/N and larger area in relation to the central bins, which lead to larger uncertainties and, consequently, lower weights in the optimization routine. Finally, there is the issue of the spatial coverage of our observations, which cover only part of the galaxy. Despite these issues, the model is clearly able to recover the large-scale properties of the observations, e.g., the rising of the LOS velocity and velocity dispersion from the center of NGC~3311, and the large scale northeast and southwest asymmetry, and the residual maps indicate only features on smaller scales that our model was not meant to fit. An interpretation of the scatter to larger velocity dispersions at large radii is given in \citet{hilker2017}.
{\it Component C as a fast rotator $-$} Our \ac{FMD} modeling allows us to revisit the rotation pattern observed in MUSE Field~I previosuly discussed in Section~\ref{sec:starvel}. NGC~3311 is classified as a typical slow rotator, as evidenced by the last panel of Fig.~\ref{fig:kinemetry} where we showed that the residuals from the \textsc{kinemetry} are always larger than 5\% of the rotation velocity. However, at least in the radial range between $R\sim 2$ and \SI{5}{\kilo\parsec}, the ratio $k_5/V_{\rm rot}$ is not much larger than such threshold. In this radial range, component C dominates the light (see Fig.~\ref{fig:lightfraction}) and may be characterised by a regular rotation pattern.
The maximum rotation in the above radial range is about $V_{\rm C}\approx$\SI{20}{\kilo\meter\per\second}, with the value for the velocity dispersion of $\sigma_{\rm C}=$\SI{188}{\kilo\meter\per\second} according to the \ac{FMD} model. Thus $V_{\rm C}/\sigma_{\rm C}\approx 0.1$, and the ellipticity of component C from the photometry is $\varepsilon=1-\frac{b}{a}=0.03$. Given these values, it is possible to classify this component as an oblate isotropic spheroid, similar to the fast rotators in the ATLAS$^{\text 3D}$ survey \citep{2011MNRAS.414..888E}.
While NGC~3311 as a whole is correctly characterized as slow rotator, we have evidence that an individual structural component, i.e. component C, may be regarded as rotating. The implication of the classification of component C as a fast rotator denotes the importance of a detailed analysis of the kinematics in conjunction with photometry, in particular in a complex system such as a cD galaxy, where a large fraction of the light may come from accreted stars.
{\it Kinematical signatures of asymmetric features $-$}
Our \ac{FMD} model does not include non-axisymmetric components, such as the elongated features seen in the Southwest region of MUSE Field~I (see Fig.~\ref{fig:photres}). Yet, this substructure is clearly present, as indicated by the features in the residual map of the velocity dispersion, Fig.~\ref{fig:photkinmodel}, where a local enhancement in the velocity dispersion at around $\sim 30$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} is observed at the same location. The shape of this substructure is unclear considering the limited area coverage of our MUSE mosaic in that specific region.
The presence of a large number of substructures around \ac{BCG}s is expected from simulations \citep[e.g.][]{2015MNRAS.451.2703C}. Therefore, our model may be used for another application, which is to verify whether streams observed in the photometric decompositions are also imprinting any kinematic signatures. The study of this substructure is beyond the scope of this project, but the confirmation of its existence in the residuals from the model highlights the importance of using a 2D analysis to study massive \ac{ETGs}.
\subsection{The scaling laws of the components in NGC~3311}
The velocity dispersion is considered a proxy for the galaxy mass, and it is among the primary parameters to be used in the scaling relations, such as the Faber-Jackson relation \citep{1976ApJ...204..668F} and the fundamental plane \citep{1973A&A....23..259B,1987ApJ...313...59D,1987ApJ...313...42D} relations. Here, we investigate whether the properties of the photometric \& kinematic components in NGC~3311 comply with scaling relations for isolated ETGs.
Fig.~\ref{fig:faberjackson} shows the Faber-Jackson relation in the V-band, i.e., the total integrated magnitude as a function of the velocity dispersion. For comparison, Fig.~\ref{fig:faberjackson} also shows the Faber-Jackson relation for galaxies in the Carnegie-Irvine Galaxy Survey \citep{2011ApJS..197...21H} for a sample of 605 bright galaxies in the Southern hemisphere. We also indicate the two Faber-Jackson relations obtained by the SAURON survey \citep{2011MNRAS.417.1787F}, one including all the galaxies in the survey (solid line) and another including only slow rotators (dashed line). The central component A+B falls below the expected Faber-Jackson relation, but we may attribute that effect to the dust extinction in the central region. The analysis of the emission lines in the central region indicates the extinction is relevant within the inner kiloparsec, having values of E(B-V)$\approx 0.75$ in the center. Components C and D do follow the Faber-Jackson relations: component C lies between the relations from the SAURON survey for fast and slow rotators, and component D falls onto that for slow rotators.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{faber-jackson.png}
\caption{Faber-Jackson relation for the subcomponents in NGC~3311 (orange squares) using the V-band photometric model and the velocity dispersion from the finite mixture model. Blue circles indicate the galaxies in the Carnegie-Irvine Galaxy Survey \citep{2011ApJS..197...21H}, while the green lines indicate the results from the SAURON survey \citep{2011MNRAS.417.1787F}, including all galaxies (solid line) and slow rotators (dashed line) only.}
\label{fig:faberjackson}
\end{figure}
In Fig.~\ref{fig:fundamentalplane}, we show the edge-on projection of the fundamental plane for the three components of NGC~3311. For comparison, we also show the data from \citet{2000ApJ...531..184K}, who studied a sample of 53 galaxies in the cluster Cl 1358+62 at $z=0.33$ to construct the fundamental plane for 30 elliptical and lenticular galaxies. The y-axis shows the fundamental plane projection calculated for the SAURON survey by \citet{2011MNRAS.417.1787F} for the V-band. To match the data from the SAURON with the data from \citet{2000ApJ...531..184K}, we offset the fundamental plane by 0.34. Such an offset may be caused by the different methods used for the calculation of parameters: \citet{2011MNRAS.417.1787F} use IFU data to calculate luminosity-weighted parameters within one effective radius, while \citet{2000ApJ...531..184K} use total magnitudes taken from \ac{HST} WFPC2 imaging translated to Johnson V magnitudes, whose photometry was obtained by modeling the surface brightnesses with $R^{1/4}$ profiles and central velocity dispersions \citep[see details in ][]{2000ApJ...531..137K,2000ApJ...531..159K}. We converted their effective radius from arcsec to kpc assuming distances calculated from the redshift of the cluster in the cosmology assumed in this work.
\begin{figure}
\centering
\includegraphics[width=\linewidth]{fundamental_plane.png}
\caption{Edge-on projection of the fundamental plane as a function of the effective radius. We use the fundamental plane equation (solid green lines) from the SAURON survey \citep{2011MNRAS.417.1787F}, offset by a factor of 0.34 to match the observations from \citet{2000ApJ...531..184K} (blue circles). The dashed green lines indicate the one standard deviation of the fundamental plane. The components of NGC~3311 identified in our analysis (orange squares) are labeled according to Table \ref{tab:gmm}.}
\label{fig:fundamentalplane}
\end{figure}
The tightness of the fundamental plane is regarded as a degree of the virialization of galaxies \citep{1987nngp.proc..175F}. The results of our analysis indicate that the components follow the expected fundamental plane relation for galaxies, including the most luminous components C and D, whose effective radii are larger than those sampled in both SAURON and \citet{2000ApJ...531..184K} samples. The values of $\log R_{e,V}$ and $\log \sigma$ for component D place it at the high effective radius and sigma end of the fundamental plane for isolated ETGs. This region of the fundamental plane occurs before significant changes in the M/L ratios take place, such as is found in cases with ICL spheroids \citep{2006ApJ...638..725Z}.
\section{Discussion}
\label{sec:discussion}
The \ac{MUSE} IFU enables measurements of the spectra from the stellar light in the faint outer regions of ETGs. By coadding field portions it is possible to achieve adequate signal-to-noise ratios and reach out to several effective radii. Such an observing strategy is particularly well suited for \ac{BCG}s, as it enables measurements of the 2D kinematics maps and metallicities out to very large radii, sampling the extended halos of these objects \citep{2016MNRAS.461..230E}. Our goal for NGC~3311 is to measure the \ac{LOS} velocity offsets between the galaxy's bright central regions and the extended halo directly from the Doppler shifts of the absorption lines, and the 2D maps of the four LOSVD moments. The next step will be the analysis of the metallicities (in a forthcoming paper, Barbosa et al. 2018, in prep.).
\subsection{The peculiar velocity of NGC~3311}
\label{sec:pecvel}
We start our discussion with the results for the mean \ac{LOS} velocities of the different regions of NGC~3311 obtained by our 2D modeling of the velocity field. Our mean \ac{LOS} velocity for the very center of NGC~3311, $v_{LOS,cen} = 3856\pm 10$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}, agrees with the previous measurements of \citet{2008A&A...486..697M, 2010A&A...520L...9V, 2011A&A...531A.119R}\footnote{See extensive discussion in \citet{2010A&A...520L...9V} on the origin of the systematic offsets with respect to the \ac{LOS} velocity measurements of \citet{2008MNRAS.391.1009L}.}. We can compare this value with that of the mean Hydra~I cluster redshift from extended spectroscopic surveys of cluster galaxies \citep{1994AJ....107.1637B, 2003ApJ...591..764C}. This gives $\langle V_{\rm Hydra} \rangle = 3683 \pm 46$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2003ApJ...591..764C}, indicating a relative motion of $\Delta V_{LOS} = 173$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} for the center of NGC~3311.
Our new MUSE data cubes provide direct evidence for the galaxy's peculiar velocity from the wavelength shifts of the faint absorption lines on the continuum from the inner bright regions to the faint outer halo.
The visual inspection of the mean \ac{LOS} velocity map showed already that the inner regions of the galaxy, corresponding to photometric and kinematic components A to C, have a different mean velocity from the diffuse outer envelope, the D component. The results of the \ac{FMD} modeling indicates that the D component is offset by $\Delta V_{LOS}=122\pm 13$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} and $\Delta V_{LOS}=142\pm 14$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} from component A+B and C, respectively. Assuming a cluster velocity dispersion from satellite members of $\sigma_{\rm Hydra}=724\pm 31$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2003ApJ...591..764C}, our modeling of the MUSE 2D \ac{LOS} velocity map indicates that component D, i.e. the envelope of NGC~3311, has a peculiar LOS velocity of at least $20\%$ of the cluster velocity dispersion with respect to the inner galaxy. These results greatly improve on the early attempts by \citet{1994AJ....107.1637B} to measure the peculiar velocities of this \ac{BCG}.
\subsection{The cD envelope of NGC~3311}
\label{sec:cDenv}
In the local universe, peculiar velocities of \ac{BCG}s with respect to their diffuse envelope or the intracluster light component have been measured for M87 in Virgo \citep{2015A&A...579A.135L}, NGC~6166 in Abell 2199 \citep{2015ApJ...807...56B} and NGC~4874 in the Coma cluster \citep{2007A&A...468..815G}. In NGC~3311, the outer envelope (the D component) dominates over the entire light distribution of NGC~3311, providing 81\% of the total light. This outer envelope is not only shifted relative to the central galaxy in the mean velocity, by $\Delta V_{LOS}=142\pm14 \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}$ as discussed in Section \ref{sec:pecvel}, but also in space, by about $33''$ (8.6 kpc, this work) to $50''$ \citep[12.5 kpc;][]{2012A&A...545A..37A}. Thus also a tangential relative motion must be present, so that we estimate a total relative velocity between central galaxy and cD envelope, of $\Delta V_{tot} = \sqrt{3}\times\Delta V_{LOS} = 204$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}.
If we follow the definition of the velocity bias of a \ac{BCG} given in \citet{2005MNRAS.361.1203V}, and adopt $\langle\sigma_{cen}\rangle = \Delta V_{tot}$ and $\langle\sigma_{\rm sat}\rangle = \sigma_{\rm Hydra}$, then the total velocity bias of component D is about $b_{vel}=0.3$. We can also compare the spatial offset measured for component D with the estimates from the models of galaxy velocity biases from \citet{2005MNRAS.361.1203V} and \citet{2015MNRAS.446..578G}. These works agree on an estimate of the radial bias $b_{rad} \simeq 1\% $ of the halo virial radius. For halo virial masses $ \geq 10^{14} h^{-1} M_\odot$, $R_{vir} \sim 1$ Mpc and the radial bias value is thus $\simeq 10$ kpc, which is of the same order of magnitude as the spatial offsets measured for component D with respect to the NGC~3311 central regions.
Within the paradigm of galaxy formation in $\Lambda$CDM cosmology, \ac{BCG}s are expected to have non-negligible peculiar velocities in relation to the cluster dark matter halo \citep{2005MNRAS.361.1203V,2017ApJ...841...45Y}. Because of the large velocity dispersion and spatial extension, the cD envelope lives in a larger volume and its stars move in the potential generated primarily by the closest dark matter distribution, in the cluster core \citep{2010MNRAS.405.1544D}. Thus one might expect that the cD envelope is closer in velocity to the cluster core, and that the central galaxy would have been perturbed out of the center of this larger structure, e.g., because of close interactions with other satellite galaxies \citep{2007MNRAS.377....2M}. This case is dubbed {\it Non-Relaxed Galaxy} (NRG) scenario in the study of velocity bias by \citet{2005MNRAS.361.1203V} and \citet{2017ApJ...841...45Y}. However, the peculiar velocity of a \ac{BCG}s may also arise when the innermost parts of the cluster halo are in motion relative to the cluster dark halo on larger scales. This case is dubbed the {\it Non-Relaxed Halo} (NRH) scenario \citep{2005MNRAS.361.1203V}. NRHs may occur because of subcluster mergers, that could be recognized because they also leave imprints in the X-ray emission and temperature maps \citep{2004MNRAS.352..508R}.
Which of these scenarios applies to NGC 3311?
From \citet{2006PASJ...58..695H, 2012A&A...545A..37A} and our current study, we know that the D component is co-spatial with a high metallicity region in the X-rays $\sim 1.5$ arcmin north-east of NGC~3311. It also coincides spatially with the X-ray emission from the Hydra~I cluster core: see the X-ray image in Fig.~2 of \citet{2004PASJ...56..743H}. A faint extended X-ray emission with angular dimension $\sim 1'$ trailing NGC~3311 to the northeast towards this high metallicity region is also seen. This could be due to ram pressure stripping of the gas \citep[see Chandra observations from][]{2004PASJ...56..743H}, if this feature and the confined ($<2$kpc) strongest X-ray emitting region to the south-west, which is co-spatial with the optical inner region of NGC~3311, are moving with relative velocity $\simeq 260$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} during the last $5 \times 10^7$ yr \citep{2004PASJ...56..743H,2006PASJ...58..695H}. This relative velocity is consistent with the velocity of component D relative to A+B \& C.
If component A+B \& C are moving with respect to D, we might then expect the outer envelope to be at rest with respect to the mean cluster redshift, as observed for example for NGC~6166 in the Abell~2199 cluster \citep{2015ApJ...807...56B}.
What is the {\it total} relative velocity of component D with respect to the mean cluster redshift of the core region and the cluster on large scales? The mean \ac{LOS} velocity of the galaxies in the core is $3982 \pm 148$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2008A&A...486..697M} and agrees with the mean velocity of the D component, within the error. The difference with the mean cluster redshift $\langle V_{\rm Hydra}\rangle$ is $\Delta V_{LOS} = 295$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}. If we account for the tangential relative motion associated with the spatial offset between the X-ray high metallicity peak and the center of the ICM emission of the Hydra~I cluster, which is $28''$ to the south west of NGC~3311 \citep{2004PASJ...56..743H}, we get $\Delta V_{tot} = \sqrt{3}\times 295 = 510 $ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}. Hence the inner core halo and the envelope have a velocity bias of at least 40\% of the cluster velocity dispersion. The large value of the velocity bias of the cD envelope and the cluster core is similar to what is found for \ac{BCG}s in Abell clusters \citep{2014ApJ...797...82L}. The evidence from the X-ray distortions and the large velocity bias of the envelope support the NRH scenario for the peculiar velocities of the different components (A+B, C, and D) in NGC~3311.
What is causing the sloshing of the inner core in the Hydra~I cluster? Within the inner $100 \times 100$ kpc$^2$ region centred on NGC~3311, there are 14 galaxies in total with $V>4450$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} that are currently being disrupted and adding debris to the outer envelope \citep{2011A&A...528A..24V, 2012A&A...545A..37A}. On a slightly larger scale, i.e. 15 arcmin ($\simeq 236$ kpc radius), the mean average redhifts of satellite galaxies is $3982 \pm 148$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second} \citep{2008A&A...486..697M} that also is offset to a larger velocity from the value determined by \citeauthor{2003ApJ...591..764C} over the entire cluster. This is suggestive of an on-going subcluster merging. In such case, the peculiar velocities of the NGC~3311 component D and A+B,C can be understood as the central regions being pulled along by the portion of the inner cluster halo closer to the envelope, because of the on-going subcluster merger. Since the inner high density regions experience stronger deflections \citep{2007A&A...468..815G,2007MNRAS.377....2M,2011A&A...528A..24V}, and because of different projections of component velocities relative to the LOS, the LOS velocities with respect to the cluster at larger scales may be different for component D compared to components A+B and C.
\subsection{High-order kinematics moments}
\label{sec:highorder}
Ordinary massive ETGs have nearly isothermal mass profiles and nearly Gaussian LOSVDs, with small values of the Hermite higher moments ($h_3$, $h_4$) indicating slow rotation and modest radial anisotropies \citep[e.g.][]{2001AJ....121.1936G, 2013ApJ...777...98S, 2015ApJ...804L..21C}. Generally the deviations from Gaussian LOSVDs are small, with the asymmetric deviations signalled by the $h_3$ parameter values being usually larger than the symmetric $h_4$ values \citep{1994MNRAS.269..785B}. Our \ac{MUSE} 2D maps for the moments of the LOSVD in NGC~3311 show relatively large spatial variations for both $h_3$ and $h_4$, with positive values of $h_4$ larger than the $h_3$ values over the entire area.
Our model in Sec.~\ref{sec:modeling} indicates that most of the spatial variations of the $h_3$ and $h_4$ maps can be reproduced by the superposition of different components along the \ac{LOS} whose higher order moments (i.e. the deviations from Gaussian LOSVD) are small. It is the superposition of nearly isothermal spheroids with different light distributions, LOS velocities and centers that causes the spatial variations in the 2D maps and profiles as seen in Fig.~\ref{fig:photkinmodel} and \ref{fig:kinprofile}. From the \ac{FMD} modeling, the inner regions, i.e. components A+B \& C, are characterised by small negative (-0.056) or null values of the $h_3$ parameter and small negative values (-0.076, -0.010 respectively) for $h_4$, while the outer envelope is associated with a modest negative value (-0.097) for $h_3$ and positive value (0.036) for $h_4$. The superposition of components along the LOS for NGC~3311 reproduces the $h_3,\, h_4$ vs $v/\sigma$ correlations shown in Fig.~\ref{fig:h3h4}. These correlations are similar to those computed for simulated galaxies formed from dry mergers or already passive progenitors, according to the {\it F type} classification in \citet{2014MNRAS.444.3357N}.
Recent studies based on extended IFU, e.g. the MASSIVE survey \citep{2017MNRAS.464..356V}, and deep long slit \citep{2015ApJ...807...56B} observations measured the values of $h_3$, $h_4$ out to two effective radii and showed that the most luminous ETGs \citep[$M_K < -26.0$;][]{2017MNRAS.464..356V} have mean values of $\langle h_4\rangle \simeq 0.05$ at $2R_e$ and close to zero in the centers \citep[e.g.][]{2017ApJ...835..104V, 2017MNRAS.464..356V}.
For NGC~3311, the $h_3,\, h_4$ profiles are shown in the two bottom panels of Fig.~\ref{fig:kinprofile}. $h_3$ is nearly zero out to $2$ kpc and then becomes negative at distances larger than $10$ kpc, where the \ac{LOS} velocity increases. $h_4$ values are near zero at the center, increase to $\simeq 0.1$ at $2-4$ kpc and then decrease to smaller positive values at radii $>10$ kpc. The $h_4$ positive values measured for NGC~3311 are similar to those measured in other galaxies of the same luminosity class \citep{2017MNRAS.464..356V}.
The core-wing structure of the LOSVD that is signalled by positive values of $h_4$ may come about because of radial anisotropy, that causes an overabundance of stars at zero \ac{LOS} velocity \citep{1998MNRAS.295..197G}. Radial anisotropy causes the projected LOS dispersion to be underestimated also, and leads to a decreasing $\sigma_{LOS}$ profile with radius \citep{2007ApJ...664..257D, 2009MNRAS.395...76D}. Positive $h_4$ and {\it increasing $\sigma$} as observed in NGC~3311 are reminiscent of the properties of simulated massive ETGs in cosmological simulations by \citet{2014MNRAS.438.2701W}. These most massive galaxies have increasing circular velocity curves with radius, radial anisotropy in the $ 2 - 5 R_e$ region and a large fraction of accreted stars \citep{2014MNRAS.438.2701W}.
In Sec.~\ref{sec:modeling}, the results from our modeling show that each component has a modest or small anisotropy, with the inner regions, i.e. components A+B \& C, characterised by negative values for $h_4$ as in the case of tangential anisotropy.
The \citet{2014MNRAS.438.2701W} simulations predict similar values of $h_4$ for components created by dissipative events. Because the outermost component (component D) has a surface brightness profile with the largest effective radius ($R_{e,D}=51\pm5$ kpc) and velocity dispersion $\sigma_D=327$ \si{\kilo\meter\per\second}, it contributes light in the inner $10$ kpc from regions with larger circular velocity, giving thus rise to the core-winged structure of the LOSVD, as it is measured.
\section{Summary and conclusion}
\label{sec:conclusion}
In this work, we presented the detailed analysis of the MUSE mosaiced pointing covering the light of NGC~3311, that allowed the detailed mapping of the \ac{LOSVD} moments within the central galaxy and part of its extended cD halo. In the first part of the paper, we measured the LOSVD maps from our new MUSE data. Based on the extended maps, we determine the peculiar velocity of the central galaxy in relation to its stellar halo, the rising velocity dispersion profile, and the presence of a cD halo that is kinematically decoupled from the central luminous regions of NGC~3311. The entire galaxy is classified as a slow rotator, with small correlation between the high-order moments $h_3, \, h_4$ with $V/\sigma$. The diagnostic diagrams $h_3$, $h_4$ vs. $V/\sigma$ indicate that NGC~3311 is similar to simulated galaxies formed mostly by dry mergers of already passive progenitors.
In the second part of the paper, we revisited the photometry of NGC~3311. Using deep V-band photometry and building upon previous results on the surface brightness decomposition, we carried out a photometric model that includes four S\'ersic components. Three out of four components are concentric, while the outer one has a central offset and dominates the light at large radii. This model is able to reproduce the surface brightness distribution in the galaxy and its immediate surroundings in the Hydra~I cluster core. The residuals further indicated the presence of asymmetric substructures pointing to recent episodes of minor accretion events.
In the final part of this paper, we developed a simple finite mixture model to describe the \ac{LOSVD} of the system based on the photometric subcomponents and assuming nearly isothermal spheres with small deviations from Gaussianity. This model describes the large-scale properties of the observations very well, including the strong radial variations of the four \ac{LOSVD} moments and their 2D maps. We conclude that the outer envelope is responsible for the core-winged structure of the LOSVD in the bright central region also, by contributing stars that experience larger circular velocities. The success of this modeling supports the combined approach, surface brightenss profiles and 2D kinematics modeling, to study massive, non-rotating early-type galaxies, and clarify the origin of the radial gradients in the four \ac{LOSVD} moments in \ac{BCG}s.
On the basis of these results, we present a strong case for the peculiar velocity of the outer halo of NGC~3311 and measured a velocity bias of 0.3 for this \ac{BCG}, as a lower limit. The results of the FMD modeling show that the envelope (component D) i) is displaced from the central regions, and ii) has a larger effective radius, and iii) larger mean velocity and velocity dispersion compared to the central regions. These results, taken together with the morphology of the cospatial X-ray emission, let us conclude that the velocity bias originates from a ``Non Relaxed Halo'' scenario caused by an on-going subcluster merging in the Hydra~I core. We conclude that the cD envelope of NGC~3311 is dynamically associated to the cluster core, which in Hydra~I cluster is in addition displaced from the main cluster center, presumably due to a recent subcluster merger.
The result of our analysis depicts NGC~3311 as a massive elliptical whose majority of stars are accreted from merging satellities orbiting in the Hydra~I cluster, on preferentially radial orbits. Our next steps will be to constrain the progenitors of the components in NGC~3311, by measuring age and metallicity of their stars.
\begin{acknowledgements}
Based on observations collected at the European Organisation for Astronomical Research in the Southern Hemisphere under ESO programmes 065.N-0459(A), 088.B-0448(B) and 094.B-0711(A). CEB and CMdO thanks the S\~{a}o Paulo Research Foundation (FAPESP) funding (grants 2009/54202-8, 2011/21325-0, 2016/17119-9 and 2016/12331-0). MAR and CEB acknowledge support from the ESO DG discretionary funds. TR acknowledges support from the BASAL Center for Astrophysics and Associated Technologies (PFB-06/2007). TR also acknowledges an ESO senior visitorship during May/August 2016.
\end{acknowledgements}
\bibliographystyle{aa}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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{"url":"https:\/\/www.tutorialexample.com\/implement-lda-model-using-gensim-a-beginner-guide-gensim-tutorial\/","text":"# Implement LDA Model Using Gensim \u2013 A Beginner Guide \u2013 Gensim Tutorial\n\nBy | November 11, 2020\n\nLDA (Latent Dirichlet Allocation) is a kind of unsupervised method to classify documents by topic number. In this tutorial, we will introduce how to build a LDA model using python gensim.\n\nPreliminary\n\nWe should import some libraries first.\n\nfrom nltk.tokenize import RegexpTokenizer\nfrom gensim import corpora, models\nimport os\n\nBefore we use gensim lda model to classify documents, we should load text documents first.\n\ndata_file ='..\/data\/imdb\/train.ss'\ndocs = []\nwith open(data_file, 'rb') as f:\nfor line in f:\ndata = \"\"\nline = line.decode('utf-8', 'ignore')\nline = line.strip().split('\\t\\t')\n#print(line)\ndata = line[3].lower()\ndata = data.replace('<sssss>','')\ndocs.append(data)\nprint(len(docs))\nprint(docs[0][:500])\n\nHere docs is a python list, which contains some documents, you can modify this code to load your own documents.\n\nIn this exode, we have loaded 67426 documents.\n\n67426\ni excepted a lot from this movie , and it did deliver . there is some great buddhist wisdom in this movie . the real dalai lama is a very interesting person , and i think there is a lot of wisdom in buddhism . the music , of course , sounds like because it is by philip glass . this adds to the beauty of the movie . whereas other biographies of famous people tend to get very poor this movie always stays focused and gives a good and honest portrayal of the dalai lama . all things being equal\n\n\nSplit the documents into tokens\n\nAfter we have loaded documents in a python list, we also need to split them to tokens (words). In this tutorial, we will use nltk to split.\n\nHere is an example code:\n\ntokenizer = RegexpTokenizer(r'\\w+')\nfor idx in range(len(docs)):\ndocs[idx] = docs[idx].lower() # Convert to lowercase.\ndocs[idx] = tokenizer.tokenize(docs[idx]) # Split into words.\n\nRemove some words we do not need\n\nIn order to increase the accuracy, we should remove some words, such as numbers, stop words or others.\n\nHere is an example code:\n\n# Remove numbers, but not words that contain numbers.\ndocs = [[token for token in doc if not token.isnumeric()] for doc in docs]\n\n# Remove words that are only one character.\ndocs = [[token for token in doc if len(token) > 1] for doc in docs]\n\nBuild dictionary and corpus\n\nWe have got document words list above, then we can use it to create a dictionary and a corpus.\n\n# Remove rare and common tokens.\nfrom gensim.corpora import Dictionary\n\n# Create a dictionary representation of the documents.\ndictionary = Dictionary(docs)\n\n# Filter out words that occur less than 20 documents, or more than 10% of the documents.\ndictionary.filter_extremes(no_below=20, no_above=0.1)\n\n# Bag-of-words representation of the documents.\ncorpus = [dictionary.doc2bow(doc) for doc in docs]\nprint('Number of unique tokens: %d' % len(dictionary))\nprint('Number of documents: %d' % len(corpus))\nprint(corpus[0])\n\nIn this tutorial, we have filtered out words that occur less than 20 documents, or more than 10% of the documents.\n\nRun this code, we may get result as follows:\n\nNumber of unique tokens: 25080\nNumber of documents: 67426\n[(0, 1), (1, 1), (2, 1), (3, 1), (4, 1), (5, 1), (6, 2), (7, 1), (8, 1), (9, 1), (10, 1), (11, 1), (12, 2), (13, 1), (14, 1), (15, 1), (16, 1), (17, 1), (18, 2), (19, 2), (20, 1), (21, 1), (22, 1), (23, 1), (24, 1), (25, 1), (26, 1), (27, 1), (28, 2)]\n\n\nUse dictionary and corpus to build LDA model\n\nWe can use gensim LdaModel to create a lda model using dictionary and corpus. Here is an example:\n\nfrom gensim.models import LdaModel\nnum_topics = 10\nchunksize = 2000\npasses = 20\niterations = 400\neval_every = None # Don't evaluate model perplexity, takes too much time.\n\nid2word = dictionary.id2token\n\nmodel_name = \".\/imdb-\"+str(num_topics)+\".lda\"\nmodel = LdaModel(\ncorpus=corpus,\nid2word=id2word,\nchunksize=chunksize,\nalpha='auto',\neta='auto',\niterations=iterations,\nnum_topics=num_topics,\npasses=passes,\nminimum_probability = 0.0,\neval_every=eval_every\n)\nmodel.show_topic(0)\n#save model\nmodel.save(model_name)\n\nThen we can use model.save() to save lda model.\n\nPrint the topic distribution of documents\n\nAfter we have created a lda model using gensim, in order to know the topic distribution of a document, we can use code below:\n\nfor index, score in sorted(lda_model[corpus[0]], key=lambda tup: -1*tup[1]):\nprint (\"Score: {}\\t Topic ID: {} Topic: {}\".format(score, index, lda_model.print_topic(index, 10)))\nprint(n)\n\nIn this code, we will display the topic distribution of the first document.\n\nRun this code, we will find:\n\nScore: 0.37222424149513245\t Topic ID: 2 Topic: 0.006*\"war\" + 0.005*\"human\" + 0.004*\"american\" + 0.003*\"perhaps\" + 0.003*\"itself\" + 0.003*\"often\" + 0.003*\"events\" + 0.003*\"given\" + 0.003*\"viewer\" + 0.003*\"reality\"\nScore: 0.17407076060771942\t Topic ID: 0 Topic: 0.005*\"minutes\" + 0.004*\"saw\" + 0.004*\"maybe\" + 0.004*\"said\" + 0.004*\"seeing\" + 0.004*\"half\" + 0.004*\"nice\" + 0.004*\"let\" + 0.004*\"bond\" + 0.004*\"am\"\nScore: 0.14683006703853607\t Topic ID: 7 Topic: 0.007*\"picture\" + 0.006*\"beautiful\" + 0.006*\"score\" + 0.005*\"oscar\" + 0.005*\"perfect\" + 0.005*\"wonderful\" + 0.004*\"direction\" + 0.004*\"brilliant\" + 0.004*\"cinematography\" + 0.004*\"cinema\"\nScore: 0.0867297500371933\t Topic ID: 4 Topic: 0.009*\"book\" + 0.008*\"series\" + 0.007*\"harry\" + 0.006*\"battle\" + 0.006*\"fight\" + 0.005*\"earth\" + 0.005*\"alien\" + 0.005*\"fi\" + 0.005*\"sci\" + 0.005*\"evil\"\nScore: 0.07743233442306519\t Topic ID: 9 Topic: 0.024*\"allen\" + 0.014*\"western\" + 0.014*\"woody\" + 0.011*\"paris\" + 0.011*\"mann\" + 0.008*\"jim\" + 0.008*\"keaton\" + 0.008*\"leone\" + 0.008*\"cooper\" + 0.007*\"adams\"\nScore: 0.07302337139844894\t Topic ID: 6 Topic: 0.008*\"father\" + 0.006*\"mother\" + 0.006*\"son\" + 0.005*\"home\" + 0.005*\"friend\" + 0.005*\"brother\" + 0.004*\"finds\" + 0.004*\"women\" + 0.004*\"david\" + 0.004*\"town\"\nScore: 0.03492188826203346\t Topic ID: 5 Topic: 0.011*\"dead\" + 0.008*\"thriller\" + 0.007*\"house\" + 0.007*\"killer\" + 0.007*\"night\" + 0.006*\"murder\" + 0.006*\"police\" + 0.006*\"michael\" + 0.005*\"violence\" + 0.005*\"blood\"\nScore: 0.015267780050635338\t Topic ID: 1 Topic: 0.010*\"humor\" + 0.010*\"hilarious\" + 0.009*\"laugh\" + 0.009*\"kids\" + 0.009*\"jokes\" + 0.008*\"laughs\" + 0.006*\"comedies\" + 0.006*\"steve\" + 0.005*\"sex\" + 0.005*\"nick\"\nScore: 0.009802566841244698\t Topic ID: 3 Topic: 0.013*\"jones\" + 0.012*\"robert\" + 0.012*\"james\" + 0.010*\"ford\" + 0.010*\"williams\" + 0.009*\"de\" + 0.008*\"spielberg\" + 0.008*\"grant\" + 0.007*\"henry\" + 0.007*\"scott\"\nScore: 0.0096972631290555\t Topic ID: 8 Topic: 0.018*\"dr\" + 0.015*\"peter\" + 0.010*\"agent\" + 0.009*\"president\" + 0.009*\"bruce\" + 0.008*\"jackson\" + 0.007*\"douglas\" + 0.007*\"willis\" + 0.007*\"lee\" + 0.007*\"spider\"\n\n\nWe can find the first document is in topic 2, the distribution is 0.372, which is the biggest in all 10 topics.","date":"2020-12-01 08:01:18","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.22526536881923676, \"perplexity\": 9623.348879099372}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2020-50\/segments\/1606141672314.55\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20201201074047-20201201104047-00695.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
\section{ Introduction and Motivation }
\label{}
A definition for the Schur multiplier of a group $G$ is as the
abelian group $M(G)=(R\cap F')/[R,F]$
in which $F/R$ is a free presentation of $G$.
In 1956, J.A. Green \cite{5} showed that the order of the Schur
multiplier of a finite $p$-group of order $p^{n}$ is bounded by
$p^{\frac{n(n-1)}{2}}$, and hence equals to
$p^{\frac{n(n-1)}{2}-t}$, for some non-negative integer $t$.
Ya.G. Berkovich \cite{1}, X. Zhou \cite{9}, G. Ellis \cite{4} and P. Niroomand \cite{pn4,pn5} determined
the structure of $G$ for $t=0,1,2,3,4,5$ by different methods. \
A pair of groups $(G,N)$ is a group $G$ with a normal subgroup $N$.
In 1998, Ellis \cite{3} defined the Schur multiplier of a pair $(G,N)$ of groups to be the abelian
group $M(G,N)$ appearing in the natural exact sequence
\begin{eqnarray*}
H_3(G) &\rightarrow& H_3(G/N) \rightarrow M(G,N) \rightarrow M(G)
\rightarrow M(G/N)\\
&\rightarrow& N/[N,G]\rightarrow (G)^{ab} \rightarrow (G/N)^{ab} \rightarrow 0
\end{eqnarray*}
in which $H_3(G)$ is the third homology of $G$ with integer coefficients.
He mentioned that this notion is a useful tool for studying pairs of groups.
He also gave an upper bound for the order of the Schur multiplier of pairs of finite groups.
It is interesting to know for which classes of pairs of groups the structure of the pair
$(G,N)$ can be completely described in terms of the order of $M(G,N)$.
In 2004, Salemkar, Moghaddam and Saeedi \cite{8} tried to answer to this question
for a pair of finite $p$-groups and
proved the following theorem.
\begin{thm}
(\cite{8}) Let $(G,N)$ be a pair of
groups and $K$ be the complement of
$N$ in $G$, with $|N|=p^n$ and $|K|= p^m$. Then the following statements hold:\\
$(i)$ $|M(G,N)| \leq p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}$;\\
$(ii)$ If $G$ is abelian, $N$ is elementary abelian and
$|M(G,N)| = p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}$, then $G$ is elementary abelian;\\
$(iii)$ If the pair $(G,N)$ is non-capable and $|M(G,N)| = p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-1}$,
then $G \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$.
\end{thm}
In this paper we extend the above theorem and characterize the structure
of the pair $(G,N)$ of finite $p$-groups in terms of the order of $M(G,N)$ in more cases.
Let $G$, $N$ and $K$ be as in Theorem 1 and
$|M(G,N)| = p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-t}$. Then we prove $t=0$ if and only if $N$ is trivial or $(G,N)$ is a pair of elementary abelian $p$-groups. Also, we determine the pair
$(G,N)$, for $t=1$. Moreover, we give the structure of $(G,N)$ for $t=2$ and $t=3$,
when $K$ is a normal subgroup of $G$. The main results of this paper are somehow generalizations of the results of \cite{1}, \cite{9} and \cite{4} to the pair of finite $p$-groups
\section{Preliminaries}
\label{}
Let $(G,N)$ be a pair of groups. We recall that a relative central extension of
the pair $(G,N)$ consists of a group homomorphism $\sigma: M \rightarrow G$,
together with an action of $G$ on $M$, such that \\
$(i)$ $ \sigma (M)=N$,\\
$(ii)$ $ \sigma (m^g)=g^{-1} \sigma (m)g$, for all $g \in G$, $m \in M$\\
$(iii)$ $m^{\sigma(m_1)}=m_1^{-1} m m_1$, for all $m, m_1 \in M$\\
$(iv)$ $ G$ acts trivially on $\ker \sigma$.\\
The $G$-commutator subgroup of $M$ is defined to be the subgroup
$[M,G]$ generated by the $G$-commutators $[m,g]={ m^{-1}m^{g}}$ for all
$g \in G , m \in M$ and the $G$-center of $M$ is the central subgroup
$$Z(M,G)= \{ m \in M| m^g=m \ \ for\ all\ g \in G \}.$$
Also, the subgroup $Z_2(M,G)$ is defined by
$$\frac{Z_2(M,G)}{Z(M,G)}=Z(\frac{M}{Z(M,G)},G).$$
A pair $(G,N)$ is said to be capable if it admits a relative
central extension $\sigma: M \rightarrow G$ with $\ker \sigma=Z(M,G)$.
Note that a group $G$ is capable precisely when the pair $(G,G)$ is capable.\
We call a pair $(G,N)$ an extra special pair of $p$-groups when $Z(N,G)$ and
$[N,G]$ are the same subgroups of order $p$.
Also, we need to recall the definition of a covering pair.
\begin{defn}
(\cite{3}) A relative central
extension $\sigma: N^*\rightarrow G$ of the pair $(G,N)$ will be
called a covering pair if there exists a subgroup $A$ of $N^*$
such that \\
$(i)$ $A \leq Z(N^*,G)\cap [N^*,G]$;\\
$(ii)$ $A \cong M(G,N)$;\\
$(iii)$ $N \cong N^*/A.$
\end{defn}
The following theorem plays an important role to prove the main results.
\begin{thm}
(\cite{3}) Let $(G,N)$ be a pair of groups and
$K$ be the complement of $N$ in $G$. Then $$M(G) \cong M(G,N) \times M(K).$$
\end{thm}
We recall from \cite{6} that if $G= N \times K$, then
$$M(G)\cong M(N) \times M(K) \times (N^{ab}\otimes K^{ab}).$$
A useful consequence of this fact is as follows.
\begin{cor}
If $G= N \times K$, then
$$|M(G,N)|=|M(N)||N^{ab}\otimes K^{ab} |.$$
\end{cor}
We use the following theorems in the next section. Here $D$ denotes the
dihedral group of order 8, $Q$ denotes the quaternion group of order 8 and $E_1$
and $E_2$ denote the extra special groups of order $p^3$ with odd exponent $p$ and $p^2$, respectively.
\begin{thm}
(\cite{4}) Let $G$ be a group of prime-power order $p^n$.
Suppose that $|M(G)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-t}$. Then \\
$(i)$ $t=0$ if and only if $G$ is elementary abelian (\cite{1});\\
$(ii)$ $t=1$ if and only if $G \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$ or $G \cong E_1$ (\cite{1});\\
$(iii)$ $t=2$ if and only if $G \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$, $G\cong D$
or $G\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p}\times E_1$ (\cite{9});\\
$(iv)$ $t=3$ if and only if $G\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^3}$,
$G\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p}\times {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$, $G\cong Q$, $G\cong E_2$,
$G\cong D \times {\bf{Z}}_{2}$ or $G \cong E_1 \times {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$.
\end{thm}
\begin{thm}
(\cite{6}) Let $G \cong
{\bf{Z}}_{n_1}\times {\bf{Z}}_{n_2}\times ...\times {\bf{Z}}_{n_k}$,
where $n_{i+1}|n_i$ for all $i \in {1,2,...,k-1}$ and $k\geq 2$,
and let ${\bf{Z}}_{n}^{(m)}$ denote the direct product of $m$
copies of ${\bf{Z}}_{n}$. Then $$M(G)\cong
{\bf{Z}}_{n_2}\times {\bf{Z}}_{n_3}^{(2)}\times ...\times {\bf{Z}}_{n_k}^{(k-1)}.$$
\end{thm}
\begin{thm}
(\cite{3}) Let $(G,N)$ be a pair of groups such
that $N/Z(N,G)$ is finite of prime power order $p^n$ and $G/N$ is
finite of prime power order $p^m$. Then $$ |M(G,N)||[N,G]|\leq
p^{n(2m+n-1)/2}.$$
\end{thm}
\begin{thm}
(\cite{8}) Let $(G,N)$ be a
pair of finite $p$-groups with $G/N$ and $N/Z(N,G)$ of orders $p^m$ and
$p^n$, respectively. If $|[N,G]|=p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}$, then either
$N/Z(N,G)$ is elementary abelian or the pair
$(G/Z(N,G) ,N/Z(N,G))$ is an extra special pair of finite
$p$-groups.
\end{thm}
\begin{thm}
(\cite{8}) Let $(G,M)$ be a
pair of groups with $G/M$ and $M/Z(M,G)$ of orders $p^m$ and
$p^n$, respectively. Suppose $z \in Z_2(M,G)-Z(M,G)$ and
consider two non-negative integers $\mu (z) $ and $\nu(z)$ where
$$p^{\mu (z)}=|[G,z]|\ \ , p^{\nu (z)}=|\frac{G/[G,z]}{Z(G/[G,z]),
M/[G,z])}|.$$ Then \\
$(a)$ $|[M,G]|\leq p^{\frac{1}{2}(\nu(z)(\nu(z)-1)-m(m-1))+\mu (z)} \leq
p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}$.\\
$(b)$ Suppose for some none-negative integer $s$,
$|[M,G]|=p^{n(2m+n-1)/2-s}$, then the following statements hold:\\
$(i)$ $|[M/Z(M,G),G/Z(M,G)]| \leq p^{s+1}$. If $|[M/Z(M,G),G/Z(M,G)]|=
p^{s+1-k}$ for some $0 \leq k \leq s+1$, then $exp(Z_2(M,G) /
Z(M,G))\leq p^{k+1}$ and $ m+n-1-s \leq \mu (z) \leq m+n-1-s+k$.\\
$(ii)$ If $exp(Z_2(M,G) /
Z(M,G)) \geq p^k$, then $m+n\leq s/(k-1)+k/2$.
\end{thm}
\section{Main Results }
\label{}
In this section we always assume that $(G,N)$ is a pair
of finite $p$-groups such that $K$ is the complement of
$N$ in $G$, with $|N|=p^n$ and $|K|= p^m$, and hence $|M(G,N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-t}$, for some $t\geq 0$.
Salemkar, Moghaddam and Saeedi \cite{8} proved that if $t=0$ and $G$ is abelian and N is elementary abelian, then $G$ is elementary abelian. The first main result of this paper gives a suitable extended version of the above result similar to Berkovich's one \cite{1}.
\begin{thm} With the previous assumptions and notation, $t=0$ if and only if $N$ is trivial or $(G,N)$ is a pair
of elementary abelian $p$-groups.
\end{thm}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.}
Using Theorem 3, we have $|M(G,N)|= |M(G)|/|M(K)|$. Hence necessity is immediate
by Theorems 5.
For sufficiency let the relative central extension
$\sigma: N^*\rightarrow G$ be a covering pair of $(G,N)$. Then
there exists a subgroup $A$ of $N^*$ such that
$ A \leq Z(N^*,G)\cap [N^*,G]$, $A \cong M(G,N)$ and $N \cong N^*/A$.
It is easy to see that for any $k \in K$, the map $\varphi_k : N^* \rightarrow N^*$,
defined by $\varphi_k(n^*)={n^*}^k$, is an automorphism of $N^*$. Therefore, using the homomorphism
$\psi:K \rightarrow Aut(N^*)$, given by $\psi(k)= \varphi_k$, we can define a semidirect
product of $N^*$ by $K$, denoted by $G^*$. It is straightforward to check that the
subgroups $[N^*,G]$ and $Z(N^*,G)$ are contained in
$[N^*,G^*]$ and $Z(N^*,G^*)$ respectively. Then the map $\delta : G^*
\rightarrow G$, given by $\delta(n^*k)=\sigma(n^*)k$, for $n^* \in N^*$, $k\in K$, is an
epimorphism with $\ker(\delta)=\ker(\sigma)$.
Therefore
$$|\frac{N^*}{Z(N^*,G^*)}|\leq
|\frac{N^*}{Z(N^*,G)}|\leq|\frac{N^*}{A}|=|N|=p^n$$ and $$
|\frac{G^*}{N^*}|=|\frac{G^*/A}{N^*/A}|=|\frac{G}{N}|=|K|=p^m.$$
So $|[N^*,G^*]|\leq p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)} $ by Theorem 7. This
implies that
$$p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}=|M(G,N)|=|A| \leq |[N^*,G^*]|\leq p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}.$$ Thus
$A=[N^*,G^*]$. It follows that $N \leq Z(G)$ and we have $G= N \times K$. Then Corollary 4 implies that $p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)}\leq p^{\ \frac{1}{2}n(n-1)}
|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|$. Hence $p^{mn} \leq |N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}| \leq p^{md(N)}$, where $d(N)$ is the minimum number of generators of $N$.
Therefore $n=d(N)$ and hence
$N$ is an elementary abelian $p$-group and $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{mn}$. If $n=0$, then $N$ is trivial subgroup. If $n>0$, then we have $p^{nm}=|{\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n)} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{d(K^{ab})n}$ and it follows that $d(K^{ab})=m$. Therefore $d(K)=m$ and so
$K$ is an elementary abelian $p$-group too. This completes the proof. $\Box$\\
\begin{lem}
Let $(G,N)$ be a pair of $p$-groups such that $[N,G] \neq 1$. Then $Z(N,G) \cap [N,G] \neq 1$.
\end{lem}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.}
Using the fact that $Z(N,G)= Z(G)\cap N$, the result follows. $\Box$
Salemkar, Moghaddam and Saeedi \cite{8} proved that if $t=1$ and $(G,N)$ is non-capable,
then $G \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$. The second main result of this paper gives a vast generalization of the above result similar to Berkovich's one \cite{1}.
\begin{thm}
With the previous assumptions if $t=1$, then one of the following cases holds:\\
$(i)$ $G\cong N \times K$ where $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^{2}}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(ii)$ $G \cong N \times K$, where $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$;\\
$(iii)$ $(G,N)$ is an extra special pair of groups which is capable.
\end{thm}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.} Choose $N^*, G^*$ and $A$ as in the proof of Theorem 10. We divide the proof in two cases:\\
\textbf{Case 1}. Suppose $A \neq Z(N^*,G^*)$.
Then $|N^*/ Z(N^*,G^*)|<|N^*/ A|=p^n$ and
$|N^*/Z(N^*,G^*)|\leq p^{n-1}$. Thus by Theorem
7 $$p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-1} = |A| \leq |[N^*,G^*]| \leq p^{\frac{1}{2}(n-1)(2m+n-2)}.$$
This implies that $n+m \leq 2$. Since $t=1$, by Theorem 10 we have $n\neq 0$ and $G$ is not an elementary abelian $p$-group. Therefore we have $G = N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^{2}}$.\\
\textbf{Case 2.} Suppose $A = Z(N^*,G^*)$.
Then $|N^*/Z(G^*,N^*)|=p^n$. By Theorem 7, we have
$$p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-1}= |A| \leq |[N^*,G^*]|=p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-s}$$ for some $s \geq 0$.
It follows that $s\leq1$.
First, assume that $s=0$. Hence Theorem 9 implies that $|[N,G]|=p$ and $\exp(Z(N,G))=p$.
If $Z(N,G)$ is cyclic, then $[N,G]=Z(N,G)$ has order $p$ by Lemma 11
and hence $(G,N)$ is an extra special pair of groups which is capable.
If $Z(N,G)$ is not cyclic, then $Z(N,G)=Z_2(N^*,G^*)/Z(N^*,G^*)$ has two
distinct subgroups of order $p$. Therefore there exist elements $y_0,
z_0 \in Z_2(N^*,G^*) - Z(N^*,G^*)$ such that
$$|<y_0Z(N^*,G^*)>|=|<z_0Z(N^*,G^*)>|=p$$ and $<y_0Z(N^*,G^*)> \cap
<z_0Z(N^*,G^*)>=1$. Using the proof of Theorem 9, we have $|[G^*,y_0]|=|[G^*,z_0]|=p^{m+n-1}$.
On the other hand, $[G^*,y_0] \cong G/ C_{G^*}(y_0)$ and $[G^*,z_0] \cong G/ C_{G^*}(z_0)$.
So $|C_{G^*}(y_0)|=|C_{G^*}(z_0)|=p$. Thus we have
$$ Z(N^*,G^*) \leq C_{G^*}(y_0)\cap C_{G^*}(z_0)=[N^*,G^*].$$
This implies that $|[N,G]|=|[N^*/Z(G^*,N^*),G^*/Z(G^*,N^*)]|=1$
which is a contradiction.
Now assume that $s=1$, then $A=[N^*,G^*]$. This implies that $N\leq Z(G)$.
Thus $G \cong N \times K$.
Then by Corollary 4 we have $|M(G,N)|=|M(N)||N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|$.
Thus $p^{\frac{1}{2}n(2m+n-1)-1}\leq p^{ \frac{1}{2}n(n-1)}
\times |N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|$. Hence $p^{mn-1} \leq |N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}| \leq p^{md(N)}$.
Therefore $m(n-d(N))\leq 1$. Then $m=0$ or $n-d(N)=0$ or $m=n-d(N)=1$. If $m=0$, then
$G=N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^{2}}$ by Theorem 5. If $d(N)=n$, then
$N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n)}$.
Hence $ p^{d(K)n}=|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{mn-1}$ and $n(m-d(K))=1$.
Therefore $n=1$ and $d(K)=m-1$. In other words, $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$
and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$. Finally, if $m=n-d(N)=1$,
then $K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n-2)}$
which by Corollary 4 and Theorem 6 we must have $n=1$ which is a contradiction. $\Box$
With an additional condition we will be able to state the reverse of the above theorem as follows.
\begin{thm}
Let $K$ be a normal subgroup of $G$. Then $t=1$ if and only if $G \cong N \times K$ with one of the following cases:\\
$i)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^{2}}$ and $K=1$;\\
$ii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$;\\
$iii)$ $N \cong E_1$ and $K=1$.
\end{thm}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.}
By the assumption $K$ is normal and so $G \cong N \times K$. Hence by Corollary 4 we have \begin{equation}
|M(G,N)|=|M(N)||N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|.
\end{equation}
Necessity is clear by the above equality. For sufficiency, first we suppose that $N$ is an elementary abelian $p$-group. Then $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^n}$ and $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=|M(G,N)|/|M(N)|=p^{mn-1}$. On the other hand we have $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=|{\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n)} \otimes K^{ab}|=p^{nd(K)}$. Therefore $mn-1=nd(K)$ and so $n(m-d(K))=1$. This implies that $N\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $d(K)=m-1$.
Now suppose that $N$ is not elementary abelian. Then using (1) we have $$|M(G,N)|< p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)} |K|^{d(N)} \leq p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)+md(N)}.$$ Hence $t=1$ implies that $m(n-d(N))=0$. But $n\neq d(N)$. Therefore $m=0$ and $|M(G,N)|=|M(N)|=p^{ \frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-1}$. Hence by Theorem 5 we have $K=1$ and $N\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^{2}}$ or $N \cong E_1$. This completes the proof. $\Box$
Our third main result is somehow a generalization of the Zhou's one \cite{9} to the pair of finite $p$-groups.
\begin{thm}
Let $K$ be a normal subgroup of $G$. Then $t=2$ if and only if $G \cong N \times K$ with one of the following cases:\\
$(i)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(ii)$ $ N \cong D$ and $K=1$;\\
$(iii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times E_1$ and $K=1$;\\
$(iv)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ and $K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(v)$ $N\cong E_1$ and $K\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(vi)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$;\\
$(vii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-2$.
\end{thm}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.} Since $K$ is a normal subgroup,
we have $G\cong N \times K$. Hence by Corollary 4, (1) holds and necessity follows.
For sufficiency, we proceed as in Theorem 13. First suppose that $N$ is an elementary abelian $p$-group. Then $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=|M(G,N)|/|M(N)|= p^{mn-2}$.
On the other hand, we have $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=p^{nd(K)}$.
Hence $mn-2=nd(K)$ and so $n(m-d(K))=2$. It follows that $n=1$ or $n=2$.
If $n=1$, then $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-2$.
If $n=2$, then $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is
any group with $d(K)=m-1$.
Now suppose that $N$ is not an elementary abelian $p$-group.
Then (1) implies that
$|M(G,N)|< p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)} |K|^{d(N)} \leq p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)+md(N)}$.
It follows that $m(n-d(N)) <2$. Therefore $m=0$ or $m=1$.
If $m=0$, then by Theorem 5 we have $K=1$ and
$N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ or $ N \cong D$ or
$ N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times E_1$. If $m=1$ then
$K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $d(N)=n-1$.
So $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=p^{n-1}$. Therefore the equality (1) implies that
$|M(N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-1}$. Now using Theorem 5 we have $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$
or $N \cong E_1$. This completes the proof. $\Box$
Finally, our last main result is somehow a generalization of the Ellis' one \cite{4} to the pair of finite $p$-groups.
\begin{thm}
Let $K$ be a normal subgroup of $G$. Then $t=3$ if and only if $G \cong N \times K$ with one of the following cases:\\
$(i)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^3}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(ii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(iii)$ $N \cong Q$ and $K=1$;\\
$(iv)$ $N \cong E_2$ and $K=1$;\\
$(v)$ $N \cong D \times {\bf {Z}}_{2}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(vi)$ $N \cong E_1 \times {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K=1$;\\
$(vii)$ $N=K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$;\\
$(viii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(ix)$ $N \cong D$ and $K\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(x)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times E_1$ and $K\cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(xi)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ and $K\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(xii)$ $N \cong E_1$ and $K \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$;\\
$(xiii)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-3$;\\
$(xiv)$ $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p} \times {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and
$K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$.
\end{thm}
\hspace{-0.65cm}\textbf{Proof.}
Necessity is straightforward.
The proof of sufficiency is similar to the proof
of previous theorems.
Suppose that $N$ is an elementary abelian $p$-group. Since $t=3$, we have $p^{nd(K)}=|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=p^{mn-3}.$ This implies that $n(m-d(K))=3$.
So $n=1$ or $n=3$.
If $n=1$ then $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-3$.
If $n=3$ then $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$
and $K$ is any group with $d(K)=m-1$.
Now suppose that $N$ is not an elementary
abelian $p$-group. Then we have
$|M(G,N)|< p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)+md(N)}$ and so $m(n-d(N)) \leq 2$. This implies that $m=0$, $m=1$ or $m=2$.
If $m=0$, then by Theorem 5 we have $K=1$ and $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^3}$ or
$N \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p}\times {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$ or
$N \cong Q$ or $N \cong E_2$ or $N\cong D\times {\bf{Z}}_{2}$
or $N \cong E_1 \times {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$.
If $m=1$, then $K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ and $d(N)=n-1$ or $d(N)=n-2$.
If $d(N)=n-1$, then $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|=p^{n-1}$ and so
$|M(N)|=|M(G,N)|/|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-2}$. It follows
that $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}$ or $N \cong D$ or
$N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}\times E_1$, by Theorem 5. If $d(N)=n-2$, then
$|M(N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-1}$ and hence $N \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$ or $N \cong E_1$
which is a contradiction.
If $m=2$, then $d(N)= n-1$ and $K \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$ or
$K\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$. If $K\cong {\bf{Z}}_{p} \times {\bf{Z}}_{p}$,
then $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{2(n-1)}$ and so $|M(N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}n(n-1)-1}.$
Then $N \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$ or $N \cong E_1$.
Now suppose $K \cong {\bf{Z}}_{p^2}$. Then $N^{ab} \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n-1)}$ or
$N^{ab} \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n-2)}$. If
$N^{ab} \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n-1)}$, then $|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{n-1}$
and so $|M(N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}(n^2+n-4)}$ which is a contradiction.
If $N^{ab} \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}\times {\bf {Z}}_{p}^{(n-2)}$, then
$|N^{ab} \otimes K^{ab}|= p^{n}$ and hence $|M(N)|= p^{\frac{1}{2}(n^2+n-6)}$
which implies that $n \leq 2$. Therefore $N \cong {\bf {Z}}_{p^2}$.
This completes the proof. $\Box$
\bibliographystyle{elsarticle-num}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
} | 1,862 |
NEW YORK SAN FRANCISCO THE TAKE
Rock Bottom Not in Our Future This Market Cycle, Experts Say
Floating homes in Dubai, Demolition fever in Britain and more of this week's real estate news from around the world
By ANNE MACHALINSKI
| Originally Published On August 12, 2016 | Mansion Global
The skyline of Manhattan is viewed from one of the top floors of the newly built Four Seasons private residences at 30 Park Place. Spencer Platt / Getty Images
The skyline of Manhattan is viewed from one of the top floors of the newly built Four Seasons private residences at 30 Park Place.
Spencer Platt / Getty Images
Looking at the current market cycle, pretty much everyone agrees we're in a cooling period. In luxury real estate, that's meant that overpriced properties have faced a sometimes significant correction before they sell, that rents at the upper levels have softened, and that transaction times have lengthened.
But are we headed for rock bottom in the near future? Probably not, experts say, noting that just because the market has cooled off, doesn't mean that we're headed toward a low similar to the one experienced during the 2008 financial crisis.
"There are signs that we've oversupplied this luxury product," said economist Hugh Kelly, principal of Hugh Kelly Real Estate Economics, an independent consulting firm based in New York. "But I think the cooldown represents a slower rate of growth—not a contraction."
Stephen Kotler, the chief revenue officer at Douglas Elliman agreed. "The way I look at it, the market was going at hyper speed for the last three years," he said. But as of late-2015, it's slowed down and returned to a more normal rate of growth.
"We're not seeing the sharp drop-off that we saw last time," Mr. Kotler continued, referring to the 2008 dive that affected housing up and down the entire price spectrum. "People are adjusting prices and coming down to a level that's realistic. But at the same time, we're seeing demand and seeing an appetite for luxury properties that are priced well."
More: Property Surcharges Aim to Keep Outsiders Away
With prices cooling but demand still present, Mr. Kotler said it's likely we'll see a market comeback before we ever hit rock bottom. But when that will occur remains to be seen, as tracking a market cycle isn't as straightforward as looking to what's happened in the past, added Dr. Kelly, who is also a doctorate holder and a clinical professor in New York University's Schack Institute of Real Estate.
"The idea that expansions die of old age is just not right," he said. This cycle, which started after things turned around in 2009, is currently the fourth longest in U.S. history, and may end up being the longest of all, he added.
While market cycles can vary in length, they can also differ in terms of cause and what the bottom of the cycle looks like, Dr. Kelly said. While two of the last five U.S. recessions were triggered by real estate, this time around most analysts agree that if we enter a recession, real estate won't be the reason. That's because outside of select pockets (namely luxury properties in Manhattan and San Francisco), real estate has not been overbuilt or over-leveraged, as it had been in the past.
More: Manhattan Luxury Rental Prices Flat
Instead, a recession would likely come from causes outside of the country, like a geopolitical shock or a global financial market disruption, according to Dr. Kelly. Another possible trigger might be caused by pulling back on our international trade agreements, which both U.S. presidential candidates are talking about. But when you look at each of these three elements individually, "I don't see any one of them derailing this expansion," Dr. Kelly said.
With demand still strong in the luxury sector and liquidity not causing a problem the way it did back in 2008, the market's main job right now is to correct the overbuilding that has occurred for the super wealthy 1 percent, Dr. Kelly said.
This correction can be achieved by lowering prices or by pulling back on the pace of development, which is already happening in prime areas.
"You're not going to see many more projects go into the ground in Manhattan, land acquisitions for luxury development in the Bay Area, or banks supporting development loans in resort areas," Dr. Kelly said. While projects that are currently underway—and on schedule and on budget—will continue to be funded, now that there are signs of overbuilding in this niche area, "I see that lending for new buildings being cut off quickly and totally," he said.
More: Prices for Residential Land in Prime Central London Fall Again
Here's a look at other news from around the world compiled by Mansion Global:
Britain's ultra-wealthy love a good property teardown
The Daily Telegraph reports on a growing trend among very rich homeowners in England: buying expensive homes on attractive plots of land and tearing down the old home rather than renovating. Most of the vanishing houses are only a few decades old, the Telegraph reported. "We regularly see houses built in the 1970s, '80s or '90s occupying plots that are vastly superior to the standard of house that has been built," said Nick Mead, a broker in the Home Counties region outside London. (Daily Telegraph)
Increase in Singapore condo resales,,slight dip in prices
Some 770 Singapore apartments, known locally as "non-landed private homes" were resold last month, up 31.4% from a year earlier, according to local brokerage SRX Property. "High-net-worth Singaporeans and foreigners continue to see rising value proposition for luxury homes in Singapore after a prolonged two-year period of price declines. (They) have possibly returned to pick up units," said PropNex Realty chief executive Ismail Gafoor. Resale prices dipped .4% from June to July. (Straits Times)
San Francisco rental market finally shows signs of softening
San Francisco's sky-high rental market may finally be cooling off, according to data from real estate data firm Zillow, which reported that San Francisco city rents rose just 5.5% in June from a year earlier, down from an astounding 16.4% rise between 2014 and 2015. "Listings that once rented in just two to three weeks can now take two to three months to rent," said Paul Hwang, principal broker at real estate agency Skybox Realty. Landlords are offering incentives, such as multiple weeks free rent, free on-site storage, or even free bicycles. (Yahoo Finance)
More: The Typical Home in San Jose Now Costs More Than $1 Million
Longread alert: Dickensian court case opposes two Boston landowners
Art dealer Jeffrey Horvitz and developer Evan Wile have been locked in a quarter-century legal battle over efforts by Mr. Wile to build an 11,000-square-foot house on a waterfront lot that was once part of Edgewater, a 1910 beachfront estate north of Boston now owned by Mr. Horvitz. The battle has included lawyers, helicopters and port-a-potties in what may be the oldest active residential dispute in Massachusetts Land Court. The Boston Globe has the story in a 7,000-word opus. (Boston Globe)
Dubai real estate prices keep falling, along with exchange rates and oil prices
For the sixth straight quarter, prices for residential real estate have fallen in Dubai, with average sale prices down 2 percent quarter-to-quarter and 12% from year-to-year. Luxury homes saw the steepest drops, according to a report by real estate consultant CBRE. An oversupply of luxury apartments is exacerbated by a stronger dollar and weak energy prices, which have reduced the number of expats living in the Gulf emirate, and reduced housing allowances for those who do stay. (Gulf Business)
More: This Dubai Residential Development Will Have Its Own Rainforest
At sea, floating houses want to be Dubai's next residential luxury
One Dubai-based firm says it's already building floating luxury homes it calls "Seahorses," which offer underwater bedrooms with a view of marine life and coral reefs at a starting price of $3.2 million. A Dutch firm says it will offer its own floating houses at a Dubai real estate exhibition next month. Zawya has renderings of one upscale houseboat. (Zawya)
New-Build California Mansion Chock Full of Amenities Lists for $27 Million
Budapest Ranked Fastest-Growing Housing Market Globally
Modern Double-Unit San Francisco Home Offers Sweeping Views of the City | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaCommonCrawl"
} | 3,392 |
\section{Introduction}
\label{sec:introduction}
\IEEEPARstart{V}{ehicle} telematics is steadily evolving as a solution to improve mobility safety, vehicles efficiency, and maintenance~\cite{Markets:2020}. Sensors which monitor mechanical, electrical, and electronic systems of the vehicle produce information collected by an Electronic Control Units (ECUs) which optimizes vehicle performance and enhances safety by producing preventive maintenance reports. Naturally, correct functioning of the machine alone is not enough to prevent accidents. The World Health Organization reports that road traffic accidents represent one of the leading causes of global deaths~\cite{WHO:2018}, while the European Road Safety Observatory quantifies the socioeconomic consequences for traffic injuries in 2018 as \euro\,120 billion~\cite{EU:2019}.
As a logical consequence, industry and researchers pursue innovative methods to support drivers, through Advanced Driver Assistance Systems (ADAS) based on external and internal vehicle sensing. External sensing allows gathering information on the environment around the vehicle through specific sensors, with the possibility of sharing this information with other vehicles in proximity~\cite{Alsultan:2014}. As a result, vehicle telematics has become more relevant, as it directly impacts drivers, passengers and the environment around the vehicle.
Figure\,\ref{fig:automotive_market} shows a projection of the electronics market growth between 2018 and 2023~\cite{Gartner_Forecast:2018}. Automotive electronics forecast is only comparable to industrial electronics, pushed by the fourth industrial revolution.
\afterpage{
\begin{figure}[t]
\centering
\hspace{-0.5cm}
\resizebox{0.42\textwidth}{!}{
\begin{tikzpicture}
\begin{axis}[
xbar stacked,
xmin=0, xmax=10,
axis x line*=bottom,
axis y line*=none,
xlabel={Percentage \%},
symbolic y coords={%
{Industrial},
{Automotive},
{Military/Civil Aerospace},
{Total IC},
{Consumer},
{Communication},
{Data Processing}},
y tick label style={text width=2.5cm,align=right},
ytick=data,
ytick=data,
bar width=6mm,
]
\addplot[left color=black!20!blue, right color=black!40!red]coordinates {
(8.60,{Industrial})
(8.80,{Automotive})
(2.15,{Military/Civil Aerospace})
(3.10,{Total IC})
(2.20,{Consumer})
(1.50,{Communication})
(0.98,{Data Processing})};
\end{axis}
\begin{scope}[shift={(5.4,4.3)}]
\path[3d pie chart/.cd,radius=1.5cm,h=0.5cm,colors={"blue!25","black!10!yellow","purple!60","red!90","black!30!green!50"}]
pic{3d pie chart={18/Others,36/LiDAR,22/Imaging,15/Radar,9/Ultrasonic}};
\end{scope}
\begin{scope}
\filldraw[black] (5.8,1.25) circle (0.1cm) node[] (auto) {};
\draw (5.8,1.255) -- (5.8,1.8) node[line width=0.5mm] {};
\node at (5.8,2.5) {CAGR for Automotive Sensing};
\node at (5.8,2.1) {Market (2016-2022)~\cite{Yole_Sensor_Forecast:2017}};
\node [draw, thick, shape=rectangle, minimum width=7cm, minimum height=4cm, anchor=center] at (5.8,3.8) {};
\end{scope}
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\caption{Electronics market growth projection (2018-2023 CAGR)~\cite{Gartner_Forecast:2018}. The pie chart shows the prediction of automotive sensors market growth (2016-2022 CAGR)~\cite{Yole_Sensor_Forecast:2017}, focused on exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{fig:automotive_market}
\end{figure}
}
Vehicles are today equipped with a myriad of sensors, which integrate different systems and help to improve, adapt, or automate vehicle safety and driving experience. These systems assist drivers by offering precautions to reduce risk exposure or by cooperatively automating driving tasks, with the aim of minimizing human errors~\cite{Guo:2019}. Typically, counting only on measurements from internal (``proprioceptive'') sensors is not sufficient to provide safety and warning applications associated with the external environment. With exteroceptive sensors instead, vehicles have the ability to acquire information on the surrounding environment, recognizing other factors and objects that coexist in the same space. Vehicle external sensing is gaining importance especially with the proliferation of cameras which, combined with the improved image processing and analysis, enables a wide range of applications~\cite{IHS:2018}. Consequently, imaging is among the areas with the highest projection in automotive electronics as shown in Figure~\ref{fig:automotive_market}. LiDARs have the primacy as exteroceptive sensors expected to be the most demanded in automotive. Unlike cameras, they provide an omnidirectional sensing and they do not suffer from scarce light conditions. Radar and ultrasonic sensors share another quarter of the market, while 18\% of the market will be taken by other exteroceptive sensors like microphones.
Data generated by exteroceptive sensors is of primary interest for drivers and passenger. In fact, the environmental sensing is fundamental for ADAS, collision avoidance and safety applications. Nonetheless, the same data has a valence for smart cities, e.g., sensing the road conditions, and for insurance companies to establish driving profiles and calculate insurance premiums.
\smallskip\textit{Contribution and Outline.}
In this paper we present an overview of exteroceptive sensors and their use in vehicle telematics along with relative services and applications. Our main focus is on the safety application area, but we also cover other important fields related to mobility, like navigation, road monitoring and driving behavior analysis. Such applications are interesting for car manufacturers, insurance companies, smart cities, as well as drivers and passengers. The purpose it to provide a clear taxonomy of works per telematics application and per exteroceptive sensor. Studies are mainly selected proportional to their relevance, novelty, and publication date. In this process, we provide background information on sensors in telematics, detailing and comparing the exteroceptive sensors particularly. When applicable, we describe Original Equipment Manufacturer (OEM) and aftermarket devices which include such sensors.
\begin{figure}
\hspace{-0.5cm}
\centering
\resizebox{0.5\textwidth}{!}{
\tikzstyle{section}=[align=center, text width=1.9cm, minimum height=0.8cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 3mm]
\tikzstyle{subsec}=[align=left, text width=3.75cm, minimum height=0.5cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 3mm]
\tikzstyle{subsubsec}=[align=left, text width=4.55cm, minimum height=0.5cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 3mm]
\begin{tikzpicture}[thick,scale=1, every node/.style={scale=1.1}]
\draw (0,10) node[section] (sec_1) {\ref{sec:introduction} Introduction};
\draw (0,8.2) node[section] (sec_2) {\ref{sec:background} Background};
\draw (0,5.05) node[section] (sec_3) {\ref{sec:_ext_sensors_telematics}\\Exteroceptive Sensors for Telematics};
\draw (0,1.45) node[section] (sec_4) {\ref{sec:services_and_applications}\\Services and Applications};
\draw (0,-1.3) node[section] (sec_5) {\ref{sec:challenges}\\Open Research/ Challenges};
\draw (0,-3.15) node[section] (sec_6) {\ref{sec:conclusion} Conclusion};
\draw (3.7,10) node[subsec] (subsec_intro) {$-$ Overview \\$-$ Contribution};
\draw (3.7,8.8) node[subsec] (subsec_classification) {\ref{subsec:classification} Proprioceptive \textit{vs.} \hspace*{0.6cm} exteroceptive sensors};
\draw (3.7,7.6) node[subsec] (subsec_OTS) {\ref{subsec:OTS_devices} OTS telematics \hspace*{0.6cm} devices};
\draw (3.7,5.05) node[subsec] (subsec_exteroceptive) {\ref{subsec:gnss} GNSS\\
\ref{subsec:magnetometer} Magnetometer\\
\ref{subsec:microphone} Microphone\\
\ref{subsec:biometric} Biometric sensors\\
\ref{subsec:ultrasonic} Ultrasonic sensor\\
\ref{subsec:radar} Radar\\
\ref{subsec:lidar} LiDAR\\
\ref{subsec:camera} Camera};
\draw (3.7,2.7) node[subsec] (subsec_safety) {\ref{subsec:safety} Safety};
\draw (3.7,1.95) node[subsec] (subsec_driv) {\ref{subsec:driving_behavior} Driving behavior};
\draw (3.7,1.15) node[subsec] (subsec_road) {\ref{subsec:road_monitoring} Road monitoring};
\draw (3.7,0.35) node[subsec] (subsec_nav) {\ref{subsec:navigation} Navigation};
\draw (3.7,-1.3) node[subsec] (subsec_challenges) {$-$ Which data is important?\\
$-$ Data processing\\
$-$ Security\\
$-$ Risk assessment};
\draw (3.7,-3.15) node[subsec] (subsec_conclusion) {$-$ Summary \\$-$ Perspectives};
\draw (9,10.2) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_pass_act) {\ref{subsubsec:classification_active_passive} Active/passive sensors};
\draw (9,7.85) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_OTS) {\ref{subsubsec:OBD_CAN} OBD-II dongle and \hspace*{0.8cm} CAN bus readers\\
\ref{subsubsec:digital_tachograph} Digital tachograph\\
\ref{subssubsec:bbox_wind} Black-box and \hspace*{0.8cm} windshield devices\\
\ref{subsubsec:dashcam} Dashcam\\
\ref{subsubsec:smartphones} Smartphones\\
\ref{subsubsec:wearable} Wearable devices};
\draw (9,4.8) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_safety) {\ref{subsubsec:tire_wear} Tire wear\\
\ref{subsubsec:crash_detection} Collision detection\\
\ref{subsubsec:collision_avoidance} Collision avoidance\\
\ref{subsubsec:Lane_departure} Lane departure warning};
\draw (9,2.4) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_driv) {\ref{subsubsec:driving_profiling} Driving profiling\\
\ref{subsubsec:driver_passenger_identification} Driver detection\\
\ref{subsubsec:driver_identification} Driver identification\\
\ref{subsubsec:Health_monitoring} Driver health monitoring\\
\ref{subsubsec:Driving_distraction} Driving distractions};
\draw (9,-0.25) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_road) {\ref{subsubsec:road_porosity} Road porosity\\
\ref{subsubsec:road_wetness} Road wetness\\
\ref{subsubsec:pothole_detection} Pothole detection\\
\ref{subsubsec:road_type_classification} Road type classification\\
\ref{subsubsec:parking_space_detection} Parking space detection};
\draw (9,-2.7) node[subsubsec] (subsubsec_nav) {\ref{subsubsec:GNSS-based} GNSS/INS-based \hspace*{0.85cm} navigation \\
\ref{subsubsec:SLAM-based} SLAM-based navigation\\
\ref{subsubsec:map_tracking} Map tracking datasets};
\foreach \f/\t in
{sec_1/subsec_intro, sec_2/subsec_OTS, sec_2/subsec_classification, sec_3/subsec_exteroceptive, sec_4/subsec_nav, sec_4/subsec_road, sec_4/subsec_driv, sec_4/subsec_safety, sec_5/subsec_challenges, sec_6/subsec_conclusion, subsec_classification/subsubsec_pass_act, subsec_OTS/subsubsec_OTS, subsec_safety/subsubsec_safety, subsec_driv/subsubsec_driv, subsec_road/subsubsec_road, subsec_nav/subsubsec_nav}
\draw[black, very thick] (\f.east) -- (\t.west);
\end{tikzpicture}}
\caption{Paper organization outline.}
\label{fig:outline}
\end{figure}
For the sake of readability, the organization of this paper is shown in Figure\,\ref{fig:outline}.
Section\,\ref{sec:background} reviews sensor aspects in telematics, their classification, advantages and disadvantages. It also provides an overview of Off-the-Shelf (OTS) telematics devices.
Section\,\ref{sec:_ext_sensors_telematics} details exteroceptive sensors used in vehicle telematics. Section\,\ref{sec:services_and_applications} shows a taxonomy of high level telematics applications like navigation, road monitoring, driving behavior, and safety. For each application, a list of works by sensor is provided.
Open research and challenges in the usage of exteroceptive sensors for vehicular telematics are presented in Section\,\ref{sec:challenges}, while Section\,\ref{sec:conclusion} concludes the survey with summary and perspectives.
\section{Background}
\label{sec:background}
Sensors in telematics enable monitoring a broad range of functions inherent to the management of diverse driving activities. Electronic sensing systems and data processing capacity reduce driver's workload and provide innovative services. This section presents a classification of sensors for telematics purposes, according to the environment in which they operate. Figure~\ref{fig:built-in_sensors} illustrates the proposed classification where sensors are placed in the central column. On the left-hand side, each sensor is connected to OTS telematics devices where it is embedded, while at the right-hand side possible fields of application are identified.
\subsection{Proprioceptive vs. exteroceptive sensors}
\label{subsec:classification}
A wide variety of sensors is used in regular vehicles, the majority of them to gather information on internal mechanisms. Self-driving vehicles on the other hand incorporate external sensors whose function is critical to analyze the surrounding environment. Therefore, vehicular telematics is no longer merely mechanical, leading to the analysis of internal and external variables. As such, a basic classification of the sensors is according to the sensed variables, as \textit{proprioceptive} or \textit{exteroceptive}~\cite{Siegwart:2004}.
\textit{Proprioceptive sensors} measure variations in signals generated by the vehicle's internal systems (motor speed, battery level, etc.). Those measurements allow estimating different metrics specific to the vehicle, such as speed, fluid levels, acceleration, among other topics of interest for vehicle telematics. An accelerometer is an example of proprioceptive sensor.
\textit{Exteroceptive sensors} allow vehicles to be in contact with stimuli coming from the environment surrounding the vehicle. As a result, it is possible to acquire some information: e.g., measurements of distance, light intensity, sound amplitude, detection of pedestrians, and surrounding vehicles. Therefore, measurements from exteroceptive sensors are interpreted by the vehicle to produce meaningful environmental features.
Proprioceptive sensors, inseparable from vehicle powertrain and chassis, are widely used in vehicle production. In contrast, exteroceptive sensors are mostly used in luxury vehicles, vehicles with some level of autonomy, or experimental vehicles. Conventionally, the proprioceptive sensors are designed to measure single-process systems and are therefore limited in capacity. They are unexposed, protected from the external environment. In contrast, exteroceptive sensors are designed to analyze and monitor internal (vehicle cabin) and external environments. Thus, they are able to operate in different conditions, including with a higher degree of difficulty~\cite{Sjafrie:2020} (e.g., rain, humidity, snow, night time, etc.).
\subsubsection{Active and passive sensors}
\label{subsubsec:classification_active_passive}
Proprioceptive and exteroceptive sensors are designed to just capture and read a specific metric, or to interact with the environment by observing and recording changes in it, or reactions from it. This leads to classifying sensors as active or passive. \textit{Passive} sensors are able to perform measurements without interacting with the environment, in other words, the sensor receives energy stimuli from the environment. \textit{Active} sensors interact with the environment to acquire data. For example, they may emit waves outside the vehicle and measure the level of the environment reaction to those waves. Wave emitters can be lasers or radars, among others.
\begin{figure}[!t]
\centering
\resizebox{0.452\textwidth}{!}{
\begin{tikzpicture}
\tikzstyle{Perception}=[align=center, text width=2cm, minimum height=1.5cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 2mm]
\tikzstyle{Sensor}=[align=center, text width=2.3cm, minimum height=0.5cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 1mm]
\tikzstyle{Standalone}=[align=center, text width=1.7cm, minimum height=1cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 2mm]
\tikzstyle{Services}=[align=center, text width=2.3cm, minimum height=1cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 2mm]
\draw (0,-.1) node[align=center, text width=1.95cm, minimum height=7.3cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 3mm, dashed] (g_sensor) {};
\draw (0,4.0) node[align=center, text width=2.5cm] (t_g_sensor) {\textit{OTS Telematics devices}};
\draw (0,2.9) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (bbox) {Black-box / Windshield};
\draw (0,1.7) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (dash) {Dashcam};
\draw (0,0.5) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (smart) {Smartphone};
\draw (0,-0.7) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (wear) {Wearable};
\draw (0,-1.9) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (obd) {OBD-II dongle};
\draw (0,-3.1) node[Standalone, fill=orange!40] (tach) {Tachograph};
\draw (4,1.68) node[fill=cyan!30, opacity=0.8, align=center, text width=2.5cm, minimum height=5.35cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 2mm, dashed] (g_sensor) {};
\draw (4,4.55) node[align=center] (t_g_sensor) {\textit{Exteroceptive}};
\draw (4,4) node[Sensor, fill=gray!20] (ult) {Ultrasonic};
\draw (4,3.35) node[Sensor, fill=gray!20] (rad) {Radar};
\draw (4,2.7) node[Sensor, fill=gray!20] (lid) {LiDAR};
\draw (4,2.05) node[Sensor, fill=white] (cam) {Camera};
\draw (4,1.4) node[Sensor, fill=white] (mic) {Microphone};
\draw (4,0.725) node[Sensor, fill=gray!20] (gnss) {GNSS};
\draw (4,0.05) node[Sensor, fill=white] (mag) {Magnetometer};
\draw (4,-0.62) node[Sensor, fill=white] (plet) {Biometric};
\draw (4,-3.15) node[fill=yellow!30, opacity=0.8, align=center, text width=2.5cm, minimum height=3.1cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 2mm, dashed] (g_sensor) {};
\draw (4,-1.4) node[align=center] (t_g_sensor) {\textit{Proprioceptive}};
\draw (4,-2) node[Sensor, fill=white] (gyr) {Gyroscope};
\draw (4,-2.67) node[Sensor, fill=white] (acc) {Accelerometer};
\draw (4,-3.5) node[Sensor, fill=white] (can) {CAN bus sensors};
\draw (4,-4.35) node[Sensor, fill=white] (hall) {Hall effect};
\draw (8,0.6) node[align=center, text width=2.5cm, minimum height=6.15cm, rectangle, draw = black, rounded corners = 3mm, dashed] (g_sensor) {};
\draw (8,4.1) node[align=center, text width=3cm] (t_g_sensor) {\textit{Services and applications}};
\draw (8,3) node[Services, fill=green!40] (safe) {Safety (Sec.~\ref{subsec:safety})};
\draw (8,1.45) node[Services, fill=green!40] (driv) {Driving behavior (Sec.~\ref{subsec:driving_behavior})};
\draw (8,-0.25) node[Services, fill=green!40] (road) {Road monitoring (Sec.~\ref{subsec:road_monitoring})};
\draw (8,-1.8) node[Services, fill=green!40] (nav) {Navigation (Sec.~\ref{subsec:navigation})};
\foreach \f/\t in
{dash/cam, smart/cam/, smart/mic, bbox/gnss, smart/gnss, wear/plet, smart/mag, wear/gyr, smart/gyr, bbox/acc, wear/acc, smart/acc, tach/hall, ult/road, ult/safe, rad/road, rad/nav, rad/safe, lid/nav, lid/safe, cam/nav, cam/road, cam/driv, cam/safe, mic/driv, mic/road, gnss/nav, gnss/driv, mag/nav, plet/driv, obd/can, obd/acc, obd/gnss, dash/mic, dash/acc, obd/mag}
\draw[black, very thick] (\f.east) -- (\t.west);
\end{tikzpicture}
}
\caption{{Bipartite graphs showing the relationship between the most widely used sensors in vehicular telematics (in the middle), OTS telematics devices (on the left), and between sensors and telematics services and applications (on the right).
In the middle, exteroceptive sensors are nodes on the top, while proprioceptive on the bottom.
Active sensors are represented as gray colored nodes, passive sensors as white colored nodes.}}
\label{fig:built-in_sensors}
\end{figure}
\subsection{OTS telematics devices}
\label{subsec:OTS_devices}
While smartphones include a large number of sensors (e.g., GNSS, camera, microphone, accelerometer) which make them particularly suitable for insurance telematics~\cite{Wahlstrom:2017}, other sensors require dedicated hardware and installation process. Next, we present a background of OTS telematics devices that carry exteroceptive sensors.
\smallskip\subsubsection{\textit{OBD-II dongles and CAN bus readers}} \label{subsubsec:OBD_CAN}
A modern vehicle can contain more than one hundred sensors, generally associated with the mechanics and
operation of the engine and vehicle systems~\cite{Fleming:2008}. Automotive systems concentrate in three areas of the vehicle: powertrain, chassis, and body. In each area, a set of sensors measures physical quantities associated to specific functions. Measurements are sent to the ECU of each system, where they are interpreted in a look-up table~\cite{Wong:2012}. Data is stored in profiles used to control the vehicle actuators and their performance, e.g. battery level, fuel injection duration, speed control, vehicle stability, anti-lock brake system, among others. The use of specific sensors may also be associated with other factors such as legislation and safety~\cite{Orazio:2011}. Data profiles from the ECUs are used to check the vehicle status information through the On-Board Diagnostics II (OBD-II) interface. It provides access to the vehicle sub-systems controlled by the ECUs, via the CAN bus. OBD-II is widely used by the automotive manufacturers for the analysis of data collected by the ECUs, and their subsequent general diagnosis. Nevertheless, the acquisition of data
through the OBD-II connector is limited to a single port and is specific to each manufacturer which defines proprietary message codes. Commercial OBD-II dongles and more broadly CAN bus readers are connected to the power source of the vehicle itself and may have extra sensors, like a GNSS or an accelerometer.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Digital tachograph}\label{subsubsec:digital_tachograph} Commercial and utility vehicles often use an equipment to log trajectory data, such as speed and distance traveled. Digital tachograph displays, records and stores these measurements internally for the driver's work periods, which are defined by the regulatory authority. The tachograph usually uses a hall effect sensor located in the gearbox of the vehicle, or other mechanical interface whose movement is representative of the speed~\cite{Furgel:2006}. Data is stored in the driver's smart card and then mainly analyzed by fleet management tools. In fact, although tachographs provide precise and secure information, they are relegated to fleet management due to its acquisition and installation cost.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Black-box and windshield devices}\label{subssubsec:bbox_wind}
Usually, black-box and windshield devices are installed within the vehicle and they are equipped with a self-contained sensor systems or they acquire information in a piggy-back process via the CAN bus. These devices embed a GNSS and an accelerometer sensor to define driving profiles about harsh acceleration, braking or impact.
In addition, a windshield device may contain a SIM card and a microphone to establish a voice communication with remote assistance.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Dashcams}
\label{subsubsec:dashcam}
A dashcam is an on-board camera, usually mounted over the dashboard, that records the vehicle front view. Common uses include registering collisions, road hazards, in addition to offering video surveillance services~\cite{Kim:2017}. Since the amount of information generated by the video frames is considerable, images are selected beforehand by the processing system. Additional dashcam functionalities include gesture and voice biometric~\cite{Tymoszek:2020}.
It is worth noting that the utilization of dashcams is limited in some countries due to privacy concerns~\cite{Kim:2020:dashcam}.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Smartphones}
\label{subsubsec:smartphones}
Smartphones involve a variety of technologies that make them a sophisticated computer, with the ability to process data and graphics, not to mention communication and sensing capabilities~\cite{Xu:2014}. Smartphones possess a large number of built-in sensors that allow continuous data collection. Added to mobility, it results in the empowerment of various types of applications with specific requirements in terms of complexity, granularity and response time.
As for vehicular telematics, smartphones play an important role: they can acquire CAN bus data through an OBD-II dongle, a Wi-Fi or Bluetooth connection and, as such, monitor and record data from both proprioceptive and exteroceptive sensors~\cite{Wahlstrom:2017}.%
\smallskip\subsubsection{Wearable devices}
\label{subsubsec:wearable}
Complementary to smartphones, wearable devices are used to monitor human physiological and biometric signals~\cite{Seneviratne:2017}. In the vehicular telematics context, they are used for safety and driving behavior applications~\cite{Sun:2017}. Wearable devices include smartwatches, smart glasses, smart helmets~\cite{Rajathi:2019} and electrocardiogram (ECG) sensors.
\section{Exteroceptive sensors for telematics}
\label{sec:_ext_sensors_telematics}
This section describes in detail exteroceptive sensors which are used for telematics purposes.
Table~\ref{tab:exteroceptive-sensors-comparative} summarizes the main features of each sensor.
\begin{table*}[ht]
\caption{Multi-dimensional comparative among exteroceptive sensors used in vehicle telematics.}
\label{tab:exteroceptive-sensors-comparative}
\resizebox{\textwidth}{!}{%
\begin{tabularx}{1.0\textwidth}{>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{1.4cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.8cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{2.7cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.9cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{1.5cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{4.5cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{3.6cm}}
\toprule
\textbf{Sensor} &
\textbf{Price} &
\textbf{Main usage} &
\textbf{Precision} &
\textbf{Range} &
\textbf{Advantage} &
\textbf{Limitation}
\\ \toprule
\multirow{2}{*}{GNSS} &
\multirow{2}{*}{Low} &
\multirow{2}{*}{Navigation, positioning} &
Medium/ High &
\multirow{2}{*}{n/a} &
\multirow{2}{*}{High coverage, small form factor} &
Signal blocking in urban canyons \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Magnetometer} &
\multirow{2}{*}{Low} &
Navigation, positioning, orientation &
\multirow{2}{*}{Medium} &
\multirow{2}{*}{n/a} &
Small form factor, low energy consumption &
\multirow{2}{*}{Magnetic interference} \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Microphone} &
\multirow{2}{*}{Low} &
Surveillance, assistant, environmental sensing &
\multirow{2}{*}{n/a} &
\SI{150}{m}, omnidirectional &
Small form factor, low energy consumption, direction of arrival &
\multirow{2}{*}{Environmental noise} \\ \midrule
Biometric &
Low &
Heath monitoring &
High &
n/a &
Simple data processing &
Uncomfortable \\ \midrule
Ultrasonic &
Low &
Environmental sensing &
Low\,(cm) &
\SI{150}{cm} &
Small form factor &
Low resolution \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Radar} &
Low/ Medium &
\multirow{2}{*}{Environmental sensing} &
\multirow{2}{*}{High} &
\multirow{2}{*}{\SI{250}{m}} &
Robust in adverse climatic conditions and with scarce or absent illumination &
Energy consumption, data processing for classification \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{LiDAR} &
\multirow{2}{*}{High} &
\multirow{2}{*}{Environmental sensing} &
\multirow{2}{*}{High} &
\SI{200}{m}, omnidirectional &
Low sensitive to light and to weather conditions, 3D representation &
\multirow{2}{*}{Data processing latency} \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Camera} &
Medium/ High &
\multirow{2}{*}{Environmental sensing} &
Medium/ High &
\multirow{2}{*}{Line-of-Sight} &
Multiple techniques for data processing &
Sensitive to light and weather conditions \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}%
}
\end{table*}
\subsection{Global Navigation Satellite System (GNSS)}
\label{subsec:gnss}
Some OTS devices implement Location-Based Systems (LBS) using an embedded GNSS receiver. GNSS systems allow a quite accurate localization (on the meter scale) on earth, through trilateration signals from dedicated geostationary artificial satellites. Depending on the platform on which OEM devices operate, different LBS are offered. In smartphones, some location services merge short and long-range wireless networks such as Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and cellular networks~\cite{Zandbergen:2009}, in addition to GNSS data~\cite{Dabove:2019}.
Nowadays, Android-based devices, use messages based on the NMEA 0183 standard~\cite{NMEA:0183}. The latest updates to this standard include measurement of the pseudo-range and Doppler shift; this adds simplicity and robustness to the processing of raw GNSS measurements~\cite{GNSS:2018, Android_Dev:2019}. Nevertheless, GNSS reception exhibits outages due to interference, signal propagation, and measurement accuracy in urban canyons due to multipath effects and Non-Line-of-Sight (NLoS) conditions~\cite{Zhang:2011}.
\subsection{Magnetometer}
\label{subsec:magnetometer}
The main function of a magnetometer is reading the strength of the Earth's magnetic field determining its orientation. Magnetometers embedded in commodity devices like smartphones have microelectromechanical systems (MEMS) which inform the magnetic field on three-axis with \SI{}{\micro\tesla} sensibility~\cite{Jones:2010}. Moreover, its miniaturized form factor and low energy consumption favors its availability in a large number of devices. Thus, it results as an important component for providing navigation and LBS services.
\subsection{Microphone}
\label{subsec:microphone}
A microphone transforms sound waves into electrical energy. These sensors are embedded as MEMS devices or condensed mics that are connected to OTS devices. Microphones are an affordable solution for real time signal processing. According to ISO\,9613-2 standard, their sensing range reaches up to \SI{200}{m} for high intensity sounds in an urban scenario~\cite{ISO_9613-2}. Moreover, microphones consume low energy, have very small size, and omni-directional sensing capability. Devices with an array of microphones are used to estimate the Direction of Arrival (DoA) and localize the sound source calculating the time difference of arrival between each microphone pair.
On the other hand, their efficiency largely depends on their sensitivity, sound waves amplitude, and environmental noise.
\subsection{Biometric sensors}
\label{subsec:biometric}
Biometric sensors are used to collect measurable biological characteristics (biometric signals) from a human being, which can then be used in conjunction with biometric recognition algorithms to perform automated person identification. ECG devices installed in the steering wheel and in the driver's seat to measure heart activity, through touch or photoelectric sensors. In telematics, it is used as a proxy of drivers' stress condition, drowsiness, and fatigue~\cite{murugan2020detection}.
\subsection{Ultrasonic sensor}
\label{subsec:ultrasonic}
Ultrasonic refers to acoustic waves, where a transmitter sends sound waves, and a receiver captures the bounce off waves from nearby objects. The distance of such object is determined through the Time-of-Flight (ToF). These waves are propagated at the speed of sound (that depends on the density of the propagation medium), and use frequencies higher than those audible by the human ear, between 20 and \SI{180}{kHz}~\cite{Siegwart:2004}. Sound propagation occurs conically, with opening angles between \ang{20} and \ang{40}. The ultrasonic sensor is suitable for low speed, short or medium range applications (tens or hundreds of cm) like parking assistance, blind spot detection and lateral moving. With a low power consumption (up to \SI{6}{W}) and a price under \SI{100}{\$}, it is a relatively affordable object detection sensor.
\subsection{Radar}
\label{subsec:radar}
Radar (Radio Detection and Ranging) detectors use reflected electromagnetic waves. The device transmits radio wave pulses that bounce on objects outside the vehicle. The reflected pulses which arrive some time later at the sensor allow inferring different information. It is possible to determine the direction, distance, and estimate the object size~\cite{Sjafrie:2020}. The relative speed of moving targets can be calculated through frequency changes caused by the Doppler shift. Radar systems transmit waves in Ultra High Frequency (UHF), at 24, 77, and \SI{79}{GHz}, with opening angles between \SI{9}{\degree} and \SI{150}{\degree}, and elevation up to \SI{30}{\degree}. Radar can operate in distance ranges up to \SI{250}{m}, with a power consumption from \SI{12}{W}, it is used for short, mid and long-range object detection and adaptive cruise control at high speeds. Radars are robust in adverse climatic conditions (e.g., fog or rain) and with scarce or no lighting. Nevertheless, signal processing is harder for classification problems if not combined with other sensor readings. Radar's price ranges from \SI{50}{\$} to \SI{200}{\$}.
\subsection{LiDAR}
\label{subsec:lidar}
LiDAR (Light Detection And Ranging) uses laser reflection instead of radio waves.
The LiDAR sensor transmits light pulses to identify objects around the vehicle. Typically, a LiDAR emits a \SI{905}{nm} wavelength laser light beam to illuminate the objects. Pulses of laser light are generally emitted at every \SI{30}{ns}. The returning light component is coaxial with the light beam emitted by the sensor~\cite{Siegwart:2004}. The LiDAR sweeps in a circular and vertical fashion; the direction and distance of the reflected pulses are recorded as a data point. Moreover, a set of points then constitutes a point cloud which is a spatial representation of coordinates, enabling 3D model processing with high accuracy. LiDAR sensors can cover at \ang{360} the horizontal field of view around the vehicle, and up to \ang{42} the vertical field of view. LiDARs are less sensitive to light and weather conditions. Nevertheless, processing the whole LiDAR points is time consuming, thus it is not suitable for real time applications. There are low-cost LiDAR sensors (from \SI{100}{\$}) and low power consumption (from \SI{8}{W}); nonetheless, these are limited to one laser beam. More advanced models of LiDAR sensors contain laser arrays (up to 128), improving the point cloud resolution; this represents a higher energy consumption (up to \SI{60}{W}), and more expensive (up to 75,000\,\$).
\subsection{Camera}
\label{subsec:camera}
A camera is a vision sensor used to take images both inside and outside the vehicle, to detect objects on the road as well as to analyze the behavior of the driver and his environment inside the vehicle. CMOS-based cameras are widely used in vehicular applications~\cite{Miller:2004}. These can operate in the Visible (VIS) and Near-Infrared (NIR) spectral region~\cite{Siegwart:2004}. VIS cameras are largely used because these reproduce instantaneous images like those perceived by the human eye. Differently, NIR cameras detect objects based on heat radiation. Additionally, the quality of the images depends on the resolution and field of view of the device. Furthermore, vehicular applications use monocular cameras, stereo cameras, in addition to using so-called fish-eye lenses, which generate optical effects. Optical cameras are less expensive than LiDAR sensors and very effective, with power consumption less than \SI{2.5}{W}. Despite the fact that the camera generates the highest amount of data per second, accurate methods for object detection and recognition through image processing exist nowadays, like Convolutional Neural Networks (CNN) and deep learning, enabling to handle real images better than LiDAR. Some drawbacks exist though: image quality depends on lighting and weather conditions, and scene representation is limited to the pointing direction and line-of-sight.
\section{Services and Applications}
\label{sec:services_and_applications}
Next, we cover practical telematics applications and services that use exteroceptive sensors exclusively.
We organize them into four macro-areas: safety, driving behavior, road monitoring, and navigation. Given the rich literature in vehicle telematics, for each macro-area we have selected relevant works in terms of practicability, novelty, relevance, and release date. In addition, we report on available datasets if applicable.
\subsection{Safety}
\label{subsec:safety}
As summarized in Table~\ref{tab:safety}, the safety area includes four categories of applications, related to vehicle maintenance, driving and external events: tire wear, collision detection, collision avoidance and lane departure.
\begin{table}[t]
\caption{Safety applications with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:safety}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{CCC}
\toprule
\textbf{Application} & \textbf{Sensor/\textcolor{gray}{Dataset}} & \textbf{References} \\ \toprule
Tire wear & Radar & \cite{Matsuzaki:2012, Prabhakara:2020:osprey} \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Collision detection} & Microphone & \cite{foggia_crowded_roads, Foggia2015, Foggia2016, saggese_sorenet, morfi2018deep, 10.1145/3378184.3378186, 7472921, huang2020urban, crashzam, crashzam_springer}\\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{crashzam, dataset:gemmeke, dataset:mesaros, dataset:Piczak, dataset:Salamon:2014, dataset:stowell} \\ \midrule
\multirow{5}{*}{Collision avoidance} & Camera & \cite{gloger2005camera, Kilicarslan:2019, Kim:2012, Wu:2018:CA} \\
& Radar & \cite{joshi:2019:CA, Blanc:2004, Sun:2012:CA, Park:2003} \\
& LiDAR & \cite{kumar:2019:CA, Kampker:2018, Natale:2010, ogawa:2011:CA, Nashashibi:2008} \\
& LiDAR+Camera & \cite{wei2018lidar, cho2019study, Nobis:2019} \\
& Microphone & \cite{Mizumachi:2014} \\ \midrule
\multirow{3}{*}{Lane departure} & Camera & \cite{Popken:2007, Freyer:2010, Ono:2016, Grimm:2013, Andrade:2018, Gaikwad:2015, Boutteau:2013, Baili:2017}\\
& LiDAR & \cite{Ghallabi:2018, kammel2008lidar, hata2014road, zhang2010lidar, wu2020automatic} \\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{Aly:2008, Wu:2012, Fritsch:2013, VPGNet:2017, TuSimple:2017, CuLane:2017, Berriel:2017, ApolloScape:2019, BDD100K:2018} \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}%
\end{table}
\smallskip\subsubsection{Tire wear}
\label{subsubsec:tire_wear}
Often underestimated, tires play a crucial role for vehicle stability and control, especially on slippery road surfaces. Nevertheless, tire wear is challenging to continuously measure due to the position and the dynamics of the tires. Matsuzaki \textit{et al.}~\cite{Matsuzaki:2012} analyze the tire surface deformation. The system uses a wireless CCD camera attached to the wheel rim to obtain 3D images. Digital Image Correlation Method (DICM) is used to estimate the strain distribution and friction load in the tire. Results show a 10\% error range in the tire load. Osprey, is a debris-resilient system designed to measure tread depth without embedding any electronics within the tire itself~\cite{Prabhakara:2020:osprey}. Instead, Osprey uses a mmWave radar, measuring the tire wear as the difference between tire tread and groove.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Collision detection}
\label{subsubsec:crash_detection}
The correlation between first aid time delay and death probability when a severe car accident occurs has been statistically proved~\cite{SnchezMangas2010ThePO}. For this reason, an automatic collision detector and rescue caller, like the eCall system\cite{eu:ecall2}, is compulsory for all the new cars sold in the European Community. For older car models devoid of eCall system, some retrofit devices are available in form of a black-box, which is connected to a \SI{12}{V} socket plug and the OBD interface~\cite{8000985, bosch:ecallretrofit, bosch:ecallconnectivity, splitsecnd:ecall}. Such devices rely on a 3-axis accelerometer to detect the collision impact. Nevertheless, when the accelerometer sensor is not firmly attached to the vehicle chassis, the acceleration measurement is not reliable. Also, the accelerometer is prone to false positives, e.g. after a street bump or if a pothole is hit and OBD dongles tend to fold out during impacts.
Recent sound event recognition breakthroughs make possible to detect a car accident through sound analysis, without a specific requirement on the microphone position or orientation. Foggia {\it et al.} were among the first to design a model for urban sound recognition, including car crashes~\cite{foggia_crowded_roads, Foggia2015, Foggia2016}. Initially, their audio classification was based on a combination of bag of words and Support Vector Machine (SVM) with features extracted from raw audio signals. Successively, Deep Neural Networks (DNN) models, in the form of CNN, have proved their effectiveness in classifying audio signals from their spectrogram representation~\cite{saggese_sorenet}. Their solutions are focused on the creation of a larger and inclusive road side surveillance system or microphone-based Intelligent Transportation Systems (ITS) like other works~\cite{morfi2018deep, 10.1145/3378184.3378186, 7472921, huang2020urban}.
Sammarco and Detyniecki~\cite{crashzam} shift the focus to driver and passengers safety, training a SVM model directly on crash sounds recorded inside the car cabin and running on a mobile application. All the other sounds supposed to be reproduced within vehicles like people talking, radio music, and engine noise is treated as negative samples, instead. The proposed Crashzam solution does not require a road side surveillance infrastructure favoring scalability. Moreover, the same authors provide a method for impact localization~\cite{crashzam_springer}. The aim is to provide a quick damage assessment and a fast querying for spare parts. It is based on a four microphones device placed at the center of the car cabin and on the knowledge of the vehicle sizes. Besides the particular dataset of events recorded within the car cabin~\cite{crashzam}, more generic urban event audio dataset exist~\cite{dataset:gemmeke, dataset:mesaros, dataset:Piczak, dataset:Salamon:2014, dataset:stowell}. These datasets contain sound clips with features extracted through the Mel-Frequency Cepstral Coefficients (MFCC) algorithm, and Machine Learning (ML)-based classification techniques.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Collision avoidance}
\label{subsubsec:collision_avoidance}
Collision alerts warn drivers when a collision is imminent, or whether other vehicles or objects are detected extremely close. Collision Avoidance (CA) procedure includes: \textit{(i)} environment sensing for object detection, \textit{(ii)} collision trajectory and impact time estimation, \textit{(iii)} alert launching. A survey of collision avoidance techniques is provided in~\cite{Mukhtar:2015}.
Object detection for CA involves challenges such as pedestrians, vehicles, and obstacles detection at the front as well as at the rear or sides of the vehicle.
Object detection makes extensive use of image acquisition via different kinds of cameras. Those include monochrome, RGB, IR, and NIR cameras~\cite{gloger2005camera, Kilicarslan:2019, Kim:2012, Wu:2018:CA}. A peculiarity of detecting objects by image-based sensors is the use of bounding boxes. The advantage is to crop the image around the object itself resulting in decreased computational time for post-processing. In addition to visual imaging, other active-range sensors such as radar~\cite{joshi:2019:CA, Blanc:2004, Sun:2012:CA, Park:2003}, and LiDAR~\cite{kumar:2019:CA, Kampker:2018, Natale:2010, ogawa:2011:CA, Nashashibi:2008}, can determine the proximity of objects around the vehicle in a two or three-dimensional representation. Another strategy consists of sensor fusion, for example combining camera and LiDAR~\cite{wei2018lidar, cho2019study, Nobis:2019}. Since such sensors for object detection are complementary and coordinated, they create a more resilient CA system. Surround sound can also be used for object detection. Mizumachi \textit{et al.}~\cite{Mizumachi:2014} propose a sensing method relying on a microphone array to warn drivers about another vehicle approaching from the rear side. They employ a spatial-temporal gradient method in conjunction with a particle filter for fine DoA estimation.
Vehicles equipped with multiple exteroceptive sensors are used to conduct experiments on various research areas and, in particular, on object detection for CA.
Table\,\ref{tab:datasets_object_detection} lists available datasets with external perception data. These datasets are available both in images and semantically. In principle, detected objects are marked with 2D or 3D bounding boxes. Based on these markings, it is possible to categorize the detected objects, mostly of the times using neural networks. Some datasets are limited in terms of time or distance traveled (Table\,\ref{tab:datasets_object_detection}).
\begin{table}[t]
\caption{Datasets for object detection with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:datasets_object_detection}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{2.1cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.5cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.5cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.6cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.65cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.65cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.8cm}}
\toprule
\multirow{2}{*}{\textbf{Dataset}} & \textbf{Fra\-mes} & \textbf{Sce\-nes} & \multirow{2}{*}{\textbf{Label}} & \textbf{Annot. types} & \textbf{Annot. frames} & \multirow{2}{*}{\textbf{Size}} \\ \toprule
KITTI~\cite{KITTI:2012} & 43\,k & 22 & 3D & 8 & 15\,k & 1.5\,h \\ \midrule
KAIST~\cite{KAIST:2018} & 95\,k & -- & 2D/3D & 3 & 8.9\,k & -- \\ \midrule
Nuscenes~\cite{Nuscenes:2019} & 40\,k & 1\,k & 2D/3D & 23 & 40\,k & 5.5\,h \\ \midrule
DDAD~\cite{DDAD:2020} & 21\,k & 435 & 2D/3D & -- & 99\,k & -- \\ \midrule
A2D2~\cite{A2D2:2019} & 41\,k & -- & 3D & 38 & 12\,k & -- \\ \midrule
ApolloScape\cite{ApolloScape:2019} & 144\,k & 103 & 2D/3D & 28 & 144\,k & 100\,h \\ \midrule
BDD100K~\cite{BDD100K:2018} & 100\,k & -- & 2D & 10 & 100\,k & 1,000\,h \\ \midrule
Waymo~\cite{Waymo:2019} & 12\,M & 1.1\,k & 2D/3D & 4 & 230\,k & 6.5\,h \\ \midrule
Vistas~\cite{Vistas:2017} & 25\,k & -- & 2D & 66 & 25\,k & 6.5\,h \\ \midrule
Cityscapes~\cite{Cityscapes:2016} & 25\,k & -- & 2D & 30 & 25\,k & -- \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Argoverse~\cite{Argoverse:2019}} & \multirow{2}{*}{--} & 113 & 3D & \multirow{2}{*}{15} & \multirow{2}{*}{22\,k} & 1\,h \\
& & 324\,k & 2D & & & 320\,h \\ \midrule
H3D~\cite{H3D:2019} & 27\,k & 160 & 3D & 8 & 27\,k & 0.77\,h \\ \midrule
Oxford~\cite{Oxford:2019} & -- & 100\,+ & 2D/3D & -- & -- & 1,000\,km \\ \midrule
Eurocity~\cite{Eurocity:2019} & 47k & -- & 2D & 8 & -- & 53\,h \\ \midrule
Canadian~\cite{Canadian:2020} & 7k & -- & 2D/3D & 16 & -- & -- \\ \midrule
Lyft5~\cite{Lyft_Prediction:2020} & -- & 170\,k & 3D & 9 & 46\,k & 1,118\,h \\ \midrule
D$^2$-City~\cite{D2City:2019} & 700\,k & -- & 2D & 12 & -- & 55\,h \\ \midrule
BLVD~\cite{BLVD:2019} & 120\,k & -- & 2D/3D & 28 & 250\,k & -- \\ \midrule
Honda~\cite{Honda:2018} & -- & -- & 2D & 30 & -- & 104\,h \\ \midrule
Ford AV~\cite{Ford:2020} & -- & -- & 3D & -- & -- & 66\,km \\ \midrule
Astyx~\cite{Astyx:2019} & 546 & -- & 2D/3D & -- & -- & -- \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}
\end{table}
\smallskip\subsubsection{Lane departure}
\label{subsubsec:Lane_departure}
Lane detection (LD) and tracking (LT) is a hot topic in the driving safety area due to the complexity needed to achieve reliable results. Most of the applications using LD and LT aim to warn the driver about an odd trajectory before lane crossing to prevent accidents. The first challenge is to correctly extract lane from the acquired image in a single-frame context. This process must be both quick and precise.
Automotive manufacturers deploy inexpensive cameras, usually on the vehicle windshield. Audi implements a monochrome camera with a CMOS image sensor. When the driver performs any maneuver that is considered dangerous by the system, a vibration of the steering wheel is produced~\cite{Popken:2007, Freyer:2010}. Toyota uses monocular cameras in the vehicles to detect LD and send alerts for lane-keeping. These cameras are equipped with a single lens for detecting white lane markings and headlights~\cite{Ono:2016}. Mercedes-Benz uses a stereo camera for its lane-keeping system. Starting from the detection of lane markings, a steering assistant interacts with the driver to facilitate vehicle driving. The system also uses vibration of the steering wheel to alert the driver~\cite{Grimm:2013}.
Andrade \textit{et al.}~\cite{Andrade:2018} propose a three-level image processing strategy for LD. In the low-level, the system essentially performs image compression and delimits the Region of Interest (ROI). In the mid-level, it uses filters to extract features. Finally, high-level processing uses the Hough transform algorithm to extract possible line segments in the ROI. A similar approach is employed by Baili \textit{et al.}~\cite{Baili:2017}. With the same LD technique, Gaikwad and Lokhande~\cite{Gaikwad:2015} use a Piecewise Linear Stretching Function (PLSF) in combination with the Euclidean distance transform to keep false alarms under 3\% and the lane detection rate above 97\%.
The PLSF converts images to grayscale in binary mode and improves contrast in ROI. Boutteau \textit{et al.}~\cite{Boutteau:2013} employ fish-eye cameras to detect lane lines, and from projecting lines onto a unitary virtual sphere, triangulate its projection in perspective, reconstructing the road lines in 3D. Omnidirectional line estimation uses the RANSAC (RANdom SAmple Consensus) method. The system has a true positive rate of 86.9\%. As road markings are reflective, they can be detected using intensity laser data coming from a LiDAR~\cite{Ghallabi:2018, kammel2008lidar, hata2014road, zhang2010lidar, wu2020automatic}. Following this intuition, LD includes road segmentation detecting curbs with elevation information and selecting the most reflective points from the road plane.
To study lane detection, there are some datasets available with vision-based real data. These have been collected under different climatic and light exposure conditions. The datasets consist of video sequences, images and frames of real scenes on the road~\cite{Aly:2008, Wu:2012, Fritsch:2013, VPGNet:2017, TuSimple:2017, CuLane:2017, Berriel:2017, ApolloScape:2019, BDD100K:2018}.
\subsection{Driving behavior}
\label{subsec:driving_behavior}
One of the main risk factors on the roads is the human driving~\cite{Singh:2015}. The driver behavior is associated with different events that generate dangerous or aggressive actions. As shown in Table\,\ref{tab:driving_behavior}, driving behavior can be evaluated in macro-areas that study different events in driving practice. The literature on the classification of driving behaviors is rich. In the insurance market, commercial products like Pay As You Drive (PAYD) or Pay How You Drive (PHYD) determine their price taking driving behavior metrics into account~\cite{bordoff:2010}.
\begin{table}[!t]
\caption{Driving behavior applications with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:driving_behavior}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{CCC}
\toprule \textbf{Application} & \textbf{Sensor/\textcolor{gray}{Dataset}} & \textbf{References}\\ \toprule
\multirow{5}{*}{Driving profiling} & GNSS & \cite{Abdelrahman2019, zheng2015trajectory, Dong:2017,Dong:2016, andrieu2012comparing, chen2018driver} \\
& Microphone & \cite{Goksu:2018, Kubera:2019, Ma:2017} \\
& Camera & \cite{Tran:2012} \\
& Tachograph & \cite{Rygula:2009, Kim:2016, Zhou:2019} \\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{Hankey:2016, dataset:campbell2012shrp, dataset:VTT1/LYUBJP_2020, dataset:VTT1/KVCO0B_2017, LeBlanc:2010, Bender:2015, site:nhtsa} \\ \midrule
Driver detection & Microphone & \cite{chu:2014, Yang:2011} \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Driver identification} & GNSS & \cite{Jafarnejad:2019} \\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{Abut:2007} \\
\midrule
\multirow{3}{*}{Driver health monitoring} & Plethysmograph & \cite{Shin:2010} \\
& ECG & \cite{Cassani:2019, Jung:2014, Wartzek:2011, Sakai:2013} \\
& Biometric & \cite{Sinnapolu:2018, Audi:2016, MB:2019, Nismo:2013} \\ \midrule
\multirow{5}{*}{Driver distraction} & Camera & \cite{Fridman:2016, Tran:2018, Zhang:2019, Walger:2014, Wijnands:2019, Hossain:2018, Xu:2014:soberDrive, Chuang:2014, Qiao:2016, You:2013, abouelnaga2017realtime} \\
& Microphone & \cite{Xie:2019, Xu:2017} \\
& ECG & \cite{BenDkhil:2015, Yeo:2009} \\
& Infrared & \cite{Bhaskar:2017, Lee:2008} \\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{Taamneh:2017} \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}%
\end{table}
\smallskip\subsubsection{Driving profiling}
\label{subsubsec:driving_profiling}
Risk predictions are based on driving behavior and profiling, always supported by historical GNSS data, sometimes enriched with weather and traffic conditions~\cite{Abdelrahman2019, zheng2015trajectory}. Recently, Dong \textit{et al.}~\cite{Dong:2017} propose an Autoencoder Regularized deep neural Network (ARNet) and a trip encoding framework called trip2vec to learn drivers' driving styles directly from GPS records. This method achieves an identification accuracy higher than their own previous work based on different DNN architectures on characterizing driving styles~\cite{Dong:2016}. Authors in~\cite{andrieu2012comparing, chen2018driver}, instead, consider and evaluate fuel consumption and eco-driving as a proxy of driving behavior.
The identification of driving characteristics is relevant to describe different profiles of driving behavior.
Instead of relying on low frequency GNSS points, G\"oksu~\cite{Goksu:2018} proposes to monitor the vehicle speed through acoustic signals. He employs a Wavelet Packet Analysis (WPA) for processing the engine speed variation sound. This method provides arbitrary time-frequency resolution. Given that WPA output is a sub-signals set, the author uses norm entropy, log energy and energy. These features feed a Multi-Layer Perceptron (MLP). Experiments were conducted with data was collected from four different vehicles, using a digital recorder attached to a microphone, located at \SI{1}{m} away from the engine. Best results are obtained with the norm entropy as feature. On the other hand, Kubera \textit{et al.}~\cite{Kubera:2019} study the drivers' behavior approaching speed check points recording and analyzing audio signals recorded by a roadside microphone. They test multiple ML models (SVM, random forest, and ANN), as well as a time series-based approach to classify car accelerating, decelerating, or maintaining constant speed. Results shows 95\% classification accuracy in speed estimation. Microphone is also used for detecting turn signals in a larger framework for auto-calibrating and smartphone-based dangerous driving behavior identification system~\cite{Ma:2017}.
Assessments of data collected in commercial vehicles through tachographs are performed to analyze the behavior of drivers and detect dangerous events in shared driving. Data collected is of particular interest to the vehicle owner and manufacturer, telematics insurance, and a regulatory entity. Data collected through tachographs loaded on commercial vehicles are studied in~\cite{Rygula:2009, Kim:2016, Zhou:2019}. Also, camera is used for modeling and predicting driver behavior~\cite{Tran:2012}. The camera is actually pointed to drivers' feet to track and analyze their movements through a Hidden Markov Model (HMM). The model is able to correctly predict brake and acceleration pedal presses 74\% of time and \SI{133}{ms} before the actual press. Instrumenting vehicles with data recorders and transmitters to collect data to study and assess driving behavior is expensive and often have to face privacy issues.
Nevertheless, many academic institutions and public authorities have built, on voluntary-basis, databases of real (also called ``naturalistic'') rides~\cite{Hankey:2016, dataset:campbell2012shrp, dataset:VTT1/LYUBJP_2020, dataset:VTT1/KVCO0B_2017, LeBlanc:2010, Bender:2015} or test rides in a controlled environment~\cite{site:nhtsa}.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Driver detection}
\label{subsubsec:driver_passenger_identification}
One of the basic problems driving behavior monitoring systems is to differentiate the driver from passengers. Systems proposed to resolve this issue are named Driver Detection Systems (DDS). The DDS is a building block for mobility services, especially common for PHYD or PAYD smartphone-based applications or fleet management, as the same person can sometimes drive its own vehicle or be just a passenger on other occasions (e.g., on taxis, buses, and friends' car).
One common approach is to split the vehicle seats in four quadrants (front/rear and left/right) where the driver occupies either front/left or the front/right seat and to analyze signals during maneuvres~\cite{chu:2014}.
Following this approach, a microphone-based solution has been proposed by Yang \textit{et al.}~\cite{Yang:2011}: supposing that the vehicle has four loudspeakers at the four corners of the car cabin, and the driver/passenger's smartphone can establish a Bluetooth connection to the car's stereo system, then some high frequency beeps are played at some predefined time intervals. On the other side, beeps are recorded and analyzed by a mobile app to deduce the reception timing difference between left/right and front/left. Despite being an elegant solution, locations equidistant from the loudspeakers present high incertitude. Moreover, Bluetooth association is often guaranteed only to the driver's smartphone.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Driver identification}
\label{subsubsec:driver_identification}
A slightly different problem is Driver Identification (DI): given a set of drivers, recognizing who is currently driving. Traditional authentication methods which use smart-cards, RFID tags, or code dialing, require the installation of specific hardware. Jafarnejad \textit{et al.}~\cite{Jafarnejad:2019} propose a DI approach based on noisy and low rate location data provided by GNSS embedded in smartphones, car-navigation system or external receivers. The authors extract characteristics through a semantic categorization of data and metrics detected in the dataset. For that, a DNN architecture analyzes the characteristics. Results show that the approach achieves an accuracy of 81\% for 5 drivers. Nonetheless, the amount of data trained can generate errors. Hence, it is necessary to implement one more authentication method in the algorithm. Moreira-Matias and Farah~\cite{Moreira:2017} propose a methodology to DI using historical trip-based data. The system uses data acquired through a data recorder, and uses ML techniques for feature analysis. Results show a high accuracy in predicting the driver category ($\approx$88\%).
\smallskip\subsubsection{Driver health monitoring}
\label{subsubsec:Health_monitoring}
Drivers' health describes different driving actions including maneuvres leading to accidents. For this reason, researchers and industry are interested in the use of sensors for drivers' physiological electrocardiogram (ECG) signals. The correlation between ECG signals and both heart and breathing rhythms describes alterations in the body due to stress, fatigue, drowsiness, sleepiness, inattention, drunkenness, decision errors, and health issues~\cite{Choi:2016}. One strategy for obtaining ECG signals is to use resistive sensors on the steering wheel.
Osaka~\cite{Osaka:2012} and Shin \textit{et al.}~\cite{Shin:2010} have developed a heart rate verification system using electrodes and a photo-plethysmograph, a heart-rate sensor that uses a photoelectric pulse wave.
Cassani \textit{et al.}~\cite{Cassani:2019} evaluate ECG signals through electrodes installed on the steering wheel to study three factors: ECG signal quality, estimated heart and breathing rate. Jung \textit{et al.}~\cite{Jung:2014} propose a real-time driver health monitoring system with sleepiness alerts. Another technique is the use of sensors on the back of the driver's seat. Wartzek \textit{et al.}~\cite{Wartzek:2011} propose a reliable analysis of sensors distributed according to the morphology of the driver in the back of the seat. The authors show that 86\% of the samples are reliable on a testbed of 59 people. Sakai \textit{et al.}~\cite{Sakai:2013} use resistive sensors mounted on the back of the driver's seat to analyze the heart-rate in different driving conditions, with speed variations.
Very recently, smartwatches are becoming more and more pervasive for health and wellness monitoring~\cite{Reeder:2016}. Sinnapolu \textit{et al.}~\cite{Sinnapolu:2018} propose to monitor the driver's heart rate via smartwatch and in case of critical conditions (the driver is not responding for in-vehicle button press or driver related activity), then a micro-controller sends CAN messages to activate the auto pilot, to pull over for assistance, and route the vehicle to the closest health center.
Automakers also are careful about their customers' well-being while driving. Nissan NISMO uses wearable technology to capture biometric data from the driver via the heart rate monitor. This device can analyze heart rate, brain activity, and skin temperature. An application can determine early fatigue, concentration, emotions, and hydration level~\cite{Nismo:2013}. Audi uses smartwatches or fitness wristbands that monitor heart rate and skin temperature. The goal is to reduce stress levels while driving, besides improving the concentration and fitness driving of drivers. Audi plans a driver assistance service that can perform autonomous driving functions, assisted emergency stops, and implement emergency services via eCall~\cite{Audi:2016}. Mercedes-Benz monitors health and fitness levels. The smartwatch can transmit the data from the sensors through the smartphone and displays the data on the on-board computer. The system analyzes vital data such as stress level and sleeping quality, activating different programs depending on the individual profile of the driver~\cite{MB:2019}.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Driver distraction}
\label{subsubsec:Driving_distraction}
A recurring problem in driving behavior is distraction. In fact, just in 2017, distracted driving claimed 3,166 lives in the United States~\cite{NHTSADistractedDriving:2019}. The following are common types of distraction~\cite{NHTSADistractedDriving:2010}:
\begin{itemize}
\item {\it visual}: taking the eyes off the road;
\item {\it manual}: taking the hands off the steering wheel;
\item {\it cognitive}: taking the mind off of driving.
\end{itemize}
Most of the existing solutions use image analysis to track drivers' eyes and gestures, whether the gaze is on the street ahead or if looking elsewhere for distraction (e.g., looking the smartphone) or for drowsiness~\cite{Fridman:2016, Tran:2018, Zhang:2019, Walger:2014, Wijnands:2019, Hossain:2018, Xu:2014:soberDrive, Chuang:2014, Qiao:2016, You:2013, abouelnaga2017realtime}. Usually, images from drivers' smartphone frontal camera are analyzed through quite complex CNN architectures for face, eyes, nodding and yawning detection and a warning sound is reproduced in case of danger. Special precautions must adopt at night when ambient lighting is scarce.
Besides images or videos analysis, Xie \textit{et al.}~\cite{Xie:2019} propose a driver's distraction model based on the audio signal acquired by smartphone microphone. They design a Long Short-Term Memory (LSTM) network accepting audio features extracted with under-sampling technique and Fast Fourier Transform (FFT). With the goal of an early detection of drowsy driving, they achieve an average total accuracy of 93.31\%. Also, Xu \textit{et al.}~\cite{Xu:2017} rely on sound acquired by drivers' smartphones to assess inattentive driving. Through an experimental campaign, they claim a 94.8\% model accuracy in recognizing events like fetching forward, picking up drops, turning back, eating and drinking. Such events exhibit unique patterns on Doppler profiles of audio signals.
As drowsiness drops the attention level, it is also considered a form of distraction. Relying on different sources of information, authors in~\cite{BenDkhil:2015, Yeo:2009} evaluate drowsiness by analysis of electroencephalography (EEG) signals records. Bhaskar~\cite{Bhaskar:2017}, instead, proposes EyeAwake, which monitors eye blinking rate, unnatural head nodding/swaying, breathing rate and heart rate to detect drowsy driving leveraging infrared sensors consisting of an infrared Light Emitting Diode (LED) and an infrared photo-transistor. Its 70\% accuracy though does not make it attractive despite its low cost. Nonetheless, infrared sensor is used by Lee \textit{et al.}~\cite{Lee:2008} to monitor driver's head movement to detect drowsiness with 78\% of accuracy rate. Car manufacturers are very careful to drivers' fatigue and drowsiness proposing specific systems in high range products. A list of current research and market solutions is provided in~\cite{Doudou:2020}. Taamneh \textit{et al.}~\cite{Taamneh:2017} provide to the research community a multi-modal dataset for various forms of distracted driving including images, Electro-Dermal Activity (EDA) and adrenergic sensor (for heart and breathing rate) data.
\subsection{Road Monitoring}
\label{subsec:road_monitoring}
Poor road conditions produce mechanical damages, increase vehicle maintenance expenses, poor water draining, not to mention higher accident risk. Different approaches have been developed to monitor the road surface, share this information and alert drivers, as shown in Table\,\ref{tab:road_monitoring}. As smartphones possess a three-axis accelerometer, it is possible to process the vertical acceleration signal within a mobile application to find pavement asperities or to identify dangerous zones. Naricell and TrafficSense are two example applications~\cite{Nericell:2008, TrafficSense:2008}. Nevertheless, to provide reliable measures, a proprioceptive sensor like the accelerometer must be well fixed on the vehicle chassis. On the other hand, exteroceptive sensors can easily be used to overcome this limitation and to go beyond the mere pothole detection.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Road porosity}
\label{subsubsec:road_porosity}
Another way to infer road conditions is through acoustic analysis of the tire and road surface. Crocker \textit{et al.}~\cite{Crocker:2005} study the impact between tire tread, road, and air pumping with the ISO 11819\-2:2017 close-proximity (CPX) method~\cite{ISO_11819}. Through their experiments, they are able to identify surfaces which have a greater sound absorption, like porous road pavement. Such surfaces have the advantage that they drain water well and reduce the splash up behind vehicles during heavy rainfalls. In a similar context, Bezemer-Krijnen \textit{et al.}~\cite{Krijnen:2016} study the tire-road rolling noise with the CPX approach to figure out the pavement roughness and porosity, as well as the influence of tire tread and road characteristic on the noise radiation.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Road wetness}
\label{subsubsec:road_wetness}
Abdi\'c \textit{et al.}~\cite{Abdic:2016} suggest the use of a DNN model, namely a Bi-directional LSTM (BLSTM) Recurrent Neural Network (RNN) model, to detect the road surface wetness. Data is collected with a shotgun microphone placed very close to the rear tire. Authors conduct experiments at different speeds, types of road, and road International Roughness Indexes (IRI). Their model achieves an Unweighted Average Recall (UAR) of 93.2\% for all vehicle speeds. Alonso \textit{et al.}~\cite{Alonso:2014} propose an asphalt status classification system based on real-time acoustic analysis of tire-road interaction noise. Similar to~\cite{Abdic:2016}, their goal is to detect road weather conditions with an on-board system. The authors use a SVM model in combination with feature engineering extraction methods. Results show that wet asphalt is detected 100\% of the time, even using just one feature. Meantime, dry asphalt detection achieves 88\% accuracy. Yamada \textit{et al.}~\cite{Yamada:2003} study the road surface condition wetness based on images taken by a TV camera inside the vehicle. They employ light polarization techniques to distinguish between a dry surface and a surface wet of rain or snow. Jokela \textit{et al.}~\cite{Jokela:2009} also present IcOR, a method to monitor road conditions based on light polarization reflected from the road surface. To estimate the contrast of the images, the system evaluates the graininess and the blurriness of the images. IcOR uses a monochrome stereo camera pair.
\begin{table}[t]
\centering
\caption{Road monitoring applications with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:road_monitoring}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{3cm}CC}
\toprule
\textbf{Application} & \textbf{Sensor/\textcolor{gray}{Dataset}} & \textbf{References} \\ \toprule
Road porosity & Microphone & \cite{Crocker:2005, Krijnen:2016} \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Road wetness} & Microphone & \cite{Abdic:2016, Alonso:2014} \\
& Camera & \cite{Yamada:2003, Jokela:2009} \\ \midrule
\multirow{6}{*}{Pothole detection} & Microphone & \cite{Mednis:2010} \\
& Camera & \cite{Hou:2007, Chun:2019, ye2019convolutional, Maeda_2018, shim2019road, anand2018crack, Huidrom:2013} \\
& Camera+Laser & \cite{7084929} \\
& Radar & \cite{Huston:2000} \\
& Ultrasonic & \cite{Madli:2015} \\
& \textcolor{gray}{Dataset} & \cite{road_damage_dataset_2018, kaggle_pothole_image_dataset, shi2016automatic, yang2019feature, mei2020densely}\\ \midrule
Road slipperiness & Tachograph & \cite{Jang:2019} \\ \midrule
Road type classification & Ultrasonic & \cite{Bystrov:2016} \\ \midrule
\multirow{4}{*}{Parking lots detection} & Ultrasonic & \cite{Park:2008:parking} \\
& Radar & \cite{Loeffler:2015} \\
& Camera & \cite{grassi:2015:parking, grassi2017parkmaster, Ng:2017:parking} \\
& LiDAR & \cite{Park:2019:parking} \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}%
\end{table}
\smallskip\subsubsection{Pothole detection}
\label{subsubsec:pothole_detection}
Another approach of analyzing road conditions is to detect potholes and gaps. Mednis \textit{et al.}~\cite{Mednis:2010} introduce a method for pothole detection and localization called RoadMic. Their dataset includes a combination of timestamped sound fragments with GPS positions. The sound signal is low passed to discard the noise (associated with high frequencies) and to reduce transmission latency. The proposal is tested in an urban scenario, considering 10 test drives, and data is analyzed offline. Although pothole detection is based on a simple sound signal amplitude threshold and position on the triangulation of several GPS points, authors conclude that RoadMic detects potholes with more than 80\% reliability, depending on the GPS capabilities and driving speed. Hou \textit{et al.}~\cite{Hou:2007} perform pothole recognition from 2D images taken by more cameras, and with a stereovision technique, interpolate each pair of images to generate a 3D image. Their initial goal is to have a 3D reconstruction of the pavement with an accuracy of 5\,mm at vertical direction. Chun \textit{et al.}~\cite{Chun:2019} analyze road surface damage through cameras installed on the vehicle, taking photos up to \SI{100}{km/h}. The authors use a CNN to classify the images and detect surface damages. Other studies also use different CNN architectures to classify road potholes and cracks~\cite{Maeda_2018, shim2019road, anand2018crack, ye2019convolutional}. Huidrom \textit{et al.}~\cite{Huidrom:2013} quantify potholes, cracks and patches using image processing techniques supported by heuristically derived decision logic. The testbed uses a portable digital camera and a monochromatic camera.
Other sensors are also used instead of cameras for road conditions assessment. Vupparaboina~\textit{et al.}~\cite{7084929} instead, couple camera and laser scanning within a physics-based geometric framework to identify dry and wet pothole. The system analyzes the deformations of the laser light through the camera. Huston \textit{et al.}~\cite{Huston:2000} use a Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) in the frequency band of \SI{0.05}{GHz} to \SI{6}{GHz} to analyze concrete roadways subjected to mechanical stress, especially detecting delamination conditions with signal processing. In laboratory tests, the proposed solution is able to detect defects as small as \SI{1}{mm}. Madli \textit{et al.}~\cite{Madli:2015} also use an ultrasonic sensor to identify potholes and humps as well as their depth and height respectively. As each pothole is geotagged too, the system uses a smartphone application to alert drivers approaching dangerous zones.
Other methods to detect potholes and cracks include 2D image and 3D surface analysis.
Recent progress in image processing brought by CNNs and the presence of high resolution cameras on smartphones, make such methods very convenient and accurate. The availability of open source image datasets contribute even more to the popularity of image processing for pothole detection. Moreover, datasets are necessary to train large DNNs~\cite{road_damage_dataset_2018, kaggle_pothole_image_dataset, shi2016automatic, yang2019feature, mei2020densely}. Unfortunately, the effectiveness of smartphone camera image processing for road surface monitoring drastically drops down with poor lighting conditions and dense traffic situations.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Road slipperiness}
\label{subsubsec:road_slipperiness}
Slippery road conditions are a crucial issue for drivers. Jang~\cite{Jang:2019} identifies slippery road spots using data from digital tachographs on-board commercial vehicles. The system measures the differences between the angular and rotational speed of the wheels, calculates the linear regression of the data, and estimates the road slipperiness within the calculated confidence interval. Experiments are conducted in different surfaces and states. Results show\,$\pm$20\% of wheel slips with a 99.7\% confidence interval. Nonetheless, the system has some issues concerning GPS interference, and other strategies can depend from readings unrelated to tachograph. Therefore, the authors suggest merging the proposed method with other techniques to improve it.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Road type classification}
\label{subsubsec:road_type_classification}
Bystrov \textit{et al.}~\cite{Bystrov:2016} investigate the use of a short-range ultrasonic sensing system to classify road surfaces: asphalt, mastic asphalt, grass, gravel, and dirt road. Among the classification methods used, MLP shows the best performance. Mukherjee and Pandey~\cite{Mukherjee:2017} classify road surfaces through the texture characterization. The authors use Gray-Level Co-occurrence Matrix (GLCM) to the texture analysis. The system uses a linearly scanning method to evaluate the GLCM approach. To test the approach, marks are introduced using a vision dataset~\cite{KITTI:2012}. The authors conclude that this tool can be added in road segmentation processes.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Parking space detection}
\label{subsubsec:parking_space_detection}
Road monitoring services also include the detection of free parking lots. In large cities, the quest for a free parking space is a time consuming and stressful task which impact driving behavior and fuel consumption. The problem of detecting free parking lots while driving and without instrumenting or changing the road infrastructure, has been initially tackled with ultrasonic~\cite{Park:2008:parking} and radar sensors~\cite{Loeffler:2015}. Successively, due to the recent advances in image object detection with computer vision and CNN, camera~\cite{grassi:2015:parking, grassi2017parkmaster, Ng:2017:parking} or LiDAR based systems have been proposed~\cite{Park:2019:parking}. The common strategy is to sense the roadside while driving and compare its occupancy with a pre-defined parking lots map. Considering all lots as free, the occupancy information is shared and vice-versa.
\subsection{Navigation}
\label{subsec:navigation}
LBS are widely used in vehicle telematics to track vehicle navigation and to guide drivers from origin to destination. Currently, the automotive sector represents 55\% of the LBS market, or 93.3\% when combined with consumer solutions~\cite{GNSSReport:2019}. Most LBS for vehicle telematics are based on GNSS receivers. Nonetheless, GNSS outages reduce the accuracy of vehicle positioning. To encompass these issues, there are employed standalone devices with embedded MEMS sensors like accelerometer and gyroscope~\cite{Tiliakos:2013}, which make up a 6-degree-of-freedom system recognized as the Inertial Measurement Unit (IMU) \cite{Seel:2014}. Through the processing of these signals, it is possible to enable the tracking, position, and orientation of the vehicle, making it an Inertial Navigation System (INS). Compared to GNSS issues, INS exhibits cumulative growth in bias sensor error~\cite{Woodman:2007, Ramanandan:2012, Prikhodko:2018}.
Likewise, with the implementation of exteroceptive sensors in vehicles, vehicular telematics now can interact with the vehicle surroundings. In addition to determining the location of the vehicle in a map, it is possible to recognize the position relative to static or moving objects, which makes navigation systems in the vehicle more intuitive. Moreover, having information on the trajectories of the vehicle and surrounding objects, we can gather safety-related information, insurance-relevant data, as well as to build driving analysis tools to describe driver behaviors and their relevance with respect to partial or autonomous driving assistance systems. Leveraging on the functionality of the exteroceptive sensors, various works study and analyze LBS through the integration of GNSS and INS or Simultaneous Localization and Mapping (SLAM)-based systems. As shown in Table\,\ref{tab:navigation}, we consider GNSS/INS-based and SLAM-based applications, since these are widely used for vehicular navigation systems.
\begin{table}[t]
\centering
\caption{Navigation applications with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:navigation}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{CCC}
\toprule
\textbf{Application} & \textbf{Sensor/\textcolor{gray}{Dataset}} & \textbf{References}\\ \toprule
\multirow{3}{*}{GNSS/INS-based} & Camera & \cite{Schreiber:2016, Ramezani:2018, Wen:2019, Shunsuke:2015} \\
& LiDAR & \cite{Hata:2016, Meng:2017, Wan:2018, Demir:2019} \\
& Radar & \cite{Abosekeen:2019} \\ \midrule
\multirow{3}{*}{SLAM-based} & Camera & \cite{Lemaire:2007, Magnabosco:2013, Chiang:2020} \\
& LiDAR & \cite{Ghallabi:2018, Javanmardi:2019, Choi:2014, Moras:2010}\\
& Radar & \cite{Jose:2005, Cornick:2016, Ort:2020} \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}%
\end{table}
\smallskip\subsubsection{GNSS/INS-based navigation}\label{subsubsec:GNSS-based} To mitigate problems with inaccuracies and sensor biases, GNSS and INS systems are used simultaneously as real-time calibration systems along with exteroceptive sensors to reduce cumulative error and the effects of GNSS outages~\cite{Zhang:2011, Ramanandan:2012, Sasani:2015}.
Schreiber \textit{et al.}~\cite{Schreiber:2016} propose a localization method using real-time camera images coupled to a GNSS/INS when GNSS measurements have low precision. The system analyzes the changes in camera orientation between pairs of frames to estimate the position and speed change. The authors implement an Extended Kalman Filter (EKF) to estimate movement through cameras and GNSS/INS prediction. Nonetheless, the system depends on the quality of the GNSS signal. Ramezani \textit{et al.}~\cite{Ramezani:2018} support stereo cameras with inertial sensors in a Visual-Inertial Odometry (VIO) system. The idea is to keep navigation operational in the absence of GNSS signal. The system implements a Multi-State Constraint Kalman Filter (MSCKF) to integrate INS data and images from a single camera. A second camera is used to impose additional conditions to improve the estimation of the system. Results show that the MSCKF stereo achieves a lower average positioning error in relation to the mono approach and the integrated with INS.
Wen \textit{et al.}~\cite{Wen:2019} use a fish-eye camera pointing the sky to classify measurements in LoS or NLoS environments, beforehand to integrating them into GNSS/INS. The authors formulate an integration problem using the measurements of each system independently. Variable analysis results in a non-linear optimization problem, where the sensor measurements are interpreted as edges, and the different states as nodes; these are defined in a factor graph. The experiments are carried out in an urban environment. Compared with an EKF and a factor graph for the GNSS/INS system, the fish-eye camera with factor graph technique reduces the mean positioning error from \SI{8.31}{m} to \SI{3.21}{m} and from \SI{7.28}{m} to \SI{4.73}{m} in the selected scenarios. Even if the remaining positioning error is lower, yet it is too much for autonomous driving vehicles and it has not been verified with a very large experimental campaign. Shunsuke \textit{et al.}~\cite{Shunsuke:2015} present a system for locating the vehicle through positioning in the lane of a road. The system integrates a monocular camera with GNSS/INS. Analysis of the lane detection image is carried out by implementing the Inverse Perspective Mapping (IPM) algorithm, which projects the ROI onto a ground plane, and processed through the Hough transform. GNSS/INS/lane detection images use a particle filter. Results show that the average positioning error is lower than 0.8\%, and the correct lane rate is higher than 93\%.
A drawback of image sensors is their sensitivity to both very intense or scarce lighting~\cite{Hata:2016}. Yet, an important asset for navigation is dynamic object detection. LiDARs can also serve this purpose. Hata \textit{et al.}~\cite{Hata:2016} present a vehicle location method that includes the detection of curbs and road markings through LiDAR readings. Curb detection is based on the adjacent distance between rings formed by the sensor readings; a gradient filter analyzes the false classification of curbs, and a regression filter adjusts a function to remove outliers and to consider candidate points. For detecting road markings, the authors use the Otsu threshold method, an algorithm that returns a single intensity level in a pixel, and a reflective intensive sensor calibration method. The binary map grid for both curbs and road markings is integrated with GNSS/INS using the Monte Carlo Location (MCL) algorithm, a method that estimates the position by matching the sensor measurements and the area where the vehicle displaces. Results show that the longitudinal and lateral errors are less than \SI{0.3}{m}.
Meng \textit{et al.}~\cite{Meng:2017} propose a vehicle location system based on GNSS, IMU, Distance-Measuring Instrument (DMI), and LiDAR. GNSS/IMU/DMI systems are combined employing a fault-detection method based on Unscented Kalman Filter (UKF) and a curb detection. The system calculates the lateral location of the vehicle and estimates the lateral error. Wan \textit{et al.}~\cite{Wan:2018} design a vehicle location system based on the fusion of GNSS, INS, and LiDAR sensors. The system estimates the location through position, speed, and attitude together. The location-based on the LiDAR sensor shows the position and heading angle of the vehicle. Results show that the location incertitude with LiDAR decreases between \SI{5}{cm} and \SI{10}{cm} for both longitudinal and lateral location. Demir \textit{et al.}~\cite{Demir:2019} develop a framework for vehicle location that uses \SI{4}{x} LiDARs working simultaneously. Sensor readings are accumulated and merged into a scan accumulator module, which performs a normal distribution transform to analyze ambient variations using statistics on the point cloud distribution rather than point-to-point correspondence at accumulated data from each sensor. Results show that the maximum lateral and longitudinal error is \SI{10}{cm} and \SI{30}{cm}, respectively.
To mitigate adverse effects on vision-based sensors and laser-based sensors, some studies employ radar readings for localization applications. Abosekeen \textit{et al.}~\cite{Abosekeen:2019} estimate the vehicle location through a radar sensor for adaptive cruise control (ACC), in a navigation scheme that integrates GNSS/INS. The system performs raw radar measurement processing to determine the vehicle's estimated position and reduce the ground reflection effect and uses an EKF to combine the radar with a Reduced Inertial Sensor System (RISS).
\smallskip\subsubsection{SLAM-based navigation}\label{subsubsec:SLAM-based} One concept of mapping used in robotic mobility is the well-known Simultaneous Localization and Mapping (SLAM). It represents a computational problem that tends to build or update a map of an unknown environment as soon as the vehicle moves, constantly monitoring the route~\cite{Martin:2014}. SLAM can use different exteroceptive sensors to which an algorithm is associated, depending on the scope and assumptions of the implementation.
Vision-based approaches with stereo, monocular and thermal cameras are studied in~\cite{Lemaire:2007, Magnabosco:2013}. Basically, the authors combine stereo and monocular cameras with thermal cameras, to improve the detection of landmarks and to analyze the average relative error to the position of landmarks. However, visual location-based suffers from climatic changes, lighting, among others. Chiang \textit{et al.}~\cite{Chiang:2020} implement a navigation system using smartphone sensors. The system integrates GNSS/INS sensors and cameras. The authors implement the ORB-SLAM (Oriented FAST and Rotated BRIEF)~\cite{Rublee:2011} technique to process images. Data from the sensors that make up the system are merged through an EKF algorithm. The results show that the GNSS/INS system with integrated SLAM improves the accuracy of position and velocity, from 43\% to 51.3\%.
LiDAR-based approaches are not sensitive to ambient lighting, surface texture, as well as supporting long-range and wide field of view (FOV). Ghallabi \textit{et al.}~\cite{Ghallabi:2018} use lane markings to calculate vehicle location using multilayer LiDAR within a map. Line detection employs the Hough transform, as soon as a map-matching algorithm is implemented to validate landmarks within the location system. Javanmardi \textit{et al.}~\cite{Javanmardi:2019} propose a location system based on LiDAR multilayers and 2D vector map and planar surface map formats, which represent building, building footprints, and ground. The idea is to reduce the size of the map while maintaining location accuracy. A hybrid map-based SLAM system through a Rao-Blackwellized particle filter is proposed by Choi~\cite{Choi:2014}. Basically, LiDAR readings are filtered to classify and compare landmarks and to establish the location and mapping of the vehicle. Moras \textit{et al.}~\cite{Moras:2010} present a scheme to monitor moving objects around the vehicle and map the environment statically with LiDAR echo readings. The scheme implements a framework that merges a dual space representation (polar and cartesian), which defines the local occupancy grid and the accumulation grid. Accurate localization is a prerequisite for such a scheme.
Jose and Adams~\cite{Jose:2005} implement mmWave radar and formulate a SLAM problem to estimate target radar positioning and cross sections. Cornick \textit{et al.}~\cite{Cornick:2016} use a Localizing Ground Penetrating Radar (LGPR) that works through mapping and logging components. Ort \textit{et al.}~\cite{Ort:2020} use EKF to combine LGPR readings with wheel encoders and IMU sensor readings including magnetometer measurements.
\smallskip\subsubsection{Map tracking datasets}\label{subsubsec:map_tracking} To characterize maps in real-time, sensor readings are used to compose updated maps of the vehicle's surroundings. The mapping process occurs through object detection, where artificial intelligence techniques are implemented to identify various macro-areas, from lane markings to traffic signs recognition. As a result, the generation of maps in 2D and 3D is done through geometric and semantic layers. In addition to navigation, it is possible to analyze the dynamics and behavior of objects in the surroundings. Table\,\ref{tab:tracking_datasets} lists available datasets from experimental vehicles that collect data through exteroceptive sensors. All datasets include RGB cameras and LiDAR sensors. Rasterized maps in~\cite{Nuscenes:2019, Argoverse:2019, Lyft_Perception:2019} include roads, ground height and sidewalks, and vectorized maps include semantic layers like lane geometry, among others. Aerial map in~\cite{Lyft_Prediction:2020} is represented from the data encoded in the semantic map. Meanwhile,~\cite{Ford:2020} uses a ground plane and a 3D point cloud of non-roads data.
\begin{table}[!t]
\centering
\caption{Map tracking datasets available with exteroceptive sensors.}
\label{tab:tracking_datasets}
\begin{tabularx}{\columnwidth}{>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{1.8cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{1.4cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.6cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{2.2cm}>{\centering\arraybackslash}p{0.6cm}}
\toprule
\textbf{Dataset} & \textbf{Map type} & \textbf{Layers} & \textbf{Sensors} & \textbf{Size} \\ \toprule
\multirow{2}{*}{Nuscenes~\cite{Nuscenes:2019}} & \multirow{2}{*}{Raster} & \multirow{2}{*}{11} &LiDAR/Radar /Camera/GPS/IMU & \multirow{2}{*}{6\,h} \\ \midrule
Argoverse~\cite{Argoverse:2019} & Vector+Raster & 2 & LiDAR/Camera & 290\,km \\ \midrule
Lyft5~\cite{Lyft_Perception:2019} & Raster & 7 & LiDAR/Camera & 2.5\,h \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Lytf5~\cite{Lyft_Prediction:2020}} & HD\,Semantic & \multirow{2}{*}{7} & \multirow{2}{*}{LiDAR/Camera} & 1,118\,h \\
& Aerial & & & 74\,km$^2$ \\ \midrule
\multirow{2}{*}{Ford~\cite{Ford:2020}} & \multirow{2}{*}{3D} & \multirow{2}{*}{2} & LiDAR/Camera & \multirow{2}{*}{66\,km} \\
& & & /GPS/IMU & \\ \bottomrule
\end{tabularx}
\end{table}
\section{Open Research Challenges}
\label{sec:challenges}
The utilization of exteroceptive sensors and their versatility in various telematics services and applications demonstrate their importance. Nonetheless, there are still open challenges, some of them inherent to the data acquired. In this section, we describe some of the areas which require further investigation.
\smallskip\textit{Which data is important?}
Exteroceptive sensors onboard a Waymo vehicle generate up to \SI{19}{TB} of data per day~\cite{Waymo1,Tuxera_Waymo}. Clearly, determining which data is relevant becomes crucial for fast processing. Three strategies are useful to reduce the amount of data upstream:
\begin{enumerate}
\item select and restrict the number of exteroceptive sensors;
\item activate sensors only when necessary;
\item degrade sensor precision (e.g., sampling frequency or image resolution).
\end{enumerate}
Some car manufacturers go further. Tesla renounces to use LiDAR sensors, claiming they are unreliable~\cite{Forbes_Tesla}. As shown in Section~\ref{sec:services_and_applications}, different options and sensors are used to achieve the same function. On the other hand, sensor data fusion is undeniably approach to achieve better precision and reliability.
\smallskip\textit{Data processing.}
The analysis of sensor readings can have a high computational cost entailing response delay.
In areas like vehicular safety and insurance telematics, where data analysis is used to detect critical events, response time is crucial.
With the commercialization of vehicles with different levels of autonomy, data analysis becomes more significant for the design of risk models.
This is compensated by Moore's law: hardware manufacturers are designing more and more performing computing systems which can be embedded in vehicles for data processing. Fig.~\ref{fig:challenges} shows different challenges involving data analysis.
\begin{figure}[t]
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\smallskip\textit{Security and privacy.}
A widely reported problem is data privacy and security~\cite{Tene:2012,Derikx:2016}. In the insurance market, for instance, the growth in the volume of telematics data and claims for coverage and compensation are essential to tailor services and insurance premium for each customer. On the other hand, such sensible data attracts cyber-attacks, forcing companies to adopt extreme caution~\cite{Dambra:2020}. Currently, various works investigate methods to ensure and preserve the data integrity in insurance telematics~\cite{Pese:2017, Li_Privacy:2017, Zhou_Privacy:2019}.
An emerging technology that tackles privacy and security issues is blockchain. In a nutshell, a blockchain is a distributed database that stores indexes of transactions in a list of blocks that are chained to each other in a private and immutable manner~\cite{nakamoto2019bitcoin, Dorri:2017}. In addition to privacy, it may help preventing cyber frauds, as well as data manipulation by third parties.
\smallskip\textit{Risk assessment.}
The evolution of autonomous vehicles creates a challenging scenario in term of risk assessment modeling for policymakers~\cite{SAE:2018}. The application of artificial intelligence in the data collected by the sensors raises a series of questions about the complexity of decisions, for example, fairness and explainability. As a matter of fact, the transition to autonomous driving raises ethical and moral questions~\cite{Mordue:2020}. The insurance market requires delineating common points between responsibilities and ethics to establish policies associated with vehicle functionalities and legislation~\cite{Bellet:2019}.
\section{Conclusion}
\label{sec:conclusion}
This paper focuses on exteroceptive sensors, embedded or placed inside the vehicles, and their possible utilization for telematics services and applications like mobility safety, navigation, driving behavior analysis, and road monitoring. Such applications are of great interest both for the automotive and insurance industry as well as research, smart cities, drivers, passengers and pedestrians. Showing that exteroceptive sensors provide alternative and smart solutions when proprioceptive sensors are not available or just inconvenient, we provide to the reader a taxonomy of references for specific application areas and device types. Given the extensive literature, which grows with the development of autonomous vehicles, we have selected most relevant works based on their release date, innovation, and feasibility. First, we have introduced the sensor classification and detailed specifications, advantages, and limitations of exteroceptive sensors considering their availability in OTS telematics devices. Moreover, we provide a report on existing available datasets for specific applications. Those are of paramount importance to the design of applications, especially on areas such as CNN for image processing, which demand large amounts of training data to perform well. We concluded the paper identifying open challenges and research directions: while sensors are becoming more precise and the sensor fusion more popular, the amount of data to process also increases at fast pace.
Other environmental sensing information can come from different channels such as communication with RSU sensors (V2I), or with other vehicles (V2V), or listening to specific streams on social networks. They are out of the scope of this paper though, as the works we refer to do not rely on a road infrastructure or on immeasurable data. Finally, the utilization of commodity devices in telematics grows steadily, smartphones \textit{in primis}, as they embed a large array of sensors.
\section*{Acknowledgment}
This study was financed in part by the Coordenação de Aperfeiçoamento de Pessoal de Nível Superior - Brasil (CAPES) - Finance Code 001, CNPq, FAPERJ, and FAPESP Grant 15/24494-8.
\bibliographystyle{IEEEtran}
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 2,638 |
{"url":"https:\/\/math.stackexchange.com\/questions\/3504702\/why-these-are-isomorphic-each-other-for-given-these-rings","text":"# Why these are isomorphic each other for given these rings?\n\nFor the ring $$\\mathbb{Z}_{15}[x]$$ and its ideal $$<3x^2 + 5x>$$\n\nFind the order of the $$\\mathbb{Z}_{15}[x]\/<3x^2 + 5x>$$\n\nIn my answer sheet it said\n\n$$\\mathbb{Z}_{15}[x]\/<3x^2 + 5x> \\simeq (\\mathbb{Z}_{3}[x]\/<5x>) \\times (\\mathbb{Z}_{5}[x]\/<3x^2>)$$\n\nHence the order is 75.\n\nI don't understand Why does $$\\mathbb{Z}_{15}[x]\/<3x^2 + 5x> \\simeq (\\mathbb{Z}_{3}[x]\/<5x>) \\times (\\mathbb{Z}_{5}[x]\/<3x^2>)$$.\n\nWhy those are isomorphic each other?\n\nAs Chris hinted, it is easy to lift up $$\\,\\Bbb Z_{15} \\cong \\Bbb Z_3\\times \\Bbb Z_5\\,$$ by CRT. Let's examine the idea more closely.\n\nNotice in $$\\,R = \\Bbb Z\/15\\!:\\ (3)+(5)=(1)\\,\\Rightarrow\\, (3)\\cap (5) = (3)(5) = (0)$$ $$\\smash{\\overset{\\small\\rm CRT}\\Rightarrow}\\, R^{\\phantom{|^|}}\\!\\!\\! \\cong R\/3\\times R\/5$$\n\nThe above ideal equalities extend to $$\\,E = R[x]\/(3x^3+5x),\\,$$ thus also $$\\smash{\\overset{\\small\\rm CRT}\\Rightarrow}\\, E^{\\phantom{|^|}}\\!\\!\\! \\cong E\/3\\times E\/5$$\n\nRing isomorphism theorems $$\\Rightarrow E\/3 \\cong \\Bbb Z_3[x]\/5x,\\,$$ $$\\,E\/5 \\cong \\Bbb Z_5[x]\/3x^2$$\n\nFor variety here's another way: we apply CRT in $$R=\\Bbb Z_{\\color{#c00}{15}}[x]\\,$$ with $$\\,I+J=(3,5x) + (5,3x^2) \\supseteq (5,3)= (1).\\,$$ By ring isomorphism theorems $$\\,R\/I = R\/(3,5x)^{\\phantom{|^|}}\\!\\!\\! \\cong \\Bbb Z_3[x]\/(5x),\\,$$ $$\\,R\/J = R\/(5,3x^2) \\cong \\Bbb Z_5[x]\/(3x^2)$$\n\n$$I\\!+\\!J=(1)\\,\\Rightarrow\\,I\\cap J = IJ = (3,5x)(5,3x^2) =(9x^2,-5x)= (3x^2,5x)\\,$$ by $$\\,2(9x^2)=3x^2$$\n\nhence $$\\,IJ =(3x^2,5x)=(3x^2\\!+\\!5x)\\$$ by $$\\ (6,-5)(3x^2\\!+\\!5x)=(3x^2,5x)\\,$$ by $$\\,\\color{#c00}{15=0}\\,$$ in $$\\,R$$.\n\nConclude $$\\ R\/(3x^2\\!+\\!5x) = R\/(I\\cap J)\\overset{\\rm\\small CRT_{\\phantom |}\\!} = R\/I\\times R\/J = \\Bbb Z_3[x]\/(5x)\\times \\Bbb Z_5[x]\/(3x^2)$$\n\n\u2022 Does your $I$ and $J$ are $I \\lhd \\mathbb{Z}_3[x]$ and $J \\lhd \\mathbb{Z}_5[x]$? \u2013\u00a0se-hyuck yang Jan 11 '20 at 5:29\n\u2022 @se-hyuckyang $\\ I=(3,5x)\\,$ and $\\,J = (5,3x^2)\\,$ denote ideals in $\\,R = \\Bbb Z_{15}[x]\\ \\ \\$ \u2013\u00a0Bill Dubuque Jan 11 '20 at 5:31\n\u2022 Hmm.. I see. I'll try again. :) \u2013\u00a0se-hyuck yang Jan 11 '20 at 5:33\n\u2022 Mr. @Bill Dubuque, How did you find the $(3,5x) (5,3x^2) = (x^2, 5x) = (3x^2 + 5x)$?[I mean what motivation or hint make you find those?] Plus could you more explain for me the reason why $(x^2,5x) = (3x+5x)$? \u2013\u00a0se-hyuck yang Jan 11 '20 at 5:53\n\u2022 @se-h Let $\\,f=3x^2\\!+\\!5x,\\,$ so $\\,(3,f)=(3,5x).\\,$ By the Second Isomorphism Theorem we have, $$(R[x]\/f)\/(3,f)\/f \\,\\cong\\, R[x]\/(3,f) \\,\\cong\\, \\Bbb Z_{15}[x]\/(3,5x) \\,\\cong\\, \\Bbb Z_3[x]\/5x\\,$$ where the final isomorphism is by $\\,\\Bbb Z_{15}[x] \\to \\Bbb Z_3[x] \\to \\Bbb Z_3[x]\/5x\\,$ is onto with kernel $\\,(3,5x)$ \u2013\u00a0Bill Dubuque Jan 16 '20 at 3:13","date":"2021-02-28 12:59:06","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 1, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 0, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 23, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.9511982202529907, \"perplexity\": 688.7876992342742}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2021-10\/segments\/1614178360853.31\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20210228115201-20210228145201-00575.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
This 8x12 A-Frame Econo-Shed features a 4' wide double door, unpainted SmartSide siding, 30 year architectural shingles, and a 50 year AdvanTech floor. The roof has a snow load rating of 90 PSF. Our Econo-Sheds are backed by a 6 month warranty from date of purchase. Ask us about completing your gravel base for you. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 2,447 |
El Sogi SC, oficialmente Goldstar Sogi FC, es un equipo de fútbol de Samoa. Se fundó en 1998 y fue campeón de la National League una vez en el año 2001.
Futbolistas
Plantilla 2021
Palmarés
Liga Nacional de Samoa: 1
2001
Enlaces externos
Plantel 2021
Equipos de fútbol de Samoa
Equipos de fútbol fundados en 1998 | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 3,011 |
With a fine arts degree from Leeds University in England, Jon Langford's pedigree would seem better fit for painting than punk, but that latter path is the one he took. He was a founder of the Mekons, a band described by Lester Bangs as "the most revolutionary group in the history of rock 'n' roll. They are also the finest artists ever to have graced this admittedly somewhat degenerate form with the grace of their aesthetic sensibilities, rarefied as a glimpse through a butterfly's wing." With such legendary status, Langford's next move might have been surprising: he started playing old-time country.
See more of Langford's paintings here and here. | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaC4"
} | 8,003 |
Q: I don't know why this error occurs (@observer <-> react-router) I'm making a program using the react-router-dom library now.
However, if the URL of the site is changed using the tag, the existing observer does not work and the following error message is output.
The reactive render of an observer class component (TCEditContainer) was overriden after MobX attached.
This may result in a memory leak if the overriden reactive render was not properly disposed.
Can you tell me why this warning is happening and how to fix it?
The code below is how to navigate the page using my URL and the render function.
class App extends React.Component {
render() {
return (
<Container className="App">
<Nav/>
<Switch>
<Route exact path="/" component={MainView}/>
<Route path="/club">
<Grid container xs={12} spacing={3}>
<Grid item/>
<Grid item xs={12}>
<TCEditContainer/>
</Grid>
<Grid item xs={12}>
<TCListContainer/>
</Grid>
</Grid>
</Route>
<Route path="/member">
<Grid container xs={12} spacing={3}>
<Grid item/>
<Grid item xs={12}>
<MemberEditContainer />
</Grid>
<Grid item xs={12}>
<MemberListContainer />
</Grid>
</Grid>
</Route>
<Route component={() => <h2>Page Not Found</h2>}/>
</Switch>
</Container>
);
}
}
This is the page you navigated to using the tag above.
@inject("TCStore")
@autobind
@observer
class TCEditContainerextends Component<any, any> {
...
render() {
...
return (
<TCEditView
...
/>
);
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 5,190 |
The were senior fiscal officials of the Republic of Venice.
Although they are first attested in 1236, they are likely much older in origin. Originally two, they were increased to three in 1527.
Their role was as the treasurers and cashiers of the Republic: apart from those magistrates to whom specific funds were assigned, all public expenses and revenue were handled by the . They were further tasked with imposing fines on debtors to the state, and proposing cost-saving measures. They were allowed to dispose of sums up to ten gold ducats. Their main residence was in the Zecca of Venice, but they also had proper offices in the Rialto, in the Palazzo dei Camerlenghi.
Initially they reported to the Doge of Venice and the Minor Council, but in 1471 they were subordinated to the board of the .
References
Sources
Government of the Republic of Venice
Treasurers | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 7,249 |
ACCEPTED
#### According to
The Catalogue of Life, 3rd January 2011
#### Published in
Annls mycol. 22(1/2): 30 (1924)
#### Original name
Sphaeria aristata Fr., 1823
### Remarks
null | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 9,020 |
using System;
using System.Collections;
using System.ComponentModel;
using System.Drawing;
using System.Data;
using System.IO;
using System.Drawing.Imaging;
using System.Windows.Forms;
using DevExpress.XtraEditors;
using System.Threading;
using CPTT.BusinessFacade;
using CPTT.SystemFramework;
namespace CPTT.WinUI.Panels
{
/// <summary>
/// Summary description for TeacherBaseInfo.
/// </summary>
public class TeacherBaseInfo : DevExpress.XtraEditors.XtraUserControl
{
private DevExpress.XtraTab.XtraTabControl xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo;
private DevExpress.XtraTab.XtraTabPage xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.SplitContainerControl splitContainerControl1;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl groupControl1;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit comboBoxEdit_Class;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_Class;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit comboBoxEdit_Grade;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_Grade;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel1;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit textEdit_Number;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit textEdit_Name;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_Number;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_Name;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.DataNavigator dataNavigator1;
private DevExpress.XtraGrid.GridControl gridControl1;
private DevExpress.XtraGrid.Views.Grid.GridView gridView1;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.PanelControl panelControl1;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton simpleButton_SaveButton;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton simpleButton_ModifyButton;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton simpleButton_NewFile;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl groupControl2;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel_KidName;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel2;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel3;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel5;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel6;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel7;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel10;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel11;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel12;
private System.Windows.Forms.Label label_ReqOfKidName;
private System.Windows.Forms.Label label2;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl groupControl3;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel4;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel8;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel9;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel13;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel14;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel15;
private System.Windows.Forms.Label label3;
private System.Windows.Forms.Label label4;
private DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn gridColumn1;
private DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn gridColumn2;
private DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn gridColumn3;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel16;
private System.Windows.Forms.OpenFileDialog openFileDialog_ChooseImg;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.PopupMenu popupMenu1;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarManager barManager1;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl barDockControlTop;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl barDockControlBottom;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl barDockControlLeft;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl barDockControlRight;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem barButtonItem1;
private DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel notePanel17;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tLevel;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tDept;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tAddr;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tRecord;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tSex;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tWorkPhone;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tPhone;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tHomePhone;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tNumber;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit tName;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tMarrige;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tTechnicalPost;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.DateEdit tJoinDate;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.DateEdit tEnterTime;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit tDuty;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton simpleButton_WriteButton;
private string tID;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit textEdit_tID;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.PopupMenu popupMenu2;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic;
private DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic;
private byte[] imageDataBuffer;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.PictureEdit pictureEdit_LoadImageData;
private TeaBaseInfoPrintSystem teaBaseInfoPrintSystem;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit comboBoxEdit_Privilege;
private DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit textEdit_UserPwd;
private System.Windows.Forms.SaveFileDialog saveFileDialog_Report;
private MemoryStream imageMSReader;
/// <summary>
/// Required designer variable.
/// </summary>
private System.ComponentModel.Container components = null;
private System.Windows.Forms.HelpProvider helpProvider_Help;
private RolesSystem rolesSystem;
public TeacherBaseInfo()
{
// This call is required by the Windows.Forms Form Designer.
InitializeComponent();
// TODO: Add any initialization after the InitForm call
helpProvider_Help.HelpNamespace = Path.GetDirectoryName(Application.ExecutablePath)
+ CPTT.SystemFramework.Util.HELP_FILE_NAME;
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem = new TeaBaseInfoPrintSystem();
rolesSystem = new RolesSystem();
}
/// <summary>
/// Clean up any resources being used.
/// </summary>
protected override void Dispose( bool disposing )
{
if( disposing )
{
if(components != null)
{
components.Dispose();
}
}
base.Dispose( disposing );
}
#region Component Designer generated code
/// <summary>
/// Required method for Designer support - do not modify
/// the contents of this method with the code editor.
/// </summary>
private void InitializeComponent()
{
System.Resources.ResourceManager resources = new System.Resources.ResourceManager(typeof(TeacherBaseInfo));
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo = new DevExpress.XtraTab.XtraTabControl();
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt = new DevExpress.XtraTab.XtraTabPage();
this.splitContainerControl1 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.SplitContainerControl();
this.gridControl1 = new DevExpress.XtraGrid.GridControl();
this.gridView1 = new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Views.Grid.GridView();
this.gridColumn1 = new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn();
this.gridColumn2 = new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn();
this.gridColumn3 = new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn();
this.groupControl1 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl();
this.dataNavigator1 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.DataNavigator();
this.textEdit_Number = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.textEdit_Name = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel_Number = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel_Name = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel1 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.comboBoxEdit_Class = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel_Class = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel_Grade = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.groupControl3 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl();
this.label4 = new System.Windows.Forms.Label();
this.label3 = new System.Windows.Forms.Label();
this.tTechnicalPost = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.tLevel = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel15 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tJoinDate = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.DateEdit();
this.tEnterTime = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.DateEdit();
this.notePanel14 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel13 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel9 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tDuty = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel8 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tDept = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel4 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.textEdit_tID = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.groupControl2 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.GroupControl();
this.label2 = new System.Windows.Forms.Label();
this.label_ReqOfKidName = new System.Windows.Forms.Label();
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.PictureEdit();
this.tAddr = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel12 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tRecord = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel11 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tSex = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel10 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tWorkPhone = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel7 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tPhone = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel6 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tHomePhone = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel5 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.textEdit_UserPwd = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.tNumber = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.tName = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.TextEdit();
this.notePanel3 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel2 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel_KidName = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.notePanel16 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.notePanel17 = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.tMarrige = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.ComboBoxEdit();
this.panelControl1 = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.PanelControl();
this.simpleButton_WriteButton = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton();
this.simpleButton_SaveButton = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton();
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton();
this.simpleButton_NewFile = new DevExpress.XtraEditors.SimpleButton();
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle = new DevExpress.Utils.Frames.NotePanel();
this.barManager1 = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarManager();
this.popupMenu1 = new DevExpress.XtraBars.PopupMenu();
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem();
this.popupMenu2 = new DevExpress.XtraBars.PopupMenu();
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem();
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem();
this.barDockControlTop = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl();
this.barDockControlBottom = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl();
this.barDockControlLeft = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl();
this.barDockControlRight = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarDockControl();
this.barButtonItem1 = new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarButtonItem();
this.openFileDialog_ChooseImg = new System.Windows.Forms.OpenFileDialog();
this.saveFileDialog_Report = new System.Windows.Forms.SaveFileDialog();
this.helpProvider_Help = new System.Windows.Forms.HelpProvider();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo)).BeginInit();
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.SuspendLayout();
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.splitContainerControl1)).BeginInit();
this.splitContainerControl1.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.gridControl1)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.gridView1)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl1)).BeginInit();
this.groupControl1.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_Number.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_Name.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl3)).BeginInit();
this.groupControl3.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tTechnicalPost.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tLevel.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tJoinDate.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tEnterTime.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tDuty.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tDept.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_tID.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl2)).BeginInit();
this.groupControl2.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tAddr.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tRecord.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tSex.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tWorkPhone.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tPhone.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tHomePhone.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_UserPwd.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tNumber.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tName.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tMarrige.Properties)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.panelControl1)).BeginInit();
this.panelControl1.SuspendLayout();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.barManager1)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.popupMenu1)).BeginInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.popupMenu2)).BeginInit();
this.SuspendLayout();
//
// xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo
//
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Appearance.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.WhiteSmoke;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Appearance.Options.UseBackColor = true;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.AppearancePage.HeaderActive.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 9F, System.Drawing.FontStyle.Bold);
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.AppearancePage.HeaderActive.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.DarkOrange;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.AppearancePage.HeaderActive.Options.UseFont = true;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.AppearancePage.HeaderActive.Options.UseForeColor = true;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Controls.Add(this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt);
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Fill;
this.helpProvider_Help.SetHelpKeyword(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo, "½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¹ÜÀí");
this.helpProvider_Help.SetHelpNavigator(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo, System.Windows.Forms.HelpNavigator.KeywordIndex);
this.helpProvider_Help.SetHelpString(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo, "");
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 0);
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Name = "xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo";
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.SelectedTabPage = this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt;
this.helpProvider_Help.SetShowHelp(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo, true);
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(772, 540);
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.TabIndex = 0;
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.TabPages.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraTab.XtraTabPage[] {
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt});
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.Text = "»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¹ÜÀí";
//
// xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt
//
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Appearance.PageClient.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.WhiteSmoke;
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Appearance.PageClient.Options.UseBackColor = true;
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Controls.Add(this.splitContainerControl1);
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle);
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Name = "xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt";
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(768, 515);
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.Text = "»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¹ÜÀí";
//
// splitContainerControl1
//
this.splitContainerControl1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Fill;
this.splitContainerControl1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 23);
this.splitContainerControl1.Name = "splitContainerControl1";
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel1.Controls.Add(this.gridControl1);
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel1.Controls.Add(this.groupControl1);
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel1.Text = "splitContainerControl1_Panel1";
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel2.Controls.Add(this.groupControl3);
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel2.Controls.Add(this.groupControl2);
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel2.Controls.Add(this.panelControl1);
this.splitContainerControl1.Panel2.Text = "splitContainerControl1_Panel2";
this.splitContainerControl1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(768, 492);
this.splitContainerControl1.SplitterPosition = 200;
this.splitContainerControl1.TabIndex = 4;
this.splitContainerControl1.Text = "splitContainerControl1";
//
// gridControl1
//
this.gridControl1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Fill;
//
// gridControl1.EmbeddedNavigator
//
this.gridControl1.EmbeddedNavigator.Name = "";
this.gridControl1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 224);
this.gridControl1.MainView = this.gridView1;
this.gridControl1.Name = "gridControl1";
this.barManager1.SetPopupContextMenu(this.gridControl1, this.popupMenu1);
this.gridControl1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(194, 262);
this.gridControl1.TabIndex = 1;
this.gridControl1.ViewCollection.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Views.Base.BaseView[] {
this.gridView1});
//
// gridView1
//
this.gridView1.Columns.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Columns.GridColumn[] {
this.gridColumn1,
this.gridColumn2,
this.gridColumn3});
this.gridView1.GridControl = this.gridControl1;
this.gridView1.Name = "gridView1";
this.gridView1.OptionsCustomization.AllowFilter = false;
this.gridView1.OptionsView.ShowFilterPanel = false;
this.gridView1.OptionsView.ShowGroupPanel = false;
this.gridView1.FocusedRowChanged += new DevExpress.XtraGrid.Views.Base.FocusedRowChangedEventHandler(this.gridView1_FocusedRowChanged);
//
// gridColumn1
//
this.gridColumn1.AppearanceCell.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn1.AppearanceCell.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn1.AppearanceHeader.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn1.AppearanceHeader.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn1.Caption = "¹¤ºÅ";
this.gridColumn1.FieldName = "T_Number";
this.gridColumn1.Name = "gridColumn1";
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowEdit = false;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowFocus = false;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowGroup = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowIncrementalSearch = false;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowMerge = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowMove = false;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.AllowSort = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.True;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.FixedWidth = true;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.ReadOnly = true;
this.gridColumn1.OptionsColumn.ShowInCustomizationForm = false;
this.gridColumn1.Visible = true;
this.gridColumn1.VisibleIndex = 0;
//
// gridColumn2
//
this.gridColumn2.AppearanceCell.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn2.AppearanceCell.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn2.AppearanceHeader.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn2.AppearanceHeader.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn2.Caption = "ÐÕÃû";
this.gridColumn2.FieldName = "T_Name";
this.gridColumn2.Name = "gridColumn2";
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowEdit = false;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowFocus = false;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowGroup = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowIncrementalSearch = false;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowMerge = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowMove = false;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.AllowSort = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.True;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.FixedWidth = true;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.ReadOnly = true;
this.gridColumn2.OptionsColumn.ShowInCustomizationForm = false;
this.gridColumn2.Visible = true;
this.gridColumn2.VisibleIndex = 1;
//
// gridColumn3
//
this.gridColumn3.AppearanceCell.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn3.AppearanceCell.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn3.AppearanceHeader.Options.UseTextOptions = true;
this.gridColumn3.AppearanceHeader.TextOptions.HAlignment = DevExpress.Utils.HorzAlignment.Center;
this.gridColumn3.Caption = "¸Úλ";
this.gridColumn3.FieldName = "T_Duty";
this.gridColumn3.Name = "gridColumn3";
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowEdit = false;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowFocus = false;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowGroup = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowIncrementalSearch = false;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowMerge = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.False;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowMove = false;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.AllowSort = DevExpress.Utils.DefaultBoolean.True;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.FixedWidth = true;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.ReadOnly = true;
this.gridColumn3.OptionsColumn.ShowInCustomizationForm = false;
this.gridColumn3.Visible = true;
this.gridColumn3.VisibleIndex = 2;
//
// groupControl1
//
this.groupControl1.AppearanceCaption.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 9F, System.Drawing.FontStyle.Bold, System.Drawing.GraphicsUnit.Point, ((System.Byte)(0)));
this.groupControl1.AppearanceCaption.Options.UseFont = true;
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.dataNavigator1);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.textEdit_Number);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.textEdit_Name);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_Number);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_Name);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.notePanel1);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.comboBoxEdit_Class);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_Class);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.comboBoxEdit_Grade);
this.groupControl1.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_Grade);
this.groupControl1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.groupControl1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 0);
this.groupControl1.Name = "groupControl1";
this.groupControl1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(194, 224);
this.groupControl1.TabIndex = 0;
this.groupControl1.Text = "±¾Ô°½Ìʦ";
//
// dataNavigator1
//
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.Append.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.CancelEdit.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.EndEdit.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.First.Hint = "µÚÒ»Ìõ¼Ç¼";
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.Last.Hint = "×îºóÒ»Ìõ¼Ç¼";
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.Next.Hint = "ÏÂÒ»Ìõ¼Ç¼";
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.NextPage.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.Prev.Hint = "ÉÏÒ»Ìõ¼Ç¼";
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.PrevPage.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Buttons.Remove.Visible = false;
this.dataNavigator1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Bottom;
this.dataNavigator1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(3, 189);
this.dataNavigator1.Name = "dataNavigator1";
this.dataNavigator1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(188, 32);
this.dataNavigator1.TabIndex = 35;
this.dataNavigator1.Text = "dataNavigator1";
this.dataNavigator1.TextLocation = DevExpress.XtraEditors.NavigatorButtonsTextLocation.End;
//
// textEdit_Number
//
this.textEdit_Number.EditValue = "";
this.textEdit_Number.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(88, 152);
this.textEdit_Number.Name = "textEdit_Number";
this.textEdit_Number.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(79, 23);
this.textEdit_Number.TabIndex = 34;
this.textEdit_Number.EditValueChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.textEdit_Number_EditValueChanged);
//
// textEdit_Name
//
this.textEdit_Name.EditValue = "";
this.textEdit_Name.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(88, 120);
this.textEdit_Name.Name = "textEdit_Name";
this.textEdit_Name.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(79, 23);
this.textEdit_Name.TabIndex = 33;
this.textEdit_Name.EditValueChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.textEdit_Name_EditValueChanged);
//
// notePanel_Number
//
this.notePanel_Number.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel_Number.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel_Number.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel_Number.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel_Number.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_Number.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(15, 152);
this.notePanel_Number.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_Number.Name = "notePanel_Number";
this.notePanel_Number.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_Number.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(65, 22);
this.notePanel_Number.TabIndex = 32;
this.notePanel_Number.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_Number.Text = "¹¤ ºÅ:";
//
// notePanel_Name
//
this.notePanel_Name.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel_Name.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel_Name.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel_Name.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel_Name.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_Name.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(15, 120);
this.notePanel_Name.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_Name.Name = "notePanel_Name";
this.notePanel_Name.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_Name.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(65, 22);
this.notePanel_Name.TabIndex = 31;
this.notePanel_Name.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_Name.Text = "ÐÕ Ãû:";
//
// notePanel1
//
this.notePanel1.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.LightGoldenrodYellow;
this.notePanel1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.notePanel1.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.OrangeRed;
this.notePanel1.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(3, 18);
this.notePanel1.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel1.Name = "notePanel1";
this.notePanel1.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(188, 23);
this.notePanel1.TabIndex = 18;
this.notePanel1.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel1.Text = "ÄúÒª²éÕÒÄÄλ½Ìʦ£¿";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Class
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.EditValue = "È«²¿";
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(88, 88);
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Name = "comboBoxEdit_Class";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"È«²¿"});
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(79, 23);
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.TabIndex = 17;
this.comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedIndexChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.comboBoxEdit_Class_SelectedIndexChanged);
//
// notePanel_Class
//
this.notePanel_Class.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel_Class.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel_Class.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel_Class.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel_Class.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_Class.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(17, 88);
this.notePanel_Class.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_Class.Name = "notePanel_Class";
this.notePanel_Class.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_Class.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(64, 22);
this.notePanel_Class.TabIndex = 16;
this.notePanel_Class.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_Class.Text = "¸Ú λ:";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Grade
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.EditValue = "È«²¿";
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(88, 56);
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Name = "comboBoxEdit_Grade";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"È«²¿"});
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(79, 23);
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.TabIndex = 15;
this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedIndexChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.comboBoxEdit_Grade_SelectedIndexChanged);
//
// notePanel_Grade
//
this.notePanel_Grade.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel_Grade.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel_Grade.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel_Grade.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel_Grade.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_Grade.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(17, 56);
this.notePanel_Grade.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_Grade.Name = "notePanel_Grade";
this.notePanel_Grade.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_Grade.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(64, 22);
this.notePanel_Grade.TabIndex = 14;
this.notePanel_Grade.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_Grade.Text = "²¿ ÃÅ:";
//
// groupControl3
//
this.groupControl3.AppearanceCaption.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 9F, System.Drawing.FontStyle.Bold, System.Drawing.GraphicsUnit.Point, ((System.Byte)(0)));
this.groupControl3.AppearanceCaption.Options.UseFont = true;
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.label4);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.label3);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tTechnicalPost);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tLevel);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel15);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tJoinDate);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tEnterTime);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel14);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel13);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel9);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tDuty);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel8);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.tDept);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.notePanel4);
this.groupControl3.Controls.Add(this.textEdit_tID);
this.groupControl3.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.groupControl3.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 296);
this.groupControl3.Name = "groupControl3";
this.groupControl3.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(558, 176);
this.groupControl3.TabIndex = 2;
this.groupControl3.Text = "½Ìʦ¹¤×÷ÐÅÏ¢";
//
// label4
//
this.label4.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.Transparent;
this.label4.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Red;
this.label4.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 76);
this.label4.Name = "label4";
this.label4.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(16, 16);
this.label4.TabIndex = 55;
this.label4.Text = "*";
this.label4.TextAlign = System.Drawing.ContentAlignment.MiddleCenter;
//
// label3
//
this.label3.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.Transparent;
this.label3.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Red;
this.label3.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 36);
this.label3.Name = "label3";
this.label3.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(16, 16);
this.label3.TabIndex = 54;
this.label3.Text = "*";
this.label3.TextAlign = System.Drawing.ContentAlignment.MiddleCenter;
//
// tTechnicalPost
//
this.tTechnicalPost.EditValue = "Öм¶Ö°³Æ";
this.tTechnicalPost.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(160, 112);
this.tTechnicalPost.Name = "tTechnicalPost";
//
// tTechnicalPost.Properties
//
this.tTechnicalPost.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tTechnicalPost.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"Öм¶Ö°³Æ",
"¸ß¼¶Ö°³Æ"});
this.tTechnicalPost.Properties.TextEditStyle = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.TextEditStyles.DisableTextEditor;
this.tTechnicalPost.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tTechnicalPost.TabIndex = 53;
//
// tLevel
//
this.tLevel.EditValue = "Ò»¼¶½Ìʦ";
this.tLevel.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(400, 32);
this.tLevel.Name = "tLevel";
//
// tLevel.Properties
//
this.tLevel.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tLevel.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"Ò»¼¶½Ìʦ",
"¶þ¼¶½Ìʦ",
"Èý¼¶½Ìʦ",
"Ìؼ¶½Ìʦ"});
this.tLevel.Properties.TextEditStyle = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.TextEditStyles.DisableTextEditor;
this.tLevel.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tLevel.TabIndex = 52;
//
// notePanel15
//
this.notePanel15.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel15.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel15.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel15.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel15.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel15.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(280, 32);
this.notePanel15.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel15.Name = "notePanel15";
this.notePanel15.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel15.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(104, 22);
this.notePanel15.TabIndex = 51;
this.notePanel15.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel15.Text = " ½ÌʦµÈ¼¶:";
//
// tJoinDate
//
this.tJoinDate.EditValue = new System.DateTime(2005, 5, 21, 0, 0, 0, 0);
this.tJoinDate.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(400, 72);
this.tJoinDate.Name = "tJoinDate";
//
// tJoinDate.Properties
//
this.tJoinDate.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tJoinDate.Properties.Mask.EditMask = "d";
this.tJoinDate.Properties.Mask.MaskType = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Mask.MaskType.DateTime;
this.tJoinDate.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tJoinDate.TabIndex = 50;
//
// tEnterTime
//
this.tEnterTime.EditValue = new System.DateTime(2005, 5, 21, 0, 0, 0, 0);
this.tEnterTime.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(400, 112);
this.tEnterTime.Name = "tEnterTime";
//
// tEnterTime.Properties
//
this.tEnterTime.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tEnterTime.Properties.Mask.EditMask = "d";
this.tEnterTime.Properties.Mask.MaskType = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Mask.MaskType.DateTime;
this.tEnterTime.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tEnterTime.TabIndex = 49;
//
// notePanel14
//
this.notePanel14.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel14.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel14.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel14.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel14.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel14.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(280, 112);
this.notePanel14.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel14.Name = "notePanel14";
this.notePanel14.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel14.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(104, 22);
this.notePanel14.TabIndex = 48;
this.notePanel14.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel14.Text = " Èëʱ¼ä:";
//
// notePanel13
//
this.notePanel13.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel13.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel13.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel13.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel13.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel13.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(280, 72);
this.notePanel13.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel13.Name = "notePanel13";
this.notePanel13.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel13.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(104, 22);
this.notePanel13.TabIndex = 47;
this.notePanel13.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel13.Text = "²Î¼Ó¹¤×÷ʱ¼ä:";
//
// notePanel9
//
this.notePanel9.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel9.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel9.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel9.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel9.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel9.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(72, 112);
this.notePanel9.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel9.Name = "notePanel9";
this.notePanel9.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel9.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel9.TabIndex = 45;
this.notePanel9.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel9.Text = " Ö° ³Æ:";
//
// tDuty
//
this.tDuty.EditValue = "";
this.tDuty.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(160, 72);
this.tDuty.Name = "tDuty";
//
// tDuty.Properties
//
this.tDuty.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tDuty.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tDuty.TabIndex = 44;
//
// notePanel8
//
this.notePanel8.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel8.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel8.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel8.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel8.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel8.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(72, 72);
this.notePanel8.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel8.Name = "notePanel8";
this.notePanel8.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel8.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel8.TabIndex = 43;
this.notePanel8.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel8.Text = " ¸Ú λ:";
//
// tDept
//
this.tDept.EditValue = "";
this.tDept.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(160, 32);
this.tDept.Name = "tDept";
//
// tDept.Properties
//
this.tDept.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tDept.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tDept.TabIndex = 26;
this.tDept.SelectedIndexChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.tDept_SelectedIndexChanged);
//
// notePanel4
//
this.notePanel4.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel4.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel4.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel4.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel4.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel4.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(72, 32);
this.notePanel4.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel4.Name = "notePanel4";
this.notePanel4.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel4.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel4.TabIndex = 25;
this.notePanel4.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel4.Text = "ËùÊô²¿ÃÅ:";
//
// textEdit_tID
//
this.textEdit_tID.EditValue = "textEdit1";
this.textEdit_tID.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(376, 40);
this.textEdit_tID.Name = "textEdit_tID";
//
// textEdit_tID.Properties
//
this.textEdit_tID.Properties.AutoHeight = false;
this.textEdit_tID.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(8, 8);
this.textEdit_tID.TabIndex = 52;
//
// groupControl2
//
this.groupControl2.AppearanceCaption.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 9F, System.Drawing.FontStyle.Bold, System.Drawing.GraphicsUnit.Point, ((System.Byte)(0)));
this.groupControl2.AppearanceCaption.Options.UseFont = true;
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.label2);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.label_ReqOfKidName);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tAddr);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel12);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tRecord);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel11);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tSex);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel10);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tWorkPhone);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel7);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tPhone);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel6);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tHomePhone);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel5);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.textEdit_UserPwd);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tNumber);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tName);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel3);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel2);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_KidName);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel16);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.notePanel17);
this.groupControl2.Controls.Add(this.tMarrige);
this.groupControl2.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.groupControl2.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 40);
this.groupControl2.Name = "groupControl2";
this.groupControl2.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(558, 256);
this.groupControl2.TabIndex = 1;
this.groupControl2.Text = "½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢";
//
// label2
//
this.label2.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.Transparent;
this.label2.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Red;
this.label2.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(24, 124);
this.label2.Name = "label2";
this.label2.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(16, 16);
this.label2.TabIndex = 51;
this.label2.Text = "*";
this.label2.TextAlign = System.Drawing.ContentAlignment.MiddleCenter;
//
// label_ReqOfKidName
//
this.label_ReqOfKidName.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.Transparent;
this.label_ReqOfKidName.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Red;
this.label_ReqOfKidName.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(24, 60);
this.label_ReqOfKidName.Name = "label_ReqOfKidName";
this.label_ReqOfKidName.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(16, 16);
this.label_ReqOfKidName.TabIndex = 49;
this.label_ReqOfKidName.Text = "*";
this.label_ReqOfKidName.TextAlign = System.Drawing.ContentAlignment.MiddleCenter;
//
// pictureEdit_LoadImageData
//
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.BackgroundImage = ((System.Drawing.Image)(resources.GetObject("pictureEdit_LoadImageData.BackgroundImage")));
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(432, 56);
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Name = "pictureEdit_LoadImageData";
this.barManager1.SetPopupContextMenu(this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData, this.popupMenu2);
//
// pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties
//
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties.Appearance.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.Transparent;
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties.Appearance.Options.UseBackColor = true;
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties.NullText = " ÏñËØ800*600";
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties.ShowMenu = false;
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(112, 120);
this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.TabIndex = 48;
//
// tAddr
//
this.tAddr.EditValue = "";
this.tAddr.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 216);
this.tAddr.Name = "tAddr";
this.tAddr.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(272, 23);
this.tAddr.TabIndex = 47;
//
// notePanel12
//
this.notePanel12.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel12.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel12.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel12.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel12.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel12.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 216);
this.notePanel12.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel12.Name = "notePanel12";
this.notePanel12.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel12.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel12.TabIndex = 46;
this.notePanel12.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel12.Text = " µØ Ö·:";
//
// tRecord
//
this.tRecord.EditValue = "±¾¿Æ";
this.tRecord.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(320, 56);
this.tRecord.Name = "tRecord";
//
// tRecord.Properties
//
this.tRecord.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tRecord.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"¸ßÖÐ",
"´óר",
"±¾¿Æ",
"˶ʿ",
"²©Ê¿",
"²©Ê¿ºó"});
this.tRecord.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tRecord.TabIndex = 45;
//
// notePanel11
//
this.notePanel11.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel11.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel11.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel11.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel11.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel11.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(232, 56);
this.notePanel11.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel11.Name = "notePanel11";
this.notePanel11.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel11.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel11.TabIndex = 44;
this.notePanel11.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel11.Text = " ѧ Àú:";
//
// tSex
//
this.tSex.EditValue = "ÄÐ";
this.tSex.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 152);
this.tSex.Name = "tSex";
//
// tSex.Properties
//
this.tSex.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tSex.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"ÄÐ",
"Å®"});
this.tSex.Properties.TextEditStyle = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.TextEditStyles.DisableTextEditor;
this.tSex.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 23);
this.tSex.TabIndex = 43;
//
// notePanel10
//
this.notePanel10.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel10.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel10.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel10.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel10.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel10.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 152);
this.notePanel10.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel10.Name = "notePanel10";
this.notePanel10.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel10.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel10.TabIndex = 42;
this.notePanel10.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel10.Text = " ÐÔ ±ð:";
//
// tWorkPhone
//
this.tWorkPhone.EditValue = "";
this.tWorkPhone.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(320, 152);
this.tWorkPhone.Name = "tWorkPhone";
this.tWorkPhone.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tWorkPhone.TabIndex = 36;
//
// notePanel7
//
this.notePanel7.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel7.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel7.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel7.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel7.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel7.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(232, 152);
this.notePanel7.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel7.Name = "notePanel7";
this.notePanel7.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel7.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel7.TabIndex = 35;
this.notePanel7.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel7.Text = "°ì¹«µç»°:";
//
// tPhone
//
this.tPhone.EditValue = "";
this.tPhone.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(320, 120);
this.tPhone.Name = "tPhone";
this.tPhone.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tPhone.TabIndex = 34;
//
// notePanel6
//
this.notePanel6.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel6.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel6.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel6.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel6.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel6.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(232, 120);
this.notePanel6.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel6.Name = "notePanel6";
this.notePanel6.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel6.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel6.TabIndex = 33;
this.notePanel6.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel6.Text = "ÊÖ»úºÅÂë:";
//
// tHomePhone
//
this.tHomePhone.EditValue = "";
this.tHomePhone.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(320, 88);
this.tHomePhone.Name = "tHomePhone";
this.tHomePhone.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.tHomePhone.TabIndex = 32;
//
// notePanel5
//
this.notePanel5.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel5.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel5.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel5.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel5.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel5.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(232, 88);
this.notePanel5.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel5.Name = "notePanel5";
this.notePanel5.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel5.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel5.TabIndex = 31;
this.notePanel5.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel5.Text = "¼ÒÍ¥µç»°:";
//
// textEdit_UserPwd
//
this.textEdit_UserPwd.EditValue = "1234";
this.textEdit_UserPwd.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 120);
this.textEdit_UserPwd.Name = "textEdit_UserPwd";
//
// textEdit_UserPwd.Properties
//
this.textEdit_UserPwd.Properties.PasswordChar = '*';
this.textEdit_UserPwd.Properties.ReadOnly = true;
this.textEdit_UserPwd.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 23);
this.textEdit_UserPwd.TabIndex = 30;
//
// tNumber
//
this.tNumber.EditValue = "";
this.tNumber.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 88);
this.tNumber.Name = "tNumber";
this.tNumber.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 23);
this.tNumber.TabIndex = 29;
//
// tName
//
this.tName.EditValue = "";
this.tName.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 56);
this.tName.Name = "tName";
this.tName.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 23);
this.tName.TabIndex = 28;
//
// notePanel3
//
this.notePanel3.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel3.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel3.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel3.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel3.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel3.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 120);
this.notePanel3.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel3.Name = "notePanel3";
this.notePanel3.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel3.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel3.TabIndex = 26;
this.notePanel3.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel3.Text = "µÇ½ÃÜÂë:";
//
// notePanel2
//
this.notePanel2.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel2.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel2.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel2.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel2.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel2.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 87);
this.notePanel2.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel2.Name = "notePanel2";
this.notePanel2.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel2.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel2.TabIndex = 25;
this.notePanel2.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel2.Text = "½Ìʦ¹¤ºÅ:";
//
// notePanel_KidName
//
this.notePanel_KidName.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel_KidName.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel_KidName.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel_KidName.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel_KidName.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_KidName.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 56);
this.notePanel_KidName.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_KidName.Name = "notePanel_KidName";
this.notePanel_KidName.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_KidName.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel_KidName.TabIndex = 24;
this.notePanel_KidName.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_KidName.Text = "½ÌʦÐÕÃû:";
//
// notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle
//
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.LightGoldenrodYellow;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.OrangeRed;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(3, 18);
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.Name = "notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle";
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(552, 23);
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.TabIndex = 23;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_KidBaseInfoTitle.Text = "½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢(*Ϊ±ØÐëÌîд)";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Privilege
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.EditValue = "Ò»°ã";
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(320, 184);
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Name = "comboBoxEdit_Privilege";
//
// comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Properties
//
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"Ô°³¤",
"Ò»°ã",
"",
"°àÖ÷ÈÎ",
"²ÆÎñ"});
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(88, 23);
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.TabIndex = 43;
this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedIndexChanged += new System.EventHandler(this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege_SelectedIndexChanged);
//
// notePanel16
//
this.notePanel16.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel16.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel16.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel16.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel16.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel16.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(232, 184);
this.notePanel16.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel16.Name = "notePanel16";
this.notePanel16.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel16.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel16.TabIndex = 42;
this.notePanel16.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel16.Text = " Ȩ ÏÞ:";
//
// notePanel17
//
this.notePanel17.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.FromArgb(((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)), ((System.Byte)(224)));
this.notePanel17.BackColor2 = System.Drawing.Color.DarkGray;
this.notePanel17.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 8F);
this.notePanel17.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.Black;
this.notePanel17.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel17.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(48, 184);
this.notePanel17.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel17.Name = "notePanel17";
this.notePanel17.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel17.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 22);
this.notePanel17.TabIndex = 42;
this.notePanel17.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel17.Text = " »é ·ñ:";
//
// tMarrige
//
this.tMarrige.EditValue = "ÊÇ";
this.tMarrige.ImeMode = System.Windows.Forms.ImeMode.NoControl;
this.tMarrige.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(136, 184);
this.tMarrige.Name = "tMarrige";
//
// tMarrige.Properties
//
this.tMarrige.Properties.Buttons.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton[] {
new DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.EditorButton(DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.ButtonPredefines.Combo)});
this.tMarrige.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[] {
"ÊÇ",
"·ñ"});
this.tMarrige.Properties.TextEditStyle = DevExpress.XtraEditors.Controls.TextEditStyles.DisableTextEditor;
this.tMarrige.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 23);
this.tMarrige.TabIndex = 43;
//
// panelControl1
//
this.panelControl1.Controls.Add(this.simpleButton_WriteButton);
this.panelControl1.Controls.Add(this.simpleButton_SaveButton);
this.panelControl1.Controls.Add(this.simpleButton_ModifyButton);
this.panelControl1.Controls.Add(this.simpleButton_NewFile);
this.panelControl1.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.panelControl1.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 0);
this.panelControl1.Name = "panelControl1";
this.panelControl1.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(558, 40);
this.panelControl1.TabIndex = 0;
this.panelControl1.Text = "panelControl1";
//
// simpleButton_WriteButton
//
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Appearance.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.DarkMagenta;
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Appearance.Options.UseForeColor = true;
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Image = ((System.Drawing.Image)(resources.GetObject("simpleButton_WriteButton.Image")));
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(272, 8);
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Name = "simpleButton_WriteButton";
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 26);
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.TabIndex = 13;
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Text = "´ò Ó¡";
this.simpleButton_WriteButton.Click += new System.EventHandler(this.simpleButton_WriteButton_Click);
//
// simpleButton_SaveButton
//
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Appearance.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.DarkMagenta;
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Appearance.Options.UseForeColor = true;
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Image = ((System.Drawing.Image)(resources.GetObject("simpleButton_SaveButton.Image")));
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(96, 8);
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Name = "simpleButton_SaveButton";
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 26);
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.TabIndex = 9;
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Text = "±£ ´æ";
this.simpleButton_SaveButton.Click += new System.EventHandler(this.simpleButton_SaveButton_Click);
//
// simpleButton_ModifyButton
//
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Appearance.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.DarkMagenta;
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Appearance.Options.UseForeColor = true;
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Image = ((System.Drawing.Image)(resources.GetObject("simpleButton_ModifyButton.Image")));
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(184, 8);
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Name = "simpleButton_ModifyButton";
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 26);
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.TabIndex = 8;
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Text = "ÐÞ ¸Ä";
this.simpleButton_ModifyButton.Click += new System.EventHandler(this.simpleButton_ModifyButton_Click);
//
// simpleButton_NewFile
//
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Appearance.Font = new System.Drawing.Font("Tahoma", 9F, System.Drawing.FontStyle.Regular, System.Drawing.GraphicsUnit.Point, ((System.Byte)(0)));
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Appearance.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.DarkMagenta;
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Appearance.Options.UseFont = true;
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Appearance.Options.UseForeColor = true;
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Image = ((System.Drawing.Image)(resources.GetObject("simpleButton_NewFile.Image")));
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(8, 8);
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Name = "simpleButton_NewFile";
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(80, 26);
this.simpleButton_NewFile.TabIndex = 7;
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Tag = 4;
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Text = "Р½¨";
this.simpleButton_NewFile.Click += new System.EventHandler(this.simpleButton_NewFile_Click);
//
// notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle
//
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.LightGoldenrodYellow;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Dock = System.Windows.Forms.DockStyle.Top;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.ForeColor = System.Drawing.Color.OrangeRed;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.GradientMode = System.Drawing.Drawing2D.LinearGradientMode.Vertical;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Location = new System.Drawing.Point(0, 0);
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.MaxRows = 5;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Name = "notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle";
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.ParentAutoHeight = true;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(768, 23);
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.TabIndex = 3;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.TabStop = false;
this.notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Text = "ijij½Ìʦ»¶Ó½øÈë»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¹ÜÀí";
//
// barManager1
//
this.barManager1.DockControls.Add(this.barDockControlTop);
this.barManager1.DockControls.Add(this.barDockControlBottom);
this.barManager1.DockControls.Add(this.barDockControlLeft);
this.barManager1.DockControls.Add(this.barDockControlRight);
this.barManager1.Form = this;
this.barManager1.Items.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraBars.BarItem[] {
this.barButtonItem1,
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh,
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic,
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic});
this.barManager1.MaxItemId = 4;
//
// popupMenu1
//
this.popupMenu1.LinksPersistInfo.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraBars.LinkPersistInfo[] {
new DevExpress.XtraBars.LinkPersistInfo(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh)});
this.popupMenu1.Manager = this.barManager1;
this.popupMenu1.Name = "popupMenu1";
//
// barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh
//
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh.Caption = "Ë¢ÐÂ";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh.Id = 1;
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh.Name = "barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh.ItemClick += new DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventHandler(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh_ItemClick);
//
// popupMenu2
//
this.popupMenu2.LinksPersistInfo.AddRange(new DevExpress.XtraBars.LinkPersistInfo[] {
new DevExpress.XtraBars.LinkPersistInfo(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic),
new DevExpress.XtraBars.LinkPersistInfo(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic)});
this.popupMenu2.Manager = this.barManager1;
this.popupMenu2.Name = "popupMenu2";
//
// barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic
//
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic.Caption = "ÔØÈëͼƬ";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic.Id = 2;
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic.Name = "barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic.ItemClick += new DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventHandler(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic_ItemClick);
//
// barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic
//
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic.Caption = "ɾ³ýͼƬ";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic.Id = 3;
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic.Name = "barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic";
this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic.ItemClick += new DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventHandler(this.barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic_ItemClick);
//
// barButtonItem1
//
this.barButtonItem1.Caption = "¼ÓÔØͼƬ";
this.barButtonItem1.Id = 0;
this.barButtonItem1.Name = "barButtonItem1";
//
// helpProvider_Help
//
this.helpProvider_Help.HelpNamespace = "";
//
// TeacherBaseInfo
//
this.Appearance.BackColor = System.Drawing.Color.WhiteSmoke;
this.Appearance.Options.UseBackColor = true;
this.Controls.Add(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo);
this.Controls.Add(this.barDockControlLeft);
this.Controls.Add(this.barDockControlRight);
this.Controls.Add(this.barDockControlBottom);
this.Controls.Add(this.barDockControlTop);
this.Name = "TeacherBaseInfo";
this.Size = new System.Drawing.Size(772, 540);
this.Load += new System.EventHandler(this.TeacherBaseInfo_Load);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo)).EndInit();
this.xtraTabControl_TeaBaseInfo.ResumeLayout(false);
this.xtraTabPage_TeaBaseInfoMgmt.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.splitContainerControl1)).EndInit();
this.splitContainerControl1.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.gridControl1)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.gridView1)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl1)).EndInit();
this.groupControl1.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_Number.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_Name.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl3)).EndInit();
this.groupControl3.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tTechnicalPost.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tLevel.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tJoinDate.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tEnterTime.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tDuty.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tDept.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_tID.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.groupControl2)).EndInit();
this.groupControl2.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tAddr.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tRecord.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tSex.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tWorkPhone.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tPhone.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tHomePhone.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.textEdit_UserPwd.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tNumber.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tName.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.tMarrige.Properties)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.panelControl1)).EndInit();
this.panelControl1.ResumeLayout(false);
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.barManager1)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.popupMenu1)).EndInit();
((System.ComponentModel.ISupportInitialize)(this.popupMenu2)).EndInit();
this.ResumeLayout(false);
}
#endregion
#region Ò³Ãæ¼ÓÔØÏÔʾ
private void TeacherBaseInfo_Load(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
LoadDropDownList();
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition("","","",""));
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name.ToLower() == "admin" )
{
// simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = false;
// simpleButton_NewFile.Enabled = false;
// simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
// simpleButton_WriteButton.Enabled = false;
notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Text = " ϵͳ¹ÜÀíÔ±»¶ÓÄú½øÈë½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¼ìË÷";
}
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("°àÖ÷ÈÎ") || Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("²ÆÎñ")
|| Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("±£½¡") || Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("Ò»°ã") )
{
SetNormalTeacherAuthority();
}
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name.ToLower() != "admin" )
notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Text = new HealthManagementSystem().GetTeaName(Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name)
+ "½Ìʦ»¶ÓÄú½øÈë½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¼ìË÷";
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("Ô°³¤") )
notePanel_TeaBaseInfoTitle.Text = new HealthManagementSystem().GetTeaName(Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name)
+ "Ô°³¤»¶ÓÄú½øÈë½Ìʦ»ù±¾ÐÅÏ¢¼ìË÷";
}
#endregion
#region ¿Ø¼þ°ó¶¨
private void loadPage(DataSet comingDs)
{
TextDataUnBindings();
TextDataClear();
DataSet ds = comingDs;
if ( ds.Tables[0].Rows.Count > 0 )
{
dataNavigator1.DataSource = ds.Tables[0];
gridControl1.DataSource = ds.Tables[0];
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name.ToLower() != "admin" && !Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("Ô°³¤") )
{
foreach(DataRow matchRow in ds.Tables[0].Rows)
{
if ( !matchRow["T_Number"].ToString().Equals(Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name) )
matchRow.Delete();
}
}
// gridView1.MoveFirst();
textEdit_tID.DataBindings.Add("EditValue",ds.Tables[0],"T_ID");
tName.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Name");
tNumber.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Number");
tRecord.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Career");
tHomePhone.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Home_Tel");
tPhone.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Phone");
tSex.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Sex");
tWorkPhone.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Work_Tel");
tMarrige.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Merrige");
tAddr.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Addr");
tDept.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Depart");
tLevel.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Level");
tDuty.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Duty");
tEnterTime.DataBindings.Add("EditValue",ds.Tables[0],"T_Enter_Time");
tTechnicalPost.DataBindings.Add("Text",ds.Tables[0],"T_Technical_Post");
tJoinDate.DataBindings.Add("EditValue",ds.Tables[0],"T_Work_Time");
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.DataBindings.Add("EditValue",ds.Tables[0],"T_Image");
if ( gridView1.RowCount > 0 )
{
if(new UserSystem().GetUserRole(tNumber.Text)!=string.Empty)
{
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem = new UserSystem().GetUserRole(tNumber.Text);
}
simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = true;
}
else
simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = false;
}
else
gridControl1.DataSource = null;
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("°àÖ÷ÈÎ") || Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("²ÆÎñ")
|| Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("±£½¡") || Thread.CurrentPrincipal.IsInRole("Ò»°ã") )
{
SetNormalTeacherAuthority();
}
}
#endregion
#region Ϊ²¿ÃźÍËùÊô²¿ÃÅÏÂÀ²Ëµ¥¸³Öµ
private void LoadDropDownList()
{
comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.Clear();
tDept.Properties.Items.Clear();
comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.Add("È«²¿");
DataSet gradeInfo = new GradeSystem().GetGradeInfoList(1);
if(gradeInfo.Tables[0].Rows.Count>0)
{
foreach(DataRow grade in gradeInfo.Tables[0].Rows)
{
comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.Add(grade["info_gradeName"].ToString());
tDept.Properties.Items.Add(grade["info_gradeName"].ToString());
}
}
}
#endregion
#region ¸ù¾ÝËùÊô²¿ÃŸı䣬°ó¶¨¸ÚλÐÅÏ¢
private void tDept_SelectedIndexChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
tDuty.Properties.Items.Clear();
DataSet gradeInfo = new GradeSystem().GetGradeInfoList(1);
DataSet classInfo = new ClassSystem().GetClassInfoList();
if ( classInfo.Tables[0].Rows.Count > 0 )
{
if ( tDept.SelectedIndex != -1 )
{
foreach ( DataRow grade in gradeInfo.Tables[0].Rows )
{
if ( grade["info_gradeName"].ToString().Equals(tDept.SelectedItem.ToString()) )
{
foreach ( DataRow classes in classInfo.Tables[0].Rows )
{
if ( Convert.ToInt32(classes["info_gradeNumber"]) == Convert.ToInt32(grade["info_gradeNumber"]) )
tDuty.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[]{ classes["info_className"].ToString() });
}
}
}
if ( tDuty.Properties.Items.Count == 0 )
tDuty.Text = "°à¼¶²»´æÔÚ";
else
tDuty.SelectedItem = tDuty.Properties.Items[0].ToString();
}
else
tDuty.SelectedIndex = -1;
}
}
#endregion
#region ´¦ÀíÐÕÃûÊäÈë'þ
private void textEdit_Name_EditValueChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
}
#endregion
#region ´¦Àí¹¤ºÅÊäÈë'þ
private void textEdit_Number_EditValueChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
}
#endregion
#region ´¦Àí²¿ÃÅÑ¡Ôñ¸Ä±ä'þ
private void comboBoxEdit_Grade_SelectedIndexChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.Clear();
// comboBoxEdit_Class.Text = "";
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.Add("È«²¿");
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem = "È«²¿";
DataSet gradeInfo = new GradeSystem().GetGradeInfoList(1);
DataSet classInfo = new ClassSystem().GetClassInfoList();
if(classInfo.Tables[0].Rows.Count>0)
{
if(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Equals("È«²¿"))
{
foreach(DataRow classes in classInfo.Tables[0].Rows)
{
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.Add(classes["info_className"].ToString());
}
}
else
{
foreach(DataRow grade in gradeInfo.Tables[0].Rows)
{
if(grade["info_gradeName"].ToString().Equals(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString()))
{
foreach(DataRow classes in classInfo.Tables[0].Rows)
{
if(Convert.ToInt32(classes["info_gradeNumber"]) == Convert.ToInt32(grade["info_gradeNumber"]))
{
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.Add(classes["info_className"].ToString());
}
}
}
}
}
}
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
}
#endregion
#region ´¦Àí¸ÚλѡÔñ¸Ä±ä'þ
private void comboBoxEdit_Class_SelectedIndexChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
}
#endregion
#region ¿Ø¼þÇå¿Õ
private void TextDataClear()
{
tName.Text = string.Empty;
tNumber.Text = string.Empty;
tRecord.SelectedIndex = 1;
tHomePhone.Text = string.Empty;
tPhone.Text = string.Empty;
tSex.SelectedIndex = 1;
tWorkPhone.Text = string.Empty;
tMarrige.SelectedIndex = 1;
tAddr.Text = string.Empty;
tDept.SelectedIndex = -1;
tLevel.SelectedIndex = 1;
tDuty.SelectedIndex = -1;
tEnterTime.Text = string.Empty;
tTechnicalPost.SelectedIndex = 1;
tJoinDate.Text = string.Empty;
textEdit_tID.EditValue = string.Empty;
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.EditValue = null;
}
#endregion
#region È¡Ïû¿Ø¼þ°ó¶¨
private void TextDataUnBindings()
{
tName.DataBindings.Clear();
tNumber.DataBindings.Clear();
tRecord.DataBindings.Clear();
tHomePhone.DataBindings.Clear();
tPhone.DataBindings.Clear();
tSex.DataBindings.Clear();
tWorkPhone.DataBindings.Clear();
tMarrige.DataBindings.Clear();
tAddr.DataBindings.Clear();
tDept.DataBindings.Clear();
tLevel.DataBindings.Clear();
tDuty.DataBindings.Clear();
tEnterTime.DataBindings.Clear();
tTechnicalPost.DataBindings.Clear();
tJoinDate.DataBindings.Clear();
textEdit_tID.DataBindings.Clear();
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.DataBindings.Clear();
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedIndex = 0;
}
#endregion
#region н¨¿¨°´Å¥
private void simpleButton_NewFile_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
dataNavigator1.Buttons.DoClick(dataNavigator1.Buttons.Append);
//dataNavigator1.Buttons.Append.DoClick();
TextDataClear();
tDept.Text = new GradeSystem().GetGradeInfoList(1).Tables[0].Rows[0]["info_gradeName"].ToString();
// tDuty.Text = new ClassSystem().GetClassInfo(1,1).Tables[0].Rows[0]["info_className"].ToString();
tJoinDate.DateTime = DateTime.Now;
tEnterTime.DateTime = DateTime.Now;
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = true;
simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = false;
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Enabled = true;
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedIndex = 1;
}
#endregion
#region ±£´æ¿¨°´Å¥
private void simpleButton_SaveButton_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
tID = textEdit_tID.EditValue.ToString();
TeacherBase tcBase = new TeacherBase();
TeacherBaseSystem tcBaseSystem = new TeacherBaseSystem();
DialogResult messageResult = MessageBox.Show("ÊÇ·ñÈ·Èϱ£´æÕâЩÊý¾Ý£¿","ÏûÏ¢Ìáʾ¿ò£¡",MessageBoxButtons.YesNo,MessageBoxIcon.Question);
if ( messageResult == DialogResult.Yes )
{
try
{
bool doDataInsertLoopOnce = true;
TeacherCheckInfo teacherCheckInfo = new TeacherCheckInfo();
while(doDataInsertLoopOnce)
{
tcBase.TCareer = tRecord.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TMerrige = tMarrige.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TDepart = tDept.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TLevel = tLevel.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TDuty = tDuty.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TTechnicalPost = tTechnicalPost.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
if ( !tID.Equals("") )
tcBase.TID = tID;
else
tcBase.TID = Guid.NewGuid().ToString();
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcName(tName.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÐÕÃûÇëÕýÈ·Ìîд£¡");
break;
}
else{tcBase.TName = tName.Text.Replace(" ","");}
//»ñȡ˳Ðò¹¤ºÅ
if ( tNumber.Text.Equals("") )
{
tcBase.TNumber = teacherCheckInfo.getSerialTcNumber();
if ( tcBase.TNumber.Equals("-1") )
{
MessageBox.Show("Òѳ¬³öϵͳËùÔÊÐíµÄ×î´ó½ÌʦÊýÁ¿£¡");
break;
}
}
else
{
if ( !teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcNumber(tNumber.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("ÇëÈ·±£ÊäÈëµÄ¹¤ºÅÊÇÓÐЧ¹¤ºÅ£¡");
break;
}
else
{
if ( !teacherCheckInfo.hasSameNumber( tNumber.Text.Replace(" ",""),
tcBase.TID ) )
{
MessageBox.Show("ÄúËùÑ¡ÔñµÄ½Ìʦ¹¤ºÅÒѾ´æÔÚ£¬Çë¸ü»»£¡");
break;
}
}
tcBase.TNumber = tNumber.Text.Replace(" ","");
}
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcHomePhone(tHomePhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
tcBase.THomeTel = "δÌîд";
MessageBox.Show("½Ìʦ¼ÒÍ¥µç»°Ìîд²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.THomeTel = tHomePhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcTime(Convert.ToDateTime(tEnterTime.Text.Replace(" ","")),Convert.ToDateTime(tJoinDate.Text.Replace(" ",""))))
{
MessageBox.Show("ʱ¼äÌîд²»µ±£¬ÇëÖØÐÂÊäÈ룡");
break;
}
else
{
tcBase.TWorkTime = Convert.ToDateTime(tEnterTime.Text.Replace(" ",""));
tcBase.TEnterTime = Convert.ToDateTime(tJoinDate.Text.Replace(" ",""));
}
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcSex(tSex.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÐÔ±ð²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TSex = tSex.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcWorkPhone(tWorkPhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
tcBase.TWorkTel = "δÌîд";
MessageBox.Show("½Ìʦ°ì¹«µç»°Ìîд²»ÕýÈ·£¬ÇëÕýÈ·Ìîд£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TWorkTel = tWorkPhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcPhone(tPhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
tcBase.TPhone = "δÌîд";
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÊÖ»úºÅÂë²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TPhone = tPhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TAddr = tAddr.Text.Replace(" ","");
if ( pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Image == null )
imageDataBuffer = null;
else
{
imageMSReader = new MemoryStream();
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Image.Save(imageMSReader,ImageFormat.Jpeg);
imageDataBuffer = imageMSReader.ToArray();
}
tcBase.ImageData = imageDataBuffer;
tcBaseSystem.InsertTcBaseInfo(tcBase);
new UserSystem().CreateUserAccount(tcBase.TNumber,
textEdit_UserPwd.Text);
new UserSystem().AddUserRole(tcBase.TNumber,
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem.ToString());
MessageBox.Show("±£´æÍê±Ï£¡");
doDataInsertLoopOnce = false;
dataNavigator1.Buttons.DoClick(dataNavigator1.Buttons.CancelEdit);
//dataNavigator1.Buttons.CancelEdit.DoClick();
//ˢаó¶¨ÐÅÏ¢
TextDataUnBindings();
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition("","","",""));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = true;
}
}
catch(Exception ex)
{
MessageBox.Show(ex.Message);
}
}
}
#endregion
#region ÐĿ¨°´Å¥
private void simpleButton_ModifyButton_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
tID = textEdit_tID.EditValue.ToString();
TeacherBase tcBase = new TeacherBase();
TeacherBaseSystem tcBaseSystem = new TeacherBaseSystem();
DialogResult messageResult = MessageBox.Show("ÊÇ·ñÈ·Èϱ£´æÐÞ¸ÄÄÚÈÝ£¿","ÏûÏ¢Ìáʾ¿ò£¡",MessageBoxButtons.YesNo,MessageBoxIcon.Question);
if ( messageResult == DialogResult.Yes )
{
try
{
bool doDataInsertLoopOnce = true;
TeacherCheckInfo teacherCheckInfo = new TeacherCheckInfo();
while(doDataInsertLoopOnce)
{
tcBase.TCareer = tRecord.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TMerrige = tMarrige.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TAddr = tAddr.Text.Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TDepart = tDept.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TLevel = tLevel.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TDuty = tDuty.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TTechnicalPost = tTechnicalPost.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ","");
tcBase.TID = tID;
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcName(tName.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÐÕÃûÇëÕýÈ·Ìîд£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TName = tName.Text.Replace(" ","");
if ( gridView1.RowCount > 0 )
{
if ( teacherCheckInfo.hasCard(tID,tNumber.Text))
{
MessageBox.Show("¸Ã½ÌʦÒѾ·¢¹ý¿¨£¬ÐŤºÅ»á´æÔÚDZÔÚ·çÏÕ£¬ÐÞ¸Äʧ°Ü£¡");
break;
}
else
{
//»ñȡ˳Ðò¹¤ºÅ
if ( tNumber.Text.Equals("") )
tcBase.TNumber = teacherCheckInfo.getSerialTcNumber();
else
{
if ( !teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcNumber(tNumber.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("ÇëÈ·±£ÊäÈëµÄ¹¤ºÅÊÇÓÐЧ¹¤ºÅ£¡");
break;
}
else
{
if ( !teacherCheckInfo.hasSameNumber( tNumber.Text.Replace(" ",""),
tcBase.TID ) )
{
MessageBox.Show("ÄúËùÑ¡ÔñµÄ½Ìʦ¹¤ºÅÒѾ´æÔÚ£¬Çë¸ü»»£¡");
break;
}
}
tcBase.TNumber = tNumber.Text.Replace(" ","");
}
}
}
else
MessageBox.Show("½Ìʦ¼Ç¼²»´æÔÚ»¹ÎÞ·¨½øÐÐÐģ¡");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcHomePhone(tHomePhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½Ìʦ¼ÒÍ¥µç»°Ìîд²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.THomeTel = tHomePhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcTime(tEnterTime.DateTime.Date,tJoinDate.DateTime.Date))
{
MessageBox.Show("ʱ¼äÌîд²»µ±£¬ÇëÖØÐÂÊäÈ룡");
break;
}
else
{
tcBase.TEnterTime = Convert.ToDateTime(tEnterTime.Text.Replace(" ",""));
tcBase.TWorkTime = Convert.ToDateTime(tJoinDate.Text.Replace(" ",""));}
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcSex(tSex.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÐÔ±ð²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TSex = tSex.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcWorkPhone(tWorkPhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½Ìʦ°ì¹«µç»°Ìîд²»ÕýÈ·£¬ÇëÕýÈ·Ìîд£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TWorkTel = tWorkPhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
if(!teacherCheckInfo.isValidTcPhone(tPhone.Text.Replace(" ","")))
{
MessageBox.Show("½ÌʦÊÖ»úºÅÂë²»ÕýÈ·£¡");
break;
}
else
tcBase.TPhone = tPhone.Text.Replace(" ","");
if ( pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Image == null )
imageDataBuffer = null;
else
{
imageMSReader = new MemoryStream();
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Image.Save(imageMSReader,ImageFormat.Jpeg);
imageDataBuffer = imageMSReader.ToArray();
}
tcBase.ImageData = imageDataBuffer;
tcBaseSystem.UpdateTcBaseInfo(tcBase);
if(!gridView1.GetDataRow(gridView1.GetSelectedRows()[0])["T_Number"].ToString().Equals(tcBase.TNumber))
{
new UserSystem().DeleteUserAccount(gridView1.GetDataRow(gridView1.GetSelectedRows()[0])
["T_Number"].ToString());
new UserSystem().CreateUserAccount(tcBase.TNumber,textEdit_UserPwd.Text);
}
int rtnValue = new UserSystem().UpdateUserRole(tcBase.TNumber,comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem.ToString());
if (rtnValue == -1) MessageBox.Show("Èç¹ûÄúÖ´ÐдËÐģ¬ÏµÍ³½«²»´æÔÚ×î¸ßȨÏÞ£¬ÕâÊDz»ÔÊÐíµÄ£¬ÐÞ¸Äʧ°Ü£¡");
else if (rtnValue == 0)
{
new UserSystem().DeleteUserAccount(tcBase.TNumber);
new UserSystem().CreateUserAccount(tcBase.TNumber,textEdit_UserPwd.Text);
new UserSystem().AddUserRole(tcBase.TNumber,comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem.ToString());
MessageBox.Show("ÐÞ¸ÄÍê±Ï£¡");
}
else MessageBox.Show("ÐÞ¸ÄÍê±Ï£¡");
doDataInsertLoopOnce = false;
//ˢаó¶¨ÐÅÏ¢
TextDataUnBindings();
TextDataClear();
// loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition("","","",""));
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
}
}
catch(Exception ex)
{
MessageBox.Show(ex.Message);
}
}
}
#endregion
// #region ɾ³ý¿¨°´Å¥
// private void simpleButton_DeleteButton_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
// {
// tID = textEdit_tID.EditValue.ToString();
// TeacherBaseSystem tcBaseSystem = new TeacherBaseSystem();
// DialogResult messageResult = MessageBox.Show("ÊÇ·ñÈ·ÈÏɾ³ý´ËÌõ¼Ç¼£¿","ÏûÏ¢Ìáʾ¿ò£¡",MessageBoxButtons.YesNo,MessageBoxIcon.Question);
// if ( messageResult == DialogResult.Yes )
// {
// try
// {
// tcBaseSystem.DeleteTcBaseInfo(tID);
//
// new UserSystem().DeleteUserAccount(tNumber.Text);
//
// MessageBox.Show("ɾ³ýÍê±Ï£¡");
//
// //ˢаó¶¨ÐÅÏ¢
// TextDataUnBindings();
// TextDataClear();
// loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition("","","",""));
// }
// catch(Exception ex)
// {
// MessageBox.Show(ex.Message);
// }
// }
// }
// #endregion
#region ´òÓ¡¿¨°´Å¥
private void simpleButton_WriteButton_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
string savePath;
saveFileDialog_Report.Filter = "ExcelÎļþ|*.xls";
if ( saveFileDialog_Report.ShowDialog() != DialogResult.OK )
return;
savePath = saveFileDialog_Report.FileName;
MessageBox.Show("ÕýÔÚÉú³É±¨±í£¬°´È·¶¨Ö®ºóÇëÉÔºò£¡");
SetPrintMemeber();
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.TeaBaseInfoPrint(savePath);
MessageBox.Show("±¨±íÉú³ÉÍê±Ï£¡");
}
#endregion
#region °ïÖú
private void simpleButton_Help_Click(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
}
#endregion
#region Ë¢ÐÂ
private void barButtonItem_TeaInfo_Refresh_ItemClick(object sender, DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventArgs e)
{
LoadDropDownList();
loadPage(new TeacherBaseSystem().SearchTcBaseInfoByCondition(comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem.ToString().Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Name.Text.Replace(" ",""),textEdit_Number.Text.Replace(" ","")));
simpleButton_SaveButton.Enabled = false;
simpleButton_ModifyButton.Enabled = true;
}
#endregion
#region ÔØÈëͼƬ
private void barButtonItem_TeaInfo_LoadPic_ItemClick(object sender, DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventArgs e)
{
openFileDialog_ChooseImg.Filter = "ͼÏñÎļþ(*.bmp;*.jpg;*.jpeg;*.png)|*.BMP;*.JPG;*.JPEG;*.PNG";
if(openFileDialog_ChooseImg.ShowDialog() == DialogResult.OK)
{
try
{
MemoryStream imageMSReader = new MemoryStream();
Bitmap imageData = new Bitmap(openFileDialog_ChooseImg.FileName);
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.EditValue = imageData;
imageData.Save(imageMSReader,ImageFormat.Jpeg);
imageDataBuffer = imageMSReader.ToArray();
}
catch
{
MessageBox.Show("ͼƬûÕÒµ½»òˬÇë¸ü»»Í¼Æ¬£¡");
}
}
}
#endregion
#region ɾ³ýͼƬ
private void barButtonItem_TeaInfo_DeletePic_ItemClick(object sender, DevExpress.XtraBars.ItemClickEventArgs e)
{
pictureEdit_LoadImageData.EditValue = null;
imageDataBuffer = null;
}
#endregion
#region ´òÓ¡³ÉÔ±
private void SetPrintMemeber()
{
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetName(tName.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetGender(tSex.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetDegree(tRecord.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetHomeTel(tHomePhone.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetPhone(tPhone.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetWorkTel(tWorkPhone.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetMarriage(tMarrige.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetAddr(tAddr.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetDept(tDept.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetDuty(tDuty.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetJobEva(tTechnicalPost.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetLevel(tLevel.Text);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetWorkDate(tJoinDate.DateTime.Date);
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetEnterDate(tEnterTime.DateTime.Date);
if ( pictureEdit_LoadImageData.EditValue == null || pictureEdit_LoadImageData.EditValue is DBNull)
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.NeedPrintPicture = false;
else
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.NeedPrintPicture = true;
teaBaseInfoPrintSystem.SetPicture(pictureEdit_LoadImageData.Image);
}
#endregion
#region ÏÔʾËù´¦½ÇÉ«
private void gridView1_FocusedRowChanged(object sender, DevExpress.XtraGrid.Views.Base.FocusedRowChangedEventArgs e)
{
if(gridView1.GetDataRow(gridView1.GetSelectedRows()[0])["T_Number"].ToString()==string.Empty)
{
return;
}
if(new UserSystem().GetUserRole(gridView1.GetDataRow(gridView1.GetSelectedRows()[0])
["T_Number"].ToString()) != string.Empty)
{
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem = new UserSystem().GetUserRole(gridView1.GetDataRow(gridView1.GetSelectedRows()[0])
["T_Number"].ToString());
}
else
{
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem = "Ò»°ã";
}
}
#endregion
#region ²»ÔÊÐíÐÞ¸ÄÔ°³¤µÄȨÏÞ
private void comboBoxEdit_Privilege_SelectedIndexChanged(object sender, System.EventArgs e)
{
if ( Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name.ToLower() != "shchuangzhi" )
{
if ( comboBoxEdit_Privilege.SelectedItem.ToString().Equals("Ô°³¤") )
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Enabled = false;
else
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Enabled = true;
}
}
#endregion
private void SetNormalTeacherAuthority()
{
DataSet dsRolesDuty = rolesSystem.GetRolesDuty(Convert.ToInt32(Thread.CurrentPrincipal.Identity.Name));
string gradeName = dsRolesDuty.Tables[0].Rows[0][0].ToString();
string className = dsRolesDuty.Tables[0].Rows[0][1].ToString();
comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.Clear();
comboBoxEdit_Grade.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[]{gradeName});
comboBoxEdit_Grade.SelectedItem = gradeName;
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.Clear();
comboBoxEdit_Class.Properties.Items.AddRange(new object[]{className});
comboBoxEdit_Class.SelectedItem = className;
simpleButton_NewFile.Enabled = false;
tRecord.Enabled = false;
tTechnicalPost.Enabled = false;
tNumber.Enabled = false;
tJoinDate.Enabled = false;
tEnterTime.Enabled = false;
tLevel.Enabled = false;
comboBoxEdit_Privilege.Enabled = false;
tDept.Enabled = false;
tDuty.Enabled = false;
tName.Enabled = false;
tSex.Enabled = false;
}
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 5,635 |
Produced by David Widger
BLOW THE MAN DOWN
A ROMANCE OF THE COAST
By Holman Day
Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
TO MY GOOD FRIEND
Captain John W. Christie
BRITISH MASTER MARINER
WHO HAS SUNG ALL THE SHANTIES
AND HAS SAILED ALL THE SEAS
"_O, blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!
Way-ay, blow the man down.
O, blow the man down in Liverpool town!
Give me some time to blow the man down."
--Old Shanty of the Atlantic Packet Ships._
CONTENTS:
I ~ CAPTAIN BOYD MAYO GETS OUT OF SOUNDINGS
II ~ THEN CAPTAIN MAYO SEES SHOALS
III ~ THE TAVERN OF THE SEAS
IV ~ OVER THE "POLLY'S" RAIL
V ~ ON THE BRIDGE OF YACHT "OLENIA"
VI ~ AND WE SAILED
VII ~ INTO THE MESS FROM EASTWARD
VIII ~ LIKE BUGS UNDER A THIMBLE
IX ~ A MAN'S JOB
X ~ HOSPITALITY, PER JULIUS MARSTON
XI ~ A VOICE FROM HUE AND CRY
XII ~ NO PLACE POR THE SOLES OP THEIR FEET
XIII ~ A CAPTAIN OP HUMAN FLOTSAM
XIV ~ BEARINGS FOR A NEW COURSE
XV ~ THE RULES OF THE ROAD
XVI ~ MILLIONS AND A MITE
XVII ~ "EXACTLY!" SAID MR. FOGG
XVIII ~ HOW AN ANNUAL MEETING WAS HELD--ONCE!
XIX ~ THE PRIZE PACKAGE FROM MR. FOGG
XX ~ TESTING OUT A MAN
XXI ~ BITTER PROOF BY MORNING LIGHT
XXII ~ SPECIAL BUSINESS OF A PASSENGER
XXIII ~ THE MONSTER THAT SLIPPED ITS LEASH
XXIV ~ DOWN A GALLOPING SEA
XXV ~ A GIRL AND HER DEBT OF HONOR
XXVI ~ THE FANGS OF OLD RAZEE
XXVII ~ THE TEMPEST TURNS ITS CARD
XXVIII ~ GIRL'S HELP AND MAN'S WORK
XXIX ~ THE TOILERS OF OLD RAZEE
XXX ~ THE MATTER OP A MONOGRAM IN WAX
XXXI ~ THE BIG FELLOW HIMSELF
XXXII ~ A GIRL'S DEAR "BECAUSE!"
BLOW THE MAN DOWN
I ~ CAPTAIN BOYD MAYO GETS OUT OF SOUNDINGS
When in safety or in doubt,
Always keep a safe lookout;
Strive to keep a level head,
Mind your lights and mind your lead.
--Pilot-house Ditty.
For days he had been afraid of that incredible madness of his as a man
fears a nameless monster. But he was sure of his strength even while
admitting his weakness. He was confident that he had the thing securely
in leash.
Then all at once it happened!
Without preface of word or look he whirled and faced her, swept her
into his arms and kissed her. He did not attempt to absolve himself
or mitigate his offense by telling her that he loved her. He was
voiceless--he could not control his speech. He did not dare to show such
presumption as talk of love must seem to be to her. He knew he must not
speak of love; such proffer to her would be lunacy. But this greater
presumption, this blind capture of her in his arms--this was something
which he had not intended any more than a sane man considers flight to
the moon.
He did not understand; he had been himself--then, instantly, in time
measured by a finger-snap, he had become this wretch who seemed to be
somebody else.
He had ceased, for an insane moment, to be master of all his senses. But
he released her as suddenly as he had seized her, and staggered to the
door of the chart-room, turning his back on her and groaning in supreme
misery.
In that moment of delirium he had insulted his own New England sense of
decency and honor.
He was afraid to look back at her. With an agony of apprehension
he dreaded the sound of her voice. He knew well enough that she was
striving to get command of herself, to recover from her utter amazement.
He waited. The outrage must have incensed her beyond measure; the
silence was prolonged.
In the yacht's saloon below a violin sang its very soul out upon the
summer night, weaving its plaint into the soft, adagio rippling of a
piano's chords.
He searched his soul. The music, that distant, mellow phrasing of the
call of love, the music had unstrung him. While he paced the bridge
before her coming that music had been melting the ice of his natural
reserve. But he did not pardon himself because he had acted the fool.
He stared at the night framed in the door of the chart-house. Little
waves were racing toward him, straight from the moon, on the sea-line,
like a flood of new silver pouring from the open door of plenty!
But the appealing beauty of that night could not excuse the
unconscionable insult he had just offered her. He knew it, and shivered.
She had come and leaned close to him over the outspread chart, her
breath on his cheek--so close to him that a roving tress of her hair
flicked him. But because a sudden fire had leaped from the touch to his
brain was no reason for the act by which he had just damned himself as a
presumptuous brute.
For he, Boyd Mayo, captain of her father's yacht, a hireling, had just
paid the same insulting courtship to Alma Marston that a sailor would
proffer to an ogling girl on the street.
"I'll jump overboard," he stammered at last. "I'll take myself out of
your sight forever."
The ominous silence persisted.
"I don't ask you to forgive me. It is not a thing which can be forgiven.
Tell them I was insane--and jumped overboard. That will be the truth. I
am a lunatic."
He lurched through the door. In that desperate moment, in the whirl
of his emotions, there seemed to be no other way out of his horrible
predicament. He had grown to love the girl with all the consuming
passion of his soul, realizing fully his blind folly at the same time.
He had built no false hopes. As to speaking of that love--even betraying
it by a glance--he had sheathed himself in the armor of reserved
constraint; he had been sure that he sooner would have gone down on his
hands and knees and bayed that silver moon from the deck of the yacht
_Olenia_ than do what he had just done.
"Captain Mayo! Wait!"
He waited without turning to look at her. Her voice was not steady, but
he could not determine from the tone what her emotions were.
"Come back here!"
She was obliged to repeat the command with sharper authority before he
obeyed. He lowered his eyes and stood before her, a voiceless suppliant.
"Why did you do that?" she asked. It was not the contemptuous demand
which he had been fearing. Her voice was so low that it was almost a
whisper.
"I don't know," he confessed.
The violin sang on; the moon shone in at the door; two strokes, like
golden globules of sound, from the ship's bell signaled nine o'clock.
Only the rhythm of the engines, as soothing as a cat's purring, and the
slow roll of the yacht and the murmuring of the parted waves revealed
that the _Olenia_ was on her way through the night.
"I don't know," he repeated. "It doesn't excuse me to say that I could
not help it."
And he understood women so little that he did not realize that he was
making the ages-old plea which has softened feminine rancor ever since
the Sabine women were borne away in their captors' arms and forgave
their captors.
She stared at him, making once more a maiden's swift appraisal of this
young man who had offered himself so humbly as a sacrifice. His brown
hands were crossed in front of him and clutched convulsively his white
cap. The cap and the linen above the collar of his uniform coat brought
out to the full the hue of his manly tan. The red flush of his shocked
contrition touched his cheeks, and, all in all, whatever the daughter of
Julius Marston, Wall Street priest of high finance, may have thought of
his effrontery, the melting look she gave him from under lowered eyelids
indicated her appreciation of his outward excellencies.
"I suppose you are thoroughly and properly ashamed of what you have
done!"
"I am ashamed--so ashamed that I shall never dare to raise my eyes to
you again. I will do what I promised. I will jump overboard."
"Captain Mayo, look at me!"
When he obeyed, with the demeanor of a whipped hound, his perturbation
would not allow him to show as much appreciation of her as she had
displayed in the secret study of him, which she now promptly concealed.
He surveyed her wistfully, with fear. And a maiden, after she has
understood that she has obtained mastery over brawn and soul, does not
care to be looked at as if she were Medusa.
She stole a side-glance at her face in one of the mirrors, and then
tucked into place a vagrant lock of hair with a shapely finger, thereby
suggesting, had there been a cynical observer present, that Miss Alma
Marston never allowed any situation, no matter how crucial, to take her
attention wholly from herself.
There was no mistaking it--had that cynical observer been there,
he would have noted that she pouted slightly when Mayo declared his
unutterable shame.
"You will never get over that shame, will you?"
And Captain Mayo, feverishly anxious to show that he understood the
enormity of his offense, and desiring to offer pledge for the future,
declared that his shame would never lessen.
Her dark eyes sparkled; whether there was mischief mingled with
resentment, or whether the resentment quite supplanted all other
emotions, might have been a difficult problem for the cynic. But when
she tilted her chin and stared the offender full in the eyes, propping
her plump little hands in the side-pockets of her white reefer,
Captain Mayo, like a man hit by a cudgel, was struck with the sudden
and bewildering knowledge that he did not know much about women, for
she asked, with a quizzical drawl, "Just what is there about me, dear
captain, to inspire that everlasting regret which seems to be troubling
you so much?"
Even then he did not grasp the full import of her provocative question.
"It isn't you. I'm the one who is wholly to blame," he stammered. "I
have dared to--But no matter. I know my place. I'll show you I know it."
"You _dared_ to--What have you dared to do--besides what you just did?"
"I cannot tell you, Miss Marston. I don't propose to insult you again."
"I command you to tell me, Captain Mayo."
He could not comprehend her mood in the least and his demeanor showed
it. Her command had a funny little ripple in it--as of laughter
suppressed. There were queer quirks at the corners of her full, red
lips.
"Now straighten up like your real self! I don't like to see you standing
that way. You know I like to have all the folks on the yachts look at
our captain when we go into a harbor! You didn't know it? Well, I do.
Now what have you dared to do?"
He did straighten then. "I have dared to fall in love with you, Miss
Marston. So have a lot of other fools, I suppose. But I am the worst of
all. I am only a sailor. How I lost control of myself I don't know!"
"Not even now?" Still that unexplainable softness in her voice, that
strange expression on her face. Being a sailor, he looked on this calm
as being ominous presage of a storm.
"I am willing to have you report me to your father, Miss Marston. I will
take my punishment. I will never offend you again."
"You can control yourself after this, can you?"
"Yes, Miss Marston, absolutely."
She hesitated; she smiled. She lowered her eyelids again and surveyed
him with the satisfied tolerance a pretty woman can so easily extend
when unconquerable ardor has prompted to rashness.
"Oh, you funny, prim Yankee!" she murmured. "You don't understand even
now just why you did it!"
His face revealed that he did not in the least understand.
"Come here," she invited.
He went three steps across the narrow cabin and stood in an attitude of
respectful obedience before her.
"What now, sir?" It was query even more provocative--a smile went with
it.
"I apologize. I have learned my lesson."
"You need to learn a lot--you are very ignorant," she replied, with
considerable tartness.
"Yes," he agreed, humbly.
What happened then was so wholly outside his reckoning that the
preceding events of the evening retired tamely into the background. It
had been conceivable that rush of passion might drive him to break all
the rules of conduct his New England conscience had set over him; but
what Alma Marston did overwhelmed him with such stupefaction that he
stood there as rigid and motionless as a belaying-pin in a rack. She put
up her arms, pressed her two hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe,
and kissed him on his lips.
"There, foolish old Yankee," she said, softly, her mouth close to his;
"since you are so ashamed I give you back your kiss--and all is made
right between us, because we are just where we started a little while
ago."
His amazement had so benumbed him that even after that surrender he
stood there, close to her, his countenance blank, his arms dangling at
his side.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" she asked, petulantly.
"I don't know! I--I--I don't seem to understand."
"I'm going to be honest with you. You are so honest you will understand
me, then," she told him. It seemed to him that he must be mistaken, but
he certainly felt her arms were slipping up his shoulders and had met
behind his neck. "I saw it in your eyes long ago. A woman always knows.
I wanted you to do what you did to-night. I knew I would be obliged to
tempt you. I came up here while the moon and the music would help me. I
did it all on purpose--I stood close to you--for I knew you were just
my slow old Yankee who would never come out of his shell till I poked.
There! I have confessed!"
His mad joy did not allow him to see anything of the coquette in that
confession. It all seemed to be consecrated by the love he felt for
her--a love which was so honest that he perceived no boldness in the
attitude of this girl who had come so far to meet him. He took her into
his arms again, and she returned his kisses.
"Tell me again, Boyd, that you love me," she coaxed.
"And yet I have no right to love you. You are--"
"Hush! Hush! There goes your Yankee caution talking! I want love, for
I am a girl. Love hasn't anything to do with what you are or what I am.
Not now! We will love each other--and wait! You are my big boy! Aren't
you?"
He was glad to comply with her plea to put sensible talk from them just
then. There was nothing sensible he could say. He was holding Julius
Marston's daughter in his arms, and she was telling him that she loved
him. The world was suddenly upside down and he was surrendering himself
to the mad present.
In the yacht's saloon below a woman began to sing:
"Love comes like a summer sigh,
Softly o'er us stealing.
Love comes and we wonder why
To its shrine we're kneeling.
Love comes as the days go by--"
"That's it," the girl murmured, eagerly. "We don't know anything at all
about why we love. Folks who marry for money make believe love--I have
watched them--I know. I love you. You're my big boy. That's all. That's
enough."
He accepted this comforting doctrine unquestioningly. Her serene
acceptance of the situation, without one wrinkle in her placid brow
to indicate that any future problems annoyed her, did not arouse his
wonderment or cause him to question the depths of her emotions; it only
added one more element to the unreality of the entire affair.
Moon and music, silver sea and glorious night, and a maid who had been,
in his secret thoughts, his dream of the unattainable!
"Will you wait for me--wait till I can make something of myself?" he
demanded.
"You are yourself--right now--that's enough!"
"But the future. I must--"
"Love me--love me now--that's all we need to ask. The future will take
care of itself when the time comes! Haven't you read about the great
loves? How they just forgot the whole petty world? What has love to do
with business and money and bargains? Love in its place--business in its
place! And our love will be our secret until--"
He pardoned her indefiniteness, for when she paused and hesitated she
pressed her lips to his, and that assurance was enough for him.
"Yes--oh yes--Miss Alma!" called a man's voice in the singsong of eager
summons.
"It's Arthur," she said, with snap of impatience in her voice. "Why
won't people let me alone?"
He released her, and she stood at arm's-length, her hands against
his breast. "I have thought--It seemed to me," he stammered, "that
he--Forgive me, but I have loved you so! I couldn't bear to think--think
that he--"
"You thought I cared for him!" she chided. "That's only the man my
father has picked out for me! Why, I wouldn't even allow my father to
select a yachting-cap for me, much less a husband. I'll tell him so when
the time comes!"
Mayo's brows wrinkled in spite of himself. The morrow seemed to play
small part in the calculations of this maid.
"Money--that's all there is to Arthur Beveridge. My father has enough
money for all of us. And if he is stingy with us--oh, it's easy enough
to earn money, isn't it? All men can earn money."
Captain Mayo, sailor, was not sure of his course in financial waters and
did not reply.
"Miss Alma! I say! Oh, where are you?"
"Even that silly, little, dried-up man," she jeered, with a duck of her
head in the direction of the drawling voice, "goes down to Wall Street
and makes thousands and thousands of dollars whenever he feels like it.
And you could put him in your reefer pocket. They will all be afraid of
you when you go down to Wall Street to make lots of money for us two.
You shall see! Kiss me! Kiss me once! Kiss me quick! Here he comes!"
He obeyed, released her, and when Beveridge shoved his wizened face in
at the door they were bending over the chart.
"Oh, I say, we have missed you. They are asking for you."
She did not turn to look at him. "I have something else on my mind,
Arthur, besides lolling below listening to Wally Dalton fiddle
love-tunes. And this passage, here, Captain Mayo! What is it?" Her
finger strayed idly across a few hundred miles of mapped Atlantic Ocean.
"It's Honeymoon Channel," replied the navigator, demurely. His new
ecstasy made him bold enough to jest.
"Oh, so we are learning to be a captain, Miss Alma?" inquired Beveridge
with a wry smile.
"It would be better if more yacht-owners knew how to manage their own
craft," she informed him, with spirit.
"Yes, it might keep the understrappers in line," agreed the man at
the door.. "I apply for the position of first mate after you qualify,
Captain Alma."
"And this, you say, is, Captain Mayo?" she queried, without troubling
herself to reply. Her tone was crisply matter of fact.
Beveridge blinked at her and showed the disconcerted uneasiness of a man
who has intruded in business hours.
Captain Mayo, watching the white finger rapturously, noted that it was
sweeping from the Arctic Circle to the Tropic Zone. "That's Love Harbor,
reached through the thoroughfare of Hope," he answered, respectfully.
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Beveridge; "the sailors who laid out that course
must have been romantic."
"Sailors have souls to correspond with their horizon, Arthur. Would you
prefer such names as Cash Cove and Money-grub Channel?"
Mr. Beveridge cocked an eyebrow and stared at her eloquent back; also,
he cast a glance of no great favor on the stalwart young captain of the
_Olenia_. It certainly did not occur to Mr. Beveridge that two young
folks in love were making sport of him. That Julius Marston's daughter
would descend to a yacht captain would have appeared as incredible an
enormity as an affair with the butler. But there was something about
this intimate companionship of the chart-room which Mr. Beveridge did
not relish. Instinct rather than any sane reason told him that he was
not wanted.
"I'm sorry to break in on your studies, Miss Marston," he said, a bit
stiffly. "But I have been sent by your father to call you to the cabin."
Mr. Beveridge's air, his tone of protest, conveyed rather pointed hint
that her responsibilities as a hostess were fully as important as her
studies as a navigator.
"I must go," she whispered.
Relief was mingled with Captain Mayo's regret. He had feared that this
impetuous young woman might rebel against the summons, even though the
word came from her father. And her persistent stay in his chart-room,
even on the pretext of a fervid interest in the mysteries of navigation,
might produce complications. This wonderful new joy in his life was too
precious to be marred by complications.
She trailed her fingers along his hand when she turned from the
chart-table, and then pinched him in farewell salute.
"Good night, Captain Mayo. I'll take another lesson to-morrow."
"I am at your service," he told her.
Their voices betrayed nothing, but Beveridge's keen eyes--the eyes which
had studied faces in the greatest game of all when fortunes were at
stake--noted the look they exchanged. It was long-drawn, as expressive
as a lingering kiss.
Mr. Beveridge, sanctioned in his courtship by Julius Marston, was not
especially worried by any inferences from that soft glance. He could not
blame even a coal-heaver who might stare tenderly at Miss Alma Marston,
for she was especially pleasing to the eye, and he enjoyed looking at
her himself. He was enough of a philosopher to be willing to have other
folks enjoy themselves and thereby give their approbation to his choice.
He excused Captain Mayo. As to Miss Marston, he viewed her frivolity as
he did that of the other girls whom he knew; they all had too much time
on their hands.
"Give the poor devils a chance, Alma. Don't tip 'em upside down," he
advised, testily, when she followed him down the ladder. He stood at the
foot and offered his hand, but she leaped down the last two steps and
did not accept his assistance. "Now, you have twisted that skipper of
ours until he doesn't know north from south."
"I do not care much for your emphasis on the 'now,'" she declared,
indignantly. "You seem to intimate that I am going about the world
trying to beguile every man I see."
"That seems to be the popular indoor and outdoor sport for girls in
these days," he returned with good humor. "Just a moment ago you were
raising the very devil with that fellow up there with your eyes. Of
course, practice makes perfect. But you're a good, kind girl in your
heart. Don't make 'em miserable."
Mr. Beveridge's commiseration would have been wasted on Captain Boyd
Mayo that evening. The captain snapped off the light in the chart-room
as soon as they had departed, and there in the gloom he took his
happiness to his heart, even as he had taken her delicious self to his
breast. He put up his hands and pressed his face into the palms.
He inhaled the delicate, subtle fragrance--a mere suggestion of
perfume--the sweet ghost of her personality, which she had left behind.
Her touch still thrilled him, and the warmth of her last kiss was on his
lips.
Then he went out and climbed the ladder to the bridge. A peep over the
shoulder of the man at the wheel into the mellow glow under the hood of
the binnacle, showed him that the _Olenia_ was on her course.
"It's a beautiful night, Mr. McGaw," he said to the mate, a stumpy
little man with bowed legs, who was pacing to and fro, measuring strides
with the regularity of a pendulum.
"It is that, sir!"
Mr. McGaw, before he answered, plainly had difficulty with something
which bulged in his cheek. He appeared, also, to be considerably
surprised by the captain's air of vivacious gaiety. His superior had
been moping around the ship for many days with melancholy spelled in
every line of his face.
"Yes, it's the most beautiful and perfect night I ever saw, Mr. McGaw."
There was triumph in the captain's buoyant tones.
"Must be allowed to be what they call a starry night for a ramble,"
admitted the mate, trying to find speech to fit the occasion.
"I will take the rest of this watch and the middle watch, Mr. McGaw,"
offered the captain. "I want to stay up to-night. I can't go to sleep."
The offer meant that Captain Mayo proposed to stay on duty until four
o'clock in the morning.
Mate McGaw fiddled a gnarled finger under his nose and tried to find
some words of protest. But Captain Mayo added a crisp command.
"Go below, Mr. McGaw, and take it easy. You can make it up to me some
time when there is no moon!" He laughed.
When all the cabin lights were out and he realized that she must be
asleep, he walked the bridge, exulting because her safety was in his
hands, but supremely exultant because she loved him and had told him so.
Obedience had been in the line of his training.
She had commanded him to live and love in the present, allowing the
future to take care of itself, and it afforded him a sense of sweet
companionship to obey her slightest wish when he was apart from
her. Therefore, he put aside all thoughts of Julius Marston and his
millions--Julius Marston, his master, owner of the yacht which swept on
under the moon--that frigid, silent man with the narrow strip of frosty
beard pointing his chin.
Mayo walked the bridge and lived and loved.
II ~ THEN CAPTAIN MAYO SEES SHOALS
There's naught upon the stern, there's naught upon the lee,
Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we.
But there's a lofty ship to windward,
And she's sailing fast and free,
Sailing down along the coast of the high Barbaree.
--Ancient Shanty.
The skipper of the _Olenia_ found himself dabbling in guesses and
wonderment more than is good for a man who is expected to obey without
asking the reason why.
That cruise seemed to be a series of spasmodic alternations between
leisurely loafing and hustling haste.
There were days when he was ordered to amble along at half speed
offshore. Then for hours together Julius Marston and his two especial
and close companions, men of affairs, plainly, men of his kind, bunched
themselves close together in their hammock chairs under the poop awning
and talked interminably. Alma Marston and her young friends, chaperoned
by an amiable aunt--so Captain Mayo understood her status in the
party--remained considerately away from the earnest group of three.
Arthur Beveridge attached himself to the young folks.
From the bridge the captain caught glimpses of all this shipboard
routine. The yacht's saunterings offshore seemed a part of the summer
vacation.
But the occasional hurryings into harbors, the conferences below with
men who came and went with more or less attempt at secrecy, did not fit
with the vacation side of the cruise.
These conferences were often followed by orders to the captain to thread
inner reaches of the coast and to visit unfrequented harbors.
Captain Mayo had been prepared for these trips, although he had not been
informed of the reason. It was his first season on the yacht _Olenia_.
The shipping broker who had hired him had been searching in his
inquiries as to Mayo's knowledge of the byways of the coast. The young
man who had captained fishermen and coasters ever since he was seventeen
years old had found it easy to convince the shipping broker, and the
shipping broker had sent him on board the yacht without the formality of
an interview with the owner.
Mayo was informed curtly that there was no need of an interview. He was
told that Julius Marston never bothered with details.
When Julius Marston had come on board with his party he merely nodded
grim acknowledgment of the salute of his yacht's master, who stood at
the gangway, cap in hand.
The owner had never shown any interest in the management of the yacht;
he had remained abaft the main gangway; he had never called the captain
into conference regarding any movements of the _Olenia_.
Captain Mayo, pacing the bridge in the forenoon watch, trying to grasp
the full measure of his fortune after troubled dreams of his master's
daughter, recollected that he had never heard the sound of Julius
Marston's voice. So far as personal contact was concerned, the yacht's
skipper was evidently as much a matter of indifference to the owner as
the yacht's funnel.
Orders were always brought forward by a pale young man who was taciturn
even to rudeness, and by that trait seemed to commend himself to Marston
as a safe secretary.
At first, Alma Marston had brought her friends to the bridge. But after
the novelty was gone they seemed to prefer the comfort of chairs astern
or the saloon couches.
For a time the attentive Beveridge had followed her when she came
forward; and then Beveridge discovered that she quite disregarded him in
her quest for information from the tall young man in uniform. She came
alone.
And after that what had happened happened.
She came alone that forenoon. He saw her coming. He had stolen a glance
aft every time he turned in his walk at the end of the bridge. He leaned
low and reached down his hand to assist her up the ladder.
"I have been nigh crazy all morning. But I had to wait a decent time and
listen to their gossip after breakfast," she told him, her face close
to his as she came up the ladder. "And, besides, my father is snappy
to-day. He scolded me last night for neglecting my guests. Just as if
I were called on to sit all day and listen to Nan Burgess appraise her
lovers or to sing a song every time Wally Dalton has his relapse of
lovesickness. He has come away to forget her, you know." She chuckled,
uttering her funny little gurgle of a laugh which stirred in him,
always, a desire to smother it with kisses.
They went to the end of the bridge, apart from the man at the wheel.
"I hurried to go to sleep last night so that I could dream of you, my
own big boy."
"I walked the bridge until after daylight. I wanted to stay awake. I
could not bear to let sleep take away my thoughts."
"What is there like love to make this world full of happiness? How
bright the sun is! How the waves sparkle! Those folks sitting back there
are looking at the same things we are--or they can look, though they
don't seem to have sense enough. And about all they notice is that it's
daylight instead of night. My father and those men are talking about
money--just money--that's all. And Wally has a headache from drinking
too much Scotch. And Nan Burgess doesn't love anybody who loves her, But
for us--oh, this glorious world!"
She put out her arms toward the sun and stared boldly at that blazing
orb, as though she were not satisfied with what her eyes could behold,
but desired to grasp and feel some of the glory of outdoors. If Captain
Mayo had been as well versed in psychology as he was in navigation
he might have drawn a few disquieting deductions from this frank and
unconscious expression of the mood of the materialist. She emphasized
that mood by word.
"I'll show you my little clasp-book some day, big boy. It's where I
write my verses. I don't show them to anybody. You see, I'm telling you
my secrets! We must tell each other our secrets, you and I! I have put
my philosophy of living into four lines. Listen!
"The future? Why perplex the soul? The past? Forget its woe and strife!
Let's thread each day, a perfect whole, Upon our rosary of Life."
"It's beautiful," he told her.
"Isn't it good philosophy?"
"Yes," he admitted, not daring to doubt the high priestess of the new
cult to which he had been commandeered.
"It saves all this foolish worry. Most of the folks I know are always
talking about the bad things which have happened to them or are peering
forward and hoping that good things will happen, and they never once
look down and admire a golden moment which Fate has dropped into their
hands. You see, I'm poetical this morning. Why shouldn't I be? We love
each other."
"I don't know how to talk," he stammered. "I'm only a sailor. I never
said a word about love to any girl in my life."
"Are you sure you have never loved anybody? Remember, we must tell each
other our secrets."
"Never," he declared with convincing firmness.
She surveyed him, showing the satisfaction a gold-seeker would exhibit
in appraising a nugget of virgin ore. "But you are so big and fine! And
you must have met so many pretty girls!"
He was not restive under this quizzing. "I have told you the truth, Miss
Marston."
"For shame, big boy! 'Miss Marston,' indeed! I am Alma--Alma to you. Say
it! Say it nicely!"
He flushed. He stole a shamefaced glance at the-wheelsman and made a
quick and apprehensive survey of the sacred regions aft.
"Are you afraid, after all I have said to you?"
"No, but it seems--I can hardly believe--"
"Say it."
"Alma," he gulped. "Alma, I love you."
"You need some lessons, big boy. You are so awkward I think you are
telling me the truth about the other girls."
He did not dare to ask her whether she had loved any one else. With all
the passionate jealousy of his soul he wanted to ask her. She, who was
so sure that she could instruct him, must have loved somebody. He tried
to comfort himself by the thought that her knowledge arose from the
efforts either men had made to win her.
"We have our To-day," she murmured. "Golden hours till the moon comes
up--and then perhaps a few silver ones! I don't care what Arthur
guesses. My father is too busy talking money with those men to guess.
I'm going to be with you all I can. I can arrange it. I'm studying
navigation."
She snuggled against the rail, luxuriating in the sunshine.
"Who are you?" she asked, bluntly.
That question, coming after the pledging of their affection, astonished
him like the loom of a ledge in mid-channel.
"It's enough for me that you are just as you are, boy! But you're not a
prince in disguise, are you?"
"I'm only a Yankee sailor," he told her. "But if you won't think that
I'm trying to trade on what my folks have been before me, I'll say that
my grandfather was Gamaliel Mayo of Mayoport."
"That sounds good, but I never heard of him. With all my philosophy, I'm
a poor student of history, sweetheart." Her tone and the name she gave
him took the sting out of her confession.
"I don't believe he played a great part in history. But he built sixteen
ships in his day, and our house flag circled the world many times.
Sixteen big ships, and the last one was the _Harvest Home_, the China
clipper that paid for herself three times before an Indian Ocean monsoon
swallowed her."
"Well, if he made all that money, are you going to sea for the fun of
it?"
"There are no more Yankee wooden ships on the sea. My poor father
thought he was wise when the wooden ships were crowded off. He put his
money into railroads--and you know what has happened to most of the
folks who have put their money into new railroads."
"I'm afraid I don't know much about business."
"The hawks caught the doves. It was a game that was played all over New
England. The folks whose money built the roads were squeezed out. Long
before my mother died our money was gone, but my father and I did not
allow her to know it. We mortgaged and gave her what she had always been
used to. And when my father died there was nothing!"
Her eyes glistened. "That's chivalry," she cried. "That's the spirit of
the knights of old when women were concerned. I adore you for what you
did!"
"It was the way my father and I looked at it," he said, mildly. "My
father was not a very practical man, but I always agreed with him. And
I am happy now, earning my own living. Why should I think my grandfather
ought to have worked all his life so that I would not need to work?"
"I suppose it's different with a big, strong man and a woman. She needs
so much that a man must give her."
Captain Mayo became promptly silent, crestfallen, and embarrassed. He
stared aft, he looked at the splendid yacht whose finances he managed
and whose extravagance he knew. He saw the girl at his side, and blinked
at the gems which flashed in the sunlight as her fingers tucked up the
locks of hair where the breeze had wantoned.
"I think my father works because he loves it," she said. "I wish he
would rest and enjoy other things more. If mother had lived to influence
him perhaps he would see something else in life instead of merely piling
up money. But he doesn't listen to me. He gives me money and tells me to
go and play. I miss my mother, boy! I haven't anybody to talk with--who
understands!"
There were tears in her eyes, and he was grateful for them. He felt
that she had depths in her nature. But keen realization of his position,
compared with hers, distressed him. She stood there, luxury incarnate,
mistress of all that money could give her.
"Anybody can make money," she declared. "My father and those men are
sitting there and building plans to bring them thousands and thousands
of dollars. All they need to do is put their heads together and plan.
Every now and then I hear a few words. They're going to own all the
steamboats--or something of that kind. Anybody can make money, I say,
but there are so few who know how to enjoy it."
"I have been doing a lot of thinking since last night--Alma." He
hesitated when he came to her name, and then blurted it out.
"Do you think it is real lover-like to treat my name as if it were a
hurdle that you must leap over?" she asked, with her aggravating little
chuckle. "Oh, you have so much to learn!"
"I'm afraid so. I have a great many things ahead of me to learn and do.
I have been thinking. I have been afraid of the men who sit and scheme
and put all their minds on making money. They did bitter things to us,
and we didn't understand until it was all over. But I must go among them
and watch them and learn how to make money."
"Don't be like the others, now, and talk money--money," she said,
pettishly. "Money and their love-affairs--that's the talk I have heard
from men ever since I was allowed to come into the drawing-room out of
the nursery!"
"But I must talk money a little, dear. I have my way to make in the
world."
"Thrifty, practical, and Yankee!" she jested. "I suppose you can't help
it!"
"It isn't for myself--it's for you!" he returned, wistfully, and with
a voice and demeanor he offered himself as Love's sacrifice before
her--the old story of utter devotion--the ancient sacrifice.
"I have all I want," she insisted.
"But _I_ must be able to give you what you want!"
"I warn you that I hate money-grubbers! They haven't a spark of romance
in them. Boyd, you'd be like all the rest in a little while. You mustn't
do it."
"But I must have position--means before I dare to go to your father--if
I ever shall be able to go to him!"
"Go to him for what?"
"To ask him--to say--to--well, when we feel that I'm in a position where
we can be married--"
"Of course we shall be married some day, boy, but all that will take
care of itself when the time comes. But now you are-- How old are you,
Boyd?"
"Twenty-six."
"And I am nineteen. And what has marriage to do with the love we are
enjoying right now?"
"When folks are in love they want to get married."
"Granted! But when lovers are wise they will treat romance at first as
the epicure treats his glass of good wine. They will pour it slowly and
hold the glass up against the light and admire its color!" In her gay
mood she pinched together thumb and forefinger and lifted an imaginary
glass to the sun. "Then they will sniff the bouquet. Ah-h-h, how
fragrant! And after a time they will take a little sip--just a weeny
little sip and hold it on the tongue for ever so long. For, when it is
swallowed, what good? Oh, boy, here are you--talking first of all about
marriage! Talking of the good wine of life and love as if it were a
fluid simply to satisfy thirst. We are going to love, first of all!
Come, I will teach you."
He did not know what to say to her. There was a species of abandon in
her gaiety. Her exotic language embarrassed one who had been used to
mariners' laconic directness of speech. She looked at him, teasing him
with her eyes. He was a bit relieved when the pale-faced secretary came
dragging himself up the ladder and broke in on the tete-a-tete.
"Mr. Marston's orders are, Captain Mayo, that you turn here and go west.
Do you know the usual course of the Bee line steamers?"
"Yes, sir."
"He requests you to turn in toward shore and follow that course."
"Very well, sir." Captain Mayo walked to the wheel. "Nor' nor'west,
Billy, until I can give you the exact course."
"Nor' nor'west!" repeated the wheelsman, throwing her hard over, and
the _Olenia_ came about with a rail-dipping swerve and retraced her way
along her own wake of white suds.
Miss Marston preceded the captain down the ladder and went into the
chart-room. "A kiss--quick!" she whispered.
He held her close to him for a long moment.
"You are a most obedient captain," she said.
When he released her and went at his task, she leaned upon his shoulder
and watched him as he straddled his parallels across the chart.
"We'll run to Razee Reef," he told her, eager to make her a partner in
all his little concerns. "The Bee boats fetch the whistler there so as
to lay off their next leg. I didn't know that Mr. Marston was interested
in the Bee line."
"I heard him talking about that line," she said, indifferently.
"Sometimes I listen when I have nothing else to do. He used a naughty
word about somebody connected with that company--and it's so seldom that
he allows himself to swear I listened to see what it was all about. I
don't know even now. I don't understand such things. But he said if he
couldn't buy 'em he'd bu'st 'em. Those were his words. Not very elegant
language. But it's all I remember."
Before he left the chart-room Mayo took a squint at the barometer. "I'm
sorry he has ordered me in toward the coast," he said. "The glass is too
far below thirty to suit me. I think it means fog."
"But it's so clear and beautiful," she protested.
"It's always especially beautiful at sea before something bad happens,"
he explained, smiling. "And there has been a big fog-bank off to
s'uth'ard for two days. It's a good deal like life, dear. All lovely,
and then the fog shuts in!"
"But I would be happy with you in the fog," she assured him.
He glowed at her words and answered with his eyes.
She would have followed him back upon the bridge, but the steward
intercepted her. He had waited outside the chart-room.
"Mr. Marston's compliments, Miss Marston! He requests you to join him at
cards."
She pouted as she gave back Mayo's look of annoyance, and then obeyed
the mandate.
Mr. Marston was stroking his narrow strip of chin beard with thumb and
forefinger when she arrived on the quarter-deck. The men of business
were below, and he motioned to a hammock chair beside him.
"Alma, for the rest of this cruise I want you to stay back here with
our guests where you belong," he commanded with the directness of attack
employed by Julius Marston in his dealings with those of his menage.
"What do you mean, father?"
"That--exactly. I was explicit, was I not?"
"But you do not intimate that--that I have--"
"Well?" Mr. Marston believed in allowing others to expose their
sentiments before he uncovered his own.
"You don't suggest that there is anything wrong in my being on the
bridge where I enjoy myself so much. I am trying to learn something
about navigation."
"I am paying that fellow up there to attend to all that."
"And it gets tiresome back here."
"You selected your own company for the cruise--and there is Mr.
Beveridge ready to amuse you at any time."
"Mr. Beveridge amuses me--distinctly amuses me," she retorted. "But
there is such a thing as becoming wearied even of such a joke as Mr.
Beveridge."
"You will please employ a more respectful tone when you refer to that
gentleman," said her father, with severity. But he promptly fell back
into his usual mood when she came into his affairs. He was patronizingly
tolerant. "Your friend, Miss Burgess, has been joking about your sudden
devotion to navigation, Alma."
"Nan Burgess cannot keep her tongue still, even about herself."
"I know, but I do not intend to have you give occasion even for
jokes. Of course, I understand. I know your whims. You are interested,
personally, in that gold-braided chap about as much as you would be
interested in that brass thing where the compass is--whatever they call
it."
"But he's a gentleman!" she cried, her interest making her unwary. "His
grandfather was--"
"Alma!" snapped Julius Marston. His eyes opened wide. He looked her up
and down. "I have heard before that an ocean trip makes women silly,
I am inclined to believe it. I don't care a curse who that fellow's
grandfather was. _You_ are my daughter--and you keep off that bridge!"
The men of business were coming up the companion-way, and she rose and
hurried to her stateroom.
"I don't dare to meet Nan Burgess just now," she told herself.
"Friendships can be broken by saying certain things--and I feel
perfectly capable of saying just those things to her at this moment."
In the late afternoon the _Olenia_, the shore-line looming to starboard,
shaped her course to meet and pass a big steamer which came rolling down
the sea with a banner of black smoke flaunting behind her.
The fog which Captain Mayo had predicted was coming. Wisps of it trailed
over the waves--skirmishers sent ahead of the main body which marched in
mass more slowly behind.
A whistling buoy, with its grim grunt, told all mariners to 'ware Razee
Reef, which was lifting its jagged, black bulk against the sky-line.
With that fog coming, Captain Mayo needed to take exact bearings from
Razee, for he had decided to run for harbor that night. That coastline,
to whose inside course Marston's orders had sent the yacht, was too
dangerous to be negotiated in a night which was fog-wrapped. Therefore,
the captain took the whistler nearly dead on, leaving to the larger
steamer plenty of room in the open sea.
With considerable amazement Mayo noticed that the other fellow was
edging toward the whistler at a sharper angle than any one needed. That
course, if persisted in, would pinch the yacht in dangerous waters. Mayo
gave the on-coming steamer one whistle, indicating his intention to pass
to starboard. After a delay he was answered by two hoarse hoots--a most
flagrant breach of the rules of the road.
"That must be a mistake," Captain Mayo informed Mate McGaw.
"That's a polite name for it, sir," averred Mr. McGaw, after he had
shifted the lump in his cheek.
"Of course he doesn't mean it, Mr. McGaw."
"Then why isn't he giving us elbow-room on the outside of that buoy,
sir?"
"I can't swing and cross his bows now. If he should hit us we'd be the
ones held for the accident."
Again Mayo gave the obstinate steamer a single whistle-blast.
"If he cross-signals me again I'll report him," he informed the mate.
"Pay close attention, Mr. McGaw, and you, too, Billy. We may have to go
before the inspectors."
But the big chap ahead of them did not deign to reply. He kept on
straight at the whistler.
"Compliments of Mr. Marston!" called the secretary from the bridge
ladder. "What steamer is that?"
"_Conorno_ of the Bee line, sir," stated Captain Mayo over his shoulder.
Then he ripped out a good, hearty, deep-water oath. According to
appearances, incredible as the situation seemed, the _Conorno_ proposed
to drive the yacht inside the whistler.
Mayo ran to the wheel and yanked the bell-pull furiously. There were
four quick clangs in the engine-room, and in a moment the _Olenia_ began
to quiver in all her fabric. Going full speed ahead, Mayo had called
for full speed astern. Then he sounded three whistles, signaling as the
rules of the road provide. The yacht's twin screws churned a yeasty riot
under her counter, and while she was laboring thus in her own wallow,
trembling like some living thing in the extremity of terror, the big
steamer swept past. Froth from the creamy surges at her bows flicked
spray contemptuously upon Julius Marston and his guests on the
_Olenia_'s quarter-deck. Men grinned down upon them from the high
windows of the steamer's pilot-house.
A jeering voice boomed through a megaphone: "Keep out of the way of the
Bee line! Take the hint!"
An officer pointed his finger at Marston's house flag, snapping from
the yacht's main truck. The blue fish-tail with its letter "M" had
revealed the yacht's identity to searching glasses.
"Better make it black! Skull and cross-bones!" volunteered the megaphone
operator.
On she went down the sea and the _Olenia_ tossed in the turbulent wake
of the kicking screws.
Then, for the first time, Captain Mayo heard the sound of Julius
Marston's voice. The magnate stood up, shook his fist at his staring
captain, and yelled, "What in damnation do you think you are doing?"
It was amazing, insulting, and, under the circumstances as Mayo knew
them, an unjust query. The master of the _Olenia_ did not reply. He was
not prepared to deliver any long-distance explanation. Furthermore, the
yacht demanded all his attention just then. He gave his orders and she
forged ahead to round the whistler.
"Nor'west by west, half west, Billy. And cut it fine!"
The fog had fairly leaped upon them from the sea. The land-breeze
had been holding back the wall of vapor, damming it in a dun bank to
southward. The breeze had let go. The fog had seized its opportunity.
"Saturday Cove for us to-night, Mr. McGaw," said the master. "Keep your
eye over Billy's shoulder."
Then the secretary appeared again on the ladder. This time he did not
bring any "compliments."
"Mr. Marston wants you to report aft at once," he announced, brusquely.
Mayo hesitated a moment. They were driving into blankness which had shut
down with that smothering density which mariners call "a dungeon fog."
Saturday Cove's entrance was a distant and a small target. In spite of
steersman and mate, his was the sole responsibility.
"Will you please explain to Mr. Marston that I cannot leave the bridge?"
"You have straight orders from him, captain! You'd better stop the boat
and report."
The skipper of the _Olenia_ was having his first taste of the
unreasoning whim of the autocrat who was entitled to break into
shipboard discipline, even in a critical moment. Mayo felt exasperation
surging in him, but he was willing to explain.
The whistler and Razee Reef had been blotted out by the fog.
"If this vessel is stopped five minutes in this tide-drift we shall lose
our bearings, sir. I cannot leave this bridge for the present."
"I'm thinking you'll leave it for good!" blurted the secretary. "You're
the first hired man who ever told Julius Marston to go bite his own
thumb."
"I may be a hired man," retorted Mayo. "But I am also a licensed
shipmaster. I must ask you to step down off the bridge."
"Does that go for all the rest of the--passengers?" asked the secretary,
angry in his turn. He dwelt on his last word. "It does--in a time like
this!"
"Very well, I'll give them that word aft."
Captain Mayo caught a side glance from Mate McGaw after a time.
"I have often wondered," remarked the mate to nobody in particular, "how
it is that so many damn fools get rich on shore."
Captain Mayo did not express any opinion on the subject. He clutched the
bridge rail and stared into the fog, and seemed to be having a lot of
trouble in choking back some kind of emotion.
III ~ THE TAVERN OF THE SEAS
Now, Mister Macliver, you knows him quite well,
He comes upon deck and he cuts a great swell;
It's damn your eyes there and it's damn your eyes here,
And straight to the gangway he takes a broad sheer.
--La Pique "Come-all-ye."
Into Saturday Cove, all during that late afternoon, they came
surging--spars and tackle limned against the on-sweeping pall of the
gray fog--those wayfarers of the open main.
First to roll in past the ledgy portals of the haven were the venerable
sea-wagons--the coasters known as the "Apple-treers." Their weatherwise
skippers, old sea-dogs who could smell weather as bloodhounds sniff
trails, had their noses in the air in good season that day, and knew
that they must depend on a thinning wind to cuff them into port. One
after the other, barnacled anchors splashed from catheads, dragging
rusty chains from hawse-holes, and old, patched sails came sprawling
down with chuckle of sheaves and lisp of running rigging.
A 'long-coast shanty explains the nickname, "Apple-treers":
O, what's the use of compass or a quadrant or a log?
Keep her loafin' on her mudhook in a norther or a fog.
But as soon's the chance is better, then well ratch her off once more,
Keepin' clost enough for bearings from the apple-trees ashore.
Therefore, the topsail schooners, the fore-and-afters, the Bluenose
blunt-prows, came in early before the fog smooched out the loom of
the trees and before it became necessary to guess at what the old card
compasses had to reveal on the subject of courses.
And so, along with the rest of the coastwise ragtag, which was seeking
harbor and holding-ground, came the ancient schooner _Polly_. Fog-masked
by those illusory mists, she was a shadow ship like the others; but,
more than the others, she seemed to be a ghost ship, for her lines and
her rig informed any well-posted mariner that she must be a centenarian;
with her grotesqueness accentuated by the fog pall, she seemed unreal--a
picture from the past.
She had an out-thrust of snub bow and an upcock of square stern, and
sag of waist--all of which accurately revealed ripe antiquity, just as
a bell-crowned beaver and a swallow-tail coat with brass buttons would
identify an old man in the ruck of newer fashions. She had seams like
the wrinkles in the parchment skin of extreme old age. She carried a
wooden figurehead under her bowsprit, the face and bust of a woman on
whom an ancient woodcarver had bestowed his notion of a beatific smile;
the result was an idiotic simper. The glorious gilding had been worn
off, the wood was gray and cracked. The _Polly's_ galley was entirely
hidden under a deckload of shingles and laths in bunches; the
after-house was broad and loomed high above the rail in contrast to the
mere cubbies which were provided for the other fore-and-afters in the
flotilla which came ratching in toward Saturday Cove.
The _Polly_, being old enough to be celebrated, had been the subject of
a long-coast lyric of seventeen verses, any one of which was capable of
producing most horrible profanity from Captain Epps Candage, her master,
whenever he heard the ditty echoing over the waves, sung by a satirist
aboard another craft.
In that drifting wind there was leisure; a man on board a lime-schooner
at a fairly safe distance from the _Polly_ found inclination and lifted
his voice:
"Ow-w-w, here comes the _Polly_ with a lopped-down sail,
And Rubber-boot Epps, is a-settin' on her rail.
How-w-w long will she take to get to Boston town?
Can't just tell 'cause she's headin' up and down."
"You think that kind o' ky-yi is funny, do you, you walnut-nosed,
blue-gilled, goggle-eyed son of a dough-faced americaneezus?" bellowed
Captain Candage, from his post at the _Polly's_ wheel.
"Father!" remonstrated a girl who stood in the companionway, her elbows
propped on the hatch combings. "Such language! You stop it!"
"It ain't half what I can do when I'm fair started," returned the
captain.
"You never say such things on shore."
"Well, I ain't on shore now, be I? I'm on the high seas, and I'm talking
to fit the occasion. Who's running this schooner, you or me?"
She met his testiness with a spirit of her own, "I'm on board here,
where I don't want to be, because of your silly notions, father. I have
the right to ask you to use decent language, and not shame us both."
Against the archaically homely background the beauty of the young girl
appeared in most striking contrast. Her curls peeped out from under the
white Dutch cap she wore. Her eyes sparkled with indignant protest, her
face was piquant and was just then flushed, and her nose had the least
bit of a natural uptilt, giving her the air of a young woman who had a
will of her own to spice her amiability.
Captain Candage blinked at her over the spokes of the wheel, and in his
father's heart acknowledged her charm, realizing more acutely that
his motherless girl had become too much of a problem for his limited
knowledge in the management of women.
He had not seen her grow up gradually, as other fathers had viewed their
daughters, being able to meet daily problems in molding and mastery.
She seemed to reach development, mental and physical, in disconcerting
phases while he was away on his voyages. Each time he met her he was
obliged to get acquainted all over again, it appeared to him.
Captain Candage had owned up frankly to himself that he was not able to
exercise any authority over his daughter when she was ashore.
She was not wilful; she was not obstinate; she gave him affection. But
she had become a young woman while his slow thoughts were classing her
still as a child. She was always ahead of all his calculations. In
his absences she jumped from stage to stage of character--almost of
identity! He had never forgotten how he had brought back to her from New
York, after one voyage, half a gunny sackful of tin toys, and discovered
that in his absence, by advice and sanction of her aunt, who had become
her foster-mother, she had let her dresses down to ankle-length and had
become a young lady whom he called "Miss Candage" twice before he had
managed to get his emotions straightened out. While he was wondering
about the enormity of tin toys in the gunny sack at his feet, as he sat
in the aunt's parlor; his daughter asked him to come as guest of
honor with the Sunday-school class's picnic which she was arranging as
teacher. That gave him his opportunity to lie about the toys and allege
that he had brought them for her scholars.
Captain Candage, on the deck of his ship, found that he was able to
muster a little courage and bluster for a few minutes, but he did not
dare to look at her for long while he was asserting himself.
He looked at her then as she stood in the gloomy companionway, a
radiant and rosy picture of healthy maidenhood. But the expression on
her face was not comfortingly filial.
"Father, I must say it again. I can't help saying it. I am so unhappy.
You are misjudging me so cruelly."
"I done it because I thought it was right to do it. I haven't been
tending and watching the way a father ought to tend and watch. I never
seemed to be able to ketch up with you. Maybe I ain't right. Maybe I be!
At any rate, I'm going to stand on this tack, in your case, for a while
longer."
"You have taken me away from my real home for this? This is no place for
a girl! You are not the same as you are when you are on shore. I didn't
know you could be so rough--and--wicked!"
"Hold on there, daughter! Snub cable right there! I'm an honest,
God-fearing, hard-working man--paying a hundred cents on the dollar, and
you know it."
"But what did you just shout--right out where everybody could hear you?"
"That--that was only passing the compliments of the day as compared with
what I can do when I get started proper. Do you think I'm going to let
any snub-snooted wart-hog of a lime-duster sing--"
"Father!"
"What's a girl know about the things a father has to put up with when he
goes to sea and earns money for her?"
"I am willing to work for myself. You took me right out of my good
position in the millinery-store. You have made me leave all my young
friends. Oh, I am so homesick!" Her self-reliance departed suddenly. She
choked. She tucked her head into the hook of her arm and sobbed.
"Don't do that!" he pleaded, softening suddenly. "Please don't, Polly!"
She looked up and smiled--a pleading, wan little smile. "I didn't mean
to give way to it, popsy dear. I don't intend to do anything to make you
angry or sorry. I have tried to be a good girl. I am a good girl. But it
breaks my heart when you don't trust me."
"They were courting you," he stammered. "Them shore dudes was hanging
around you. I ain't doubting you, Polly. But you 'ain't got no mother.
I was afraid. I know I've been a fool about it. But I was afraid!" Tears
sprinkled his bronzed cheeks. "I haven't been much of a father because
I've had to go sailing and earn money. But I thought I'd take you away
till-till I could sort of plan on something."
She gazed at him, softening visibly.
"Oh, Polly," he said, his voice breaking, "you don't know how pretty you
are-you don't know how afraid I am!"
"But you can trust me, father," she promised, after a pause, with simple
dignity. "I know I am only a country girl, not wise, perhaps, but I know
what is right and what is wrong. Can't you understand how terribly you
have hurt my pride and my self-respect by forcing me to come and be
penned up here as if I were a shameless girl who could not take care of
herself?"
"I reckon I have done wrong, Polly. But I don't know much-not about
women folk. I was trying to do right-because you're all I have in this
world."
"I hope you will think it all over," she advised, earnestly. "You will
understand after a time, father, I'm sure. Then you will let me go back
and you will trust me-as your own daughter should be trusted. That's the
right way to make girls good-let them know that they can be trusted."
"You are probably right," he admitted. "I will think it all over.
As soon as we get in and anchored I'll sit down and give it a good
overhauling in my mind. Maybe-"
She took advantage of his pause. "We are going into a harbor, are we,
father?"
"Yes. Right ahead of us."
"I wish you would put me ashore and send me back. I shall lose my
position in the store if I stay away too long."
His obstinacy showed again, promptly. "I don't want you in that
millinery-shop. I'm told that dude drummers pester girls in stores."
"They do not trouble me, father. Haven't you any confidence in your own
daughter?"
"Yes, I have," he said, firmly, and then added, "but I keep thinking of
the dudes and then I get afraid."
She gave him quick a glance, plainly tempted to make an impatient
retort, and then turned and went down into the cabin.
"Don't be mad with me, Polly," he called after her. "I guess, maybe, I'm
all wrong. I'm going to think it over; I ain't promising nothing sure,
but it won't be none surprising if I set you ashore here and send you
back home. Don't cry, little girl." There were tears in his voice as
well as in his eyes.
The lime-schooner vocalist felt an impulse to voice another verse:
"Ow-w-w, here comes the _Polly_ in the middle of the road,
Towed by a mule and paving-blocks her load.
Devil is a-waiting and the devil may as well,
'Cause he'll never get them paving-blocks to finish paving hell."
Captain Candage left his wheel and strode to the rail. All the softness
was gone from his face and his voice.
"You horn-jawed, muck-faced jezebo of a sea-sculpin, you dare to yap
out any more of that sculch and I'll come aboard you after we anchor and
jump down your gullet and gallop the etarnal innards out of ye! Don't
you know that I've got ladies aboard here?"
"It don't sound like it," returned the songster.
"Well, you hear what _I_ sound like! Half-hitch them jaw taakuls of
yours!"
Captain Candage's meditations were not disturbed after that.
With the assistance of his one helper aboard ship, "Oakum Otie," a gray
and whiskered individual who combined in one person the various offices
of first mate, second mate, A-1 seaman, and hand before the mast-as
well as the skipper's boon companion-the _Polly_ was manoeuvered to her
anchorage in Saturday Cove and was snugged for the night. Smoke began to
curl in blue wreaths from her galley funnel, and there were occasional
glimpses of the cook, a sallow-complexioned, one-eyed youth whose chief
and everlasting decoration provided him with the nickname of "Smut-nosed
Dolph."
Then came some of the ocean aristocrats to join the humbler guests in
that tavern of the seas.
Avant couriers of a metropolitan yacht club, on its annual cruise,
arrived, jockeying in with billowing mountains of snowy canvas spread to
catch the last whispers of the breeze. Later arrivals, after the breeze
failed, were towed in by the smart motor craft of the fleet. One by one,
as the anchors splashed, brass cannons barked salute and were answered
by the commodore's gun.
Captain Candage sat on the edge of the _Polly's_ house and snapped
an involuntary and wrathful wink every time a cannon banged. In that
hill-bound harbor, where the fog had massed, every noise was magnified
as by a sounding-board. There were cheery hails, yachtsmen bawled over
the mist-gemmed brass rails interchange of the day's experiences, and
frisking yacht tenders, barking staccato exhausts, began to carry men to
and fro on errands of sociability. In the silences Captain Candage could
hear the popping of champagne corks.
"Them fellers certainly live high and sleep in the garret," observed
Oakum Otie. He was seated cross-legged on the top of the house and was
hammering down the lumps in a freshly twisted eye-splice with the end of
a marlinespike.
"It has always been a wonder to me," growled Captain Candage, "how dudes
who don't seem to have no more wit than them fellows haw-hawing over
there, and swigging liquor by the cart-load, ever make money the way
they do so as to afford all this."
On that point Captain Candage might have found Mate McGaw of the
_Olenia_ willing to engage in profitable discussion and amicable
understanding!
"They don't make it-they don't know enough to make it," stated Otie,
with the conviction of a man who knew exactly what he was talking about.
"It has all been left to 'em by their fathers."
The bearded and brown men of the apple-tree crews leaned the patched
elbows of their old coats on the rails and gloomily surveyed the
conviviality on board the plaything crafts. Remarks which they exchanged
with one another were framed to indicate a sort of lofty scorn for these
frolickers of the sea. The coasting skippers, most of whom wore hard
hats, as if they did not want to be confounded with those foppish yacht
captains, patrolled their quarter-decks and spat disdainfully over their
rails.
Everlastingly there was the clank of pumps on board the Apple-treers,
and the pumps were tackling the everlasting leaks. Water reddened
by contact with bricks, water made turbid by percolation through
paving-blocks, splashed continuously from hiccuping scuppers.
Captain Ranse Lougee of the topsail schooner _Belvedere_, laden with
fish scraps for a Boston glue-factory, dropped over the counter into his
dory and came rowing to the _Polly_, standing up and facing forward and
swaying with the fisherman's stroke.
He straddled easily over the schooner's scant freeboard and came aft,
and was greeted cordially by Captain Candage.
"Thought I'd show them frosted-cakers that there's a little sociability
amongst the gents in the coasting trade, too," he informed his
host. "Furthermore, I want to borry the ex-act time o' day. _And_,
furthermore, I'm glad to get away from that cussed aromy on board the
_Belvedere_ and sort of air out my nose once in a while. What's the good
word, Cap?"
Captain Candage replied to the commonplaces of the other skipper in
abstracted fashion. He had viewed Lougee's approach with interest, and
now he was plainly pondering in regard to something wholly outside this
chatter.
"Captain Lougee," he broke in, suddenly, in low tones, "I want you
should come forward with me out of hearing of anybody below. I've got a
little taakul I want you to help me overhaul."
The two walked forward over the deckload and sat on the fore-gaff, which
sprawled carelessly where it had fallen when the halyards were let run.
"My daughter is below, there," explained Captain Candage.
"Vacation trip, eh?"
"I don't think it can be called that, Captain Lougee," stated the host,
dryly. "She is having about as good a time as a canary-bird would have
in a corn-popper over a hot fire."
"What did she come for, then?"
"I made her come. I shanghaied her."
"That's no way to treat wimmen folks," declared Captain Lougee. "I've
raised five daughters and I know what I'm talking about."
"I know you have raised five girls, and they're smart as tophet and
right as a trivet--and that's why I have grabbed right in on the subject
as I have. I was glad to see you coming aboard, Captain Lougee. I want
some advice from a man who knows."
"Then I'm the man to ask, Captain Candage."
"Last time I was home--where she has been living with her Aunt Zilpah--I
ketched her!" confessed Candage. His voice was hoarse. His fingers, bent
and calloused with rope-pulling, trembled as he fingered the seam of his
trousers.
"You don't tell!" Lougee clucked, solicitously.
"Yes, I ketched her buggy-riding!"
"Alone?"
"No, there was a gang of 'em in a beach-wagon. They was going to a
party. And I ketched her dancing with a fellow at that party."
"Well, go ahead now that you've got started! Shake out the mainsail!"
"That's about all there is to it--except that a fellow has been beauing
her home from Sunday-school concerts with a lantern. Yes, I reckon that
is about all to date and present writing," confessed Candage.
"What else do you suspect?"
"Nothing. Of course, there's no telling what it will grow to be--with
dudes a-pestering her the way they do."
"There ain't any telling about anything in this world, is there?"
demanded Captain Lougee, very sharply.
"I reckon not--not for sure!"
"Do you mean to say that because your girl--like any girl should--has
been having a little innocent fun with young folks, you have dragged her
on board this old hooker, shaming her and making her ridiculous?"
"I have been trying to do my duty as a father," stated Captain Candage,
stoutly, and avoiding the flaming gaze of his guest.
Captain Lougee straightened his leg so as to come at his trousers
pocket, produced a plug of tobacco, and gnawed a chew off a corner,
after careful inspection to find a likely spot for a bite.
"I need to have something in my mouth about this time--something
soothing to the tongue and, as you might say, sort of confining, so that
too much language won't bu'st out all at once," he averred, speaking
with effort as he tried to lodge the huge hunk of tobacco into a
comfortable position. "I have raised five nice girls, and I have always
treated 'em as if they had common sense along with woman's nat'ral
goodness and consid'able more self-reliance than a Leghorn pullet. And
I used 'em like they had the ordinary rights and privileges of human
beings. And they are growed up and a credit to the family. And I haven't
got to look back over my record and reflect that I was either a Chinyman
or a Turkeyman. No, sir! I have been a father--and my girls can come
and sit on my knee to-day and get my advice, and think it's worth
something."
He rose and walked toward his dory.
"But hold on," called Captain Candage. "You haven't told me what you
think."
"Haven't I? I thought I had, making it mild and pleasant. But if you
need a little something more plain and direct, I'll remark--still making
it mild and pleasant--that you're a damned old fool! And now I'll go
back and be sociable with them fish scraps. I believe they will smell
better after this!" He leaped into his dory and rowed away.
Captain Candage offered no rejoinder to that terse and meaty summing up.
Naturally, he was as ready with his tongue as Captain Ranse Lougee or
any other man alongshore. But in this case the master of the _Polly_
was not sure of his ground. He knew that Captain Lougee had qualified as
father of five. In the judgment of a mariner experience counts. And
he did not resent the manner of Captain Lougee because that skipper's
brutal bluntness was well known by his friends. Captain Candage had
asked and he had received. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared
after the departing caller and pondered.
"Maybe he is right. He probably _is_ right. But it wouldn't be shipboard
discipline if I told her that I have been wrong. I reckon I'll go aft
and be pleasant and genteel, hoping that nothing will happen to rile my
feelings. Now that my feelings are calm and peaceful, and having taken
course and bearings from a father of five, I'll probably say to her,
'You'd better trot along home, sissy, seeing that I have told you how to
mind your eye after this.'"
IV ~ OVER THE "POLLY'S" RAIL
O Stormy was a good old man!
To my way you storm along!
Physog tough as an old tin pan,
Ay, ay, ay, Mister Storm-along!
--Storm-along Shanty.
Without paying much attention to the disturber, Captain Candage had been
a bit nettled during his meditation. A speed boat from one of the yachts
kept circling the _Polly_, carrying a creaming smother of water
under its upcocked bow. It was a noisy gnat of a boat and it kicked a
contemptuous wake against the rust-streaked old wagon.
When it swept under the counter, after Captain Candage was back on his
quarter-deck, he gave it a stare over the rail, and his expression was
distinctly unamiable.
"They probably wasted more money on that doostra-bulus than this
schooner would sell for in the market today," he informed Otie.
"They don't care how money goes so long as they didn't have to sweat
earning it. Slinging it like they'd sling beans!"
Back on its circling course swished the darting tender. This time the
purring motor whined into silence and the boat came drifting alongside.
"On board _Polly!_" hailed one of the yachtsmen, a man with owner's
insignia on his cap.
The master of the old schooner stuck his lowering visage farther over
the rail, but he did not reply.
"Isn't this _Polly_ the real one?"
"No, it's only a chromo painting of it."
"Thank you! You're a gentleman!" snapped the yachtsman.
"Oh, hold on, Paul," urged one of the men in the tender. "There's a
right way to handle these old boys." He stood up. "We're much interested
in this packet, captain."
"That's why you have been making a holy show of her, playing ring around
a rosy, hey?"
"But tell me, isn't this the old shallop that was a privateer in the war
of eighteen twelve?"
"Nobody aboard here has ever said she wasn't."
"Well, sir, may we not come on board and look her over?"
"No sir, you can't."
"Now, look here, captain--"
"I'm looking!" declared the master of the _Polly_ in ominous tones.
"We don't mean to annoy you, captain."
"Folks who don't know any better do a lot of things without meaning to."
Captain Candage regularly entertained a sea-toiler's resentment for men
who used the ocean as a mere playground. But more especially, during
those later days, his general temper was touchy in regard to dapper
young men, for he had faced a problem of the home which had tried his
soul. He felt an unreasoning choler rising in him in respect to these
chaps, who seemed to have no troubles of their own.
"I am a writer," explained the other. "If I may be allowed on board I'll
take a few pictures and--"
"And make fun of me and my bo't by putting a piece in the paper to
tickle city dudes. Fend off!" he commanded, noticing that the tender was
drifting toward the schooner's side and that one of the crew had set a
boat-hook against the main chain-plate.
"Don't bother with the old crab," advised the owner, sourly.
But the other persisted, courteously, even humbly. "I am afraid you do
not understand me, captain. I would as soon make jest of my mother as of
this noble old relic."
"Go ahead! Call it names!"
"I am taking off my hat to it," he declared, whipping his cap from his
head. "My father's grandfather was in the war of eighteen twelve. I want
to honor this old patriot here with the best tribute my pen can pay.
If you will allow me to come on board I shall feel as though I were
stepping upon a sacred spot, and I can assure you that my friends, here,
have just as much respect for this craft as I have."
But this honest appeal did not soften Captain Candage. He did not
understand exactly from what source this general rancor of his flowed.
At the same time he was conscious of the chief reason why he did not
want to allow these visitors to rummage aboard the schooner. They would
meet his daughter, and he was afraid, and he was bitterly ashamed of
himself because he was afraid. Dimly he was aware that this everlasting
fear on her account constituted an insult to her. The finer impulse to
protect her privacy was not actuating him; he knew that, too. He was
merely foolishly afraid to trust her in the company of young men, and
the combination of his emotions produced the simplest product of mental
upheaval--unreasonable wrath.
"Fend off, I say," he commanded.
"Again I beg you, captain, with all respect, please may we come on
board?"
"You get away from here and tend to your own business, if you've got
any, or I'll heave a bunch of shingles at you!" roared the skipper.
"Father!" The voice expressed indignant reproof. "Father, I am ashamed
of you!"
The girl came to the rail, and the yachtsmen stared at her as if she
were Aphrodite risen from the sea instead of a mighty pretty girl
emerging from a dark companion-way. She had appeared so suddenly! She
was so manifestly incongruous in her surroundings.
"Mother o' mermaids!" muttered the yacht-owner in the ear of the man
nearest. "Is the old rat still privateering?"
The men in the tender stood up and removed their caps.
"You have insulted these gentlemen, father!"
Captain Candage knew it, and that fact did not soften his anger in the
least. At the same time this appearance of his own daughter to read him
a lesson in manners in public was presumption too preposterous to be
endured; her daring gave him something tangible for his resentment to
attack.
He turned on her. "You go below where you belong."
"I belong up here just now."
"Down below with you!"
"I'll not go until you apologize to these gentlemen, father!"
"You ain't ashore now, miss, to tell me when to wipe my feet and not
muss the tidies! You're on the high seas, and I'm cap'n of this vessel.
Below, I say!"
"These gentlemen know the _Polly_, and they will find out the name of
the man who commands her, and I don't propose to have it said that the
Candages are heathens," she declared, firmly. "If you do not apologize,
father, I shall apologize for you." She tried to crowd past him to the
rail, but he clapped his brown hand over her mouth and pushed her back.
His natural impulse as commander of his craft dominated his feelings as
a father.
"I'll teach ye shipboard discipline, Polly Candage," he growled, "even
if I have to take ye acrost my knee."
"Hold on there, if you please, captain," called the spokesman of the
yachtsmen.
Captain Candage was hustling his daughter toward the companionway. But
there was authority in the tone, and he paused and jutted a challenging
chin over his shoulder.
"What have any of you critters got to say about my private business?"
The formality of the man in the tender was a bit exaggerated in his
reply. "Only this, sir. We are going away at once before we bring any
more trouble upon this young lady, to whom we tender our most respectful
compliments. We do not know any other way of helping her. Our protests,
being the protests of gentlemen, might not be able to penetrate; it
takes a drill to get through the hide of a rhinoceros!"
The skipper of the _Polly_ did not trouble himself about the finer
shadings in that little speech, but of one fact he felt sure: he
had been called a rhinoceros. He released his daughter, yanked the
marlinespike away from Otie, who had been holding himself in the
background as a reserve force, and stamped to the rail. He poised his
weapon, fanning it to and fro to take sure aim. But the engineer had
thrown in his clutch and the speed boat foamed off before the captain
got the range, and he was too thrifty to heave a perfectly good
marlinespike after a target he could not hit, angry as he was.
The girl faced her father. There was no doubting her mood. She was a
rebel. Indignation set up its flaming standards on her cheeks, and the
signal-flames of combat sparkled in her eyes.
"How did you dare to do such a thing to me--those gentlemen looking on?
Father, have you lost your mind?"
Otie expressed the opinion tinder his breath that the captain, on the
contrary, had "lost his number."
Otie's superior officer was stamping around the quarterdeck, kicking at
loose objects, and avoiding his daughter's resentful gaze. There was
a note of insincerity in his bluster, as if he wanted to hide
embarrassment in a cloud of his own vaporings, as a squid colors water
when it fears capture.
"After this you call me Cap'n Candage," he commanded. "After this
I'm Cap'n Candage on the high seas, and I propose to run my own
quarter-deck. And when I let a crowd of dudes traipse on board here to
peek and spy and grin and flirt with you, you'll have clamshells for
finger-nails. Now, my lady, I don't want any back talk!"
"But I am going to talk to you, father!"
"Remember that I'm a Candage, and back talk--"
"So am I a Candage--and I have just been ashamed of it!"
"I'm going to have discipline on my own quarterdeck."
"Back talk, quarter-deck discipline, calling you captain! Fol-de-rol and
fiddlesticks! I'm your own daughter and you're my father. And you have
brought us both to shame! There! I don't want to stay on this old hulk,
and I'm not going to stay. I am going home to Aunt Zilpah."
"I had made up my mind to let you go. My temper was mild and sweet till
those jeehoofered, gold-trimmed sons of a striped--"
"Father!"
"I had made up my mind to let you go. But I ain't going to give in to a
mutiny right before the face and eyes of my own crew."
Smut-nosed Dolph had arrived with the supper-dishes balanced in his arms
while he crawled over the deckload. He was listening with the utmost
interest.
"Your Aunt Zilpah has aided and abetted you in your flirting," raged the
captain. "My own sister, taking advantage of my being off to sea trying
to earn money--"
"Do you mean to insult everybody in this world, father? I shall go home,
I say. I'm miserable here."
"I'll see to it that you ain't off gamboling and galley-westing with
dudes!"
In spite of her spirit the girl was not able to bandy retort longer with
this hard-shelled mariner, whose weapon among his kind for years
had been a rude tongue. Shocked grief put an end to her poor little
rebellion. Tears came.
"You are giving these two men a budget to carry home and spread about
the village! Oh, father, you are wicked--wicked!" She put her hands to
her face, sobbed, and then ran away down into the gloomy cabin.
There was a long silence on the quarter-deck. Otie recovered his
marlinespike and began to pound the eye-bolt.
"Without presuming, preaching, or poking into things that ain't none of
my business, I want to say that I don't blame you one mite, cap'n," he
volunteered. "No matter what she says, she wasn't to be trusted among
them dudes on shore, and I speak from observation and, being an old
bach, I can speak impartial. The dudes on the water is just as bad. Them
fellows were flirting with her all the time they was 'longside. Real men
that means decent ain't called on to keep whisking their caps off and on
all the time a woman is in sight--and I see one of 'em wink at her."
Captain Candage was in a mood to accept this comfort from Oakum Otie,
and to put out of his contrite conscience the memory of what Captain
Ranse Lougee had said.
"Don't you worry! I've got her now where I can keep my eye on her, and
I'm cap'n of my own vessel--don't nobody ever forget that!" He shook his
fist at the gaping cook. "What ye standing there for, like a hen-coop
with the door open and letting my vittels cool off? Hiper your boots!
Down below with you and dish that supper onto the table!"
The skipper lingered on deck, his hand at his ear.
The fog was settling over the inner harbor. In the dim vastness seaward
a steamer was hooting. Each prolonged blast, at half-minute intervals,
sounded nearer. The sound was deep, full-toned, a mighty diapason.
"What big fellow can it be that's coming in here?" the captain grunted.
"Most likely only another tin skimmer of a yacht," suggested the mate,
tossing the eye-splice and the marline-spike into the open hatch of the
lazaret. "You know what they like to do, them play-critters! They stick
on a whistle that's big enough for Seguin fog-horn." He squinted under
the edge of his palm and waited. "There she looms. What did I tell ye?
Nothing but a yacht."
"But she's a bouncer," remarked the skipper. "What do you make her?"
"O--L," spelled Otie--"O--L--_Olenia_. Must be a local pilot aboard.
None of them New York spiffer captains could find Saturday Cove through
the feather-tide that's outside just now."
"Well, whether they can or whether they can't isn't of any interest to
me," stated the skipper, with fine indifference. "I'd hate to be in
a tight place and have to depend on one of them gilded dudes! I smell
supper. Come on!"
He was a little uncertain as to what demeanor he ought to assume
below, but he clumped down the companion-way with considerable show of
confidence, and Otie followed.
The captain cast a sharp glance at his daughter. He had been afraid that
he would find her crying, and he did not know how to handle such cases
with any certainty.
But she had dried her eyes and she gave him no very amiable
look--rather, she hinted defiance. He felt more at ease. In his opinion,
any person who had spirit enough left for fight was in a mood to keep on
enjoying life.
"Perhaps I went a mite too far, Polly," he admitted. He was mild, but
he preserved a little touch of surliness in order that she might not
conclude that her victory was won. "But seeing that I brought you off to
sea to get you away from flirting--"
"Don't you dare to say that about me!" She beat her round little fist on
the table. "Don't you dare!"
"I don't mean that you ever done it! The dudes done it! I want to do
right by you, Polly. I've been to sea so long that I don't know much
about ways and manners, I reckon. I can't get a good line on things as
I ought to. I'm an old fool, I reckon." His voice trembled. "But it made
me mad to have you stram up there on deck and call me names before 'em."
She did not reply.
"I have always worked hard for you--sailing the seas and going without
things myself, so that you could have 'em--doing the best I could ever
after your poor mother passed on."
"I am grateful to you, father. But you don't understand a girl--oh, you
don't understand! But let's not talk about it any more--not now."
"I ain't saying to-night--I ain't making promises! But maybe--we'll
see how things shape up--maybe I'll send you back home. Maybe it 'll be
to-morrow. We'll see how the stage runs to the train, and so forth!"
"I am going to leave it all to you, father. I'm sure you mean to do
right." She served the food as mistress at the board.
"It seems homelike with you here," said Captain Can-dage, meekly and
wistfully.
"I will stay with you, father, if it will make you happier."
"I sha'n't listen to anything of the sort. It ain't no place aboard here
for a girl."
Through the open port they heard the frequent clanging of the
steam-yacht's engine-room bell and the riot of her swishing screws as
she eased herself into an anchorage. She was very near them--so near
that they could hear the chatter of the voices of gay folk.
"What boat is that, father?"
"Another frosted-caker! I can't remember the name."
"It's the _Oilyena_ or something like that. I forget fancy names pretty
quick," Otie informed her.
"Well, it ain't much use to load your mind down with that kind of
sculch," stated Captain Candage, poising a potato on his fork-tines and
peeling it, his elbows on the table. "That yacht and the kind of folks
that's aboard that yacht ain't of any account to folks like us."
The memory of some remarks which are uttered with peculiar fervor
remains with the utterer. Some time later--long after--Captain Candage
remembered that remark and informed himself that, outside of weather
predictions, he was a mighty poor prophet.
V ~ ON THE BRIDGE OF YACHT "_OLENIA_"
O the times are hard and the wages low,
Leave her, bullies, leave her!
I guess it's time for us to go,
It's time for us to leave her.
--Across the Western Ocean.
Captain Mayo was not finding responsibility his chief worry while the
_Olenia_ was making port.
It was a real mariner's job to drive her through the fog, stab the
harbor entrance, and hunt out elbow-room for her in a crowded anchorage.
But all that was in the line of the day's work. While he watched the
compass, estimated tide drift, allowed for reduced speed, and listened
for the echoes which would tell him his distance from the rocky shore,
he was engaged in the more absorbing occupation of canvassing his
personal affairs.
As the hired master of a private yacht he might have overlooked that
affront from the owner, even though it was delivered to a captain on the
bridge.
But love has a pride of its own. He had been abused like a lackey in the
hearing of Alma Marston. It was evident that the owner had not finished
the job. Mayo knew that he had merely postponed his evil moment by
sending back a reply which would undoubtedly seem like insubordination
in the judgment of a man who did not understand ship discipline and
etiquette of the sea.
It was evident that Marston intended to call him "upon the carpet" on
the quarter-deck as soon as the yacht was anchored, and proposed to
continue that insulting arraignment.
In his new pride, in the love which now made all other matters of life
so insignificant, Mayo was afraid of himself; he knew his limitations in
the matter of submission; even then he felt a hankering to walk aft
and jounce Julius Marston up and down in his hammock chair. He did not
believe he could stand calmly in the presence of Alma Marston and listen
to any unjust berating, even from her father.
He tried to put his flaming resentment out of his thoughts, but he could
not. In the end, he told himself that perhaps it was just as well! Alma
Marston must have pride of her own. She could not continue to love a man
who remained in the position of her father's hireling; she would surely
be ashamed of a lover who was willing to hump his back and take a
lashing in public. His desire to be with her, even at the cost of his
pride, was making him less a man and he knew it. He decided to
face Marston, man fashion, and then go away. He felt that she would
understand in spite of her grief.
Then, turning from a look at the compass, he saw that the yacht's owner
was on the bridge. Half of an un-lighted cigar, which was soggy with the
dampness of the fog, plugged Marston's-mouth.
He scowled when the captain saluted.
"You needn't bother to talk now," the millionaire broke in when
Mayo began an explanation of his delay in obeying the call to the
quarter-deck. "When I have anything to say to a man I want his undivided
attention. Is this fog going to hold on?"
"Yes, sir, until the wind hauls more to the norrard."
"Then anchor."
"I am heading into Saturday Cove now, sir."
"Anchor here."
"I'm looking for considerably more than a capful of wind when it comes,
sir. It isn't prudent to anchor offshore."
Marston grunted and turned away. He stood at the end of the bridge,
chewing on the cigar, until the _Olenia_ was in the harbor with mudhook
set. Mayo twitched the jingle bell, signaling release to the engineer.
"I am at your service, sir," he reported, walking to the owner.
Marston rolled the plugging cigar to a corner of his mouth and inquired,
"Now, young man, tell me what you mean by saluting a Bee line steamer
with my whistle?"
"I did not salute the _Conomo_, sir."
"You gave her three whistles."
"Yes, but--"
"You're on a gentleman's yacht now, young man, and not on a
fishing-steamer. Yachting etiquette doesn't allow a steam-whistle to
be sounded in salute. Mr. Beveridge has just looked it up for me, and I
know, and you need not assume any of your important knowledge." Marston
seemed to be displaying much more irritation than a small matter
warranted. But what he added afforded more light on the subject. "The
manager of the Bee line was on board that steamer. You heard him hoot
that siren at me!"
"I heard him give me cross-signals in defiance of the rules of the road,
sir."
"Didn't you know that he whistled at me as an insult--as a sneer?"
"I heard only ordinary signals, sir."
"Everything is ordinary to a sailor's observation! You allowed him to
crowd you off your course. You made a spectacle of my yacht, splashing
it around like a frightened duck."
"I was avoiding collision, sir."
"You should have made your bigness with my yacht! You sneaked and dodged
like a fishing-boat skipper. Was it on a fishing-boat you were trained
to those tricks?"
"I have commanded a fishing-steamer, sir."
"On top of it all you gave him three whistles--regular fishing-boat
manners, eh?"
Captain Mayo straightened and his face and eyes expressed the spirit of
a Yankee skipper who knew that he was right.
"I say," insisted Marston, "that you saluted him."
"And I say, sir, that he cross-signaled, an offense that has lost
masters their licenses. When I was pinched I gave him three whistles to
say that my engines were going full speed astern. If Mr. Beveridge had
looked farther in that book he might have found that rule, too!"
"When I looked up at the bridge, here, you were waving your hand to
him--three whistles and a hand-wave! You can't deny that you were
saluting!"
"I was shaking my fist at him, sir."
Within himself Captain Mayo was frankly wondering because the owner of
the _Olenia_ was displaying all this heat. He remembered the taunt from
the pilot-house of the _Conomo_ and understood vaguely that there were
depths in the affair which he had not fathomed. But he was in no mood to
atone vicariously for the offenders aboard the _Conomo_.
"If I could have found a New York captain who knew the short cuts along
this coast I could have had some decency and dignity on board my yacht.
I'm even forgetting my own sense of what is proper--out here wasting
words and time in this fashion. You're all of the same breed, you
down-easters!"
"I am quite sure you can find a New York captain--" began Mayo.
"I don't want your opinion in regard to my business, young man. When I
need suggestions from you I'll ask for them." He flung his soggy cigar
over the rail and went down the ladder, and the fog closed immediately
behind him.
Captain Mayo paced the bridge. He was alone there. A deck-hand had
hooded the brass of the binnacle and search-light, listening while the
owner had called the master to account. Mayo knew that the full report
of that affair would be carried to the forecastle. His position aboard
the yacht had become intolerable. He wondered how much Marston would
say aft. His cheeks were hot and rancor rasped in his thoughts. In the
hearing of the girl he adored his shortcomings would be the subject for
a few moments of contemptuous discourse, even as the failings of cooks
form a topic for idle chatter at the dinner-table.
Out of the blank silence of the wrapping fog came many sounds. Noises
carried far and the voice of an unseen singer, who timed himself to
the clank of an Apple-treer pump, brought to Mayo the words of an old
shanty:
"Come all you young fellows that follow the sea,
Now pray pay attention and lis-ten to me.
O blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!
Way-ay, blow the man down.
O blow the man down in Liverpool town!
Give me some time to blow the man down.
'Twas aboard a Black-Bailer I first served my time,
And in that Black-Bailer I wasted my prime.
'Tis larboard and starboard on deck you will sprawl,
For blowers and strikers command the Black Ball.
So, it's blow the man down, bullies--"
Alma Marston's voice interrupted his somber appreciation of the
significance of that ditty. "Are you up there, Boyd?" she asked, in
cautious tones.
He hurried to the head of the ladder and saw her at its foot, half
hidden in the mists even at that short distance. He reached down his
hand and she came up, grasping it.
She was studying his expression with both eagerness and apprehension. "I
couldn't stay away from you any longer," she declared. "The fog is good
to us! Father could not see me as I came forward. I must tell you, Boyd.
He has ordered me to stay aft."
He did not speak.
"Has he dared to say to you what he has been saying below about you?"
"I don't think it needed any especial daring on your father's part; I am
only his servant," he said, with bitterness.
"And he--he insulted you like that?"
"I suppose your father did not look on what he said as insult. I repeat,
I am a paid servant."
"But what you did was right! I know it must have been right, for you
know everything about what is right to do on the sea."
"I understand my duties."
"And he blamed you for something?"
"It was a bit worse than that from my viewpoint." He smiled down at
her, for her eyes were searching his face as if appealing for a bit of
consolation.
"Boyd, don't mind him," she entreated. "Somebody who has been fighting
him in business has been very naughty. I don't know just what it's all
about. But he has so many matters to worry him. And he snaps at me just
the same, every now and then."
"Yes, some men are cowards enough to abuse those who must look to them
for the comforts of this world," he declared.
"We must make allowances."
"I'll not stay in a position where a man who hires me thinks he can
talk to me as if I were a foremast hand. Alma, you would despise me if I
allowed myself to be kicked around like a dog."
"I would love you all the more for being willing to sacrifice something
for my sake. I want you here--here with all your love--here with me as
long as these summer days last." She patted his cheek. "Why don't you
tell me that you want to stay with me, Boyd? That you will die if we
cannot be together? We can see each other here. I can bring Nan Burgess
on the bridge with me. Father will not mind then. Let each day take care
of itself!"
"I want to be what you want me to be--to do what you want me to do. But
I wish you would tell me to go out into the world and make something of
myself. Alma, tell me to go! And wait for me!"
She laid her face against his shoulder and reached for his fingers,
endeavoring to pull one of his arms about her. But both of his hands
were clutching the rail of the bridge. He resisted.
"Are you going to be like all the rest? Just money and trouble and
worry?" She stretched up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his fog-wet
cheek. "Are you asleep, my big boy? Yesterday you were awake."
"I think I am really awake to-day, and that I was dreaming yesterday.
Alma, I cannot sneak behind your father's back to make love to you. I
can't do it. I'm going to give up this position. I can't endure it."
"I say 'No!' I need you."
"But--"
"I'll not give you up."
There was something dramatic in her declaration; her demeanor expressed
the placid calm of absolute proprietorship. She worked his unwilling
fingers free from the rail.
"I love you because you can forget yourself. Now don't be like all the
others."
He realized that a queer little sting of impatience was pricking him.
The girl did not seem to understand what his manhood was prompting.
"You mustn't be selfish, Boyd!"
She put into words the vague thought which had been troubling him in
regard to her attitude; and now that he understood what his thought had
been he was incensed by what seemed his own disloyalty. And yet, the
girl was asking him to make over his nature!
"I'm afraid it's all wrong. These things never seem to come out right,"
he mourned.
"You are trying to turn the world upside down all at once--and all
alone. Don't think so much, you solemn Yankee. Just love!"
He put his aims about her. "I'm sailing in new waters. I don't seem to
know the true course or the right bearings!"
"Let's stay anchored until the fog lifts! Isn't that what sailors
usually do?"
He confessed it, kissing her when she lifted her tantalizing face from
his shoulder.
"Now you'll let the future alone, won't you?" she asked.
"Yes." But even while he promised he was obliged to face that future.
Julius Marston, at the foot of the ladder, called to his daughter. "Are
you up there?" he demanded, sharply.
"Yes, father."
"Come down here."
She gave her lover a hasty caress and obeyed.
Captain Mayo was obliged to listen. Marston, in his anger, showed no
consideration for possible eavesdroppers.
"I have told you to stay aft where you belong."
"Really, father, I don't understand why--"
"Those are my orders! I understand. _You_ don't need to understand. This
world is full of cheap fellows who misinterpret actions."
Captain Mayo grasped the rails of the bridge ladder and did down to the
deck without touching his feet to the treads. He appeared before the
father and daughter with startling suddenness.
"Mr. Marston, I am leaving my position on board here as soon as you can
get another man to take my place."
"You are, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You signed papers for the season. It is not convenient for me to make
a change." Marston spoke with the crispness of a man who had settled the
matter.
Captain Mayo was conscious that the girl was trying to attract his gaze,
but he kept his eyes resolutely from her face.
"I insist on being relieved."
"I have no patience with childishness in a man! I found it necessary to
reprimand you. You'll probably know your place after this." He turned
away.
"I have decided that I do not belong on this yacht," stated Mayo, with
an emphasis he knew the girl would understand. "You must get another
master!"
"I cannot pick captains out of this fog, and I allow no man to tell
me my own business. I shall keep you to your written agreement. Hold
yourself in readiness to carry telegrams ashore for me. I take it there
is an office here?"
"There is, sir," returned Mayo, stiffly.
The girl, departing, bestowed on him a pretty grimace of triumph,
plainly rejoicing because his impetuous resignation had been overruled
so autocratically. But Mayo gave a somber return to the raillery of her
eyes. He had spoken out to Marston as a man, and had been treated with
the contemptuous indifference which would be accorded to a bond-servant.
He was wounded by the light manner in which she viewed that affront,
even though her own father offered it.
He stood there alone for a time, meditating various rash acts. But
under all the tumult of his feelings was the realization that the
responsibility for that yacht's discipline and safety rested on his
shoulders and he went about his duties. He called two of the crew and
ordered the gangway steps down and the port dinghy cleared and lowered.
Then he went to the chart-room and sat on a locker and tried to figure
out whether he was wonderfully happy or supremely miserable.
Marston promptly closeted himself with his three wise men of business
after he went aft. "We'll frame up those telegrams now and get them
off," he told them. "I thought I'd better wait until I had worked the
bile out of my system. Never try to do sane and safe business when
you're angry, gentlemen! I'm afraid those telegrams would not have
been exactly coherent if I had written them right after that Bee liner
smashed past us."
"I have been ready to believe that Tucker would come in with us on the
right lay," said one of the associates.
"So did I," agreed Marston. "I have thought all his loud talk has been
bluff to beat up a bigger price. But, after what he did to-day! Oh
no! He is out to fight and he grabbed his chance to show us! I do not
believe a lot of this regular fight talk. But when a man comes up and
smashes me between the eyes I begin to suspect his intentions."
"There's no need of dickering with him any longer, Mr. Marston. He
made his work as dirty as he could to-day--he has left nothing open to
doubt."
"I'm sorry," said another of the group. "Tucker has let himself get
ugly."
"So have I," replied Marston, dryly. "And I'm growing senile, too, I'm
afraid. I went forward and wasted as much anathema on that skipper of
mine as I would use up in putting through a half-million deal with an
opposition traffic line. Next thing I know I'll be arguing with, the
smoke-stack. But I must confess, gentlemen, that Tucker rather took my
breath away to-day. Either he has become absolutely crazy or else he
doesn't understand the strength of the combination."
"He hasn't waked up yet. He doesn't know what's against him."
"That may be our fault, in a measure," stated one of the men. "We
haven't been able to let men like Tucker in on the full details."
"In business it's the good guesser who wins," declared Marston. "Our
merger isn't a thing to be advertised. And if we do any more explaining
to Tucker the whole plan _will_ be advertised, you can depend on it.
The infernal fool has been holding us up three months, demanding more
knowledge--and he can't be trusted. There's only one thing to do,
gentlemen! That!" He drove his fist into his palm with significant thud.
"Is the Bee line absolutely essential in our plans?"
"Every line along this coast is essential in making that merger stock an
air-tight proposition."
"It's a new line and is not paying dividends."
"Well, for that matter, it's got nothing in that respect on some of the
other lines we're salting down in the merger," suggested a member of the
party, speaking for the first time.
"I'm afraid you said it then, Thompson! American bottoms seem to be
turned into barnacle-gardens," declared the man who had questioned the
matter of Tucker's value.
"Gentlemen, just a moment!" Julius Marston leaned forward in his
chair. His voice was low. His eyes narrowed. He dominated them by his
earnestness. "You have followed me in a number of enterprises, and we
have had good luck. But let me tell you that we have ahead of us the
biggest thing yet, and we cannot afford to leave one loose end! Not
one, gentlemen! That's why a fool like Tucker doesn't deserve any
consideration when he gets in our way. Listen to me! The biggest thing
that has ever happened in this world is going to happen. How do I know?
I am not sure that I do know. But as I have just told you, the man who
guesses right is the winner." His thin nose was wrinkled, and the strip
of beard on his chin bristled. Sometimes men called Marston "the fox of
Wall Street." He suggested the reason for his nickname as he sat there
and squinted at his associates. "And there's an instinct that helps some
men to guess right. Something is going to happen in this world before
long that will make millionaires over and over out of men who have
invested a few thousands in American bottoms."
"What will happen?" bluntly inquired one of the men, after a silence.
"I am neither clairvoyant nor crystal-gazer," said Marston, grimly. "But
I have led you into some good things when my instinct has whispered. I
say it's going to happen--and I say no more."
"To make American bottoms worth while the whole of Europe will have to
be busy doing something else with their ships."
"All right! Then they'll be doing it," returned Marston.
"It would have to be a war--a big war."
"Very well! Maybe that's the answer."
"But there never can be another big war. As a financier you know it."
"I have made some money by adhering to the hard and fast rules of
finance. But I have made the most of my money by turning my back on
those rules and listening to my instinct," was Marston's rejoinder. "I
don't want to over-influence you, gentlemen. I don't care to discuss any
further what you may consider to be dreams. I am not predicting a great
war in Europe. Common sense argues the other way. But I am going into
this ship-merger proposition with every ounce of brains and energy and
capital I possess. The man who gets in my way is trying to keep these
two hands of mine off millions!" He shook his clutched fists above
his head. "And I'll walk over him, by the gods! whether it's Tucker
or anybody else. We have had some good talks on the subject, first
and last. I'm starting now to fight and smash opposition. What do you
propose to do in the matter, gentlemen?"
They were silent for a time, looking at one another, querying without
words. Then out of their knowledge of Julius Marston's uncanny
abilities, remembering their past successes, came resolve.
"We're in with you to the last dollar," they assured him, one after the
other.
"Very well! You're wise!"
He unlocked a drawer of his desk and secured a code-book. He pressed a
buzzer and the secretary came hurrying from his stateroom.
"We'll open action, gentlemen, with a little long-distance skirmish over
the wire."
He began to dictate his telegrams.
VI ~ AND WE SAILED
O Johnny's gone to Baltimore
To dance upon that sanded floor.
O Johnny's gone for evermore;
I'll never see my John no more!
O Johnny's gone!
What shall I do?
A-way you. H-e-e l-o-o-o!
O Johnny's gone!
What shall I do?
Johnny's gone to Hilo.
--Old Hauling Song.
The taciturn secretary fumbled his way forward and delivered to Captain
Mayo a little packet securely bound with tape.
"Orders from Mr. Marston that you take these ashore, yourself. They are
important telegrams and he wants them hurried."
The master called his men to the dinghy, and they rowed him away through
the fog. It was a touchy job, picking his way through that murk. He
stood up, leaning forward holding to his taut tiller-ropes, and more
by ears than his eyes directed his course. A few of the anchored craft,
knowing that they were in the harbor roadway, clanged their bells
lazily once in a while. Yacht tenders were making their rounds, carrying
parties who were paying and returning calls, and these boats were
avoiding each other by loud hails. Small objects loomed largely and
little sounds were accentuated.
The far voice of an unseen joker announced that he could find his way
through the fog all right, but was afraid he had not strength enough to
push his boat through it.
But Mayo knew his waters in that harbor, and found his way to the wharf.
His real difficulties confronted him at the village telegraph office.
The visiting yachtsmen had flooded the place with messages, and the
flustered young woman was in a condition nearly resembling hysteria. She
was defiantly declaring that she would not accept any more telegrams.
Instead of setting at work upon those already filed she was spending her
time explaining her limitations to later arrivals.
Captain Mayo stood at one side and looked on for a few moments. A gentle
nudge on his elbow called his attention to an elderly man with stringy
whiskers, who thus solicited his notice. The man held a folded paper
gingerly by one corner, exhibiting profound respect for his minute
burden.
"You ain't one of these yachting dudes--you're a skipper, ain't you?"
asked the man.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, I can talk to you, as one officer to another--and glad to
meet one of my own breed. I'm first mate of the schooner _Polly_. Mr.
Speed is my name."
Captain Mayo nodded.
"And I need help and advice. This is the first tele-graft I ever had in
my hands. I'd rather be aholt of an iced halyard in a no'easter! I've
been sent ashore to telegraft it, and now she says she won't stick it
onto the wire, however it is they do the blasted trick."
Captain Mayo had already noticed that the messengers from the yachts
were killing time by teasing the flustered young woman; it was
good-humored badinage, but it was effectively blocking progress at that
end of the line.
He felt a "native's" instinctive impulse to go to the relief of the
young woman who was being baited by the merrymakers; the responsibility
of his own errand prompted him to help her clear decks. But he waited,
hoping that the yachtsmen would go about their business.
"From the _Polly_, Mr. Speed?" he inquired, amiably. "Is the Polly in
the harbor? I didn't notice her in the fog."
"Reckon you know her, by the way you speak of her," replied the
gratified Mr. Speed.
"I ought to, sir. She was built at Mayoport by my great-grandfather
before the Mayo yards began to turn out ships."
"Well, I swanny! Be you a Mayo?"
The captain bowed and smiled at the enthusiasm displayed by Mr. Speed.
"By ginger! that sort of puts you right into _our_ fambly, so to speak!"
The mate surveyed him with interest and with increasing confidence. "I'm
in a mess, Cap'n Mayo, and I need advice and comfort, I reckon. I was
headed on a straight tack toward my regular duty, and all of a sudden I
found myself jibed and in stays, and I'm there now and drifting. Seeing
that your folks built the _Polly_, I consider that you're in the fambly,
and that Proverdunce put you right here to-night in this telegraft
office. Do you know Cap'n Epps Candage?"
Mayo shook his head.
"Or his girl, Polly, named for the _Polly?_"
"No, I must confess."
"Well, it may be just as well for ye that ye don't," said Oakum Otie,
twisting his straggly beard into a spill and blinking nervously. "There
I was, headed straight and keeping true course, and then she looked at
me and there was a tremble in her voice and tears in her eyes--and the
next thing I knowed I was here in this telegraft place with this!" He
held up the folded paper and his hand shook.
Captain Mayo did not understand, and therefore he made no remarks.
"There was a song old Ephrum Wack used to sing," went on Mr. Speed,
getting more confidential and making sure that the other men in the room
were too much occupied to listen. "Chorus went:
"I ain't afeard of the raging sea,
Nor critters that's in it, whatever they be.
But a witch of a woman is what skeers me!
"There I've been, standing by Cap'n Epps in the whole dingdo, and she
got me one side and looked at me and says a few things with a quiver in
her voice and her eyes all wet and shiny and"--he paused and looked down
at the paper with bewilderment that was rather pitiful--"and I walked
right over all common sense and shipboard rules and discipline and
everything and came here, fetching this to be stuck on to the wire, or
whatever they do with telegrafts. But," he added, a waver in his tones,
"she is so lord-awful pretty, I couldn't help it!"
Still did Captain Mayo refrain from comment or question.
"The question now is, had I ought to," demanded Mr. Speed. "I'm taking
you into the fambly on my own responsibility. You're a captain, you're a
native, and I need good advice. Had I ought to?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, sir. The matter seems to be
private, and, furthermore, I don't know what you're talking about."
"She says it's to the milliner so that the milliner will hold the job
open. But I'm suspicioning that it's roundabout to the beau that's in
love with her. That's the style of women. Cap'n Epps shanghaied her to
get her away from that fellow. Now she has got it worked around so that
she is going back. But there's a beau in it instead of a milliner. She
wouldn't be so anxious to get word to a milliner. That's my idee, and I
reckon it's yours, too."
"I really have no ideas on the subject," returned Captain Mayo. "But
if you have promised a young lady to send a telegram for her I would
certainly keep that promise if I were in your place."
The next moment he regretted his rather impetuous advice, for Mr. Speed
slapped the paper against a hard palm and blurted out: "That's all I
wanted! Course and bearings from an a-number-one adviser. New, how'll I
go to work to send this thing?"
"I have been figuring on that matter for the last few minutes, myself,"
acknowledged the captain. "It's about time to have a little action in
this place."
He was obliged to elbow his way through the group of men who surrounded
the telegraph operator. Oakum Otie followed on his heels, resolved to
study at close range the mystery of telegraphing, realizing what he
needed for his own instruction.
"These telegrams are important and they must go at ore, madam," Mayo
informed the flustered young woman.
"I can't send them. I am bothered so much I can't do anything," she
stammered.
"Oh, forget your business, skipper," advised one of the party.
"It is not my business, sir." He laid the packet of messages before the
operator on her little counter and tapped his finger on them. "They must
go," he repeated.
"In their turn," warned the yachtsman, showing that he resented this
intrusion. "And after the party is over!"
"I intended to confine my conversation to this young lady," said Mayo.
He turned and faced them. "But I have been here long enough to see that
you gentlemen are interfering with the business of this office. Perhaps
your messages are not important. Mine are."
The yachtsman was not sober nor was he judicious. "Go back to your job,
young fellow," he advised. "You are horning in among gentlemen."
"So am I," squawked Mr. Speed, with weather eye out for clouds of any
sort.
Captain Mayo gave his supporter a glance of mingled astonishment and
relish. "We'd better not have any words about the matter, gentlemen,''
he suggested, mildly.
"Certainly not," stated the spokesman. "If you'll pass on there'll be no
words--or anything else."
"Then we'll dispense with words!" The quick anger of youth flared in
Mayo. The air of the man rather than his words had offended deeply.
"You'd like to have this room to yourself so that you can attend to your
business, I presume?" he asked the operator.
"Yes, I would."
Oakum Otie laid his folded paper upon the packet of Captain Mayo.
"You will leave the room gentlemen," advised the captain.
Mr. Speed thrust out his bony elbows and cracked his hard fists
together. "I have never liked dudes," he stated. "I have been brought up
that way. All my training with Cap'n Epps has been that way."
"How do you fit into this thing?" demanded one of the yachtsmen.
"About like this," averred Mr. Speed. He grabbed the young man by both
shoulders and ran him out into the night before anybody could interfere.
Then Mr. Speed reappeared promptly and inquired, "Which one goes next?"
"I think they will all go," said the captain.
"Come on," urged one of the party. "We can't afford to get into a brawl
with natives."
"You bet you can't," retorted Oakum Otie. "I hain't hove bunches of
shingles all my life for nothing!"
Mayo said nothing more. But after the yachtsmen had looked him over they
went out, making the affair a subject for ridicule.
"Hope I done right and showed to you that I was thankful for good
advice," suggested Mr. Speed, seeking commendation.
"Just a bit hasty, sir."
"Maybe, but there's nothing like handing folks a sample just to show up
the quality of the whole piece."
"I thank you--both of you," said the grateful operator.
"You'd better lock your door," advised Mayo. "Men are thoughtless when
they have nothing to do except play."
"I am so grateful! And I'm going to break an office rule," volunteered
the girl. "I shall send off your telegrams first."
"And I hope you can tuck that little one in second--it won't take
up much room!" pleaded Oakum Otie. "It's to help an awful pretty
girl--looks are a good deal like yours!"
"I'll attend to it," promised the young woman, blushing.
Outside in the village street Mr. Speed wiped his rough palm against the
leg of his trousers and offered his hand to the captain. "I'll have to
say good-by to you here, sir. I've got a little errunting to do--fig o'
terbacker and a box of stror'b'ries. I confess to a terrible tooth for
stror'b'ries. When the hanker ketches me and I can't get to stror'b'ries
my stror'b'ry mark shows up behind my ear. I hope I have done right in
sending off that tele-graft for her--but it's too bad that a landlubber
beau is going to get such a pretty girl." Then Oakum Otie sighed and
melted away into the foggy gloom.
When Captain Mayo was half-way down the harbor, on his way back to the
yacht, he was confronted by a spectacle which startled him. The fog
was suddenly painted with a ruddy flare which spread high and flamed
steadily. His first fears suggested that a vessel was on fire. The
_Olenia_ lay in that direction. He commanded his men to pull hard.
When he burst out of the mists into the zone of the illumination his
misgivings were allayed, but his curiosity was roused.
A dozen yacht tenders flocked in a flotilla near the stern of a rusty
old schooner. All the tenders were burning Coston lights, and from
several boats yachtsmen were sending off rockets which striped the pall
of fog with bizarre colorings.
The stern of the schooner was well lighted up by the torches, and Mayo
saw her name, though he did not need that name to assure him of her
identity; she was the venerable _Polly_.
The light which flamed about her, showing up her rig and lines, was
weirdly unreal and more than ever did she seem like a ghost ship.
The thick curtain of the mist caught up the flare of the torches and
reflected it upon her from the skies, and she was limned in fantastic
fashion from truck to water-line. Shadows of men in the tenders were
thrown against the fog-screen in grotesque outline, and a spirit crew
appeared to be toiling in the top-hamper of the old schooner.
Captain Mayo ordered his men to hold water and the tender drifted close
to the flotilla. He spied a yacht skipper whom he had known when both
were in the coasting trade.
"What's the idea, Duncan?"
His acquaintance grinned. "Serenade for old Epps Candage's girl--handed
to her over his head." He pointed upward.
Projecting over the schooner's rail was the convulsed countenance of
Captain Candage. Choler seemed to be consuming him. The freakish light
painted everything with patterns in arabesque; the captain's face looked
like the countenance of a gargoyle.
Mayo, observing with the natural prejudice of a "native," detected
mockery in the affair. He had just been present at one exhibition of the
convivial humor of larking yachtsmen.
"What's the special excuse for it?" he asked, sourly.
"According to the story, Epps has brought her with him on this trip to
break up a courting match."
"Well, does that have anything to do with this performance?"
"Oh, it's only a little spree," confessed the other. "It was planned out
on our yacht. Old Epps made himself a mucker to-day by sassing some of
the gents of the fleet, and the boys are handing him a little something.
That's all! It's only fun!"
"According to my notion it's the kind of fun that hurts when a girl is
concerned, Duncan."
"Just as serious as ever, eh? Well, my notion is that a little
good-natured fun never hurts a pretty girl--and they say this one is
some looker! Oh, hold on a minute, Boyd!" The master of the _Olenia_ had
turned away and was about to give an order to his oarsmen. "You ought to
stop long enough to hear that new song one of the gents on the _Sunbeam_
has composed for the occasion. It's a corker. I heard 'em rehearsing it
on our yacht."
In spite of his impatient resentment on behalf of the daughter of Epps
Candage, Captain Mayo remained. Just then the accredited minstrel of
the yachtsmen stood up, balancing himself in a tender. He was clearly
revealed by the lights, and was magnified by the aureole of tinted fog
which surrounded him. He sang, in waltz time, in a fine tenor:
"Our Polly O,
O'er the sea you go;
Fairer than sunbeam, lovely as moon-gleam,
All of us love thee so!
While the breezes blow
To waft thee, Polly O,
We will be true to thee,
Crossing the blue to thee,
Polly--Polly!
Dear little Polly,
Polly--O-O-O!"
He finished the verse and then raised both arms with the gesture of a
choral conductor.
"All together, now, boys!"
They sang with soul and vigor and excellent effect.
Ferocity nearly inarticulate, fury almost apoplectic, were expressed by
the face above the weather-worn rail.
"They say that music soothes the savage breast, but it don't look like
it in this case," observed Captain Duncan with a chuckle.
"Clear off away from here, you drunken dudes! I'll have the law on ye!
I'll have ye arrested for--for breaking the peace."
That threat, considering the surroundings, provoked great hilarity.
"Give way all! Here comes a cop!" warned a jeering voice.
"He's walking on the water," explained another.
"The man must be a fool," declared Captain Mayo. "If he'd go below and
shut up, they'd get tired and leave in a few minutes."
However, Captain Candage seemed to believe that retreat would be greatly
to his discredit. He continued to hang over the rail, discharging as
complete a line of deep-water oaths as ever passed the quivering lips of
a mariner. Therefore the playful yachtsmen were highly entertained and
stayed to bait him still further. Every little while they sang the Polly
song with fresh gusto, while the enraged skipper fairly danced to it in
his mad rage and flung his arms about like a crazy orchestra leader.
Mr. Speed came rowing in his dory, putting out all his strength,
splashing his oars. "My Gawd! Cap'n Mayo," he gasped, "I heard 'em
hollering 'Oh, Polly!' and I was 'feard she was afire. What's the
trouble?"
"You'd better get on board, sir, and induce Captain Candage to go below
and keep still. He is fast making a complete idiot of himself."
"I hain't got no influence over him. I ask and implore you to step on
board and soothe him down, sir. You can do it. He'll listen to a Mayo."
"I'd better not try. It's no job for a stranger, Mr. Speed."
"He'll be heaving that whole deckload of shingles at 'em next!"
"Get his daughter to coax him."
"He won't listen to her when he's that fussed up!"
"I'm sorry! Give way men!"
His rowers dropped their oars into the water and pulled away with
evident reluctance.
"Better stay and see it out," advised Captain Duncan.
"I don't care much for your show," stated Mayo, curtly.
The cabin curtains were drawn on the _Olenia_, and he felt especially
shut away from human companionship. He went forward and paced up and
down the deck, turning over his troubled affairs in his mind, but making
poor shift in his efforts to set anything in its right place.
There were no indications that the serenading yachtsmen were becoming
tired of their method of killing time during a fog-bound evening. They
had secured banjos and mandolins, and were singing the Polly song with
better effect and greater relish. And continually the hoarse voice of
the _Polly's_ master roared forth malediction, twisted into new forms of
profanity.
But Captain Mayo, pacing under the damp gleam of the riding-light, paid
but little heed to the hullabaloo. He was too thoroughly absorbed in
his own troubles to feel special interest in what his neighbors were
doing. He did not even note that a fog-sodden breeze had begun to puff
spasmodically from the east and that the mists were shredding overhead.
However, all of a sudden, a sound forced itself on his attention; he
heard the chuckling of sheaves and knew that a sail was being hoisted.
The low-lying stratum of fog was still thick, and he could not perceive
the identity of the craft which proposed to take advantage of the
sluggish breeze. The "ruckle-ruckle" of the blocks sounded at quick
intervals and indicated haste; there was a suggestion of vicious
determination on the part of the men who were tugging at the halyards.
Then Captain Mayo heard the steady clanking of capstan pawls. He knew
the methods of the Apple-treers, their cautiousness, and their leisurely
habits, and he could scarcely believe that a coasting skipper was
intending to leave the harbor that night. But the capstan pawls began to
click in staccato, showing that the anchor had been broken out.
Protesting shouts from all about in the gloom greeted that signal.
There was no mistaking the hoarse voice of Captain Candage when it was
raised in reply; his tones had become familiar after that evening of
malediction.
"Dingdam ye, I know of a way of getting shet of the bunch of ye!"
"Don't try to shift your anchorage!"
"Anchorage be hossified! I'm going to sea!" bellowed the master of the
_Polly_.
"Down with that hook of yours! You'll rake this whole yacht fleet with
your old dumpcart!"
"You have driv' me to it! Now you can take your chances!"
The next moment Mayo heard the ripping of tackle and a crash.
"There go two tenders and our boat-boom! Confound it, man, drop your
hook!"
But from that moment Captain Candage, as far as his mouth was concerned,
preserved ominous silence. The splintery speech of havoc was more
eloquent.
Mayo could not see, but he understood in detail what damage was wrought
upon the delicate fabric of yachts by that unwieldy old tub of a
schooner. Here, another boat-boom carried away, as she sluggishly thrust
her bulk out through the fleet; there an enameled hull raked by her
rusty chain-plate bolts. Now a tender smashed on the outjutting davits,
next a wreck of spidery head-rigging, a jib-boom splintered and a
foretopmast dragged down. If Captain Mayo had been in any doubt as to
the details of the disasters he would have received full information
from the illuminating profanity of the victims.
He knew well enough that Captain Candage was not performing with wilful
intent to do all that damage. In what little wind there was the schooner
was not under control. She was drifting until she got enough headway to
be steered. In the mean time she was doing what came in her way to do.
The _Polly_ had been anchored near the _Olenia_. As soon as her anchor
left bottom the schooner drifted up the harbor. Mayo knew, in a few
minutes, that Candage was bringing her about. An especial outbreak of
smashing signaled that manouver.
Mayo sniffed at the breeze, judged distance and direction, and then he
rushed forward and pounded his fist on the forecastle hatch.
"Rout out all hands!" he shouted. "Rouse up bumpers and tarpaulin!"
With the wind as it was, he realized that the schooner would point up in
the _Olenia_'s direction when Candage headed out to sea.
At last Mayo caught a glimpse of her through the fog. His calculation
had been correct. Headed his way she was. She was moving so slowly
that she was practically unmanageable; her apple-bows hardly stirred
a ripple, but with breeze helping the tide-set she was coming
irresistibly, paying off gradually and promising to sideswipe the big
yacht.
Mayo had a mariner's pride in his craft, and a master's devotion to
duty. He did not content himself with merely ordering about the men who
came tumbling on deck.
He grabbed a huge bumper away from one of the sailors who seemed
uncertain just what to do; he ran forward and thrust it over the rail,
leaning far out to see that it was placed properly to take the impact.
He was giving more attention to the safety of the _Olenia_ than he was
to what the on-coming _Polly_ might do to him.
Under all bowsprits on schooners, to guy the headstays, thrusts
downward a short spar, at right angles to the bowsprit; it is called the
martingale or dolphin-striker. The amateur riggers who had tinkered with
the Polly's gear in makeshift fashion had not troubled to smooth off
spikes with which they had repaired the martingale's lower end. Captain
Mayo ducked low to dodge a guy, and the spikes hooked themselves neatly
into the back of his reefer coat. Mr. Marston had bought excellent and
strong cloth for his captain's uniform. The fabric held, the spikes were
well set, the _Polly_ did not pause, and, therefore, the master of the
_Olenia_ was yanked off his own deck and went along.
All the evening Mayo's collar had been buttoned closely about his neck
to keep out the fog-damp, and when he was picked up by the spikes the
collar gripped tightly about his throat and against his larynx. His cry
for help was only a strangled squawk. His men were scattered along the
side of the yacht, trying to protect her, the night was over all, and no
one noted the mode of the skipper's departure.
The old schooner scrunched her way past the _Olenia_, roweling the
yacht's glossy paint and smearing her with tar and slime. It was as
if the rancorous spirit of the unclean had found sudden opportunity to
defile the clean.
Then the _Polly_ passed on into the night with clear pathway to the open
sea.
VII ~ INTO THE MESS FROM EASTWARD
Farewell to friends, farewell to foes,
Farewell to dear relations.
We're bound across the ocean blue--
Bound for the foreign nations.
Then obey your bo's'n's call,
Walk away with that cat-fall!
And we'll think on those girls when we can no longer stay.
And we'll think on those girls when we're far, far away.
--Unmooring.
For the first few moments, after being snatched up in that fashion, Mayo
hung from the dolphin-striker without motion, like a man paralyzed.
He was astounded by the suddenness of this abduction. He was afraid to
struggle. Momentarily he expected that the fabric would let go and that
he would be rolled under the forefoot of the schooner. Then he began to
grow faint from lack of breath; he was nearly garroted by his collar.
Carefully he raised his hands and set them about a stay above his head
and lifted himself so that he might ease his throat from the throttling
grip of the collar. He dangled there over the water for some time,
feeling that he had not strength enough, after his choking, to lift
himself into the chains or to swing to the foot-rope.
He glanced up and saw the figurehead; it seemed to be simpering at him
with an irritating smile. There was something of bland triumph in that
grin. In the upset of his feelings there was personal and provoking
aggravation in the expression of the figurehead. He swore at it as if it
were something human. His anger helped him, gave him strength. He began
to swing himself, and at last was able to throw a foot over a stay.
He rested for a time and then gave himself another hoist and was able
to get astride the bowsprit. He judged that they must be outside the
headland of Saturday Cove, because the breeze was stronger and the sea
gurgled and showed white threads of foam against the blunt bows. His
struggles had consumed more time than he had realized in the dazed
condition produced by his choking collar.
He heard the popping of a motor-boat's engine far astern, and was
cheered by the prompt conviction that pursuit was on. Therefore, he made
haste to get in touch with the _Polly's_ master. He scrambled inboard
along the bowsprit and fumbled his way aft over the piles of lumber,
obliged to move slowly for fear of pitfalls, Once or twice he shouted,
but he received no answer, He perceived three dim figures on the
quarter-deck when he arrived there--three men. Captain Candage was
stamping to and fro.
"Who in the devil's name are _you?_" bawled the old skipper. "Get off'm
here! This ain't a passenger-bo't."
"I'll get off mighty sudden and be glad to," retorted Mayo.
"Well, I'll be hackmetacked!" exploded Mr. Speed shoving his face over
the wheel. "It's--"
"Shut up!" roared the master. "How comes it you're aboard here as a
stowaway?"
"Don't talk foolishness," snapped Captain Mayo "Your old martingale
spikes hooked me up. Heave to and let me off!"
"Heave to it is!" echoed Oakum Otie, beginning to whirl the tiller.
Captain Candage turned on his mate with the violence of a thunderclap.
"Gad swigger your pelt, who's giving off orders aboard here? Hold on
your course!"
"But this is--"
"Shut up!" It was a blast of vocal effort. "Hold your course!"
"And _I_ say, heave to and let that motor-boat take me off," insisted
Mayo.
Captain Candage leaned close enough to note the yacht skipper's uniform
coat. "Who do you think you're ordering around, you gilt-striped,
monkey-doodle dandy?"
"That motor-boat is coming after me."
"Think you're of all that importance, hey? No, sir! It's a pack of 'em
chasing me to make me go back into port and be sued and libeled and
attached by cheap lawyers."
"You ought to be seized and libeled! You had no business ratching out of
that harbor in the dark."
"Ought to have taken a rising vote of dudes, hey, to find out whether I
had the right to h'ist my mudhook or not?"
"I'm not here to argue. You can do that in court. I tell you to come
into the wind and wait for that boat."
"You'd better, Cap Candage," bleated Oakum Otie. "This is--"
"Shut up! I'm running my own schooner, Mr. Speed."
"But he is one of the--"
"I don't care if he is one of the Apostles. I know my own business. Shut
up! Hold her on her course!"
He took two turns along the quarter-deck, squinting up into the night.
"Look here, Candage, you and I are going to have a lot of trouble with
each other if you don't show some common sense. I must get back to my
yacht."
"Jump overboard and swim back. I ain't preventing. I didn't ask you on
board. You can leave when you get ready. But this schooner is bound for
New York, they're in a hurry for this lumber, and I ain't stopping at
way stations!" He took another look at the weather, licked his thumb,
and held it against the breeze. "Sou'west by sou', and let her run! And
shut up!" he commanded his mate.
Mayo grabbed one of the yawl davits and sprang to the rail.
"We're some bigger than a needle, but so long as the haystack stays
thick enough I guess we needn't worry!" remarked Captain Candage,
cocking his ear to listen to the motor-boat's exhaust.
"Hoi-oi!" shouted Mayo into the night astern. He knew that men hear
indistinctly over the noise of a gasoline-engine, but he had resolved to
keep shouting.
"This way, men! This way with that boat!"
"'Vast heaving on that howl!" commanded Candage.
But Mayo persisted with all his might. His attention was confined wholly
to his efforts, and he was not prepared for the sudden attack from
behind. The master of the _Polly_ seized Mayo's legs and yanked him
backward to the deck. The young man fell heavily, and his head thumped
the planks with violence which flung him into insensibility.
When he opened his eyes he looked up and saw a hanging-lamp that creaked
on its gimbals as it swayed to the roll of the schooner. He was in the
_Polly's_ cabin. Next he was conscious that he was unable to move. He
was seated on the floor, his back against a stanchion, his hands lashed
behind him by bonds which confined him to the upright support. But the
most uncomfortable feature of his predicament was a marlinespike which
was stuck into his mouth like a bit provided for a fractious horse,
and was secured by lashings behind his head. He was effectually gagged.
Furthermore, the back of his head ached in most acute fashion. He rolled
his eyes about and discovered that he had a companion in misery. A very
pretty young woman was seated on a camp-chair across the cabin. Her face
expressed much sympathy.
He gurgled a wordless appeal for help, and then perceived that she was
lashed into her chair.
"I wish I could take that awful thing out of your mouth, sir."
He gave her a look which assured her that he shared in her desire.
"My father has tied me into this chair. I tried to make him stop his
dreadful talk when the boats came and burned the lights. He put me
down here and made a prisoner of me. It is terrible, all that has been
happening. I can't understand! I hope you will not think too hard of my
father, sir. Honestly, he seems to be out of his right mind."
He wanted to return some comforting reply to this wistful appeal, but
he could only roll his head against the stanchion and make inarticulate
sounds.
"He seemed to be very bitter when he brought you below. I could not
make him listen to reason. I have been thinking--and perhaps you're the
gentleman who led the singing which made him so angry?"
Mayo shook his head violently in protest at this suspicion.
"I didn't mind," she assured him. "I knew it was only in fun." She
pondered for a few minutes. "Perhaps they wouldn't have teased one of
their city girl friends in that way--but I suppose men must have a good
time when they are away from home. Only--it has made it hard for me!"
There were tears in her eyes.
Mayo's face grew purple as he tried to speak past the restraining spike
and make her understand his sentiments on the subject of that serenade.
"Don't try to talk, sir. I'm so sorry. It is shameful!"
There was silence in the cabin after that for a long time. He looked up
at the swinging lamp, his gaze wandered about the homely cabin. But his
eyes kept returning to her face. He could not use his tongue, and he
tried to tell her by his glances, apologetic little starings, that he
was sorry for her in her grief. She met those glances with manifest
embarrassment.
After an absence which was prolonged to suit his own sour will in the
matter, Captain Candage came stamping stormily down the companionway.
He stood between his captives and glowered, first at one and then at the
other.
"Both of ye blaming me, I reckon, for what couldn't be helped."
"Father, listen to me now, if you have any sense left in you," cried the
girl, with passion. "Take that horrible thing out of that gentleman's
mouth."
"It has come to a pretty pass in this world when an honest man can't
carry on his own private business without having to tie up meddlers so
as to have a little peace." He walked close to Mayo and shook a monitory
finger under the young man's nose. "Now, what did ye come on board here
for, messing into my affairs?"
The indignant captain put forth his best efforts to make suitable
retort, but could only emit a series of "guggles."
"And now on top of it all I am told by my mate, who never gets around to
do anything that ought to be done till it's two days too late, that
you are one of the Mayos! Why wasn't I informed? I might have made
arrangements to show you some favors. I might have hove to and taken a
chance, considering who you was. And now it's too late. Everybody seems
to be ready to impose on me!"
Again Mayo tried to speak.
"Why don't you shut up that gobbling and talk sense?" shouted the irate
skipper, with maddening disregard of the captive's predicament.
"Father, are you completely crazy? You haven't taken that spike out of
his mouth."
"Expect a man to remember everything when he is all wrapped in his own
business and everybody trying to meddle with it?" grumbled Candage. He
fumbled in his pocket and produced a knife. He slashed away the rope
yarn which lashed the marlinespike. "If you can talk sense I'll help
you do it! I reckon you can holler all you want to now. Them dudes can't
find their own mouths in a fog, much less this schooner. Now talk up!"
Mayo worked his aching jaws and found his voice. "You know how I
happened to get aboard, Captain Candage. I am skipper of the _Olenia_.
Put back with me if you want to save trouble."
"Not by a tin hoopus, sir! I ain't going about and tackle them reefs in
this fog. I've got open sea ahead, and I shall keep going!"
Mayo was a sailor who knew that coast, and he admitted to himself that
Candage's stubbornness was justified.
"I ain't responsible for your getting aboard here. I'll land you as soon
as I can--and that covers the law, sir."
During a prolonged silence the two men stared at each other.
"At any rate, Captain Candage, I trust you will not consider that you
have a right to keep me tied up here any longer."
"Now that there's a better understanding about who is boss aboard here,
I don't know as I'm afraid to have you at large," admitted the skipper.
"I only warn you to remember your manners and don't forget that I'm
captain."
He flourished his clasp-knife and bent and cut the lashings. Then he
strode across the cabin and performed like service for his daughter.
"I reckon I can afford to have _you_ loose, too, now that you can't tell
me my business in front of a lot of skylarkers throwing kisses right and
left!"
"Father! Oh, oh!" She put her hands to her face.
Captain Candage seemed to be having some trouble in keeping up his
role of a bucko shipmaster; he shifted his eyes from Mayo's scowl and
surveyed his daughter with uncertainty while he scratched his ear.
"When a man ain't boss on his own schooner he might as well stop going
to sea," he muttered. "Some folks knows it's the truth, being in a
position to know, and others has to be showed!" He went stamping up the
companionway into the night.
Captain Mayo waited, for some minutes. The girl did not lift her head.
"About that--What he said about--You understand! I know better!" he
faltered.
"Thank you, sir," she said, gratefully, still hiding her face from him.
"Men sometimes do very foolish things."
"I didn't know my father could be like this."
"I was thinking about the men who came and annoyed him. I can understand
how he felt, because I am 'a 'native' myself."
"I thought you were from outside."
"My name is Boyd Mayo. I'm from Mayoport."
She looked up at him with frank interest.
"My folks built this schooner," he stated, with modest pride.
"I'm Polly Candage--I'm named for it."
"It's too bad!" he blurted. "I don't mean to say but what the name is
all right," he explained, awkwardly, "but I don't think that either
of us is particularly proud of this old hooker right at the present
moment." He went across the cabin and sat down on a transom and, tested
the bump on the back of his head with cautious palm.
She did not reply, and he set his elbows on his knees and proceeded to
nurse his private grouch in silence, quite excluding his companion
from his thoughts. Now that he had been snatched so summarily from his
hateful position on board the _Olenia_, his desire to leave her was not
so keen. After Mayo's declaration to the owner, Marston might readily
conclude that his skipper had deserted. His reputation and his license
as a shipmaster were in jeopardy, and he had already had a bitter taste
of Marston's intolerance of shortcomings. If Marston cared to bother
about breaking such a humble citizen, malice had a handy weapon. But
most of all was Mayo concerned with the view Alma Marston would take of
the situation. She would either believe that he had fallen overboard
in the skirmish with the attacking Polly or had deserted without
warning--and in the case of a lover both suppositions were agonizing.
His distress was so apparent that the girl, from her seat on the
opposite transom, extended sympathy in the glances she dared to give
him.
"How did you tear your coat so badly in the back?" she ventured at last.
"Spikes your excellent father left sticking out of his martingale," he
said, a sort of boyish resentment in his tones.
"Then it is only right that I should offer to mend it for you."
She hurried to a locker, as if glad of an excuse to occupy herself. She
produced her little sewing-basket and then came to him and held out her
hand.
"Take it off, please."
"You needn't trouble," he expostulated, still gruff.
"I insist. Please let me do a little something to make up for the
_Polly's_ naughtiness."
"It will be all right until I can get ashore--and perhaps I'll never
have need to wear the coat again, anyway."
"Won't you allow me to be doing something that will take my mind off my
troubles, sir?" Then she snapped her finger into her palm and there was
a spirit of matronly command in her voice, in spite of her youth. "I
insist, I say! Take off your coat."
He obeyed, a little grin crinkling at the corners of his mouth--a
flicker of light in his general gloom. After he had placed the coat in
her hands he sat down on the transom and watched her busy fingers.
She worked deftly. She closed in the rents and then darned the raveled
places with bits of the thread pulled from the coat itself.
"You are making it look almost as good as new."
"A country girl must know how to patch and darn. The folks in the
country haven't as many things to throw away as the city folks have."
"But that--what you are doing--that's real art."
"My aunt does dressmaking and I have helped her. And lately I have
been working in a millinery-shop. Any girl ought to know how to use her
needle."
He remembered what Mr. Speed had said about the reason for her presence
on the _Polly_. He cast a disparaging glance around the bare cabin and
decided in his mind that Mr. Speed had reported truthfully and with full
knowledge of the facts. Surely no girl would choose that sort of thing
for a summer vacation.
She bent her head lower over her work and he was conscious of warmer
sympathy for her; their troubled affairs of the heart were in similar
plight. He felt an impulse to say something to console her and knew that
he would welcome understanding and consolation from her; promptly he was
afraid of his own tongue, and set curb upon all speech.
"A man never knows how far he may go in making fool talk when he gets
started," he reflected. "Feeling the way I do to-night, I'd better keep
the conversation kedge well hooked."
Now that her hands were busy, she did not find the silence embarrassing.
Mayo returned to his ugly meditations.
After a time he was obliged to shift himself on the transom. The
schooner was heeling in a manner which showed the thrust of wind. He
glanced up and saw that the rain was smearing broad splashes on the
dingy glass of the windows. The companion hatch was open, and when he
cocked his ear, with mariner's interest in weather, he heard the wind
gasping in the open space with a queer "guffle" in its tone.
Instinctively he began to look about the cabin for a barometer.
Already that day the _Olenia's_ glass had warned him by its downward
tendency. He wondered whether further reading would indicate something
more ominous than fog.
Across the cabin he noted some sort of an instrument swinging from a
hook on a carline. He investigated. It was a makeshift barometer, the
advertising gift of a yeast company. The contents of its tube were
roiled to the height of the mark which was lettered "Tornado."
"You can't tell nothing from that!" Captain Candage had come down into
the cabin and stood behind his involuntary guest. "It has registered
'Tornado' ever since the glass got cracked. And even at that, it's about
as reliable as any of the rest of them tinkerdiddle things."
"Haven't you a regular barometer--an aneroid?" inquired Captain Mayo.
"I can smell all the weather I need to without bothering with one of
them contrivances," declared the master of the schooner, in lordly
manner. He began to pull dirty oilskins out of a locker.
Mayo hurried up the companionway and put out his head. There were both
weight and menace in the wind which hooted past his ears. The fog was
gone, but the night was black, without glimmer of stars. The white
crests of the waves which galloped alongside flaked the darkness with
ominous signalings.
"If you can smell weather, Captain Candage, your nose ought to tell you
that this promises to be something pretty nasty."
"Oh, it might be called nasty by lubbers on a gingerbread yacht, but
I have sailed the seas in my day and season, and I don't run for an
inshore puddle every time the wind whickers a little." He was fumbling
with a button under his crisp roll of chin beard and gave the other man
a stare of superiority.
"You don't class me with yacht-lubbers, do you?"
"Well, you was just on a yacht, wasn't you?"
"Look here, Captain Candage, you may just as well understand, now and
here, that I'm one of your kind of sailors. Excuse me for personal
talk, but I want to inform you that from fifteen to twenty I was a
Grand-Banksman. Last season I was captain of the beam trawler _Laura and
Marion_. And I have steamboated in the Sound and have been a first mate
in the hard-pine trade in Southern waters. I have had a chance to find
out more or less about weather."
"Un-huh!" remarked the skipper, feigning indifference. "What about it?"
"I tell you that you have no business running out into this mess that is
making from east'ard."
"If you have been so much and so mighty in your time, then you
understand that a captain takes orders from nobody when he's on board
his own vessel."
"I understand perfectly well, sir. I'm not giving orders. But my own
life is worth something to me and I have a right to tell you that you
are taking foolhardy chances. And you know it, too!"
Captain Candage's gaze shifted. He was a coaster and he was naturally
cautious, as Apple-treers are obliged to be. He knew perfectly well that
he was in the presence of a man who knew! He had not the assurance to
dispute that man, though his general grudge against all the world at
that moment prompted him.
"I got out because they drove me out," he growled.
"A man can't afford to be childish when he is in command of a vessel,
sir. You are too old a skipper to deny that."
"I was so mad I didn't stop to smell weather," admitted the master,
bracing himself to meet a fresh list of the heeling _Polly_. He
evidently felt that he ought to defend his own sagacity and absolve
himself from mariner's culpability.
"Very well! Let it go at that! But what are you going to do?"
"I can't beat back to Saturday Cove against this wind--not now! She
would rack her blamed old butts out."
"Then run her for Lumbo Reach. You can quarter a following sea. She
ought to ride fairly easy."
"That's a narrow stab in a night as black as this one is."
"I'll make a cross-bearing for you. Where's your chart?" Mayo exhibited
a sailor's alert anxiety to be helpful.
"I 'ain't ever needed a chart--not for this coast."
"Then I'll have to guess at it, sir." He closed his eyes in order to
concentrate. "You gave a course of sou'west by sou'. Let's see--it was
nine-fifteen when I just looked and we must have logged--"
"It ain't no use to stab for such a hole in the wall as Lumbo Reach,"
declared Candage in discouraged tones.
"But you've got your compass and I can--"
"There ain't no depending on my compass within two points and a half."
"Confound it, I can make allowance, sir, if you'll tell me your
deviation!"
"But it's a card compass and spins so bad in a seaway there ain't no
telling, anyway. In my coasting I haven't had to be particular."
"Not as long as you had an apple-tree in sight," jeered Mayo, beginning
to lose his temper.
"I don't dare to run in the direction of anything that is solid--we'll
hit it sure, 'n' hell-fire will toast corn bread. We've got to stay to
sea!"
Captain Mayo set his teeth and clenched his fists and took a few turns
up and down the cabin. He looked up into the night through the open
hatch of the companion-way. The pale glimmer of the swinging lamp tossed
a mild flare against the blackness and lighted two faces which were
limned against that pall. Both Oakum Otie and Smut-nosed Dolph were at
the wheel. Their united strength was needed because the schooner was
yawing madly every now and then when the mightier surges of the frothing
sea hoisted her counter, chasing behind her like wild horses. Those
faces, when Mayo looked on them, were very solemn. The two were
crouching like men who were anxious to hide from a savage beast. They
grunted as they struggled with the wheel, trying to hold her up when the
_Polly_ tobogganed with rushes that were almost breath-checking.
Mayo hastened to the girl. "I must have my coat, Miss Candage. I thank
you. It will do now."
She held it open for his arms, as a maid might aid her knight with his
armor. "Are we in danger?" she asked, tremulously.
"I hope not--only it is uncomfortable--and needless," he said, with some
irritation.
"Must I stay down here--alone?"
"I would! It's only a summer blow, Miss Candage. I'm sure we'll be all
right."
Captain Candage had gone on deck, rattling away in his stiff oilskins.
Mayo followed, but the master came down a few steps into the
companionway and intercepted the volunteer, showing a final smolder of
his surliness.
"I want to notify you that I can run my own bo't, sir!"
"Yes, run it with a yeast barometer, a straw bottom, a pinwheel compass,
and your general cussedness of disposition," shouted Mayo into the whirl
of the wind, his anxiety whetting his much-tried temper.
"If you're feeling that way, I don't want you up here."
"I'm feeling worse than you'll ever understand, you stubborn old fool!"
"I let one man call me a fool to-day and I didn't make back talk--but I
know where to draw the line," warned Candage.
"Look here, I propose to start in with you right now, sir, on a basis
you'll understand! I say you're a fool and need a guardian--and from now
on I'm going to make my bigness aboard here! Get out of my way!"
Captain Mayo then emphasized his opinion of Captain Candage by elbowing
the master to one side and leaping out on deck.
"That may be mutiny," stated Mr. Speed through set teeth, checking the
startled exclamation from his helper at the wheel. "But, by the Judas
I-scarrot, it's a Mayo that's doing it! Remember that, Dolph!"
VIII ~ LIKE BUGS UNDER A THIMBLE
Up comes the skipper from down below,
And he looks aloft and he looks alow.
And he looks alow and he looks aloft,
And it's, "Coil up your ropes, there, fore and aft."
With a big Bow-wow!
Tow-row-row!
Fal de rai de, ri do day!
--Boston Shanty.
Captain Mayo strode straight to the men at the wheel. "Give me those
spokes!" he commanded. "I'll take her! Get in your washing, boys!"
"Ay, ay, sir!" assented Mr. Speed, giving the resisting Dolph a violent
shove.
When Captain Candage began to curse, Captain Mayo showed that he had a
voice and vocabulary of his own. He fairly roared down the master of the
_Polly_.
"Now shut up!" he ordered the dumfounded skipper, who faced him, mouth
agape. "This is no time for any more foolishness. It's a case of work
together to save our lives. Down with 'em, boys!"
"That's right," declared the mate. "She don't need much of anything on
her except a double-reefed mitten with the thumb brailed up."
The wind had not attained the velocity of a gale, but it did have an
ugly growl which suggested further violence. Mayo braced himself, ready
to bring the schooner about in order to give the crew an opportunity to
shorten sail.
Captain Candage, deposed as autocrat for the moment, seemed to be
uncertain as to his duties.
Mayo, understanding mariner nature, felt some contrition and was
prompted by saner second thought.
"You'd better take the wheel, Captain Candage. You know her tricks
better than I do in a seaway. I'll help the boys take in sail."
The master obeyed with alacrity. He seemed to be cowed. Anger no longer
blinded him to their predicament.
"Just say what you want done, and I'll try to do it," he told Mayo, in
a voice which had become suddenly mild and rather beseeching. Then he
called to his daughter, who had come to the foot of the companion steps,
"Better blow out that cabin light, Polly girl! She's li'ble to dance
bad, and we don't want to run the chance of fire."
Mayo got a glimpse at her face as he hurried upon the house on his way
to the main halyards. Her face was pale, but there was the firm spirit
of her Yankee ancestry of the sea in her poise and in her very silence
in that crisis. She obeyed without complaint or question and the cabin
was dark; even the glimmer of the light had held something of cheer. Now
the gloom was somber and depressing.
The schooner came round with a sort of scared hurry when the master
threw the wheel hard over and trod on the spokes with all his weight. As
soon as the bellying mainsail began to flap, the three men let it go on
the run. They kept up the jumbo sail, as the main jib is called; they
reefed the foresail down to its smallest compass.
Mayo, young, nimble, and eager, singly knotted more reef points
than both his helpers together, and his crisp commands were obeyed
unquestioningly.
"He sartinly is chain lightning in pants," confided Dolph to Otie.
"He knows his card," said Otie to Dolph.
Captain Mayo led the way aft, crawling over the shingles and laths.
"I hope it's your judgment, sir, that we'd better keep her into the wind
as she is and try to ride this thing out," he suggested to the master.
"It is my judgment, sir," returned Captain Candage, with official
gravity.
Hove to, the old _Polly_ rode in fairly comfortable style. She was deep
with her load of lumber, but the lumber made her buoyant and she
lifted easily. Her breadth of beam helped to steady her in the sweeping
seas--but Captain Mayo clung to a mainstay and faced the wind and
the driving rain and knew that the open Atlantic was no place for the
_Polly_ on a night like that.
Spume from the crested breakers at her wallowing bow salted the rain on
his dripping face. It was an unseasonable tempest, scarcely to be looked
for at that time of year. But he had had frequent experience with the
vagaries of easterlies, and he knew that a summer easterly, when it
comes, holds menacing possibilities.
"They knowed how to build schooners when your old sirs built this one at
Mayoport," declared Captain Candage, trying to put a conciliatory tone
into his voice when he bellowed against the blast. "She'll live where
one of these fancy yachts of twice her size would be smothered."
Mayo did not answer. He leaped upon the house and helped Dolph and Otie
furl the mainsail that lay sprawled in the lazy-jaeks. They took their
time; the more imminent danger seemed to be over.
"I never knowed a summer blow to amount to much," observed Mr. Speed,
trying to perk up, though he was hanging on by both hands to avoid bring
blown off the slippery house.
"It depends on whether there's an extra special squall knotted into it
somewhere to windward," said Mayo, in a lull of the wind. "Then it can
amount to a devil of a lot, Mr. Speed!"
The schooner washed her nose in a curving billow that came inboard
and swept aft. With her small area of exposed sail and with the wind
buffeting her, she had halted and paid off, lacking steerageway. She got
several wallops of the same sort before she had gathered herself enough
to head into the wind.
Again she paid off, as if trying to avoid a volleying gust, and another
wave crested itself ahead of the blunt bows and then seemed to explode,
dropping tons of water on deck. Laths, lumber, and bunches of shingles
were ripped loose and went into the sea. The _Polly_ appeared to be
showing sagacity of her own in that crisis; she was jettisoning cargo
for her own salvation.
"Good Cephas! this is going to lose us our decklo'd," wailed the master.
"We'd better let her run!" "Don't you do it, sir! You'll never get her
about!" Mayo had given over his work on the sail and was listening.
Above the scream of the passing gusts which assailed him he was hearing
a dull and solemn roar to windward. He suspected what that sound
indicated. He had heard it before in his experience. He tried to
peer into the driving storm, dragging the rain from his eyes with his
fingers. Then nature held a torch for him. A vivid shaft of lightning
crinkled overhead and spread a broad flare of illumination across the
sea. His suspicions, which had been stirred by that sullen roar, were
now verified. He saw a low wall of white water, rolling and frothing. It
was a summer "spitter" trampling the waves.
A spitter is a freak in a regular tempest--a midsummer madness of
weather upheaval. It is a thunderbolt of wind, a concentration of gale,
a whirling dervish of disaster--wind compactly bunched into one almighty
blast--wind enough to last a regular gale for a whole day if the stock
were spent thriftily.
"Don't ease her an inch!" screamed Mayo.
But just then another surging sea climbed aboard and picked up more of
the laths and more of the shingles, and frolicked away into the night
with the plunder. Captain Candage's sense of thrift got a more vital jab
than did his sense of fear. His eyes were on his wheel, and he had not
seen the wall of white spume.
"That decklo'd has got to be lashed," he muttered. He decided to run
with the wind till that work could be performed. He threw his helm hard
over. Mayo had been riding the main boom astraddle, hitching himself
toward the captain, to make him hear. When the volunteer saw the master
of the _Polly_ trying to turn tail to the foe in that fashion, he leaped
to the wheel, but he was too late. The schooner had paid off too much.
The yelling spitter caught them as they were poised broadside on the top
of a wave, before the sluggish craft had made her full turn.
What happened then might have served as confirmation of mariners'
superstition that a veritable demon reigns in the heart of the tempest.
The attack on the old _Polly_ showed devilish intelligence in team-work.
A crashing curler took advantage of the loosened deckload and smashed
the schooner a longside buffet which sent all the lumber in a sliding
drive against the lee rail and rigging. The mainsail had been only
partly secured; the spitter blew into the flapping canvas with all its
force and the sail snapped free and bellied out.
The next instant the _Polly_ was tripped!
She went over with all the helpless, dead-weight violence of a man who
has caught his toe on a drooping clothes line in the dark.
The four men who were on deck were sailors and they did not need
orders when they felt that soul-sickening swing of her as she toppled.
Instinctively, with one accord, they dived for the cabin companionway.
Undoubtedly, as a sailor, the first thought of each was that the
schooner was going on to her beam-ends. Therefore, to remain on deck
meant that they would either slide into the water or that a smashing
wave would carry them off.
They went tumbling down together in the darkness, and all four of
them, with impulse of preservation as instant and true as that of the
trap-door spider, set their hands to the closing of the hatch and the
folding leaves of the door.
Captain Mayo, his clutch still on a knob, found himself pulled under
water without understanding at first just what had happened. He let go
his grip and came up to the surface, spouting. He heard the girl shriek
in extremity of terror, so near him that her breath swept his face. He
put out his arm and caught her while he was floundering for a footing.
When he found something on which to stand and had steadied himself, he
could not comprehend just what had happened; the floor he was standing
on had queer irregularities.
"We've gone over!" squalled Mr. Speed in the black darkness. "We've gone
clear over. We're upside down. We're standing on the ceiling!"
Then Mayo trod about a bit and convinced himself that the irregularities
under his feet were the beams and carlines.
The _Polly_ had been tripped in good earnest! Mr. Speed was right--she
was squarely upside down!
Even in that moment of stress Mayo could figure out how it had happened.
The spitter must have ripped all her rotten canvas off her spars as she
rolled and there had been no brace to hold her on her beam-ends when she
went over.
Captain Candage was spouting, splashing near at hand, and was bellowing
his fears. Then he began to call for his daughter in piteous fashion.
"Are you drownded, Polly darling?" he shouted.
"I have her safe, sir," Mayo assured him in husky tones, trying to clear
the water from his throat. "Stand on a beam. You can get half of your
body above water."
"It's all off with us," gasped the master. "We're spoke for."
Such utter and impenetrable blackness Mayo had never experienced before.
Their voices boomed dully, as if they were in a huge hogshead which had
been headed over.
'"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,'"
quavered the cook. "If anybody knows a better prayer I wish he'd say
it."
"Plumb over--upside down! Worse off than flies in a puddle of Porty Reek
molasses," mourned Mr. Speed.
The master joined the mate in lamentation. "I have brought my baby to
this! I have brought my Polly here! God forgive me. Can't you speak to
me, Polly?"
Mayo found the girl very quiet in the hook of his arm, and he put his
free hand against her cheek. She did not move under his touch.
"She has fainted, sir."
"No, she's dead! She's dead!" Candage began to weep and started to
splash his way across the cabin, directed by Mayo's voice.
"She is all right--she is breathing," the young man assured the father.
"Here! This way, captain! Take her. Hold her up. I want to see whether
anything can be done for us."
"Nothing can be done!" whimpered Candage. "We're goners."
"We're goners," averred Oakum Otie.
"We're goners," echoed Dolph.
Mayo gave the girl into the groping arms of her father and stood for a
few moments reflecting on their desperate plight. He was not hopeful. In
his heart he agreed with the convictions which his mates were expressing
in childish falsetto. But being a young sailor who found his head above
water, he resolved to keep on battling in that emergency; the adage
of the coastwise mariner is: "Don't die till Davy Jones sets his final
pinch on your weasen!"
First of all, he gave full consideration to what had happened. The
_Polly_ had been whipped over so quickly that she had been transformed
into a sort of diving-bell.{*} That is to say, a considerable amount of
air had been captured and was now retained in her. It was compressed
by the water which was forced up from below through the windows and
the shattered skylight. The pressure on Mayo's temples afforded him
information on this point. The _Polly_ was floating, and he felt
comforting confidence that she would continue to float for some
time. But this prospect did not insure safety or promise life to the
unfortunates who had been trapped in her bowels. The air must either
escape gradually or become vitiated as they breathed it.
* The strange adventure of the _Polly_ is not an
improbability of fiction. A Bath, Maine, schooner, lumber-
laden, was tripped in exactly this fashion off Hatteras.
Captain Boyd Mayo's exploit has been paralleled in real life
in all details. My good friend Captain Elliott C. Gardner,
former skipper of the world's only seven-master, the _Thomas
W. Lawson_, furnished those details to me, and after writing
this part of the tale I submitted the narrative to him for
confirmation. It has received his indorsement.--H. D.
There was only one thing to do, he decided: take advantage of any
period of truce which their ancient enemy, the sea, had allowed in that
desperate battle.
A sailor is prey to hazards and victim of the unexpected in the
ever-changing moods of the ocean; he must needs be master of expedients
and ready grappler of emergencies.
"Where are your tools--a saw--a chisel?" demanded Mayo. He was obliged
to repeat that query several times. His companions appeared to be wholly
absorbed in their personal woes.
At last Mr. Speed checked his groans long enough to state that the tools
were in "the lazareet."
The lazaret of a coaster is a storeroom under the
quarter-deck--repository of general odds and ends and spare equipment.
"Any way to get at it except through the deck-hatch?"
"There's a door through, back of the companion ladder," said Mr. Speed,
with listless indifference.
Mayo crowded his way past the ladder after he had waded and stumbled
here and there and had located it. He set his shoulders against the
<DW72> of the steps and pushed at the door with his feet. After he had
forced it open he waded into the storeroom. It was blind business,
hunting for anything in that place. He knew the general habits of the
hit-or-miss coasting crews, and was sure that the tools had been thrown
in among the rest of the clutter by the person who used them last. If
they had been loose on the floor they would now be loose on the ceiling.
He pushed his feet about, hoping to tread on something that felt like a
saw or chisel.
"Ahoy, you men out there!" he called. "Don't you have any idea in what
part of this lazaret the tools were?"
"Oh, they was probably just throwed in," said Mr. Speed. "I wish you
wouldn't bother me so much! I'm trying to compose my mind to pray."
There were so much ruck and stuff under his feet that Mayo gave up
searching after a time. He had held his breath and ducked his head under
water so that he might investigate with his bare hands, but he found
nothing which would help him, and his brain was dizzy after his efforts
and his mouth was choked by the dirty water.
But when he groped his way back into the main cabin his hands came in
contact with the inside of the lazaret door. In leather loops on the
door he found saw, ax, chisel, and hammer. He was unable to keep back a
few hearty and soul-satisfying oaths.
"Why didn't you tell me where the tools were? They're here on the door."
"I had forgot about picking 'em tip. And my mind ain't on tools,
anyway."
"Your mind will be on 'em as soon as I can get forward there," growled
the incensed captain.
Mayo was not sure of what he needed or what he would be obliged to do,
therefore he took all the tools, holding them above water. When he waded
past Captain Can-dage he heard the old skipper trying to comfort the
girl, his voice low and broken by sobs. She had recovered consciousness
and Mayo was a bit sorry; in her swoon she had not realized their
plight; he feared hysterics and other feminine demonstrations, and he
knew that he needed all his nerve.
"We're going to die--we're going to die!" the girl kept moaning.
"Yes, my poor baby, and I have brought you to it," blubbered her father.
"Please keep up your courage for a little while, Miss Candage," Mayo
pleaded, wistfully.
"But there's no hope!"
"There's hope just as long as we have a little air and a little grit,"
he insisted. "Now, please!"
"I am afraid!" she whispered.
"So am I," he confessed. "But we're all going to work the best we know
how. Can't you encourage us like a brave, good girl?" He went stumbling
on. "Now tell me, mate," he commanded, briskly, "how thick is the
bulkhead between the cabin, here, and the hold?"
"I can't bother to think," returned Mr. Speed.
"It's only sheathing between the beams, sir," stated Captain Candage.
"Mate, you and the cook lend a hand to help me."
Oakum Otie broke off the prayer to which he had returned promptly.
"What's the use?" he demanded, with anger which his fright made
juvenile. "I tell you I'm trying to compose my soul, and I want this
rampage-round stopped."
"I say what's the use, too!" whined Dolph. "You can't row a biskit
across a puddle of molasses with a couple of toothpicks," he added, with
cook's metaphor for the absolutely hopeless.
Mayo shouted at them with a violence that made hideous din in that
narrow space. "You two men wade across here to me or I'll come after
you with an ax in one hand and a hammer in the other! Damn you, I mean
business!"
They were silent, then there sounded the splash of water and they came,
muttering. They had recognized the ring of desperate resolve in his
command.
Mayo, when he heard their stertorous breathing close at hand, groped
for them and shoved tools into their clutch. He retained the hammer and
chisel for himself.
"That's about all I need you for just now--for tool-racks," he growled.
"Make sure you don't drop those."
The upturned schooner rolled sluggishly, and every now and then the
water swashed across her cabin with extra impetus, making footing
insecure.
"If I tumble down I'll have to drop 'em," whimpered Oolph.
"Then don't come up. Drowning will be an easier death for you," declared
the captain, menacingly. He was sounding the bulkhead with his hammer.
The tapping quickly showed him where the upright beams were located on
the other side of the sheathing. In his own mind he was not as sanguine
as his activity might have indicated. It was blind experiment--he
could not estimate the obstacles which were ahead of him. But he did
understand, well enough, that if they were to escape they must do so
through the bottom of the vessel amidship; there, wallowing though she
was, there might be some freeboard. He had seen vessels floating bottom
up. Usually a section of the keel and a portion of the garboard streaks
were in sight above the sea. But there could be no escape through the
bottom of the craft above them where they stood in the cabin. He knew
that the counter and buttock must be well under water.
"Have you a full cargo belowdecks?" he asked.
"No," stated Captain Candage, hinting by his tone that he wondered what
difference that would make to them in the straits in which they were
placed.
Mayo felt a bit of fresh courage. He had been afraid that the _Polly's_
hold would be found to be stuffed full of lumber. His rising spirits
prompted a little sarcasm.
"How did it ever happen that you didn't plug the trap you set for us?"
"Couldn't get but two-thirds cargo below because the lumber was sawed so
long. Made it up by extra deck-lo'd."
"Yes, piled it all on deck so as to make her top-heavy--so as to be sure
of catching us," suggested Mayo, beginning to work his hammer and chisel
on the sheathing.
"'Tain't no such thing!" expostulated Captain Candage, missing the
irony. "Them shingles and laths is packet freight, and I couldn't put
'em below because I've got to deliver 'em this side of New York. And you
don't expect me to overhaul a whole decklo'd so as to--"
"Not now," broke in Mayo. "The Atlantic Ocean has attended to the case
of that deckload."
"My Gawd, yes!" mourned the master. "I was forgetting that we are upside
down--and that shows what a state of mind I'm in!"
Mayo had picked his spot for operations. He drove his chisel through the
sheathing as close to the cabin floor as he could. Remembering that
the schooner was upside down and that the floor was over his head, the
aperture he was starting work on would bring him nearest the bilge. When
he had chiseled a hole big enough for a start, he secured the saw from
the mate and sawed a square opening. He lifted himself up and worked his
way through the hole and found himself on lumber and out of water.
It was what he had been hoping to find, after the assurance from the
master: the partial cargo of lumber in the hold had settled to the deck
when the schooner tipped over. Investigating with groping hands, he
assured himself that there were fully three feet of space between the
cargo and the bottom of the vessel.
"Come here with your daughter, Captain Candage!" he called, cheerily.
"It's dry in here."
He kneeled and held his hands out through the opening, directing them
with his voice, reaching into the pitchy darkness until her hands found
his, and then he brought her up to him and in upon the lumber.
"It's a little better, even if it's nothing to brag about," he told her.
"Sit over there at one side so that the men can crawl in past you. I'll
need them to help me."
"And what do you think now--shall we die?" she asked, in tremulous
whisper.
"No, I don't think so," he told her, stoutly.
They were alone in the hold for a few moments while the others were
helping one another through the opening.
"But in this trap--in the dark--crowded in here!" Her tone did not
express doubt; it was pathetic endeavor to understand their plight. "My
father and his men are frightened--they have given up. And you told me
that you are frightened!"
"Yes, I am!"
"But they are not doing anything to help you."
"Perhaps that is because they are not scared as much as I am. It often
happens that the more frightened a man is in a tight place the more he
jumps around and the harder he tries to get out."
"I don't care what you say--I know what you are!" she rejoined. "You are
a brave man, Captain Mayo. I thank you!"
"Not yet! Not until--"
"Yes, now! You have set me a good example. When folks are scared they
should not sit down and whimper!"
He reached and found a plump little fist which she had doubled into a
real knob of decision.
"Good work, little girl! Your kind of grit is helping me." He released
her hand and crawled forward.
"This ain't helping us any," complained Captain Candage. "I know what's
going to happen to us. As soon as it gets daylight a cussed coast-guard
cutter will come snorting along and blow us up without bothering to find
out what is under this turkle-shell."
"Say, look here, Candage," called Captain Mayo, angrily, "that's enough
of that talk! There's a-plenty happening to us as it is, without your
infernal driveling about what _may_ happen."
"Isn't it about time for a real man to help Captain Mayo instead of
hindering him?" asked the girl. Evidently her new composure startled her
father.
"Ain't you scared any more, Polly? You ain't losing your mind, are you?"
"No, I have it back again, I hope."
"Your daughter is setting you a good example, Captain Candage. Now let's
get down to business, sir! What's your sheathing on the ribs?"
"Inch and a half spruce, if I remember right."
"I take it she is ribbed about every twelve inches."
"Near's I remember."
"All right! Swarm forward here, the three of you, and have those tools
handy as I need 'em."
He had brought the hammer and chisel in his reefer pockets, and set at
work on the sheathing over his head, having picked by touch and sense
of locality a section which he considered to be nearly amidship. It
was blind effort, but he managed to knock away a few square feet of the
spruce boarding after a time.
"Hand me that saw, whoever has it."
A hand came fumbling to his in the dark and gave him the tool. He began
on one of the oak ribs, uncovered when the boarding had been removed.
It was difficult and tedious work, for he could use only the tip of the
saw, because the ribs were so close together. But he toiled on steadily,
and at last the sound of his diligence appeared to animate the others.
When he rested for a moment Captain Candage offered to help with the
sawing.
"I think I'll be obliged to do it alone, sir. You can't tell in the dark
where I have left off. However, I'm glad to see that you're coming back
to your senses," he added, a bit caustically.
The master of the _Polly_ received that rebuke with a meekness that
indicated a decided change of heart. "I reckon me and Otie and Dolph
have been acting out what you might call pretty pussylaminous, as I
heard a schoolmarm say once," confessed the skipper, struggling with the
big word. "But we three ain't as young as we was once, and I'll leave it
to you, sir, if this wasn't something that nobody had ever reckoned on."
"There's considerable novelty in it," said Mayo, in dry tones, running
his fingers over the rib to find the saw-scarf. The ache had gone out of
his arms, and he was ready to begin again.
"I'm sorry we yanked you into all this trouble," Can-dage went on. "And
on the other hand, I ain't so sorry! Because if you hadn't been along
with us we'd never have got out of this scrape."
"We haven't got out of it yet, Captain Candage."
"Well, we are making an almighty good start, and I want to say here in
the hearing of all interested friends that you're the smartest cuss I
ever saw afloat."
"I hope you will forgive father," pleaded Polly of the _Polly_. He felt
her breath on his cheek. She was so near that her voice nearly jumped
him. "I don't mean to get in your way, Captain Mayo, but somehow I feel
safer if I'm close to you."
"And I guess all of us do," admitted Captain Candage.
Mayo stopped sawing for a moment. "What say, men? Let's be Yankee
sailors from this time on! We'll be the right sort, eh? We'll put this
brave little girl where she belongs--on God's solid ground!"
"Amen!" boomed Mr. Speed. "I have woke up. I must have been out of my
mind. I showed you my nature when I first met you, Captain Mayo, and I
reckon you found it was helpful and enterprising. I'll be the same from
now on, even if you order me to play goat and try to butt the bottom out
of her with my head." "Me, too!" said Smut-nosed Dolph.
IX ~ A MAN'S JOB
O Nancy Dawson, hi--o!
Cheer'ly man! She's got a notion, hi--o!
Cheer'ly manl For our old bo'sun, hi--o!
Cheer'ly man! O hauley hi--o!
Cheer'ly man!
--Hauling Song.
Boyd Mayo soon found that his ancestors had put no scrub timber into the
_Polly_. The old oak rib was tough as well as bulky. The task of sawing
with merely the tip of the blade in play required both muscle and
patience, and the position he was obliged to assume added to his
difficulties. He rested after he had sawed the rib in four places, and
decided to give Oakum Otie something to do; the mate had been begging
for an opportunity to grab in. He was ordered to knock away as much as
he could of the sawed section with hammer and chisel. Mayo figured that
when this section of rib had been removed it would leave room for a hole
through the bottom planks at least two feet square--and there were no
swelling girths in their party.
The mate had strength, and he was eager to display that helpful spirit
of which he had boasted. He went at the beam with all his might.
Mayo's attention had been centered on his task; now, with a moment's
leisure in which to note other matters, he was conscious of something
which provoked his apprehension; the air under the hull of the schooner
was becoming vitiated. His temples throbbed and his ears rang.
"Ain't it getting pretty stuffy in here?" asked the master, putting
words to Mayo's thoughts.
"I have been feeling like a bug under a thimble for some little time,"
stated Otie, whacking his chisel sturdily.
"Her bottom can't be awash with all this lumber in her. If we can only
get a little speck of a hole through the outside planking right now,
we'd better do it," suggested Candage.
"That's just what I have been doing," declared Mr. Speed. "I'm right
after the job, gents, when I get started on a thing. Helpful and
enterprising, that's my motto!"
The next moment, before Mayo, his thoughts busy with his new danger of
suffocation, could voice warning or had grasped the full import of the
dialogue, the chisel's edge plugged through the planking. Instantly
there was a hiss like escaping steam. Mayo yelled an oath and set his
hands against the mate, pushing him violently away. The industrious Mr.
Speed had been devoting his attention to the planking instead of to the
sawed beam.
Wan light filtered through the crevice made by the chisel and Mayo
planted his palm against the crack. The pressure held his hand as if it
were clamped against the planks, and the hissing ceased.
The schooner, as she lay, upside down in the sea, was practically a
diving-bell; with that hole in her shell their safety was in jeopardy.
The girl seemed to understand the situation before the duller minds of
her father and his mates had begun to work. She frenziedly sought for
Mayo's disengaged hand and thrust some kind of fabric into it.
"It's from my petticoat," she gasped. "Can you calk with it?"
"Hand me the chisel," he entreated.
As soon as she had given the tool to him he worked his hand free from
the crack and instantly drove the fabric into the crevice, crowding it
fold by fold with the edge of the chisel.
"Hope I didn't do anything wrong, trying to be helpful," apologized Mr.
Speed.
"I'll do the rest of this job without any such help," growled the
captain.
"But what are you stopping the air for when it's rushing in to liven us
up?" asked Dolph, plaintively.
"It was rushing out, fool! Rushing out so fast that this lumber would
have flattened us against the bottom of this hull in a little while."
"I would have figgered it just t'other way," stated Mr. Speed, humbly.
"Outside air, being fresh, ought nat'rally to rush in to fill the holes
we have breathed out of this air."
Mayo was in no mood to lecture on natural phenomena. He investigated the
cut which had been made by the incautious mate and estimated, by what
his fingers told him, that the schooner's bottom planks were three
inches thick. He settled back on his haunches and gave a little thought
to the matter, and understood that he had a ticklish job ahead of him.
Those planks must be gouged around the complete square of the proposed
opening, so that the section might be driven out in one piece by a blow
from beneath. That section must give way wholly and instantly. They were
doomed if they made a half-job of it. In that pitchy blackness he had
only his fingers to guide him. That one little streak of light from the
open world without was tantalizing promise. On the other side of those
planks was God's limitless air. The poor creatures penned under that
hull were gasping and choking for want of that air. Mayo set bravely to
work, hammering at the chisel-head above him.
All were silent. They felt the initial languor of suffocation and knew
the peril which was threatening them.
"If there is anything I can do--" ventured Otie.
"There isn't!"
Captain Mayo felt the lack of oxygen most cruelly, because he was
working with all his might. Perspiration was streaming into his eyes, he
was panting like a running dog, his blows were losing force.
He found that Otie had partly cleared out the rib before that
too-willing helper had taken it into his head to knock a hole through
the planking. The rib must come away entirely! The tough oak resisted;
the chisel slipped; it was maddeningly slow work. But he finished the
task at last and began to gouge a channel in the planking close to the
other ribs. Torpor was wrapping its tentacles about him. He heard his
companions gasping for breath. Then, all at once, he felt a little pat
on his shoulder. He knew that tap for what it was, though she did not
speak to him; it was the girl's reassuring touch. It comforted him to be
told in that manner that she was keeping up her courage in the horrible
situation. He beveled the planks as deeply as he dared, and made his cut
around three sides of his square. He was forced to stop for a moment and
lay prostrate, his face on the lumber.
"Take that saw, one of you, and chunk off a few short lengths of plank,"
he whispered, hoarsely. The rasp of the hand-saw informed him that he
had been obeyed.
He held his eyes wide open with effort as he lay there in the darkness.
Then he struggled up and went at his task once more. Queerly
flames were shooting before his straining eyes. He toiled in partial
delirium, and it seemed to him that he was looking again at the
phantasmagoria of the Coston lights on the fog when the yachtsmen were
serenading the girl of the Polly. He found himself muttering, keeping
time to his chisel-blows:
"Our Polly O,
O'er the sea you go--"
In all the human emotions there is no more maddening and soul-flaying
terror than the fear of being shut in, which wise men call
claustrophobia. Mayo had been a man of the open--of wide horizons,
drinking from the fount of all the air under the heavens. This hideous
confinement was demoralizing his reason. He wanted to throw down his
hammer and chisel and scream and kick and throw himself up against the
penning planks. On the other side was air--the open! There was still one
side of the square to do.
Again that comforting little hand touched his shoulder and he was
spurred by the thought that the girl was still courageous and had faith
in him. He groaned and kept on.
Lapse of time ceased to have significance. Every now and then the hammer
slipped and bruised his hand cruelly. But he did not feel the hurt. Both
tools wavered in his grasp. He struck a desperate--a despairing blow and
the hammer and chisel dropped. He knew that he had finished the fourth
side. He fell across Polly Candage's lap and she helped him to his
knees.
"I'm done, men," he gasped. "All together with those joists! Strike
together! Right above my head."
He heard the skipper count one--two--three. He heard the concerted blow.
The planks did not give way.
"We don't seem to have no strength left," explained the mate, in hoarse
tones.
They struck again, but irregularly.
"It's our lives--our lives, men!" cried Mayo. "Ram it to her!"
"Here's one for you, Captain Mayo," said Candage, and he thrust a length
of plank into the groping hands.
"Make it together, this time--together!" commanded Mayo. "Hard--one,
two, three!"
They drove their battering-rams up against the prisoning roof. Fury and
despair were behind their blow.
The glory of light flooded into their blinking eyes.
The section had given way!
Mayo went first and he snapped out with almost the violence of a cork
popping from a bottle. He felt the rush of the imprisoned air past him
as he emerged. Instantly he turned and thrust down his hands and pulled
the girl up into the open and the others followed, the lumber pushing
under their feet.
It seemed to Captain Mayo, after those few frenzied moments of escape,
that he had awakened from a nightmare; he found himself clinging to the
schooner's barnacled keel, his arm holding Polly Candage from sliding
down over the slimy bottom into the sea.
"Good jeero! We've been in there all night," bawled Captain Candage. He
lay sprawled on the bottom of the Polly, his hornbeam hands clutching
the keel, his face upraised wonderingly to the skies that were flooded
with the glory of the morning. Otie and Dolph were beside him, mouths
open, gulping in draughts of the air as if they were fish freshly drawn
from the ocean depths.
There was a long silence after the skipper's ejaculation.
Thoughts, rather than words, fitted that sacred moment of their
salvation.
The five persons who lay there on the bottom of the schooner stared at
the sun in its cloudless sky and gazed off across the sea whose blue was
shrouded by the golden haze of a perfect summer's day. Only a lazy roll
was left of the sudden turbulence of the night before. A listless breeze
with a fresh tang of salt in it lapped the surface of the long,
slow surges, and the facets of the ripples flashed back the sunlight
cheerily.
Captain Candage pulled himself to the keel, sat upon it, and found
speech in faltering manner.
"I ain't a member of no church, never having felt the need of j'ining,
and not being handy where I could tend out. But I ain't ashamed to say
here, before witnesses, that I have just been telling God, as best I
know how, hoping He'll excuse me if I 'ain't used the sanctimonious way,
that I'm going to be a different man after this--different and better,
according to my best lights."
"I believe you have spoken for all of us, Captain Can-dage," said Mayo,
earnestly. "I thank you!"
They all perceived that the _Polly_ had made offing at a lively pace
during her wild gallop under the impetus of the easterly.
Mayo balanced himself on the keel and took a long survey of the horizon.
In one place a thread of blue, almost as delicate as the tracery of a
vein on a girl's arm, suggested shore line. But without a glass he was
not sure. He saw no sign of any other craft; the storm had driven all
coasters to harbor--and there was not wind enough as yet to help them
out to sea again. But he did not worry; he was sure that something,
some yacht or sea-wagon, would come rolling up over the rim of the ocean
before long. The faint breeze which fanned their faces was from the
southwest, and that fact promised wind enough to invite shipping to
spread canvas.
Only the oval of the schooner's broad bilge showed above water, and the
old Polly was so flat and tubby that their floating islet afforded only
scant freeboard.
Mayo shoved his arm down into the hole through which they had escaped.
After the air had been forced out the lumber was within reach from the
schooner's bottom. He fumbled about and found the ax. Some of the short
bits of lumber which they had used as battering-rams were in the jaws
of the hole. He busied himself with hewing these ends of planks into big
wedges and he drove them into cracks between the planks near the keel.
"It may come to be a bit sloppy when this sou'wester gets its gait on,"
he suggested to the skipper. "We'll have something to hang on to."
Captain Candage's first thankfulness had shown a radiant gloss. But
he was a sailorman, he was cautious, he was naturally apprehensive
regarding all matters of the sea, and that gloss was now dulled a bit by
his second thought.
"We may have to hang on to something longer 'n we reckon on. We're too
far off for the coasters and too far in for the big fellers. And unless
something comes pretty clost to us we can't be seen no more 'n as if we
was mussels on a tide reef. We'd ought to have something to stick up."
"If we could only work out one of those long joists it would make a
little show." Captain Mayo shoved his arm down the hole again. "But they
are wedged across too solidly."
"I think there's a piece of lumber floating over there," cried the girl.
She was clinging to one of the wedges, and the composure which she felt,
or had assumed, stirred Mayo's admiration. The plump hand which she held
against her forehead to shield her eyes did not tremble. From the little
Dutch cap, under the edge of which stray locks peeped, down over her
attire to her toes, she seemed to be still trim and trig, in spite of
her experiences below in the darkness and the wet. With a sort of mild
interest in her, he reflected that her up-country beau would be very
properly proud of her if he could see her there on that schooner's keel.
"What a picture you would make, Miss Candage, just as you are!" he
blurted. She took down her hand, and the look she gave him did not
encourage compliments. "Just as you are, and call it 'The Wreck,'"
he added.
"Do I look as badly as all that, Captain Mayo?"
"You look--" he expostulated, and hesitated, for her gaze was distinctly
not reassuring.
"Don't tell me, please, how I look. I'm thankful that I have no mirror.
Isn't that a piece of lumber?" she inquired, crisply, putting a stop on
further personalities. "Wait! It's down in a hollow just now."
The sea lifted it again immediately. Mayo saw that it was a long
strip of scantling, undoubtedly from the deckload that the _Polly_
had jettisoned when she was tripped. It lay to windward, and that fact
promised its recovery; but how was the tide? Mayo squinted at the sun,
did a moment's quick reckoning from the tide time of the day before, and
smiled.
"We'll get that, Miss Candage. She's coming this way."
Watching it, seeing it lift and sink, waiting for it, helped to pass the
time. Then at last it came alongside, and he crawled cautiously down the
curve of the bilge and secured it. After he had braced it in the hole
in the schooner's bottom with the help of Mr. Speed, the girl gave him a
crumpled wad of cloth when he turned from his task.
"It's the rest of my petticoat. You may as well have it," she explained,
a pretty touch of pink confusion in her cheeks.
Mr. Speed boosted Mayo and the young man attached the cloth to the
scantling and flung their banner to the breeze. Then there was not much
to do except to wait, everlastingly squinting across the bright sea to
the horizon's edge.
X ~ HOSPITALITY, PER JULIUS MARSTON
Hoo--oo--rah; and up she rises!
Hoo--oo--rah! and up she rises!
Early in the morning.
What shall we do with a saucy sailor?
Put him in the long boat and make him bail 'erv
Early in the morn--ing!
--Old "Stamp-and-go."
Mayo saw the sail first. It was coming in from the sea, and was very far
and minute. He pointed it out with an exclamation.
"What do you make it, sir?" asked Captain Candage. "Your eyes are
younger 'n mine are."
"I reckon it's a fisherman bound in from Cashes Banks. He seems to be
lying well over, and that shows there's a good breeze outside. He ought
to reach near enough to see us, judging from the way he's heading."
That little sail, nicked against the sky, was something else to watch
and speculate on and wait for, and they forgot, almost, that they were
hungry and thirsty and sun-parched.
However, Captain Mayo kept his own gaze most steadfastly on the landward
horizon. He did not reveal any of his thoughts, for he did not want
to raise false hopes. Nevertheless, it was firmly in his mind that no
matter what might be the sentiments of Julius Marston in regard to his
recent skipper, the mate and engineer on board the _Olenia_ were loyal
friends who would use all their influence with the owner to urge him to
come seeking the man who had been lost.
The fact that a motor-boat had come popping out of Saturday Cove in
pursuit of the schooner suggested that Mate McGaw had suspected what had
happened, and was not dragging the cove-bottom for a drowned man.
Mayo had plenty of time for pondering on the matter, and he allowed hope
to spice his guesses. He knew Mate McGaw's characteristics and decided
that the yacht would get under way early, would nose into a few near-by
harbors where a gale-ridden schooner might have dodged for safety, and
then would chase down the sea, following the probable course of a craft
which had been caught in that nor'easter. Mate McGaw was a sailorly man
and understood how to fit one fact with another. He had a due portion of
mariner's imagination, and was not the sort to desert a chum, even if
he were obliged to use stiff speech to convert an owner. Therefore, Mayo
peered toward the blue shore-line, coddling hope. He wondered whether
Mate McGaw would have courage to slip a word of encouragement to Alma
Marston if she asked questions.
Mayo was elated rather than astonished when he spied a smear of drab
smoke and was able to determine that the craft which was puffing that
smoke was heading out to sea, not crawling alongshore.
"That's a fisherman all right, and he's bound to come clost enough to
make us out," stated Captain Candage, his steady gaze to southward.
"But here comes another fellow who is going to beat him to us,"
announced Captain Mayo, gaily.
"And what do you make it?" asked the skipper, blinking at the distant
smoke.
"A yacht, probably."
"Huh? A yacht! If that's what it is they'll most likely smash right
past. They'll think we're out here on a fishing picnic, most like.
That's about all these yacht fellers know."
The girl gave her father a frown of protest, but Mayo smiled at her.
"I think this one is different, sir. If I am not very much mistaken,
that is the yacht _Olenia_ and she is hunting me up. Mate McGaw is one
of our best little guessers."
A quarter of an hour later he was able to assure them that the on-coming
craft was the _Olenia_.
"Good old Mate McGaw!" he cried, rapturously. In his joy he wished he
could make them his confidants, tell them who was waiting for him on
board that yacht, make them understand what wonderful good fortune was
his.
After a time--the long time that even a fast yacht seems to consume in
covering distance to effect the rescue of those who are anxious--the
Olenita's whistle hooted hoarsely to assure them that they had been
seen.
"The same to you, Mate McGaw!" choked Captain Mayo, swinging his cap in
wide circles.
"Seeing that things have come round as they have, I'm mighty glad for
you, Captain Mayo," declared Candage. "I ain't no kind of a hand to
plaster a man all over with thanks--"
"I don't want thanks, sir. We worked together to save our lives."
"Then I'm hoping that there won't be any hard feelings one way or the
other. I have lost my schooner by my blasted foolishness. So I'll say
good-by and--"
"Good-by?" demanded Mayo, showing his astonishment. "Why are you saying
good-by to me now?"
"Because you are going aboard your yacht."
"The rest of you are going there, too."
"It ain't for poor critters like us to go mussing--"
"Look here, Captain Candage, I am the captain of that yacht, and I say
that you are coming on board and stay until I can set you ashore at the
handiest port."
"I'd just as lieve wait for that fisherman, sir. I'll feel more at home
aboard him."
"You ought to think of your daughter's condition first, Captain Candage.
She needs a few comforts right away, and you won't find them on board a
fisherman."
He turned to the girt who sat on the keel, silent, looking away to sea.
She seemed to show a strange lack of interest in the yacht. Her pretty
face exhibited no emotion, but somehow she was a wistfully pathetic
figure as she sat there. Mayo's countenance showed much more concern
than she expressed when she faced about at the sound of his voice and
looked at him. Color came into his cheeks; there was embarrassment in
his eyes, a queer hesitancy in his tones.
"There is a young lady--there are several young ladies--but there is Mr.
Marston's daughter!" he faltered. "She is on the yacht. I--I know she
will do all she can for you. She will be good to you!" His eyes fell
under her frank and rather quizzical gaze.
"She might not care to be bothered with such a ragamuffin."
"I can speak for her!" he cried, eagerly. He was now even more disturbed
by the glance she gave him. He had read that women have intuition in
affairs of the heart.
"I am quite certain you can, Captain Mayo," she assured him, demurely.
"And I am grateful. But perhaps we'd be better off on board that other
vessel--father and the rest of us."
"I insist," he said, but he did not dare to meet her searching eyes. "I
insist!" he repeated, resuming the decisive manner which he had shown
before on board the _Polly_.
The _Olenia_, slowing down, had come close aboard, and her churning
screws pulled her to a standstill. Her crew sent a tender rattling down
from her port davits. As she rolled on the surge her brass rails caught
the sunlight in long flashes which fairly blinded the hollow eyes of
the castaways. The white canvas of bridge and awnings gleamed in snowy
purity. She was so near that Dolph smelled the savory scents from her
galley and began to "suffle" moisture in the corners of his mouth.
They who waited on the barnacled hulk of the Polly, faint with hunger,
bedraggled with brine, unkempt and wholly miserable after a night of
toils and vigil, felt like beggars at a palace gate as they surveyed her
immaculateness.
A sort of insolent opulence seemed to exude from her. Mayo, her captain
though he was, felt that suggestion of insolence more keenly than his
companions, for he had had bitter and recent experience with the moods
of Julius Marston.
He did not find Marston a comforting object for his gaze; the
transportation magnate was pacing the port alley with a stride that was
plainly impatient. Close beside the gangway stood Alma Marston, spotless
in white duck. Each time her father turned his back on her she put out
her clasped hands toward her lover with a furtive gesture.
Polly Candage watched this demonstration with frank interest, and
occasionally stole side-glances at the face of the man who stood beside
her on the schooner's bottom; he was wholly absorbed in his scrutiny of
the other girl.
Mate McGaw himself was at the tiller of the tender. His honest face was
working with emotion, and he began to talk before the oarsmen had eased
the boat against the overturned hulk.
"I haven't closed my eyes, Captain Mayo. Stayed up all night, trying
to figure it out. Almost gave up all notion that you were aboard the
schooner. You didn't hail the boat we sent out."
"I tried to do it; perhaps you couldn't hear me."
Captain Candage's countenance showed gratitude and relief.
"This morning I tried Lumbo and two other shelters, and then chased
along the trail of the blow."
Mayo trod carefully down the bilge and clasped the mate's hand. "I was
looking for you, Mr. McGaw. I know what kind of a chap you are."
McGaw, still holding to the captain's hand, spoke in lower tones. "Had
a devil of a time with the owner, sir. He was bound to have it that you
had deserted."
"I was afraid he would think something of the sort."
The mate showed frank astonishment. "You was afraid of _what?_ Why,
sir, I wanted to tell him that he was a crazy man to have any such ideas
about you! Yes, sir, I came nigh telling him that! I would have done it
if I hadn't wanted to keep mild and meek whilst I was arguing with him
and trying to make him give me leave to search!"
"We have had a terrible time of it, Mr. McGaw," stated Mayo, avoiding
the mate's inquisitiveness. "I am going to take these folks on board and
set them ashore."
"Ay, sir, of course."
The two of them stood with clasped hands and held the tender close to
the wreck until the passengers embarked. When they reached the foot of
the _Olenia_'s steps Captain Mayo sent his guests ahead of him.
Marston paused in his march and scowled, and the folks on the
quarter-deck crowded to the rail, showing great interest.
Captain Mayo exchanged a long look with Alma Marston when he came up
the steps. Love, pity, and greeting were in his eyes. Her countenance
revealed her vivid emotions; she was overwrought, unstrung, half-crazed
after a night spent with her fears. When he came within her reach
caution was torn from her as gossamer is flicked away by a gale. Impulse
had always governed her; she gave way to it then.
"I don't care," she sobbed. "I love you. They may as well know it!"
Before he understood her intentions or could prevent her rashness she
flung her arms about his neck and kissed him repeatedly.
Marston stood in his tracks like a man stricken by paralysis; his cigar
dropped from his open mouth. This exhibition under his very nose, with
his guests and the whole crew of his yacht looking on, fairly stunned
him.
"If you had died I would have died!" she wailed.
Then her father plunged toward her, elbowing the astonished Beveridge
out of his way.
Captain Mayo gently unhooked the arms of the frantic girl from about his
neck and stepped forward, putting himself between father and daughter.
He was not taking sensible thought in the matter; he was prompted by an
instinctive impulse to protect her.
Mayo had no word ready at his tongue's end, and Mar-ston's anathema was
muffled and incoherent. The girl's rash act had tipped over the sane and
manly self-possession of both of them. The captain was too bewildered
to comprehend the full enormity of his action in standing guard over the
daughter of Julius Marston, as if she needed protection on her father's
quarter-deck. He did not move to one side of the alley when Marston
jerked an impatient gesture.
"I want to say that I am wholly to blame, sir," he faltered. "I hope you
will overlook--"
"Are you presuming to discuss my daughter's insanity with me?" He
noticed that the sailors were preparing to hoist the tender to the
davits. "Drop that boat back into the water!" he shouted. There was an
ugly rasp in his voice, and for a moment it seemed as if he were about
to lose control of himself. Then he set a check on his temper and
tongue, though his face was deathly white and his eyes were as hard as
marbles. Resolve to end further exhibition in this incredible business
dominated his wrathful shame.
"If you will set us ashore--" pleaded Mayo.
"Get back into that boat, you and your gang, whatever it is!"
"Mr. Marston, this young woman needs--"
"Get into that boat, or I'll have the bunch of you thrown overboard!"
The owner spoke in low tones, but his furious determination was
apparent.
"We will go without being thrown, sir. Will you order us set aboard that
fisherman?" He pointed to the little schooner which was almost within
hailing distance.
"Get off! I don't care where you go!" He crowded past Mayo, seized his
daughter's arm, and led her aft.
She seemed to have expended all her determination in her sensational
outburst.
The captain met her pleading gaze as she turned to leave. "It's for the
best," he declared, bravely. "I'll make good!"
The pathetic castaways from the _Polly_ made a little group at the
gangway, standing close to the rail, as if they feared to step upon the
white deck. Mate McGaw intercepted Mayo as he was about to join them.
"Hadn't I better stretch Section Two of the collision act a mite and
scare him with the prospect of a thousand-dollar fine?" asked the mate,
eagerly. "My glory, Captain Mayo, I'm so weak I can hardly stand up!
Who'd have thought it?"
"We'll go aboard the schooner, Mr. McGaw. It's the place for us."
"Maybe it is, but I'll speak up if you say the word, and make him set
you ashore--even if I leave along with you?"
"Keep your job, sir. Will you pick up my few little belongings in my
stateroom and bring them to me, Mr. McGaw? I'd better stay here on deck
with my friends." He emphasized the last word, and Captain Candage gave
him a grateful look. "I'm sorry, mates! I can't say any more!" Captain
Mayo did not allow himself to make further comment on the melancholy
situation. The others were silent; the affair was out of their
reckoning; they had no words to fit the case. Polly Candage stood
looking out to sea. He had hoped that she would give him a glance of
understanding sympathy, at least. But she did not, not even when he
helped her down the steps into the tender.
Mate McGaw came with the captain's bag and belongings, and promptly
received orders from the owner from the quarter-deck.
"Go on to the bridge and hail that schooner. Tell her we are headed for
New York and can't be bothered by these persons!"
Mr. McGaw grasped Mayo's hand in farewell, and then he hurried to his
duty. His megaphoned message echoed over their heads while the tender
was on its way.
"Ay, ay, sir!" returned the fishing-skipper, with hearty bellow. "Glad
to help sailors in trouble."
"And that shows you--" blurted Captain Candage, and stopped his say in
the middle of his outburst when his daughter shoved a significant fist
against his ribs.
Captain Mayo turned his head once while the tender was hastening toward
the schooner. But there were no women in sight on the yacht's deck.
There was an instant's flutter of white from a stateroom port, but he
was not sure whether it was a handkerchief or the end of a wind-waved
curtain. He faced about resolutely and did not look behind again. Shame,
misery, hopelessness--he did not know which emotion was stinging him
most poignantly. The oarsmen in the tender were gazing upward innocently
while they rowed, but he perceived that they were hiding grins. His
humiliation in that amazing fashion would be the forecastle jest.
Through him these new friends of his had been subjected to insult. He
felt that he understood what Polly Candage's silence meant.
The next moment he felt the pat of a little hand on the fist he was
clenching on his knee.
"Poor boy!" she whispered. "I understand! It will come out right if you
don't lose courage."
But she was not looking at him when he gave her a quick side-glance.
The fisherman had come into the wind, rocking on the long swell, dingy
sails flapping, salt-stained sides dipping and flashing wet gleams as
she rolled. Her men were rigging a ladder over the side.
"I want to say whilst we're here together and there's time to say it,"
announced Captain Candage, "that we are one and all mighty much obliged
for that invite you gave us to come aboard the yacht, sir, and we all
know that if--well, if things had been different from what they was you
would have used us all right. And what I might say about yachts and the
kind of critters that own 'em I ain't a-going to say."
"You are improving right along, father," observed Polly Candage, dryly.
"Still, I have my own idees on the subject. But that's neither here nor
there. You're a native and I'm a native, and I want ye should just look
at that face leaning over the lee rail, there, and then say that now we
know that we're among real friends."
It was a rubicund and welcoming countenance under the edge of a rusty
black oilskin sou'wester hat, and the man was manifestly the skipper.
Every once in a while he flourished his arm encouragingly.
"Hearty welcome aboard the _Reuben and Esther_," he called out when the
tender swung to the foot of the ladder. "What schooner is she, there?"
"Poor old _Polly_," stated the master, first up the ladder. In his haste
to greet the fishing-skipper he left his daughter to the care of Captain
Mayo.
"That's too bad--too bad!" clucked the fishing-skipper, full measure of
sympathy in his demeanor. "She was old, but she was able, sir!"
"And here's another poor Polly," stated Captain Candage. "I was fool
enough to take her out of a good home for a trip to sea."
The skipper ducked salute. "Make yourself to home, miss. Go below. House
is yours!"
Then the schooner lurched away on her shoreward tack, and the insolent
yacht marched off down across the shimmering waves.
Mayo shook hands with the solicitous fisherman in rather dreamy and
indifferent fashion. He realized that he was faint with hunger, but he
refused to eat. Fatigue and grief demanded their toll in more imperious
fashion than hunger. He lay down in the sun in the lee alley, put his
head on his crossed arms, and blessed sleep blotted out his bitter
thoughts.
XI ~ A VOICE FROM HUE AND CRY
But when the money's all gone and spent,
And there's none to be borrowed and none to be lent,
In comes old Grouchy with a frown,
Saying, "Get up, Jack, let John sit down."
For it's now we're outward bound,
Hur-rah, we're outward bound!
--Song of the Dog and Bell.
Captain Mayo, when he woke, had it promptly conveyed to him that
hospitality on board the _Reuben and Esther_ had watchful eyes. While he
was rubbing feeling back into his stiffened limbs, sitting there in the
lee alley, the cook came lugging a pot of hot coffee and a plate heaped
with food.
"Thought you'd rather have it here than in the cuddy. The miss is asleep
in the house," whispered the cook.
Captain Candage came to Mayo while the latter was eating and sat down on
the deck. Gloom had settled on the schooner's master. "I don't want to
bother you with my troubles, seeing that you've got aplenty of your own,
sir. But I'm needing a little advice. I have lost a schooner that has
been my home ever since I was big enough to heave a dunnage-bag over
the rail, and not a cent of insurance. Insurance would have et up all my
profits. What do you think of my chances to make a dollar over and above
providing I hire a tugboat and try to salvage?"
"According to my notion your chances would be poor, sir. Claims in such
cases usually eat up all a craft is worth. Besides, you may find those
yachtsmen on your back for damages, providing you get her in where she
can be libeled."
"I shouldn't wonder a mite," admitted Captain Can-dage. "The more some
folks have the more they keep trying to git."
"I was looking her bottom over while we sat there, and it must be owned
up that her years have told on her."
"I hate to let her go."
"That's natural, sir. But I have an idea that she will be reported as
a menace to navigation, and that a coastguard cutter will blow her up
before you can get around to make your salvage arrangements."
"When a man is down they all jump on him."
"I can agree with you there," affirmed Captain Mayo, mournfully.
"She showed grit--that girl," ventured Candage, giving the other man
keen survey from under his grizzled brows.
"I must ask you to furl sail on that subject, sir," snapped Mayo, with
sailor bluntness.
"I only said it complimentary. Lots of times girls have more grit than
they are given credit for. You think they're just girls, and then you
find out that they are hero-ines! I thought I had some grit, but my own
Polly has shamed me. I was just down watching her--she's asleep in Cap'n
Sinnett's bunk. Made the tears come up into my eyes, sir, to ponder
on what she has been through on account of my cussed foolishness. Of
course, you haven't been told. But confession is good for a man, and I'm
going to own up. I took her with me to get her away from a fellow who is
courting her."
Mayo did not offer comment. He wanted to advise the skipper to keep
still on that subject, too.
"I don't say he ain't good enough for her. Maybe he is. But I 'ain't
been realizing that she has growed up. When I found she was being
courted it was like hitting a rock in a fairway. You are young, and you
are around consid'able and know the actions of young folks. What's your
advice?"
"I don't know anything about the circumstances, sir."
"But speaking generally," insisted Captain Candage. "I want to do what's
right. There ain't many I can bring myself to ask. I'm a poor old fool,
I'm afraid. Won't you kind of grab in on this, Captain Mayo? I do need a
little advice." His rough hands trembled on his knees.
"If the young man is worthy--is the right sort," returned Mayo, in
gentler tones, "I think you are making a great mistake by interfering."
"I'll go look that young fellow over--re-survey him, as ye might say,"
stated the skipper, after a moment's meditation.
"I don't know your daughter very well, sir, but I have much faith in her
judgment. If I were you I'd allow her to pick her own husband."
"Thanks for that advice. I know it comes from a man who has shown that
he knows exactly what to do in emergencies. I have changed my mind about
her being courted, sir."
"Honest love isn't a question of money, Captain Candage. Many good girls
are ruined by--" He was speaking bitterly and he checked himself. "Where
is Captain Sinnett going to set us ashore?"
"Maquoit. He is going to take his fish to the big market. But he said he
would set us ashore anywhere, and so I said Maquoit. I might as well be
there as anywhere till I know what I'm going to do."
"Same thing holds good for me, I suppose. I don't feel like going to the
city just yet."
Captain Sinnett came rolling into the alley, and when Mayo started to
thank him for the trouble he was taking he raised in genial protest a
hand which resembled in spread a split codfish.
"Trouble! It ain't trouble. Was going to call into Maquoit to ice up,
anyway. I know my manners even if them yachting fellows didn't."
Captain Candage preserved the demeanor of innocence under Mayo's
scrutiny.
"I've missed you off the fishing-grounds--didn't know you had gone on to
a yacht, sir," pursued Captain Sinnett. "Hope to see you back into the
fishing business again; that is, providing you don't go on one of
them beam trawlers that are hooking up the bottom of the Atlantic and
sp'iling the thing entire for us all."
"I agree with you about the trawler; that's why I quit. And as to
yachting, I think I'll go after a real man's job, sir!"
"So do! You'll be contenteder," replied the other, significance in his
tones.
Mayo knew that his secret had been exposed, but he had no relish for an
argument with Captain Candage on the subject of garrulity. He finished
his coffee and went forward where the fishermen were coiling the
gang-lines into the tubs.
The fisherman made port at Maquoit late in the afternoon, and was warped
to her berth at the ice-house wharf.
The castaways went ashore.
Maquoit was a straggling hamlet at the head of a cove which nicked the
coast-line.
Captain Candage, an Apple-treer, who knew every hole alongshore where
refuge from stress of weather was afforded, led his party through the
village with confidence.
"There's a widder here who will put us up for what time we want to
stay--and be glad of the money. I knowed her husband in the coasting
trade. I like to get into a place like this that 'ain't been sp'iled
by them cussed rusticators and the prices they are willing to pay,"
he confided to Mayo. He slyly exhibited a wallet that was stuffed with
paper money. "I ain't busted, but there's no sense in paying more 'n
five dollars a week anywhere for vittles and bed. She will make plenty
off'n us at that rate. You just let me do the dickering."
The widow proved to be a kindly soul who, in the first excitement of
her sympathetic nature, resolutely refused to consider the matter of any
payment whatever.
"You are shipwrecked, and my poor husband's body wouldn't rest quiet
wherever it is in the Atlantic Ocean if I grabbed money from shipwrecked
folks."
However, in the end, Captain Candage worked her up from three dollars
to five per week, and she took Polly Candage into her heart and into the
best chamber.
Captain Mayo came back to supper after a moody stroll about the village.
Skipper Candage was patrolling the widow's front yard and was exhibiting
more cheerfulness.
"It's God's Proverdunce and your grit that has saved us, sir. I have
come out of my numb condition and sense it all. What's your plans?"
"I don't seem to be able to make any just yet."
"I'm going to stay right here for a spell, and shall keep Dolph and Otie
with me. We shall be here on the coast where we can hear of something
to grab in on. As soon as Polly gets straightened around I'll let her go
home to her aunt. But, of course, hanging around here doesn't offer you
any attractions, sir. You're looking for bigger game than we are."
"I have about made up my mind to leave in the morning on the stage. I'll
go somewhere."
The widow tapped her knuckles on the glass of a near-by window.
"Supper!" she announced. "Hurry in whilst it's hot!"
"I always do my best pondering on a full stomach," said Captain Candage.
"And I smell cream-o'-tartar biskits and I saw her hulling field
strorb'ries. Better look on the bright side of things along with me,
Captain Mayo."
Captain Mayo failed to find any bright side as he turned his affairs
over in his mind. He had only a meager stock of money. He had used his
modest earnings in settling the debts of the family estate. The outlook
for employment was vague--he could not estimate to what extent the
hostility of Julius Marston might block his efforts, provided the
magnate troubled himself to descend to meddle with the affairs of such
an inconspicuous person. His poor little romance with Alma Marston had
been left in a shocking condition. He did not talk at the supper-table,
and the widow's wholesome food was like ashes in his mouth. He went out
and sat on the porch of the widow's cottage and looked into the sunset
and saw nothing in its rosy hues to give him encouragement for his own
future.
Polly Candage came timidly and sat down beside him. "Father says you
think of leaving in the morning!"
"There's nothing for me here."
"Probably not."
A long silence followed.
"I suppose you don't care to have me talk to you, Captain Mayo?"
"I'll listen to you gratefully, any time."
"I'm only a country girl. I don't know how to say it--how to tell you
I'm so sorry for you!"
"That one little pat on my hand to-day, it was better than words."
"It's all I can think about--your unhappiness."
"That touches me because I know that you have enough sorrow of your
own."
"Sorrow!" She opened her eyes wide.
"Perhaps I have no business speaking of it," he returned, with
considerable embarrassment.
"And yet I have been so bold as to speak to you!"
There was a touch of reproach in her voice, and therefore he ventured:
"Your father told me--I tried to stop him, but he went on and
said--Well, I understand! But I have some consolation for you and I'm
going to speak out. He says he is going to allow you to marry your young
man."
"Did he dare to talk such matters over with you?"
"He insisted on doing it--on asking my advice. So I advised in a way to
help you. I am glad, for your sake, that he is coming to his senses."
"I thank you for your help," she said, stiffly.
"Of course it's none of my business. I'm sorry he told me. But I wish
you all happiness."
She rose as if to go away. Then she stamped her foot and sat down. "My
father ought to be muzzled!"
She realized that he might misinterpret her indignation, for he said:
"I'm ashamed because I meddled in your affairs. But from what you saw
to-day in my case, I felt that I ought to help others who are in the
same trouble."
"But my father has mistaken my--" She broke off in much confusion, not
understanding the queer look he gave her. "I--I am glad my father is
coming to his senses and will allow me to--to--marry the young man," she
stammered. "And now I think I may be allowed to say that I hope you may
have the girl you love, some day. Would you like to have me talk to you
about her--how dear and pretty I think she is?"
"No, it hurts! But I do want you to know, Miss Can-dage, that I'm not
out fortune-hunting. I love her for herself--just herself--nothing
more!"
"I know it must be so."
"And I know that a young man you would choose is worthy of you. I told
your father--"
"No matter. _That_ hurts, too! We both understand. We'll leave it
there!"
After the declaration of that truce they were frankly at ease and began
to chat with friendly freedom. The dusk came shading into the west, the
evening star dripped silver light.
"It's a peaceful spot here," she suggested. "Everybody seems to be
contented."
"Contentment--in a rut--that may be the best way of passing this life,
after all."
"But if you were in the rut, Captain Mayo, you might find that
contentment would not agree to come and live with you."
"Probably it wouldn't! I'd have to be born to the life here like this
chap who is coming up the hill. You can see that he isn't worrying about
himself or the world outside."
The man was clumping slowly along in his rubber boots; an old cap was
slewed awry on his head, its peak drawn down over one ear. He cocked up
the other ear at sound of voices on the porch and loafed up and sat down
on the edge of the boarding. Captain Mayo and the girl, accustomed to
bland indifference to formality in rural neighborhoods, accepted this
interruption without surprise or protest.
"'Tain't a bad night as nights go," stated the caller.
"It's a beautiful night," said Polly Candage.
"I reckon it seems so to you, after what you went through. I've been
harking to your father telling the yarn down to the store."
They did not reply, having their own ideas as to Captain Candage's
loquacity.
The caller hauled a plug of tobacco from his pocket, gnawed off a chew,
and began slow wagging of his jaws. "This world is full of trouble," he
observed,
"It seems to be," agreed Captain Mayo.
"Them what's down get kicked further down."
"Also true, in many cases."
"Take your case! It's bad. But our'n is worse!" The caller pointed to
the dim bulk of a small island which the cove held between the bold jaws
of its headland. "The old sir who named that Hue and Cry Island must
have smelt into the future so as to know what was going to happen there
some day--and this is the day!" He chewed on, and his silence became
irritating.
"Well, what has happened?" demanded the captain.
"It hasn't happened just yet--it's going to."
Further silence.
"Tell us what's going to happen, can't you?"
"Of course I can, now that you have asked me. I ain't no hand to butt
in. I ain't no hand to do things unless I'm asked. There's seventeen
fam'lies of us on Hue and Cry and they've told us to get off."
"Who told you?"
"The state! Some big bugs come along and said the Governor sent 'em, and
they showed papers and we've got to go."
"But I know about Hue and Cry!" protested Mayo. "You people have lived
there for years!"
"Sure have! My grandfather was one of the first settlers. Most all of us
who live there had grandfathers who settled the place. But according to
what is told us, some heirs have found papers what say that they own
the island. The state bought out the heirs. Now the state says get off.
We're only squatters, state says."
"But, good Caesar, man, you have squatter rights after all these years.
Hire a lawyer. Fight the case!"
"We ain't fighters. 'Ain't got no money--'ain't got no friends. Might
have fit plain heirs, but you can't fight the state--leastways, poor
cusses like us can't."
"Where are you going?"
"Well, there's the problem! That's what made me say that this world is
full of trouble. You see, we have taken town help in years past--had to
do it or starve winters. And we have had state aid, too. They say that
makes paupers of us. Every town round about has served notice that we
can't settle there and gain pauper residence. Hue and Cry 'ain't ever
been admitted to any town. Towns say, seeing that the state has ordered
us off, now let the state take care of us."
"And men have been here, representing the state?"
"You bet they have."
"What do they say?"
"Say get off! But they won't let us settle on the main. Looks like they
wanted us to go up in balloons. But we hain't got no balloons. Got to
move, though."
"I never heard of such a thing!"
"Nor I, neither," admitted this man, with a sort of calm numbness of
discouragement. "But that ain't anyways surprising. We don't hear much
about anything on Hue and Cry till they come and tell us. Speaking for
myself, I ain't so awful much fussed up. I've got a house-bo't to
take my wife and young ones on, and we'll keep on digging clams for
trawlers--sixty cents a bucket, shucked, and we can dig and shuck a
bucket a day, all hands turning to. We won't starve. But I pity the poor
critters that 'ain't got a house-bo't. Looks like they'd need wings. I
ain't worrying a mite, I say. I had the best house on the island, and
the state has allowed a hundred and fifty dollars for it. I consider I'm
well fixed."
The plutocrat of the unhappy tribe of Hue and Cry rose and stretched
with a comfortable grunt.
"If it ain't one thing it's another," he said, as he started off. "We've
got to have about so much trouble, anyway, and it might just as well be
this as anything else." %
"Why, that's an awful thing to happen to those people!" declared the
girl. "I must say, he takes it calmly."
"He is a fair sample of some of the human jellyfish I have found hidden
away in odd corners on this coast," stated Captain Mayo. "Not enough
mind or spirit left to fight for his own protection. But this thing is
almost unbelievable. It can't be possible that the state is gunning an
affair like this! I'll find somebody who knows more about it than that
clam-digging machine!"
A little later a man strolled past, hands behind his back. He was
placidly smoking a cigar, and, though the dusk had deepened, Mayo could
perceive that he was attired with some pretensions to city smartness.
"I beg your pardon, sir," called the young man. "But do you know
anything about the inwardness of this business on Hue and Cry Island?"
"I can tell you _all_ about it," stated the person who had been hailed.
He sauntered up and sat down on the edge of the porch. He showed the air
of a man who was killing time. "I'm in charge of it."
"Not of putting those people off the island?"
"Sure! That's what I'm here for. I'm state agent on pauper affairs,
acting for the Governor and Council."
"You say the state is back of this?" demanded Mayo, incredulously.
"Certainly! It's a matter that the state was obliged to take up. State
has bought that island from the real heirs, has ordered off those
squatters, and we shall burn down their shacks and clear the land up.
Of course, we allow heads of families some cash for their houses, if
you can call 'em houses. That's under the law regulating squatter
improvements. But improvements is a polite word for the buildings on
that island. It is going to cost us good money to clear up for that New
York party who has made an offer to the state--he's going to use the
island for a summer estate."
He flicked the ashes from his cigar and broke in on Mayo's indignant
retort.
"It had to be done, sir. They have intermarried till a good many of the
children are fools. The men are breaking into summer cottages, after the
owners leave in the fall. They steal everything on the main that isn't
nailed down. They have set false beacons in the winter, and have wrecked
coasters. Every little while some city newspaper has written them up as
wild men, and it has given the state a bad name. We're going to break up
the nest."
"But where will they go?"
"Fools to the state school for the feeble-minded, <DW36>s to the
poorhouse. The able-bodied will have to get out and go to work at
something honest."
"But, look here, my dear sir! Those poor devils are starting out with
too much of a handicap. After three generations on that island they
don't know how to get a living on the main."
"That's their own lookout, not the state's! State doesn't guarantee to
give shiftless folks a living."
"How about using a little common sense in the case of such people?"
"You are not making this affair your business, are you?" asked the
commissioner, with acerbity.
"No."
"Better not; and you'd better not say too much to _me!_" He rose and
dusted off his trousers. "I have investigated for the Governor and
Council and they are acting on my recommendations. You might just as
well advise nursing and coddling a nest of brown-tail moths--and we are
spending good money to kill off moths. We don't propose to encourage the
breeding of thieves. We are not keeping show places of this sort along
the coast for city folks to talk about and run down the state after they
go back home. It hurts state business!" He marched away.
Captain Mayo strode up and down the porch and muttered some emphatic
opinions in regard to the intellects and doings of rulers.
"You see, I know the sort of people who live on that island, Miss
Candage. I have seen other cases alongshore. They are blamed for what
they don't know--and what they are led into. Amateur missionaries will
load them down in a spasm of summer generosity with a lot of truck
and make them think that the world owes them a living. The poor
devils haven't wit enough to look ahead. When it comes winter they are
starving--and when children are hungry and cold a man will tackle a
proposition that is more dangerous than a summer cottage locked up for
the winter. Next comes along some chap like that state agent, who prides
himself on being straight business and no favors! He puts the screws to
'em! There's nobody to help those folks in the real and the right way. I
pity them!"
"I live in the country and I know how unfeeling the boards of selectmen
are in many of the pauper cases. When it's a matter of saving money for
the voters and making a good town record, they don't care much how poor
folks get along."
Mayo continued to patrol the porch. "I'm in a rather rebellious state of
mind just now, I reckon," he admitted. "Seems to me that a lot of
folks, including myself, are getting kicked. I'm smarting! I have
a fellow-feeling for the oppressed." He laughed, but there was no
merriment in his tones. "It's the little children who will suffer most
in this, Miss Candage," he went on. "They are not to blame--they don't
understand."
"And of course nothing can be done."
"Nothing sensible, I'm afraid." He walked to and fro for many minutes.
"You see, it's none of my business," he commented, when he came and sat
down beside her.
"I suppose there's not one man in the world to step forward and say a
good word for them," said the girl, softly, uttering her thoughts.
"Words wouldn't amount to anything--with the machinery of the state
grinding away so merrily as it is. But this matter is stirring my
curiosity a little, Miss Candage. That's because I am one of the
oppressed myself, I reckon." Again his mirthless chuckle. "I intended to
take the stage out of here in the morning, but I have an idea that I'll
stay over and see what happens when that gentleman who represents our
grand old state proceeds to scatter those folks to the four winds."
"I was hoping you would stay over, Captain Mayo." She declared that with
frank delight.
"But you don't expect me to do anything, of course!"
"It's not that. You see, I'd like to go down to the island and--and
father is so odd he might not be willing to escort me," she explained,
trying to be matter-of-fact, her air showing that she regretted her
outburst.
"I volunteer, here and now."
She rose and put out her hand to him. "I have not thanked you for saving
my life--saving us all, Captain Mayo. It is too holy a matter to be
profaned by any words. But here is my hand--like a friend--like a
sister--no"--she held herself straight and looked him full in the face
through the gloom and tightened her hold on his fingers--"like a man!"
He returned her earnest finger-clasp and released her hand when her
pressure slackened. That sudden spirit, the suggestion that she desired
to assume the attitude of man to man with him, seemed to vanish from her
with the release of her fingers.
She quavered her "Good night!" There was even a hint of a sob. Then she
ran into the house.
Mayo stared after her, wrinkling his forehead for a moment, as if he had
discovered some new vagary in femininity to puzzle him. Then he resumed
his patrol with the slow stride of the master mariner. Hue and Cry
raised dim bulk in the harbor jaws, showing no glimmer of light. It was
barren, treeless, a lump of land which towns had thrust from them and
which county boundaries had not taken in. He admitted that the state had
good reasons for desiring to change conditions on Hue and Cry, but this
callous, brutal uprooting of helpless folks who had been attached to
that soil through three generations was so senselessly radical that
his resentment was stirred. It was swinging from the extreme of
ill-considered indulgence to that of utter cruelty, and the poor devils
could not in the least understand!
"There seem to be other things than a spiked martingale which can pick
a man up and keep him away from his own business," he mused. "What
fool notion possesses me to go out there to-morrow I cannot understand.
However, I can go and look on without butting into stuff that's no
affair of mine."
Two men were shuffling past in the road. In the utter silence of that
summer night their conversation carried far.
"Yes, sir, as I was saying, there he lays dead! When I was with him on
the _Luther Briggs_ he fell from the main crosstrees, broke both legs
and one arm, and made a dent in the deck, and he got well. And a week
ago, come to-morrow, he got a sliver under his thumb, and there he lays
dead."
"It's the way it often is in life. Whilst a man is looking up into the
sky so as to see the big things and dodge 'em, he goes to work and stubs
his toe over a knitting-needle."
"That's right," Captain Mayo informed himself; "but I can't seem to help
myself, somehow!"
XII ~ NO PLACE POR THE SOLES OP THEIR FEET
Don't you hear the old man roaring, Johnny,
One more day? Don't you hear that pilot bawling,
One more day? Only one more day, my Johnny,
One more day! O come rock and roll me over,
One more day.
--Windlass Song.
When the subject of the proposed expedition to Hue and Cry was broached
at the breakfast-table, Captain Epps Candage displayed prompt interest.
"It's going to be a good thing for the section round about here--roust
'em off! Heard 'em talking it over down to Rowley's store last evening.
I'll go along with you and see it done."
Mayo and Polly Candage exchanged looks and refrained from comment.
It was evident that Captain Candage reflected the utilitarian view of
Maquoit.
Mayo had put off that hateful uniform of Marston's yacht, and the girl
gave him approving survey when he appeared that morning in his shore
suit of quiet gray. With the widow's ready aid Polly Candage had made
her own attire presentable once more. When they walked down to the shore
she smiled archly at Mayo from under the brim of a very fetching straw
poke.
"I ran down to the general store early and bought a boy's hat," she
explained. "I trimmed it myself. You know, I'm a milliner's apprentice.
Does it do my training credit?"
He was somewhat warm in his assurances that it did.
"I ought to be pleased by your praise," she said, demurely, "because
women wear hats for men's approval, and if my customers go home and hear
such nice words from their husbands my business career is sure to be a
success."
"Your business career?"
"Certainly, sir!" She bobbed a little courtesy. "I have money, sir!
Money of my own. Five thousand dollars in the bank, if you please! Oh,
you need not stare at me. I did not earn it. My dear mother's sister
left it to me in her will. And some day when you are walking down the
city street you'll see a little brass sign--very bright, very neat--and
there'll be 'Polly' on it. Then you may come up and call on the great
milliner--that will be this person, now so humble."
"But that young man!" he protested, smiling at her gaiety.
"Oh, that young man?" She wrinkled her nose. Then she flushed, conscious
that he was a bit surprised at her tone of disdain. "Why, he will wear a
frock-coat and a flower in the buttonhole and will bow in my customers.
You didn't think my young man was a farmer-boy, did you?"
She hurried ahead of him to the beach, where her father was waiting with
his men. Captain Candage had borrowed a dory for the trip. He installed
himself in the stern with the steer-oar, and the young man and the girl
sat together on the midship seat. The skipper listened to their chat
with bland content.
"There's a fellow that's one of our kind, and he ain't trying to court
my girl," he had confided to Mr. Speed. "He is spoke for and she knows
it. And under them circumstances I believe in encouraging young folks to
be sociable."
It was still early morning when they arrived at the island, but the
state agent was there ahead of them. They saw him walking briskly about
among the scattered houses, puffing on his cigar.
He was making domiciliary visits and was transacting business in a loud
tone of voice. That business was paying over the money which the state
had allowed for "squatter improvements." In the case of the settlers on
Hue and Cry the sums were mere pittances; their improvements consisted
of tottering shacks, erected from salvaged flotsam of the ocean and
patched over and over with tarred paper.
There was only one building on the island which deserved
the name of dwelling; from this their communicative caller of the
preceding evening was removing his scant belongings. His wife and
children were helping. He set down a battered table when he met Mayo and
his party.
"I'm the only citizen who can get away early and--as you might call
it--respectable, gents. I took my hundred and fifty and bought that
house-bo't out there." It was an ancient scow, housed over, and
evidently had grown venerable in service as a floating fish-market.
"They can't drive me off'n the Atlantic Ocean! The others 'ain't woke
up to a reelizing sense that they have got to go and that this all means
business! I'm getting away early or else they'd all be trying to climb
aboard my bo't like the folks wanted to do to Noah's ark when they see
that the flood wasn't just a shower." He lifted his table upon his head
and marched on, leading his flock.
All the population of the island was out of doors. The women and the
children were idling in groups; the men were listlessly following the
commissioner on his rounds. No spirit of rebelliousness was evident. The
men acted more like inquisitive sheep. They were of that abject variety
of poor whites who accept the rains from heaven and bow to the reign of
authority with the same unquestioning resignation.
But Mayo discovered promptly an especial reason for the calmness
exhibited by these men. Their slow minds had not wakened to full
comprehension.
"What do you men propose to do?" demanded Captain Mayo of a group which
had abandoned the commissioner and had strolled over to inspect the
new-comers.
"There ain't nothing we can do," stated a spokesman.
"But don't you understand that this man is here with full power from the
state to put you off this island?"
"Oh, they have threated us before. But something has allus come up. We
haven't been driv' off."
"But this time it's going to happen! Why don't you wake up? Where are
you going?"
"That's for somebody else to worry about. This ain't any of our picking
and choosing."
"What's the use of trying to beat anything sensible through the shells
of them quahaugs?" snarled Captain Candage, with 'longcoast scorn for
the inefficient.
"Not much use, I'm afraid," acknowledged the young man. "But look at the
children!"
Those pathetic waifs of Hue and Cry were huddled apart, dumb with terror
which their elders made no attempt to calm. They were ragged, pitiful,
wistful urchins; lads with pinched faces, poor little snippets of girls.
Their childish imaginations made of the affair a tragedy which they
could not understand. Under their arms they held frightened cats,
helpless kittens, or rag dolls. The callous calm of the men mystified
them; the weeping of their mothers made their miserable fear more acute.
They stared from face to face, trying to comprehend.
"What can I say to them?" asked Polly Candage, in a whisper. "It's
wicked. They are so frightened."
"Perhaps something can be done with that agent. I'm trying to think up
something to say to him," Mayo told her.
An old man, a very old man, sat on an upturned clamhod and yawled a
discordant miserere on a fiddle. His eyes were wide open and sightless.
A woman whose tattered skirt only partly concealed the man's trousers
and rubber boots which she wore, occasionally addressed him as "father."
She was piling about him a few articles of furniture which she was
lugging out of their home; that house was the upper part of a schooner's
cabin--something the sea had cast up on Hue and Cry. She was obliged to
bend nearly double in order to walk about in the shelter. Dogs slinked
between the feet of their masters, canine instinct informing them that
something evil was abroad that day. The children staring wide-eyed and
white-faced, the weeping women, the cowed men who shuffled and mumbled!
Among them strode the god of the machine, curt, contemptuous, puffing
his cigar! He came past Captain Mayo and his friends.
"I beg your pardon, sir," called the captain; "but are you sure that you
are doing this thing just right?"
"Let's see--if I remember, I had a little talk with you last night!"
suggested the agent, frostily. "Whom do you represent?" "Myself."
"Just how do you fit into this matter?" "I don't think I do fit--there
seem to be too many sharp corners," stated Mayo, not liking the other's
insolent manner. "Well, I fit! I have state authority." "So you have
told me. May I ask you a question?" "Go ahead, but be lively. This is
my busy day." "These people are being rooted up; they don't seem to know
what's to become of them. What will be done?"
"I told you last evening! Fools in an institution; able-bodied must go
to work. The state proposes--" "When you say 'state' just what do you
mean, sir?" "I mean that I have investigated this matter and I'm running
it."
"That's what I thought! The state usually doesn't know much about what
its agents are doing."
"You are not doubting my authority, are you?"
"No, but I'm doubting your good judgment."
"Look here, my man!"
"We'd better not lose our tempers," advised Mayo, calmly. "You are a
state servant, you say. Then a citizen has a right to talk to you. Let's
leave the state out of this, if you question my right. Man to man, now!
You're wrong."
The population of the island had drawn close circle about them.
"That's enough talk from you," declared the agent, wrathfully.
"You are trying to make over all at once what it has taken three
generations to bring about," insisted Mayo. "You can't do it!"
"You watch me and see if I can't! When I transact any business I'm paid
to transact it gets transacted. I might have given these people a few
more days if you had not come sticking your oar in here. But now I
propose to show you! I'll have 'em off here by nightfall, and every
shack burned to the ground."
"Do you mean to say you're going to rub it into these poor folks just
because I have tried to say something to help them?"
"I'll show you and them that it isn't safe to monkey with the state when
the state gets started."
"Oh, the state be condemned!" exploded Mayo, feeling his own temper
getting away from him. "This isn't the state--it's a case of a man's
swelled head!"
"Get off this island, you and your meddlers," commanded the agent.
"Yes, when we are ready to leave, sir."
Mayo was wondering at his own obstinacy. He knew that a rather boyish
temper, resentment roused by the other man's arrogance, had considerable
to do with his stand in the matter, but underneath there was protest
at the world's injustice. He felt that he had been having personal
experience with that injustice. He knew that he had not come out to Hue
and Cry to volunteer as the champion of these unfortunates, but now
that he was there and had spoken out it was evident that he must allow
himself to be forced into the matter to some extent; the agent had
declared in the hearing of all that this interference had settled the
doom of the islanders. Polly Candage was standing close to the champion,
and she looked at him with eyes that flashed with pride in him and
spirit of her own. She reached and took one of the frightened children
by the hand.
"If I have been a little hasty in my remarks I apologize," pleaded the
captain, anxious to repair the fault. "I don't mean to interfere with
your duty. I have no right to do so!"
"You hear what your friend says, after getting you into the mess,"
shouted the agent, so that all might hear. "Now he is getting ready to
trot away and leave you in your trouble."
"You are wrong there, my friend. If you are angry with me, go ahead and
have your quarrel with me. Don't bang at me over the shoulders of these
poor folks. It isn't a square deal."
"They go off to-day--and they go because you have butted into the
matter. The whole of you have got to be shown that the state doesn't
stand for meddlers after orders have been given." Then he added, with
malice: "You folks better ride this chap down to the beach on a rail.
Whatever happens to you is his fault!"
This attempt to shift responsibility as a petty method of retaliation
stirred Mayo's anger in good earnest.
The agent was dealing with men who were scarcely more than children in
their estimates of affairs; they muttered among themselves and scowled
on this stranger who had brought their troubles to a climax.
"I'm not going to allow you to get away with that kind of talk, Mr.
Agent. You know perfectly well that people on the main will not hire
these men, even if they _are_ able-bodied. Everybody is down on them.
You said that to me last evening. They will be kicked from pillar to
post--from this town to that! They will be worse than beggars. And they
must drag these women and little children about with them. I will expose
this thing!"
"That exposure will sound fine!" sneered the commissioner. "Exposing a
state officer for doing what the Governor and Council have ordered!"
"Yes, ordered on your advice!"
"Well, it has been ordered! And I'll be backed up! As soon as I can get
to a justice I shall swear out a warrant against you for interfering
with a state officer." He flung down the stub of his cigar. "Listen, you
people! Get off this island. Anybody who is here at sunset--man, woman,
or child--will be arrested and put in jail for trespassing on state
land. Now you'd all better give three cheers for your meddling friend,
here!"
"They have allus let us stay, even when they have threated us before
now," whimpered a man. "He has poured the fat into the fire for us,
that's what he has done!" He pointed his finger at Mayo.
"It's wicked!" gasped the girl. "These poor folks don't know any better,
they are not responsible!"
"Say, look here, you folks!" shouted Mr. Speed, who had been holding
himself in with great difficulty. "It's about time for you to wake up!"
The plutocrat of the house-boat had come up from the beach and had been
listening. The whimpering man started to speak again, and the magnate of
the island cuffed him soundly; it was plain that this man, who had lived
in the best house, had been a personage of authority in the tribe.
"I'm ashamed of the whole caboodle of ye," he vociferated. "Here's a
gent that's been standing up for us. He's the only man I ever heard say
a good word for us or try to help us! Nobody else in the world ever done
it! Take off your hats and thank him!"
"I'm in it!" whispered Mayo to the girl. "For heaven's sake, what am I
going to do?"
"Do all you can--please, Captain Mayo!"
He stepped forward. The agent began to shout.
"Hold on, sir!" broke in the captain with quarter-deck air that made for
obedience and attention. "You have had your say! Now I'm going to
have mine. Listen to me, folks! I'm not the man to get my friends into
trouble and then run off and leave 'em. All of you who are kicked out
by the state--all men, women, and children who are ready to go to
work--come over to me on the main at Maquoit with what stuff you can
bring in your dories. I'll be waiting for you there. My name is Boyd
Mayo."
"I'll remember that name, myself," declared the angry agent. "You'll be
shown that you can't interfere in a state matter."
"You have turned these folks loose in the world, and I'm going to give
'em a hand when they come to where I am. If you choose to call that
interference, come on! It will make a fine story in court!"
He did not stop to shake the grimy hands which were thrust out to him.
He pushed his way out of the crowd, and his party followed.
"Meet me yonder on the main, boys," he called back with a sailor
heartiness which they understood. "We'll see what can be done!"
"Well, what in the infernal blazes can be done?" growled Captain
Candage, catching step with the champion.
"I don't know, sir."
"You can't do nothing any more sensible with them critters than you
could with combined cases of the smallpox and the seven years' itch."
"Father!" cried the girl, reproachfully.
"I know what I'm talking about! This is dum foolishness!"
"Captain Mayo is a noble man! You ought to be ashamed of hanging back
when your help is needed."
"I don't blame you for sassing that skewangled old tywhoopus, sir,"
admitted the old skipper. "I wanted to do it myself. But--"
"I'm afraid I don't deserve much praise," said Mayo. "I've been getting
back at that agent. He made me mad. I'm apt to go off half-cocked like
that."
"So am I, sir--and I'm always sorry for it. We'd better dig out before
that tribe of gazaboos lands on our backs."
"Oh, not a bit of it! I have given my word, sir. I must see it through."
"But what are you going to do with 'em?"
"Blessed if I know right now! When I'm good and mad I don't stop to
think."
"Suppose I meet 'em for you and tell 'em you have had a sudden death in
your family and have been called away? They won't know the difference,"
volunteered Captain Candage. "And a real death would be lucky for you
beside of what's in store if you hang around."
"I shall hang around, sir. I can't afford to be ashamed of myself."
"I think you have said quite enough, father," stated Polly Candage, with
vigor.
'"I have heard of adopting families before," said the irreconcilable
one, "but I never heard of any such wholesale operation as this. I'm
thinking I'll go climb a tree."
They embarked in the dory. Mr. Speed and Dolph splashed their oars and
rowed, exchanging looks and not venturing to offer any comment.
"You might auction 'em off to farmers for scarecrows," pursued Captain
Candage, still worrying the topic as a dog mouths a bone. "They ain't
fit for no more active jobs than that."
"I do hope you'll forgive my father for talking this way," pleaded Polly
Candage. She raised brimming eyes to the sympathetic gaze of the young
man beside her. "He doesn't understand it the way I do."
"Perhaps I don't exactly understand it myself," he protested.
"But what you are doing for them?"
"I haven't done anything as yet except start trouble for them. Now I
must do a little something to square myself."
"There's a reward for good deeds, Captain Mayo, when you help those
who cannot help themselves. I believe what the Bible says about casting
bread on the waters. It will return to you some day!"
He smiled down on her enthusiasm tolerantly, but he was far from
realizing then that this pretty girl, whose eyes were so bright
behind her tears, and whose cheeks were flushed with the ardor of her
admiration, was speaking to him with the tongue of a sibyl.
XIII ~ A CAPTAIN OP HUMAN FLOTSAM
O what is that which smells so tarry?
I've nothing in the house that's tarry.
It's a tarry sailor, down below,
Kick him out into the snow!
Doo me axna, dinghy a-a-a ma!
Doo me ama-day!
--Doo Me Ama.
Captain Candage growled and complained so persistently during the trip
to the main that Mayo expected to be deserted by the querulous skipper
the moment the dory's prow touched the beach. But the skipper came
dogging at his heels when Mayo set off up the one street of Maquoit.
"May I come along with you?" asked the girl at his side. "I can see that
you are thinking up some plan. I do Hope I may come!" He gave her his
aim for answer.
"I haven't been into this port for some time, Captain Candage, but the
last trip I made here, as I remember, a man named Rowley, who runs the
general store, was first selectman."
"Is now," grunted the skipper. "They've got into the habit of electing
him and can't seem to break off."
When they arrived in front of the store Captain Candage took the lead.
"I may as well go in and introduce you, whatever it is you want of him.
I know Rufe Rowley as well as anybody ever gets to know him."
Mr. Rowley leaned over his counter and acknowledged the introduction
with a flicker of amiability lighting his reserve. But his wan smile
faded into blankness and he clawed his chin beard nervously when Mayo
informed him that he had invited the evicted folks of Hue and Cry to
land on the mainland that day.
"As overseer of the poor in this town I can't allow it, Captain Mayo!"
"Those people must land somewhere."
"Yes, yes, of course!" admitted Selectman Rowley. "But not here! I'm
beholden to the taxpayers."
"And I suppose the officers of all the other towns about here will say
the same?"
"Yes, yes! Of course."
"Do you still own that old fish-house?" asked the captain, after
hesitating for a few moments; "the sardine-canning plant?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're not using it now?"
"No, sir."
"It isn't paying you any revenue, eh?"
"No, sir."
"Then you ought to be willing to let it pretty cheap--month-to-month
lease!"
"Depends on what I'm letting it for."
"I want to stow those poor people in there till I can arrange further
for them, either show the matter up to the state, or get work for them,
or something! Will you let me have it?"
"No, sir!" declared the selectman, with vigor.
"It's only monthly lease, I repeat. You can prevent them from getting
pauper residence here, in case none of my plans work."
"Don't want 'em here--won't have 'em! I consider taxpayers first!"
"Don't ye ever consider common, ordinary, human decency?" roared Captain
Epps Candage.
It was astonishing interruption. Its violence made it startling. Mayo
whirled and stared amazedly at this new recruit.
Captain Candage yanked his fat wallet from his pocket and dammed it down
on the counter with a bang which made the selectman's eyes snap.
"You know _me_, Rowley! We've got the money to pay for what we order and
contract for. Them folks ain't paupers so long as we stand be-hind 'em.
We are bringing 'em ashore, here, because it's right to help 'em get
onto their feet. Hold on, Captain Mayo; you let me talk to Rowley! Him
and me know how to get sociable in a business talk!"
However, Captain Candage seemed to be seeking sociability by bellowing
ferociously, thudding his hard fist on the counter. Mayo was not easily
surprised by the temperamental vagaries of queer old 'longcoast crabs
like Captain Candage, but this sudden conversion did take away his
breath.
"When a close and partickler friend of mine, like this one I've just
introduced, comes to you all polite and asks a favor, I want general
politeness all around or I'll know the reason why," shouted the
intermediary. "Look-a-here, Rowley, you pretend to be a terrible
Christian sort of a man. When I have been fog-bound here I've tended out
on prayer-meetings, and I have heard you holler like a good one about
dying grace and salvation is free. I've never heard you say much about
living charity that costs something!"
"I claim to be a Christian man," faltered Rowley, backing away from the
banging fist.
"Then act like one. If you don't do it, blast your pelt, I'll post you
for a heathen from West Quoddy to Kittery!"
"God bless you, my dad!" whispered the girl, snuggling close to the
skipper's shoulder.
"Furthermore, Rowley, besides paying you a fair rental for that old
fish-house we'll buy grub for them poor devils out of your store."
Mr. Rowley caressed his beard and blinked.
"They're like empty nail-kags, and they'll eat a lot of vittles and
we've got the money to pay!"
"I have a wallet of my own," stated Captain Mayo. He had not recovered
from his amazement at the sudden shift about of Captain Candage. After
all the sullen growling he had been tempted to ask the old skipper to
stop tagging him about on his errand of mercy.
"Hear that, Rowley? This is the best friend I've got in the whole
world! Brought him in here! Introduced him to you! Here's my daughter!
Interested, too! Now, whatever you say, you'd better be sure that you
pick the right words."
"Well, I'm always ready to help friends," stated Mr. Rowley.
"Yes, and do business in a slack time," added Captain Candage.
"I'm willing to show Christian charity to them that's poor and
oppressed. But what's the sense in doing it in this case?"
"A great many folks in this life need a hard jolt before they turn to
and make anything of themselves," said Captain Mayo. "The people on Hue
and Cry have had their jolt. I do believe, with the right advice and
management, they can be made self-supporting. They have been allowed
to run loose until now, sir. I have been pulled into the thing all of
a sudden, and now that I'm in I'm willing to give up a little time and
effort to start 'em off. I haven't much of anything else to do just
now," he added, bitterly.
"Come into my back office," invited Mr. Rowley.
"Much obleeged--we'll do so," said Captain Candage. "You're a bright
man, Rowley, and I knowed you'd see the p'int when it was put up to you
right and polite."
The business in the back office was soon settled satisfactorily, and
a busy day followed on the heels of that momentous morning. When night
fell the men, women, and children whom a benevolent state--through its
"straight-business" agent--had turned loose upon the world to shift for
themselves, were located in a single colony in the spacious fish-house.
A few second-hand stoves, hired from Rowley, served to cook the food
bought from Rowley, and the families grouped themselves in rooms and
behind partitions and arranged the poor belongings they had salvaged
from their homes. Even the citizen who had at first resolved to go
floating on the bosom of the deep joined the colony.
"It's more sociable," he explained, "and my wife don't like to give up
her neighbors. Furthermore, I know the whole bunch, root and branch,
whims, notions, and all, and they can't fool me. I'll help boss 'em!" He
became a lieutenant of value.
This community life under a better roof than had ever sheltered them
before in their lives seemed to delight the refugees. Old and young,
they enjoyed the new surroundings with the zest of children. They had
never taken thought of the morrow in their existence on Hue and Cry.
Given food and shelter in this new abode, they did not worry about
the problems of the future. They roamed about their domain with the
satisfaction of princes in a palace. They did not show any curiosity
regarding what was to be done with them. They did not ask Captain Mayo
and his associates any questions. They surveyed him with a dumb and
sort of canine thankfulness when he moved among them. He himself tried
questions on a few of the more intelligent men, hoping that they would
show some initiative. They told him with bland serenity that they would
leave it all to him.
"But what are you going to do for yourselves?"
"Just what you say. You're the boss. Show us the job!"
It was borne in upon him that he had taken a larger contract than he had
planned on. Rowley and the taxpayers on the main looked to him on one
side, and his dependents on the other.
"It seems to be up to me--to us, I mean," he told the girl, ruefully,
when they were on their way to the widow's cottage that evening. "It's
up to me most of all, however, for I'm the guilty party--I have pulled
you and your father in. I'm pegged in here till I can think up some sort
of a scheme."
She had been working all day faithfully by his side, a tactful and
indefatigable helper. He would have been all at sea regarding the women
and children without her aid, and he told her so gratefully.
"Both my hands and my heart are with you in this thing, Captain Mayo.
And I know you'll think of some way out for them--just as you helped us
out of the schooner after we had given up all hope."
"Getting out of the schooner was merely a sailor's trick of the hands,
Miss Candage. I don't believe I'll be much of a hand at making over
human nature. I have too much of it myself, and the material down in
that fish-house would puzzle even a doctor of divinity."
"Oh, you will think of some plan," she assured him-with fine loyalty.
"If you will allow me to help in my poor way I'll be proud."
"I'll not tell you what I think of your help; it might sound like soft
talk. But let me tell you that you have one grand old dad!" he declared,
earnestly; but although he tried to keep his face straight and his tones
steady he looked down at her and immediately lost control of himself.
Merriment was mingled with tears in her eyes.
"Isn't he funny?" she gasped, and they halted in their tracks and
laughed in chorus with the whole-hearted fervor of youth; that laughter
relieved the strain of that anxious day.
"I am not laughing _at_ your father--you understand that!" he assured
her.
"Of course, you are not! I know. But you are getting to understand him,
just as I understand him. He is only a big child under all his bluster.
But he does make me so angry sometimes!"
"You can't tell much about a Yankee till he comes out of his shell, and
I agree with you as to the aggravating qualities in Captain Candage. I'm
not very patient myself, when I'm provoked! But after this he and I will
get along all right."
They walked on to the cottage.
"Good night," he said at the door.
"And you have no plan as yet?"
"Maybe something will come to me in a dream."
The dream did not come to him, for his sleep was the profound slumber of
exhaustion. He went down in the early dawn and plunged into the sea, and
while he was walking back toward the cottage an idea and a conviction
presented themselves, hand in hand. The conviction had been with him
before--that he could not back out just then and leave those poor people
to shift for themselves, as anxious as he was to be off about his own
affairs; his undertaking was quixotic, but if he abandoned it at that
juncture a queer story would chase him alongcoast, and he knew what sort
of esteem mariners entertained for quitters.
However, deep in his heart, he confessed that it was not merely sailor
pride that spurred him. The pathetic helplessness of the tribe of Hue
and Cry appealed with an insistence he could not deny. He understood
them as he understood similar colonies along the coast--children whom an
indifferent world classed as man and treated with thoughtless injustice!
Work was prescribed for them, as for others! But, they did not know how
to work or how to make their work pay them.
The idea which came to him with the conviction that he must help these
folks concerned work for them.
After breakfast he took Captain Candage into his confidence, much to the
skipper's bland delight at being considered.
"I hope it's something where we can fetch Rowley in," confessed the
skipper. "I don't care anything for them critters," he added, assuming
brusqueness. "Don't want it hinted around that I'm getting simple in my
old age. But they give me an excuse to bingdoodle Rowley."
"To carry out that plan I have outlined we need some kind of a packet,"
said Mayo.
"Sure! We'll go right to Rowley. He'll know. If there's anything in
this section that he 'ain't got his finger on some way--bill of sale,
mortgage, debt owed to him or expecting to be owed, then it ain't worth
noticing."
Mr. Rowley listened in his back office. He stroked his beard contentedly
and beamed his pleasure when he saw the prospect of making another
profitable dicker with men who seemed to be reliable and energetic.
"I had a mortgage on the _Ethel and May_ when Captain Tebbets passed on
to the higher life," he informed them. "Widder gave up the schooner when
I foreclosed, she not desiring to--er--bother with vessel proputty. So I
have it free and clear without it standing me such a terrible sum! Shall
be pleased to charter to you gents at a reasonable figure. Furthermore,
seeing that industry makes for righteousness, so we are told, your plan
of making those critters go to work may be a good one, providing you'll
use a club on 'em often enough."
"From what I've heard of your talk in prayer-meeting I should think
you'd advise moral suasion," suggested Captain Candage, plainly
relishing this opportunity to "bingdoodle."
"I use common sense, whether it's in religion or politics or business,"
snapped Rowley, exhibiting a bit of un-Christian heat.
"It's advisable to ile up common sense with a little charity, and then
the machine won't squeak so bad."
"I wouldn't undertake to trot a dogfish on my knee or sing him to sleep
with a pennyr'yal hymn, Captain Candage."
"I think we can show results without the club," interposed Mayo, with
mild intent to smooth the tone of this repartee.
The clerk called Mr. Rowley out into the store on some matter of special
importance, and the selectman departed, coming down rather hard on his
heels.
"The old Adam sort of torches up through his shell once in a while,"
commented Candage.
"We'd better settle the charter price, sir, before you lay aboard him
too much," advised the young man.
"I just natch'ally can't help harpooning him," confessed the skipper.
"He's a darned old hypocrite, cheating widders and orphans by choice
because they 'ain't got the spunk to razoo back, and I've allus enjoyed
fighting such as him. Him and me is due for a row. But I'll hold off the
best I can till we have got him beat down."
Mayo's plan involved the modest venture of chartering a craft suitable
for fishing. There was no material for real Banksmen in the Hue and Cry
colony, but the run of the men would serve to go trawling for ground and
shack fish a few miles off the coast. It was the only scheme which
would afford employment for the whole body of dependents; older and more
decrepit men and the women and children could dig and shuck clams for
the trawl bait. In order to encourage ambition and independence among
the abler men of the colony, Mayo suggested that the fishermen be taken
on shares, and Captain Candage agreed.
When Mr. Rowley came back into the office he found his match waiting for
him in the person of Captain Candage, primed and ready to drive a sharp
bargain. At the end of an hour papers representing the charter of the
_Ethel and May_ were turned over.
"I reckon it's a good job," affirmed the skipper, when he and Mayo
were outside the Rowley store. "I have made up my mind to let poor
old _Polly_ go to Davy Jones's locker. I wrote to the shippers and the
consignees of the lumber last night. If they want it they can go after
it. I may as well fish for the rest of this season!" He regarded Captain
Mayo with eyes in which query was almost wistftul. "Of course, you can
depend on me to see to it that you get your share, sir, just as if you
were aboard."
"I'm going aboard, Captain Candage."
The old man stopped stock still and stared.
"I haven't anything in sight just now. You need help in getting the
thing started right. I'm not going away and leave that gang on your
hands until I can see how the plan works out. I'll go as mate with you."
"Not by a blame sight you won't go as no mate with me," objected
Candage. "You'll go as skipper and I'll be proud to take orders from
you, sir."
They were wrangling amiably on that point when they returned to the
widow's cottage. Polly Candage broke the deadlock.
"Why not have two captains? That will be something brand new along the
coast!"
"The rest of it is brand new enough without that," blurted her father.
"But considering what kind of a crew we've got I guess two captains
ain't any too much! I'll be captain number two and I know enough to keep
my place."
"I do not think you and I will ever do much quarreling again!" smiled
Captain Mayo, extending his hand and receiving Candage's mighty grip.
"I am going to start out a few letters, and I'll go now and write them.
Until those letters bring me something in the way of a job I am with
you, sir."
Captain Candage walked down toward the fish-house with his daughter.
"Polly," he declared, after an embarrassed silence, "I have been all
wrong in your case, girl. Here and now I give you clearance papers. Sail
for home just as soon as you want to. I'm asking no questions! It's none
of my business!"
"My little affairs must always be business of yours, father," she
returned.. "I love you. I will obey you."
"But I ain't giving off no more orders. I ain't fit to command in the
waters where you are sailing, Polly dear. So run along home and be my
good girl! I know you will be!"
"I have changed my mind about going home--just now!" Her eyes met his
frankly. "I have written to Aunt Zilpah to send me some of my clothes.
Father," there was feminine, rather indignant amazement in her tones,
"do you know that there isn't a single woman from Hue and Cry who knows
how to use a needle?"
"I might have guessed it, judging from the way their young ones and men
folk go looking!"
"Do you realize that those children don't even know their A-B-C's?"
"Never heard of any college perfessers being raised on that island."
"I am going to take a vacation from the millinery-shop, now that I am
down here. I'll show those women how to sew and cook, and I'll teach
those children how to read. It's only right--my duty! I couldn't go home
and be happy without doing it!"
"Calling that a vacation is putting a polite name to it, Polly."
"If you could have seen their eyes, father, when I promised to help
them, you wouldn't wonder why I am staying."
"I don't wonder, Polly, my girl! If you had gone away and--and left
us--Mayo and me--I should have been mighty disappointed in ye! But I
really never thought much about your going--'cause you wouldn't go, I
knew, till you had helped all you could." He put his arm around her.
"I have been worrying about having brought you away. But I guess God had
it all figgered out for us. I didn't know my own girl the way I ought to
have knowed her. I'd been away too much. But now we're sort of growing
up--together--sort of that, ain't we, Polly dear?"
She put her arms about his neck and answered him with a kiss.
XIV ~ BEARINGS FOR A NEW COURSE
And now, my brave boys, comes the best of the fun,
It's hands about ship and reef topsails in one;
So it's lay aloft, topman, as the hellum goes down,
And clew down your topsails as the mainyard goes round.
--La Pique.
At the end of that week the _Ethel and May_ had delivered at market her
first fare of fish and her captains had divided her first shares. Mayo
decided that the results were but of proportion to the modest returns.
He was viewing the regeneration of the tribe of Hue and Cry. In their
case it had been the right touch at the right time. For years their
hopes had been hungry for a chance to make good. Now gratitude inspired
them and an almost insane desire to show that they were not worthless
drove them to supreme effort. The leaven of the psychology of
independence was getting in its work.
The people of Hue and Cry for three generations had been made to feel
that they were pariahs. When they had brought their fish or clams to the
mainland the buyers were both unjust and contemptuous, as if they were
dealing with begging children who must expect only a charitable gift
for their product instead of a real man's price. Prices suited the
fish-buyers' moods of the day. The islanders had never been admitted
to the plane of straight business like other fishermen. They had always
taken meekly what had been offered--whether coin or insults. Therefore,
their labor had never returned them full values.
They who bought made the poor wretches feel that it constituted a
special favor to take their fish at any price.
They seemed to come into their own that first day at market when the
_Ethel and May_ made her bigness in the dock at the city fish-house.
Masterful men represented them in the dealings with the buyers. The crew
hid their delighted grins behind rough palms when Captain Epps Candage
bawled out bidders who were under market quotations; they gazed with awe
on Captain Mayo when he read from printed sheets--print being a
mystery they had never mastered--and figured with ready pencil and even
corrected the buyer, who acknowledged his error and humbly apologized.
No more subservient paltering at the doors of fish-houses!
Back home the women and the children and the old folks had a good roof
over their heads; the fishers had the deck of a tidy schooner under
their feet. Shiftlessness departed from them. After years of oppression
they had found their opportunity. More experienced men would have
found this new fortune only modest; these men grasped it with juvenile
enthusiasm.
They were over the side of the schooner and out in their dories when
more cautious trawlsmen hugged the fo'c'sle. On their third trip,
because of this daring, they caught the city market bare on a Thursday
and made a clean-up.
"I'm told that Saint Peter started this Friday notion because he was
in the fish business," stated Captain Candage, sorting money for the
shares. "All I've got to say is, he done a good job of it."
Mr. Speed, sailing as mate, always found ready obedience.
Smut-nosed Dolph never listened before to such praise as was lavished by
the hungry men over the pannikins which he heaped.
Captain Mayo, casting up accounts one day, was honestly astonished to
find that almost a month had passed since he had landed at Maquoit.
"That goes to show how a man will get interested when he is picked up
and tossed into a thing," he said to Polly Candage.
"You are making real men of them, Captain Mayo!" She added, with a
laugh, "And you told me you were no kind of a hand at making over human
nature!"
"They are doing it themselves."
"I will say nothing to wound your modesty, sir."
"Now I must wake up. I must! There's nothing worth while in the profit
for both your father and myself. I want him to have the proposition
alone. There'll be a fair make for him. I didn't intend to stay here so
long. I guess I sort of forgot myself." He went on with his figures.
"But I knew you could not forget," she ventured, after a pause.
He glanced up and found a queer expression on her countenance. There
were frank sympathy and friendliness in her eyes. He had revolved bitter
thoughts alone, struggling with a problem he could not master. In sudden
emotion--in an unpremeditated letting-go of himself--he reached out for
somebody in whom to confide. He needed counsel in a matter where no man
could help him. This girl was the only one who could understand.
"There may be letters waiting for me in the city--in the big city
where I may be expected," he blurted. "I haven't dared to send any." He
hesitated, and then gave way to his impulse. "Miss Polly, I haven't any
right to trouble you with my affairs. I may seem impertinent. But
you are a girl! Does a girl usually sit down and think over all the
difficulties--when she doesn't get letters--and then make allowances?"
"I'm sure she does--when she loves anybody."
"And yet it may seem very strange. I am worried out of my senses. I
don't know what to do."
She was silent for a long time, looking away from him and twisting
her hands in her lap; she was plainly searching her soul for
inspiration--and courage!
"You think she will understand the situation?" he insisted.
"She ought to."
"But no word from me! Silence for weeks!"
Her voice was low, but she evidently had found courage. "I have not
heard one word--not a letter has come to me--since I left my aunt's
home."
"Do you feel sure that he loves you just the same? You don't need
letters?"
"Oh no! I don't need letters."
"But in my case?"
"I could see that she loves you very much. She stood out before them
all, Captain Mayo. That sort of a girl does not need letters."
"You have put new courage in me. I believe you understand just how a
girl would feel. You know a Yankee! He expects to find a friend just
where he left him, in the matter of affection."
"A girl does not need to be a Yankee to be that way in her love."
"I can't sneak around to her by the back way--I can't do that!" he
cried. "I don't want to be ashamed of myself. I don't want to bring
more trouble to her. Don't you think she will wait for me until I can
come--and come right!"
"She will wait for you, sir. It's the nature of women to wait--when they
love."
"But I cannot ask her to wait forever. That's why I must go away and
try to make good." He set his teeth, and his jaw muscles were ridged.
"I believe a man can get what he goes after in the right spirit, Miss
Polly." He swing off the porch and left her.
The fog was heavy on shore and sea that day, holding the _Ethel and May_
in port. He disappeared into the stifling mist, and the girl sat and
stared into that vacancy for a long time.
Mayo rowed out to the schooner, which was anchored in the harbor roads.
He was carrying his accounts to Captain Candage.
Standing and facing forward as he rowed, he came suddenly upon a big
steam-yacht which had stolen into the cove through the fog and was
anchored in his course. She was the _Sprite_, and he had formed a
'longshore acquaintance with her skipper that summer, meeting him
in harbors where the _Sprite_ and _Olenia_ had been neighbors in the
anchorage. He stopped rowing and allowed the dory to drift. He noted
that the blue flag was flying at the main starboard spreader, announcing
the absence of the owner, and he understood that he could call for the
skipper without embarrassing that gentleman. One of the crew was putting
covers on the brasswork forward.
"Compliments to Captain Trott, and tell him that Captain Mayo is at the
gangway."
The skipper appeared promptly, replying to the hail before the sailor
had stirred. "Come aboard, sir."
"I'll not bother you that much, captain. I can ask my question just as
well from here. Do you know of any good opening for a man of my size?"
The captain of the _Sprite_ came to the rail and did not reply promptly.
"I have left the _Olenia_ and I'm looking for something."
Captain Trott started for the gangway. "Oh, you needn't trouble to come
down, sir."
"I'd rather, Captain Mayo." After he had descended he squatted on the
platform at the foot of the ladder and held the dory close, grasping the
gunwale. "What are you doing for yourself these days?"
Mayo had no relish for a long story. "I'm waiting to grab in on
something," he replied.
Captain Trott did not show any alacrity in getting to the subject which
Mayo had broached. "It has set in pretty thick, hasn't it? I have been
ordered in here to wait for my folks; they're visiting at some big
estate up-river."
"But about the chance for a job, captain!"
"Look here! What kind of a run-in did you have with the _Olenia_ owner?"
Mayo opened his mouth and then promptly closed it. He could not reveal
the nature of the trouble between himself and his former employer.
"We had words," he said, stiffly.
"Yes, I reckon so! But the rest of it!"
"That's all."
"You needn't tell me any more than you feel like doing, of course," said
Captain Trott. "But I have to tell _you_ that Mr. Marston has come out
with some pretty fierce talk for an owner to make. He has made quite a
business of circulating that talk. I didn't realize that you are of so
much importance in the world, Mayo," he added, dryly.
"I don't know what he is saying."
"Didn't you leave him in the night--without notice, or something of the
kind?"
"It was an accident."
"I hope you have a good story to back you up, Captain Mayo, for I have
liked you mighty well ever since meeting you first. What is behind it?"
"I can't tell you."
"But you can tell somebody--somebody who can straighten the thing out
for you, can't you?"
"No, Captain Trott."
"Well, you know what has happened in your case, don't you?" The skipper
of the _Sprite_ exhibited a little testiness at being barred out of
Mayo's confidence.
The young man shook his head.
"Marston claims that you mutinied and deserted him--slipped away in the
night--threw up your job on the high seas--left him to work to New York
with a short crew--the mate as captain."
"That's an infernal lie!"
"Then come forward and show him up."
"I cannot talk about the case. I have my reasons--good ones!"
"I'm sorry for you, Mayo. You are done in the yachting game, I'm afraid.
He'll blacklist you in every yacht club from Bar Harbor to Miami. I
have heard my folks talking about it. He seems to have a terrible
grudge--more than a big man usually bothers about in the case of a
skipper."
Mayo set his oar against the edge of the platform and pushed off. The
skipper called after him, but he was instantly swallowed up by the fog
and did not reply.
On board the _Ethel and May_ his ragged but cheery crew were baiting up,
hooking clams upon the ganging hooks, and coiling lines into tubs. The
men grinned greeting when he swung over the rail. He scowled at them; he
even turned a glowering look on Captain Candage when he met the latter
on the quarter-deck.
"Yes, sir! I see how it is! You're getting cussed sick of this two-cent
game here," said Candage, mournfully. "I don't blame ye. We ain't in
your class, here, Captain Mayo." He took the papers which the young man
held out to him. "I suppose this is the last time we'll share, you and
me. I'll miss ye devilish bad. I'd rather go for nothing and let you
have it all than lose ye. But, of course, it ain't no use to argue or
coax."
Mayo went and sat on the rail, folding his arms, and did not reply. The
old skipper trudged forward, his head bowed, his hands clutched behind
his back. When he returned Mayo stood up and put his hand on the old
man's shoulder.
"Captain Candage, please don't misunderstand me. Just at present I feel
that the only friends I have in the world are here. Don't mind the way
I acted just now when I came on board. I have had a lot of trouble--I'm
having more of it. I'm not going to leave you just yet. I want to stay
aboard until I can think it all over--can get my grip. That is, if
you're satisfied to have it that way!"
"Satisfied! Jumping Cicero!" exploded Captain Can-dage. He took the dory
and rowed ashore. He found his daughter gazing into the fog from the
porch of the widow's cottage. "He is going to stay a while longer," he
informed her, rapturously. "Something has happened. Do you suppose that
girl has throwed him over?"
"Father, do you dare to chuckle because a friend is in trouble?"
"I'll laugh and slap my leg if he ever gets shet of that hity-tity
girl," he rejoined, stoutly.
"I am astonished--I am ashamed of you, father!"
"Polly dear, be honest with your dad!" he pleaded. "Do you want to see
him married off to her?"
"I certainly do. I only wish I might help him." Her lips were white, her
voice trembled. She got up and hurried into the house.
"I'll be cussed if I understand wimmen," declared Captain Candage,
fiddling his finger under his nose. "That feller she has picked out for
herself must be the Emp'ror of Peeroo."
Captain Mayo did not come ashore again before the _Ethel and May_
sailed.
The fog cleared that night and they smashed out to the fishing-grounds
ahead of a cracking breeze, and had their trawls down in the early dawn.
At sundown, trailed by a wavering banner of screaming gulls who gobbled
the "orts" tossed over by the busy crew cleaning their catch, they were
docking at the city fish-house.
"Lucky again," commented Captain Candage, returning from his sharp
dicker with the buyer. "The city critters are all hungry for haddock,
and that's just what we hit to-day." He surveyed his gloomy partner with
sympathetic concern. "Why don't you take a run uptown?" he suggested.
"You're sticking too close to this packet for a young man. Furthermore,
if you see a store open buy me a box of paper collars. Rowley hain't got
my size!"
Mayo, unreconciled and uneasy, hating that day the sound of the
flapping, sliding fish as they were pitchforked into the tubs for
hoisting, annoyed by the yawling of pulleys and realizing that his
nerves were not right at all, obeyed the suggestion. He had a
secret errand of his own, yielding to a half-hope; he went to the
general-delivery window of the post-office and asked for mail. He knew
that love makes keen guesses. The _Olenia_ had visited that harbor
frequently for mail. But there was nothing for him. He strolled about
the streets, nursing his melancholy, forgetting Captain Candage's
commission, envying the contentment shown by others.
In that mood he would have avoided Captain Zoradus Wass if he had spied
that boisterously cheerful mariner in season. But the captain had him by
the arm and was dancing him about the sidewalk, showing more affability
than was his wont.
"Heifers o' Herod! youngster," shouted the grizzled master, "have you
come looking for me?"
"No," faltered Mayo. "Did you want to see me?"
"Have worn taps off my boots to-day chasing from shipping commissioner's
office to every hole and corner along the water-front. Heard you had
quit aboard a yacht, and reckoned you had got sensible again and wanted
real work."
"If you had asked down among the fish-houses you might have got on track
of me, sir." Mayo's tone was somber.
"Fish! You fishing?" demanded Captain Wass, with incredulity.
"Yes, and on a chartered smack at that--shack-fishing on shares!" Mayo
was sourly resolved to paint his low estate in black colors. "And I have
concluded it's about all I'm fit for."
"That's fine, seaman-like talk to come from a young chap I have trained
up to master's papers, giving him two years in my pilot-house. I was
afraid you were going astern, you young cuss, when I heard you'd gone
skipper of a yacht, but I didn't think it was as bad as all this."
"My yachting business is done, sir."
"Thank the bald-headed Nicodemus! There's hopes of you. Did anybody tell
you I've been looking for you?"
"No, sir!"
"Glad of it. Now I can tell you myself. Do you know where I am now?"
"I heard you were on a Vose line freighter, sir."
"Don't know who told you that--but it wasn't Ananias. You're right.
She's the old _Nequasset_, handed back to me again because I'm the
only one who understands her cussed fool notions. First mate got drunk
yesterday and broke second mate's leg in the scuffle--one is in jail and
t'other in the hospital, and never neither of 'em will step aboard any
ship with me again. I sail at daybreak, bade to the Chesapeake for steel
rails. Got your papers?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Come along. You're first mate."
"Do you really want me, sir?"
"Want you? Confound it all, I've got you! In about half a day I'll have
all the yacht notions shaken out of you and the fish-scales stripped
off, and then you'll be what you was when I let you go--the smartest
youngster I ever trained."
Mayo obeyed the thrust of the jubilant master's arm and went along.
"I'll go and explain to Captain Can-dage, my partner."
"All right. I'll go along, too, and help you make it short."
As they walked along Captain Wass inspected his companion critically.
"High living aboard Marston's yacht make you dyspeptic, son? You look as
if your vittles hadn't been agreeing with you."
"My health is all right, sir."
"Heard you had trouble with Marston," proceeded the old skipper, with
brutal frankness. "Anybody who has trouble with that damnation pirate
comes well recommended to me. He is trying to steal every steamboat line
on this coast. Thank Gawd, he can never get his claws on the old Vose
line. Some great doings in the steamboat business are ahead, Mayo.
Reckon it's a good line to be in if you like fight and want to make your
bigness."
Mayo walked on in silence. He was troubled by this added information
that news of his affair with Marston had gained such wide currency.
However, he was glad that this new opportunity offered him a chance to
hide himself in the isolation of a freighter's pilot-house.
Captain Candage received the news with meek resignation. "I knowed it
would have to come," he said. "Couldn't expect much else. Howsomever, it
ain't comforting."
"Can't keep a good boy like this pawing around in fish gurry," stated
Captain Wass.
"I know it, and I wish him well and all the best!"
Their leave-taking, presided over by the peremptory master of the
_Nequasset_, was short.
"I'll probably have a chance to see you when we come here again," called
Mayo from the wharf, looking down into the mournful countenance of the
skipper. "Perhaps I'll have time to run down to Maquoit while we are
discharging. At any rate, explain it all for me, especially to your
daughter."
"I'll tell all concerned just what's right," Captain Candage assured
him. "I'll tell her for you."
She was on the beach when the skipper came rowing in alone from the
_Ethel and May_.
"He's gone," he called to her. "Of course we couldn't keep him. He's too
smart to stay on a job like this."
When they were on their way up to the widow's cottage he stole
side-glances at her, and her silence distressed him.
"Let's see! He says to me--if I can remember it right-he says, says he,
'Take my best respects and '--let's see--yes, 'take my best respects and
love to your Polly--'"
"Father! Please don't fib."
"It's just as I remember it, dear. 'Especial,' he says. I remember that!
'Especial,' he says. And he looked mighty sad, dear, mighty sad." He
put his arm about her. "There are a lot of sad things in this world for
everybody, Polly. Sometimes things get so blamed mixed up that I feel
like going off and climbing a tree!"
XV ~ THE RULES OF THE ROAD
Now the _Dreadnought's_ a-sailing the Atlantic so wide,
Where the high, roaring seas roll along her black side.
Her sailors like lions walk the deck to and fro,
She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord let her go!
--Song of the Flash Packet.
On a day in early August the _Nequasset_ came walloping laboriously
up-coast through a dungeon fog, steel rails her dragging burden, caution
her watchword.
The needle of her indicator marked "Half speed," and it really meant
half speed. Captain Zoradus Wass made scripture of the rules laid
down by the Department of Commerce and Labor. There was no tricky
slipping-over under his sway--no finger-at-nose connivance between the
pilot-house and the chief engineer's grille platform. No, Captain Wass
was not that kind of a man, though the fog had held in front of him two
days, vapor thick as feathers in a tick, and he had averaged not much
over six nautical miles an hour, and was bitterly aware that the rate of
freight on steel rails was sixty-five cents a ton.
"And as I've been telling you, at sixty-five cents there's about as much
profit as there would be in swapping hard dollars from one hand to the
other and depending on what silver you can rub off," said Captain Wass
to First-mate Mayo.
The captain was holding the knob of the whistle-pull In constant clutch.
Regularly every minute _Nequasset's_ prolonged blast sounded, strictly
according to the rules of the road.
Her voice started with a complaining squawk, was full toned for a few
moments, then trailed off into more querulousness; the timbre of that
tone seemed to fit with Captain Wass's mood.
"It's tough times when a cargo-carrier has to figger so fine that she
can lose profit on account of what the men eat," he went on. "If you're
two days late, minding rules in a fog, owners ask what the tophet's
the matter with you! This kind of business don't need steamboat men any
longer; it calls for boarding-house keepers who can cut sirloin steak
off'n a critter clear to the horn, and who are handy in turning sharp
corners on left-overs. I'll buy a book of cooking receets and try to
turn in dividends."
The captain was broad-bowed, like the _Nequasset_, he sagged on short
legs as if he carried a cargo fully as heavy as steel rails, his white
whiskers streamed away from his cutwater nose like the froth kicked up
by the old freighter's forefoot. He chewed slowly, conscientiously and
continuously on tobacco which bulged in his cheek; his jaws, moving as
steadily as a pendulum swings, seemed to set the time for the isochronal
whistle-blast. Sixty ruminating jaw-wags, then he spat into the fog,
then the blast--correct to the clock's tide!
The windows of the pilot-house were dropped into their casings, so
that all sounds might be admitted; the wet breeze beaded the skipper's
whiskers and dampened the mate's crisp hair. While the mate leaned
from a window, ear cocked for signals, the captain gave him more of the
critical inspection in which he had been indulging when occasion served.
Furthermore, Captain Wass went on pecking around the edges of a topic
which he had been attacking from time to time with clumsy attempt at
artful inquisition.
"As bad as it is on a freighter, I reckon you ain't sorry you're off
that yacht, son?"
"I'm not sorry, sir."
"From what you told me, the owner was around meddling all the time."
"I don't remember that I ever said so, sir."
"Oh, I thought you did," grunted Captain Wass, and he covered his
momentary check by sounding the whistle.
"Now that you are back in the steamboat business, of course you're a
steamboat man. Have the interests of your owners at heart," he resumed.
"Certainly, sir."
"It would be a lot of help to the regular steamboat men--the good old
stand-bys--if they could get some kind of a line on what them Wall
Street cusses are gunning through with Marston leading 'em--or, at
leastways, he's supposed to be leading. He hides away in the middle of
the web and lets the other spiders run and fetch. But it's Marston's
scheme, you can bet on that! What do you think?"
"I haven't thought anything about it, Captain Wass." "But how could
you help thinking, catching a word here and a word there, aboard that
yacht?"
"I never listened--I never heard anything."
"But he had them other spiders aboard--seen 'em myself through my
spy-glass when you passed us one day in June."
"I suppose they talked together aft, but my duty was forward, sir."
"It's too bad you didn't have a flea put into your ear about getting a
line on Marston's scheme, whatever it is. You could have helped the real
boys in this game!"
Mayo did not reply.
Captain Wass showed a resolve to quit pecking at the edges and make a
dab at the center of the subject. He pulled the whistle, released the
knob, and turned back to the window, setting his elbows on the casing.
"Son, you ain't in love with that pirate Marston, are you?"
"No, sir!" replied the young man, with bitterness that could not be
doubted.
"Well, how about your being in love with his daughter?" The caustic
humor in the old skipper's tones robbed the question of some of its
brutal bluntness, and Mayo was accustomed to Captain Wass's brand
of humor. The young man did not turn his head for a few moments; he
continued to look into the fog as if intent on his duty; he was trying
to get command of himself, fully aware that resentment would not work in
the case of Zoradus Wass. When Mayo did face the skipper, the latter
was discomposed in his turn, for Mayo showed his even teeth in a cordial
smile.
"Do you think I have been trying the chauffeur trick in order to catch
an heiress, sir?"
"Well, there's quite a gab-wireless operating along-coast and sailors
don't always keep their yawp closed after they have taken a man's money
to keep still," stated Captain Wass, pointedly. "I wouldn't blame you
for grabbing in. You're good-looking enough to do what others have done
in like cases."
"Thank you, sir. What's the rest of the joke?"
"I never joke," retorted the skipper, turning and pulling the
whistle-cord. _Nequasset's_ squall rose and died down in her brazen
throat. "Her name is Alma?" he prodded. "Something of a clipper. If
Marston ever makes you general manager, put me into a better job than
this, will you?"
"I will, sir!"
The skipper gave his mate a disgusted stare. "You're a devil of a man
to keep up a conversation with!" He spat against the wall of the fog and
again let loose the freighter's hoarse lament.
From somewhere, ahead, a horn wailed, dividing its call into two blasts.
"Port tack and headed acrost us," snarled the master, after a sniff at
the air and a squint at the sluggish ripple.
"Why ain't the infernal fool anchored, instead of drifting around
underfoot? How does he bear, Mr. Mayo?" He was now back to pilot-house
formality with his mate.
"Two points and a half, starboard bow, sir. And there's another chap
giving one horn in about the same direction."
"Another drifter--not wind enough for 'em to know what tack they're
really on. Well, there's always Article Twenty-seven to fall back on,"
grumbled the skipper. He quoted sarcastically in the tone in which that
rule is mouthed so often in pilot-houses along coast: '"Due regard shall
be had to all dangers of navigation and collision, and to any special
circumstances which may render a departure from the above rules
necessary, and so forth and et cetry. Meaning, thank the Lord, that a
steamer can always run away from a gad-slammed schooner, even at half
speed. Hope if it ever comes to a showdown the secretary of the bureau
of commerce will agree with me. Ease her off to starboard, Mr. Mayo,
till we bring 'em abeam."
The mate gave a quick glance at the compass. "East by nothe, Jack," he
commanded.
"East by nothe, sir," repeated the quartermaster in mechanical tones,
spinning the big wheel to the left.
It was evident that the _Nequasset_ had considerable company on the sea
that day. A little abaft her beam a tugboat was blowing one long and two
short, indicating her tow. She had been their "chum" for some time, and
Mayo had occasionally taken her bearings by sound and compass and knew
that the freighter was slowly forging ahead. He figured, listening again
to the horns, that the Nequasset was headed to clear all.
"You take a skipper who studies his book and is always ready to look
the department in the eye, without flinching, he has to mind his
own business and mind the other fellow's, too," said Captain Wass,
continuing his monologue of grouch. "Dodging here and there, keeping out
of the way, two days behind schedule, meat three times a day or else
you can't keep a crew, and everybody hearty at meal-time! My owners have
never told me to let the law go to hoot and ram her for all she's worth!
But when I carry in my accounts they seem to be trying to think up
language that tells a man to do a thing, and yet doesn't tell him.
What's that?" He put his head far out of the window.
Floating out of the fog came a dull, grunting sound, a faint and
far-away diapason, a marine whistle which announced a big chap.
"I should say it is a Union liner, sir--either the _Triton_ or
_Neptune_."
They listened. They waited two long minutes for another signal.
"Seems to be taking up his full, legal time," growled Captain Wass.
"Since Marston has gobbled that line maybe he has put on a special
register to keep tabs on tooting--thinks it's waste of steam and will
reduce dividends. Expects us little fellows to do the squawking!"
The big whistle boomed again, dead ahead, and so much nearer that it
provoked the skipper to lash out a round oath.
"He is reeling off eighteen knots for a gait, or you can use my head for
a rivet nut!" He yanked the cord and the freighter howled angrily. The
other replied with bellowing roar--autocratic, domineering. With irony,
with vindictiveness, Captain Wass pitched his voice in sarcastic nasal
tone and recited another rule--thereby trying to express his irate
opinion of the lawlessness of other men.
"Article Sixteen, Mr. Mayo! He probably carries it in his watch-case
instead of his girl's picture! Nice reading for a rainy day! 'A
steam-vessel hearing apparently forward of her beam the fog signal of a
vessel, the position of which is not ascertained, shall, so far as the
circumstances of the case permit, stop her engines and then navigate
with caution until all danger of collision is over.' Hooray for the
rules!"
Captain Wass hooked a gnarled finger into the loop of the bell-pull and
yanked upward viciously. A dull clang sounded far below. He pulled again
and the vibration of the engine ceased.
"Gad rabbit it! I'll go the whole hog as the department orders! If he
bangs into me we'll see who comes off best at the hearing."
He gave the bell-loop two quick jerks; then he shifted his hand to
another pull and the jingle bell sounded in the engine-room--the
_Nequasset_ was ordered to make full speed astern.
The freighter shook and shivered when the screw began to reverse,
pulling at the frothing sea, clawing frantically to haul her to a stop.
The skipper then gave three resentful, protesting whistle-blasts.
But the reply he received from ahead was a hoarse, prolonged howl. In
it there was no hint that the big fellow proposed to heed the protest
of the three blasts. It was insistence on right of way, the insolence of
the swaggering express liner making time in competition with rivals; it
hinted confident opinion that smaller chaps would better get out of the
way.
The on-comer had received a signal which served to justify that opinion.
Captain Wass had docilely announced that he was going full speed astern,
his whistle-blasts had declared that he had stepped off the sidewalk
of the ocean lane--as usual! The big fellows knew that the little chaps
would do it!
Mate Mayo leaned from the window, his jaw muscles tense, anxiety in his
eyes.
The big whistle now was fairly shaking the curtains of the mists and was
not giving him any comforting assurance that the liner was swinging to
avoid them.
The quartermaster was taking the situation more philosophically than his
superiors. He hummed:
Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro,
She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord let her go!
"Does that gor-righteously fool ahead there think I blowed three
whistles to salute Marston's birthday or their last dividend, Mr. Mayo?"
shouted Captain Wass.
Fogs are freaky; ocean mists are often eerie in movements. There are
strata, there are eddying air-currents which rend the curtain or shred
the massing vapors. The men in the pilot-house of the _Nequasset_
suddenly found their range of vision widened. The fog did not clear; it
became more tenuous and showed an area of the sea. It was like a thin
veil which disclosed dimly what it distorted and magnified.
In a fog, experienced steamboat men always examine with earnest gaze
the line where fog and ocean merge. They do not stare up into the fog,
trying to distinguish the loom of an on-coming craft; they are able
to discern first of all the white line of foam marking the vessel's
cutwater kick-up or her wake.
"There she comes, sir!" announced the mate. He pointed his finger at a
foaming upthrust of tossing water.
"Yes, sir! Eighteen knots and both eyes shut!" But there was relief
mingled with the resentment. His quick glance informed him that the
liner would pass the _Nequasset_ well to starboard--her bow showed a
divergence of at least two points from the freighter's course. But the
next instant Captain Wass yelped a shout of angry alarm. "Yes, both eyes
shut!" he repeated.
Right in line with the liner's threshing bow was a fisherman's Hampton
boat, disclosed as the fog drifted.
The passenger-steamer gave forth a half-dozen "woofs" from her whistle,
answering the freighter's staccato warning, but gave no signs of
slowing. But that they were making an attempt to dodge the mite in their
path was made known by a shout from their lookout and his shrill call:
"Port! Hard over!"
The fisherman had all the alertness of his kind, trained by dangers and
ever-present prospect of mischance to grab at desperate measures.
He leaped forward and pulled out his mast and tossed mast and sail
overboard.
He knew that he must encounter the tremendous wash and wake of the
rushing hull. His shell of a boat, if made topheavy by the sail, would
stand small show.
"He's a goner!" gasped Captain Wass. "She's a-going to tramp him plumb
underfoot--unless she's going to get up a little more speed and jump
over him!" he added, moved to bitter sarcasm.
They saw the little boat go into eclipse behind the black prow, the
first lift of the churning waters flipping the cockleshell as a coin
is snapped by the thumb. The fisherman was not in view--he had thrown
himself flat in the bottom of his boat.
"He's under for keeps," stated the skipper, with conviction. "If her
bilge-keel doesn't cooper him, her port propeller will!"
So rapidly was the liner moving, so abrupt her swoop to the right, that
she leaned far over and showed them the red of her huge bilge. Her high
speed enabled her to make an especially quick turn. As they gaped,
her two stacks swung almost into line. Her shearing bow menaced the
_Nequasset_.
"The condemned old hellion is going to nail _us_, now!" bellowed Captain
Wass. In his panic and his fury he leaped up and down, pulling at the
whistle-cord.
She was almost upon them--only a few hundred yards of gray water
separated the two steamers.
She was the _Triton!_
Her name was disclosed on her bow. Her red hawse-holes showed like
glowering and savage eyes. There was indescribably brutal threat in this
sudden dart in their direction. It was as if a sea monster had swallowed
an insect in the shape of a Hampton boat and now sought a real mouthful.
But her great rudder swung to the quick pull of her steam steering-gear
and again she sheered, cutting a letter s. The movement brought her past
the stern of the _Nequasset_, a biscuit-toss away. The mighty surge of
her roaring passage lifted the freighter's bulk aft, and the huge wave
that was crowded between the two hulls crowned itself with frothing
white and slapped a good, generous ton of green water over the smaller
steamer's superstructure.
Captain Wass grabbed down his megaphone; he wanted to submit a few
remarks which seemed to fit the incident.
But the captain of the Triton was beforehand with a celerity which
matched the up-to-date speed of his craft. He was bellowing through the
huge funnel which a quartermaster was holding for him. His language
was terrific. He cursed freighters in most able style. He asked why the
_Nequasset_ was loafing there in the seaway without steering headway on
her! That amazing query took away Captain Wass's breath and all power
to retort. Asking that of a man who had obeyed the law to the letter! A
fellow who was banging through the fog at eighteen knots' speed blaming
a conscientious skipper because the latter had stopped so as to get out
of the way!
And, above all, going so fast when he asked the question that he was out
of ear-shot before suitable answer could be returned!
Captain Wass revolved those whirling thoughts in a brain which flamed
and showed its fires through the skipper's wide-propped eyes.
Then he banged his megaphone across the pilot-house. It rebounded
against him, and he kicked it into a corner. He began to whack his fist
against a broad placard which was tacked up under his license as master.
The cardboard was freshly white, and its tacks were bright, showing that
it had been recently added as a feature of the pilot-house. Big letters
in red ink at the top counseled, "Safety First." Other big letters
at the bottom warned, "Take No Chances." The center lettering advised
shipmasters that in case of accident the guilty parties would feel all
the weight of Uncle Sam's heavy palm; it was the latest output from
the Department of Commerce and Labor, and bore the signature of the
honorable secretary of the bureau.
Mayo noted that his chief was wholly absorbed in this speechless
activity; therefore he pulled the bells which stopped the backward
churning and sent the freighter on her way. They passed the fisherman in
the Hampton boat; he was bailing his craft.
"That was a rather close call, sir! I am glad that I have been trained
by you to be a careful man. You took no chances!"
"And where have I got to by obeying the United States rules and never
taking chances, Mr. Mayo? At sixty-five I'm master of a freight-scow,
sassed by owners ashore and sassed on the high seas by fellows like that
one who just slammed past us! If that passenger-steamer had hit me the
lawyers would have shoved the tar end of the stick into my hands! It's
all for the good of the hellbent fellows the way things are arranged
in this world at the present time. I'll be lucky if he doesn't lodge
complaint against me when he gets to New York, saying that I got in his
way!" He cut off a fresh sliver of black plug and took his position at
the whistle-pull. "You'd better go get an heiress," he advised his mate,
sourly. "Being an old-fashioned skipper in these days of steam-boating
is what I'm too polite to name. And as to being the other kind--well,
you have just seen him whang past!"
However, as they went wallowing up the coast, their old tub sagging with
the weight of the rails under her hatches, Mate Mayo felt considerable
of a young man's ambitious envy of that spick-and-span swaggerer who
had yelled anathema from the pilot-house of the _Triton_. It was
real steamboating, he reflected, even if the demands of owners and
dividend-seekers did compel a master to take his luck between his teeth
and gallop down the seas.
XVI ~ MILLIONS AND A MITE
To Tiffany's I took her,
I did not mind expense;
I bought her two gold ear-rings,
They cost me fifty cents.
And a-a-away, you santee!
My dear Annie!
O you New York girls!
Can't you dance the polka!
--Shanty, "The Lime Juicer."
Mr. Ralph Bradish, using one of the booth telephones in the Wall Street
offices of Marston & Waller, earnestly asked the cashier of an up-town
restaurant, as a special favor, to hold for twenty-four hours the
personal check, amount twenty-five dollars, given by Mr. Bradish the
evening before.
Ten minutes later, with the utmost nonchalance and quite certain that
the document was as good as wheat, Mr. Bradish signed a check for one
million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
That amount in no measure astonished him. He was quite used to signing
smashing-big checks when he was called into the presence of Julius
Marston. Once, the amount named was two millions. And there had
been numbers and numbers of what Mr. Bradish mentally termed "piker
checks"--a hundred thousand, two and three hundred thousand. And he had
never been obliged to request any hold up on those checks for want of
funds. Because, in each instance, there had been a magic, printed line
along which Mr. Bradish had splashed his signature.
Before he blotted the ink on this check Bradish glanced, with only
idle curiosity, to note in what capacity he was serving this time. The
printed line announced to him that he was "Treasurer, the Paramount
Coast Transportation Company, Inc." He remembered that in the past
he had signed as treasurer of the "Union Securities Company," the
"Amalgamated Holding Company," and for other corporations sponsoring
railroads and big industries with whose destinies Julius Marston,
financier, appeared to have much to do. It was evident that Financier
Marston preferred to have a forty-dollar-a-week clerk do the menial
work of check-signing, or at least to have that clerk's name in evidence
instead of Marston's own.
That modesty about having his name appear in public on a check seemed to
attach to the business habits of Mr. Marston.
Mighty few person were ever admitted to this inner sanctuary where
Bradish sat facing his employer across the flat-topped desk. And men who
saw that employer outside his office did not turn their heads to stare
after him or point respectful finger at him or remark to somebody else,
"There's the big Julius Marston." In the first place, Mr. Marston was
not big in a physical sense, and there was nothing about him which would
attract attention or cause him to be remarked in a crowd. And only a few
persons really knew him, anyway.
He sat in his massive chair; one hand propped on the arm, his elbow
akimbo, and with the other hand plucked slowly at the narrow strip of
beard which extended from his lower lip to the peaked end of his chin.
"Very well, Mr. Bradish," he remarked, after the latter had lifted the
blotter from the check.
Bradish rose and bowed, and started to leave. He was a tall and shapely
young man, with a waist, with a carriage. His garb was up-to-the-minute
fashion--repressed. He was a study in brown, as to fabric of attire and
its accessories. One of those white-faced chaps who always look a bit
bored, with a touch of up-to-date cynicism! One of those fellows who
listen much and who say little!
"Just a moment, Bradish," invited Marston, and the young man stopped.
"I like your way in these matters. You don't ask questions. You show no
silly interest in any check you sign."
Bradish reflected an instant on the check in the restaurant cashier's
drawer, and pinched his thin lips a little more tightly.
"I'm quite sure you don't do any broadcast talking about the nature of
these special duties." The financier pointed to the check. "I'll say
quite frankly that I didn't select you for this service until I had
ascertained that you did no talking about your own affairs in the office
with my other clerks."
Bradish inclined his head respectfully.
"In financial matters it is necessary to pick men carefully. I trust
you understand my attitude. These transactions are quite legitimate.
But modern methods of high finance make it necessary to manipulate the
details a little. Your attitude in accepting these duties, as a matter
of course is very gratifying from a business standpoint. As a little
mark of our confidence in you, you will receive seventy-five dollars per
week hereafter."
"Thank you."
Mr. Martson allowed himself a quick, dry smile. "This isn't a bribe,
you understand. There is nothing attached to this nominal service which
requires bribing. We merely want to make it worth while for a prudent
and close-mouthed young man to remain with us."
A buzzer, as unobtrusive as were all the characteristics of Financier
Marston, sounded its meek purr.
"Yes," he murmured into the receiver of the telephone which communicated
with the watchful picket of the Marston & Waller offices. "Who? Oh, she
may come in at once."
"Wait here a moment, if you please, Mr. Bradish. It is my daughter who
has dropped in for a moment's word with me. I have something more for
you to attend to."
Bradish walked to one of the windows. He stared sharply at the girl who
hurried in. Her hat and face were shrouded in an automobile veil, and
the cloistered light of the big room helped to conceal her features.
But Bradish seemed to recognize something about her in spite of the
vagueness of outline. When she spoke to her father the young man's eyes
snapped in true astonishment.
"I couldn't explain it very well over the telephone, papa, so I came
right down. Do forgive me if I bother you for just a minute." She
glanced quickly at the young man beside the window, but found him merely
an outline against the light.
"Only one of our clerks," said her father. "What is it, my girl?"
"It's Nan Burgess's house-party at Kingston! There's to be an automobile
parade--all decorated--at the fete, and I want to go in our big car,
and have it two days. I was afraid you'd say no if I asked you over the
telephone, but now that I'm right here, looking you in the eyes with all
the coaxing power of my soul, you just can't refuse, can you, papa?"
"I think perhaps I would have consented over the telephone, Alma."
"Then I may take the car?" Her playful tones rose in ecstatic crescendo.
The impulsiveness of her nature was displayed by her manner in accepting
this favor. She danced to her father and threw her arms about him.
She exhibited as much delight as if he had bestowed upon her a gift of
priceless pearls. The exuberance of her joy appeared to annoy him a bit.
"Gently, gently, Alma! If you waste your thanks in this manner for a
little favor, what will you do some day for superlatives when you are
really eager to thank some-body for a big gift?"
"Oh, I'll always have thanks enough to go around--that's my disposition.
The folks who love me, I can love them twice as much. You're a dear old
dad, and I know you want me to run along so that you can go to making a
lot more money. So I'll just take myself out from underfoot."
When she turned she glanced again at the person near the window, and
this time she got a good look at his face. Even the veil could not
hide from Bradish the color which spread into her cheeks. She was so
conscious of her embarrassment and of her appearance that she did not
turn her face to her father when he spoke to her.
"One moment, Alma! Seeing that my big car is going to have a two days'
vacation in the country, I may as well make it do one last business
errand for me."
He called Bradish to the desk by a side jerk of the head.
"I want that check put into the hands of the brokerage firm of Mower
Brothers as quickly as possible. My car is at the door, and it may as
well take you along. Alma, allow this young man of ours to ride with you
to the place where I'm sending him."
He did not present Bradish to Miss Marston. Bradish did not expect the
financier to do so. But this dismissal of him as a mere errand-boy--with
the young lady staring him out of countenance in a half-frightened
way--did cut the pride a bit, even in the case of a mere clerk. And
this clerk was pondering on the memory that only the night before he
had clasped this young lady--then a party unknown who was evidently bent
upon an escapade _incog_.--had encircled this selfsame maiden with his
arms during many blissful dances in one of the gorgeous Broadway public
ball-rooms. And he had regaled her and a girl friend on viands for which
his twenty-five-dollar check had scarcely sufficed to pay.
Bradish was pretty familiar with the phases and the oddities of the
dancing craze, but this _contretemps_ rather staggered him.
They had asked no questions of each other during those dances. They had
been perfectly satisfied with the joy of the moment. She had looked at
him in a way and with a softness in her eyes which told him that she
found him pleasing in her sight. She had been enthusiastic, with that
same exuberance he had just witnessed, over his grace in the dance. They
had promised to meet again at the ball-room where social conventions did
not prevent healthy young folks from enjoying themselves.
"Good heavens!" she whispered to him, as she preceded him through the
door. "You work in my father's office?"
"You are surprised--a little shocked--and I don't blame you," he
returned, humbly. "As for me, I am simply astounded. But I am not a
gossip."
She stole a look at his pale, impassive face, and some of her father's
instinct in judging men seemed to reassure her.
"One must play a bit," she sighed. "And it's so stupid most of the time,
among folks whom one knows very well. There are no more surprises."
As he shut the door softly behind them Bradish heard Marston, once more
immersed in his affairs of business, directing over the telephone that
one Fletcher Fogg be located and sent to him.
"I apologize," said Bradish, in the corridor. They were waiting for the
elevator.
"For what?" She lifted her eyebrows, and there was no hint of annoyance
in her dark eyes.
"For--well--seeing how the matter stands, it almost seems as if I had
presumed--was masquerading. I am only a clerk, and--"
"But you are a clerk in Julius Marston's offices," she said, with pride,
"and that means that you are to be trusted. I require no apology from
you, Mr.--er--"
"My name is Ralph Bradish."
"I dodged away from dullness last evening; I was hoping to have a bit
of a frolic. And I found a young gentleman who asked no impertinent
questions, who was very gracious, and who was a delight in the dance. It
was all very innocent--rather imprudent--but altogether lovely. There!"
"I thank you."
"And--well, after Nan Burgess's house-party, I--"
She glanced up at him, provocation in her eyes.
"But I don't dare to hope, do I, that you will condescend to come again
and dance with me?"
"Julius Marston has taught his daughter to keep her promise, sir. If I
remember, I promised."
He did not reply, for the elevator's grille door clashed open for them
to enter.
And in the elevator, and later in the car, he was silent, as became the
clerk of Marston's offices in the company of Marston's daughter when
there were listeners near.
Her eyes gave him distinct approval and her lips gave him a charming
smile when he alighted at his destination.
Bradish stood for a moment and gazed after the car when it threaded its
way into the Broadway traffic.
"She's a flighty young dame, with a new notion for every minute," he
told himself. "You can see that plain enough. It's probably all jolly on
her part. However, in these days, if a fellow keeps his head steady and
his feet busy, there's no telling what the tango may lead to. This may
be exactly, what I've been paying tailors' bills for."
Indicating that in these calculating times the spirit of youth in the
ardor of love at first sight is not as the poet of romance has painted
it.
XVII ~ "EXACTLY!" SAID MR. FOGG
"O I am not a man o' war or privateer," said he,
Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we!
"But I'm an honest pirate a-looking for my fee,
Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree."
--Shanty of the "Prince Luther."
Mr. Fletcher Fogg privately and mentally and metaphorically slapped
himself on the back whenever he considered his many activities.
He was perfectly certain that he was the best little two-handed general
operator of an all-around character that any gentleman could secure
when that gentleman wanted a job done and did not care to give explicit
instructions as to the details of procedure.
The look of grief and regret that the fat face of Mr. Fogg could assume
when said gentleman--after the job was done--blamed the methods as
unsanctioned, even though the result had been achieved--that expression
was a study in humility--humility with its tongue in its cheek.
If Mr. Fogg could have advertised his business to suit himself--being
not a whit ashamed of his tactics--he would have issued a card inscribed
about as follows:
"Mr. FLETCHER FOGG: Promoting and demoting. Building and
busting. The whole inside of any financial or industrial
cheese cleaned out without disturbing the outside rind. All
still work done noiselessly. Plenty of brass bands for loud
work. Broad shoulders supplied to take on all the blame."
Mr. Fogg, in the presence of Julius Marston, was properly obsequious,
but not a bit fawning. He wiped away the moisture patches beside his
nose with a purple handkerchief, and put it back into his outside breast
pocket with the corners sticking out like attentive ears. He crossed his
legs and set on his knee an ankle clothed in a purple silk stocking. On
account of his rotundity he was compelled to hold the ankle in place in
the firm clutch of his hand. He settled his purple tie with the other
hand.
"I'm glad I was in reach when you wanted me," he assured Mr. Marston.
"I'm just in on the _Triton_. And I want to tell you that you're running
that steamboat line in the way an American business man wants to have
it run. If I had been on any other line, sir, I wouldn't have been
here to-day when you were looking for me. Everything else on the coast
prowling along half-speed, but down slammed the old _Triton_, scattering
'em out from underfoot like an auto going through a flock of chickens,
but not a jar or a scrape or a jolt, and into her dock, through two days
of thick fog, exactly on the dot. That's the way an American wants to be
carried, sir."
"I believe so, Mr. Fogg," agreed Julius Marston. "And that's why we feel
it's going to be a good thing for all the coast lines to be under one
management--our management."
"Exactly!"
"It's true progress--true benefit to travelers, stockholders, and all
concerned. Consolidation instead of rivalry. I believe in it."
"Exactly!"
"As a broad-gauged business man--big enough to grasp big matters--you
have seen how consolidation effects reforms."
"No two ways about it," affirmed Mr. Fogg.
"That was very good missionary work you did in the matter of the Sound &
Cape line--very good indeed."
"It's astonishing what high and lofty ideas some stockholders have
about properties they're interested in. In financial matters the poorest
conclusion a man can draw is that a stock will always continue to pay
dividends simply because it always has done so. I had to set off a
pretty loud firecracker to wake those Sound & Cape fellows up. I had to
show 'em what damage the new deals and competition and our combination
would do to 'em if they kept on sleeping on their stock certificates.
Funny how hard it is to pry some folks loose from their par-value
notions." Mr. Fogg delivered this little disquisition on the
intractability of stockholders with reproachful vigor, staring blandly
into the unwinking gaze of Mr. Marston. "I don't want to praise my own
humble efforts too much," he went on, "but I truly believe that inside
another thirty days the Sound crowd would have been ready to cash in at
fifty, in spite of that minority bunch that was hollering for par. That
was only a big yawp from a few folks."
"Fifty was a fair price in view of what's ahead in the way of
competition, but we have made it a five-eighths proposition in order to
clinch the deal promptly. I just sent one of our boys around with the
check."
Mr. Fogg beamed. He used his purple handkerchief on his cheeks once
more. He allowed to himself a few words of praise: "They'll understand
some day that I saved 'em from a bigger bump. But it's hard to show some
people."
"Now, Mr. Fogg, we come to the matter of the Vose line. What's the
outlook?"
Mr. Fogg looked sad. "After weeks of chasing 'em, I can only say that
they're ugly and stubborn, simply blind to their best interests."
"Insist on par, do they?"
"Worse than that. Old Vose and his sons and those old hornbeam
directors--retired sea-captains, you know, as hard as old turtles--they
have taken a stand against consolidation. They belong in the dark ages
of business. Old Vose had the impudence to tell me that forming this
steamboat combine was a crime, and that he wouldn't be a party to a
betrayal of the public. He won't come in; he won't sell; he's going to
compete."
Mr. Marston stroked his strip of beard. "In order for our stock to be
what we intend it to be, the Paramount Coast Transportation has got
to operate as a complete monopoly, as you understand, Mr. Fogg. A
beneficent monopoly--consolidation benefiting all--but nevertheless
a monopoly. With one line holding out on us, we've got only a limping
proposition."
"Exactly!"
"What are we going to do about the Vose line?"
"Let it compete, sir. We can kill it in the end."
"Possibly--probably. But that plan will not serve, Mr. Fogg."
"It's business."
"But it is not finance. I'm looking at this proposition solely as a
financier, Mr. Fogg. I hardly know one end of a steamboat from the
other. I'm not interested in rate-cutting problems. I don't know how
long it would take to put the Vose line under. But I do know this, as a
financier, handling a big deal, that the Paramount stock will not appeal
to investors or the bonds to banks unless we can launch our project as
a clean, perfect combination, every transportation charter locked up.
I handle money, and I know all of money's timidity and all of
money's courage. You think the Vose directors are able to hold their
stockholders in line, do you?"
Mr. Fogg uncrossed his legs, put both feet on the floor, hooked
his hands across his paunch, and gazed up at the ceiling, evidently
pondering profoundly.
"I repeat, I'm not viewing this thing as a steamboating proposition,
not figuring what kind of tariffs will kill competition," stated Mr.
Marston. "I'm not estimating what kind of tariffs will make a profit for
the Paramount. I'd as soon sell sugar over the counter. My associates
expect me to make money for them in another way--make it in big lumps
and on a quick turn. The Vose line, competing, kills us from the
financial viewpoint."
"Exactly."
There was silence in the room for some time.
"There's never any telling what stockholders will do," remarked Mr.
Fogg, his eyes still studying the panels of the ceiling.
Mr. Marston did not dispute that dictum.
His field-marshal slowly tipped down his head and gave his superior
another of those bland stares.
"So I'll go right ahead and see what they'll do, sir."
He rose and kicked the legs of his trousers into place.
"You understand that in this affair, as in all matters where you have
been employed, there must be absolutely clean work. There must be no
come-back. Of course, I have instructed you to this effect regularly,
but I wish to have you remember that I have repeated the instructions,
sir."
"Exactly!" Mr. Fogg's eyes did not blink.
"You will be prepared to testify to that effect in case the need ever
arises."
"Exactly!"
Mr. Fogg delivered that word like a countersign. Into it, in his
interviews with Julius Marston, he put understanding, humility, promise.
"May we expect quick action?" asked the financier. "The thing mustn't
hang fire. We have a lot of our nimble money tied up as it is."
"Exactly!" returned Mr. Fogg, on his way to the door. "Quick action it
is!"
"This is probably the craziest idea that ever popped into a man's head
when that man was sitting in Julius Marston's office," reflected Mr.
Fogg, marching through the anteroom of this temple of finance. "There's
one thing about it that's comforting--it's so wild-eyed it will never
be blamed on to Julius Marston as any of his getting up. And that's his
principal lookout when a deal is on. It seems to be up to me to deliver
the goods."
He sat down on a bench in the waiting-room and rubbed his knuckles over
his forehead.
"Just let me get this thing right end to," he told himself. "How did
the idea happen to hit me, anyway? Oh, yes! Old Vose bragging to me that
every stockholder in the Vose line was behind him, and that the annual
meeting was about to come off, and then I would see what a condemned
poor show I stood to get even the toe of my boot into the crack of the
company door. He's a Maine corporation. I've known of cases where that
fact helped a lot. There are plenty of ifs and buts in this thing, but
here goes!"
He applied himself to one of the office telephones, asked for several
numbers, one after the other, and put questions with eagerness and
rapidity.
The information he received seemed to disturb him considerably. He came
out of the booth and scrubbed his cheeks with his purple handkerchief.
"Their annual meeting at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, four hundred
miles from here! Well, I suppose I ought to be thankful that it's not
being held right now," Mr. Fogg informed himself, determined to fan that
one flicker of hope with both wings of his optimism. "But I've got to
admit that twenty-four hours is almighty scant time for a job of this
sort, even when the operator is the little Fogg boy himself. Damme, I
haven't come to a full, realizing sense yet of all I've got to do and
how I'm going to do it."
He hurried out, dove into an elevator, and was shot down to the street.
He was lucky enough to find a taxi at the curb.
"Grand Central," he told the driver. "I've got five dollars that
says you can beat the Subway express and land me in season for the
ten-o'clock limited for Boston."
As soon as it became evident to Mr. Fogg that his driver had seen his
duty and was going to do it, traffic squad be blowed, the promoter
settled back, and his thoughts began to revolve faster than the taxi's
wheels.
"It's going to be like the mining-camp 'lulu hand,'" was his mental
preface to his plans. "It can be played only once in a sitting-in; it
has got to be backed with good bluff, but it's a peach when it works.
And what am I a promoter for? What have I studied foreign corporation
laws for?"
Mr. Fogg took off his hat and mopped his bald spot, wrinkling his
eyelids in deep reflection.
"The idea is," he mused, "I'm a candidate for the presidency of the Vose
line at to-morrow's meeting. But I haven't been elected yet!"
However, Mr. Fogg's preliminary sniffing at the affairs of the Vose line
had informed him where he could pick up at least ten scattered shares of
their stock. He figured that before midnight he would have them in his
possession. As to the next day and the next steps, well, the nerve of a
real American plunger clings to life until the sunset of all hopes, even
as the snake's tail, though the serpent's head be bruised beyond repair,
is supposed to wriggle until sunset.
He despatched a telegram at New Haven. He received a reply at
Providence, and he read it and felt like a gambler who has drawn a
card to fill his bobtail hand. When a design is brazen and the game is
largely a bluff, plain, lucky chance must be appealed to.
The telegram had been addressed to Attorney Sawyer Franklin, in a Maine
city. It had requested an appointment with Mr. Franklin on the following
morning.
The reply had stated that Mr. Franklin was critically ill in a hospital,
but that all matters of business would be attended to by his office
force, as far as was possible.
Attorney Sawyer Franklin, as Mr. Fogg, of course, was fully aware, was
clerk of the Vose line corporation, organized according to the Maine
law as a "foreign corporation," under the more liberal regulations which
have attracted so many metropolitan promoters into the states of Maine
and New Jersey.
XVIII ~ HOW AN ANNUAL MEETING WAS HELD--ONCE!
O, a ship she was rigged and ready for sea,
And all of her sailors were fishes to be!
Windy-y-weather,
Stormy-y-weather!
When the wind blows we're all together!
--The Fishes.
Fletcher Fogg, suave, dignified, radiating business importance,
freshened by a barber's ministrations, walked into the Franklin
law-offices the next morning at nine-thirty.
He announced himself to a girl typist, and she referred him to a young
man who came forth from a private room.
"I have power of attorney from Mr. Franklin to transact his routine
business," explained the young man. "Of course, if it's a new case or a
question of law--"
"Neither, neither, my dear sir! Simply a matter of routine. But," he
leaned close to the young man's ear, "strictly private."
Mr. Fogg himself closed the door of the inner office when the two had
retired there.
"One of your matters to-day, I believe, is the annual meeting of the
Vose line. I am a stockholder."
Fogg produced a packet of certificates and laid them on the desk.
"Are there to be any officers or other stockholders present?" he asked,
showing just a bit of solicitude, in spite of himself.
"I think not," returned the young man. "Nothing has been said about it.
The proxies and instructions have been sent in, as usual, by registered
mail." He indicated documents stacked on the desk. "I was just about to
begin on the matter."
"I suppose our proxies run to the clerk of the corporation, as usual,
with full power of substitution, clerk to follow instructions," said
Mr. Fogg, a bit pompously, using his complete knowledge of corporation
routine.
"Yes, sir. We handle most of the corporation meetings that way when it's
all cut and dried. In this case, it's simply a re-election of the old
officers."
"Exactly!"
Mr. Fogg pulled his chair closer, dabbed his purple handkerchief on
each side of his nose, and inquired, kindly and confidentially: "My son,
what's your name?"
"David Boyne."
"Law student here--secretary, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Exactly--and a long, hard pull ahead of you. It's too bad you're not in
New York, where a young man doesn't have to travel the whole way around,
but can cut a corner or two. I could give you a lot of examples of
bright young chaps who have grabbed in when the grabbing was good.
"But I haven't the time. You take my word for it. I'm a plain, outspoken
business man, and I'm in with the biggest financial interests in New
York. And I'm going to offer you the grandest opportunity of your life
right now, David."
He picked up his certificates and arranged them in one hand, as a player
arranges his cards.
"I have here ten shares, say, and each share is owned by a different
individual--all good men. You don't know them, but I do. They are
connected with our big interests. And I'm right here as a stockholder.
Do you realize, David, that instructing you to hold this meeting without
a single stockholder present is really asking you to do something that's
not strictly legal?"
"We usually do it this way," faltered Boyne.
"Exactly! Men like those who are running the Vose line are always asking
an innocent man to do something illegal. I'm going to come right to
the point with you, David. Those old moss-backs who have sent those
instructions are trying to wreck the Vose line. I want you to disregard
those instructions. I am anxious to be president and general manager
of the line. I want you to elect as directors these stockholders." He
tapped his finger on the certificates.
The young man was both frightened and bewildered. He turned pale. "I
can't do that," he gasped.
"Yes, you can. There are the proxies. It's up to you to vote 'em as you
want to. They allow full power of substitution, usual fashion!"
"But I can't disobey my instructions."
"I say you can, if you've got grit enough to make a good thing for
yourself."
"Such a thing was never done here."
"Probably not. It's a new idea. But new things are being done right
along in high finance. You ought to be up where big things are happening
every day. You stand in with me, and I'll put you there. You see, I'm
getting right down to cases on this matter with you, David. Vote those
proxies as I direct and I'll hand you five thousand dollars inside of
two hours, and will plant you in a corking job with my people as soon as
this thing calms down. I could have palavered a long time before coming
to business in this way, but I see you're a bright young fellow and
don't need a lot of hair-oil talk. I don't ask you to hurt anybody in
especial. You can elect the old treasurer--we don't want to handle the
money--this is no cheap brace game. But I want a board of directors
who will put me in as general manager until certain reforms can be
instituted so as to bring the line up to date. Five thousand dollars,
mind you, and then you'll be taken care of."
"But I'll be put into state prison."
"Nonsense, my boy! Why would you vote those proxies according to your
instructions? Why, because it would be for your interest to do so if
I hadn't come in here with a better proposition. Now it's for your
interest to vote 'em as I tell you. The most they can make out of it
is a breach of trust, and that amounts to nothing. With five thousand
dollars in your mitt, you wouldn't need to hang around here to take
a lot of slurs. I'll slip you another thousand for your expenses on a
little trip till the air is all clear."
Boyne stared at this blunt and forceful tempter; his hand which clutched
the chair-arms trembled; "I'm going to be still more frank with you,
my boy. And, by the way, you must know that I'm no mere four-flusher.
You've heard of Fletcher Fogg, eh? You knew who I was when you got that
wire from me yesterday?"
"Why, yes, I know of you through our corporation work, sir."
"Exactly!" Mr. Fogg assumed even more unctuously the manner of an old
friend. "Now, as I say, I'm going to be frank--take you in on the ground
floor. Of course, they can have another--a special meeting of the Vose
line after a thirty days' notice to the stockholders. They will probably
call that meeting, and I don't care if they do. But I have an ambition
to be general manager of the line for those thirty days to make--well, I
want to make a little investigation of general conditions," declared Mr.
Fogg, resorting to his purple handkerchief. "That's all I care to say.
At the end of thirty days we may--I'm speaking of the big interests
I represent--we may decide to buy the line and make it really worth
something to the stockholders. You understand, I hope. It's strictly
business--it's all right--it's good financiering. After it's all over
and those old, hardshell directors wake up, I'll venture to say they'll
be pleased all around that this little turn has been made. In the
mean time, having been taken care of, you needn't mind whether they're
pleased or not."
Boyne looked at the sheaf of certificates in Fogg's hand; he bent
frightened gaze on the documents stacked on the desk. They lay there
representing his responsibility, but they also represented opportunity.
The sight of them was a rebuke to the agitated thoughts of treason
which assailed him. But the mere papers had no voice to make that rebuke
pointed.
Mr. Fogg did have a voice. "Five thousand dollars in your fist, my boy,
as soon as I can work the wire to New York--and there's no piker about
the man who can have five thousand flashed in here when he asks for it.
You can see what kind of men are behind me. What do you care about old
man Vose and his crowd?"
"There's Mr. Franklin! I'll be doing a mighty mean trick, Mr. Fogg. No,
I'll not do it."
Mr. Fogg did not bluster. He was silent for some time. He pursed his
lips and stared at Boyne, and then he shifted his gaze to the ceiling.
"It's too bad--too bad for a young fellow to turn down such an
opportunity," he sighed. "It can be done without you, Boyne, in another
way. The same result will happen. But you might as well be in on it.
Now let me tell you a few instances of how some of the big men in this
country got their start."
Mr. Fogg was an excellent raconteur with a vivid imagination, and it did
not trouble his conscience because the narratives he imparted to this
wide-eyed youth were largely apocryphal.
"You see," he put in at the end of the first tale, "what a flying start
will do for a man. Suppose that chap I've just told you about sat back
and refused to jump when the road was all open to him! You don't hear
anybody knocking that man nowadays, do you? And yet that's the trick he
pulled to get his start."
With a similar snapper did Mr. Fogg touch up each one of his stories of
success.
"I--I didn't have any idea--I thought they managed it some other way,"
murmured David Boyne.
"Your horizon has been limited; you haven't been out in the world
enough to know, my son."
"I have heard of all those men, of course. They're big men to-day."
"You didn't think they got to be millionaires by saving the money out of
clerks' salaries, did you? Of course, Boyne, I admit that in this
affair you'll be up to a little sharp practice. But you're not stealing
anything. Nobody can lug off steamships in a vest pocket. It's only a
deal--and deals are being made every day."
Fogg was a keen judge of his fellow-men. He knew weakness when he saw
it. He could determine from a man's lower lip and the set of his nose
whether that person were covetous. And he knew now what signified the
flush on Boyne's cheeks and the light in his eyes. However, there was
something else to reckon with.
"I will not betray Mr. Franklin's confidence in me. Positively, I will
not," said the young man. "He's sick, and that would make it worse."
"How sick is he?"
"He is very, very ill. It was an operation, and he has had a relapse.
But we hope he's coming out all right."
"What hospital is he in?"
Boyne gave the name.
"I think I'll call up and ask when it is expected that he can see
visitors," announced Fogg, with business briskness. "I wish Franklin had
been here on deck--Franklin, himself."
"I don't believe Mr. Franklin would turn a trick of this sort," asserted
the clerk. "I'd hate to face him, after doing it myself."
"Franklin would be able to see further into a financial deal than a
young chap," said Mr. Fogg, severely, and then he found his number and
made his call. "Good heavens!" he blurted, after a question. "I am in
his office. Yes, I'll tell Boyne."
With a fine affectation of grief and surprise, he snapped the
transmitter upon the hook and whirled on Boyne. His back had been toward
the young man--he had spoken with hand across the receiver.
"He has just died--he's dead! Franklin has passed away."
"I would have been notified," gasped Boyne.
"They were just going to call you. You heard me say I'd inform you."
"But I must call the hospital--offer my services. I must go up there."
Mr. Fogg put out his hand and pressed the young man back into his chair.
"A lulu must be played quick and the pot raked sudden," he reflected.
"Just a moment, my son. Now you're standing on your own bottom. You
won't have to explain to Mr. Franklin."
He pointed to the clock. His stories had consumed time. The hour was
ten-thirty-five.
"That annual meeting of the Vose line was called for ten of the clock
to-day. Mr. Franklin was alive at that hour. He was the clerk of that
corporation. What happens now will not embarrass you so far as he's
concerned. Be sensible. Make a stroke for yourself. You're out of a job,
anyway. Go to it, now."
Fogg spoke sharply, imperiously. He exerted over the young man all the
force of his personality.
"Five thousand dollars--protected by my interests--slipped out of sight
for a few months--it's easy. Sit down there and make up your records;
vote those proxies. Vote 'em, I say. This meeting was held at ten
o'clock. Make up your records."
He stood over Boyne, arguing, promising, urging, and the young man,
at last, sweating, flushed, trembling, bent over his documents, sorted
them, and made up his records.
"We'll send on a copy to the office of the Vose line by registered
mail," commanded Fogg. "Attest it as a copy of the true record by
notary. When it drops in on 'em I will be there, with my directors and
my little story--and the face of Uncle Vose will be worth looking at,
though his language may not be elevating. You come out with me, Boyne.
I'm going to the telegraph office."
"But I must get in touch at once with Mr. Franklin's family--offer my
services," pleaded the clerk.
"There isn't a thing you can do right now," snapped the masterful
gentleman from New York. "I suggest that you close the office. Send the
girl home. You should do that much out of respect to your employer's
memory."
Ten minutes later the record had been mailed and the flustered Boyne
was trotting around town with Mr. Fogg. The latter seemed to have a
tremendous amount of business on his hands. He hired a cab and was
hustled yon and thither, leaving the young man in the vehicle, with
instructions to stay there, whenever a stop was made. But at last Mr.
Fogg returned from an errand with some very tangible results. He put a
packet of bank-notes into Boyne's shaking hands.
"Did you ever see as much real money before, my son?" asked Fogg,
genially. "That's your five thousand. And here's five hundred toward
that expense money we promised. I'm suggesting that you leave town
to-night. Tuck that cash away on yourself and duck out of sight."
Having secured the money and placed that powerful argument in the young
man's hands, Mr. Fogg's hurry and anxiety seemed to be over. When he had
seen the packet buttoned inside Boyne's coat he smiled.
"The trade is clinched and the job is done, son, and I feel sure that,
being a healthy young American citizen with plenty of cash to pay your
way, you're not going to let go that cash nor do any foolish squealing."
"I've gone too far to back out," admitted Boyne, patting the outside of
his coat. "But it seems like a dream."
"I've heard a little piece of good news while I've been running
around--forgot to tell you," said Fogg, in a matter-of-fact way.
"That fool attendant at the hospital must have misunderstood me, or I
misunderstood him. Franklin isn't dead."
"He-isn't-dead?"
"No. Last report is that he's better this forenoon. But that's the way
some of these crazy attendants mix things up when anybody inquires at a
hospital. Now, of course, seeing that the registered copy is on its way
and Franklin is getting better, that's all the more reason why you don't
care to hang around these diggings and be annoyed. I've got a scheme. It
will take you out of town in a very quiet style. I have telephoned down
to the docks, and there's a Vose freighter in here discharging rails. Do
you live at home or at a boarding-place?"
"I board," said Boyne, still wrestling with the sickening information
that he had betrayed an employer who was alive; somehow the sentiment
that it was equally base to betray a deceased employer had not impressed
itself on his benumbed conscience. He was now keenly aware that he
feared to meet up with a living and indignant Lawyer Franklin. Fogg
questioned, and Boyne gave his boarding-house address.
"We'll drive there, and I'll wait outside in the cab until you can
scratch together a gripful of your things. Don't load yourself down too
much. Remember, you've got plenty of cash in your pockets."
A little later Fogg escorted the young man up the gang-plank of the
_Nequasset_, from whose hold the last of her load of clanging rails was
being derricked by panting windlass engines. To Captain Zoradus Wass,
who was lounging against the rail just outside the pilot-house, Mr. Fogg
marched with business promptitude, and spoke with assurance.
"Captain, my name is Fletcher Fogg. Within forty-eight hours the
directors of the Vose line will elect me president and general manager.
That news may be rather astonishing, but it's true."
The veteran skipper did not reply. He shifted a certain bulge from one
cheek to the other.
"Well?" queried Fogg, a bit sharply.
"I ain't saying anything"
"You believe what I tell you, don't you?"
"I don't know you."
"This young man is David Boyne, acting clerk of the Vose line
corporation. The annual meeting has just been held in this city. He made
the official records. He will tell you that a new board of directors has
been chosen--the old crowd is out."
"That is so," stated Boyne, obeying the prompting of Fogg's quick
glance.
"I don't know you, either."
Mr. Fogg was not abashed. "It isn't especially necessary that you know
us. How soon do you leave?"
"We're going out light as soon as them rails are on the wharf."
"I am sending Mr. Boyne with you on a tour of inspection, captain.
Please give him quarters and use him right."
"Nothing doing till I get orders from the owners," declared Captain
Wass.
"Haven't I told you that I shall be general manager of this line
to-morrow, or next day, at the latest?"
"When you're general manager come around and give off your orders, sir."
"I'll do it. I'll come aboard in New York--"
"I'm ordered to Philadelphia," prompted Captain Wass. "That's where
you'll find me."
"Philadelphia, then! I'll come aboard and fire you."
"Do just as you feel like doing."
"You refuse to take along this young man?"
"This ain't a passenger-boat. I don't know you. Show orders from
owners--otherwise nothing doing."
Mate Mayo had come out of his cabin, near at hand. With a young man's
quicker perception of possibilities and contingencies he realized that
his skipper might be letting an old man's obstinacy block common sense.
The first mate had an eye for men and their manners. He had been
listening to Mr. Fogg. That gentleman certainly seemed to know what he
was talking about. And young Mate Mayo, having a nose for news as well
as an eye for men, understood that the coast transportation business
was in a touchy state generally. He gave Mr. Fogg further inspection and
decided that a little skilful compromising was advisable.
"Captain Wass, will you step aside with me a moment?" asked the mate.
"What for?"
"I want to have a word with you."
"Have it right here," said the captain, tartly. "I never have any
business that's got to be whispered behind corners." He scowled when his
mate gave him a wink, both suggestive and imploring. "Spit it out!"
"The law doesn't allow us to take passengers, as you suggest. And
naturally you don't like to act without orders from owners." He looked
at Mr. Fogg as he spoke, plainly offering apology to that gentleman.
"But we need a second steward and--"
"We don't!" Captain Wass was blunt and tactless.
"I beg pardon--we really do. And we can sign this young man in a--a sort
of nominal way, and then when we get to Philadelphia we'll probably find
the matter all straightened out."
"What's your name?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"Boyd Mayo, sir. First mate."
"Mr. Mayo, you're a young man with a lot of common sense," declared
Fogg.
To himself, staring at the young man, he said: "I'm going to play this
game out with two-spots, and here's one ready for the draw!"
"I'll see you in Philadelphia, Mr. Mayo," he continued, aloud. "I am
exactly what I say I am. Captain Wass, you've got something coming to
you. Mr. Mayo, you've got something coming to you, also--and it's
good!" His assertiveness was compelling, and even the captain displayed
symptoms of being impressed. "It isn't at all necessary that my agent
make this trip with you, Captain Wass. Perhaps I had no distinct right
to bring him here. But I am a hustling sort of a business man and I want
to get at matters in short order. However, I ask no favors. Come on,
Boyne!"
"We'll sign him on as steward to cover the law," proffered the captain,
as terse in consent as he was in refusal.
"Very well," agreed Fogg. "You've got an able first mate, sir." He
flipped his watch out. "I've got a train to make, gentlemen. Good day!"
He took Boyne by the arm and led him to the ladder from the bridge.
"Son," said he, "you dig into that Mayo chap till you know him up and
down and through and through. I'm going to use him. And you keep your
mouth shut about yourself." He backed down the ladder, feeling his
way cautiously with his fat legs, trotted to the waiting cab, and was
whirled away.
At high noon the next day Fletcher Fogg marched into the general
offices of the Vose line in company with ten solid-looking citizens.
Imperturbable and smiling, he allowed President Vose to shriek anathema
and to wave the certified copy of the record of the annual meeting under
the snub Fogg nose.
"What you say doesn't change the situation in the least," affirmed Mr.
Fogg. "You'll find the actual records of the meeting deposited in the
usual place in the state of your incorporation. If you think these
new directors are not lawfully and duly elected, you can apply to the
courts."
"You confounded thief, it's likely to take a year to get a decision.
This is damnable. It's piracy. You know what courts are!"
"Poke up your courts, then. It isn't my fault if they're slow."
The new directors filed into the board-room and with great celerity
proceeded to elect Fletcher Fogg to be president and general manager of
the Vose line.
"What are you going to do?" pleaded the deposed executive head. "My
money is in here--my whole life is in it--my pride--my intention to see
that the public gets a square deal. You infernal rogue, what are you
going to do with my property?"
"That's my own business," said Fletcher Fogg.
"You can't get away with it--you can't do it!" raged Vose. "I'll get
at the inside of how that meeting was conducted. You'd better take
backwater right now, Fogg, and save yourself. I'm not afraid to tell
you what I'm going to do. I'll have a temporary injunction issued. I'll
prove fraud was used at that meeting--bribery, yes, sir!"
Mr. Fogg smiled and sat down at the president's desk. "First he'll have
to find a young man by the name of David Boyne," he told himself.
"Vose," said the new president, "all you can show a court is the record
of an annual meeting, duly and legally held. And if the judge wants to
have a look at me he'll find me running this line a blamed sight better
than you have ever run it."
"It's a cheap, plain trick," bleated the aged steamship manager. "Your
crowd is going to sell out to the Paramount--it's your plot."
"Oh no! We're not inviting injunctions and law and newspaper talk and
slurs and slander, Mr. Vose. If there's ever any selling out you'll be
the first to suggest it; I never shall. You see, I'm just as frank with
you as you are with me. Selling this line to the Paramount right now,
just because the new board is in, would be ragged work--very coarse
work. Thank Heaven, I have a proper respect for the law--and what it can
do to bother a fool. I am not a fool, Mr. Vose."
XIX ~ THE PRIZE PACKAGE FROM MR. FOGG
Our captain stood on his quarter-deck,
And a fine little man was he!
"Overhaul, overhaul, on your davit tackle fall,
And launch your boats to the sea,
Brave boys! And launch your boats to the sea."
--The Whale.
A slowing, tug, tooting fussy and staccato blasts which Captain Wass
translated into commands to hold up, intercepted the _Nequasset_ in
Hampton Roads.
Mr. Fletcher Fogg was a passenger on the tug. In a suit of natty gray,
he loomed conspicuously in the alley outside the tug's pilot-house. He
cursed roundly when he toilsomely climbed the ladder to the freighter's
deck, for the rusty sheathing smutched the knees of his trousers.
"I'm doing a little better than I promised you, captain," he stated when
he arrived finally in the presence of the master. "I said Philadelphia.
But here I am. Do you know me now?"
"Your name is Fogg," returned Captain Wass, exhibiting no special
delight.
"And I'm manager of this line. As it seems to be pretty hard for you to
get anything through that thick nut of yours, I'll ask you to glance at
a paper which will save argument."
The paper was an attested notification, signed by the directors, stating
in laconic legal phrase what Mr. Fogg had just declared.
"You recognize my authority, do you?"
"Your bill o' lading reads O. K.," assented the skipper.
"Very well! Exactly! Then you take your orders. Proceed to an anchorage
off Lambert Point below Norfolk, pick a berth well off the channel, and
put down both hooks. The boat is going out of commission. I find you're
not making any money for the owners."
"It ain't my fault. With charters at--" began the master, indignantly.
"I haven't any time for a joint debate. You are laid off. Bring your
accounts to the main office as soon as you have turned the steamer over
to the caretaker--he'll come out from Norfolk." Manager Fogg turned on
his heel to meet Mate Mayo. "You will report at the main offices, too,
Mr. Mayo. Have you master's papers?"
"I have, sir--Atlantic waters, Jacksonville to East-port."
"Very good--you're going to be promoted. I shall put you aboard the
passenger-steamer _Montana_ as captain." He looked about sharply. "Where
is my agent?"
"There, in the quartermaster's cabin. We gave him that," replied Captain
Wass, gruffly. "I'm glad I'm out of steamboating. I've learned how to
run a boarding-house and make money out of it."
Mr. Fogg did not understand that sneer, and he paid no attention to the
captain's manner. He started for the cabin indicated.
"Well, you can swell around in gold braid now and catch your heiress,"
observed Captain Wass to his mate.
"I'm sorry, skipper," said the young man, with real feeling. "You are
the man to be promoted, not I. It isn't right--it doesn't seem real."
"There isn't any real steamboating on this coast any longer. It is--I
don't know what the devil it is," snarled the veteran. "I have been
sniffing and scouting. I'd like to be a mouse in the wall of them New
York offices and hear what it is they're trying to do to us poor cusses.
Ordered one day to keep the law; ordered the next day to break the law;
hounded by owners and threatened by the government! I'm glad I'm out of
it and glad you've got a good job. That last I'm specially glad about.
But keep your eye peeled. There are queer doings round about you!"
Fogg entered the cabin and shut the door behind him. He found Boyne
sitting on a stool and looking somewhat apprehensive. "Hiding?" inquired
Fogg.
"I thought I wouldn't show myself till I was sure about who was on that
tug," said the young man.
"That's the boy, David," complimented Fogg, with real heartiness.
"You're no fool. Nothing like being careful. Pack your bag and go aboard
the tug." He marched out.
"Philadelphia charter has been canceled, eh?" asked Captain Wass. The
tone of his voice did not invite amity.
"It has, sir."
"Seems queer to turn down a cargo that's there waiting--and the old boat
can carry it cheaper than anybody else, the way I've got expenses fined
down."
"Are you trying to tell me my business?"
"I have beep steamboating forty years, and I know a little something
about it."
Mr. Fogg looked at the old mariner, eyes narrowed. He wanted to inform
Captain Wass that the latter knew altogether too much about steamboating
for the kind of work that was planned out along the coast in those
ticklish times.
"Then I ain't to expect anything special from now on?" asked the
skipper. In spite of his determination to be crusty and keep his upper
lip stiff, he could not repress a little wistfulness, and his eyes roved
over the old freighter with affection.
"Not a thing, sir!" Mr. Fogg was blunt and cool. He started for the
ladder. He slapped the shoulder of Mayo as he passed the young man.
"Here's the kind of chap we're looking for nowadays. The sooner you
report, my boy, the better for you."
With Boyne following him, he climbed down the swaying ladder, and was
lifted from the lower rungs over the tug's rail to a secure footing.
After the lines had been cast off and the tug went floundering away at
a sharp angle, Captain Wass scuffed into his pilot-house and gave the
bells.
"She seems to feel it--honest she does!" he told Mate Mayo. "She goes
off logy. She doesn't pick up her heels. Nor could I do it when I walked
in here. Going to be scrapped--the two of us! Cuss their picking and
stealing and fighting and financing. They ain't steam-boating any
longer. They're using good boats to play checkers in Wall Street with.
Well, son," he mourned, hanging dispiritedly over the sill of the window
and staring up the wind-swept Chesapeake, "I ain't going to whine--but
I shall miss the old packet and the rumble and racket of the old machine
down there in her belly. I'd even take the job of watchman aboard her if
he would hire me."
"He seems to fancy me a bit. I'll ask him to hire you," proffered the
mate, eagerly.
"I reckon you didn't get the look in his eye when he fired me," said
Captain Wass. "I won't allow you to say a word to him about me. You go
ahead, boy, and take the job he has offered. But always remember that
he's a slick operator. See what he has done to Uncle Vose; and we
haven't been able to worm it out of that passenger how it was done,
either. Financing in these days comes pretty nigh to running without
lights and under forced draught. It gets a man to Prosperity Landing in
a hurry, providing he doesn't hit anything bigger than he is. They're
going to haul up this freighter and blame it on to me because I ain't
making money for the owners. They'll have plenty of figgers to show it.
Look out that they don't lay something worse and bigger to you. They're
going to play a game with the Vose line, I tell you! In the game of big
finance, 'tag-gool,' making 'it' out of the little chap who can't run
very fast, seems to be almighty popular."
He slowed the freighter to a snail's pace when he approached the dredged
channel, and at last the leadsman found suitable bottom. Both anchors
were let go.
The old skipper sounded the jingle, telling the chief engineer that the
engine-crew was released. In a speaking-tube the captain ordered both
boilers to be blown off.
"And there's the end of me as master of my ship," he said.
Mate Mayo's eyes were wet, but words of sympathy to fit the case did not
come to his sailor tongue, and he was silent.
When the tug was near Newport News, Manager Fogg took David Boyne apart
from all ears which might hear. He gave the young man another packet of
money.
"The rest of your expenses for a good trip," he said. "You seem to be
a chap who knows how to mind his own business--and able to get at the
other fellow's business in pretty fair shape. You haven't told such an
awful lot about young Mayo, but it's satisfactory to learn that he has
lived such a simple and every-day life that there isn't much to tell."
"I never saw a man so sort of guileless," affirmed Boyne. "Not that I
have had a lot of experience, but in a lawyer's office you are bound to
see considerable of human nature."
"He is no doubt a very deserving young man--and I'm glad I can use him,"
said Fogg, not able to keep all the grimness out of his tones. "Now,
son," he went on, after a moment of pondering, "you stay on board this
tug till I have been gone five minutes. There are a lot of sharp eyes
around in these times, and some of Vose's friends would be glad to run
to him with a story about me. After five minutes, you take your bag and
walk to Dock Seven and go aboard the freighter _Ariel_--go just as if
you belonged there. Tell the captain that you are Daniel Boyle--get the
name--Daniel Boyle. And never tell anybody until you hear from me that
your name is David Boyne. That freighter leaves to-night for Barbados
with sugar machinery. You'll have a nice trip."
"I don't care how far away I get," declared Boyne, rather bitterly. "I
have done a tough trick. I'm pretty much of a renegade. No, I don't care
how far I go."
"Nor I, either," agreed Fogg, but a smile relieved the brutality of the
speech. "You see, son, both of us have special reasons why it's just as
well for you to be away from these diggings for a time. If some folks
get hold of you they'll bother you with a lot of foolish questions. When
you get tired of Barbados go ahead and pick out another nice trip, and
keep going, and later on we'll find a good job for you up this way. Keep
me posted. Good-by."
The tug had docked and he hurried off and away.
"It's quite a game," reflected Mr. Fogg. "I've bluffed a pot with one
two-spot. Work was a little coarse because it had to be done on short
notice. The work I do with my second two-spot is going to be smoother,
and there won't be so much beefing after the pot is raked in. Too much
hollering, and your game gets raided! I can see what would happen to
me--Julius Marston doing it--if I give the strong-arm squad an opening.
But if they see the little Fogg boy slip a card in the next deal he's
going to make--well, I'll eat the _Montana_, if that's the only way to
get rid of her."
Boyd Mayo lost no time in obeying his orders to report in New York. He
gave his name to a clerk at the offices of the Vose line and asked to
see Mr. Fogg. He presented himself a bit timorously. He was not at all
sure of his good fortune. It is rather bewildering for a young man to
have the captaincy of a twin-screw passenger racer popped at one as
carelessly as tossing a peanut to a child. He crushed his cap between
trembling palms when he followed the clerk into the inner office.
Mr. Fogg rose and greeted Mayo with great cordiality. "Good morning,
captain," said the manager. "Allow me to hope that you're going to be as
lively in keeping to schedule time as you have been in getting here from
Norfolk."
"I didn't feel like wasting much time, considering what was promised
me," stammered Mayo, not yet sure of himself.
"Afraid I might change my mind?"
"It seemed too good to be true. I wanted to get here as soon as I could
and make sure that I had heard right, sir. Here are my papers."
He laid them in the manager's hand. Fogg did not unfold them. He fanned
them, indicating a chair.
"Sit down, Captain Mayo. You understand that new management has taken
hold of the Vose line in order to get some life and snap into the
business. We have strong competition. A big syndicate is taking over
the other steamship properties, and we must hustle to keep up with the
procession. I'm laying off freighters that are not showing a proper
profit--I'm weeding out the moss-covered captains who are not up with
the times. That's why I'm putting you on the _Montana_ in place of
Jacobs."
"He's a good man--one of the best," ventured Mayo, loyalty to his kind
prompting him. "I'll be sorry to see him step aside, as glad as I am to
be promoted--and that's honest."
"That's the way to talk; but we've got to have hustle and dash, and
young men can give us what we're after. It doesn't mean that you've got
to take reckless chances."
"I hope not, Mr. Fogg. My training with Captain Wass has been the other
way. And if you could only give him--"
"Captain, you've got your own row to hoe. Keep your eye on it," advised
the general manager, sharply. "I'm picking captains for the Vose boats,
and I think I understand my business. Now what I want to know is, do you
have confidence in me? Are you going to be loyal to me?"
"Yes, sir!" affirmed Mayo, impressed by his superior's brisk, brusque
business demeanor.
"Exactly! And the only talk I want you to turn loose is to the effect
that you believe I'm doing my best to make this line worth something to
the stockholders. Where are you stopping?"
Mayo named a little hotel around the corner.
"I'll put you aboard the _Montana_ just as soon as I can arrange the
details of transfer. I may let Jacobs make another trip or so. Report
here each morning at nine. For the rest of the time keep within reach of
the hotel telephone."
Mayo saluted and went out.
Fogg called the observer at the weather bureau on the telephone and
asked some questions. He was informed that the wind had swung into the
northwest and that the long-prevailing fog had been blown off the coast.
Mr. Fogg appeared to feel somewhat peevish over this sudden departure
of the weather phenomenon which bore his family name. He slammed the
receiver on to the hook and said a naughty word. A person overhearing
might have wondered a bit, for here was a steamboat manager cursing the
absence of the fog instead of preserving his profanity to expend on the
presence of the demoralizing mists. But the reign of the north wind in
late summer is never long; three days later the breeze shifted, and the
gray banks of the fog marched in from the open sea.
Mayo was awakened early by the clamor of the whistles of river craft,
for the little hotel was near the water-front. He saw the fog drifting
in shredded masses against the high buildings, shrouding the towers.
He had been waiting his call to duty with much impatience, finding the
confinement of the hotel irksome in the crisp days of sunlight, eager to
be out and about this splendid new duty which promised so much.
It was the _Montana's_ sailing-day from the New York end.
He had gone to sleep thrilling with the earnest hope that he would be
called to take her out. But when he looked out into that morning, saw
the draping curtains of the stalking mists, heard the frantic squallings
of craft in the harbor, frenzied howls of alarm, hoarse hootings of
protests and warnings, he was suddenly and pointedy anxious to have
his elevation to the pilot-house of the _Montana_ deferred. Better the
smoky, cramped office of the little hotel where he had been chafing in
dismal waiting. He was perfectly willing to sit there and study
over again the advertising chromos on the walls and gaze out on the
everlasting procession of rumbling drays. But at eight o'clock the
telephone summoned him.
"This is General-Manager Fogg," the voice informed him, though he did
not require the information; he knew those crisp tones. "I am speaking
from my apartments. Please proceed at once to the _Montana_. I'll come
aboard within an hour."
"Do you expect me to take command--to--take her out to-day?" faltered
Mayo.
"Certainly. Captain Jacobs will transfer command as soon as I get down."
Mayo had just been rejoicing in his heart because Jacobs would be
obliged to bear the responsibility of that day's sailing; he had been
perfectly sure that a new man would not be summoned under the conditions
which prevailed. He wanted to suggest to Manager Fogg that making
the change just then would be inadvisable. He cleared his throat and
searched his soul for words. But a sharp and decisive click told him
that Mr. Fogg considered the matter settled. He came away from the
telephone, dizzy and troubled, and he was not comforted when he
recollected how Manager Fogg had received meek suggestions in the past.
He paid his modest account, took his traveling-bag, and started for the
Vose line pier.
When he saw her looming in the fog--his ship at last--he felt like
running away from her incontinently, instead of running toward her.
Mayo had all of a young man's zeal and ambition and courage--but he had
in full measure a sailor's caution and knowledge of conditions; he had
been trained by that master of caution, Captain Zoradus Wass. He was
really frightened as he stared up at the towering bow, the mighty
flanks, the graceful sweep of superstructure, and realized that he must
guide this giant and her freightage of human beings into the white
void of the fog. In his honesty he acknowledged to himself that he was
frightened.
The whole great fabric fairly shouted responsibility at him.
He was confident of his ability. As chief mate he had mastered the
problems of courses and manoeuvers in the fog along that same route
which he must now take. But until then the supreme responsibility had
devolved upon another.
Men were rushing freight aboard on rattling trucks--parallel lines of
stevedores were working. There were many trunks, avant couriers of the
passengers.
He went aboard by the freight entrance and found his way to the row of
officers' staterooms. He recognized the gray-bearded veteran who was
pacing the alley outside the pilot-house, though the man was not in
uniform; it was the deposed master.
"Good morning, Captain Mayo," he said, without any resentment in his
tones. "I congratulate you on your promotion."
"I hope you understand that I didn't go hunting for this job," blurted
Mayo.
"I believe it's merely a matter of new policy--so Manager Fogg tells me.
Understand me, too, Captain Mayo! I harbor no resentment, especially not
against you."
He put out his hand in fine, manly fashion, and was so distinctly
the best type of the dignified, self-possessed sea-captain of the old
school, that Mayo fairly flinched at thought of replacing this man.
Captain Jacobs opened the door lettered "Captain." "All my truck is out
and over the rail. I'll sit in with you, if you don't mind, until Mr.
Fogg arrives. You're going to have a thick passage, Captain Mayo."
"It doesn't seem right to me--putting a new man on here in this fog,"
protested Mayo, warmly. "I ought to have her in clear weather till I
know her tricks. In a pinch, when you've got to know how a boat behaves,
and know it mighty sudden in order to avoid a smash, one false move puts
you into the hole."
"They seem to be running steamboat lines from Wall Street nowadays,
instead of from the water-front," said Captain Jacobs, dryly. "It's all
in the game as they're playing it in these times. There's nothing to be
said by the men in the pilot-house."
"I'm a sailor, and a simple one. I think I know my job, Captain Jacobs,
or else I wouldn't accept this promotion. But I've got no swelled head.
It's the proper and sensible thing for you to take the _Montana_ out
tonight and let me hang around the pilot-house and watch you. If I can
prevail upon Mr. Fogg to allow it, will you make another trip?"
"I would do it to help you, but I'll be blasted if I'll help Fogg--not
if he would get down now and beg me," declared Captain Jacobs, showing
temper for the first time. "And if you had been pitchforked out as
I've been after all my years of honest service you'd feel just as I do,
Captain Mayo. You don't blame me, do you?"
"I can't blame you."
"You know the courses, and you'll have the same staff as I've had.
You'll find every notation in the log accurate to the yard or the
second. She's a steady old girl and, knowing tide set and courses, as
you do, you can depend on her to the turn of a screw. You have my best
wishes--but I'm done."
He put the fervor of final resolve into the declaration. But, with
sailor's fraternal spirit of helpfulness he sat down and went into
the details of all the Montana's few whims. He called in the mates and
introduced them to the new master. They seemed to be quiet, sturdy men
who bore no malice because a new policy had put a new man over them.
Then arrived General-Manager Fogg, and in this strictly business
presence Mayo did not presume to voice any of his doubts or his opinion
of his inefficiency.
The rather stiff and decidedly painful ceremony of speeding the former
commander was soon over, and Captain Jacobs departed.
"Why haven't you put on your uniform?" asked Fogg. "You have fixed
yourself out with a new one, of course?"
"Yes, sir." Mayo's cheeks flushed slightly when he recollected how he
had strutted before the mirror in his room at the hotel. But he had been
ashamed to hurry into his gilt-incrusted coat in the presence of Captain
Jacobs.
"Get it on as soon as you can," ordered the general manager. "I want you
to make a general inspection of the boat with me."
They made the tour, and in spite of his misgivings, when he saw the
mists sweeping past the end of the pier Captain Mayo, receiving the
salutes of respectful subalterns, felt the proud joy of one who has at
last arrived at the goal of his ambition.
Master of the crack _Montana_, queen of the Vose fleet, at the age of
twenty-six!
He glanced into each of the splendid mirrors of the great saloon to make
sure of the gold letters on his cap.
The thick carpet seemed grateful to his step. The ship's orchestra was
rehearsing in its gallery.
If only that devilish fog would lift! But still it surged in from the
sea, and the glass, down to 29.40, promised no clearing weather.
"Safety to the minutest detail--that's my motto," declared Manager Fogg.
"Order a fire drill."
It was accomplished, and Mr. Fogg criticized the lack of snap. He was
rather severe after the life-boat drill, was over. He ordered a second
rehearsal. He commanded that the crew do it a third time. The warmth
of his insistence on this feature of shipboard discipline was very
noticeable.
"And when you put those boats back see to it that every line is free and
coiled and every cover loose. It costs a lot of good money if you kill
off passengers in these days." Then he hurried away. "I'll see you
before sailing-time," he informed Captain Mayo.
The new skipper was glad to be alone and to have leisure for study of
the steamer's log-books. He had been accustomed to a freighter's
slower time on the courses. He did a little figuring. He found that at
seventy-five revolutions per minute the _Montana_ would log off about
the same speed that the freighter made when doing her best. He resolved
to make the fog an excuse and slow down to the _Nequasset's_ familiar
rate of progress. He reflected that he would feel pretty much at home
under those circumstances. He was heartened, and went about the ship
looking less like a malefactor doomed to execution.
When General-Manager Fogg, bustled on board a few minutes prior to the
advertised sailing-time at five o'clock, he commented on Captain Mayo's
improved demeanor.
"Getting one of the best jobs on this coast seemed to make considerable
of a mourner out of you. Perhaps a mirror has shown you how well you
look in that new uniform. At any rate, I'm glad to see you have chirked
up. And now I'll give you a piece of news that ought to make you look
still happier: I'm going along on this trip with you. If you show me
that you can do a good job in this kind of weather you needn't worry
about your position."
The expression on Captain Mayo's face did not indicate unalloyed delight
when he heard this "good news." Unaccustomed as he was to the ship, he
could not hope to make a smooth showing.
"And still you refuse to cheer up!" remonstrated the manager.
"I am glad you are going along, sir. Don't misunderstand me. But a
sailor is a pretty serious chap when he feels responsibility. I'm
undertaking a big stunt."
"It's the best way to find out whether you're the man for the
job--whether you're the man I think you are. It's a test that beats
sailing ships on a puddle."
"I'm glad you're aboard," repeated the captain. "It's going to shade
down my responsibility just a little."
"It is, is it?" cried Manager Fogg, his tones sharp. "Not by a blamed
sight! You're the captain of this craft. I'm a passenger. Don't try to
shirk. You aren't afraid, are you?"
They were standing beside the dripping rail outside the pilot-house.
Far below them, in the spacious depths of the steamer, a bugle sounded
long-drawn notes and the monotonous calls of stewards warned "All
ashore!"
The gangways were withdrawn with dull "clackle" of wet chains over
pulleys, and Captain Mayo, after a swift glance at his watch, to make
sure of the time, ordered a quartermaster to sound the signal for "Cast
off!" The whistle yelped a gruff note, and, seeing that all was clear,
the captain yanked the auxiliary bell-pulls at the rail. Two for the
port engine, two for the starboard, and the _Montana_ began to back into
the gray pall which shrouded the river.
Captain Mayo saw the lines of faces on the pier, husbands and wives,
mothers and sweethearts, bidding good-by to those who waved farewell
from the steamer's decks. He gathered himself with supreme grip of
resolve. It was up to him! He almost spoke it aloud.
Tremors of doubt did not agitate him any longer. It was unthinking
faith, nevertheless it was implicit confidence, that all those folks
placed in him. They were intrusting themselves to his vessel with the
blind assurance of travelers who pursue a regular route, not caring how
the destination is reached as long as they come to their journey's end.
The hoarse, long, warning blast which announced to all in the river that
the steamer was leaving her dock drowned out the shouts of farewell and
the strains of the gay air the orchestra was playing.
"See you later," said General-Manager Fogg. "I think I'll have an early
dinner."
Captain Mayo climbed the short ladder and entered his pilot-house.
It was up to him!
XX ~ TESTING OUT A MAN
Now the first land we made is call-ed The Deadman,
The Ramhead off Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight.
We sail-ed by Beachy,
By Fairlee and Dungeness,
Until we came abreast of the South Foreland Light.
--Farewell and Adieu.
With starboard engine clawing her backward, and the port engine driving
her ahead, the Montana swung her huge bulk when she was free of the
penning piers. The churning propellers, offsetting, turned her in her
tracks. Then she began to feel her way out of the maze of the traffic.
The grim, silent men of the pilot-houses do not talk much even when they
are at liberty on shore. They are taciturn when on duty. They do not
relate their sensations when they are elbowing their way through the
East River in a fog; they haven't the language to do so.
A psychologist might make much out of the subject by discussing
concentration sublimated, human senses coordinating sight and sound
on the instant, a sort of sixth sense which must be passed on into the
limbos of guesswork as instinct.
The man in the pilot-house would not in the least understand a word of
what the psychologist was talking about.
The steamboat officer merely understands that he must be on his job!
The _Montana_ added her voice to the bedlam of river yawp.
The fog was so dense that even the lookout posted at her fore windlasses
was a hazy figure as seen from the pilot-house. A squat ferryboat, which
was headed across the river straight at the slip where her shore gong
'was hailing her, splashed under the steamer's bows, two tugs loafed
nonchalantly across in the other direction--saucy sparrows of the river
traffic, always underfoot and dodging out of danger by a breathless
margin.
Whistle-blasts piped or roared singly and in pairs, a duet of steam
voices, or blended at times into a puzzling chorus.
A steamer's whistle in the fog conveys little information except to
announce that a steam-propelled craft is somewhere yonder in the white
blank, unseen, under way. No craft is allowed to sound passing signals
unless the vessel she is signaling is in plain sight.
Captain Mayo could see nothing--even the surface of the water was almost
indistinguishable.
Ahead, behind, to right and left, everything that could toot was busy
and vociferous. Here and there a duet of three staccato blasts indicated
that neighbors were threatening to collide and were crawfishing to the
best of their ability.
Twice the big steamer stopped her engines and drifted until the squabble
ahead of her seemed to have been settled.
A halt mixes the notations of the log, but the mates of the steamer made
the Battery signals, and after a time the spidery outlines of the first
great bridge gave assurance that their allowances were correct.
Providentially there was a shredding of the fog at Hell Gate, a
shore-breeze flicking the mists off the surface of the water.
Then was revealed the situation which lay behind the particularly
emphatic and uproarious "one long and two short" blasts of a violent
whistle. A Lehigh Valley tug was coming down the five-knot current with
three light barges, which the drift had skeowowed until they were taking
up the entire channel. With their cables, the tug and tow stretched for
at least four thousand feet, almost a mile of dangerous drag.
"Our good luck, sir," vouchsafed the first mate. "She was howling so
loud, blamed if I could tell whether she was coming or going. She's got
no business coming down the Sound."
Captain Mayo, his teeth set hard, his rigid face dripping with moisture,
as he stood in the open window, stopped the engines of his giant charge
and jingled for full speed astern in order to halt her. He had no desire
to battle for possession of the channel with what he saw ahead.
At that moment Manager Fogg came into the pilothouse, disregarding the
"No Admittance" sign by authority of his position. He lighted a cigar
and displayed the contented air of a man who has fed fully.
"You have been making a pretty slow drag of it, haven't you, Captain
Mayo? I've had time to eat dinner--and I'm quite a feeder at that! And
we haven't made the Gate yet!"
"We couldn't do a stroke better and be safe," said the captain over his
shoulder, his eyes on the tow.
"What's the matter now?"
"A tug and three barges in the way."
"Do you mean to say you're holding up a Vose liner with eight hundred
passengers, waiting for a tugboat? Look here, Mayo, we've got to hustle
folks to where they want to go, and get them there in time."
"That tow is coming down with the current and has the right of way, sir.
And there's no chance of passing, for she's sweeping the channel."
"I don't believe there's any law that makes a passenger-boat hold up
for scows," grumbled Fogg. "If there is one, a good man knows how to
get around it and keep up his schedule." He paced the pilot-house at the
extreme rear, puffing his cigar.
He grunted when Mayo gave the go-ahead bells and the throb of the
engines began.
"Now ram her along, boy. People in these days don't want to waste time
on the road. They're even speeding up the automobile hearses."
Captain Mayo did not reply. He was grateful that the dangers of Hell
Gate had been revealed. The mists hung in wisps against North Brother
Island when he swung into the channel of the Gate, and he could see,
far ahead, the shaft of the lighthouse. It was a stretch where close
figuring was needed, and this freak of the mists had given him a fine
chance. He jingled for full speed and took a peep to note the bearing of
Sunken Meadow spindle.
"Nothe-east, five-eighths east!" he directed the quartermaster at the
wheel.
The man repeated the command mechanically and brought her to her course
for the Middle Ground passage.
After they had rounded North Brother, Whitestone Point tower was
revealed. It really seemed as if the fog were clearing, and even in the
channel between Execution Rocks and Sands Point his hopes were rising.
But in the wider waters off Race Rock the _Montana_ drove her black
snout once more into the white pall, and her whistle began to bray
again.
The young captain sighed. "East, a half nothe!"
"East, a half nothe, it is, sir!"
At least, he had conquered East River, the Gate, and the narrows beyond,
and had many miles straight ahead to the whistler off Point Judith. He
was resolved to be thankful for small favors.
He hoped that with the coming of the night and on account of the
prevalence of the fog he would find that shipping of the ordinary sort
had stopped moving. However, in a few minutes he heard telltale whistles
ahead, and he signaled half speed. A lumbering old lighter with a
yawing derrick passed close aboard. An auxiliary fisherman, his exhaust
snapping like a machine-gun, and seeming to depend on that noise for
warning, was overtaken.
"Can you leave that window for a minute, Captain Mayo?" asked the
general manager.
The captain promptly joined Mr. Fogg at the rear of the spacious
pilot-house.
"See here, Cap," remonstrated his superior, "I came down through these
waters on the _Triton_ of the Union line the other day, and she made her
time. What's the matter with us?"
"I'm obeying the law, sir. And there are new warnings just issued." He
pointed to the placard headed "Safety First" in big, red letters. "The
word has been passed that the first captain who is caught with the goods
will be made an example of."
"Is that so?" commented Fogg, studying the end of his cigar. His tone
was a bit peculiar. "But the _Triton_ came along."
"And she nigh rammed the _Nequasset_ in the fog the last trip I made up
the coast. It was simply touch and go, Mr. Fogg, and all her fault. We
were following the rules to the letter."
"And that's one way of spoiling the business of a steamboat line,"
snapped Fogg. He added, to himself, "But it isn't my way!"
"I'm sorry, but I have been trained to believe that a record for safety
is better than all records for speed, sir."
"I let Jacobs go because he was old-fashioned, Mayo. This is the age of
taking chances--taking chances and getting there! Business, politics,
railroading, and steam-boating. The people expect it. The right folks do
it."
"You are general manager of this line, Mr. Fogg. Do you order me to make
schedule time, no matter what conditions are?"
"You are the captain of this boat. I simply want you to deliver
up-to-date goods. As to how you do it, that is not my business. I'm not
a sea-captain, and I don't presume to advise as to details."
Captain Mayo was young, He knew the 'longcoast game. He was ambitious.
Opportunity had presented itself. He understood the unreasoning temper
of those who sought dividends without bothering much about details. He
knew how other passenger captains were making good with the powers who
controlled transportation interests. He confessed to himself that he had
envied the master of the rushing _Triton_ who had swaggered past as if
he owned the sea.
Till then Mayo had been the meek and apologetic passer-by along the
ocean lane, expecting to be crowded to one side, dodging when the big
fellow bawled for open road.
He remembered with what haste he always manouvered the old _Nequasset_
out of the way of harm when he heard the lordly summons of the passenger
liners. Was not that the general method of the freighter skippers? Why
should he not expect them to get out of his way, now that he was one of
the swaggerers of the sea? Let them do the worrying now, as he had done
the worrying and dodging in the past! He stepped back to his window,
those reflections whirling in his brain.
"This is no freighter," he told himself. "Fogg is right. If I don't
deliver the goods somebody else will be called on to do it, so what's
the use? I'll play the game. Just remember--will you, Mayo--that you've
got your heart's wish, and are captain of the _Montana_. If I lose this
job on account of a placard with red letters, I'll kick myself on board
a towboat, and stay there the rest of my life."
He yanked a log-book from the rack and noted the steamer's average
speed from the entries. He signaled to the engine-room through the
speaking-tube.
"Give her two hundred a minute, chief!" he ordered.
And fifteen seconds later, her engines pulsing rhythmically, the big
craft was splitting fog and water at express speed, howling for little
fellows to get out from underfoot.
Down in the gleaming depths of her the orchestra was lilting a gay
waltz, silver clattered over the white napery of the dining-room, men
and women laughed and chattered and flirted; men wrote telegrams, making
appointments for the morrow at early hours, and the wireless flashed
them forth. They were sent with the certainty on the part of the senders
that no man in these days waits for tide or fog. The frothing waters
flashed past in the night outside, and they who ventured forth upon the
dripping decks glanced at the fan of white spume spreading into the fog,
and were glad to return to cozy chairs and the radiance of the saloon.
High up forward, in the pilot-house, were the eyes and the brains of
this rushing monster. It was dark there except for the soft, yellow
gleam of the binnacle lights. It was silent but for the low voice of a
mate who announced his notations.
Occasionally the mates glanced at each other in the gloom when a
steamer's whistle sounded ahead. This young captain seemed to be a chap
who carried his nerve with him! They were used to the more cautious
system of Captain Jacobs.
The master did not reduce speed. He leaned far out, his hand at his ear.
The third time an unknown sounded her blast he took a quick glance at
the compass.
"Two points shift--so she shows," he said aloud. "We'll pass her all
right."
The change in the direction of the sound had assured him. A few minutes
later the whistle voiced a location safely abeam. But the next whistle
they heard sounded dead ahead, and increased in volume of sound only
gradually. They were overtaking a vessel headed in the same direction.
Captain Mayo pulled the cord oftener and sounded more prolonged, more
imperious hoots. He ordered no change in his course. He was headed
for the Point Judith whistler, and did not propose to take chances on
fumbling by any detours. The craft ahead at last seemed to recognize the
voice of its master. The sound of the whistle showed that it had swung
off the course.
The mate mumbled notations.
"All ears out!" ordered the captain. "We ought to make that whistler!"
And in the next breath he said: "There she is!" He pointed a wet hand
ahead and slightly to port. A queer, booming grunt came to them. "You're
all right, old girl," he declared. "Jacobs wasn't over-praising you."
He reached over the sill and patted the woodwork of his giant pet.
He turned to the quartermaster. "East, five-eighths south," was his
direction.
"East, five-eighths south, sir!"
"What's the next we make, captain?" asked the general manager from the
gloom at the rear of the pilot-house.
"Sow and Pigs Lightship, entrance of Vineyard Sound, sir."
"Good work! I'm going to take a turn below. See you again! What can
I tell any uneasy gentleman who is afraid he'll miss a business
appointment in the morning?"
"Tell him we'll be on time to the dot," declared the captain, quietly.
Mr. Fogg closed the pilot-house door behind himself and chuckled when he
eased his way down the slippery ladder.
Mr. Fogg sauntered through the brilliantly lighted saloon, hands in his
pockets, giving forth an impression of a man entirely at ease. Nobody
appeared to recognize the new general manager of the Vose line, and he
attracted no special attention. But if any one had been sufficiently
interested in Mr. Fogg to note him closely it would have been observed
that his mouth worked nervously when he stood at the head of the grand
stairway and stared about him. His jowls sagged. When he pulled out his
handkerchief his hand trembled.
He descended the stairs to the main-deck and peered about in the
smoking-quarters, running his eyes over the faces of the men gathered
there. All at once he lifted his chin with a little jerk and climbed the
stairs again. A big man tossed away a cigar and followed at a respectful
distance. He pursued Mr. Fogg through the saloon and down a corridor and
went into a stateroom on the general manager's heels.
"By gad, Burkett, I'm getting cold chills!" exploded Mr. Fogg, as soon
as the door was closed.
"Don't understand just why."
"Those people out there--I've just been looking 'em over. It's monkeying
with too big a proposition, Burkett. You can't reckon ahead on a thing
like this."
"Sure you can. I've doped it right."
"Oh, I know you understand what you're talking about, but--"
"Well, I ought to know. I've been pilot for the re-survey party on the
shoals for the last two months. I know every inch of the bottom."
"But the panic. There's bound to be one. The rest of 'em won't
understand, Burkett. It's going to be awful on board here. I'll be here
myself. I can't stand it."
"Look here, governor; there won't be any panic. She'll slide into the
sand like a baby nestling down into a crib. There isn't a pebble in
that sand for miles. Half of this bunch of passengers will be abed and
asleep. They won't wake up. The rest will never know anything special
except that the engines have stopped. And that ain't anything unusual
in a fog. It's a quiet night--not a ripple. Nothing to hurt us. The
wireless will bring the revenue cutter out from Wood's Hole, and she'll
stand by till morning and take 'em off."
"The theory is good. It's mostly my own idea, and I'm proud of it, and I
was mighty glad to find a man of your experience to back me up with the
practical details," said Fogg, trying to fortify his faith with words
but failing. "But now that it's coming down to cases I'm afraid of it."
"Well, it's up to you, of course, governor. I insist it can be done, and
done smooth, and you'll lay off this steamer nice, slick, and easy!
That will put a crimp into the Vose line and make them stockholders take
notice the next time a fair offer is made."
"It's the thing to do, and I know it. The conditions are just right,
and we've got a green captain to make the goat of. All set! But it's
an awful thing to monkey with--eight hundred people, and no knowing how
they'll take it! It came over me while I stood there and looked at 'em!"
"Sand is sand, and the whole, round earth is braced up under that sand.
She can't sink. She'll simply gouge her way like a plow into a furrow,
and there she'll stick, sitting straight, solid as an island--and it
will be a devil of a while before they'll be able to dig her out. It's
a crimp for the Vose line, I say, governor!" Malevolence glowed in
Burkett's little eyes.
"Of course, the money I'm getting for this job looks good to me,
governor, but my chance to put a wallop into anything that old Vose and
his sons are interested in looks just as good. I wouldn't be in this
just for the money end of it. I'm no pirate, but when they kicked me
out of the pilot-house and posted me up and down this coast, they put
themselves in line to get what's coming to 'em from me."
"But have you considered every side of it?" pleaded Fogg. "You're the
practical man in this proposition. What can happen?"
"If you do exactly what I tell you to do nothing can happen but what's
on our program. Just let me stiffen you up by running the thing over
once more."
He pulled a hand-smutched, folded chart from his breast pocket and
spread it over his knees. With blunt forefinger he indicated the points
to which he made reference in his explanation.
"When he fetches Nobska horn on his port, bearing nor'west by west,
he'll shift his course. After about five miles he's due to shift again,
swinging six points to nor-rard. You'll hear the mate name the bearing
of West Chop steam-whistle. Then you walk right up to the left of the
compass and stand there. You may hear a little tongue-clattering for
a few seconds. There'll be a little cussing, maybe, but you won't be
cussed, of course. You stand right there, calm and cool, never batting
an eyelid. And then it will happen, and when it does happen it will be a
surprise-party all right."
"It's wrecking a seven-thousand-ton passenger-steamer in the night!"
mourned the general manager.
"It isn't! It's putting her into a safe cradle."
"But at this speed!"
"That chap in the pilot-house is no fool. He'll get his hint in time to
save her from real damage. You needn't worry!"
Fogg opened his traveling-bag and lifted out a strip of metal. He
handled it as gingerly as if it were a reptile, and he looked at it with
an air as if he feared it would bite him.
"That's the little joker," said Burkett. "About two points deviation by
local attraction will do the business!"
"I'm tempted to throw it overboard and call it all off, Burkett. I have
put through a good many deals in my life in the big game, but this looks
almost too raw. I can't help it! I feel a hunch as if something was
going to miscue."
"I've got no more to say, governor."
"My crowd doesn't ask questions of me, but they expect results. If I
don't do it, I suppose I'll kick myself in the morning." He cocked up
his ear and listened to the bawling of the liner's great whistle. "But
it seems different in the night."
"You ain't leaving any tracks," encouraged Burkett. "And this being his
first run makes it more plausible. You're here all naturally, yourself.
It might seem rather queer if you made another trip. It's his first run
on her, I remind you. If he makes a slip-up it won't surprise the wise
guys-a mite."
"It seems to be all set--I've got to admit it. By gad, Burkett, I have
always put a thing through when I've started on it! That's why they
call in the little Fogg boy. I'd rather apologize to my conscience than
to--Well, never mind who he is." He tucked the strip of metal into his
inside coat pocket and buttoned the coat. "Blast it! nothing that's very
bad can happen in this calm sea--and that last life-boat drill went off
fine. Here goes!" declared Fogg, with desperate emphasis.
"That's the boy!" declared Burkett, encouraged to familiarity by their
association in mischief.
The general manager found the night black when he edged his way along
the wet deck to the pilot-house. The steamer's lights made blurred
patches in the fog. Now she seemed to have the sea to herself; there
were no answering whistles.
"I'm back again, Captain Mayo," he said, as he closed the door against
the night. "I hope I won't bother you folks here. I'll stay out from
underfoot." He sat down on a transom at the extreme rear of the house
and smoked his cigar with nervous vehemence.
Another quartermaster succeeded the man at the wheel, the mate made his
notations of dead reckoning and pricked the chart, the usual routine was
proceeded with. Mayo continued at the window, head out-thrust, except
when he glanced at chart or compass or noted the dials which marked the
screws' revolutions.
Every now and then he put his ear to the submarine-signal receiver.
At last he heard the faint, far throb of the Sow and Pigs submarine
bell--seven strokes, with the four seconds' interval, then the seven
strokes repeated.
A bit later he got, sweet and low as an elfland horn, the lightship's
chime whistle. It was dead ahead, which was not exactly to his
calculation. The tide set had served stronger than he had reckoned. He
ordered the helmsman to ease her off a half-point, in order to make safe
offing for the turn into Vineyard Sound.
Well up in the sound the bell of Tarpaulin Cove reassured him, and after
a time he heard the unmistakable blast of the great reed horn of Nobska
uttering its triple hoot like a giant owl perched somewhere in the
mists.
"Nobska," said the mate. "We are certainly coming on, sir."
"Nobly," agreed Captain Mayo, allowing himself a moment of jubilation,
even though the dreaded shoals were ahead.
"Are you going to keep this speed across the shoals, Captain Mayo?"
asked the general manager, displaying real deference.
"No, sir!" stated the captain with decision, bracing himself to give
Mr. Fogg a sharp word or two if that gentleman advanced any more of his
"business man's reasons" for speed. "It would not be showing due care."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," affirmed Mr. Fogg, heartily. "It may
be a little out of place, right now, but I want you to know that I feel
that I have picked out just the right man to command this ship. I'm glad
of a chance to say this where your mates can hear me."
"Thank you, Mr. Fogg," returned the young man, gratefully. "This is
a soul-racking job, and I'm glad you are here to see what we are up
against. I don't feel that we'll be wasting much time in crossing the
shoals if we go carefully. We can let her out after we swing east of
Monomoy. She's a grand old packet."
In the gloom Fogg ran his fingers gingerly over the outside of his coat
to make sure that the strip of metal was in its place.
There was silence in the pilot-house after that. Ahead there was
ticklish navigation. There were the narrow slues, the crowding shoals,
the blind turns of Nantucket Sound, dreaded in all weathers, but a
mariner's horror in a fog.
Nobska's clarion call drew slowly abeam to port, and after due lapse
of time West Chop's steam-whistle lifted its guiding voice in the mists
ahead.
"Better use the pelorus and be careful about West Chop's bearing after
we pass her, Mr. Bangs," Captain Mayo warned his first mate.
As a sailor well knows, the bearing of West Chop gives the compass
direction for passage between the shoals known as Hedge Fence and Squash
Meadow--a ten-mile run to Cross Rip Lightship. In a fog it is vitally
important to have West Chop exact to the eighth of a point.
Fogg was glad that he was alone where he sat. He trembled so violently
that he set an unlighted cigar between his teeth to keep them from
rattling together.
The mate was outlined against the window, his eyes on the instrument,
his ear cocked. Every half-minute West Chop's whistle hooted.
"Right, sir!" the mate reported at last, speaking briskly. "I make it
west by nothe, five-eighths nothe."
Fogg rose and half staggered forward, taking a position just to the left
of the wheel and compass.
"East by south, five-eighths south," the captain directed the helmsman.
"Careful attention, sir. Tide is flood, four knots. Make the course
good!"
The quartermaster repeated and twirled his wheel for the usual number of
revolutions to allow a three-points change.
Captain Mayo stepped back and glanced at the compass to make certain
that his helmsman was finding his course properly. "What in tophet's
name is the matter with you, man?" he shouted. "Bring this ship around!
Bring her around!" He grabbed the wheel and spun it. "You're slower than
the devil drawing molasses," raged Mayo, forgetting his dignity.
"She must have yawed," protested the man. "I had her on her course, sir.
I supposed I had her over."
"You are not to suppose. You are to keep your eyes on that compass card
and move quicker when I give an order."
The helmsman's eyes bulged as he stared at the compass. While he
had winked his eyes, so it seemed to him, the true course had fairly
straddled away from the lubber line.
In his frantic haste Captain Mayo put her over too far. He helped
the man set her on the right course. Then he signaled half speed. The
devious and the narrow paths were ahead of them..
"That's an almighty funny jump the old dame made then," pondered the
quartermaster. But he was too well trained to argue with a captain. He
accepted the fault as his own, and now that she was on her course, he
held her there doggedly.
Even the _Montana's_ half speed was a respectable gait, and the silent
crew in her pilot-house could hear the sea lathering along her sides.
"What do you make of that, Mr. Bangs?" the captain asked, after a
prolonged period of listening.
"Bell, sir!"
"But the only bell in that direction would be on Hedge Fence Lightship
in case her whistle has been disabled."
"Sounds to me like a vessel at anchor."
"But it's right in the fairway." Captain Mayo convinced himself by a
glance at the compass. "No craft would drop her hook in the fairway.
That's no bell on the Hedge Fence," reflected the captain. "It's a
schooner's bell. But sound often gets freaky in a fog. We're on our
course to the fraction, and we've got to keep going!"
And after a moment the bell ceased its clangor. It was a distant sound,
and its location was indefinite even to a sharp ear.
"It strikes me that sounds in general are a little warded all of a
sudden," said the captain to his mate. "I'll swear that I can hear Hedge
Fence's five-second blasts now. But there she howls off the starboard
bow. The clouds must be giving us an echo. We've got to leave it to the
compass."
A skilful mariner is careful about forsaking the steady finger of a
proved compass in order to chase sounds around the corner in foggy
weather. He understands that air strata raise the dickens with
whistle-blasts. There are zones of silence--there is divergence of
sound.
Fogg held his position, his legs braced, and nobody paid any especial
attention to him. They in the pilothouse were too busy with other
affairs.
There is one sound in thick weather that tells a navigator much. It is
the echo of his own whistle.
The big steamer was hoarsely hooting her way.
Suddenly there was a sound which fairly flew up and hit Captain Mayo
in the face. It was an echo. It was the sound of the _Montana's_
whistle-blast flung back at him from some object so near at hand that
there was barely a clock-tick between whistle and echo.
The captain yelped a great oath and yanked his bell-pulls furiously.
"That echo came from a schooner's sails," he shouted.
Then, dead ahead, clanged her bell. The next instant, plunging along
at least eight miles an hour, in spite of engines clawing at full speed
astern, the towering bow smashed into the obstacle in her path.
It was a mighty shock which sent a tremor from stem to stern of the
great fabric. They saw that they hit her--a three-masted schooner at
anchor, with her sails set, dingy canvas wet and idle in the foggy,
breathless night. But their impact against her was almost as if they had
hit a pier. The collision sent them reeling about the pilot-house. As
they drove past they saw her go down, her stern a splintered mass of
wreckage, in which men were frantically struggling.
"That's a granite-lugger! See her go down, like a stone!" gasped Mate
Bangs. "My God! What do you suppose she has done to us forward?"
"Get there. Get there!" roared Captain Mayo. "Get there and report,
sir!"
But before the chief mate was half-way down the ladder on his way
the wailing voice of the lookout reported disaster. "Hole under the
water-line forward," he cried.
"There are men in the water back there, sir," said a quartermaster.
"We're making water fast in the forward compartment," came a voice
through the speaking-tube.
Already they in the pilot-house could hear the ululation of women in the
depths of the ship, and then the husky clamor of the many voices of men
drowned the shriller cries.
Captain Mayo had seen the survivors from the schooner struggling in the
water. But he rang for full speed ahead and ordered the quartermaster to
aim her into the north, knowing that land lay in that direction.
"Eight hundred lives on my shoulders and a hole in her," he told
himself, while all his world of hope and ambition seemed rocking to
ruin. "I can't wait to pick up those poor devils."
In a few minutes--in so few minutes that all his calculations as to his
location were upset--the _Montana_ plowed herself to a shuddering halt
on a shoal, her bow lifting slightly. And when the engines were stopped
she rested there, sturdily upright, steady as an island. But in her
saloon the men and women who fought and screamed and cursed, beating to
and fro in windrows of humanity like waves in a cavern, were convinced
that the shuddering shock had signaled the doom of the vessel.
Half-dressed men, still dizzy with sleep, confused by dreams which
blended with the terrible reality, trampled the helpless underfoot,
seeking exit from the saloon.
The hideous uproar which announced panic was a loud call to the master
of the vessel. He understood what havoc might be wrought by the brutal
senselessness of the struggle. He ran from the pilot-house, stepping on
the feet of the general manager, who was stumbling about in bewildered
fashion.
"Call all the crew to stations and guard the exits," Captain Mayo
commanded the second mate.
On his precipitate way to the saloon the captain passed the room of the
wireless operator, and the tense crackle of the spark told him that the
SOS signal was winging its beseeching flight through the night.
Three men, half dressed, with life-preservers buckled on in hit-or-miss
fashion, met him on the deck, dodged his angry clutch, and leaped over
the rail into the sea, yelling with all the power of their lungs.
A quartermaster was at the captain's heels.
"Get over a life-boat on each side and attend to those idiots!" roared
Mayo.
He thrust his way into a crowded corridor, beating frantic men back with
his fists, adjuring, assuring, appealing, threatening. He mounted upon a
chair in the saloon. He fairly outbellowed the rest of them. Men of the
sea are trained to shout against the tempest.
"You are safe! Keep quiet! Sit down! This steamer is ashore on a
sand-bank. She's as solid as Bunker Hill." He shouted these assurances
over and over.
They began to look at him, to pay heed to him. His uniform marked his
identity.
"You lie!" screamed an excited man. "We're out to sea! We're sinking!
Where are your life-boats?"
Bedlam began again. Like the fool who shouts "Fire!" in a throng, this
brainless individual revived all the fears of the frenzied passengers.
Mayo realized that heroic action was necessary. He leaped down from the
chair, seized the man who had shouted, and beat the fellow's face with
the flat of his hard hand.
That scene of conflict was startling enough to serve as a real jolt to
their attention. They hushed their cries; they looked on, impressed,
cowed.
"If there's any other man in this crowd who wants to tell me I'm a liar,
let him stand out and say so," shouted Captain Mayo. "You're making
fools of yourselves. There's no danger."
He released the pallid and trembling man of whom he had made an example
and stepped on to a chair. He put up his hand, dominating them until he
had secured absolute silence.
"You--you--you!" he said, crisply, darting finger here and there,
pointing out individuals. "You seem to have more level heads than the
rest, you men! Go forward where the man is casting the lead. Cast the
lead yourselves. Come back here and report to these passengers, as their
committee. I'm telling you the truth. There's no water under us to speak
of." He remained in the saloon until his committee returned.
The man who reported looked a bit sheepish. "The captain is right,
ladies and gentlemen. We could even see the sand where she has plowed it
up--they've got lanterns over the rail. There's no danger."
A steward trotted to Captain Mayo and handed him a slip of paper. The
captain read the message and shook the paper in the faces of the throng.
"The revenue cutter _Acushnet_ has our wireless call and is starting,
and the _Itasca_ will follow. I advise you to go to bed and go to sleep.
You're perfectly, absolutely safe. You will be transferred when it's
daylight. Now be men and women!"
He hurried out on deck. His men were hoisting aboard the three dripping,
sputtering passengers who had run amuck.
"And those same men would look after a runaway horse and sneer that he
didn't have any brains," remarked Captain Mayo, disgustedly.
For the next half-hour he was a busy man. He investigated the
_Montana's_ wound, first of all. He found her flooded forward--her nose
anchored into the sand with a rock-of-ages solidity.
His heart sank when he realized what her plight meant from the wrecking
and salvage viewpoint. In those shifting sands, winnowed constantly by
the rushing currents of the sound, digging her out might be a Gargantuan
task, working her free a hopeless undertaking.
His tour of investigation showed him that except for her smashed bow
the steamer was intact. Her helplessness there in the sand was the more
pitiable on that account.
He had not begun to take account of stock of his own responsibility for
this disaster. The whirl of events had been too dizzying. As master of
the ship he would be held to account for her mishap. But to what extent
had he been negligent? He could not figure it out. He realized that
excitement plays strange pranks with a man's consciousness of linked
events or of the passage of time. He could not understand why the
steamer piled up so quickly after the collision. According to his ample
knowledge of the shoals, he had been on his true course and well off the
dangerous shallows.
His first mate met him amidship. "I sent off one of our life-boats, sir.
Told 'em to go back and hunt for the men we saw in the water. They found
two. Others seem to be gone."
"I'm glad you thought of it, Mr. Bangs. I ought to have attended to it,
myself."
"You had enough on your hands, sir, as it was. She was the _Lucretia
M. Warren_, with granite from Vinal-haven. That's what gave us such an
awful tunk."
"Who are the men?"
"Mate and a sailor. They've had some hot drinks, and are coming along
all right."
"We'll have a word with them, Mr. Bangs."
The survivors of the _Warren_ were forward in the crew's quarters, and
they were still dazed. They had not recovered from their fright; they
were sullen.
"I'm sorry, men! Sailor to sailor, you know what I mean if I don't say
any more. It's bad business on both sides. But what were you doing in
the fairway?"
"We wa'n't in the fairway," protested a grizzled man, evidently the
mate. He was uneasy in his borrowed clothes--he had surrendered his own
garments to a pantryman who had volunteered to dry them.
"You must have been," insisted Captain Mayo.
"I know we was all of two miles north of the regular course. I 'ain't
sailed across these shoals for thirty years not to know soundings when
I make 'em myself. Furthermore, she'll speak for herself, where she's
sunk."
The captain could not gainsay that dictum.
The mate scowled at the young man.
"I've got a question of my own. What ye doing, yourself, all of two
miles out of your course, whanging along, tooting your old whistle as
if you owned the sea and had rollers under you to go across dry ground
with, too?"
"I was not two miles out of my course," protested the captain, and yet
the sickening feeling came to him that there had been some dreadful
error, somewhere, somehow.
"When they put these steamers into the hands of real men instead of
having dudes and kids run 'em, then shipping will stand a fair show on
this coast," declared the mate, casting a disparaging glance at Mayo's
new uniform. "It was my watch on deck, and I know what I'm talking
about. You came belting along straight at us, two points out of your
course, and I thought the fog was playing tricks, and I didn't believe
my own ears. You have drowned my captain and four honest men. When I
stand up in court they'll get the straight facts from me, I can tell you
that. And they tell me it's your first trip. I might have knowed it
was some greenhorn, when I heard you coming two points off your course.
You'd better take off them clothes. I reckon you've made your _last_
trip, too!"
It was the querulous railing of a man who had been near death; it
was the everlasting grouch of the sailing-man against the lordly
steamboater. Mayo had no heart for rebuke or retort. What had happened
to him, anyway? This old schooner man seemed to know exactly what he was
talking about.
"If you don't believe what I'm telling you, go out on deck and see if
you can't hear the Hedge Fence whistle," advised the mate, sourly. "If
she don't bear south of east I'll eat that suit they're drying out for
me. And that will show you that you're two miles to the norrard of where
you ought to be."
On his way to the pilot-house Captain Mayo did hear the hollow voice
of the distant whistle, with its double blast and its long interval
of silence. The sound came from abaft his beam and his disquietude
increased.
Then the acute realization was forced in upon him that he had the
general manager of the line to face. The captain had not caught sight
of his superior during the excitement; he wondered now why Mr. Fogg had
effaced himself so carefully.
The red coal of a cigar glowed in a corner of the pilothouse. From that
corner came curt inquiry: "Well, Captain Mayo, what have you got to say
about this?"
"I think I'll do my talking after I have had daylight on the
proposition, sir."
"Don't you have any idea how you happened to be off your course so far?"
asked Fogg, his anxiety noticeable in his tones.
"How do you know I was off my course?"
"Well--er--why, well, you wouldn't be aground, would you, if you hadn't
lost your way?"
"I didn't lose my way, Mr. Fogg."
"What did happen, then?"
"That's for me to find out."
"I'm not going to say anything to you yet, Captain Mayo. It's too
sudden--too big a blow. It's going to paralyze the Vose line." Mr. Fogg
said this briskly, as if he were passing small talk on the weather.
"I'm thankful that you're taking the thing so calmly, sir. I've been
dreading to meet you."
"Oh--a business man in these days can't allow himself to fly to pieces
over setbacks. Optimism is half the battle."
But Mayo, sitting there in that dark pilot-house for the rest of the
night, staring out into the blank wall of the fog and surveying the
wreck of his hopes, was decidedly not optimistic.
XXI ~ BITTER PROOF BY MORNING LIGHT
Bad news, bad news to our captain came
That grieved him very sore;
But when he knew that all of it was true,
It grieved him ten time more,
Brave boys!
It grieved him ten times more!
--Cold Greenland.
Morning brought to him neither cheer nor counsel. The winds swept the
fog off the seas, and the brightness of the sunshine only mocked the
gloom of Captain Mayo's thoughts.
He was most unmistakably far off his course. He took his bearings
carefully, and he groped through his memory and his experience for
reasons which would explain how he came to be away up there on Hedge
Fence. Two of the masts of the sunken stone-schooner showed above the
sea, two depressing monuments of disaster. He took further bearings and
tested his compass with minute care. So far as he could determine it was
correct to the dot.
It was a busy forenoon for all on board the steamer. The revenue cutters
took off the passengers. Representatives of the underwriters came out
from Wood's Hole on a tug. The huge _Montana_, set solidly into its bed
of sand, loomed against the sky, mute witness of somebody's inefficiency
or mistake.
Late in the day Captain Mayo and General-Manager Fogg locked themselves
in the captain's cabin to have it out.
When the master had finished his statement Mr. Fogg flicked the ash from
his cigar, studied the glowing end for a time, and narrowed his eyes.
"So, summing it all up, it happened, and you don't know just how it
happened. You were off your course and don't know how you happened to be
off your course. You don't expect us to defend you before the steamboat
inspectors, with that for an explanation, Mayo?"
"All I can do is to tell the truth at the hearing, sir."
"They'll break you, sure as a mule wags ears. There are five dead
men inside that wreck yonder. Don't you reckon you'll be indicted for
manslaughter?"
"I shall claim that the collision was unavoidable."
"But you were off your course--were in a place you had no business to be
in. That knocks your defense all to the devil. You are in almighty bad,
Mayo. You must wake up to it."
The young man was pale and rigid and silent.
"The Vose line is in bad enough as it is, without trying to defend you.
I suppose I'll be blamed for putting on a young captain. Mayo, I am
older than you are and wiser about the law and such matters. Why don't
you duck out from under, eh?"
"You mean run away?"
"I wouldn't put it quite as bluntly as that. I mean, go away and keep
out of sight till it quiets down. If you stay they'll put you on the
rack and get you all tangled up by firing questions at you. And what
will you gain by going through the muss? You've got to agree with me
that the inspectors will suspend you--revoke your license. Here's this
steamer here, talking for herself. If you stay around underfoot, and all
the evidence is brought out at the hearing, then the Federal grand
jury will take the thing up, probably. They'll have a manslaughter case
against you."
Still Captain Mayo did not speak.
"If you simply drop out of sight I don't believe they'll chase you.
Personally, having watched you last night, I don't believe you are
guilty of any very bad break. It simply happened wrong. We don't want
all the notoriety a court trial would bring to the line. And here's what
I'll do, Mayo. I'll slip you a few hundred for expenses so that you can
go away and grab into the shipping game somewhere else. A fellow like
you can land on his feet."
"Mr. Fogg, a renegade steamboat man stands a mighty poor show. I may be
suspended, and worse may happen to me, but I'm not going to ruin myself
and my good name by running away. That's confession! It's wrecking all
my prospects forever--and I have worked too hard for what I've got. I'm
going to stay here and face the music--tell my story like a man."
"It will make a fine story--and you have told me yourself that they
are just waiting to make a smashing example of somebody," sneered Fogg.
"You, a cub captain, broke the navigation rules last night by running at
least fifteen knots in the fog. Your log and the testimony of your mates
will show that. I'm not blaming you, son. I'm showing you how it looks!
You got off your course and rammed a schooner at anchor, and you didn't
even stop to pick up her men. I saw that much. Mayo, the only sensible
thing for you to do is to duck out from under. It will save the line
from a lot of scandal and bad advertising. By gad! if you don't do that
much for us, after the offer I've just made you, I'll go onto the stand
and testify against you."
"You seem to be mighty ready and anxious to make me the goat in this
thing," blazed the young man, his temper getting away from him. He had
been without sleep for many hours, his soul had been crucified by the
bitter experiences he had been through.
"Are you looking for a fight?"
"No, Mr. Fogg, I'm looking for a square deal. I haven't done anything
intentionally to make me a fugitive from justice. I won't run away."
"You won't be the first witness who has helped big interests by keeping
out of sight and out of reach of the lawyers. It's business, Mayo."
"It may be, Mr. Fogg. I don't know the inside of the big deals. I'm only
a sailor. I associate with sailors. And I've got a little pride in my
good name."
Mr. Fogg looked at this recalcitrant with scorn. He wanted to tell this
stubborn individual that he was merely a two-spot in the big game which
was being played. But the expression on Mayo's face encouraged neither
levity nor sneers.
"I'll give you a thousand dollars expense money for your trip and will
talk job with you next year after you get your license back," proffered
the general manager.
Captain Mayo fixed flaming eyes on the tempter. "What special, private
reason have you got for wanting to bribe me?" demanded the young man,
with such heat that Fogg flinched. "You are making something very
mysterious out of what should be open and aboveboard. That may be Wall
Street tactics, Mr. Fogg, but it doesn't go with a sailor who has earned
a master's papers and is proud of it."
"Well, pass on then," directed Fogg. "There's a tug alongside to take
the underwriters back to Wood's Hole. Go along--to jail, or wherever it
is you'll fetch up."
"I shall stay aboard this ship as her captain until I am relieved
according to the formalities of the admiralty law," declared Captain
Mayo, with dignity. "I don't propose to run away from duty or
punishment, Mr. Fogg."
The general manager pursed a contemptuous mouth and departed from the
cabin. He went away on the tug without further word to Mayo.
During the next two days small craft buzzed about the stricken giant
like flies around a carcass. There were insurance men, wreckers with
plans and projects, sightseers, stockholders--and one visitor was
Captain Zoradus Wass.
"Nothing else to do just now, boy, except to come and sympathize with
you." He clucked his tongue against his teeth as he looked the steamer
over. It was condolence without words. "Now tell me the story of
it--with all the fine details," he demanded, after they were closeted
in the captain's cabin. He sat with elbows on his knees and gazed at the
floor during the recital, and he continued to gaze at the floor for some
time after Mayo had ceased speaking.
"I admit that the quartermaster let her off for just a minute--less than
a minute," repeated the young man. "I had only just looked away for an
instant. I helped him put her over. We couldn't have done more than cut
a letter S for a few lengths. But the more I think of it, the queerer it
seems. Two points off, almost in a finger-snap!"
"Tell that part of it over and over again, while I shut my eyes and get
it fixed in my mind as if I had seen it," requested Captain Wass. "Who
was there, where did they stand, and so forth and et cetry. When a thing
happens and you can't figger it out, it's usually because you haven't
pawed over the details carefully enough. Go ahead! I'm a good listener."
But after he had listened he had no comments to make. He went out of the
cabin after a few minutes' wait which was devoted to deep meditation,
and strolled about the ship, hands behind his back, scuffing his feet.
A half-hour later, meeting Captain Mayo on his rounds, the veteran
inquired:
"How do you happen to have Oliver Burkett aboard here?" "I don't know
him."
"You ought to know him. He is the captain the Vose line fired off the
_Nirvana_ three years ago. He gave the go-ahead and a jingle when he was
making dock, and chewed up four fishing-boats and part of the pier. He
had to choose between admitting that he was drunk, crazy, or bribed by
the opposition. And I guess they figured that he was all three. Was he
aboard here the night it happened?"
"I don't know, sir."
"According to my notion it's worth finding out," growled Captain Wass.
"I'm not seeing very far into this thing as yet, son, and I'll admit
it. But if dirty work was done to you, Burkett would have been a handier
tool for Fogg than a Stillson wrench in a plumbing job. No, don't ask
me questions now. I haven't got any consolation for you or confidence in
myself. I'm only thinking."
The next day the wounded _Montana_ was formally surrendered to the
underwriters.
Captain Boyd Mayo was ordered to appear before the United States
inspectors, and he went and told his story as best he could. But his
best was an unconvincing tale, after all. He left the hearing after his
testimony and walked down to the little hotel by the water-front to wait
for news.
Captain Wass came bustling down to the little hotel, plumping along at
an extra rate of speed, setting his heels down hard, a moving monument
of gloom.
His protege, removing disconsolate gaze from the dusty chromos on the
office walls, did not require verbal report; Captain Wass's demeanor
told all.
"And you couldn't expect much of anything else," declared the old
man. "I made the best talk I could for you after you had finished your
testimony and had gone out. But it was no use, son! The department has
been laying for a victim. Both of us have known that right along. They
have soaked it to you good and proper."
"How long am I suspended for?" faltered Mayo.
"That's the point! Indefinitely. You were meat. Everybody watching the
case. They trimmed you."
Mayo set his hands into his thick hair, propped his head, and stared at
the floor.
"Indefinitely doesn't mean forever, but there ain't much comfort in
that. I'll tell you what it does mean, boy. It means that if there has
been crooked work we've got to show it up in order to reinstate you.
And now get a good brace on yourself. I've taken a peek in at the United
States court."
The young man, without lifting his head, gave the veteran a piteous
side-glance.
"Fletcher Fogg is buzzing around the outside of that hive. He has
Burkett along for an understrapper. They are marshaling in witnesses
before the grand jury--those men from the _Warren_, and you know what
they'll say, of course! Your mates and quartermasters, too! Mayo,
they're going to railroad you to Atlanta penitentiary. They have put
something over on you because you are young and they figured that you'd
be a little green. It seemed queer to me when Fogg was so mighty nice to
you all of a sudden. But they don't lay off a man like Jacobs and put in
a new man just to be nice. They either felt they couldn't work Jacobs,
or else they felt a green man would give 'em a good excuse for what
happened."
"But they couldn't arrange to have a schooner--"
"That was probably more than they figured on. But as long as it has
happened they're going to use it to best advantage. You're going to have
both tin cans tied to you, son. Every cussed bit of influence is going
to be used against you. Poor devils on the outside, like you and I,
don't understand just how slick the ways can be greased. Mayo, I'm going
to give you good advice. Duck out!"
"Run away like a confessed criminal? That's the advice Fogg gave me. I
don't think your advice is good, Captain Wass. I won't run away."
"It may not be good advice. I ain't wise enough to know everything
that's best. But if they put you behind the bars in Atlanta, son, you'll
stay there till your term is up. No matter what is found out in your
case, it will take money and a lot of time to get the truth before the
right people. But if you ain't in prison, and we can get a line on this
case and dig up even a part of the truth, then you've got a fighting
chance in the open. If we can get just enough to make 'em afraid to put
you onto the witness-stand, that much may make 'em quit their barking.
You're a sailor, boy! You know a sailor can't do much when his hands are
tied. Stay outside the penitentiary and help me fight this thing."
"I don't know what to do," mourned the young man. "I'm all in a whirl.
I'm no coward, Captain Wass. I'm willing to face the music. But I'm so
helpless."
"Stay outside jail till the fog lifts a bit in this case," adjured his
mentor. "Are you going to lie down and stick up your legs to have 'em
tied, like a calf bound for market? Here are a few things you can do if
you duck out of sight for a little while. I'll go ahead and--"
Suddenly he checked himself. He was facing the window, which commanded
a considerable section of street. He wasted no further breath on good
advice.
"I know those men coming down there," he cried. "They're bailiffs. I saw
them around the court-house. They're after you, Mayo! You run! Get
away! There must be a back door here. Scoot!" He pulled the unresisting
scapegoat out of his chair and hustled him to the rear of the office.
A young man may have the best intentions. He may resolve to be a martyr,
to bow to the law's majesty. But at that moment Mayo was receiving
imperious command from the shipmaster whose orders he had obeyed for so
long that obedience was second nature. And panic seized him! Men were at
hand to arrest him. There was no time to reason the thing out. Flight is
the first impulse of innocence persecuted. Manly resolve melted. He ran.
"I'll stay behind and bluff 'em off! I'll say you're just out for a
minute, that I'm waiting here for you," cried Captain Wass. "That will
give you a start. Try the docks. You may find one of the boys who will
help."
Mayo escaped into a yard, dodged down an alley, planning his movements
as he hurried, having a mariner's quickness of thought in an emergency.
He made directly for the pier where steam-vessels took water. A huge
ocean-going tug was just getting ready to leave her berth under the
water-hose. Her gruff whistle-call had ordered hawsers cast off. Mayo's
'longcoast acquaintance was fairly extensive. This was a coal-barge tug,
and he waved quick greeting to the familiar face in her pilot-house and
leaped aboard. He climbed the forward ladder nimbly.
"I reckon you'll have to make it hello and good-by in one breath, mate,"
advised the skipper. "I'm off to take a light tow down-coast. Norfolk
next stop."
"Let her go--sooner the better," gasped the fugitive. "I'll explain why
as soon as you are out of the dock."
"You don't say that you want to take the trip?"
"I've got to take it."
The skipper cocked an eyebrow and pulled his bell. "Make yourself to
home, mate," he advised. "I hope you ain't in so much of a hurry to get
there as you seem to be, for I've got three barges to tow."
Mayo sat down on the rear transom and was hidden from all eyes on the
pier.
There was no opportunity for an explanation until the barges had been
picked up, for there was much manouver-ing and much tooting. But he
found ready sympathy after he had explained.
"The law sharps are always hankering to catch a poor cuss who is trying
to navigate these waters and suit the inspectors and the owners at the
same time," admitted the master of the tug. "I have read everything the
papers had to say about your case, and I figured they didn't give you a
fair show. Newspapers and lawyers and owners don't understand what a
fellow is up against. I'm glad you're aboard, mate, because I want to
hear your side, with all the details."
The threshing over of the matter occupied many hours of the long wallow
down the Jersey coast, and the tug captain weighed all features of the
case with the care of a man who has plenty of time on his hands and with
the zest a mariner displays in considering the affairs of his kind of
folk.
"If I didn't know you pretty well, Mayo, and know what kind of a man
you got your training with, I might think--just as those law sharps
will probably say--that you were criminally careless or didn't know your
business. But that dodge she made on you! Two points off her course!
You've got to put your finger right on there and hold it! Let me tell
you something. It was a queer thing in my own case. That was a queer
thing in your case. Stand two queer things in our business up beside
each other and squint at 'em and you may learn something."
"She was on her course--I put her there with my own hands," persisted
Mayo.
"Sure! You know your business. If this thing was going to be left to
the bunch that know you, you'd go clear. But here's what happened in my
case: I had a new man in the wheel-house, here, and he almost rammed me
into Cuttyhunk, gave me a touch and go with the Pollock Rip Lightship,
and had me headed toward Nauset when the fog lifted. And he was steering
my courses to the thinness of a hair, at that! Say, I took a sudden
tumble and frisked that chap and dragged a toad-stabber knife out of his
pocket--one of those regular foot-long knives. It had been yawing off
that compass all the way from a point to a point and a half. When did
you shift wheel-watch?"
"Before we made Vineyard Sound."
"And no trouble coming up the sound?"
"Made Nobska and West Chop to the dot."
"Then perhaps your general manager, who was in that pilot-house, had an
iron gizzard inside him. Most of them Wall Street fellows do have!" said
the skipper, with sarcasm.
"There's something going on in the steamboat business that I can't
understand," declared Mayo. "It's high up; it hasn't to do with us
chaps, who have to take the kicks. Fogg brought a man aboard the old
_Nequasset_, and he didn't bring along a good explanation to go with
that man. I have been wondering ever since how it happened that Fogg got
to be general manager of the Vose line so almighty sudden."
"Them high financiers play a big game, mate. And if you happened to be
a marked card in it, they'd tear you up and toss you under the table
without thinking twice. If you'll take a tip from me, you lay low and
do a lot of thinking while Uncle Zoradus does his scouting. What are you
going to do when you get to Norfolk?"
"I haven't thought."
"Well, the both of us better think, and think hard, mate. If the United
States is really after you there'll be a sharp eye at every knot-hole. I
can't afford to let 'em get in a crack at me for what I've done."
"I'll jump overboard outside the capes before I'll put you in wrong,"
asserted Mayo, with deep feeling.
That night the captain of the tug took a trick at the wheel in person.
His guest lay on the transom, smoking the skipper's spare pipe, and
racking his mind for ways and means. After a time he was conscious that
the captain was growling a bit of a song to relieve the tedium of his
task. He sang the same words over and over--a tried and true Chesapeake
shanty:
"Oh, I sailed aboard a lugger, and I shipped aboard a scow,
And I sailed aboard a peanut-shell that had a razor bow.
Needle in a haystack, brick into a wall!
A <DW65> man in Norfolk, he ain't no 'count at all!"
Mayo rolled off the transom and went to the captain's side. "There's
more truth than poetry in that song of yours, sir," he said. "You have
given me an idea. A <DW65> in Norfolk doesn't attract much attention.
And I haven't got to be one of the black ones, either. Don't you suppose
there's something aboard here I can use to stain my face with?"
"My cook is a great operator as a tattoo artist."
"I don't think I want to make the disguise permanent, sir," stated the
young man, with a smile.
"What I mean is, he may have something in his kit that he can use to
paint you with. What's your idea--stay there? I'm afraid they'll nail
you." >
"I'll stay there just long enough to ship before the mast on a schooner.
There isn't time to think up any better plan just now. Anything to keep
out of sight until I can make up my mind about what's really best to be
done."
"We'll have that cook up here," offered the captain. "He's safe."
The cook took prompt and professional interest in the matter. "Sure!" he
said. "I've got a stain that will sink in and stay put for a long time,
if no grease paint is used. Only you mustn't wash your face."
"There's no danger of a fellow having any inducement to do that when
he's before the mast on a schooner in these days," declared the tug
captain, dryly.
An hour later, Captain Boyd Mayo, late of the crack liner _Montana_,
was a very passable mulatto, his crisply curling hair adding to the
disguise. He swapped his neat suit of brown with a deck-hand, and
received some particularly unkempt garments.
The next night, when the tug was berthed at the water station, he
slipped off into the darkness, as homeless and as disconsolate as an
abandoned dog.
XXII ~ SPECIAL BUSINESS OF A PASSENGER
O Ranzo was no sailor,
He shipped on board a whaler.
O pity Reuben Ran-zo, Ran-zo, boys!
O poor old Reuben Ranzo, Ranzo, boys!
--Reuben Ranzo.
Captain Mayo kept out of the region of the white lights for some time.
He had a pretty wide acquaintance in the Virginia port, and he knew the
beaten paths of the steamboating transients, ashore for a bit of a blow.
He lurked in alleys, feeling especially disreputable. He was not at
all sure that his make-up was effective. His own self-consciousness
convinced him that he was a glaring fraud, whose identity would be
revealed promptly to any person who knew him. But while he sneaked in
the purlieus of the city several of his 'longshore friends passed him
without a second look. One, a second engineer on a Union line freighter,
whirled after passing, and came back to him.
"Got a job, boy?"
"No, sir."
"We need coal-passers on the _Drummond_. She's in the stream. Come
aboard in the morning."
But it was not according to Mayo's calculation, messing with steamboat
men. "Ah doan' conclude ah wants no sech job," he drawled.
"No, of course you don't want to work, you blasted yaller mutt!" snapped
the engineer. He marched on, cursing, and Mayo was encouraged, for the
man had given him a thorough looking-over.
He went out onto the wider streets. He was looking for a roving schooner
captain, reckoning he would know one of that gentry by the cut of his
jib.
A ponderous man came stumping down the sidewalk, swinging his shoulders.
"He's one of 'em," decided Mayo. The round-crowned soft hat, undented,
the flapping trouser legs, the gait recognized readily by one who has
ever seen a master mariner patrol his quarter-deck--all these marked him
as a safe man to tackle. He stopped, dragged a match against the brick
side of a building, and relighted his cigar. But before Mayo could reach
him a <DW52> man hurried up and accosted the big gentleman, whipping
off his hat and bowing with smug humility. Mayo hung up at a little
distance. He recognized the <DW52> man; he was one of the numerous
Norfolk runners who furnish crews for vessels. He wore pearl-gray
trousers, a tailed coat, and had a pink in his buttonhole.
"Ah done have to say that ah doan' get that number seven man up to now,
Cap'n Downs, though I have squitulate for him all up and down. But ah
done expect--"
Captain Downs scowled over his scooped hands, puffing hard at his cigar.
He threw away the match.
"Look-a-here! you've been chasing me two days with new stories about
that seventh man. Haven't you known me long enough to know that you
can't trim me for another fee?"
"Cap'n Downs, you done know yo'self the present lucidateness of the
sailorman supply."
"I know that if you don't get that man aboard my schooner to-night or
the first thing to-morrow morning you'll never put another one aboard
for me. You go hustle! And look here! I see you making up your mouth!
Not another cent!"
The <DW52> man backed off and went away.
Mayo accosted the captain when that fuming gentleman came lunging along
the sidewalk. "Ah done lak to have that job, cap'n," he pleaded.
"You a sailor?"
"Yas, sir."
"How is it you ain't hiring through the regular runners?"
"Ah doan' lak to give all my money to a dude <DW65> to go spotein' on."
"Well, there's something in that," acknowledged Captain Downs, softening
a bit. "I haven't got much use for that kind myself. You come along. But
if you ain't A-1, shipshape, and seamanlike and come aboard my vessel
to loaf on your job you'll wish you were in tophet with the torches
lighted. Got any dunnage laying around anywhere?"
"No, sir."
"Well, then, I guess you're a regular sailor, all right, the way the
breed runs nowadays. That sounds perfectly natural." The captain led the
way down to a public landing, where a power-yawl, with engineer and a
mate, was in waiting. "Will she go into the stream to-night, Mr. Dodge?"
asked Captain Downs, curtly.
"No, sir! About four hundred tons still to come."
Schooner captains keep religiously away from their vessels as long as
the crafts lie at the coal-docks.
"Come up for me in the morning as soon as she is in the stream. Here's
a man to fill the crew. If that <DW53> shows up with another man kick the
two of 'em up the wharf."
"Will the passenger come aboard with you, sir?"
"He called me up at the hotel about supper-time and said something about
wanting to come aboard at the dock. I tried to tell him it was foolish,
but it's safe to reckon that a man who wants to sail as passenger from
here to Boston on a coal-schooner is a fool, anyway. If he shows up,
let him come aboard." Captain Downs swung away and the night closed in
behind him.
Mayo took his place in the yawl and preserved meek and proper silence
during the trip down the harbor.
When they swung under the counter of the schooner which was their
destination, the young man noted that she was the _Drusilla M. Alden_,
a five-master, of no very enviable record along the coast, so far as the
methods and manners of her master went; Mayo had heard of her master,
whose nickname was "Old Mull." He had not recognized him under the name
of Captain Downs when the runner had addressed him.
The new member of the crew followed the mate up the ladder--only a few
steps, for the huge schooner, with most of her cargo aboard, showed less
than ten feet of freeboard amidships.
"Sleepy, George?" asked the mate, when they were on deck.
"No, sir."
"Then you may as well go on this watch."
"Yass'r!"
"We'll call it now eight bells, midnight. You'll go off watch eight
bells, morning."
Mayo knew that the hour was not much later than eleven, but he did
not protest; he knew something about the procedure aboard coastwise
coal-schooners.
Search-lights bent steady glare upon the chutes down which rushed the
streams of coal, black dust swirling in the white radiance. The great
pockets at Lambert Point are never idle. High above, on the railway,
trains of coal-cars racketed. Under his feet the fabric of the vessel
trembled as the chutes fed her through the three hatches. Sweating,
coal-blackened men toiled in the depths of her, revealed below hatches
by the electric lights, pecking at the avalanche with their shovels,
trimming cargo.
The young man exchanged a few listless words with the two <DW64>s who
were on deck, his mates of the watch.
They were plainly not interested in him, and he avoided them.
The hours dragged. He helped to close and batten the fore-hatch,
and later performed similar service on the hatch aft. The main-hatch
continued to gulp the black food which the chute fed to it.
Suddenly a tall young man appeared to Mayo. The stranger was smartly
dressed, and his spick-and-span garb contrasted strangely with the
general riot of dirt aboard the schooner. He trod gingerly over the
dust-coated planks and carried two suit-cases.
"Here, George," he commanded. "Take these to my stateroom."
Mayo hesitated.
"I'm going as passenger," said the young man, impatiently, and Mayo
remembered what the captain had told the mate.
Passengers on coal-schooners, sailing as friends of the master, were not
unknown on the coast, but Mayo judged, from what he had heard, that this
person was not a friend, and had wondered a bit.
"I am not allowed to go aft, sir, without orders from the mate."
"Where is the mate?"
"I think he is below, sir."
"Asleep?"
"I wouldn't wonder."
Mayo did not trouble to use his dialect on this stranger, a mere
passenger, who spoke as if he were addressing a car-porter. The tone
produced instant irritation, resentment in the man who had so recently
been master of his ship.
The passenger set down his baggage and pondered a moment. He looked Mayo
over in calculating fashion; he stared up the wharf. Then he picked
up his bags and hurried along the port alley and disappeared down the
companionway.
He returned in a few moments, came into the waist of the vessel,
and made careful survey of all about him. There were two sailors far
forward, merely dim shadows. For some reason general conditions on the
schooner seemed to satisfy the stranger.
"The thing is breaking about right--about as I reckoned it would," he
said aloud. "Look here, George, how much talking do you do about things
you see?"
"Talking to who, sir?"
"Why, to your boss--the captain--the mate."
"A sailor before the mast is pretty careful not to say anything to a
captain or the mates unless they speak to him first, sir."
"George, I'm not going to do anything but what is perfectly all right,
you understand. You'll not get into any trouble over it. But what you
don't see you can't tell, no matter if questions are asked later on.
Here, take this!" He crowded two silver dollars into Mayo's hands and
gave him a push. "You trot forward and stay there about five minutes,
that's the boy! It's all right. It's a little of my own private
business. Go ahead!"
Mayo went. He reflected that it was none of his affair what a passenger
did aboard the vessel. It was precious little interest he took in the
craft, anyway, except as a temporary refuge. He turned away and put the
money in his pocket, the darkness hiding his smile.
He did not look toward the wharf. He strolled on past the forward house,
where the engineer was stoking his boiler, getting up steam for the
schooner's windlass engine. When he patrolled aft again, after
a conscientious wait, he found the passenger leaning against the
coachhouse door, smoking a cigarette. The electric light showed his
face, and it wore a look of peculiar satisfaction.
Just then some one fumbled inside the coach-house door at the stranger's
back, and when the latter stepped away the first mate appeared, yawning.
"I'm the passenger--Mr. Bradish," the young man explained, promptly. "I
just made myself at home, put my stuff in a stateroom, and locked the
door and took the key. Is that all right?"
"May be just as well to lock it while we're at dock and stevedores are
aboard," agreed the mate.
"How soon do we pull out of here?"
The mate yawned again and peered up into the sky, where the first gray
of the summer dawn was showing over the cranes of the coal-pockets.
"In about a half-hour, I should say. Just as soon as the tug can use
daylight to put us into the stream."
The roar of the coal in the main-hatch chute had ceased. The schooner
was loaded.
"Go strike eight bells, Jeff, and turn in!" ordered the mate, speaking
to Mayo.
"Well, I'll stay outside, here, and watch the sun rise," said Bradish.
"It will be a new experience."
"It's an almighty dirty place for loafing till we get into the stream
and clean ship, sir. I should think taking an excursion on a coal-lugger
would be another new experience!" There was just a hint of grim sarcasm
in his tone.
"The doctor ordered me to get out and away where I wouldn't hear of
business or see business, and a friend of mine told me there were plenty
of room and comfort aboard one of these big schooners. That cabin and
the staterooms, they're fine!"
"Oh, they have to give a master a good home these days. That's a Winton
carpet in the saloon," declared the mate, with pride. "And we've got a
one-eyed cook who can certainly sling grub together. Yes, for a cheap
vacation I dun'no' but a schooner is all right!"
The two were getting on most amicably when Mayo went forward. He was
dog-tired and turned in on tie bare boards of his fo'cas'le berth.
No bedding is furnished men before the mast on the coal-carriers.
If a man wants anything between himself and the boards he must bring it
with him, and few do so. At the end of each trip a crew is discharged
and new men are hired, in order to save paying wages while a vessel is
in port loading or discharging. Therefore, a coastwise schooner harbors
only transients, for whom the fo'cas'le is merely a shelter between
watches.
But Mayo was a sailor, and the bare boards served him better than
bedding in which some dusky and dirty son of Ham had nestled. He laid
himself down and slept soundly.
The second mate turned out the watch below at four bells--six in the
morning. The schooner was in the stream and all hands were needed to
work hose and brooms and clear off the coal-dust. Mayo toiled in the
wallow of black water till his muscles ached.
There was one happy respite--they knocked off long enough to eat
breakfast. It was sent out to them from the cook-house in one huge,
metal pan without dishes or knives or forks.
A white cook wash dishes for <DW64>s?
Mayo knew the custom which prevailed on board the schooners between the
coal ports and the New England cities, and he fished for food with his
fingers and cut meat with his jack-knife with proper meekness.
When he was back at his scrubbing again the cook passed aft, bearing
the zinc-lined hamper which contained the breakfast for the cabin table.
That this cook had the complete vocabulary of others of his ilk was
revealed when the man with the hose narrowly missed drenching the
hamper.
"That's right, cook!" roared Captain Downs, climbing ponderously on
board from his yawl. "Talk up to the loafing, cock-eyed, pot-
sons of a coal-scuttle when I ain't here to do it. Turn away that hose,
you mule-eared Fiji!" He turned on Mayo, who stood at one side and was
poising his scrubbing-broom to allow the master to pass. "Get to work,
there, yellow pup! Get to work!"
Ordinarily the skipper addresses one of his sailors only through the
mate. But there was no mate handy just then.
"One hand for the owners and one hand for yourself when you're aloft,
but on deck it's both hands for the owners," he stated, as he plodded
aft, giving forth the aphorism for the benefit of all within hearing.
The passenger was still on deck, and Mayo heard Captain Downs greet him
rather brusquely.
Then the cook's hand-bell announced breakfast, and before the captain
and his guest reappeared on deck a tug had the _Alden's_ hawser and was
towing her down the dredged channel on the way to Hampton Roads and to
sea.
Mayo went at his new tasks so handily that he passed muster as an
able seaman. If a sailor aboard a big schooner of these days is quick,
willing, and strong he does not need the qualities and the knowledge
which made a man an "A. B." in the old times.
While the schooner was on her way behind the tug they hoisted her sails,
a long cable called "the messenger" enabling the steam-winch forward to
do all the work. Mayo was assigned to the jigger-mast, and went aloft
to shake out the topsail. It was a dizzy height, and the task tried his
spirit, for the sail was heavy, and he found it difficult to keep his
balance while he was tugging at the folds of the canvas. He was obliged
to work alone--there was only one man to a mast, and very tiny insects
did his mates appear when Mayo glanced forward along the range of the
masts.
The tug dropped them off the Tail of the Horseshoe; a smashing
sou'wester was serving them.
With all her washing set, the schooner went plowing out past the capes,
and Mayo was given his welcome watch below; he was so sleepy that his
head swam.
When he turned out he was ordered to take his trick at the wheel. The
schooner had made her offing and was headed for her northward run along
the coast, which showed as a thin thread of white along the flashing
blue of the sea.
Mayo took the course from the gaunt, sooty Jamaican who stepped away
from the wheel; he set his gaze on the compass and had plenty to occupy
his hands and his mind, for a big schooner which is logging off six
or eight knots in a following sea is somewhat of a proposition for a
steersman. Occasionally he was obliged to climb bodily upon the wheel in
order to hold the vessel up to her course.
Captain Downs was pacing steadily from rail to rail between the wheel
and the house. At each turn he glanced up for a squint at the sails. It
was the regular patrol of a schooner captain.
In spite of his absorption in his task, Mayo could not resist taking
an occasional swift peep at the passenger. The young man's demeanor had
become so peculiar that it attracted attention. He looked worried, ill
at ease, smoked his cigarettes nervously, flung over the rail one which
he had just lighted, and started for the captain, his mouth open. Then
he turned away, shielded a match under the hood of the companionway, and
touched off another cigarette. He was plainly wrestling with a problem
that distressed him very much.
At last he hurried below. He came up almost immediately. He had the air
of a man who had made up his mind to have a disagreeable matter over
with.
"Captain Downs," he blurted, stepping in front of Old Mull and halting
that astonished skipper, "will you please step down into the cabin with
me for a few moments? I've something to tell you."
"Well, tell it--tell it here!" barked the captain.
"It's very private, sir!"
"I don't know of any privater place than this quarterdeck, fifteen miles
offshore."
"But the--the man at the wheel!"
"Good Josephus! That ain't a man! That's a <DW65> sailor steering my
schooner. Tell your tale, Mr. Bradish. Tell it right here. That fellow
don't count any more 'n that rudder-head counts."
"If you could step down into the cabin, I--"
"My place is on this quarter-deck, sir. If you've got anything to say to
me, say it!" He began to pace again.
Bradish caught step, after a scuff or two.
"I hope you're going to take this thing right, Captain Downs. It may
sound queer to you at first," he stammered.
"Well, well, well, tell it to me--tell it! Then I will let you know
whether it sounds queer or not."
"I brought another passenger on board with me. She is locked in a
stateroom."
Old Mull stopped his patrol with a jerk. "She?" he demanded. "You mean
to tell me you've got a woman aboard here?"
"We're engaged--we want to get married. So she came along--"
"Then why in tophet didn't ye go get married? You don't think this is a
parsonage, do you?"
"There were reasons why we couldn't get married ashore. You have to have
licenses, and questions are asked, and we were afraid it would be found
out before we could arrange it."
"So this is an elopement, hey?"
"Well, the young lady's father has foolish ideas about a husband for his
daughter, and she doesn't agree with him."
"Who is her father?"
"I don't intend to tell you, sir. That hasn't anything to do with the
matter."
Captain Downs looked his passenger up and down with great disfavor. "And
what's your general idea in loading yourselves onto me in this fashion?"
"You have the right, as captain of a ship outside the three-mile limit,
to marry folks in an emergency."
"I ain't sure that I've got any such right, and I ain't at all certain
about the emergency, Mr. Bradish. I ain't going to stick my head into a
scrape."
"But there can't be any scrape for you. You simply exercise your right
and marry us and enter it in your log and give us a paper. It will be
enough of a marriage so that we can't be separated."
"Want to hold a hand you can bluff her father with, hey? I don't approve
of any such tactics in matrimony."
"I wouldn't be doing this if there were any other safe way for us,"
protested Bradish, earnestly. "I'm no cheap fellow. I hold down a good
job, sir. But the trouble is I work for her father--and you know how it
always is in a case like that. He can't see me!"
"Rich, eh?"
"Yes, sir!" Bradish made the admission rather sullenly.
"It's usually the case when there's eloping done!"
"But this will not seem like eloping when it's reported right in the
newspapers. Marriage at sea--it will seem like a romantic way of getting
rid of the fuss of a church wedding. We'll put out a statement of that
sort. It will give her father a chance to stop all the gossip. He'll be
glad if you perform the ceremony."
"Say, young fellow, you're not rehearsing the stuff on me that you used
on the girl, are you? Well, it doesn't go!
"Captain Downs, you must understand how bull-headed some rich men are in
matters of this kind. I am active and enterprising. I'll be a handy man
for him. He likes me in a business way--he has said so. He'll be all
right after he gets cooled down."
"More rehearsal! But I ain't in love with you like that girl is."
"We're in a terrible position, captain! Perhaps it wasn't a wise thing
to do. But it will come out all right if you marry us."
"What's her name?"
"I can't tell you."
"How in the devil can I marry you and her if I don't know her name?"
"But you haven't promised that you will do your part! I don't want to
expose this whole thing and then be turned down."
"I ain't making any rash promises," stated Captain Downs, walking to the
rail and taking a squint at the top-hamper. "Besides," he added, on his
tramp past to the other rail, "he may be an owner into this schooner
property, for all I know. Sixteenths of her are scattered from tophet to
Tar Hollow!"
"You needn't worry about his owning schooner property! He is doing quite
a little job at putting you fellows out of business!"
Curiosity and something else gleamed in Captain Downs's eyes. "Chance
for me to rasp him, hey, by wishing you onto the family?"
This new idea in the situation appealed instantly to Bradish as a
possibility to be worked. "Promise man to man that you'll perform the
marriage, and I'll tell you his name; then you'll be glad that you have
promised," he said, eagerly.
"I don't reckon I'd try to get even with Judas I-scarrot himself
by stealing his daughter away from him, sir. There's the girl to be
considered in all such cases!"
"But this isn't stealing! We're in love."
"Maybe, but you ain't fooling me very much, young fellow. I don't say
but what you like her all right, but you're after something else, too."
"A man has to make his way in the world as best he can."
"That plan seems to be pretty fashionable among you financing fellows
nowadays. But I'm a pretty good judge of men and you can't fool me, I
say. Now how did you fool the girl?"
It was blunt and insulting query, but Bradish did not have the courage
to resent it; he had too much need of placating this despot. The lover
hesitated and glanced apprehensively at the man at the wheel.
"Don't mind that <DW65>!" yelped Captain Downs, "How did you ever get
nigh enough to that girl to horn-swoggle her into this foolishness?"
"We met at dances. We were attracted to each other," explained Bradish,
meekly.
"Huh! Yes, they tell me that girls are crazy over hoof-shaking these
days, and I suppose it's easy to go on from there into a general state
of plumb lunacy," commented Old Mull, with disgust. "You show you ain't
really in love with her, young man. You'd never allow her to cut up this
caper if you were!"
He stuck an unlighted cigar in his mouth and continued to patrol his
quarter-deck, muttering.
Bradish lighted a cigarette, tossed it away after two puffs, and leaned
against the house, studying his fingertips, scowling and sullen.
Mayo had heard all the conversation, but his interest in the identity of
these persons was limited; New York was full of rich men, and there were
many silly daughters.
"Look here," suggested the captain, unamiably, "whatever is done later,
there's something to be done now. It's cruelty to animals to keep that
girl shut up in that stateroom any longer."
"She didn't want to come out and show herself till I had had a talk
with you, sir. I have spoken to her through the door a few times." He
straightened himself and assumed dignity. "Captain Downs, I call it
to your attention--I want you to remember that I have observed all the
proprieties since I have been on board."
Captain Downs snorted. "Proprieties--poosh! You have got her into a
nice scrape! And she's down there locked in like a cat, and probably
starving!"
"She doesn't care to eat. I think she isn't feeling very well."
"I shouldn't think she would! Go bring her up here, where she can get
some fresh air. I'll talk to her."
After a moment's hesitation Bradish went below. He returned in a little
while.
In spite of his efforts to pretend obliviousness Mayo stared hard at
the companionway, eager to look on the face of the girl. But she did not
follow her lover.
"She doesn't feel well enough to come on deck," reported Bradish. "But
she is in the saloon. Captain Downs, won't you go and talk to her and
say something to make her feel easy in her mind? She is very nervous.
She is frightened."
"I'm not much of a ladies' man," stated Old Mull. But he pulled off his
cap and smoothed his grizzled hair.
"And if you could only say that you're going to help us!" pleaded the
lover. "We throw ourselves on your mercy, sir."
"I ain't much good as a life-raft in this love business." He started for
the companionway.
"But don't tell her that you will not marry us--not just now. Wait till
she is calmer."
"Oh, I sha'n't tell her! Don't worry!" said Captain Downs, with a grim
set to his mouth. "All she, or you, gets out of me can be put in a
flea's eye."
He disappeared down the steps, and Bradish followed. A mate had come
aft, obeying the master's hand-flourish, and he took up the watch. In a
little while Mayo was relieved. He went forward, conscious that he was
a bit irritated and disappointed because he had not seen the heroine of
this love adventure, and wondering just a bit at his interest in that
young lady.
An hour later Mayo, coiling down lines in the alley outside the
engine-room, overheard a bulletin delivered by the one-eyed cook to the
engineer.
The cook had trotted forward, his sound eye bulging out and thus mutely
expressing much astonishment. "There's a dame aft. I've been making tea
and toast for her."
"Well, you act as if it was the first woman you'd ever seen. What's the
special excitement about a skirt going along as passenger?"
"She wa'n't expected to be aboard. I heard the old man talking with her.
The flash gent that's passenger has rung her in somehow. I didn't get
all the drift be-cause the old man only sort of purred while I was in
hearing distance. But I caught enough to know that it ain't according to
schedule."
"Good looker?" The engineer was showing a bit of interest.
"She sure is!" declared the cook, demonstrating that one eye is as
handy, sometimes, as two. "Peaches and cream, molasses-candy hair, hands
as white as pastry flour. Looks good enough to eat."
"Nobody would ever guess you are a cook, hearing you describe a girl,"
sneered the engineer.
"There's a mystery about her. I heard her kind of taking on before the
dude hushed her up. She was saying something about being sorry that she
had come, and that she wished she was back, and that she had always
done things on the impulse, and didn't stop to think, and so forth, and
couldn't the ship be turned around."
Mayo forgot himself. He stopped coiling ropes and stood there and
listened eagerly until the cook's indignant eye chanced to take a swing
in his direction.
"Do you see who's standing there butting in on the private talk of two
gents?" he asked the engineer. "Hand me that grate-poker--the hot one.
I'll show that <DW65> where he belongs."
But Mayo retreated in a hurry, knowing that he was not permitted to
protest either by word or by look. However, the cook had given him
something else besides an insult--he had retailed gossip which kept the
young man's thoughts busy.
In spite of his rather contemptuous opinion of the wit of a girl who
would hazard such a silly adventure, he found himself pitying her
plight, guessing that she was really sorry. But as to what was going on
in the master's cabin he had no way of ascertaining. He wondered whether
Captain Downs would marry the couple in such equivocal fashion.
At any rate, pondered Mayo, how did it happen to be any affair of his?
He had troubles enough of his own to occupy his sole attention.
Their spanking wind from the sou'west let go just as dusk shut down. A
yellowish scud dimmed the stars. Mayo heard one of the mates say that
the glass had dropped. He smelled nasty weather himself, having the
sailor's keen instinct. The topsails were ordered in, and he climbed
aloft and had a long, lone struggle before he got the heavy canvas
folded and lashed.
When he reached the deck a mate commanded him to fasten the canvas
covers over the skylights of the house. The work brought him within
range of the conversation which Captain Downs and Bradish were carrying
on, pacing the deck together.
"Of course I don't want to throw down anybody, captain," Bradish was
saying. There was an obsequious note in his voice; it was the tone of a
man who was affecting confidential cordiality in order to get on--to win
a favor. "But I have a lot of sympathy for you and for the rest of the
schooner people. I have been right there in the office, and have had
a finger in the pie, and I've seen what has been done in a good many
cases. Of course, you understand, this is all between us! I'm not giving
away any of the office secrets to be used against the big fellows. But
I'm willing to show that I'm a friend of yours. And I know you'll be a
friend of mine, and keep mum. All is, you can get wise from what I tell
you and can keep your eyes peeled from now on."
Mayo heard fragmentary explanation of how the combination of steamboat
and barge interests had operated to leave only pickings to the
schooners. The two men were tramping the deck together, and at the turns
were too far away from him to be heard distinctly.
"But they're putting over the biggest job of all just now," proceeded
Bradish. "Confound it, Captain Downs, I'm not to be blamed for running
away with a man's daughter after watching him operate as long as I have.
His motto is, 'Go after it when you see a thing you want in this world.'
I've been trained to that system. I've got just as much right to go
after a thing as he. I'm treasurer of the Paramount--that's the trust
with which they intend to smash the opposition. My job is to ask no
questions and to sign checks when they tell me to, and Heaven only knows
what kind of a goat it will make of me if they ever have a show-down in
the courts! They worked some kind of a shenanigan to grab off the Vose
line; I wired a pot of money to Fletcher Fogg, who was doing the dirty
work, and it was paid to a clerk to work proxies at the annual meeting.
And then Fogg put up some kind of a job on a greenhorn captain--worked
a flip trick on the fellow and made him shove the _Montana_ onto the
sands. I suppose they'll have the Vose line at their price before I get
back."
Mayo sat there in the shadow, squatting on legs which trembled.
This babbler--tongue loosened by his new liberty and by the antagonism
his small nature was developing, anticipating his employer's enmity--had
dropped a word of what Mayo knew must be the truth. It had been a
trick--and Fletcher Fogg had worked it! Mayo did not know who Fletcher
Fogg's employer might be. From what office this tattler came he did not
know; but it was evident that Bradish was cognizant of the trick. As
a result of that trick, an honest man had been ruined and blacklisted,
deprived of opportunity to work in his profession, was a fugitive, a
despised sailor, kicked to the Very bottom of the ladder he had climbed
so patiently and honorably.
Furious passion bowled over Mayo's prudence. He leaped down from the top
of the house and presented himself in front of the two men.
"I heard it--I couldn't help hearing it!" he stuttered.
"Here's a <DW65> gone crazy!" yelped Captain Downs. "Ahoy, there,
for'ard! Tumble aft with a rope!"
"I'm no <DW65>, and I'm not crazy!" shouted Mayo.
The swinging lantern in the companionway lighted him dimly. But in the
gloom his dusky hue was only the more accentuated. His excitement seemed
that of a man whose wits had been touched.
"I knew it was a trick. But what was the trick?" he demanded, starting
toward Bradish, his clutching hands outspread.
Captain Downs kicked at this obstreperous sailor, and at the same time
fanned a blow at his head with open palm.
Mayo avoided both the foot and the hand. "What does the law say about
striking a sailor, captain? Hold on, there! I'm just as good a man as
you are. Don't you tell those men to lay hands on me." He backed away
from the sailors who came running aft, with the second mate marshaling
them. He stripped up his sleeve and held his arm across the radiance of
the binnacle light. "That's a white man's skin, isn't it?" he demanded.
"What kind of play-acting is all this?" asked Old Mull, with astonished
indignation.
In that crisis Mayo controlled his tongue after a mighty effort to
steady himself. He was prompted to obey his mood and announce his
identity with all the fury that was in him. But here stood the man who
had served as one of the tools of his enemies, whoever they were. For
his weapon against this man Mayo had only a few words of gossip which
had been dropped in an unwary moment; he realized his position; he
regretted his passionate haste. He was not ready to put himself into the
power of his enemies by telling this man who he was; he remembered that
he was running away from the law.
Bradish gaped at this intruder without seeming to understand what it all
meant.
"Passengers better get below out of the muss," advised Captain Downs.
"Here's a crazy <DW65>, mate. Grab him and tie him up."
Mayo backed to the rack at the rail and pulled out two belaying-pins,
mighty weapons, one for each hand.
Bradish hurried away into the depths of the house, manifestly glad to
get out from underfoot.
"Don't you allow those <DW65>s to lay their hands on me," repeated the
man at bay. "Captain Downs, let me have a word to you in private." He
had desperately decided on making a confidant of one of his kind. He
bitterly needed the help a master mariner could give him.
"Get at him!" roared the skipper. "Go in, you <DW65>s!"
"By the gods! you'll be short-handed, sir. I'll kill 'em!"
That threat was more effective than mere bluster. Captain Downs
instinctively squinted aloft at the scud which was dimming the stars; he
sniffed at the volleying wind.
"One word to you, and you'll understand, sir!" pleaded Mayo. He put the
pins back into the rack and walked straight to the captain.
There was no menace in his action, and the mate did not interfere.
"Just a word or two to you, sir, to show you that I have done more than
throw my hat into the door of the Masters and Mates Association." He
leaned close and whispered. "Now let me tell you something else--in
private?" he urged in low tones.
Captain Downs glanced again at the bared arm and surveyed this sailor
with more careful scrutiny. "You go around and come into the for'ard
cabin through the coach-house door," he commanded, after a little
hesitation.
Mayo bowed and hurried away down the lee alley.
That cabin designated as the place of conference was the dining-saloon
of the schooner. He waited there until Captain Downs, moving his bulk
more deliberately, trudged down the main companionway and came into the
apartment through its after-door which no sailor was allowed to profane.
"Can anybody--in there--hear?" asked Mayo, cautiously. He pointed to the
main saloon.
"She's in her stateroom and he's talking through the door," grunted the
skipper. "Now what's on your mind?"
Mayo reached his hand into an inside pocket of his shirt and drew forth
a document. He laid it in Captain Downs's hand. The skipper sat down at
the table, pulled out his spectacles, and adjusted them on his bulging
nose in leisurely fashion, spread the paper on the red damask cloth, and
studied it. He tipped down his head and stared at Mayo over the edge of
his glasses with true astonishment.
"This your name in these master's papers?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir."
"You're--you claim to be the Captain Mayo who smashed the _Montana?_"
"I'm the man, sir. I hung on to my papers, even though they have been
canceled."
"How do I know about these papers? How do I know your name is Mayo? You
might have stolen 'em--though, for that matter, you might just as well
carry a dynamite bomb around in your pocket, for all the good they'll do
you."
"That's the point, sir. They merely prove my identity. Nobody else would
want them. Captain Downs, I'm running away from the law. I own up to
you. Let me tell you how it happened."
"Make it short," snapped the captain, showing no great amiability toward
this plucked and discredited master. "The wind is breezing up."
He told his story concisely and in manly fashion, standing up while
Captain Downs sat and stared over his spectacles, drumming his stubby
fingers on the red damask.
"There, sir, that's why I am here and how I happened to get here," Mayo
concluded.
"I ain't prepared to say it isn't so," admitted Old Mull at last, "no
matter how foolish it sounds. And I'm wondering if next I'll find the
King of Peruvia or the Queen of Sheba aboard this schooner. New folks
are piling in fast! I know Captain Wass pretty well, though I never laid
eye on you to know you. Where's that wart on his face?"
"Starboard side of his nose, sir."
"What does he do, whittle off his chaw or bite the plug?"
"Neither. Chews fine cut."
"What's his favorite line of talk?"
"Reciting the pilot rules and jawing because the big fellows slam along
without observing them."
"Last remark showing that you have been in the pilothouse along with
Captain Wass! Examination is over and you rank one hundred and the board
stands adjourned!" He rose and shook hands with Mayo. "Now what can I do
for you?"
"I don't suppose you can do much of anything, Captain Downs. But I'm
going to ask you this, master to masted. Don't let a soul aboard this
schooner know who I am--especially those two back there!" He pointed to
the door of the main saloon.
"Seems to be more or less of a masked-ball party aboard here!" growled
the skipper.
"That man you call Bradish, whoever he is, knows what kind of a game
they played on me. I want to get it out of him. If he knows who I am he
won't loosen! I was a fool to break in as I did. He was coming across to
you."
"Seemed to be pretty gossipy," admitted the captain. "Is trying to be my
special chum so as to work me!"
"Don't you suppose you can get some more out of him?"
"Might be done."
"I feel that it's sailors against the shore pirates this time, sir.
Won't you call that man out here and ask him some questions and allow me
to listen?"
"Under the circumstances I'll do it. Sailors first is my motto. You step
into the mate's stateroom, there, and put ear to the crack o' the door."
But when Bradish appeared, answering the captain's summons, all his
chattiness had left him. He declared that he knew nothing about the
trouble in the _Montana_ case.
"But you said something about a scheme to fool a green captain?"
"It was only gossip--I probably got it wrong. I have thought it over and
really can't remember where I heard it or much about it. Might have been
just newspaper faking."
He kept peering about the dimly lighted room.
"You needn't worry, young man. That <DW65> isn't here."
"But he said he was a white man. And how does he come to be interested?"
"It's a <DW65> gone crazy about that case--he has probably been reading
fake stories in the papers, too," stated Captain Downs, grimly. "I must
remind you again, Bradish, that you were talking to me in pretty lively
style."
"Oh, a man lets out a lot of guesswork when he is nervous about his own
business."
"Well, I might fix it so that you'd be a little less nervous, providing
you'll show a more willing disposition when I ask you a few questions,"
probed the skipper. But this insistence alarmed Bradish and his blinking
eyes revealed his fears and suspicions.
"I don't know anything about the _Montana_ case. I don't intend to do
any talking about it."
Captain Downs tapped harder on the table, scowled, and was silent.
"Anything else, sir?" inquired Bradish, after a pause.
"Guess not, if that's the way you feel about it!" snapped Captain Downs.
Bradish went back into the main saloon, and the eavesdropper ventured
forth.
"I don't know just what the dickens to do about you, now that I know who
you are," confessed the master, looking Mayo up and down.
"There isn't anything to do except let me go back to my work, sir."
"I'm in a devil of a position. You're a captain."
"I shipped on board here before the mast, Captain Downs, and knew
exactly what I was doing. I'll take my medicine."
"I don't like to have you go for'ard there among those cattle, Mayo."
"Captain Downs, it was wrong for me to make the break I did on your
quarter-deck. I ought to have kept still; but the thing came to me so
sudden that I went all to pieces. I'd like to step back into the crew
and have you forget that I'm Boyd Mayo. I'll sneak ashore in Boston and
lose myself."
The captain tipped up his cap and scratched the side of his head. "Seems
as if I remember you being at the wheel, Mayo, when that fellow was
unloading some pretty important information on to me."
"I couldn't help hearing, sir."
"So you know he's eloping with a girl?" The old skipper lowered his
voice.
"Yes, sir."
"Did you ever hear of such a cussed, infernal performance? And I have
talked with the girl, and she really doesn't seem to be that sort at
all. She's flighty, you can see that. She has been left to run loose too
much, like a lot of girls in society are running loose nowadays. They
think of a thing that's different, and, biff! they go do it. She is
wishing she hadn't done this. That shows some sense." He studied the
young man. "Do you know anything about this right a captain has to
perform marriage ceremonies?"
"Nothing special."
"It will probably be a good thing for that girl to be married and
settled down. She seems to have picked out Bradish. Mayo, you're one
of my kind, and I want to help you. I'll take a chance on my right to
perform the ceremony. What say if we get Bradish back in here and swap a
marriage for what he can tell us about the _Montana_ business?"
"Captain Downs, a fellow who will put up a job of this kind on a girl,
no matter if she has encouraged him, is a cheap pup," declared Mayo,
promptly and firmly. "I don't want to buy back my papers in any such
fashion."
"Then you don't approve of my marrying them?"
"I haven't any right to tell you what you shall do, sir. I'm talking
merely for myself."
Captain Downs pondered. "If he's her father's right-hand man, he's
probably just as good as most of the land pirates who have been courting
her. If she goes home married, even if it is only marriage on the high
seas, contract between willing persons with witnesses and the master of
the vessel officiating, as I believe it's allowed, she'll have her good
name protected, and that means a lot. I don't know as I have any right
to stand out and block their way, seeing how far it has gone. What do
you think, Mayo?"
"I don't believe I want to make any suggestions, sir."
At that moment the door aft opened. Mayo was near the door of the mate's
stateroom in the shadows, and he dodged back into his retreat. He heard
Bradish's voice.
"Captain Downs, this young lady has something to say to you and I hope
you'll listen!"
Then the girl's voice! It was impetuous outburst. She hurried her words
as if she feared to wait for second and saner reflection.
"Captain Downs, I cannot wait any longer. You must act. I beg of you. I
have made up my mind. I am ready!"
"Ready to get married, you mean?"
"Yes! Now that my mind is made up, please hurry!"
Her tone was high-pitched, tears were close behind her desperation, her
words rushed almost incoherently. But Mayo, staring sightlessly in the
black darkness of the little stateroom, his hearing keen, knew that
voice. He could not restrain himself. He pulled the door wide open.
The girl was Alma Marston.
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were flushed, and it was plain that her
impulsive nature was flaming with determination. The shadows were deep
in the corners of the saloon, and the man in the stateroom door was not
noticed by the three who stood there in the patch of light cast by the
swinging lamp.
"I ask you--I beg you--I have made up my mind! I must have it over
with."
"Don't have hysterics! This is no thing to be rushed."
"You must."
"You're talking to a captain aboard his own vessel, ma'am!"
From Mayo's choking throat came some sort of sound and the girl glanced
in his direction, but it was a hasty and indifferent gaze. Her own
affairs were engrossing her. He reeled back into the little room, and
the swing of the schooner shut the door.
"You are captain! You have the power! That's why I am talking to you,
sir!"
"But when you talked with me a little while ago you were crawfishing!"
was Captain Downs's blunt objection.
"I am sorry I have been so imprudent. I ought not to be here. I have
said so. I do too many things on impulse. Now I want to be married!"
"More impulse, eh?"
"I must be able to face my father."
There was silence in the saloon.
Mayo shoved trembling fingers into his mouth and bit upon them to keep
back what his horrified reason warned him would be a scream of protest.
In spite of what his eyes and ears told him, it all seemed to be some
sort of hideous unreality.
"It's a big responsibility," proceeded Captain Downs, mumbling his words
and talking half to himself in his uncertainty. "I've been trying to get
some light on it from another--from a man who ought to understand more
about it than what I do. It's too much of a problem for a man to wrassle
with all alone."
He turned his back on them, gazed at the stateroom door, tipped his cap
awry, and scratched his head more vigorously than he had in his past
ponderings.
"Say, you in there! Mate!" he called, clumsily preserving Mayo's
incognito. "I'm in a pinch. Say what you really think!"
There was no word from the stateroom.
"You're an unprejudiced party," insisted the skipper. "You have good
judgment. Now what?"
"Who is that, in there?" demanded Bradish.
"Why should this person, whoever he is, have any-thing to say about my
affairs?" asked the girl.
"Because I'm asking him to say!" yelped the skipper, showing anger. "I'm
running this! Don't try to tell me my own business!" He walked toward
the door. "Speak up, mate!"
"It's an insult to me--asking strangers about my private affairs!" The
protest of the girl was a furious outburst.
"I resent it, captain! Most bitterly resent it," stated Bradish.
The old skipper walked back toward them. "Resent it as much as you
condemned like, sir! You're here asking favors of me. I want to do what
is right for all concerned. You ought to be married--I admit that. But
what sort of a position does it leave me in? Are you going to tell me
this girl's name?"
"I'm Alma Marston!" She volleyed the name at him with hysterical
violence, but he did not seem to be impressed. "I am Julius Marston's
daughter!"
The skipper looked her up and down.
"Now you will be so good as to proceed about your duty!" she commanded,
haughtily.
"Well, you can't expect me to show any special neighborly kindness to
the Wall Street gouger who kept me tied up without a charter two months
last spring with his steamboat combinations and his dicker deals!"
"How are we to take that, sir?" asked Bradish.
The girl was staring with frank wonder at this hard-shelled mariner whom
she had not been able to impress by her name or her manner.
"Just as you want to."
"I demand an explanation."
"Well, I'll give it to you, seeing that I'm perfectly willing to. Take
it one way, and I'm willing to wallop Julius Marston by handing him
the kind of a son-in-law you'd make; take it the other way, and I ain't
particular about doing anything to accommodate anybody in the Marston
family." He eyed them sardonically.
"So, you see, I'm betwixt and between in the matter! It's like settling
a question by flipping a cent. And I'll tell you what I'm going to do!"
He smacked his palm on the table. He strode back toward the stateroom
door. "Mate, ahoy, there! Sailor to sailor, now, and remember that you
have asked something of _me!_ If you were captain of this schooner would
you marry off these two?"
They waited in silence, in which they heard the whummle and screech
of the wind outside and the angry squalling of the sheathing of the
plunging schooner's cabin walls.
The voice which replied to Captain Downs's query did not sound human. It
was a sort of muffled wail, but there was no mistaking its positiveness.
"No!" said the man behind the door.
Back to the table lurched Captain Downs. He pounded down his fist. "That
settles it with me!" Then he poised his big hand on the edge of the
table-cover. "I was ready to tip one way or the other and it needed
only a little push. I have tipped." Down came the palm flat on the
table-cloth with final and decisive firmness. "Young man," he informed
Bradish, "there's an extra stateroom, there, off this dining-saloon. You
take it!"
"What can I tell my father?" wailed the girl, the fire of her
determination suddenly quenched by sobbing helplessness.
"You can tell him that I temporarily adopted you as my daughter at three
bells on this particular evening, and I'll go to him and back you up if
it becomes necessary." He opened the door leading aft and bowed. "Now,
you trot along to your stateroom, sissy!"
After hesitating a few moments she hurried away. The skipper locked the
door and slipped the key into his pocket.
"Do you think I'm going to--" began Bradish, angrily.
"I ain't wasting any thoughts on you, sir. I'm saving 'em all for the
_Drusilla M. Alden_ just now."
The craft's plunging roll gave evidence that the sea was making. At
that instant the first mate came down a few steps of the forward
companionway, entering through the coach-house door.
"She's breezing up fresh from east'ard, sir!" he reported.
"So I've judged from the way this sheathing is talking up. I'll be on
deck at once, Mr. Dodge."
That report was a summons to a sailor; Mayo came staggering out of the
stateroom. He looked neither to right nor left nor at either of the men
in the saloon. He stumbled toward the companionway, reaching his hands
in front of him after the fashion in which a man gropes in the dark.
"Are you letting a <DW65>--and a crazy one at that--decide the biggest
thing in my life?" raged Bradish.
"I know what I'm doing," Captain Downs assured him. But the skipper was
manifestly amazed by the expression he saw on Mayo's face.
"I won't stand for it! Here, you!" Bradish rushed across the room and
intercepted Mayo.
"Come away from that man!" commanded the skipper.
But Bradish was not in a mood to obey authority. "There's something
behind this and I propose to be let in on it! Stop, you!" He pushed
Mayo back, but the latter's face did not change its expression of dull,
blank, utter despair which saw not and heard not. Mayo recovered himself
and came on again, looking into vacancy.
"If you have a grudge against me, by the gods, I'll wake you up and make
you explain it!" shouted Bradish. He drew back his arm and drove a quick
punch squarely against the expressionless face. The blow came with a
lurch of the vessel and Mayo fell flat on his back. He went down as
stiffly as he had walked, with as little effort to save himself as a
store dummy would have made.
But he was another man when he came upon his feet.
Bradish had awakened him!
The master of the _Alden_ hurried around the table, roaring oaths, and
tried to get between them, but he was an unwieldy man on his short legs.
Before he was in arm's-length they were at each other, dodging here and
there.
Bradish was no shrimp of an adversary; he was taller than his
antagonist, and handled his fists like a man who had been trained as an
amateur boxer.
They fought up and down the cabin, battering each other's face.
The indignant master threatened them with an upraised chair, tried to
strike down their hands with it, but they were in no mood to mind a
mediator. They fought like maddened cats, banging against the cabin
walls, whirling in a crazy rigadoon to find an opening for their fists;
Captain Downs was not nimble enough to catch them. Uttering awful
profanity, he threatened to shoot both of them and rushed into the main
saloon, unlocking the door.
"I'm coming back with a gun!" he promised. But the fight ended suddenly
in a wrestling trick.
Mayo closed in, got Bradish's right hand in a grip, and doubled the arm
behind his adversary's back. Then he tripped the city man and laid
him backward over the table and against its edge with a violence that
brought a yell of pain and made Bradish limp and passive. Mayo held him
there.
"My grudge, eh? My grudge!" the victor panted. "Because you wouldn't
tell me how the sneaks ruined me? No! The girl isn't here now. I'll tell
you! It's because you stole her self-respect and her good name, and it
makes you too dirty a dog to be her husband!"
He picked up Bradish and threw him on the floor. When he turned he saw
the girl's white, agonized, frightened face at the crack of the saloon
door.
"Captain Downs!" she shrieked, "that <DW64> is killing him. He's killing
Ralph!"
The victor turned his back on her and lurched around the table on his
way out. He stroked blood from his face with his palm, and was glad that
she had not recognized him; and yet, her failure to do so, even though
he was such a pitiable figure of the man she had known, was one more
slash of the whip of anguish across his raw soul. For a moment they had
stood there, face to face, and only blank unrecognition greeted him; it
made this horrible contretemps seem all the more unreal.
Mayo did not pause to listen to the ravings of Captain Downs, who
came thrusting past her. Dizzy, bleeding, half blind, he rushed up the
forward companionway and went into the black night on deck.
The mate was bawling for all hands to shorten sail, and Mayo took his
place with the toilers, who were manning sheets and downhauls.
XXIII ~ THE MONSTER THAT SLIPPED ITS LEASH
And there Captain Kirby proved a coward at last,
And he played at bo-peep behind the mainmast,
And there they did stand, boys, and shiver and shake,
For fear that that terror their lives it would take.
--Admiral Benbow.
Rain came with the wind, and the weather settled into a sullen, driving,
summer easterly.
Late summer regularly furnishes one of those storms to the Atlantic
coast, a recrudescence of the wintry gales, a trial run of the elements,
a sort of inter-equinoctial testing out so that Eurus may be sure that
his bellows is in working condition.
Such a storm rarely gives warning ahead that it is to be severe. It
seems to be a meteorological prank in order to catch mariners napping.
At midnight the _Alden_ was plunging into creaming seas, her five masts
thrummed by the blast. With five thousand tons of coal weighting her,
she wallowed like a water-soaked log.
Mayo, who was roused from his hideous agony of soul at four bells,
morning, to go on deck for his watch, ventured as near the engine-room
door as he dared, for the rain was soaking his meager garments and
the red glow from within was grateful. The ship's pump was clanking, a
circumstance in no way alarming, because the huge schooners of the coal
trade are racked and wrenched in rough water.
The second mate came to the engine-room, lugging the sounding-rod to the
light in order to examine the smear on its freshly chalked length.
He tossed it out on deck with a grunt of satisfaction. "Nothing to
hurt!" he said to the engineer. "However, I'd rather be inside the capes
in this blow. The old skimmer ain't what she used to be. Johnson, do
you know that this schooner is all of two feet longer when she is loaded
than when she is light?"
"I knew she was hogged, but I didn't know it was as bad as that."
"I put the lead-line on her before she went into the coal-dock this
trip, and I measured her again in the stream yesterday. With a cargo
she just humps right up like a monkey bound for war. That's the way with
these five-masters! They get such a racking they go wrong before the
owners realize."
"They'll never build any more, and I don't suppose they want to spend
much money on the old ones," suggested the engineer.
"Naturally not, when they ain't paying dividends as it is." He stepped
to the weather rail and sniffed. "I reckon the old man will be dropping
the killick before long," he said.
Mayo knew something of the methods of schooner masters and was not
surprised by the last remark.
In the gallant old days, when it was the custom to thrash out a blow,
the later plan of anchoring a big craft in the high seas off the
Delaware coast, with Europe for a lee, would have been viewed with a
certain amount of horror by a captain.
But the modern skipper figures that there's less wear and tear if he
anchors and rides it out. To be sure, it's no sort of a place for a
squeamish person, aboard a loaded schooner whose mudhook clutches
bottom while the sea flings her about, but the masters and crews of
coal-luggers are not squeamish.
Mayo, glancing aft, saw two men coming forward slowly, stopping at
regular intervals. The light of a lantern played upon their dripping
oilskins. When they arrived at the break of the main-deck, near the
forward house, he recognized Captain Downs and the first mate. The
second mate stepped out and replied to the captain's hail.
"Bring a maul and some more wedges!" commanded the master.
"_Drusilla_ is getting her back up some more," commented the second
mate, starting for the storeroom. "I don't blame her much. This is no
place for an old lady, out here to-night." He ordered Mayo to accompany
him.
In a few moments they reported to the captain, the mate carrying the
two-headed maul and the young man bearing an armful of wedges.
Captain Downs bestowed on Mayo about the same attention he would have
allowed to a galley cockroach. He pointed to a gap in the rail.
"There--drive one in there," he told the mate. "Let that <DW65> hold the
wedge." There was rancor in his voice--baleful hostility shone in his
snapping eyes; no captain tolerates disobedience at sea, and Mayo had
disregarded all discipline in the cabin.
The young man kneeled and performed the service and followed the party
dutifully when they moved on to the next gap.
The pitching schooner groaned and grunted and squalled in all her
fabric.
Every angle joint was working--yawing open and closing with dull
grindings as the vessel rolled and plunged.
"By goofer, she's gritting her teeth in good shape!" commented the first
mate.
"She ought to have been stiffened a year ago, when she first began to
loosen and work!" declared Captain Downs. His anxiety stirred both his
temper and his tongue. "I was willing to have my sixteenth into her
assessed for repairs, but a stockholder don't have to go to sea! I wish
I had an excursion party of owners aboard here now."
"When these old critters once get loose enough to play they rattle to
pieces mighty fast," said the mate. "But this is nothing specially bad."
"Find out what we've got under us," snapped Captain Downs. The wedges
had been driven. "Let this <DW65> carry the lead for'ard!"
It was a difficult task in the night, because the leadline had to be
passed from the quarter-deck to the cathead outside the shrouds; the
rails and deck were slippery. Plainly, Captain Downs was proposing to
show Mayo "a thing or two."
He let go the lead at command, and heard the man on the quarter-deck,
catching the line when it swung into a perpendicular position, report
twenty-five fathoms.
Again, answering the mate's bawled orders, Mayo carried the lead forward
and dropped it, after a period of waiting, during which the schooner
had been eased off. He was soaked to the skin, and was miserable in both
body and mind. He had betrayed himself, he had made an enemy of the man
who knew something which could help him; he felt a queer sense of shame
and despair when he remembered the girl and the expression of her face.
He tried to convince himself that he did not care what her opinion
of him was. What happened to that love she had professed on board the
_Olenia?_ What manner of maiden was this? He did not understand!
Five times he made his precarious trip with the lead, fumbling his way
outside the rigging.
In twenty fathoms Captain Downs decided to anchor, after the mate,
"arming" the lead by filling its cup with grease, found that they were
over good holding ground.
When the _Alden_ came into the wind and slowed down, slapping wet
sails, the second mate hammered out the holding-pin of the gigantic port
anchor, and the hawse-hole belched fathom after fathom of chain.
All hands were on deck letting sails go on the run into the lazy-jacks,
and the big schooner swung broadside to the trough of the sea. She made
a mighty pendulum, rolling rails under, sawing the black skies with her
towering masts.
There are many things which can happen aboard a schooner in that
position when men are either slow or stupid. A big <DW64> who was paying
out the mizzen-peak halyards allowed his line to foul. Into the triangle
of sail the wind volleyed, and the thirty-foot mizzen-boom, the roll
of the ship helping, swung as far as its loosened sheets allowed. The
"traveler," an iron hoop encircling a long bar of iron fastened at both
ends to the deck, struck sparks as a trolley pulley produces fire from a
sleety wire.
With splintering of wood and clanging of metal, the iron bar was
wrenched from its deck-fastenings and began to fly to and fro across the
deck at the end of its tether, like a giant's slung-shot. It circled, it
spun, it flung itself afar and returned in unexpected arcs.
Men fled from the area which this terror dominated.
The boom swung until it banged the mizzen shrouds to port, and then came
swooping back across the deck, to slam against the starboard shrouds.
The clanging, tethered missile it bore on its end seemed to be searching
for a victim. When the boom met the starboard shrouds in its headlong
rush, the schooner shivered.
"Free that halyard and douse the peak!" roared the first mate.
A sailor started, ducking low, but he ran back when the boom came across
the deck with such a vicious swing that the iron bar fairly screamed
through the air.
"Gawd-a-mighty! She'll bang the mast out of her!" clamored Captain
Downs. "Get some men to those halyards, Mr. Dodge! Catch that boom!"
The mate ran and kicked at a sailor, shouting profane orders. He seized
the fellow and thrust him toward the pins where the halyards were
belayed. But at that instant the rushing boom came hurtling overhead
with its slung-shot, and the iron banged the rail almost exactly where
the fouled line was secured. The mate and the sailor fell flat on their
faces and crawled back from the zone of danger.
"Get some rope and noose that boom! Lassoo it!" commanded the master,
touching up his orders with some lurid sea oaths.
But the men who stepped forward did so timidly and slowly, and dodged
back when the boom threatened. The flying bar was a terrible weapon. Now
it swung in toward the mast--now swept in wider radius. Just where it
would next sweep the deck between the masts depended on the vagary of
wave and wind. It was perfectly apparent that anybody who got in its
path would meet death as instantly as a fly under a housewife's spanker.
Life is sweet, even if a man is black and is toiling for a dollar-a-day
wage.
And even if a man is a mate, at a higher wage and with more
responsibility, he is inclined to think of himself before he figures on
saving a mast and gear for a schooner's owners.
"What kind of a gor-rammed crew have I got aboard here?" shrieked the
master.
"About the kind that all wind-jammers carry these days," said a voice at
his elbow.
Captain Downs whirled and found Mayo there. "How do you dare to speak to
me, you tin-kettle sailor?" demanded the master. In his passion he went
on: "You're aboard here under false pretenses. You can't even do your
work. You have made this vessel liable by assaulting a passenger. You're
no good! With you aboard here I'm just the same as one man short." But
he had no time to devote to this person.
He turned away and began to revile his mates and his sailors, his voice
rising higher each time the rampaging boom crashed from side to side.
One or two of the backstays had parted, and it was plain that before
long the mast would go by the board.
"If that mast comes out it's apt to smash us clear to the water-line,"
lamented the captain.
"If you can make your herd of sheep give me a hand at the right time,
I'll show you that a tin-kettle sailor is as good as a wind-jammer
swab," said Mayo, retaliating with some of the same sort of rancor that
Captain Downs had been expending. In that crisis he was bold enough to
presume on his identity as a master mariner. "I'd hate to find this kind
of a bunch on any steamboat I've ever had experience with."
Then he ran away before the captain had time to retort. He made a slide
across the danger zone on his back, like a runner in a ball game. This
move brought him into a safe place between the mainmast and the mizzen.
There was a coil of extra cable here, and he grabbed the loose end and
deftly made a running bowline knot. He set the noose firmly upon his
shoulders, leaped up, and caught at the hoops on the mizzenmast.
"See to it that the line runs free from that coil, and stand by for
orders!" he shouted, and though his dyed skin was dark and he wore the
garb of the common sailor, he spoke with the unmistakable tone of the
master mariner. The second mate ran to the line and took charge.
"This is a bucking bronco, all right!" muttered Mayo. "But it's for the
honor of the steamboat men! I'll show this gang!"
He poised himself for a few moments on the crotch of the boom, clinging
to the cringles of the luff--the short ropes with which the sail is
reefed.
As he stood there, gathering himself for his desperate undertaking,
waiting for opportunity, taking the measure of the lashing and insensate
monster whom he had resolved to subdue, he heard Captain Downs bawl an
impatient command:
"Passengers go below!"
Mayo looked aft and saw Alma Marston clinging to the spike-rack of the
spanker mast. The coach-house lantern shone upon her white face.
"Go below!" repeated the master.
She shook her head.
"This is no place for a woman."
"The vessel is going to sink!" she quavered.
"The schooner is all right. You go below!"
How bitter her fear was Mayo could not determine. But even at his
distance he could see stubborn resolution on her countenance.
"If I've got to die, I'll not die down there in a box," she cried. "I'm
going to stay right here."
Captain Downs swore and turned his back on her. Apparently he did not
care to come to a real clinch with this feminine mutineer.
The great spar crashed out to the extent of its arc, and the sail
volleyed with it, ballooning under the weight of the wind. The
reef-points were no longer within Mayo's reach. He ran along the boom,
arms outspread to steady himself, and was half-way to its end before the
telltale surge under him gave warning. Then he fell upon the huge stick,
rolled under it, and shoved arms and legs under the foot of the sail.
Barely had he clutched the spar in fierce embrace before it began its
return journey. It was a dizzy sweep across the deck, a breath-taking
plunge.
When the spar collided with the stays he felt as if arms and legs would
be wrenched from his body. He did not venture to move or to relax his
hold. He clung with all his strength, and nerved himself for the return
journey. He had watched carefully, and knew something of the vagaries
of the giant flail. When it was flung to port the wind helped to hold
it there until the resistless surge of the schooner sent it flying wild
once more. He knew that no mere flesh and blood could endure many
of those collisions with the stays. He resolved to act on the next
oscillation to port, in order that his strength might not be gone.
"See that the cable runs free!" he screamed as he felt the stick lift
for its swoop.
He swung himself upward over the spar the moment it struck, and the
momentum helped him. He ran again, steadying himself like a tight-wire
acrobat. He snatched the noose from his shoulders, slipped it over
the end of the boom, and yelled an order, with all the strength of his
lungs:
"Pull her taut!"
At that instant the boom started to swing again.
Standing on the end of the spar, he was outboard; the frothing sea was
under him. He could not jump then; to leap when the boom was sweeping
across the deck meant a skinful of broken bones; to wait till the boom
brought up against the stays, so he realized, would invite certain
disaster; he would either be crushed between the boom and shrouds or
snapped far out into the ocean as a bean 'is filliped by a thumb. On the
extreme end of the spar the leverage would be so great that he could not
hope to cling there with arms and legs.
A queer flick of thought brought to Mayo the phrase, "Between the devil
and the deep sea." That flying boom was certainly the devil, and the
foaming sea looked mighty deep.
Her weather roll was more sluggish and Mayo had a moment to look about
for some mode of escape.
He saw the sail of "number four" mast sprawling loose in its lazy-jacks,
unfurled and showing a tumbled expanse of canvas. When he was inside the
rail, and while the boom was gathering momentum, he took his life in his
hands and his grit between his teeth and leaped toward the sail. He made
the jump just at the moment when the boom would give him the most help.
He heard Captain Downs's astonished oath when he dove over that worthy
mariner's head, a human comet in a twenty-foot parabola.
He landed in the sail on his hands and knees, yelling, even as he
alighted: "Catch her, boys!"
They did it when the spar banged against the stays. They surged on the
rope, tightened the noose, and before the vessel rolled again had made
half a dozen turns of the free end of the cable around the nearest
cleats.
Mayo scrambled down from the sail and helped them complete the work of
securing the spar. He passed near Captain Downs when the job had been
finished.
"Well," growled the master of the _Alden_, "what do you expect me to say
to that?"
"I simply ask you to keep from saying something."
"What?"
"That a steamboat man can't earn his pay aboard a wind-jammer, sir. I
don't like to feel that I am under obligations in any way."
The master grunted.
"And if the little thing I have done helps to square that break I made
by licking your passenger I'll be glad of it," added Mayo.
"You needn't rub it in," said Captain Downs, carefully noting that there
was nobody within hearing distance. "When a man has been in a nightmare
for twenty-four hours, like I've been, you've got to make some
allowances, Captain Mayo. This is a terrible mixed-upmess." He squinted
at the mizzen rigging where the lanterns revealed the damage. "And by
the way those backstays are ripped out, and seeing how that mast is
wabbling, this schooner is liable to be about as badly mixed up as the
people are on board of her."
Mayo turned away and went back to his work. They were rigging
extra stays for the mizzenmast. And he noted that the girl near the
coach-house door was staring at him with a great deal of interest. But
in that gloom he was only a moving figure among toiling men.
An hour later the mate ordered the oil-bags to be tied to the catheads.
The bags were huge gunny sacks stuffed with cotton waste which was
saturated with oil.
In spite of the fact that her spanker, double-reefed, was set in order
to hold her up to the wind, weather-vane fashion, the schooner seemed
determined to keep her broadside to the tumbling seas. The oil slick
helped only a little; every few moments a wave with spoondrift flying
from it would smash across the deck, volleying tons of water between
rails, with a sound like thunder. At these times the swirling torrent in
the waist would reach to a man's knees.
Mayo did not take his watch below. The excitement of his recent
experience had driven away all desire for sleep, and the sheathing in
the fo'c'sle was squawking with such infernal din that only a deaf man
could have remained there in comfort.
However, he was not uneasy in regard to the safety of the schooner. In
a winter gale, with ice caking on her, he would have viewed their
situation in different light. But he had frequently seen the seas
breaking over the wallowing coal-luggers when he had passed them at
anchor on the coast.
He made a trip of his own along the main-deck, scrambling upon the spars
to avoid the occasional deluge which swept her amidship. The battened
hatches were apparently withstanding the onslaughts of the waves. He
could feel less weight in the wind. It was apparent that the crisis of
the blow had passed. The waves were not so savage; their crests were not
breaking. But just then the second mate rushed past, and Mayo overheard
the report he gave the captain, who was pacing the lee alley:
"The mizzenmast is getting more play, sir. I'm afraid it's raising the
devil with the step and ke'lson."
"Rig extra stays and try her again for water," ordered the master.
Mayo, returning to the mizzen, found the entire crew grouped there.
The mast was writhing and groaning in its deck collar, twisting its
coat--the canvas covering at its foot where it entered the deck.
The dusky faces were exhibiting much concern. They had flocked where the
ship was dealing herself a wound; the sailor sixth sense of impending
trouble had drawn them there.
"Four of you hustle aloft and stand ready to make fast those stays!"
commanded the first mate.
"Rest of you make ready tackle!" shouted the second mate, following
close on Mayo's heels.
The <DW64>s did not stir. They mumbled among themselves.
"Step lively!" insisted the mate.
"'Scuse us, but dat mast done goin' to tumble down," ventured a man.
"Aloft with you, I say!"
Just then the schooner slatted herself on a great roller, and
the starboard stays snapped, one after the other, like mammoth
fiddle-strings. The mast reeled and there was an ominous sound below the
deck.
"She done put a hole into herself!" squealed a sailor.
In the gloom their eyes were gleaming with the fires one beholds in the
eyes of frightened cats.
"Dere she comes!" shouted one of them. He pointed trembling finger.
Over the coamings of the fore-hatch black water was bubbling.
Yelping like animals, the sailors stampeded aft in a bunch, bowling over
Mayo and the mates in their rush.
"Stop 'em, captain!" bellowed the first mate, guessing their intent.
He rose and ran after them. But fright gave them wings for their
heels. They scampered over the roof of the after-house, and were on the
quarter-deck before the skipper was out of the alley. They leaped into
the yawl which was swung at the stern davits.
"You renegades!" roared the master. "Come out of that boat!"
With the two mates at his heels he rushed at them. They grabbed three
struggling men by the legs and dragged them back. But the <DW64>s
wriggled loose, driven to frantic efforts by their panic. They threw
themselves into the boat again.
"Be men!" clamored Mayo, joining the forces of discipline. "There's a
woman aboard here!"
But the plea which might have affected an Anglo-Saxon did not prevail.
Their knives were out--not for attack on their superiors, but to slash
away the davit tackle.
"Come on, boys! Throw 'em out!" shouted the master, leading the way into
the yawl over the rail.
His two mates and Mayo followed, and the engineer, freshly arrived from
forward, leaped after them. But as fast as they tossed a man upon the
quarter-deck he was up and in the boat again fighting for a place.
"Throw 'em overboard!" roared the master, venting a terrible oath. He
knocked one of the maddened wretches into the sea. The next moment the
captain was flat on his back, and the sailors were trampling on him.
Most of the surges came riding rail-high; sometimes an especially
violent wave washed the deck aft.
Following it, a chasm regularly opened under the vessel's counter, a
swirling pit in the ocean twenty feet deep.
There was good fortune as well as misfortune in the affair of the yawl.
When at last it dropped it avoided the period of the chasm.
In spite of the efforts of the captain and his helpers the sailors
succeeded in slashing away the davit tackle. A swelling roller came
up to meet the boat as the last strand gave way and swept it, with its
freight, out into the night. But as it went Mayo clutched a davit pulley
and swung in midair.
The dizzy depths of the sea opened under him as he dangled there and
gazed down.
An instant later all his attention was focused on Alma Marston, who
stood in the companionway clutching its sides and shrieking out her
fears. The lantern showed her to him plainly. Its radiance lighted him
also. He called to her several times, angrily at last.
"Where is that man, Bradish?" he demanded, fiercely.
It seemed as if his arms would be pulled out. He could not reach the
davit iron from where he hung; the schooner's rail was too far away,
though he kicked his feet in that direction.
"Don't be a fool! Stop that screaming," he told her. "Can Bradish!"
"He is sick--he--he--is frightened," she faltered.
"Come out here! Pull on that rope! Swing me in, I can't hold on here
much longer. Do you want to see me drown?"
She came along the rail, clinging to it.
"No, not that rope! The other one! Pull hard!"
She obeyed, fighting back her fear. The davit swung inward slowly, and
he managed to slide his legs up over the rail and gain the deck.
"Thank you!" he gasped. "You're quite a sailor!"
He had been wondering what his first words to her would be. Even while
he swung over the yawning depths of the sea the problem of his love was
so much more engrossing than his fear of death that his thoughts were
busy with her. He tried to speak to her with careless tone; it had been
in his mind that he would speak and bow and walk away. But he could not
move when she opened her eyes on him. She was as motionless as he--a
silent, staring pallid statue of astounded fright. The rope slipped
slowly from her relaxing fingers.
"Yes! It's just the man you think it is," he informed her, curtly. "But
there's nothing to be said!"
"I must say something--"
But he checked her savagely. "This is no place to talk over folly! It's
no place to talk anything! There's something else to do besides talk!"
"We are going to die, aren't we?" She leaned close to him, and the
question was hardly more than a whisper framed by her quivering lips.
"I think so," he answered, brutally.
"Then let me tell you--"
"You can tell me nothing! Keep still!" he shouted, and drew away from
her.
"Why doesn't Captain Downs come back after us?"
"Don't be a fool! The sea has taken them away."
They exchanged looks and were silent for a little while, and the
pride in both of them set up mutual barriers. It was an attitude which
conspired for relief on both sides. Because there was so much to say
there was nothing to say in that riot of the sea and of their emotions.
"I won't be a fool--not any more," she told him. There was so distinctly
a new note in her voice that he stared at her. "I am no coward," she
said. She seemed to have mastered herself suddenly and singularly.
Mayo's eyes expressed frank astonishment; he was telling himself again
that he did not understand women.
"I don't blame you for thinking that I am a fool, but I am not a
coward," she repeated.
"I'm sorry," stammered the young man. "I forgot myself."
"There is danger, isn't there?"
"I'm afraid the mast has pounded a bad hole in her. I must run forward.
I must see if something can't be done."
"I am going with you." She followed him when he started away.
"You must stay aft. You can't get forward along that deck. Look at the
waves breaking over her!"
"I am going with you," she insisted. "Perhaps there is something that
can be done. Perhaps I can help."
The girl was stubborn, and he knew there was no time for argument.
Three times on their way forward he was obliged to hold her in the hook
of his arm while he fought with the torrent that a wave launched upon
the deck.
There was no doubt regarding the desperate plight of the schooner. She
was noticeably down by the head, and black water was swashing forward
of the break of the main-deck. The door of the galley was open, and the
one-eyed cook was revealed sitting within beneath a swinging lantern. He
held a cat under his arm.
"Bear a hand here, cook!" called Mayo.
But the man did not get off his stool.
"Bear a hand, I say! We've got to rig tackle and get this long-boat
over."
The schooner's spare boat was in chocks between the foremast and the
main. Mayo noted that it was heaped full of spare cable and held the
usual odds and ends of a clutter-box. He climbed in hastily and gave a
hand to the girl to assist her over the rail.
"It will keep you out of the swash," he advised her. "Sit there in the
stern while I toss out this truck."
But she did not sit down. She began to throw out such articles as her
strength could manage.
Again Mayo hailed the cook, cursing him heartily.
"Oh, it ain't any use," declared the man, with resignation. "We're
goners."
"We aren't gone till we go, you infernal turtle! Come here and pitch
in."
"I hain't got no heart left for anything. I never would have believed
it. The Old Man going off and saving a lot of <DW65> sailors instead of
me--after all the vittles I've fixed up for him. If that's the kind of
gratitude there is in the world, I'm glad I'm going out of it. Me and
the cat will go together. The cat's a friend, anyway."
Mayo lost his temper then in earnest. All his nature was on edge in that
crisis, and this supine surrender of an able-bodied man whose two hands
were needed so desperately was peculiarly exasperating. He leaped out of
the boat, ran into the galley, and gave the cook an invigorating beating
up with the flat of his hands. The cook clutched his cat more firmly,
braced himself on the stool, and took his punishment.
"Kill me if you want to," he invited. "I've got to die, and it don't
make a mite of difference how. Murder me if you're so inclined."
"Man--man--man, what's the matter with you?" gasped Mayo. "We've got a
chance! Here's a girl to save!"
"She hain't got no business being here. Was sneaked aboard. It's no
use to pound me. I won't lift a finger. My mind is made up. I've been
deserted by the Old Man."
"You old lunatic, Captain Downs got carried away by those cowards. Wake
up! Help me! For the love of the Lord, help me!"
"Rushing around will only take my mind off'n thoughts of the hereafter,
and I need to do some right thinking before my end. It ain't any use to
threaten and jaw; nothing makes any difference to me now."
Mayo saw the uselessness of further appeal, and the fellow dangled as
limply as a stuffed dummy when the young man shook him. Therefore Mayo
gave over his efforts and hurried back to the long-boat. The spectacle
of the girl struggling with the stuff she was jettisoning put new
determination into him. Her amazing fortitude at the time when he had
looked for hysterics and collapse gave him new light on the enigma of
femininity.
"Did you tell me that Bradish is ill?" he asked, hurriedly.
"He is in the cabin. He would not talk to me. I could not induce him to
come on deck."
"I must have help with the tackle," he told her, and started aft on the
run.
He found Bradish sprawled in a morris-chair which was lashed to a
radiator. He expected hot words and more insults, but Bradish turned to
him a face that was gray with evident terror. His jaw sagged; his eyes
appealed.
"This is awful!" he mourned. "What has happened on deck? I heard the
fighting. Where is Miss Mar-ston?"
"She is forward. There has been an accident--a bad one. We have lost the
captain and crew. Come on. I need help."
"I can't help. I'm all in!" groaned Bradish.
"I say you must. It's the only way to save our lives."
Bradish rolled his head on the back of the chair, refusing. His manner,
his sudden change from the fighting mood, astonished Mayo. The thought
came to him that this man had been pricked to conflict by bitter grudge
instead of by his courage.
"Look here, Bradish, aren't you going to help me save that girl?"
"I'm not a sailor. There's nothing I can do."
"But you've got two hands, man. I want to get a boat overboard. Hurry!"
"No, no! I wouldn't get into a small boat with these waves so high. It
wouldn't be safe."
"This schooner is sinking!" shouted Mayo. He fastened a heavy clutch
upon Bradish's shoulders. "There's no time to argue this thing. You come
along!"
He hauled Bradish to his feet and propelled him to the companionway,
and the man went without resistance. It was evident that real danger and
fear of death had nearly paralyzed him.
"There's nothing I can do!" he kept bleating.
But Mayo hurried him forward.
"Ralph!" cried the girl, fairly lashing him with the tone in which she
delivered the word. "What is the matter with you?"
"There's nothing I can do. It isn't safe out here."
"You must do what this man tells you to do. He knows."
But Bradish clung to the gunwale of the long-boat and stared out at the
yeasty waves, blinking his eyes.
"If I only had a couple of men instead of these two infernal tapeworms,"
raged Mayo, "I could reeve tackle and get this boat over. Wake up! Wake
up!" he clamored, beating his fist on Bradish's back.
"Ralph! Be a man!" There were anger, protest, shocked wonder in her
tones.
Suddenly Mayo saw an ominous sight and heard a boding sound. The
fore-hatch burst open with a mighty report, forced up by the air
compressed by the inflowing water. He wasted no more breath in argument
and appeals. He realized that even an able crew would not have time to
launch the boat. The schooner was near her doom.
In all haste he pulled his clasp-knife and cut the lashings which held
the boat in its chocks. That the craft would be driven free from the
entangling wreckage and go afloat when the schooner went under he could
hardly hope. But there was only this desperate chance to rely upon in
the emergency.
In his agony of despair and his fury of resentment he was tempted to
climb into the boat and leave the two cowards to their fate. But he
stooped, caught Bradish by the legs and boosted him over the gunwale
into the yawl. A sailor's impulse is to save life even at the risk of
his own. Mayo ran to the galley and kicked the cook off the stool and
then drove him headlong to the longboat. The man went along, hugging his
cat.
"What will happen to us?" asked the girl when Mayo climbed in.
"I don't know," he panted. "I reckon the devil is pitching coppers for
us just now--and the penny is just hopping off his thumb nail!"
His tone was reckless. The excitement of the past few hours was having
its effect on him at last. He was no longer normal. Something that was
almost delirium affected him.
"Aren't you frightened?" she asked.
"Yes," he admitted. "But I'm going to keep hustling just the same."
Bradish and the cook were squatting amidships in the yawl.
"You lie down under those thwarts, the two of you, and hang on," cried
Mayo. Then he quickly passed a rope about the girl's waist and made the
ends of the line fast to the cleats. "I don't know what will happen when
the old tub dives," he told her. "Those five thousand tons of coal will
take her with a rush when she starts. All I can say is, hold tight and
pray hard!"
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
"By gad, she's got grit!" muttered the young man, scrambling forward
over the prostrate forms of the other passengers. "I wonder if all the
women in the world are this way?" He was remembering the bravery of
Polly Candage.
There was a huge coil of rope in the bow, spare cable stored there. Mayo
made fast the free end, working as rapidly as he was able, and bundled
about half the coil into a compact mass--a knob at the end of some ten
fathoms of line. And to this knob he lashed oars and the mast he found
stowed in the boat. He knew that if they did get free from the schooner
only an efficient sea-anchor or drag would keep the yawl right side up.
When this task was finished he crouched low in the bow and looked at the
girl.
"We're about ready to start on our journey," he called to her. "If I
don't see you again, good-by!"
"I shall not say good-by to you, Captain Mayo--not yet!"
XXIV ~ DOWN A GALLOPING SEA
I saddled me an Arab steed and saddled her another,
And off we rode together just like sister and like brother,
Singing, "Blow ye winds in the morning!
Blow ye winds, hi ho! Brush away the morning dew,
Blow ye winds, hi ho!"
--Blew Ye Winds.
With anxiety that was almost despairing Mayo looked up at the shrouds,
stays, and halyards, which were set like nets to right and left and
overhead.
A big roller tumbled inboard and filled the space forward of the break
of the main-deck. The swirling water touched the sides of the long-boat
and then receded when the stricken schooner struggled up from the
welter. A scuttle-butt was torn from its lashings and went by the board,
and other flotsam followed it.
Mayo found that spectacle encouraging. But the longboat sat high in its
chocks; when it did float it might be too late.
Another wave roared past, and the long-boat quivered. Then Mayo took a
chance without reckoning on consequences. He made a double turn of the
cable around his forearm and leaped out of the boat and stood on deck,
his shoulder against the stem. The next wave washed him to his waist,
tore at him, beat him against the long-boat's shoe, but he clung fast
and lifted and pushed with all his strength.
That push did it!
The boat needed just that impetus to free her from the chocks. She
lifted and rushed stern foremost to lee, and the young man dragged after
her.
When the boat dipped and halted in a hollow of the sea he clutched
the bow and clambered in. Tugging mightily, he managed to dump the
sea-anchor over.
The next wave caught her on the quarter and slopped a barrel of water
into her. But she kept right side up, and in a few moments the cable
straightened and she rode head into the tumult of the ocean; the
sea-anchor was dragging and performing its service.
Mayo was obliged to kick the two men with considerable heartiness before
he could stir them to bailing with the buckets. The bedraggled cat fled
to the shelter of the girl's arms. Mayo struggled aft, in order to take
his weight from the bow of the boat, and when he sat down beside the
girl she was "mothering" the animal.
"It's coming in faster than I can throw it out!" wailed Bradish.
"Bail faster, then! Bail or drown!"
"She's leaking," announced the cook. "She has been on deck so long she
has got all dried out."
"Bail or drown!" repeated Mayo. To the girl he said: "This seems to be
the only way of getting work out of cowards. They'll have to do it. I'm
about done for."
The waves were lifting and dropping them in dizzying fashion. There was
suddenly a more violent tossing of the water.
"That's the old packet! She went under then!" Mayo explained. "Thank the
Lord we are out of her clutches! I was afraid we were stuck there."
"Is there any hope for us now?" she inquired.
"I don't know. If the boat stays afloat and the wind doesn't haul and
knock this sea crossways, if somebody sees us in the morning, if we
don't get rolled onto the coast in the breakers and--" He did not
finish.
"It seems that a lot of things can happen at sea," she suggested.
"That fact has been proved to me in the past few weeks."
"You mean in the past few hours, don't you?"
"Miss Marston, what has happened on that schooner is a part of the
business, and a sailor must take it as it comes along. I wish nothing
worse had happened to me than what's happening now."
She made no reply.
"But no matter about it," he said, curtly.
The two men, kneeling amidships, clutching a thwart and bailing with
their free hands, toiled away; even Bradish had wakened to the fact that
he was working for his own salvation.
In the obscurity the waves which rose ahead seemed like mountains topped
with snow. Hollows and hills of water swept past on their right and
left. But the crests of the waves were not breaking, and this fact meant
respite from immediate danger.
"I'm sorry it was all left to you to do," ventured the girl, breaking
a long silence. "I thought Ralph had more man in him," she added,
bitterly. "I feel that he ought to apologize to you for--for several
things."
He, on his part, did not reply to that. He was afraid that she intended
to draw him into argument or explanation. Just what he would be able to
say to her on that topic was not clear to him.
"It seems as if years had gone by instead of hours. It seems as if I
had lived half a life since I left home. It seems as if I had changed
my nature and had grown up to see things in a different light. It is all
very strange to me."
He did not know whether she were talking to herself or to him. He did
not offer comment.
There was a long period of silence. The sound of rushing waters filled,
that silence and made their conversation audible only to themselves when
they talked.
"I don't understand how you happened to be on that schooner--as--as you
were," she said, hesitating.
"I didn't rig myself out this way to play any practical jokes, Miss
Marston," he returned, bitterly.
"I would like to know how it all happened--your side of it."
"I have talked too much already."
There was no more conversation for a long time. He wondered how she had
mustered courage to talk at all. They were in a predicament to try the
courage of even a seasoned seaman. In the night, tossed by that wild
sea, drifting they knew not where, she had apparently disregarded
danger. He asked himself if she had not merely exhibited feminine
ignorance of what their situation meant. He had often seen cases where
apparent bravado was based on such ignorance.
"I must say that you told me at least one truth a while ago--you are not
a coward," he said at last.
She was comforting the wretched cat. "But I am miserably frightened,"
she admitted. "I don't dare to think about the thing. I don't dare
to look at the waves. I talked to you so as to take my mind off my
troubles. I didn't mean to be prying."
"I'll tell you what has been done to me," he blurted. "Hearing
somebody's troubles may take your mind off your own."
While the two men amidships bailed doggedly and weariedly, he told his
story as briefly as he could. The gray dawn showed her face to him after
a time, and he was peculiarly comforted by the sympathy he saw there. He
did not communicate to her any suspicions he may have entertained. With
sailor directness he related how he had hoped, and how all had been
snatched away from him. But on one topic the mouths of both seemed to be
sealed!
After a time Bradish and the cook were enabled to rest from the work of
bailing. The planks of the boat swelled and the leak was stopped.
"You'd better crawl aft here and sit beside Miss Marston," advised Mayo.
"Be careful how you move."
He passed Bradish and took the latter's place with the cook, and felt
a sense of relief; he had feared that the one, the dreaded topic would
force itself upon him.
"I don't see no sense in prolonging all this agony," averred his
despondent companion. "We ain't ever going to get out of this alive.
We're drifting in on the coast, and you know what that means."
"You may jump overboard any time you see fit," said the skipper of the
craft. "I don't need you any longer for bailing!"
"If that's the way you feel about it, you won't get rid of me so easy,"
declared the cook, malevolence in his single eye.
Mayo noticed, with some surprise, that after the two had exchanged a few
words there was silence between Bradish and the girl. The New-Yorker was
pale and trembling, and his jaw still sagged, and he threw glances to
right and left as the surges galloped under them. He was plainly and
wholly occupied with his fears.
When day came at last without rain, but with heavy skies, in which
masses of vapor dragged, Mayo began eager search of the sea. He had
no way of determining their whereabouts; he hoped they were far enough
off-shore to be in the track of traffic. However, he could see no sail,
no encouraging trail of smoke. But after a time he did behold something
which was not encouraging. He stood up and balanced himself and gazed
westward, in the direction in which they were drifting; every now and
then a lifting wave enabled him to command a wide expanse of the sea.
He saw a white ribbon of foam that stretched its way north and south
into the obscurity of the mists. He did not report this finding at once.
He looked at his companions and pondered.
"I think you have something to say to me," suggested the girl.
"I suppose I ought to say it. I've been wondering just how it ought to
be said. It's not pleasant news."
"I am prepared to hear anything, Captain Mayo. Nothing matters a great
deal just now."
"We are being driven on to the coast. I don't know whether it's the
Delaware or the New Jersey coast. It doesn't make much difference. The
breakers are just as bad in one place as in the other."
"Why don't you anchor this boat? Are you going to let it go ashore and
be wrecked?" asked Bradish, with anger that was childish.
"The anchor seems to have been overlooked when we started on this little
excursion. As I remember it, there was some hurry and bustle," returned
Mayo, dryly.
"Why didn't you remember it? You got us into this scrape. You slammed
and bossed everybody around. You didn't give anybody else a chance to
think. You call yourself a sailor! You're a devil of a sailor to come
off without an anchor."
"I suppose so," admitted Mayo.
"And there wasn't any sense, in coming off in this little boat. We ought
to have stayed on the schooner."
"Ralph!" protested the girl. "Have you completely lost your mind? Don't
you know that the schooner sank almost the minute we left it?"
"Mr. Bradish's mind was very much occupied at the time," said Captain
Mayo.
"I don't believe the schooner sank. What does a girl know about such
things? That fellow got scared, that's the trouble. There isn't any
sense in leaving a big boat in a storm. We would have been taken off
before this. We would have been all right. This is what comes of letting
a fool boss you around when he is scared," he raved.
"You are the fool!" she cried, with passion. "Captain Mayo saved us."
"Saved us from what? Here we are going into the breakers--and he says
so--and there's no anchor on here. He took everything out of my hands.
Now why doesn't he do something?"
"Don't pay any attention to him," she pleaded.
"We are going to be drowned! You can't deny it, can you? We're going to
die!" He pulled a trembling hand from between his knees, where he had
held both hands pinched in order to steady them. He shook his fist at
Mayo. "Own up, now. We're going to die, aren't we?"
"I think it's right to tell the truth at this stage," said Mayo, in
steady tones. "We're not children. Yonder is a beach with sand-reefs and
breakers, and when we strike the sand this boat will go over and over
and we shall be tossed out. The waves will throw us up and haul us back
like a cat playing with mice. And we stand about the same chance as
mice."
"And that's the best you can do for us--and you call yourself a sailor!"
whined Bradish.
"I'm only a poor chap who has done his best as it came to his hand to
do," said the young man, seeking the girl's eyes with his.
She gazed at him for a moment and then put both hands to her face and
began to sob.
"It's a hard thing to face, but we'd better understand the truth and be
as brave as we can," said Mayo, gently.
"For myself I ain't a mite surprised," averred the cook. "I had my
hunch! I was resigned. But my plans was interfered with. I wanted to go
down in good, deep, green, clean water like a sailor ought to. And now
I'm going to get mauled into the sand and have a painful death."
"Shut up!" barked Mayo.
The girl was trembling, and he feared collapse.
Bradish began to blubber. "I'm not prepared to die," he protested.
Mayo studied his passenger for some time, wrinkling his brows. "Bradish,
listen to me a moment!"
The New-Yorker gave him as much attention as terror and grief permitted.
"There isn't much we can do just now to fix up our general earthly
affairs. But we may as well clean the slate between us two. That will
help our consciences a little. I haven't any quarrel with you any more.
We won't be mushy about it. But let's cross it off."
"It's all over," mourned Bradish. "So what's the use of bearing
grudges?"
"I suppose it's true that the court has indicted me for manslaughter.
Bradish, tell me, man to man, whether I've got to go into those breakers
with that on my conscience!"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do! You know whether those men of the schooner _Warren_ were
drowned by any criminal mistake of mine or not!"
Bradish did not speak.
"You wouldn't have said as much to Captain Downs if you hadn't known
something," insisted the victim of the plot.
"It was only what Burkett let drop when he came after some money. I
suppose he thought it was safe to talk to me. But what's the good of my
giving you guesswork? I don't know anything definite. I don't understand
sailor matters."
"Bradish, what Burkett said--was it something about the compass--about
putting a job over on me by monkeying with the compass?"
"It was something like that." His tone exhibited indifference; it
was evident that he was more occupied with his terror than with his
confession.
"Didn't Burkett say something about a magnet?"
"He got off some kind of a joke about Fogg in the pilot-house and
fog outside--but that the Fogg inside did the business. And he said
something about Fogg's iron wishbone."
"So that was the way it was done--and done by the general manager of the
line!" cried Mayo. "The general manager himself! It's no wonder I have
smashed that suspicion between the eyes every time it bobbed up! I
suspected--but I didn't dare to suspect! Is that some of your high
finance, Bradish?"
"No, it isn't," declared the New-Yorker, with heat. "It's an
understrapper like Fogg going ahead and producing results, so he calls
it. The big men never bother with the details."
"The details! Taking away from me all I have worked for--my reputation
as a master, my papers, my standing--my liberty. By the gods, I'm going
to live! I'm going through those breakers! I'll face that gang like a
man who has fought his way back from hell," raged the victim.
"This--this was none of my father's business! It could not have been,"
expostulated Miss Marston.
"Your father never knows anything about the details of Fogg's
operations," declared Bradish.
"He ought to know," insisted the maddened scapegoat. "He gives off his
orders, doesn't he? He sits in the middle of the web. What if he did
know how Fogg was operating?"
"Probably wouldn't stand for it! But he doesn't know. And the Angel
Gabriel himself wouldn't get a chance to tell him!" declared the clerk.
"A put-up job, then, is it--and all called high finance!" jeered Mayo.
"High finance isn't to blame for tricks the field-workers put out
so that they can earn their money quick and easy. What's the good of
pestering me with questions at this awful time? I'm going to die! I'm
going to die!" he wailed.
Miss Marston slid from the seat to her knees, in order that she might
be able to reach her hand to Mayo. "Will you let this handclasp tell
you all I feel about it--all your trouble, all your brave work in this
terrible time? I am so frightened, Captain Mayo! But I'm going to keep
my eyes on you--and I'll be ashamed to show you how frightened I am."
He returned the fervent clasp of her fingers with gentle pressure and
reassuring smile. "Honestly, I feel too ugly to die just now. Let's keep
on hoping."
But when he stood up and beheld the white mountains of water between
their little boat and the shore, and realized what would happen when
they were in that savage tumult, with the undertow dragging and the
surges lashing, he felt no hope within himself.
From the appearance of the coast he could not determine their probable
location. The land was barren and sandy. There seemed to be no inlet.
As far as he could see the line of frothing white was unbroken. The
sea foamed across broad shallows, where no boat could possibly remain
upright and no human being could hope to live.
Nevertheless, he remained standing and peered under his hand, resolved
to be alert till the last, determined to grasp any opportunity.
All at once he beheld certain black lines in perpendicular silhouette
against the foam. At first he was not certain just what they could be,
and he observed them narrowly as the boat tossed on its way.
At last their identity was revealed. They were weir-stakes. The weir
itself was evidently dismantled. Such stakes as remained were set some
distance from one another, like fence-posts located irregularly.
He made hasty observation of bearings as the boat drifted, and was
certain that the sea would carry them down past the stakes. How near
they would pass depended on the vagary of the waves and the tide. He
realized that three men, even if they were able seamen, could do little
in the way of rowing or guiding the longboat in the welter of that sea,
now surging madly over the shoals. He knew that there was not much water
under the keel, for the ocean was turbid with swirling sand, and the
waves were more mountainous, heaped high by the friction of the water on
the bottom. Every now and then the crest of a roller flaunted a banner
of bursting spray, showing breakers near at hand.
Mayo hurried to the bow of the boat and pulled free a long stretch of
cable. He made a bowline slip-knot, opened a noose as large as he could
handle, coiled the rest of the cable carefully, and poised himself on a
thwart.
"What now?" asked the cook.
"No matter," returned Mayo. His project was such a gamble that he did
not care to canvass it in advance.
The nearer they drove to the stakes the more unattainable those objects
seemed. They projected high above the water.
The cook perceived them and got up on his knees and squinted. "Huh!" he
sniffed. "You'll never make it. It can't be done!"
In his fierce anxiety Mayo heaved his noose too soon, and it fell short.
He dragged in the cable with all his quickness and strength and threw
the noose again. The rope hit the stake three-quarters of the way up and
fell into the sea.
"It needs a cowboy for that work," muttered the cook.
Mayo recovered his noose and poised himself again.
In the shallows where they were the boat which bore him became a
veritable bucking bronco. It was flung high, it swooped down into the
hollows. He made a desperate try for the next stake in line. The noose
caught, and he snubbed quickly. The top of the stake came away with a
dull crack of rotten wood when the next wave lifted the boat.
Mayo pulled in his rope hand over hand with frantic haste. He
was obliged to free the broken stake from the noose and pull his
extemporized lasso into position again. He made a wider noose. His
failure had taught a point or two. He waited till the boat was on the
top of a wave. He curbed his desperate impatience, set his teeth, and
whirled the noose about his head in a widening circle. Then he cast just
as the boat began to drop. The rope encircled the stake, dropped to the
water, and he paid out all his free cable so that a good length of the
heavy rope might lie in the water and form a makeshift bridle. When he
snubbed carefully the noose drew close around the stake, and the latter
held. The waves which rode under them were terrific, and Mayo's heart
came into his mouth every time a tug and shock indicated that the rope
had come taut.
However, after five minutes of anxious waiting, kneeling in the bow, his
eyes on the cable, he found his courage rising and his hopes glowing.
"Does it mean--" gasped the girl, when he turned and looked at her.
"I don't know just what it will mean in the end, Miss Marston," he
said, with emotion. "But it's a reprieve while that rope holds."
Bradish sat clutching the gunwale with both hands, staring over his
shoulder at the waters frothing and roaring on the shore. The girl
glanced at him occasionally with a certain wonderment in her expression.
It seemed to Mayo that she was trying to assure herself that Bradish was
some person whom she knew. But she did not appear to have much success
in making him seem real. She spoke to him once or twice in an undertone,
but he did not answer. Then she turned her back on him.
Suddenly Mayo leaped up and shouted.
A man was running along the sandy crest of a low hill near the beach. He
disappeared in a little structure that was no larger than a sentry-box.
"There's a coast-guard patrol from the life-saving station. There must
be one somewhere along here!"
The man rushed out and flourished his arms.
"He has telephoned," explained Mayo. "Those are the boys! There's hope
for us!"
There was more than hope--there was rescue after some hours of dreary
and anxious waiting.
The life-boat came frothing down the sea from the distant inlet, and
they were lifted on board by strong arms.
And then Alma Marston gave Mayo the strangest look he had ever received
from a woman's eyes. But her lips grew white and her eyes closed, and
she lapsed into unconsciousness while he folded a blanket about her.
"You must have had quite a job of it, managing a woman through this
scrape," suggested the captain of the crew.
"It's just the other way," declared Mayo. "I'm giving her credit for
saving the whole of us."
"How's that?"
"I might find it a little hard to make you understand, captain. Let it
stand as I have said it."
XXV ~ A GIRL AND HER DEBT OF HONOR
Says she, "You lime-juice sailor,
Now see me home you may."
But when we reached her cottage door
She unto me did say--
And a-way, you santee,
My dear Annie!
O you New York girls,
Can't you dance the polka!
--Walking Down the Broadway.
Mayo was promptly informed that Captain Downs and the crew of the
_Alden_ were safe.
"He caught our flare, got his motor to working, and made the inlet by a
lucky stab," explained the coast-station captain. "But he didn't reckon
he'd ever see you folks again. How did it happen he didn't tell me there
was a woman aboard?"
"You'll have to ask him."
"Who is she?"
"You'll have to ask him that, too. I'm only a sailor."
The captain looked him over with considerable suspicion: His shirt was
torn and his white skin was revealed. The drenching by rain and spray
had played havoc with his disguise; most of the coloring had been washed
away.
"Have you got anything special to say about yourself?"
"No, sir."
The captain turned his back on his men and leaned close to Mayo. "They
have had your picture in the paper this week," he said. "You're the
captain they are wanting in that _Montana_ case. They're after you. I've
got to report on this thing, you understand!"
"Very well, captain."
"But I reckon we'll talk it all over after we get to the station,"
said the master, kindly. "There may be something in it that I don't
understand."
"There's considerable in it that I don't understand myself, just now,
but I'm going to find out," declared Captain Mayo.
They placed Ahpa Marston in the care of the station captain's wife as
soon as they were safely on shore in the inlet. Fortunate chance had
sent the woman to the station that day on a visit to her husband.
Captain Downs, fed and warmed, watched the new arrivals eat beside the
kitchen stove and listened to the story Mayo had for him.
The bedraggled cat lapped milk, protected from the resentful jealousy of
the station's regular feline attache by the one-eyed cook.
And afterward, closeted with Captain Downs and the station captain, Mayo
went over his case.
"I must say you seem to be pretty hard and fast ashore in mighty
sloppy water," commented the coastguard captain. "It isn't my especial
business--but what do you propose to do?"
"Go to New York and take what they're going to hand me, I suppose. I
ought to have stayed there and faced the music. I have put myself in bad
by running away. But I was rattled."
"The best of us get rattled," said the host, consolingly. "I'm not a
policeman, sheriff, or detective, mate. I'll report this case as Captain
Downs and so many souls saved from the schooner _Alden_. You'd better
trot along up to the city and face 'em as a man should. I'll rig you out
in some of my clothes. Your old friend, Wass, meant well by rushing
you away, but I've always found that in a man's fight you can't do much
unless you're close enough to t'other fellow to hit him when he reaches
for you."
A half-hour later, made presentable in the coast-guard captain's liberty
suit, Mayo walked through the kitchen. Bradish and the cook were still
in front of the stove.
The captain's wife, standing in a door which admitted to an inner room,
put up a finger to signal the young man and then nodded her head in
invitation. "The young lady wants to see you, sir," she informed him
in a whisper, when he stepped to her side. "Go in!" She closed the door
behind him and remained in the kitchen.
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed at the girl for some time,
and neither of them spoke. She was swathed in blankets and was huddled
in a big chair; her face was wan and her eyes showed her weariness. But
her voice was firm and earnest when she addressed him.
"Captain Mayo, what I am going to say to you will sound very strange.
Tell me that you'll listen to me as you would listen to a man."
"I'm afraid--" he stammered.
"It's too bad that man and woman can seldom meet on the plane where man
and man meet. But I don't want to be considered a girl just now. I'm one
human being, and you're another, and I owe something to you which must
be paid, or I shall be disgraced by a debt which will worry me all my
life." She put out her hands and knotted the fingers together in appeal.
"Understand me--help me!"
He was ill at ease. He feared with all his soul to meet the one great
subject.
"When we thought we were going to die I told you it seemed as if I had
lived a life in a few hours--that I did not seem like the same person
as I looked into my thoughts. Captain Mayo, that is true. It is more
apparent to me now when I have had time to search my soul. Oh, I am not
the Alma Marston who has been spoiled and indulged--a fool leaping here
and there with every impulse--watching a girl in my set do a silly thing
and then doing a sillier thing in order to astonish her. That has been
our life in the city. I never knew what it meant to be a mere human
being, near death. You know you saved me from that death!"
"I only did what a man ought to do, Miss Marston."
"Perhaps. But you did it, that's the point. There are other men--" She
hesitated. "I have had a talk with Mr. Bradish," she told him. "It was a
mistake. You saved me from that mistake. You did it in the cabin of the
schooner. He has told me. It was better for me than saving my life."
"But because a man isn't a sailor--isn't used to danger--" he
expostulated.
"That is not it. I say I have just had a talk with Mr. Bradish! I have
found out exactly what he is. I did not find it out when I danced with
him. But now that I have come near to dying with him I have found him
out." The red banners in her cheeks signaled both shame and indignation.
"A coward will show all his nature before he gets himself in hand again,
and Mr. Bradish has shown me that he is willing to ruin and disgrace
me in order to make profit for himself. And there is no more to be said
about him!" She paused.
"Captain Mayo, I know what idea you must have of me--of a girl who would
do what I have done! But you don't have half the scorn for me I have for
myself--for the girl I was. But I have my self-respect now! I respect
the woman that I am at this moment after that experience! Perhaps you
don't understand. I do! I'm glad I have that self-respect. I shall face
what is ahead of me. I shall do right from now on." She spoke quickly
and passionately, and he wanted to say something, but his sailor tongue
halted. "I am not going to bring up a certain matter--not now! It's too
sacred. I am too miserably ashamed! Again, Captain Mayo, I say that I
want to stand with you as man to man! I want to render service for what
you have done for me. You have lost everything out of your life that you
value. I want you to have it back. Will you listen to me now?"
"Yes, Miss Marston."
"You go to my father with a letter from me. I do not believe he knows
what kind of methods have been practised by his understrappers, but he
can find out. You tell him that he must find out--that he must make
them confess. You tell him that this is a man's fight, and that you are
fighting back with all the strength that you can command. You tell him
that you have me hidden, and that I cannot get away--as my own letter
will tell him. You tell him that he must make a fair exchange with
you--give you back what is yours before he can have what is his."
Mayo walked backward limply, feeling for the wall with his hands behind
him, and leaned against it.
"You are single-handed--it's a big game they play up in the city when
they are after money--and you must take what cards are offered," she
insisted, displaying the shrewdness of the Marston nature.
"You mean to say that I'm going to your father as if I were holding you
for ransom?" he gasped.
"Something like that," she returned, eagerly. "The only way you'll get
what you want--and get it quickly--is by a good bluff. I have had some
good samples of your courage, Captain Mayo. You can do it beautifully."
"But I'm not going to do it!"
"I say you are!"
"Not by a--" His feelings were carrying him away. He was forgetting that
these dealings were with an impulsive girl. His anger was mounting. She
was putting him on the plane of a blackleg.
"Go ahead and talk as strongly as you like, Captain Mayo. It will make
it seem like man's business between us."
"Those tricks may be all right in Wall Street, but they don't do for me.
And you've got a pretty poor opinion of me if you think I'll do it."
"Don't be quixotic," she protested, impatiently. "We are living in
up-to-date times, Captain Mayo. Some of those underlings have played a
nasty trick on you. They must be exposed."
"This is a girl's crazy notion!"
"Captain Mayo, is this the way you help me pay my debt?"
"You don't owe me anything."
"And now you pay me an insult! Are my honor as a girl and my life worth
nothing? You have saved both."
"I don't know how to talk to you. I haven't had any experience in
talking with women. I simply say that I'm not going to your father in
any such manner. Certainly not!"
"Don't you realize what I have offered you?" she pleaded. "You are
throwing my sacrifice in my face. As the case stands now, I can hurry
off to the home of some girl friend and make up a little story of a
foolish lark, and my father will never know what has been happening. He
expects me to do a lot of silly things."
"That's your business--and his," he returned, dryly.
"Captain Mayo, I have been trying to show you that I am fit to be
considered something besides a silly girl. I wanted you to know that
I have a sense of obligation. The plan may seem like a girl's romantic
notion. But it isn't. It's bold, and your case heeds boldness. I was
trying to show you that I'm not a coward. I was going to confess to my
father what I have done and start on the level with him. You throw it
all in my face--you insult my plan by calling it crazy."
"It is," he insisted, doggedly. "And I'm in bad enough as it is!"
"Oh, you're afraid, then?"
He frowned. Her sneer seemed gratuitous injury.
He did not understand that variety of feminine guile which seeks to goad
to action one who refuses to be led.
"I admire boldness in a man when his case is desperate and he is trying
to save himself. I have lived among men who are bold in going after what
they want."
"I have had a little experience with that kind of land pirates, and I
don't like the system."
"I shall not make any unnecessary sacrifices," she de-clared, tartly,
but there were tears in her eyes. "I did what I could to help you when
you were trying to save me. Why are you so ungenerous as to refuse to
help me now?"
"It's taking advantage of you--of your position."
"But I offer it--I beg of you to do it."
"I will not do it."
"You absolutely refuse?"
"Yes, Miss Marston."
"Then I shall leave you to your own fate, Captain Mayo. You don't expect
me to go to my father with the story, do you?"
"Certainly not'."
"I shall go ahead now and protect myself the best I can. I am sure that
Captain Downs will keep my secret. I shall forget that I ever sailed on
that schooner. I suppose you will black yourself up and run away again!"
"I am going to New York."
"To be put in jail?"
"Probably."
"You make me very angry. After you have shown that you can fight, just
when you ought to fight the hardest you slink bade to be whipped."
"Yes, Miss Marston, if you care to put it that way."
"Then, good-by!"
"Good-by!"
Perhaps each expected that the other would break the wall of reserve at
this moment of parting. He hesitated a moment--an awkward instant--then
he bowed and left the room.
Captain Downs walked with Mayo for a distance across the sand-dunes when
the latter started to make his way to the nearest railroad station. The
captain intended to remain at the inlet tmtil a representative of the
_Alden's_ owners arrived.
They left Bradish still huddled behind the stove in the kitchen.
"Unless my eyes have gone back on me, Captain Mayo, my notion is
that the dude is wasting his time hanging around that girl any more,"
suggested Captain Downs. "She has had him out on the marine railway of
love, has made proper survey, and has decided that she would hate to
sail the sea of matrimony with him. Don't you think that's so?"
"I think you're a good judge of what you see, Captain Downs."
"I reckon that you and I as gents and master mariners are going to keep
mum about her being aboard the _Alden?_"
"Certainly, sir."
"The coast-guard crew don't know who she is, and they can't find out.
So she can go home and mind her business from this time out. 'Most every
woman does one infernal fool thing in her life--and then is all right
ever after. But now a word on some subject that's sensible! What are you
going to do?"
"Stick my head into the noose. It's about the only thing I can do."
"But you'll talk up to 'em, of course?"
"I'll play what few cards I hold as best I know, sir. The most I can
hope for is to make 'em drop that manslaughter case. Perhaps I can say
enough so that they'll be afraid to bring me to trial. As to getting my
papers back, I'm afraid that's out of the question. I'll have to start
life over in something else."
"Mayo, why don't you go to the captain's office?" He promptly answered
the young man's glance of inquiry. "Julius Marston himself is the
supreme boss of that steamship-consolidation business. Bradish gave all
that part away, telling about those checks; though, of course, we all
knew about Marston before. It is probably likely that Marston gives true
courses to his understrappers. If they take fisherman's cuts between
buoys in order to get there quick, I'll bet he doesn't know about it. Go
to him and tell him, man to man, what has happened to you."
"There are two reasons why I shall probably never see Mr. Marston,"
returned Mayo, grimly. "First, I'll be arrested before I can get across
New York to his office; second, I'll never get farther than the outer
office. He's guarded like the Czar of Russia, so they tell me."
"Does his girl know anything about your case?"
"I blabbed it to her--like a fool--when we were in the boat. Why is it
that when a man is drunk or excited or in trouble, he'll blow the whole
story of his life to a woman?" growled Mayo.
"I've thought that over some, myself," admitted Captain Downs.
"Especially on occasions when I've come to and realized what I've let
out. I suppose it's this--more or less: A man don't tell his troubles to
another man, for he knows that the other man is usually in'ardly glad
of it because any friend is in trouble. But a woman's sympathy is like a
flaxseed poultice--it soothes the ache and draws at the same time."
Mayo trudged on in silence, kicking the sand.
"Seems to me the smallest thing that girl could have done was to offer
to get you a hearing with her old man. It was some chore you did for
her, mate!"
"I had to save myself. A few more in the party didn't matter."
"These society girls think of themselves first, of course! I don't
suppose you give a hoot for my advice, Captain Mayo, but I'm talking to
you in the best spirit in the world."
"I know you are, Captain Downs," declared the young man, his sullenness
departing. "I didn't mean to show bristles to you! I'll try to see
Marston. It 'll be a hard stunt. But I'm in the mood to try anything. By
gad! if they lug me to jail, I'll go kicking!"
"That's the spirit, boy. And if you can get in a few kicks where Julius
Marston can see 'em they may count. He's the boss! I don't think I'll go
any farther with you. This is too hard footing for an old waddler like
me. Good luck!"
They shook hands and turned their backs on each other with sailor
repression in the matter of the emotions.
The young man went on his way, wondering in numbed despair how he could
have left Alma Marston with merely a curt word of farewell.
Mayo lurked that evening in the purlieus of Jersey City, and entered the
metropolis after midnight on a ferryboat which had few passengers and
afforded him a dark corner where he was alone. He found lodgings in
humble quarters on the East Side.
In the morning he nerved himself to the ordeal of appearing in the
streets. His belief in his own innocence made his suffering greater as
he waited for the clap of a heavy hand on his shoulder and the summons
of an officer's voice. He knew that the eyes of Uncle Sam are sharp and
his reach a long one. He had firm belief in the almost uncanny vigilance
of government officers. He was rather surprised to find himself at last
in the outer office of Marston & Waller.
He sat down on a bench and waited for a time in order to regain
his self-possession. He wanted to control features and voice before
accosting one of the guardians of the magnate. But the espionage of the
attendants did not permit loiterers to remain long in that place without
explanation. A man tiptoed to him and asked his name and his business.
"My name doesn't matter," said Mayo. "But I have important business
with Mr. Marston. If you will tell him that the business is most
important--that it is something he ought to know, and that--"
"You haven't any appointment, then?"
"No."
"Do you think for one moment that you can get in to see Mr. Marston
without giving your name and explaining beforehand the nature of your
business?"
"I hoped so, for it is important."
"What is it?"
"It's private--it's something for Mr. Marston."
"Impossible!" was the man's curt rejoinder. He went back to his post. In
a few moments he returned to Mayo. "You mustn't remain here. You cannot
see Mr. Marston."
"Won't you take in a message from me? I'll explain--"
"Explain to me. That's what I'm here for."
Telling that cold-blooded person that this visitor was the broken master
of the _Montana_ was out of the question. To mention the case of the
_Montana_ to this watchdog was dangerous. But Mayo dreaded to go back to
the street again.
"I'll stay here a little while and perhaps I can--" he began.
"If you stay here without explaining your business I'll have you
escorted down to the street by an officer, my friend."
Mayo rose and hurried out.
"An officer!" Even in his despairing and innocent quest of a hearing
he was threatened with arrest! He sneaked back to his lodgings and hid
himself in the squalid apartment and nursed the misery of his soul.
That night Mayo sat till late, toiling over a letter addressed to Julius
Marston.
He despatched it by messenger at an early hour, and mustered his courage
in the middle of the forenoon and followed in person. He assumed a
boldness he did not feel in his quaking heart when he approached the
guardian of the outer office.
"Will you ask Mr. Marston if he will see the man who sent him a letter
by messenger this morning?" "What letter? Signed by what name?" "He will
understand what letter I refer to." "He will, will he?" The attendant
gave this applicant sharp scrutiny. The coast-guard captain's liberty
garments were not impressive, nor did they fit very well. Mayo displayed
the embarrassment of the man who knew he was hunted. "Do you think Mr.
Marston receives only one letter by messenger in a morning? Look here,
my man, you were in here yesterday, and I look on you as a suspicious
character. You cannot see Mr. Marston on any such excuse. Get out of
that door inside of one minute or I'll send in a police call!"
And once more Mayo fled from the danger which threatened him. He bought
a stock of newspapers at a sidewalk news-stand; his hours of loneliness
in his little room the day before had tortured him mentally. He sat
himself down and read them. The news that the Vose line had gone into
the steamship combination was interesting and significant. Evidently the
_Montana's_ lay-up had discouraged the mass of stockholders. He had
time to kill and thoughts to stifle; he went on reading scrupulously,
lingering over matters in which he had no interest, striving to occupy
his mind and drive the bitter memories and his fears away from
him. Never in his life before had he read the society tattle in the
newspapers. However, dragging along the columns, he found a paragraph
on which he dwelt for a long time. It stated that Miss Marston of
Fifth Avenue had returned by motor from a house-party in the Catskills,
accompanied by Miss Lana Vanadistine, who would be a house guest of Miss
Marston's for a few days.
That bit of news was significant. She had established her alibi; she had
reinstated herself and had turned a smooth front to the world.
Mayo was certain in his soul that he knew her kind. His illusions were
departing. Now that her tragic experience was behind her, now that she
was back among her own, now that the fervor of romance was cool, she was
thanking God, so he told himself, that she had not sacrificed herself
for anybody. He was honestly glad that she was at home, glad of the hint
which the paragraph gave--that her secret was still her own, so far as
family and the social world were concerned.
That night Mayo took further counsel with himself. In the morning his
final decision was made. He would endeavor once more to see Julius
Maxston. He determined that he would march into the outer office, boldly
announce his name, assert that he was there to expose a crime, and tell
them that if Mr. Marston refused to hear him he should tell what he knew
to the public through the newspapers; then he would ask them to send for
the police, if the door of Marston's office remained closed to him. He
would call attention to himself and to his case by all the uproar
he could make. When he went to jail he would go with plenty of folks
looking on. Let Marston and his fellow-financiers see how they liked
that!
It was a desperate and a crude plan, but Mayo was not a diplomat--he was
a sailor.
He marched forth on his errand with his chin up and resolve flaming
within him.
Other men, prosperous-looking and rotund men, rode up in the elevator
with him and went into Marston & Waller's office ahead of him, for he
had modestly stepped to one side to allow them to pass.
He heard some talk of a "board meeting." It was plain that Mr. Marston
was to be occupied for a time. This was not a favorable moment in which
to project himself upon the attention of the financier; he needed a
clear field. Therefore he tramped up and down the corridor of the
office building, watching the elevator door, waiting to see the rotund
gentlemen go on their way. And with attention thus focused he saw Miss
Alma Marston arrive.
She waited until the elevator had passed on, and then she came directly
to him. Her expression did not reveal her mood except to hint that she
was self-possessed.
"I am not especially surprised to find you here," she told him. "I
believe you said to Captain Downs--so he informed me--that you were
going to try to see my father. And men who try to see my father, without
proper introduction, usually kick their heels outside his office for
some days."
There was a bit of hauteur in her voice. She preserved much of the
acerbity which had marked her demeanor when they had said good-by to
each other. He would not acknowledge to himself that he hoped she would
meet him on another plane; he meekly accepted her attitude as the proper
one. He was a sailor, and she was the daughter of Julius Marston.
"Do you blame me for being suspicious in regard to what you intend to
say to my father?" she demanded. "I tell you frankly that I came here
looking for you. We must settle our affair."
"I am trying to get word with him about my own business--simply my own
business, Miss Marston."
"But as to me! What are you going to say to him about me? You remember
I told you that I intended to protect myself," she declared, with some
insolence.
"I thought you had a better opinion of me," he protested. "Miss Marston,
as far as I am concerned, you never were on that schooner. I know
nothing about you. I do not even know you. Do you understand?"
He started away hastily. "Don't stay here. Don't speak to me. Somebody
may see you."
"'Come back here!"
He stopped.
"I demand an explicit promise from you that if you are able to talk with
my father you will never mention my name to him or try to take advantage
of the dreadful mistake I made."
"I promise, on my honor," he said, straightening.
"Thank you, sir."
"And now that I have promised," he added, red in his tanned cheeks,
"I want to say to you, Miss Marston, that you have insulted me
gratuitously. I suppose I'm not much in the way of a gentleman as you
meet them in society. I'm only a sailor. But I'm neither a tattler nor
a blackmailer. I know the square thing to do where a woman is concerned,
and I would have done it without being put under a pledge." He bowed and
walked away.
She gazed after him, a queer sparkle in her eyes. "We'll see about you,
you big child!" she murmured.
She entered the waiting-room of the Marston & Waller suite, and was
informed that her father was busy with a board meeting.
"But it's merely a bit of routine business. It will soon be over, Miss
Marston--if you will be so good as to wait."
After a time the gentlemen filed out, but she waited on.
"Tell my father that I'm here and will be in presently," she commanded
the guardian.
Before the messenger returned Mayo came in, rather apprehensively. He
tried to avoid her, but she met him face to face and accosted him with
spirit.
"Now that I have put you on your honor, I'm not afraid to have you talk
your business over with my father. Come with me. I will take you to him.
Then we will call accounts square between us."
"Very well," he consented. "After what I have been through here, I feel
that one service matches the other." Mayo followed her and came into The
Presence.
Julius Marston was alone, intrenched behind his desk, on his throne of
business; the dark back of the chair, towering over his head, set off
in contrast his gray garb and his cold face; to Mayo, who halted
respectfully just inside the door, he appeared a sort of bas-relief
against that background--something insensate, without ears to listen or
heart to bestow compassion.
The girl, hurrying to him, engaged his attention until she had seated
herself on the arm of his chair. Then he saw Mayo, recognized him, and
tried to rise, but she pushed him back, urging him with eager appeal.
"You must listen to me, father! It is serious! It is important!"
He groped for the row of desk buttons, but she held his hand from them.
Captain Mayo strode forward, determined to speak for himself, rendered
bold by the courageous sacrifice the girl was making.
"Not a word! Not a word! The supreme impudence of it!" Marston repeated
the last phrase several times with increasing violence. He pushed his
daughter off the arm of the chair and struggled up. Only heroic measures
could save that situation--and the girl knew her father! She forced
herself between him and his desk.
"You'd better listen!" she warned him, hysterically. "A few days ago I
ran away to be married!"
He stood there, stricken motionless, and she put her hands against his
breast and pressed him back into his chair.
"But this is not the man, father!"
Marston had been gathering his voice for wild invective, but that last
statement took away all his power of speech.
"I warned you that you'd better listen!"
In that moment she dominated the situation as completely as if she stood
between the two men with a lighted bomb in her hand.
Mayo was overwhelmed even more completely than the financier. He
realized that her extortion of a pledge from him had been subterfuge;
her triumphant eyes flashed complete information on that point. Both
anger and bewilderment made him incapable of any sane attempt to press
his case with Marston at that time. He turned and started for the door.
"Stop that man, father. You'll be sorry if you do not! He must stay!"
"Come back here!" shouted Marston.
Mayo looked behind.
The magnate stood with finger on the push-button. "Come back, I say!"
"I protest. This is none of my business. I am here for something else
than to listen to your daughter's private affairs."
"You come back!" commanded the father in low tones of menace, "or I'll
have you held for the United States marshals the minute you step foot
outside that door."
Raging within himself at the tactics of this incomprehensible girl,
Captain Mayo walked slowly to the desk; it occurred to him that it was
as hard to get out of Julius Marston's office as it was to get in.
"I would never have come in here if I had dreamed that your daughter
would tell you what she has. I am in a false position. I insist that you
allow me to leave."
"You'll leave when I get to the bottom of this thing! Now, Alma, what
new craziness is all this?"
"I am not resenting the word you apply to it," she replied, facing him
resolutely. "I did it--and I don't know why I did it!"
"Did what?"
"I ran away. I did it because the girls dared me to do it. I promised a
man I would marry him."
"This man, eh?"
"No. I have told you this is not the man."
"Well, who, then?" Incredulity was mingled with her father's wrath.
"One of your trusted young gentlemen. Mr. Ralph Bradish."
"Where did you meet him?"
"At the dances."
"Not at our house?"
"I do not know how you are so sure of that, father," she returned, a
touch of rather wistful reproach in her tones. "You have left me
alone in that house ever since mother went away. But it was not at our
house--it was in the public ball-rooms."
"Hell set to music!" he rasped. "I ought to have realized that you are
still an infant!"
"No; I am a woman to-day. I lived a whole lifetime in one night on the
ocean. I know you have reason to be ashamed of me. But I'll never give
you cause for shame again. Now what are you going to say to this man who
saved my life--who did more than that? He saved me from myself!"
Marston narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Mayo. "I don't understand this
thing yet! The story doesn't ring right." He turned on his daughter.
"How did this man save your life? Be quick and be short!"
He interrupted her in the middle of her eager recital. He had been
scowling while she talked, staring into vacancy in meditation.
"A story-book tale!" he declared, impatiently, and yet there was a shade
of insincerity in that impatience. "I would be bitterly ashamed of you,
Alma, if you had run away as you are trying to make me believe. But--"
"Don't you believe me?"
"Silence! But this trumped-up story is too transparent. You are still
acting the fool in the matter of this person, here. Now see here, my
man, you are here to-day on the _Montana_ affair. Isn't that so?"
"It is, sir."
"I was sure of it. How did you dare to sneak into that job after I had
discharged you from the _Olenia_?"
"There was no sneaking to it! I was hired by Mr. Fogg and I--"
"You may be sure that I did not know you were on board the _Montana_.
But I cannot attend to all the details of my business. You realize,
don't you, that you are a fugitive from justice?"
"I am a scapegoat for the dirty dogs who operate for you!"
"That's enough! I am investigating this matter now? Sit down in that
chair!"
Mayo obeyed, lulled by the assurance.
"Alma, you go home!"
"I am going to stay here, father, until Captain Mayo--"
"I have listened to all the falsehoods I propose to hear!" This
rejoinder astounded his two listeners. "I see into this matter clear to
the bottom. I am amazed that you should think such a silly yarn would
deceive me for a moment." He had pressed one of the buttons. To the man
who opened the door he said: "Tell Mr. Bradish that I want to see him
here at once. He is in the office, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir! I will inform him."
Mayo and the girl exchanged eloquent looks; they had been leaving Mr.
Bradish out of their calculations; they had discarded him from their
thoughts; that he had had the effrontery to reappear in the Marston &
Waller offices was news indeed.
Marston took the girl by the arm and led her toward a door. "I tell
you to go home!" he cried, angrily, stopping her protests. "No, you are
going by this side door. I do not believe one word you have told me.
It's all a transparent attempt to continue your folly. I'll know how to
look after you from now on!" He closed the door behind her and locked
it.
"I swear this is all true, sir," pleaded Mayo. "I'm not trying to
deceive you through your daughter. I did not understand what she
intended to say. I want my rights as a man who has been tricked,
abused--"
Mr. Bradish appeared, bowing respectfully. He was once more part of the
smooth machinery of the Marston & Waller offices. He was pale, calm,
cool, subdued master of his emotions as the employees of Julius Marston
were trained to be.
"Did you ever see this man before? Of course you never did!" prompted
the financier.
"I never saw him before, sir."
"Certainly not! What have you to say to the ridiculous, nonsensical
story that you attempted to elope with my daughter?"
Not by a flicker of the eyelids did the imperturbable maker of
million-dollar checks show confusion.
"If such a lie needs denial from me I most firmly do deny it, sir."
"You cheap renegade!" roared the captain.
"That will do, Mr. Bradish!"
The clerk obeyed the wave of his master's hand and retired quickly.
"Mr. Marston," raved Mayo, "I'm fighting for all that's worth while
to me in life. My reputation as a master mariner, my chance to make a
living in my work. I was a fool on board your yacht! With all my soul I
am penitent. I will-"
"Enough! Don't you dare to discuss my own daughter with me!"
"I don't intend to, sir. I'm going to believe that you don't know what
your understrappers have done to me. You only see results. But find out
what is being done in your name, Mr. Marston. Some day it will be bad
for you if you don't stop 'em."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's only my appeal for justice. My God, sir--"
"There's justice waiting for you."
"Then send out for your marshals. Let them drag me into court! Your man
Bradigh's mouth is closed now, but it has been open. I know what has
been done to me. Let them put me on the stand. You don't dare to have me
stand up in court and tell what I know."
"Do you suppose I am running the Federal courts?"
"You'd better find out whether you have power or not. There are men in
this world who will believe an honest man's true story!"
"Good day!" said Mr. Marston, significantly.
Mayo hesitated, gazed into the impassive countenance of the magnate,
and then conviction of the uselessness of argument overwhelmed him. He
started for the door.
"Certain sensible things can be done," Marston called after him. "You'd
better get out of New York. If you know of a place to hide you'd better
get into it."
Mayo did not reply. He strode out through the offices, descended to the
street, and went on his way.
He did not notice that an automobile pursued him through the roaring
traffic of the streets, halting ahead of him when, he had turned into
one of the quieter thoroughfares.
The car was close to the curb, and Alma Marston put out her hand and
signaled to him. "He gave-you no hope-nothing?"
"Nothing!"
"I have waited. I thought of asking you to come for a talk with me."
He shook his head.
"Perhaps it's better as it is! There isn't very much to be said-not
now!" She leaned over the side of the tonneau and the clatter of traffic
enabled her to talk without taking the eavesdropping chauffeur into
their confidence. "I am not worthy of your thoughts or your confidence
after this, Boyd. What I was yesterday I am not to-day; I have told you
that. No, do not say anything! I know, now, that I was only playing with
love. I cannot name what I feel for you now; I have insulted the word
'love' too much in the past. I'm not going to say anything about it. Was
it any excuse for me that you had sunk a ship, were going to prison for
killing men, so the papers hinted? No, it was not! But I allowed myself
to make it an excuse for folly."
"You don't know what love is," he declared. In the agony of his
degradation he had no relish for softer sentiments. But he did not dare
to look up at her.
"I _did_ not know! But perhaps some day I can show you that I do now
know," she replied, humbly. "That will be the day when I can give you
the proofs against the men who have tried to ruin you. I am inside the
camp of your enemies, Boyd, and I'll give you those proofs--even against
my own father, if he is guilty. That's all! Let's wait. But while you
are working I hope it's going to give you a bit of courage to know that
I am working for you!" She patted his cheek. "Go on!" she called to her
driver. The car jerked forward and was hidden among the chariots roaring
down through the modern Babylon.
Without power for self-analysis, without being able to penetrate the
inner recesses of his own soul in that crisis, he trudged on.
A little later, almost unconscious of volition in the matter, he found
himself at a steamboat office buying a ticket. He was going back to the
obscurity of Maquoit. But he was fully conscious that he was not obeying
Julius Marston's injunction to go and hide. A deeper sentiment was
drawing him. He knew where there existed simple faith in him and
affection for him, and he craved that solace. There were humble folks in
Maquoit who would welcome him.
"I'll go back--I'll go home," he said. Once he would have smiled at the
thought that he would ever call the Hue and Cry colony "home."
XXVI ~ THE FANGS OF OLD RAZEE
A dollar a day is a Hoosier's pay,
Lowlands, lowlands, a-way, my John!
Yes, a dollar a day is a Hoosier's pay,
My dollar and a half a day.
--Old Pumping Song.
Before leaving New York Mayo made inquiries at offices of shipping
brokers and trailed Captain Zoradus Wass to his lair in the loafers'
room of a towboat office. Their conference was a gloomy one; neither had
any comfort for the other. Mayo was laconic in his recital of events: he
said that he had run away--and had come back. Of Marston and Marston's
daughter he made no mention.
"I have been to see that fat whelp of a Fogg," stated the old master
mariner. "I ain't afraid of him. I had a good excuse; I said I wanted a
job. I didn't let on to him that I advised you to slip your cable, but
I might have curried favor with him by saying so. He seemed to be pretty
well satisfied because you had skipped."
"Captain Wass, that's the main thing I've come to talk over with you.
Here's my ticket back home. But I feel that I ought to walk up to the
United States marshal's office and surrender myself. And I want to ask
you about the prospects of my getting bail. Can you help me?"
"I reckon if I saw you behind bars I'd do my best to get you out,
son. But you steer away from here on a straight tack and mind your own
business! When the United States wants you they'll come and get you--you
needn't worry!"
"But I do worry, sir! I am dodging about the streets. I expect to feel
a hand on my shoulder every moment. I can't endure the strain of the
thing! I don't want anybody to think I'm a sneak."
"As near's I can find out by nosing around a little that indictment is
a secret one--even if it really was returned. And I'm half inclined to
think there wasn't any indictment! Perhaps those officers were only sent
out to get you and hold you as a witness. Fogg has been doing most of
the talking about there being an indictment. However it is, if they
don't want you just yet I wouldn't go up to a cell door, son, and holler
and pound and ask to be let in. Law has quite a way of giving a man what
he hollers for. You go away and let me do the peeking and listening for
you around these parts. I'm collecting a little line of stuff on this
water-front. Haven't much else to do, these days!"
"I reckon my first hunch was the right one, sir!' I'll go along home. If
you hear anybody with a badge on inquiring for me tell him I'm fishing
on the _Ethel and May_."
"That's a mean job for you, son. But I guess I'd better not say anything
about it, seeing what I have shanghaied you into."
"It has not been your fault or mine, what has happened, sir. I am not
whining!"
"By gad! I know you ain't! But get ready to growl when the right time
comes, and keep your teeth filed! When it's our turn to bite we'll
make a bulldog grip of it!" He emphasized the vigor of that grip in his
farewell handshake.
But Mayo did not reflect with much enthusiasm on Captain Wass's
metaphorical summons to combat.
Returning to Maquoit, the young man decided that he was more like a
beaten dog slinking back with canine anxiety to nurse his wounds in
secret.
His experiences had been too dreadful and too many in the last few days
to be separated and assimilated. He had been like a man stunned by
a fall--paralyzed by a blow. Now the agonizing tingle of memory and
despair made his thoughts an exquisite torture. He tried to put Alma
Marston out of those thoughts. He did not dare to try to find a place
for her in the economy of his affairs. However, she and he had been down
to the gates of death together, and he realized that the experience
had had its effect on her nature; he believed that it had developed her
character as well. Insistently the memory of her parting words was with
him, and he knew, in spite of his brutal and furious efforts to condemn
her, that love was not dead and that hope still lived.
He swung aboard the _Ethel and May_ one afternoon, after he had waited
patiently for her arrival with her fare.
"I have come back to fish with you, Captain Candage, until my troubles
are straightened out--if they ever are."
Captain Candage was silent, controlling some visible emotions.
"I have come back to be with folks who won't talk too much about those
troubles," he added, gloomily.
"Exactly," agreed the skipper. "Nothing is ever gained by stirring up
trouble after it has been well cooked. Swing the pot back over the fire,
I say, and let it simmer till it cools off of itself. I thought you
would come back."
"Why?"
"Well, I knew they had taken away your papers. Furthermore, Polly has
been saying that you would come back."
"And why did she think so?" asked Mayo, in milder tones.
"She didn't say why," admitted Captain Candage. "Maybe women see into
things deeper than men do."
"It seems like coming home--coming home when a man is sick and tired of
everything in the world, sir."
"Reckon my Polly had something like that in mind. She dropped a few
hints that she hoped you'd come and get rested up from your troubles."
"And she has gone back to her work, I suppose?"
"No, she is still on her job at Maquoit, sir--calls it her real job. She
isn't a quitter, Polly isn't. She says they need her."
"Like the song says, 'The flowers need the sunshine and the roses need
the dew,' that's how they need her," averred Oakum Otie. "Though them
Hue and Cry women and children can't be said to be much like roses and
geraniums! But they're more like it than they ever was before, since
Miss Polly has taken hold of 'em. It's wonderful what a good girl can do
when she tries, Captain Mayo!"
Resuming his life on the fishing-schooner was like slipping on a pair of
old shoes, and Mayo was grateful for that New England stoicism which had
greeted him in such matter-of-fact fashion.
"What you want to tell me is all right and what you don't want to tell
me is still better," stated Captain Candage. "Because when you ain't
talking about it you ain't stirring it!"
So, in that fashion, he came back into the humble life of Maquoit. There
had been no awkwardness in his meeting with Captain Candage; it had been
man to man, and they understood how to dispense with words. But Mayo
looked forward to his meeting with Polly Candage without feeling that
equanimity which the father had inspired.
He felt an almost overmastering desire to confide to her his troubles of
the heart. But he knew that he would not be able to do that. His little
temple had been so cruelly profaned. His humiliation was too great.
He was conscious that some other reason was operating to hold him back
from explaining to her; and because he did not understand just what it
was he was ill at ease when he did come face to face with her. He
was grateful for one circumstance--their first meeting was in the old
fish-house at Maquoit, under the hundred curious eyes of the colony. He
had rowed ashore in his dory and went to seek her in the midst of
her activities. She put out both her hands and greeted him with frank
pleasure and seemed to understand his constraint, to anticipate his own
thoughts, to respect his reticence.
"I'm glad you have come back to wait till all your troubles are settled.
The most consoling friends are those who know and who sympathize and who
keep still! Now come with me and listen to the children and see what
the women are doing. You will be proud and glad because you spoke up for
them that day when we went over to Hue and Cry."
After that there was no constraint between them; they kept their own
affairs hidden from each other. The autumn passed and the long, chill
evenings came, and when the fishing-schooner was in port at Maquoit,
between trips, Mayo and the girl spent comfortable hours together,
playing at cards under the widow's red-shaded lamp and under the widow's
approving eyes.
"No, they ain't courting, either," she informed the pestering neighbors.
"Do you suppose I have been twice married and twice a widder not to know
courting when I see it? It's 'Boyd this' and 'Polly that,' to be sure,
the whole continyal time; but she is engaged to somebody else, because
she has been wearing an engagement ring that has come to her since she
has been here. She showed it to me, and she showed it to him! And as for
him, everybody 'longcoast knows how dead gone on him that millionaire
girl is! Now everybody mind their own business!"
As the days passed the widow's counsel seemed to apply to all the
affairs of Maquoit; folks went at their business in good earnest.
The winter wind nipped, the wharf piles were sheathed with ice, and only
hardy men were abroad on the waterfront of the coast city, but the crew
of the _Ethel and May_ were unusually cheerful that day.
The schooner had stayed on Cashes Banks and had ridden out a gale that
had driven other fishermen to shelter. Then in the first lull she had
sent her dories over the rail and had put down her trawls for a set,
and a rousing set it was! It seemed as if the cod, hake, and haddock had
been waiting for that gale to stop so that they might hunt for baited
hooks and have a feast. Nearly every ganging-line had its prize. The bow
pulley in each dory fairly chuckled with delight as the trawl line was
pulled over it. Every three feet was a ganging-line. Each dory strung
out a mile of trawl. And when the dories returned to the schooner and
dumped the catch into the hold the little craft fairly wallowed under
her load.
They caught the market bare; the gale had blown for nearly a week.
Fish-houses bid spiritedly against one another, and when at last a trade
was made and the schooner's crew began to pitchfork the fish into the
winch buckets, and the buckets rose creaking out over the rail, the two
captains went into the office of the fish-house to figure some mighty
gratifying profits.
"Nothing like luck in the fishing game, gents," observed the manager.
"Well, grit counts for something," stated Captain Candage. "We've got a
crew that ain't afraid of a little weather."
"If that's the case, there may be something for you off-coast about now
that's better than the fishing game."
"What's that?" asked the old skipper.
"Wrecking. Seen the morning papers?"
"We've had something to do besides fool with papers."
"That new Bee line steamer, _Conomo_, has been piled up on Razee Reef."
"One time--this last time--she hugged too close!" snapped the young man.
The others bent an inquiring gaze on him. But he did not explain. His
thoughts were busy with the events of that day when the Bee line steamer
started his troubles with Marston.
"Paper says she's considered a total loss," went on the manager. "If
that's so, and the underwriters give her up, there ought to be some fine
picking for men with grit. The board of survey went out to her on a
tug this morning." He gave them their check, and they went aboard their
schooner.
The affair of the _Conomo_ was not mentioned between them until they
were at sea on their way to the eastward again. The piece of news did
not interest Mayo at first, except as a marine disaster that had no
bearing on his own affairs.
Captain Candage was stumping the quarter-deck, puffing at his short,
black pipe. "I don'no' as you feel anyways as I do about it, Captain
Mayo, but it ain't going to be no great outset to us if we make a leg
out to Razee and see what's going on there," he suggested.
"I have no objections," returned Mayo. "But the way things are managed
nowadays in case of wrecks, I don't see much prospect of our getting in
on the thing in any way."
"Mebbe not; but in case they're going to abandon her there'll be some
grabbing, and we might as well grab with the rest of 'em."
"If they can't get her off some junk concern will gamble on her. But
we'll make an excursion of it to see the sights, sir. We can afford a
little trip after what we pulled down to-day."
There was no hope of reaching the wreck before nightfall, so they jogged
comfortably in the light westerly that had succeeded the gale.
Captain Candage took the first watch after the second dog-watch, and
at two bells, or nine o'clock, in the evening, Mayo awoke and heard him
give orders to "pinch her." He heard the sails flap, and knew that the
men were shortening in readiness to lay to. He slipped on his outer
clothing and went on deck.
"We're here," stated the old skipper, "and it looks like some other
moskeeters had got here ahead of us, ready to stick in their little
bills when they get a chance."
It was a clear night, brilliant with stars. In contrast with the
twinkling and pure lights of the heavens, there were dim reds and greens
and yellow-white lights on the surface of the ocean. These lights rocked
and oscillated and tossed as the giant surges swept past.
"I make out half a dozen sail--little fellers--and two tugs," said
Captain Candage. "But get your eye on the main squeeze!"
Mayo looked in the direction of the extended mittened hand.
"Some iceberg, hey?" commented the skipper.
A short half-mile away, a veritable ghost ship, loomed the wrecked
_Conomo_. Spray had beaten over her and had congealed until she seemed
like a mass of ice that had been molded into the shape of a ship. She
gleamed, a spectral figure, under the starry heavens.
A single red light, a baleful blob of color, showed from her main
rigging.
They surveyed her for some time.
"I should say she was spoke for," was Captain Candage's opinion. "It's
high tide now, and a spring tide at that, and them tugs is just loafing
out there--ain't making a move to start her. We can tell more about the
prospect in the morning."
Then the two captains turned in, for the _Ethel and May_ lay to docilely
with a single helmsman at the wheel.
The crisp light of morning did not reveal anything especially new or
important. There were half a dozen small schooners, fishermen, loafing
under shortened canvas in the vicinity of the wreck. One of the tugs
departed shoreward after a time.
Mayo had assured himself, through the schooner's telescope, that the
remaining tug was named _Seba J. Ransom_.
"The captain of that fellow went mate with me on a fishing-steamer
once," he informed Captain Candage. "Jockey me down in reaching distance
and I'll go aboard him in a dory. He may have some news."
Captain Dodge was immensely pleased to see his old chum, and called him
up into the pilot-house and gave him a cigar.
"It's only a loafing job," he said. "I've got to stand by and take off
her captain and crew in case of rough weather or anything breaks loose
more'n what's already busted. They are still hanging by her so as to
deliver her to the buyer."
"Buyer?"
"Yep! To whatever junkman is fool enough to bid her in. She's stuck
fast. Underwriters have gone back on that tug, and are going to auction
her. I'm here to help keep off pirates and take her men ashore after she
has been handed over. You a pirate, Mayo?" he asked, with a grin.
"I'm almost anything nowadays, if there's a dollar to be made,"
returned the young man.
The _Ransom's_ captain gave him a wink. "I'm on to what happened on
board the _Olenia_" he confided. "Feller who was in the crew told me.
You're good enough for old Marston's girl. Why haven't you gone up to
New York and taken--"
"Cut that conversation, Dodge," barked Mayo, his face hard and his jaw
jutting threateningly. "Good day!" added the young man, slamming the
pilot-house door behind him.
His schooner, standing off and on, picked him up.
"There's no use hanging around here," he informed the old skipper.
"They're going to junk her, if they can find anybody fool enough to bid.
She'll be guarded till after the auction."
Therefore the _Ethel and May_ shook out all her canvas and headed full
and by for Maquoit to secure her fresh supply of bait.
"It's a shame," mourned Captain Candage, staring over the taffrail at
the ice-sheathed steamer. "'Most new, and cost two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars to build, if I remember right what the paper said when
she was launched."
"If she was making money they'll have another one in her place," said
Mayo.
"Don'no' about that, sir. The Bee line wasn't none too strong
financially, I'm told--a lot of little fellers who put in what they
could scrape and borrowed the rest. Depends on insurance and their
courage what they do after this." He offered another observation after
he had tamped down a load in his black pipe. "Men will do 'most anything
for money--enough money."
"Seems as if I'd heard that statement before," was Mayo's curt
rejoinder.
"Oh, I know it ain't in any ways new. But the more I think over what has
happened to the _Conomo_, the pickeder seems the point to that remark.
And whilst I was standing off and on, waiting for you, I run close
enough to that steamer to make out a few faces aboard her."
Mayo glanced at him without comment.
"F'r instance, I saw Art Simpson. You know him, don't you?"
"He was captain of Mr. Marston's yacht once."
"Why did he leave her?"
"I heard he had been discharged. That was what the broker said when he
hired me."
"Yes, that's what Simpson said. He made a business of going around and
swearing about it. Seemed to want to have everybody 'longcoast hear him
swear about it. When I see a man make too much of a business of swearing
about another man I get suspicious. After Art Simpson worked his cards
so as to get the job of second officer on board the new _Conomo_ I
got _more_ suspicious. Now that I have seen how that steamer has
been plunked fair and square on Razee, I'm _almighty_ suspicious.
I'm suspicious enough to believe that she banged during Art Simpson's
watch."
"What are you driving at, Captain Candage? Are you hinting that anybody
would plant a man for a job of that kind?"
"Exactly what I'm hinting," drawled the skipper.
"But putting a steamer on the rocks at this time of year!"
"No passengers--and plenty of life-boats for the crew, sir. I have
been hearing a lot of talk about steamboat conditions since I have been
carrying in fish."
"I've found out a little something in that line myself," admitted Mayo.
"There's one thing to be said about Blackbeard and Cap'n Teach and old
Cap Kidd--they went out on the sea and tended to their own pirating;
they didn't stay behind a desk and send out understrappers."
Mayo, in spite of his bitter memories of Julius Mar-ston's attitude,
felt impelled to palliate in some degree the apparent enormities of the
steamboat magnates.
"I don't believe the big fellows know all that's done, Captain Candage.
As responsible parties they wouldn't dare to have those things done. The
understrappers, as you say, are anxious to make good and to earn their
money, and when the word is passed on down to 'em they go at the job
recklessly. I think it will be pretty hard to fix anything on the real
principals. That's why I am out in the cold with my hands tied, just
now."
"I wish we were going to get into the _Conomo_ matter a little, so that
we could do some first-hand scouting. It looks to me like the rankest
job to date, and it may be the opening for a general overhauling. When
deviltry gets to running too hard it generally stubs its toes, sir."
Captain Candage found a responsive gleam in Mayo's eyes and he went on.
"Of course, I didn't hear the talk, nor see the money pass, nor I wa'n't
in the pilot-house when Art Simpson shut his eyes and let her slam. But
having been a sailorman all my life, I smell nasty weather a long ways
off. That steamer was wrecked a-purpose, and she was wrecked at a time
o' year when she can't be salvaged. You don't have to advise the devil
how to build a bonfire."
Mayo did not offer any comment. He seemed to be much occupied by his
thoughts.
Two days later a newspaper came into Mayo's hands at Maquoit, and
he read that the wrecked steamer had been put up at auction by the
underwriters. It was plain that the bidders had shared the insurance
folks' general feeling of pessimism--she had been knocked down for two
thousand five hundred dollars. The newspapers explained that only this
ridiculous sum had been realized because experts had decided that in
the first blow the steamer would slip off the ledges on which she was
impaled and would go down like a plummet in the deep water from which
old Razee cropped. Even the most reckless of gambling junkmen could not
be expected to dare much of an investment in such a peek-a-boo game as
that.
"But I wonder what was the matter with the expert who predicted that,"
mused Mayo. "He doesn't know the old jaw teeth of Razee Reef as well as
I do."
When the _Ethel and May_ set forth from Maquoit on her next trip to
Cashes Banks, Mayo suggested--and he was a bit shamefaced when he did
so--that they might as well go out of their way a little and see what
the junkers were doing at Razee.
Captain Candage eyed his associate with rather quizzical expression.
"Great minds travel, et cetry!" he chuckled. "I was just going to say
that same thing to you. On your mind a little, is it?"
"Yes, and only a little. Of course, there can't be anything in it for
us. Those junkers will stick to her till she ducks for deep water. But
I've been wondering why they think she's going to duck. I seined around
Razee for a while, and the old chap has teeth like a hyena--regular
fangs."
"Maybe they took Art Simpson's say-so," remarked the old man, wrinkling
his nose. "Art would be very encouraging about the prospects of saving
her--that is to say, he would be so in case losing that steamer has
turned his brain."
"Guess there wasn't very much interest by the underwriters," suggested
Mayo. "They weren't stuck very hard, so I've found out. She was mostly
owned in sixty-fourths, and with marine risks up to where they are,
small owners don't insure. It's a wicked thing all through, Candage!
That great, new steamer piled up there by somebody's devilishness! I
believe as you do about the affair! I've been to sea so long that a boat
means something to me besides iron and wood. There's something about
'em--something--"
"Almost human," put in the old man. "I sorrowed over the _Polly_, but
I didn't feel as bad as if she'd been new. It was sort of like when old
folks die of natural causes--you know they have lived about as long
as they can. It's sorrowful to have 'em go, but you have to feel
reconciled. But I know just how it is with you in the case of that
steamer, for I'm a sailor like you. It's just like getting a fine boy
through college, seeing him start out full of life, and courage, and
hopes, and prospects, and then seeing him drop dead at your feet."
There was a quaver in the old man's tones. But Mayo, who knew the souls
of mariners, understood. Under their hard shells there is imagination
that has been nurtured in long, long thoughts. In the calms under
starlit skies, in the black darkness when tossing surges swing beneath
the keel, in the glimmering vistas of sun-lighted seas, sailors ponder
while their more stolid brothers on land allow their souls to doze.
"You are right, Captain Candage. That's why I almost hate to go out to
the _Conomo_. Those infernal ghouls of junkmen will be tearing her into
bits instead of trying to put the breath of life back into her."
The helpless steamer seemed more lonely than when they had visited her
before. The mosquito fleet that had surrounded her, hoping for some
stray pickings, had dispersed. A tug and a couple of lighters were stuck
against her icy sides, and, like leeches, were sucking from her what
they could. They were prosecuting their work industriously, for the
sea was calm in one of those lulls between storms, a wintry truce that
Atlantic coastwise toilers understand and depend on.
Mayo, his curiosity prompting him, determined to go on board one of the
lighters and discover to what extremes the junk jackals were proceeding.
Two of his dorymen ferried him after the schooner had been hove to near
the wreck.
"What's your business?" inquired a man who was bundled in a fur coat and
seemed to be bossing operations.
"Nothing much," confessed the young man from his dory, which was tossing
alongside the lighter. "I'm only a fisherman."
The swinging cranes of the lighters, winches purring, the little
lifting-engines puffing in breathless staccato, were hoisting and
dropping cargo--potatoes in sacks, and huge rolls of print paper. Mayo
was a bit astonished to note that they were not stripping the steamer;
not even her anchors and chains had been disturbed.
"Fend off!" commanded the boss.
Captain Dodge dropped one of the windows of his pilot-house and leaned
on his elbows, thrusting his head out. The tug _Seba J. Ransom_ was
still on the job. She was tied up alongside the wreck, chafing her
fenders against the ice-sheathed hull.
"Hello, Captain Mayo!" he called, a welcoming grin splitting his
features. "Come aboard and have a cigar, and this time I'll keep the
conversation on fish-scales and gurry-butts."
The man in the fur coat glanced from one to the other, and was promptly
placated. "Oh, this is a friend of yours, is he, Captain Dodge?"
"You bet he is. He's been my boss before now."
"If that's the case make yourself at home anywhere. But you know what
some of these fellows alongcoast who call themselves fishermen will do
around a wreck when your back is turned!"
Mayo nodded amicably.
"Step on board," invited the boss.
"I'm all right here in the dory, and I'm out from underfoot, sir. We're
going along to the fishing-grounds in a jiffy. I'm only satisfying
a sailor's curiosity. Wondered what you intended to do with this
proposition."
"We're only grabbing what's handy just now. Some of the cargo forward is
above water. I'm in on this thing in a sort of queer way myself." This
keen-eyed young man who had been so heartily indorsed by the tugboat
skipper afforded the man in the fur coat an opportunity for a little
conversation about himself. "I'm the outside man for Todd & Simonton, of
Boston, and bought on the jump after I'd swapped a wire or so with the
house. Happened into that auction, and bought blind. I believe in a
gamble myself. Then somebody wired to the concern that they had been
stuck good and fine, and they gave me a sizzler of a call-down in a
night message. A man can sit at desk in Boston and think up a whole lot
of things that ain't so. Well, I've flown out here with what equipment
I could scrape up in a hurry, and you can see what I'm doing! There's
enough in sight in the way of loose cargo to square me with the concern.
But, blast the luck! If Jake Simonton had a little grit and would back
me I believe we'd make a killing."
"Of course, it all depends on how she's resting and what will happen
when the next blow comes," said Mayo. "Have you been below?"
"I'm a hustler on a dicker, and a hellion on junk," snapped the boss.
"I'm no sailor, prophet, or marine architect. I simply know that she's
full of water aft and has got something serious the matter with her
innards. I'm pulling enough out to make Simonton sorry he sassed me in a
night message. Only he will never let on that he's sorry. He never lets
loose any boomerangs that will scale around and come back and hit him.
He wants to be in a position to rasp me the next time I make a mistake
in a gamble."
"All the crew gone ashore--the Bee line men?"
"Sure--bag and baggage. We own her as she stands. That second officer
had 'em shivering every time a wave slapped her. I was glad when he got
away. He pretty nigh stampeded _my_ men. Said she was liable to slide
any minute."
The drawling voice of Captain Dodge broke in above them. "Here comes
the tug _Resolute_" he stated. "Mebbe it's another one of them night
messages from your concern, Titus. May want you to put what you can
carry of her in a paper bag and bring it to Boston."
"You never can tell what they're going to do in Boston," growled the
outside man. "I get discouraged, sometimes, trying to be enterprising."
He began to pace, looking worried, and did not reply to several
questions that Mayo put to him. So the young man accepted Captain
Dodge's invitation and climbed to the tugboat's pilot-house. He had a
very human hankering to know what the coming of that tug from the main
signified, and decided to hang around a little while longer, even at the
risk of making Captain Candage impatient.
The _Resolute_ brought a telegram, and the man in the fur coat slapped
it open, took in its gist at one glance, and began to swear with great
gusto.
He climbed into the _Ransom's_ pilot-house, with the air of a man
seeking comfort from friends, and fanned the sheet of paper wrathfully.
"Orders to resell. Get out from under. Take what I can get. Don't want
the gamble. And here I have cleaned a good profit already."
"Why don't you fire back a message advising 'em to hold on?" asked
Captain Dodge.
"And have a gale come up in a few hours and knock her off'n this rock?
That's what would happen. It would be just my luck. I'm only a hired
man, gents. If my firm won't gamble, it ain't up to me. If I disobey
orders and hold on, I'll be scared to death the first time the wind
begins to blow. There's no use in ruining a fine set of nerves for a
firm that won't appreciate the sacrifice, and I need nerve to keep on
working for 'em. I say it ain't up to me. Me for shore as soon as I
load those lighters. Every dollar I get by reselling is velvet, so let
'ergo!"
"What do they tell you to do about price?" ventured Mayo.
"Take the first offer--and hurry about it. They seem to have an idea
that this steamer is standing on her head on the point of a needle, and
that only a blind man will buy her."
He went back to his crew, much disgusted, ordered the freshly arrived
tug to wait for a tow, and spurred laggard toilers with sharp profanity.
"Somebody has been scaring his concern," suggested Mayo, left alone with
Captain Dodge.
"Perhaps so--but it may be good business to get scared, provided they
can unload this onto somebody else for a little ready cash. This spell
of weather can't last much longer. Look at that bank to s'uthard. I
don't know just what is under her in the way of ledges--never knew much
about old Razee. But my prediction is, she'll break in two as soon as
the waves give her any motion."
It was on the tip of Mayo's tongue to argue the matter with the tugboat
man, but he took second thought and shut his mouth.
"You're probably right," he admitted. "I'd better be moving. I don't
see any fish jumping aboard our schooner. We've got to go and catch 'em.
Good-by, Dodge."
When his associate came in over the rail of the _Ethel and May_ Captain
Candage, from force of habit, having picked up his men, gave orders to
let her off into the wind.
"Hold her all-aback!" commanded Mayo. "Excuse me, Captain Candage, for
a cross-order, but I've got a bit of news I want you to hear before we
leave. The junk crowd has got cold feet and are going to sell as she
stands, as soon as they get cargoes for those lighters."
"Well, she does lay in a bad way, and weather is making," said the
skipper, fiddling his forefinger under his nose dubiously.
"They haven't even skimmed the cream off her--probably will get all her
cargo that's worth saving and some loose stuff in the rigging line. By
gad! what a chance for a gamble!"
"It might be for a feller who had so much money he could kiss a slice
of it good-by in case the Atlantic Ocean showed aces," said the old man,
revealing a sailor's familiarity with a popular game.
"There is such a thing as being desperate enough to stake your whole
bundle," declared Mayo. "Captain, I'm young, and I suppose I have got
a young man's folly. I can't expect you to feel the way I feel about a
gamble."
"I may look old, but I haven't gone to seed yet," grumbled the skipper.
"What are you trying to get through you?"
"That fat man on that lighter has a telegram in his pocket from his
folks in Boston, ordering him to take the first offer that is made for
the _Conomo_ as she stands. I'm fool enough to be willing to put in
every dollar I've got, and take a chance."
Captain Candage stared at his associate for a time, and then walked to
the rail and took a long look at the steamer. "I never heard of a feller
ever getting specially rich in the fishing game," he remarked.
Mayo, wild thoughts urging him to desperate ventures, snapped out
corroboration of that dictum..
"And I've known a lot of fellers to go broke in the wrecking game,"
pursued Captain Candage. "How much have you got?" That question came
unexpectedly.
"I've got rising six hundred dollars." He was carrying his little hoard
in his pocket, for a man operating from the hamlet of Maquoit must needs
be his own banker.
"I've got rising six hundred in my own pocket," said the skipper. "That
fat man may have orders to take the first offer that's made, but we've
got to make him one that's big enough so that he won't kick us overboard
and then go hunt up a buyer on the main."
The two Hue and Cry fishermen who had ferried the young man were nesting
their dory on top of other dories, and just forward of the house, and
were within hearing. Neither captain noted with what interest these men
were listening, exchanging glances with the man at the wheel.
"And after we waggle our wad under his nose--and less than a thousand
will be an insult, so I figger--what have we got left to operate with?
It won't do us any good to sail round that steamer for the rest of the
winter and admire her. What was you thinking, Mayo, of trying to work
him for a snap bargain, now that he's here on the spot and anxious to
sell, and then grabbing off a little quick profit by peddling her to
somebody else?"
"No, sir!" cried the young man, with decision. "I've got my own good
reasons for wanting to make this job the whole hog or not a bristle! I
won't go into it on any other plan."
"Well, we'll be into something, all right, after we invest our
money--the whole lump. We'll most likely be in a scrape, not a dollar
left to hire men or buy wrecking outfit."
The two men finished lashing the dories and went forward.
"It's a wild scheme, and I'm a fool to be thinking about it, Captain
Candage. But wild schemes appeal to me just now. I can make some more
money by working hard and saving it, a few dollars at a time, but I
never expect to see another chance like this. Oh yes, I see that bank in
the south!" His eyes followed the skipper's gloomy stare. "By to-morrow
at this time she may be forty fathoms under. But here's the way I feel."
He pulled out his wallet and slapped it down on the roof of the house.
"All on the turn of one card! And there comes the blow that will turn
it!" He pointed south into the slaty clouds.
Captain Candage paused in his patrol of the quarterdeck and gazed down
on the wallet. Then he began to tug at his own. "I'm no dead one, even
if my hair is gray," he grumbled.
The two captains looked at the two wallets, and then at each other. The
next moment their attention was fully taken up by another matter. Their
crew of fifteen men came marching aft and lined up forward of the house.
A spokesman stepped out.
"Excuse us, captings, for meddling into something that p'raps ain't
none of our business. We ain't meaning to peek nor pry, but some of
us couldn't help overhearing. We've cleaned out our pockets. Here it
is--three hundred and sixty-eight dollars and thirty-seven cents. Will
you let me step onto the quarter-deck and lay it down 'side of them
wallets?" He accepted their amazed silence as consent, and made his
deposit solemnly.
"But this is all a gamble, and a mighty uncertain one," protested Mayo.
"We 'ain't never had no chance to be sports before in all our lives,"
pleaded the man. "We wouldn't have had that money if you two heroes
hadn't give us the chance you have. We wa'n't more'n half men before.
Now we can hold up our heads. You'll make us feel mighty mean, as if we
wasn't fit to be along with you, if you won't let us in."
"You bet you can come in, boys!" shouted Captain Candage. "I know how
you feel."
"And another thing," went on the spokesman. "We 'ain't had much time to
talk this over; we rushed aft here as soon as we heard and had cleaned
out our pockets. But we've said enough to each other so that we can
tell you that all of us will turn to on that wreck with you and work for
nothing till--till--well, whatever happens. Don't want wages! Don't need
promises! And if she sinks, we'll sing a song and go back to fishing
again."
The man at the wheel let go the spokes and came forward and deposited
a handful of money beside the rest. "There's mine. I wisht it was a
million; it would go just as free."
"Boys, I'd make a speech to you--but my throat is too full," choked
Mayo. "I know better, now, why something called me over to Hue and
Cry last summer. Hard over with that wheel! Jockey her down toward the
wreck!"
When they were within hailing distance of the lighter Mayo raised his
megaphone. "Will you take fifteen hundred dollars--cash--now--for that
wreck, as you leave her when you've loaded those lighters?" he shouted.
There was a long period of silence. Then the man in the fur coat
replied, through his hollowed hands: "Yes--and blast the fools in Boston
who are making me sell!"
XXVII ~ THE TEMPEST TURNS ITS CARD
And one thing which we have to crave,
Is that he may have a watery grave.
So well heave him down into some dark hole,
Where the sharks 'll have his body and the devil have his soul.
With a big bow wow!
Tow row row!
Pal de, rai de, ri do day!
--Boston.
After the man in the fur coat had placed a hastily executed bill of sale
in Mayo's hands, he frankly declared that his interest in the fortune of
the wrecked steamer had ceased.
"The Resolute reports that storm signals are displayed. I'll simply make
sure of what I've got. I'll play the game as those quitters in Boston
seem to want me to play it."
The tugs, departing with their tows, squalled salutes to the little
schooner hove to under the counter of the _Conomo_.
"Sounds like they was making fun of us," growled Candage. He scowled
into the gray skies and across the lonely sea.
Mayo, too, sensed a derisive note in the whistle-toots. Depression had
promptly followed the excitement that had spurred him into this venture.
The crackle of the legal paper in his reefer pocket only accentuated his
gloom. That paper seemed to represent so little now. It was not merely
his own gamble--he had drawn into a desperate undertaking men who
could not afford to lose. They had put all their little prosperity in
jeopardy. There were women and children ashore to consider. He and
his fellows now owned that great steamer which loomed there under the
brooding heavens. But it was a precarious possession. The loss of her
now would mean not merely the loss of all their little hoards--it would
mean the loss of hope, and the sacrifice of expectations, and the regret
of men who have failed in a big task. He realized how stinging would be
defeat, for he was building the prospects of his future upon winning in
this thing.
Hope almost failed to reassure him as he gazed first at the departing
lighters and then at the ice-panoplied hulk on Razee.
Surely no pauper ever had a more unwieldy elephant on his hands, without
a wisp of hay in sight for food.. He had seen wrecking operations:
money, men, and gigantic equipment often failed to win. Technical skill
and expert knowledge were required. He did not know what an examination
of her hull would reveal. He had bought as boys swap jack-knives--sight
denied! He confessed to himself that even the pittance they had
gambled on this hazard had been spent with the recklessness of folly,
considering that they had spent their all. They had nothing left to
operate with. It was like a man tying his hands behind him before he
jumped overboard.
Oh, that was a lonely sea! It was gray and surly and ominous.
Black smoke from the distant tugs waved dismal farewell. A chill wind
had begun to harp through the cordage of the little schooner; the
moan--far flung, mystic, a voice from nowhere--that presages the tempest
crooned in his ears.
"I can smell something in this weather that's worse than scorched-on
hasty pudding," stated Captain Can-dage. "I don't know just how you
feel, sir, but if a feller should ride up here in a hearse about now
and want my option on her for what I paid, I believe I'd dicker with him
before we come to blows."
"I can't blame you," confessed the young man. "This seems to be another
case of 'Now that we've got it, what the devil shall we do with it?'"
"Let's pile ashore on the trail of them lighters and dicker it, and be
sensible," advised his associate. "I feel as if I owned a share in old
Poppocatterpettul--or whatever that mountain is--and had been ordered to
move it in a shawl-strap."
Mayo surveyed their newly acquired property through the advancing dusk.
"I believe I know a feller we can unload onto," persisted Candage. "He
has done some wrecking, and is a reckless cuss."
"Look here," snapped his associate, "we'll settle one point right now,
sir. I'm not hurrahing over this prospect--not at all. But I'm in it,
and I'm going to stick on my original plan. I don't want anybody in with
me who is going to keep looking back and whining. If everything goes by
the board, you won't hear a whicker out of me. If you want to quit now,
Captain Candage, go ahead, and I'll mortgage my future to pay back what
you have risked. Now what do you say?"
"Why, I say you're talking just the way I like to hear a man talk,"
declared the skipper, stoutly. "I'll be cursed if I like to go into a
thing with any half-hearted feller. You're _my_ kind, and after this
you'll find me _your_ kind." He turned and shouted commands. "Get in
mains'l, close reef fores'l, and let her ride with that and jumbo."
"That's the idea!" commended Mayo. "The Atlantic Ocean is getting ready
to deal a hand in this game. We have got to stick close if we're going
to see what cards we draw."
A fishing-schooner, if well handled, is a veritable stormy petrel in
riding out a blow. Even the ominous signs of tempest did not daunt the
two captains. They were there to guard their property and to have their
hopes or their fears realized.
"If the _Conomo_ has got her grit with her and lives through it," said
Captain Candage, "we'll be here to give her three cheers when it's over.
And if she goes down we'll be on deck to flap her a fare-ye-well."
In that spirit they snugged everything on board the schooner and
prepared to defy the storm. It came in the night, with a howl of blast
and a fusillade of sleet like bird-shot. It stamped upon the throbbing
sea and made tumult in water and air. At midnight they were wallowing
with only a forestays'l that was iced to the hardness of boiler plate.
But though the vast surges flung their mighty arms in efforts to grasp
the schooner, she dodged and danced on her nimble way and frustrated
their malignity. Her men did not sleep; they thawed themselves in relays
and swarmed on deck again. Each seemed to be animated by personal and
vital interest.
"You can't buy crews like this one with wages," observed Captain
Candage, icicled beard close to Mayo's ear. "I reckon it was about as my
Polly said--you cast bread on the waters when you took their part on Hue
and Cry."
The young man, clinging to a cleat and watching the struggles of their
craft, waved a mittened hand to signify that he agreed. In that riot
of tempest and ruck of sea he was straining his eyes, trying to get a
glimpse of the hulk on Razee. But the schooner had worked her way too
far off to the west, pressed to leeward by the relentless palm of the
storm.
Then at last came morning, an opaque dawn that was shrouded with
swirling snow, and all was hidden from their eyes except the tumbling
mountains of water which swept to them, threatened to engulf them,
and then melted under their keel. The captains could only guess at the
extent of their drift, but when the wind quieted after midday, and they
were able to get sail on the schooner, they were in no doubt as to the
direction in which the steamer must lie. They began their sloshing ratch
back to east.
Mayo braved nipping wind and iced rigging and took the glass to the main
crosstrees. He remained there though he was chilled through and through.
At last, near the horizon's rim, he spied a yeasty tumult of the sea,
marking some obstruction at which the waves were tussling. In the midst
of this white welter there was a shape that was almost spectral under
the gray skies. The little schooner pitched so ferociously that only
occasionally could he bring this object into the range of the glass. But
he made sure at last. He clutched the glass and tobogganed to deck down
the slippery shrouds.
"She's there, Captain Candage!" he shouted. "The teeth of old Razee are
still biting."
They were back to her again before the early night descended. She was
iced to the main truck, and the spray had deposited hillocks of ice on
her deck, weighting her down upon the ledges which had pinioned her. But
in spite of the battering she had received her position had not changed.
They circled her--the <DW40> of a schooner seeming pitifully inadequate
to cope with this monster craft.
"Well," sighed Captain Candage, "thank the Lord she's still here. Our
work is cut out for us now--whatever it is we can do with her. They say
a mouse set a lion loose once by gnawing his ropes. It looks to me as if
we're going to have some blasted slow gnawing here."
They lay by her that night in a quieting sea, and spent wakeful hours in
the cabin, struggling rather helplessly with schemes.
"Of course, it's comforting to find her here and to know that the
Atlantic Ocean will have to get more muscle to move her," said Candage.
"And then again, it ain't so darnation comforting. Looks to me as if
she's stuck there so solid that you couldn't joggle her off if you
hove the moon at her. I reckon my hope has been what yours has been,
Mayo--salvage her whole instead of junking her."
"I'm a sailor, not a junkman. I'd almost rather let my money go, Captain
Candage, than be a party to smashing up that new steamer into old iron.
She has fooled the guessers by sticking where she is. It has been my
hope from the first that she can be floated. She is not a rusted old
iron rattletrap. Of course, she's got a hole in her, and we can see now
that she's planted mighty solid. But she is sound and tight, I'll wager,
in all her parts except where that wound is. I suppose most men who came
along here now would guess that she can't be got off whole. I'm going
into this thing and try to fool _those_ guessers, too."
"That's the only real gamble," agreed the skipper. "We'd only make days'
wages by carving her into a junk-pile. A scrap-heap ain't worth much
except as old iron at half a cent a pound; but a new steamer like that
is worth two hundred thousand dollars, by gorry! if she's afloat."
"Well, we've got to do something besides lay to here and look at
her lines. In the first place, I want to know what's the matter with
her--about how much of a hole she has got. Our eyes ought to tell us a
little something."
And on that errand Mayo departed the next morning after breakfast.
Only a sailor, young, alert, and bold, could have scaled the side of
the steamer in that weather. Her ladder was in place, but nothing much
except an exaggerated icicle. But it was on the lee side of her, and
his dory was fairly well protected from the rush of the seas. With his
hatchet he hacked foothold on the ladder, left his men in the dory, and
notched his perilous way to the deck. The fore-hatch was open, just as
the hastily departing salvagers had left it. He went below, down the
frosted iron ladder. He was fronted with a cheerless aspect. Cargo and
water hid what damage she had suffered. The fat man had secured most of
the cargo that the water had not ruined.
He climbed back on deck and explored amidships and aft. Her engine-room
was partially flooded, for her forepeak was propped on the higher part
of the reef, and water had settled aft. Her crew's quarters were above
the main-deck, as is the case with most cargo-carriers of the newer
type. He found plenty of tinned food in the steward's domains, coal in
tie galley bunker, and there was bedding in the officers' staterooms.
Mayo scrambled back to his dory and went aboard the schooner. He
reported his findings.
"And here's the only sensible plan for the present, Captain Candage:
I'll take two men and a dory and go aboard and guard our property.
Somebody must stay here--and I don't want you to take the chances
on that wreck. You've got a daughter. You probably know more of the
shipyard crowd in Limeport than I do. That's the nearest city, and I
believe that when you report that the _Conomo_ is holding after this
storm you can hire some equipment on credit and borrow some money."
"I swear I'll do my best. I know a lot of water-front folks, and I've
always paid my bills."
"We need stuff for the whole wrecking game--engine, pumps, and all the
rest. You go and scout on shore and capture a few men and bring 'em out
here to look our prospect over."
"Offer 'em a lay?"
"No, sir. We'll make this a close corporation. I don't propose to let a
lot of land sharks in here to manipulate us out of what's our own. It's
our gamble, and we want what's coming out of it. Go ashore and see what
you can do on prices and terms. Don't close anything till you and I
have conferred. I'll have a schedule of needs made up by the time you're
back."
Half an hour later he was located on the wreck with the two men he had
selected as his companions. They carried tackle with them, with
which they hoisted after them their dory--their main bower in case of
emergency.
And the sea which Mayo surveyed was more lonely than ever, for the
_Ethel and May_ was standing off across the heaving surface toward the
main and the hulk was left alone in the expanse of ocean. He felt very
much of a pygmy and very helpless as he scrambled about over the icy
decks. He remembered that faith can move mountains, but he was as yet
unable to determine just what power would be able to move that steamer,
into whose vitals the reef of Razee had poked its teeth.
At eight bells, midnight, Mayo turned out of his berth, for he heard
something that interested him. It was a soft pattering, a gentle
swishing. As a mariner, he knew how sudden can be meteorological changes
on the coast in winter. When the north winds have raged and howled and
have blown themselves out, spitting sleet and snow, the gentler south
winds have their innings and bear balmier moisture from the Gulf Stream.
He poked his head out and felt a soft air and warm rain. He had been
hoping and half expecting that a change of weather would bring this
condition--known as a January thaw. He went back to his bunk, much
comforted.
A bright sun awoke him. Clear skies had succeeded the rain, All was
dripping and melting. Chunks of ice were dropping from the steamer's
stubby masts, and her scuppers were beginning to discharge water from
the softening mass on her deck.
He and his little crew ate breakfast with great good cheer, then secured
axes from the steamer's tool-house and began to chop watercourses in the
ice. A benignant sun in a cloudless sky had enlisted himself as a member
of the wrecking crew on Razee Reef. That weather would soon clear the
_Conomo_ of her sheathing.
This was a cheerful prospect, because rigging and deck equipment of
various kinds would be released. The steamer began to look like a less
discouraging proposition. She was no longer the icicle that had put a
chill into underwriters and bidders. Mayo lost the somberness that had
weighed upon him. The sea did not seem so lonely and so threatening. He
felt that he could show something tangible and hopeful to the parties
whom Captain Can-dage might be able to solicit.
When he saw a tug approaching in the afternoon his optimism suggested
that it brought the skipper and his party; his own hopes were so high
now that he felt that men with equipment and money would be eager
to loan it to parties who possessed such excellent prospects. In this
fashion he translated this apparent haste to get to the reef.
But it was not Captain Candage who hailed him when the tug eased herself
against the ladder, her screw churning the sea in reverse. A stranger
came out of the pilothouse of the _Resolute_, carrying a big leather
suit-case. He was plainly the passenger who had chartered her. A
deck-hand tossed a cast-line to the steamer's deck, and Mayo promptly
threw it back.
"You can't come aboard."
"Who says so?"
"I say so. I have a bill of sale of her in my pocket."
"I don't recognize it. The law will have something to say about that
later."
"I don't care what the law may say later. I'm talking right now. We own
this steamer. What are you here for?"
"I left quite a lot of little personal belongings on her. I went away in
a hurry. I want to come aboard with this valise and get 'em."
"They must be pretty valuable belongings, seeing that you've chartered a
tug to come out here."
"A fellow's own property means more to him than it does to anybody else.
Now that I've gone to all this expense, you ain't mean enough are you,
to keep me off? This is between sailors."
"Who are you?"
The man hesitated. "Well, if I've got to be introduced I'll say my name
is Simpson--I have been second officer aboard there."
"You're not here with any legal papers--you're not trying any trick to
get possession, are you?"
"Take all in hearing to witness that I ain't! I'll pick up my stuff and
leave in ten minutes."
"Come aboard, then."
The man set down his suit-case and hitched a heave-line to the handle.
He coiled the line and handed it to a deck-hand. "Throw that to me when
I'm on deck," he ordered. Then he came up the ladder.
"Heave, and I'll hoist up the bag," suggested Mayo at the rail.
"Wait till I get there," barked the visitor, still climbing. He caught
the line after he had reached the rail and pulled up the case with some
effort and great care.
"Look here, that bag isn't empty," said Mayo.
"Who said it was? I'm carrying around in it all I own in the world. I'm
starting for New York as soon as this tug sets me ashore."
He picked up the case and started for the officers' quarters. Mayo went
along, too.
"You afraid I'm going to steal her engine out of her? The few little
things of mine I'm after were hidden away, and that's how I forgot 'em.
Now don't insult me by following me around as if I was a thief."
"I don't know just what you are," muttered the young man. "There's
something that looks mighty phony about this, but I haven't got you
sized up just yet."
"I'll go back--go back right now. I supposed I was asking a favor of
a gentleman and a brother officer." He started on his return to the
ladder.
"Go get your stuff," commanded Mayo. "If your business here is all your
own, I don't want to spy on you."
He went back to question the captain of the tug for information in
regard to the _Ethel and May_.
"She's in Limeport," reported the captain, elbows on his window-sill.
"Came past her in the inner harbor this morning. You've bit off quite a
chunk here, haven't you? We all thought this storm had sluiced her. Made
quite a stir up and down the water-front when old Can-dage blew along
and reported that she had lived it out."
"Reckon some of the panic boys are talking in another key about the
prospects out here, about now, aren't they?"
"Ain't so sure about that, sir," stated the towboat man, loafing into an
easier attitude.
"Isn't there a feeling on shore that we are likely to make good on
this proposition?" There was solicitude in Mayo's voice. He was acutely
anxious. On the sentiment ashore depended Captain Candage's success.
"Can't say that I hear of any!"
"But the talk must--"
"There ain't very much talk--not now. It's generally reckoned that this
packet is a gone goose and folks are talking about something else."
"But she is here--she is upright and fast! She is--"
The towboat man was not enough interested to listen to statements
concerning the _Conomo's_ condition. "Look-a-here, son," he broke in,
"do you think for a minute that this thing wouldn't have been grabbed
up by the real people if there had been any show of a make? I know there
isn't a show!"
"How do you know?" demanded Mayo, with indignation.
"Haven't I been talking with the representative of one of the biggest
salvaging companies on the Atlantic coast? He's there in Limeport
now--was aboard my tug this morning."
"How does he know?"
"Well, he does know. That's his business. And everybody in Limeport
knows what he has said. He hasn't been bashful about expressing his
opinion."
Mayo leaned over the rail, a baleful light in his eyes indicating what
his own opinions regarding this unknown detractor were, just then.
"I'd like to know who this Lord Guess-so is--barking behind honest men's
backs!"
"Mr. Fogg! That's him! Seems to know his business!"
"Fogg?"
"'Exactly!' That's his great word," explained the other, grinning. "Some
chap, too, with cigars and language!"
"By the gods, now I know who chartered this tug!" he shouted. "What kind
of a fool am I getting to be?"
He turned and ran toward the officers' quarters. He leaped into the main
passageway and explored headlong the staterooms. There was no sign of
his visitor.
At that moment, in the tumult of his thoughts, he had only a glimmering
of an idea as to what might be the motive of the man's visit. But he
was certain, now, that a wretch who had deliberately wrecked a rival
steamer--if Candage's suspicions were correct--would do almost anything
else for money.
A narrow companionway with brass rails led below to the crew's quarters.
Mayo, coming to the head of it, saw the man hurrying to its foot. The
captain grasped the rails and slid down with one swoop.
"What in the devil's name are you doing?" he gasped.
The intruder grabbed him and threw him to one side, and started up the
companionway. He had dropped the suit-case to seize Mayo, and it bounced
in a way to show that it was empty.
Mayo leaped and grasped the other's legs as he was mounting. The man
kicked him ferociously in the breast before the attacker managed to
pinion the legs in his arms. They went down together, rolling over and
over.
The stranger was stocky and strong, his muscles toughened by a sailor's
activities. Moreover, he seemed to be animated by something more than a
mere grudge or desire to defend himself; he fought with frenzy, beating
his fists into Mayo's face and sides as they rolled. Then he began to
shout. He fairly screamed, struggling to release himself.
But his assailant was just as tough and just as desperate, and he had
a younger man's superior agility. The other had forced the fight. Mayo
proposed to hang to him until he discovered the meaning of this peculiar
ferocity.
He flipped across his prisoner, clutched him by both ears, and rapped
the man's head so smartly on the deck planks that his victim relaxed,
half unconscious.
Then he opened staring eyes. "Let me go! Let me go! I quit. Run for it.
Let me run. We're goners!" he squalled.
"Run? Why?" demanded the victor.
"Dynamite! I've planted it. The fuse is going."
"Where is it?"
"Below--somewhere. I've forgot. I, can't remember. My mind is gone. I'm
too scared to think. Run!"
Mayo jumped up and yanked the man to his feet. "Take me to it!" he
shouted.
"There ain't time. I guessed at the fuse--it may burn quicker than I
reckoned."
The young man drove his fist into the other's face and knocked him down.
Then he jerked him upright again.
"Take me where you've planted that dynamite or we'll stay here and go up
together. And now you know I mean what I say."
The last blow had cowed his man; he raised his fist again.
The visitor leaped away from him and ran along the lower deck, Mayo
at his heels. He led the way aft. In the gloom of betweendecks there
gleamed a red spark. Mayo rushed to it, whipped off his cap, and snuffed
the baleful glow. When he was sure that the fuse was dead he heard his
man scrambling up the companion ladder. He pursued and caught the quarry
as he gained the upper deck, and buffeted the man about the ears and
forced him into a stateroom.
"This means state prison for you! You were guilty of barratry before,
and you know it! How did you dare to try this last trick?"
"I had my orders."
"Orders from what man?"
"No matter. You needn't ask. I won't tell." The stranger was sullen, and
had recovered some of his assurance, now that his fear of the dynamite
was removed.
"You're a lunatic. You ought to have known you couldn't pull off a thing
of this kind."
"I don't know about that! It was working pretty slick. If she had split
and gone off these ledges, you couldn't have proved anything special.
I've got good backing. You better let me go."
Mayo glared at him, deprived of speech by this effrontrery.
"You'd better come over with the big fellows," advised the man. "I can
tell you right now that every hole in Limeport has been plugged against
you. You can't hire equipment there, or get a cent's credit. It has all
been nicely attended to. You're here fooling with a dead duck. You'd be
better off if that dynamite had been let alone to split her."
The entire uselessness of words in a situation like this, the inadequacy
of speech to meet such brazen boldness, checked Mayo's oath-peppered
anathema. He pulled the key from the stateroom door and menaced the
prisoner with his fist when the man started to follow him out.
"You don't dare to keep me aboard here! Take warning by what they have
already done to you, Mayo! I'm sure of my backing."
"You'll have a chance to use it!" retorted the young man. He dodged out
and locked the stateroom door.
"Your passenger is not going back with you, sir," he called down over
the rail to the towboat captain.
"I take my orders from him."
"You are taking them from me now. Cast off!".
"Look here--"
"I mean what I say, sir. That man you brought out here is going to stay
till I can put him into the hands of the police."
"What has he done?"
"The less you know about the matter the better it will be for yourself
and your boat! You tell the man who chartered your tug--"
"You have him aboard, there!"
Mayo looked straight into the towboat man's eyes.
"You tell Mr. Fogg, who chartered your tug, that I have his man under
lock and key and that the more riot he starts over the matter the better
I will be satisfied. And don't bring any more passengers out here unless
they are police officers." Then he roared in his master-mariner tones:
"Cast off your lines, sir. You know what the admiralty law is!"
The captain nodded, closed his pilot-house window, and clanged his bell.
Mayo knew by his mystified air that he was not wholly in the confidence
of his passenger and his employer.
This bungling, barefaced attempt to destroy the steamer touched Mayo's
pride as deeply as it stirred his wrath. Fogg evidently viewed the
pretensions of the new ownership with contempt. He must have belief in
his own power to ruin and to escape consequences, pondered the young
man. He had put Mayo and his humble associates on the plane of the
ordinary piratical wreckers of the coast-men who grabbed without law or
right, who must be prepared to fight other pirates of the same ilk, and
whose affairs could have no standing in a court of law.
Even more disquieting were the statements that the avenues of credit
ashore had been closed. Malicious assertions could ruin the project more
effectually than could dynamite. But now that the _Conomo_ had withstood
the battering of a gale and bulked large on the reef, a visible pledge
of value, it did seem that Captain Candage must be able to find somebody
who would back them.
For two days Mayo waited with much impatience, he and his men doing such
preliminary work as offered itself.
He expected that Fogg would send a relief expedition, but his
apprehensions bore no fruit. His prisoner was sourly reticent and by the
few words he did drop seemed to console himself with the certainty that
retribution awaited Mayo.
On the third day came the schooner. She came listlessly, under a
light wind, and her limp sails seemed to express discouragement and
disappointment. Mayo, gazing across to her as she approached, received
that impression, in spite of his hopes. He got a glimpse of Captain
Candage's face as he came to the steamer's side in his dory, and his
fears were confirmed.
"'Tain't no use," was the skipper's laconic report as he swung up the
ladder.
"You mean to say you didn't get a rise out of anybody?"
"Nothing doing nowhere. There's a fat man named Fogg in Limeport, and he
is spreading talk that we 'ain't got law or prospects. Got a few men to
listen to me, but they shooed me off when they found that we wouldn't
take 'em in and give 'em all the profits. Went to Maquoit and tried to
get Deacon Rowley into the thing--and when I go and beg favors of Deacon
Rowley, you can imagine how desperate I am. He's a cash-down fellow--you
have found that out."
"But couldn't you show him that this is the best gamble on the coast?"
"He ain't a gambler; he's a sure-thing operator. And when he knew that
we had put in all our cash, he threatened to take the schooner away from
us unless we go back to fishing and 'be sensible'--that's the way he put
it. So then him and me had that postponed row."
"But look at her," pleaded Mayo, waving his hand, "Ice off her, sound in
all her rivets after her beating. If we could get the right men out here
now--"
"I ain't confident, myself, no more," stated Captain Candage, running
an eye of disfavor over their property. "If ye get out here away from
level-headed business men and dream about what might happen, you can
fool yourself. I can see how it is with you. But I've been ashore, and
I've got it put to me good and plenty. I did think of one way of getting
some money, but I come to my senses and give it up."
"Getting money--how?"
"No matter. I'd cut off both hands before I'd let them hands take that
money for a desp'rit thing like this. Let's sell her for scrap to
the first man who'll take her--and then mind our own business and go
fishing."
"Will you take your turn aboard here and let me go ashore?"
"There ain't no sense in us wasting more time."
"I've done my trick here, Captain Candage, and it has been a good one.
I only ask you to take your trick, as a shipmate should. Keep a dozen of
the men here with you. There's plenty of grub. Stand off all comers till
I get back."
"What are you going to do?"
"Make a man's try, sir, before I let 'em dump us. We can always go
fishing. But there's only one_ Conomo_."
"I'll stay. It's only fair to you to have your chance ashore. And I've
got an almighty good rifle aboard that schooner," stated the skipper.
"Send it to me by one of the men."
"You may need it," stated Captain Mayo, with grim set to his jaw. "You
come with me. I want to show you a bird that flew aboard here the other
day."
Outside the stateroom door he halted Captain Candage, who was following
on his heels, taking Mayo's statement literally, and showing only mild
interest.
"Captain Candage, your man, Art Simpson, is in this stateroom. He came
out here on a tug with a bag of dynamite, and intended to blow up this
wreck."
"Gawd-a-mighty, ain't they going to stop at anything?" croaked the old
skipper.
"It's about time for us to find out how much of this is reckless
devilishness on the part of hired men and how much the big men really
know of what is being done on this coast, sir. And that's why I'm
holding this man Simpson."
"Let me at him!" pleaded Candage. "I'll crack his shell for him! I'll
get at his meat!"
Mayo unlocked the door and walked in.
"Simpson, you--" bawled the old skipper, and then halted in confusion,
his mouth wide open.
"This ain't Art Simpson!" he declared, after amazed survey of the
glowering stranger. "Who be ye?"
"None of your infernal business! When you do know who I am you'll
discover that you have a tough proposition on your hands."
"We realize that already, without knowing your name," retorted Mayo.
"I'm not worrying; it's for you to do the worrying! I have given you
your warning! Now take what's coming to you from the men who are behind
me."
"What's your name--that's what I've asked you?" demanded Candage.
"None of your business--that's what I have told you."
"We'll get some light on that subject after I have you on shore," said
Mayo. "Come on! You're going!"
"Sooner the better!" agreed the stranger. "I'll relish seeing you get
yours!"
Mayo wasted no time. He sent his prisoner down the ladder to the dory
ahead of him, and put out his hand to the old skipper.
"If I can't do better I'll take that devil, whoever he is, by the heels,
and bat out the brains of the other pirates."
"I reckon that they'll back down when they, see that you've caught him
foul," stated the skipper, consolingly. "I've got a lot of confidence
in your grit, sir. But I must say it's a terrible tricky gang we're up
against, so it seems to me."
"This may be just the right string for us to pull," returned Mayo;
"there's no pleading with them, but we may be able to scare 'em."
"I'm afraid I'm too much inclined to look on the dark side," confessed
Captain Candage. "You're going to find 'em all agin' ye ashore, sir.
But the last words my Polly tells me to say to you was to keep up your
courage and not to mind my growling. She thinks We have got a sure thing
here--and that shows how little a girl knows about men's work!"
And yet, that one little message of good cheer from the main so
comforted Mayo that he went on his way with the whimsical thought that
girls who knew just the right time to give a pat and bestow a smile did
understand man's work mighty well.
XXVIII ~ GIRL'S HELP AND MAN'S WORK
We know the tricks of wind and tide
That make and mean disaster,
And balk 'em, too, the Wren and me,
Off on the Old Man's Pastur'.
Day out and in the blackfish there
Go wabbling out and under,
And nights we watch the coasters creep
From light to light in yonder.
--The Skipper.
It was the period of January calms--that lull between the tempest
ravings of the equinoxes, and the _Ethel and May_ made slow time of it
on her return to the main. In Mayo's mood of anxious impatience, hope in
his affairs was as baffling as the winds in the little schooner's sails.
His passenger sat on the rail and gave the pacing captain occasional
glances in which irony and sullenness were mingled.
"So you're going to put me into court, eh?" he inquired, when at last
they drifted past the end of the breakwater at Limeport. "Well, that
will give you a good excuse for throwing up your work on that wreck."
Mayo kept on walking and did not reply. He had been pondering on the
question of what to do with this new "elephant" on his hands. In a way,
this stranger was an unwieldy proposition to handle in conjunction with
the problem of the _Conomo_.
"Just understand that I don't give a hoot in a scuttlebutt if you do
turn me over to the police," pursued the man. "I'm going to be taken
care of. So will you! You'll be tied up! Courts like to have chief
witnesses attend strictly to the job."
The young man had only a sailor's vague knowledge of the procedure of
courts of law; but that knowledge and considerable hearsay had convinced
him that law was lagging, exacting, and overbearing.
All his time, his best efforts, his presence were needed in the gigantic
task he had undertaken at Razee. To allow himself to be mired in a law
scrape together with this person, even in criminal prosecution of the
man, surely meant delay, along with repeated interruption of his work,
if not its abandonment for a time.
"Where's your boss?" he demanded, stopping in front of the prisoner.
"Name, please?"
"Don't try to bluff me. Fogg, I mean!"
"You'll probably find Mr. Fogg at the Nicholas Hotel."
"I'm going to walk you up there. If you try to run away--"
"Run your Aunt Huldah! Piff, son! Now you're showing sense. Take me to
Mr. Fogg. You'll be shown a few things."
They had no difficulty in finding Mr. Fogg. He was in front of the fire
in the office of the Nicholas, toasting his back and warming his slowly
fanning palms, and talking to a group of men.
He affected non-recognition of Mayo when the young man asked, brusquely,
if he might see him in private.
"Certainly, sir. And your friend?"
"Yes."
The stranger, following up the stairs with Mayo, nudged his companion.
"He's a wonder! 'And your friend?'" he quoted with a chuckle. "No coarse
work about that!"
Mayo had firmly decided in his mind that his present business was the
only matter he would discuss with Fletcher Fogg. Even though the just
wrath of an innocent man, ruined and persecuted, prompted him to assail
this smug trickster with tongue, and even with fists, he bound himself
by mental promise to wait until he had proofs other than vague words and
his own convictions.
"And now--" invited Fogg, when he had closed the door of his room,
waiting tmtil his callers had entered.
"Yes, _now!_" blurted Captain Mayo. "Not _then_, Mr. Fogg! We'll have
that settled later, when I make you pay for what you did to me. This
man here, you know him, of course! He tried to dynamite the _Conomo_.
I caught him in the act. He is your man. He has made his boasts that he
would be protected."
Mr. Fogg turned a cold stare upon the man's appreciative grin.
"I never saw this person before, sir."
"I know better!" Mayo leaped to a conclusion, and bluffed. "I can prove
by men here in this city that you have been talking with him."
"He may have been one of the persons who came to me asking for work on
the wreck, providing my concern decided to salvage. But we concluded
not to undertake the work, and I paid no attention to him. As far as any
memory of mine is concerned, I never saw him before, I say."
"You don't represent any salvage company," insisted Mayo. "You have come
here to interfere with anybody who tries to salvage that steamer."
"What is your business with me, sir? Get somewhere!"
"I have come to show you this man. If you'll keep your hands off my
affairs, shut your mouth, and stop telling men here that the plan to
salvage is hopeless, I'll turn this man over to you. You know what I
ought to do to you right here and now, Fogg," he cried, savagely. "But
I'm not going to bother--not now. I'm here to trade with you on this one
matter."
"I'm not interested."
"Then I shall take this man to the police station and lodge my
complaint. When criminal prosecution starts you'll see what happens to
you."
"Go as far as you like," consented Mr. Fogg, listlessly. "You can't make
me responsible for the acts of a person I don't know from Adam."
"Is that your last word?"
"Of course it is!" snapped the promoter. "You must be a lunatic to think
anything else."
"Very well. May I use your telephone to call the police?"
"Certainly." Mr. Fogg lighted a cigar and picked up a newspaper.
"Just a moment before you use that 'phone," objected the third member
of the party. "I want an understanding. You please step out of the room,
Mayo."
"Stay where you are," commanded Fogg. "I'll give no chance for any
underhand work." He scowled when the prisoner winked at him. "This looks
to me like a put-up job between you two."
"There's nothing put up between us," declared the man. "There'd better
be something put up between _you_ two. The thing can go about so far,
where I'm concerned, and no farther. I want an understanding, I say!"
Fogg slapped open the pages of his newspaper.
"I have made my talk," said Mayo.
"By gad, I'm not going to jail--not for anybody!"
Fogg removed his eye-glasses and gave the man a full, unblinking stare.
"Did you try to dynamite that wreck?"
"Is that orders--orders to talk right out?"
"Orders? I don't know what you mean, sir. I have asked you a plain
question."
"And you want an answer?"
"Naturally."
"What I tried to do didn't work--he was too quick for me. There, now,
get together! He has made you a fair offer, Mr. Fogg. There's no need of
my going to jail. I won't go!"
"You ought to go, for what you did!" commented Fogg, dryly.
"No, for what he didn't do--from your standpoint," suggested Captain
Mayo.
"And you have been boasting, eh?" Fogg kept up his disconcerting stare,
with fishy eyes.
"I ain't going to let men walk over me and wipe their feet on me when
I'm obeying orders."
"Orders from whom, sir?"
"Condemn it all, orders from men who can protect me by saying one word!
I ain't going to stand all this riddle-come-ree business! Flat down,
now, Mr. Fogg, what say?"
"Not a word! If what this fellow says is true, you ought to be in jail."
"The advice is good. He'll be there very soon," declared Mayo, starting
for the telephone. Fogg replaced his eye-glasses and began to read.
"I'm ready to blow up!" warned the man. He hurried across the room and
guarded the telephone with outspread arms.
"Both of you will be sorry if the police are called," he cried. To Mayo,
who was close to him, he mumbled, "Damn him, if he dumps me like this
you're going to be the winner!"
There was so much reality in the man's rancor that Mayo was impressed
and seized upon the idea which came to him.
"We'll test your friend," he whispered, clutching the man, and making
pretense of a struggle. "I'll fake a call. Keep wrestling."
Fogg gave only indifferent attention to the affair in the corner of the
room.
With one hand holding down the receiver-arm Mayo called; he was
pushed about violently, but managed to say: "Desk? Call police to
hotel--lobby--at once!"
"Mr. Fogg," pleaded the man, giving Mayo an understanding nudge with his
elbow, "ain't you going to give me a chance for a private talk?"
"If you ever speak to me or try to see me again I'll have you arrested."
"But you're dumping me."
"Get out of this room, both of you! I don't want the police up here."
Mayo clapped hand on his prisoner's shoulder and pushed him out.
"Go down-stairs slow," protested the man. "He is bound to come out and
call me back! He's got to! He doesn't dare to dump me!"
"He dares to do anything," stated Mayo, bitterly, "including what he
did to me and the _Montana_. I suppose you read about it--everybody else
did."
They walked leisurely, but Mr. Fogg's door remained closed. They waited
in the office of the hotel. He did not appear.
"By Judas!" rasped the man, "another two-spot torn up and thrown into
the discard along with you! And I helped 'em do it to you! I'm coming
across, Mayo! That telephone business was a mighty friendly trick to
help me force him. I appreciate it! I was on board the _Montana_ that
night you and she got yours! My name is Burkett--Oliver. I was there,
though you didn't see me."
"I heard you were there, afterward," stated Captain Mayo, grimly.
"Captain Wass mentioned you!"
"And probably didn't give me much of a reputation. I can't help that!
You needn't put one bit more trust in me, Captain Mayo, than you want
to. I don't ask you to have any respect for me. But I want to tell you
that when a man promises to back me and then turns round and dumps me
so as to cover his own tracks, he will get his if I'm able to hand it to
him! I'm generally dirty. I'm especially dirty in a case like that!"
"If you show me any favors, Mr. Burkett, I suppose I'll have to depend
on your spite against Fogg instead of your affection for me. You see,
I'm perfectly frank. But I have been fooled too much to place any trust
in anybody."
"I don't ask you to trust me. I know how the _Montana_ job was done. I'm
not going to tell you right now. I'm going to make sure that I have been
thrown down by Fogg. And if I have been--if he means it--I'm going to
use you so that I can get back at him, no matter how much it helps you.
I can be pretty frank myself, you understand!"
They were silent and looked at each other.
"Well?" inquired Burkett, sourly.
"Well, what?" asked Mayo, with as little show of liking.
"What about this police business--about your complaint against me?"
"I'm not going to say anything about the case! You're free, as far as
I'm concerned. I am ashore here to make a raise of money or credit. I
can't spend any time in court, bothering with you."
"I reckon you got your satisfaction out of that beating-up you gave me.
I rather began to like you after that," said Burkett, pulling one corner
of his mouth into a grin that was a grimace. "I'm going to stay at this
hotel."
"Fogg will see that our affair just now was a bluff. He will have you
into camp once more."
"You've got to take your chances on it, Mayo. What do you say?"
"I'll take my chances."
"By gad! sir, you're a square chap, and I'm not meeting many of that
sort in these days! Let this thing hang. Before you leave the city, slip
word to me here. I'll tell you the news!"
With that understanding they parted.
Three days later, acknowledging to himself that he was a thoroughly
beaten young man, Mayo walked into the Nicholas Hotel. He had been
unable to secure either encouragement, money, or credit. There were
parties who would back him in any attempt to junk the _Conomo_; but his
proposition to raise her with the aid of the tribe of Hue and Cry made
his project look like a huge joke and stirred hearty amusement all
along the water-front. Everywhere he found proof of Fogg's neat work of
discouragement. If a real salvaging company had turned the scheme down
as impracticable, how could penniless amateurs hope? It was conceded
in business and financial circles that they hoped because they were
amateurs.
Mayo's outlook on his own strictly personal affairs was as dismal as
his view of the Razee project in which his associates were concerned. He
went to the hotel merely because he had promised Burkett that he would
notify that modern buccaneer regarding any intended departure. He
despondently reflected that if Fogg and Burkett had agreed again, the
combination against him still existed. If they were persistently on the
outs, Burkett was merely a discredited agent whose word, without proofs,
could be as easily brushed away as his connection with Fogg in the'
matter of the _Conomo_. In fact, so Mayo pondered, he might find
association with Burkett dangerous, because demands for consideration
can be twisted into semblance of blackmail by able lawyers. He
entertained so few hopes in regard to any assistance from Burkett that
he was rather relieved to discover that the man was no longer a guest at
the hotel.
"Has he left town?"
"I suppose there's no secret about the thing," explained the clerk. "Mr.
Fogg had the man arrested yesterday, for threatening words and actions.
Something of that sort. Anyway, he is in jail and must give bonds to
keep the peace."
Mayo's flagging interest in the possibilities of Burkett as an aid in
his affairs was a bit quickened by that piece of news, and he hurried
up to the jail. If ever a captured and fractious bird of passage was
beating wings against his cage's bars in fury and despair, Mr. Burkett
was doing it with vigor. Mayo, admitted as a friend who might aid
in quelling the disturbance that was making the deafened jailers and
noise-maddened prisoners regret the presence of Mr. Burkett, found the
man clinging to the iron rods and kicking his foot against them.
"It's the last thing he did before he left town, this what he has done
to me. I can't give bonds. I don't know anybody in this city," raved the
prisoner.
"I'm afraid that I don't know the folks here very well, judging from my
experiences trying to raise money," stated Captain Mayo, after he had
quieted Burkett. "But I'll go out and see what I can do."
After some pleading he induced a fish wholesaler to go to the jail with
him and inspect Burkett as a risk in the matter of bonds. Mr. Burkett,
being a man of guile, controlled his wrath and offered a presentable
guise of mildness.
"But how am I going to know that he won't be hunting this enemy up as
soon as I give bonds?" asked the fishman.
"Captain Mayo is tackling a job of wrecking, offcoast," said Burkett,
"and I'm out of work just now and will go with him. I'll be a safe risk,
all right, out there."
"Does that go with you, Captain Mayo?"
"Yes, sir."
After the matter of bonds had been arranged before the commissioner, and
when Burkett walked down the street with Mayo, the latter stopped on a
corner.
"I'll have to leave you here, Burkett. I'm going aboard the schooner.
We're sailing."
"But how about your taking me?"
"I was willing to help you lie that much, Burkett. I knew you did not
intend to go with me."
"I don't want to put you in bad with anybody after this, Captain Mayo.
I need to keep away for a time where I won't be in danger of seeing
Fletcher Fogg. If I meet him while I'm frothing like this, I'll kill
him, even if it means the chair. Give me a lay aboard that steamer, no
matter how bad your prospects are, and I'll be square with you.
That's my man's word to you. I realize it isn't much of a word in your
estimation--but there are some promises I can keep. I propose to help
you get back at Fogg and his gang. That's reason enough for what I'm
doing," he pleaded, earnestly. "You ought to see that yourself. I'm just
as good a man with machinery as I am in the pilot-house. I won't set you
back any!"
"All right, Mr. Burkett, come along," agreed Mayo, curtly, without
enthusiasm.
There was a fair wind for their departure and Mayo headed the schooner
for Maquoit. The few words which Captain Candage had dropped in regard
to Rowley's state of mind worried Mayo. His little edifice of hope was
tottering to a fall, but the loss of the _Ethel and May_ meant the last
push and utter ruin. He decided that he was in honor bound to preserve
the schooner for the uses of the men of Hue and Cry, even if it meant
abandonment of the _Conomo_ and going back to fishing. Without that
craft they would be paupers once more.
The _Ethel and May_ sneaked her way into Maquoit harbor--if a schooner
can be said to sneak. A breeze at nightfall fanned her along, and when
her killick went down, the rusty chain groaned querulously from her
hawse-hole.
Mayo rowed ashore and toiled his way up the little street to the widow's
cottage. He was ashamed to meet Polly Candage--ashamed with the feelings
of a strong man who has put out every effort and has failed. But,
somehow, he wanted to feel that sisterly grip of her hand and look down
into those encouraging gray eyes. He remembered that in times past
she had soothed and stimulated him. This time he did not come to her
expecting to get new courage for further effort; he had exhausted all
resources, he told himself. But in his bitter humiliation he needed the
companionship of a true friend--yes, he felt, almost, that she was now
the only friend he had left. His experiences with those whom he had
before looked on as friends had made him feel that he stood alone.
She came running to him in the little parlor, her hands outstretched and
her face alight.
He felt at first sight of her, and his face flushed at thought of his
weakness, that he wanted to put his head on her shoulder and weep.
"You poor boy, things have not been going well!"
He choked, for the caress in her tones touched his heart. He patted her
hands, and she sat down beside him on the old haircloth sofa.
"I've had a terrible week of it, Polly."
Her sweet smile did not waver. The gray eyes stared straight into his.
"I have talked to 'em till my mouth has been parched and my tongue sore,
and God knows my heart is sore. All they do is look at me and shake
their heads. I thought I had friends alongshore--men who believed in
me--men who would take my word and help me. I'll never be fooled again
by the fellows who pat you on the back in sunny weather, and won't lend
you an umbrella when it rains unless you'll leave your watch with 'em
for security. And speaking of the watch," he went on, smiling wistfully,
for her mere presence and her unspoken sympathy had begun to cheer
him, "reminds me why I'm here in Maquoit. Oh yes," he put in, hastily,
catching a queer look of disappointment on her face, "I did want to
see you. I looked forward to seeing you after all the others had turned
their backs on me. There's something wonderfully comforting in your
face, Polly, when you just look at me. You don't have to say a word."
"I do thank you, Boyd."
"I hear that Rowley is getting uneasy about his schooner--wants to
take it away from us. So I have sold my watch and all the other bits
of personal things I could turn into cash, and am here to give him the
money and tell him we're going back to fishing again."
"You'll give up the steamer?"
"Yes--and hopes and prospects and all. I've got to."
"But if you could win!"
"I'll stay down where I belong. I won't dream any more."
"Don't give up."
"There's nothing else to do. We poor devils need something besides our
bare hands."
The girl struggled mightily with her next question, but he did not note
her emotions, for his elbows were on his knees and he was staring at the
rag carpet.
"Will it cost a lot of money for what you want to do on the steamer?"
"We may need a lot before we can do it all. But I have been sitting up
nights planning the thing, Polly. I have gone over and over it. When I
was on board the steamer waiting for your father, I examined her as best
I could.. If I had a little money, I could make a start, and after I
started, and could show the doubters what could be done, I could raise
more money then. I am sure of it. Of course the first investment is the
most dangerous gamble, and that's why everybody is shy. But I believe
my scheme would work, though I can't seem to get anybody else to believe
it."
"Will I understand if you'll tell me?"
"I'd get a diver's outfit and material, and build bulk-heads in her,
both sides of the hole in her bottom. Then I'd have an engine and pumps,
and show that I could get the water out of her, or enough of it so that
she'd float."
"But the big hole, you wouldn't mend that?"
"I think we could brace the bulkheads so that we could hold the water
out of both ends of her and let the main hole in her alone."
"And she wouldn't sink?"
He was patient with the girl's unwisdom in the ways of the sea.
"Since you've been here at Maquoit, Polly, you have seen the
lobster-smacks with what they call 'wells' in them. All amidships is
full of water, you know--comes in through holes bored in the hull--fresh
sea-water that swashes in and out and keeps the lobsters alive till they
get to market. But the vessel is tight at both ends, and she floats.
Well, that's what I plan to do with the Conomo. With a few thousand
dollars I'm sure I can make enough of a start so I can show 'em the rest
can be done." He promptly lost the bit of enthusiasm he had shown while
he was explaining. He began his gloomy survey of the carpet once more.
"But it's no use. Nobody will listen to a man who wants to borrow money
on a wild hope."
She was silent a long time, and gazed at him, and he did not realize
that he was the object of such intent regard. Several times she opened
her mouth and seemed about to address him eagerly, for her eyes were
brilliant and her cheeks were flushed.
"I wish I had the money to lend you," she ventured, at last.
"Oh, I wouldn't take it--not from a girl, Polly. No, indeed! This is
a gamble for men--not an investment for the widow and orphan," he
declared, smiling at her. "I believe in it; that's because I'm desperate
and need to win. It's for a big reason, Polly!"
She turned her face away and grew pale. She flushed at his next words:
"The biggest thing in the world to me is getting that steamer off Razee
and showing that infernal Marston and all his 'longcoast gang that I'm
no four-flusher. I've got it in for 'em!"
He patted the hands she clasped on her knees, and he did not notice that
she was locking her fingers so tightly that they were almost bloodless.
He rose and started for the door.
"I'll go and pacify Rowley to-night, and be ready for an early start."
"Boyd," she pleaded, "will you do me a little favor?"
"Most certainly, Polly."
"Wait till to-morrow morning for your business with Mr. Rowley."
"Why?" He looked at her with considerable surprise.
"Because--well, because you are a bit unstrung, and are tired, and you
and he might have words, and you might not use your cool judgment if he
should be short with you. You know you are a little at odds with all the
world just now!" She spoke nervously and smiled wistfully. "I would be
sorry to have you quarrel with Mr. Rowley because--well, father is a
partner, and has already had words with him. Please wait till morning.
You must not lose the schooner!"
"I'm too far down and out to dare to quarrel with Rowley, but I'll do as
you say, Polly. Good night."
"You're a good boy to obey a girl's whim. Good night."
The moment his foot was off the last step of the porch she hurried to
her room in the cottage and secured a little packet from her portfolio.
She heard the thud of his dory oars as she walked down the street. She
was glad to know that he was safely out of the way.
Rowley's dingy windows shed a dim blur upon the frosty night. It was
near time for him to close his store, and when she entered he was
turning out the loafers who had been cuddling close to his barrel stove.
After a few moments of waiting the girl was alone with him.
"No, I don't want to buy anything, Mr. Rowley. I need your help. I ask
you to help me to do a good deed."
He pulled his spectacles to the end of his nose and stared at her
doubtfully and with curiosity.
"If it's about the schooner, I'd rather do business with men-folks," he
said.
"This is business that only you and I can do, and it must be a secret
between us. Will you please glance at this bank-book?"
He licked a thin finger and turned the leaves.
"Deposit of five thousand dollars and accrued interest," he observed,
resuming his inquisitive inspection of her animated countenance.
"My mother's sister left me that legacy. It's all my little fortune,
sir. I want to loan that money to my father and Captain Mayo."
"Well, go ahead, if you're fool enough to. I ain't your guardeen,"
assented Deacon Rowley, holding the book out to her. "But I advise you
to keep your money. I know all about their foolishness."
"My father wouldn't take it from me--and Captain Mayo wouldn't, either."
"That shows they ain't rogues on top of being fools."
"But I have faith that they can succeed and make a lot of money if they
get a start," she insisted. "I see you do not understand, sir, what I
need of you. I want you to lend them that money, just as if it came from
you. I'll give you the book and a writing, and you can draw it."
"No, ma'am."
"Won't you help a girl who needs help so much? You're a Christian man,
you say."
"That's just why I can't lie about this money. I'll have to tell 'em I'm
lending it."
"You will be lending it."
"How's that, miss?"
"For your trouble in the matter I'll let you collect the interest for
yourself at six per cent. Oh, Deacon Rowley, all you need to do is hand
over the money, and say you prefer not to talk about it. You're a smart
business man; you'll know what to say without speaking a falsehood.
You'll break my heart if you refuse. Think! You're only helping me
to help my own father. He has foolish notions about this. You can say
you'll let them have it for a year, and you'll get three hundred dollars
interest for your trouble."
"I don't believe they'll ever make enough to pay the interest--much less
the principal."
"Give them five thousand dollars and draw a year's interest for yourself
out of my interest that has accrued."
"Say, how old be you?"
"I'll be twenty-two in June."
Deacon Rowley looked at her calculatingly, fingering his nose.
"Being of age, you ought to know better, but being of age, you can
do what you want to with your own. Do you promise never to let on to
anybody about this?"
"I do promise, solemnly."
"Then you sign some papers when I get 'em drawn up, and I'll hand 'em
the money; but look-a-here, if I go chasing 'em with five thousand
dollars, I'll have 'em suspecting that I'm crazy, or something worse. It
ain't like Rufus Rowley to do a thing of this sort with his money."
"I know it," she confessed, softening her frank agreement with an
ingenuous smile. "But Captain Mayo is coming to you to-morrow morning on
business about the schooner, and you can put the matter to him in some
way. Oh, I know you're so keen and smart you can do it without his
suspecting a thing."
"I don't know whether you're complimenting me or sassing me, miss. But
I'll see it through, somehow."
She signed the papers giving him power of attorney, left her bank-book
with him, and went away into the night, her face radiant.
She threw a happy kiss at the dim anchor light which marked the location
of the _Ethel and May_ in the harbor.
"I am helping you get the girl you love," she said, aloud.
She went on toward the widow's cottage. Her head was erect, but there
were tears on her cheeks.
XXIX ~ THE TOILERS OF OLD RAZEE
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Yankee wit.
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Cape Ann grit.
It's pluck and dash that's sure to win--"The _Horton's_ in!
The _Horton's_ in!"
--Old Locality.
Polly Candage, covering her emotions with that mask of demureness
which nature lends to the weaker sex for their protection, received a
tumultuous Mayo next morning in the parlor of the cottage.
"I don't know how it has happened. I don't understand it," he exploded.
"I didn't suppose anybody could blast money out of his pocket with
dynamite--your father said it couldn't be done. But Deacon Rowley has
loaned us five thousand dollars. Here's his check on the Limeport First
National. Only charges six per cent. I'm so weak it was all I could do
to walk up here."
"What did he say to explain it?" inquired Polly, with maiden's curiosity
in learning to what extent of prevarication a deacon would go in order
to make three hundred dollars.
"Wouldn't say much of anything. Handed out this check, said my
indorsement on it would be enough for a receipt, and said your father
and I could sign a joint note later--sometime--when he got around to
it. Have you heard any rumor that the old fellow is losing his mind? But
this check looks good!"
"Well, I think he's been pondering on the matter since father was here.
In fact, Deacon Rowley has said a few things to me," said the girl,
meeting Mayo's gaze frankly. "Not much, of course, but something that
hinted he had a lot of confidence in both of you, seeing that you have
used him nicely in the other business he has done with you. Sometimes,
you know, these hard old Yankees take a liking to somebody and do things
all of a sudden."
"This is sudden, all right enough," stated Mayo, scratching the serrated
edge of the check across his palm as if to make sure it was real and not
a shadow. "Yes, he told me not to mention the note to him till he said
something to us about it himself, and to keep quiet about the loan.
Didn't want others running to him with their schemes."
"And if I were in your place," advised the girl, "I wouldn't tell father
where you got the money--not for a time. You know, he doesn't get along
so very well with Deacon Rowley--old folks sometimes do quarrel so--and
he might be worried, thinking the deacon had some scheme behind this.
But you don't think that way, do you?"
"I have the money, and he hasn't asked me to sign any papers. There's no
come-back there, far as I can see," declared the young man.
"Now what will you do?"
"Rush for Limeport, hire equipment--for I've cash to pay in advance for
any leases--and get to that wreck and on to my job."
"Simply tell father you raised the money--from a friend! If he is
worrying about anything, he doesn't work half as well. I'll ask God to
help and bless you every hour in the day."
"Polly Candage," cried Mayo, taking her warm, plump hands, "there's
something about you that has put courage and grit and determination in
me ever since you patted my shoulder there in the old Polly. I have been
thinking it over a lot--I had time to think when I was out aboard that
steamer, waiting."
"There's only one girl for you to think about," she chided.
His face clouded. "And it's the kind of thinking that isn't healthy for
a man with a normal mind. Thank the Lord, I've got some real work to
think about now--and the cash to do that work with." He fondled his
pocket.
She went with him to the wharf, and when the schooner slid to sea behind
Hue and Cry her white handkerchief gave him final salute and silent
God-speed.
Captain Boyd Mayo, back in Limeport once more, was not the cowed,
apologetic, pleading suppliant who had solicited the water-front
machinists and ship-yard owners a few days before. He proffered
no checks for them to look askance at. He pulled a wallet that was
plethoric with new yellowbacks. He showed his money often, and with a
purpose. He drove sharp bargains while he held it in view. He received
offers of credit in places where before he had been denied. Such magic
does visible wealth exert in the dealings between men!
He did not come across Fletcher Fogg in Limeport, and he was glad of
that. Somebody informed him that the magnate had gone back to New York.
It was manifest to Mayo that in his contempt Fogg had decided that the
salvaging of the _Conomo_ intact had been relegated to the storehouse of
dreams. His purpose would be suited if she were junked, so the young
man realized. Only the _Conomo_ afloat, a successful pioneer in new
transportation experiments alongcoast, would threaten his vested
interests.
There had been wintry winds and intervening calms in the days since
Mayo had been prosecuting his projects ashore. But by word of mouth from
straying fishermen and captains of packets he had been assured that the
steamer still stuck on Razee.
And when at last he was equipped he went forth from Limeport; he went
blithely, although he knew that a Titan's job faced him. He kept his own
counsel as to what he proposed to do with the steamer. He even allowed
the water-front gossips to guess, unchallenged, that he was going to
junk the wreck. He was not inviting more of that brazen hostility that
characterized the operations of Fogg and his hirelings.
He was at the wheel of a husky lighter which he had chartered; the rest
of the crew he supplied from his own men. The lighter was driven by its
own power, and carried a good pump and a sturdy crane; its decks were
loaded high with coal. The schooner was now merely convoy. It was an
all-day trip to Razee, for the lighter was a slow and clumsy craft, but
when Mayo at last made fast to the side of the _Conomo_ and squealed a
shrill salute with the whistle, the joy he found in Captain Candage's
rubicund countenance made amends for anxiety and delay.
"I knew you'd make a go of it, somehow," vouchsafed the old skipper.
"But who did you have to knock down in a dark place so as to steal his
money off'n him?"
"That's private business till we get ready to pay it back, with six per
cent, interest," stated the young man, bluntly.
"Oh, very well. So long as we've got it I don't care where you stole
it," returned Candage, with great serenity. "I simply know that you
didn't get it from skinflint Rowley, and that's comfort enough for me.
Let me tell you that we haven't been loafing on board here. We rigged
that taakul you see aloft, and jettisoned all the cargo we could get
at. It was all spoiled by the water. There's pretty free space for
operations 'midships. I've got out all her spare cable, and it's ready."
"And you've done a good job there, sir. We've got to make this lighter
fast alongside in such a way that a blow won't wreck her against us.
Spring cables--plenty of them--and we are sailors enough to know how to
moor. But when I think of what amateurs we are in the rest of this job,
cold shivers run over me."
"That Limeport water-front crowd got at you, too, hey?"
"Captain Candage, I have watched men more or less in this life. It's
sometimes a mighty big handicap for a man to be too wise. While the
awfully wise man sits back and shakes his head and figures prospects and
says it can't be done, the fool rushes in, because he doesn't know any
better, and blunders the job through and wins out. Let's keep on being
fools, good and plenty, but keep busy just the same."
And on that basis the rank amateurs of Razee proceeded with all the grit
that was in them.
The men of Hue and Cry had plenty of muscle and little wit. They asked
no questions, they did not look forward gioomily to doubtful prospects.
The same philosophy, or lack of it, that had always made life full of
merry hope when their stomachs were filled, taking no thought of the
morrow, animated them now. Fate had given Mayo and his associate an
ideal crew for that parlous job. It was not a question of union hours
and stated wages; they worked all night just as cheerily as they worked
all day.
An epic of the sea was lived there on Razee Reef during the weeks that
followed.
The task which was wrought out would make a story in itself, far beyond
the confines of such a narrative as this must be.
Bitter toil of many days often proved to be a sad mistake, for the men
who wrought there had more courage in endeavor than good understanding
of methods.
Then, after disappointment, hope revived, for further effort avoided the
mistakes that had been so costly.
The brunt of the toil, the duty of being pioneer, fell on Mayo.
He donned a diving-suit and descended into the riven bowels of the wreck
and cleared the way for the others.
On deck they built sections of bulkhead, and he went down and groped in
the murky water, and spiked the braces and set those sections and calked
the spaces between bulkhead and hull.
There were storms that menaced their lighter and drove the little
schooner to sea in a welter of tempest.
There were calms that cheered them with promise of spring.
The schooner was the errand-boy that brought supplies and coal from the
main. But the men who went ashore refused to gossip on the water-front,
and the occasional craft that hove to in the vicinity of Razee were not
allowed to land inquisitive persons on the wreck.
After many weeks the bulkheads were set and the pumps were started.
There were three crews for these pumps, and their clanking never ceased,
day or night. There was less water in the fore part; her bow was propped
high on the ledges. The progress here was encouraging.
Aft, there were disasters. Three times the bulkhead crumpled under the
tremendous pressure of the sea, as soon as the pumps had relieved the
opposing pressure within the hull. Mayo, haggard, unkempt, unshorn, thin
with his vigils, stayed underwater in his diving-dress until he became
the wreck of a man. But at last they built a transverse section that
promised to hold. The pumps began to make gains on the water. As
the flood within was lowered and they could get at the bulkhead more
effectively from the inside, they kept adding to it and strengthening
it.
And then came the need of more material and more equipment, for the
gigantic job of floating the steamer was still ahead of them.
Mayo felt that he had proved his theory and was now in a position to
enlist the capital that would see them through. He could show a hull
that was sound except for the rent amidships--a hull from both ends of
which the trespassing sea was being evicted. With the money that would
furnish buoying lighters and tugs and the massive equipment for floating
her, he felt that he would be able to convert that helpless mass of junk
into a steamer once more--change scrap-iron into an active value of at
least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
And when he and Captain Candage had arrived at that hopeful and earnest
belief, following days of tremulous watching of the work the pumps were
doing, the young man went again to the main on his momentous errand.
As they sailed into Limeport, Mayo was a bit astonished to see green on
the sloping hills. He had been living in a waking dream of mighty toil
on Razee; he had almost forgotten that so many weeks had gone past.
When he went ashore in his dory from the schooner, the balmy breath
of spring breathed out to him from budding gardens and the warm breeze
fanned his roughened cheeks.
As he had forgotten that spring had come, so had he forgotten about his
personal appearance. He had rushed ashore from a man's job that was now
waiting for him to rush back to it. He did not realize that he looked
like a cave-man--resembled some shaggy, prehistoric human; his mind was
too full of his affairs on Razee.
When Captain Mayo strode down the main street of Limeport, it troubled
him not a whit because folks gaped at him and turned to stare after him.
He had torn himself from his gigantic task for only one purpose, and
that idea filled his mind.
He was ragged, his hands were swollen, purple, cut, and raw from his
diver's labors, his hair hung upon his collar, and a beard masked his
face. They who thronged the streets were taking advantage of the first
warm days to show their spring finery. The contrast of this rude figure
from the open sea was made all the more striking as he brushed through
the crowds.
Here and there he bolted into offices where there were men he knew and
whom he hoped to interest. He had no fat wallet to exhibit to them this
time. He had only his empty, swollen hands and a wild, eager, stammering
story of what he expected to do. They stared at him, many of them
stupidly, some of them frankly incredulous, most of them without
particular interest. He looked like a man who had failed miserably;
there was nothing about him to suggest success.
One man put the matter succinctly: "Look here, Mayo, if you came in
here, looking the way you do, and asked me for a quarter to buy a
meal with, I'd think it was perfectly natural, and would slip you the
quarter. But not ten thousand--you don't look the part."
"What have my clothes got to do with it? I haven't time to think about
clothes. I can't wear a plug hat in a diving-suit. I've been working.
And I'm still on the job. The way I look ought to show you that I mean
business."
But they turned him down. In half a dozen offices they listened and
shook their heads or curtly refused to look into the thing. He had not
come ashore to beg for assistance as if it were a favor. He had come
feeling certain that this time he had a valuable thing to offer. His
labors had racked his body, his nerves were on edge, his temper was
short. When they refused to help he cursed them and tore out. That they
allowed his personal appearance to influence their judgment stirred his
fury--it was so unjust to his self-sacrificing devotion to his task.
He soon exhausted his circle of acquaintances, but the rebuffs made him
angry instead of despondent. Thrusting rudely past pedestrians who were
polite and sleek, he marched along the street, scowling.
And then his eyes fell on a face that gave a fresh stir to all the
bitterness that was in him.
He saw Fletcher Fogg standing outside the Nicholas Hotel. The day was
bland, the spring sun was warming, but it was evident that Mr. Fogg was
not basking contentedly; his countenance was fully as gloomy as that of
Captain Mayo, and he chewed on an unlighted cigar and spat snippets of
tobacco over the curb while he pondered.
Mayo was not in a mood to reason with his passion. He had just been
battering his pride and persistence up against men whose manner
of refusal showed that they remembered what Fletcher Fogg had said
regarding the prospects of successful floating of the _Conomo_. There
stood the ponderous pirate, blocking Mayo's way on the sidewalk, just
as he had blocked the young man's prospects in life in the _Montana_
affair--just as he had closed avenues of credit. Mayo bumped against him
and crowded him back across the sidewalk to the hotel's granite wall. He
put his two raw, swollen hands on Fogg's immaculate waistcoat and shoved
salt-stained, work-worn, and bearded face close.
Even then the promoter did not seem to recognize Mayo. He blinked
apprehensively. He looked about as if he intended to summon help.
"You don't seem to have your iron wishbone in your pocket this time,"
growled the assailant. He jabbed his thumbs cruelly into Fogg's ribs.
"Gad! You're--you're Captain Mayo! I'll be cursed if I knew you till you
spoke!"
"I managed to hold myself in the last time you saw me, Fogg. I was
waiting. Now, damn you, I've got you!"
He was making reference merely to the physical grip in which he held the
man. But Fogg seemed to find deeper significance in the words.
"I know it, Mayo," he whined. "That's why I'm down here. I have been
wondering about the best way to get to you--to meet you right!"
"You got to me all right, you infernal renegade!"
"But, see here, Mayo, we can't talk this matter here on the street."
"There isn't going to be any talking!" The meeting-up had been so
unexpected and Mayo's ire was so hasty that the young man had not taken
thought of what he intended to do. His impulse was to beat that fat face
into pulp. He had long before given up all hope that any appeal to Fogg
as a man would help. He expected no consideration, no restitution.
"But there must be some talk. I'm here to make it. You have me foul! I
admit it. But listen to reason," he pleaded. "It isn't going to do you
any good to rave."
"I'm going to mash your face for you! I'll take the consequences."
"But after you do that, you still have got to talk turkey with me about
those papers."
In spite of his fury, Mayo realized from Fogg's demeanor and his words
that mere fear of a whipping was not producing this humility; there was
a policeman on the corner.
"Don't talk so loud," urged Fogg. "Come up to my room where we can be
private."
Mayo hesitated, puzzled by his enemy's attitude.
"It's a word from the Old Man himself. He ordered me down here. It's
from Marston!" whispered the promoter. "I'm in a devil of a hole all
around, Mayo."
"Very well! I'll come. I can beat you up in your room more comfortably!"
"I'm not afraid of the beating! I wish that was all there was to it,"
muttered Fogg. He led the way into the hotel and Mayo followed, getting
a new grip on himself, conscious that there was some new crisis in his
affairs, scenting surrender of some sort in Fogg's astonishing humility.
"Will you smoke?" asked Fogg, obsequiously, when they were in the hotel
room.
"No!" He refused with venom. He saw himself in one of the long mirrors
and had not realized until then how unkempt and uncouth he was. He was
ill at ease when he sat down in a cushioned chair. For weeks he had been
accustomed to the rude makeshifts of shipboard. In temper and looks he
felt like a cave-man.
"I'm in hopes that we can get together on some kind of a friendly
basis," entreated Fogg, humbly. "Simply fighting the thing over again
won't get us anywhere. I had to do certain things and I did them. You
spoke of my iron wishbone! Now about that _Montana_ matter--"
"I don't want any rehearsal, Mr. Fogg. What's your business with me?"
"It's hard to start unless I can feel that you'd listen to some
explanations and make some allowances. When a man works for Julius
Marston he has to forget himself and do--"
"I have worked for Julius Marston!"
"But not in the finance game, Mayo!" There was a tremble in the
promoter's voice. "Men are only shadows to him when it's a matter of big
finance. He gives his orders to have results produced. He doesn't stop
to think about the men concerned. It's the figures on his books he looks
at! He uses a man like he'd use a napkin at table!"
"As you used me! You have had good training!"
"Well, if the trick was passed on down, it's now being passed on up,"
stated Fogg, despondently. "I'm the goat, right now. Can't you view me
personally in this matter?"
"I don't want to. I would get up and use these fists on you, sore as
they are!"
"I'm afraid it's going to be a tough matter for us to settle," sighed
the promoter. "I thought I had everything tied up in the usual way. Damn
it, if it wasn't for a woman being mixed into it, the thing would have
worked out all right!" He let his temper loose. "You can never reckon on
business when a woman sticks in her fingers! I don't care if you are in
love with Marston's daughter, Mayo! She is like a lot of other cursed
high-flier girls who have always had more time and money than is
good for them. She is Trouble swishing petticoats! And you must have
considerable of a mortgage on her, seeing that she has double-crossed
her own father in order to pull your chestnuts out of the fire!"
Having not the least idea what Mr. Fogg was talking about, Mayo was
silent.
"You're a cool one! I must hand it to you!" snapped the promoter.
"You'd better leave the name of Miss Marston out of this business with
me, sir."
"How in blazes can I leave it out, seeing what she has done?"
And Mayo, not knowing what new outbreak had marked the activities of the
incomprehensible young lady, resumed his grim silence, his own interests
suggesting that watchful waiting would be his best policy.
"Well, what are you going to say about the papers?" demanded Fogg. "We
may as well get down to cases!"
"I'm not going to say anything."
"You've got to say something, Mayo. This is too big a matter to fool
with. If you are reasonable, you can help me fix it up--and that will
help the girl. She's Mar-ston's daughter, all right, and her father
understands how erratic she is and makes allowances for her freaks. But
he can't stand for some things."
At that moment curiosity was more ardent in Mayo than resentment, though
Fogg's tone in regard to Alma Marston did provoke the latter emotion. It
was evident that she had undertaken something in his behalf--had in some
manner sacrificed her father's interests and her own peace of mind in
order to assist the outcast. He wondered why he did not feel more joy
when he heard that news. He remembered her promise to him when they
parted, but he had erected no hopes on that promise. It had not consoled
him while he had been struggling with his problems. He was conscious
that his sentiments in regard to the whole affair were rather complex,
and he did not bother to analyze them; he sat tight and stared at Mr.
Fogg with non-committal blankness of expression.
"Have you the papers with you?"
"No!" He added, "Of course not!"
"That's all right. It may be better, providing they are in a safe place.
Now see here, Mayo! I'm not going to work any bluffs with you. I can't,
under the circumstances. I don't know where Burkett went and--"
"Burkett is with me on the _Conomo_. I'm not going to work any bluffs
with you, either, Fogg!"
"I don't care where he is nor what he has told you. Any allegations from
regular liars and men who have been fired can be taken care of in court,
under the blackmail law. But in the case of those papers it's different.
I'm open and frank with you, Mayo. We have been betrayed from inside
the fort. Through some leak in the office that girl got hold of those
papers. I don't know what your sense of honor is in such matters. I'm
not here to appeal to it. Too much dirt has been done you to have that
argument have any special effect. I'm open and frank, I say!" He spread
his hands. "Probably she didn't half realize what she was doing! But now
that you have the papers, you realize!"
Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Mayo betray his total ignorance of
what Fogg referred to.
"I want to ask you, man to man," proceeded the emissary, "whether you
propose to use those papers simply for yourself--to get back--well--you
know!" He waved his hand. "Or are you going to slash right and left with
'em, for general revenge?"
"I haven't decided."
"It's a fair question I have asked. So far as you are concerned
in anything which may be in those papers--and that's mostly my own
reports--you will be squared and more, captain. You can have the
_Triton_ with a ten-years' contract as master, contract to be protected
by a bond, your pay two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Of course
that trade includes your reinstatement as a licensed master and the
dropping of all charges in the _Montana_ matter. There is no indictment,
and the witnesses will be taken care of, so that the matter will not
come up, providing you have enemies. This is man's talk, Mayo! You'll
have to admit it!"
"There's another thing which must be admitted, Fogg! I have been
disgraced, hounded, and persecuted. The men along this coast, the most
of them, will always believe I made a mistake. You know what that means
to a shipmaster!"
Mr. Fogg wiped the moisture off his cheeks with a purple handkerchief.
"You were put in devilish wrong. I admit it. I went too far. That's
why Marston is making me the goat now. I shall be dumped if this matter
isn't straightened out between us!"
"I was in this very room one day, Mr. Fogg, and saw how you dumped one
Burkett. You seemed to enjoy doing it. Why shouldn't I have a little
enjoyment of my own?"
"I had to dump him. He was a fool. He had bragged. I had to protect
interests as well as myself. But you haven't anything to consider, right
now, but your own profit."
"Is that so?" inquired Mayo, sardonically. "You seem to have me sized up
as one of these mild and forgiving angels."
"Now, look here, Mayo, don't let any fool notions stand in the way of
your making good. It isn't sense; it isn't business! You have something
we want and we're willing to come across for it."
"What other strings are hitched on?" asked the young man, feigning
intractability as his best resource in this puzzling affair.
"Well, of course you give up that fool job you're working on. Quit being
a junkman!"
"I'm not a junkman. We're going to float the Conomo."
"Mayo, talk sense! That job can't be done!"
"So you've been telling every outfitter and banking-man in this city,
Fogg! But now you are talking to a man who knows better. And let me say
something else to you. I'll do no business with the kind of a man you
have shown yourself to be."
"Don't be a boy, Mayo. I'm here with full powers. We'll take that wreck
off your hands."
"Want to kill her as she stands, do you?"
"It's our business what we do with her after we pay our money," declared
Fogg, bridling.
"There's something more than business--business with you--in this
matter."
"Yes, I see there is! It's your childish revenge you're looking after.
I'll give you ten thousand dollars to divide among that bunch of
paupers. Send them along about their fishing, and be sensible."
"It's no use for us to talk, Fogg. I see that you don't understand me at
all. You ought to know better than to ask me to sell out myself and my
partners." He rose and started for the door.
"Partners--those paupers?"
"They have frozen and sweat, worked and starved, with me out on Razee
Reef, Fogg. They are partners."
"What's your lay? What are the writings?" insisted the promoter,
following Mayo.
"Not the scratch of a pen. Only man's decency and honor. You and your
boss haven't got money enough to buy--There isn't anything to sell!"
"But there are some things we can buy, if it has come to a matter of
blackmail," raged Fogg. "Are you cheap enough to trade on a foolish
girl's cursed butting into matters she didn't understand? You have been
pawing those papers over. You know what they mean!"
Mayo turned and looked at the excited man.
"They have nothing to do with you or your affairs, the most of those
papers," sputtered Fogg. "Mayo, be reasonable. We can't afford to have
our holding companies shown up. The syndicate can get by that infernal
Federal law if we work carefully."
"Otherwise Marston and you and a few others might go to Atlanta, eh?"
"It isn't too late to send you there."
"You are worrying about those papers, are you?"
"Of course I'm worrying about them! What do you suppose I'm down here
for?"
"You keep on worrying, Mr. Fogg! Come on into the little corner of hell
where I have been for the last few months; the fire is fine!"
He yanked open the door and slammed it behind him, shutting off the
promoter's frenzied appeals.
XXX ~ THE MATTER OP A MONOGRAM IN WAX
O come list awhile and you soon shall hear.
By the rolling sea lived a maiden fair.
Her father followed the sum-muggling trade
Like a warlike he-ro,
Like a warlike he-ro that never was aff-er-aid!
--The Female Smuggler.
Captain Mayo carried only doubts and discouragement back to the wreck on
Razee. His doubts were mostly concerned with the matter of the documents
which Mr. Fogg was seeking so insistently. Mayo himself had done a
little seeking. He inquired at the post-office, but there was no mail
for him. If no papers had been abstracted from the Marston archives,
if this affair were some new attempt at guile on the part of Fogg, the
promoter had certainly done a masterly bit of acting, Mayo told himself.
He determined to keep his own counsel and wait for developments.
Two days later the developments arrived at Razee in the person of
Captain Zoradus Wass, who came a-visiting in a chartered motor-boat. He
climbed the ladder, greeted his _protege_ with sailor heartiness, and
went on a leisurely tour of inspection.
"Something like a tinker's job on an iron kittle, son," he commented.
"You must have been born with some of the instincts of a plumber. Keep
on the way you're operating and you'll get her off."
"I'll never get her off by operating as I am just now, Captain Wass. We
are standing still. No money, no credit, no grub. I made a raise of
five thousand and have spent it. I don't dare to go to the old skinflint
again."
"Well, why not try the heiress?" inquired the old skipper. "You know I
have always advised you strong about the heiress."
"Look here, Captain Wass, I don't want to hear any more jokes on that
subject," objected the young roan, curtly.
"No joke to this," stated the captain, with serenity. "Let's step into
this stateroom." He led the way and locked the door.
"There's no joke, son," he repeated, "and I don't like to have you show
any tartness in the matter. Seeing what friends we have been, I ain't
taking it very kindly because you have been so mighty close-mouthed.
I'm a man to be trusted. You made a mistake in not telling me. The thing
'most fell down between me and her!"
He frowned reproachfully at the astonished Mayo.
"She came expecting, of course, that I was about your closest friend,
and when I had to own up that you have never mentioned her to me she
thought she had made a mistake in me, and wasn't going to give me the
thing!"
"What thing, and what are you talking about?"
Captain Wass patted his coat pocket.
"I convinced her, and it was lucky that I was able to, for it's a matter
where only a close and careful friend ought to be let in. But after this
you mustn't keep any secrets away from me if you expect me to help you.
However, you have shown that you can take good advice when I give it to
you. I advised you to grab Julius Marston's daughter and, by thunder!
you went and done it. Now--"
Mayo impatiently interrupted. Captain Wass was drawling, with manifest
enjoyment of the part he was taking in this romance.
"You have brought something for me, have you?"
"She is a keen one, son," proceeded the captain, making no move to show
the object he was patting. "Hunted me up, remembering that I had you
with me on the old _Nequasset_, and put questions to me smart, I can
tell you! You ought to have been more confidential with me."
"Captain Wass, I can't stand any more of this nonsense. If you have
anything for me, hand it over!"
"I have taken pains for you, traveled down here, four or five hundred
miles, taking--"
"Yes, taking your time for the trip and for this conversation," declared
Mayo, with temper. "I have been put in a mighty mean position by not
knowing you had these papers."
"Safe and sure has always been my motto! And I had a little business of
my own to tend to on the way. I have been finding out how that fat Fogg
snapped himself in as general manager of the Vose line. Of course, it
was known well enough how he did it, but I have located the chap that
done it for him--that critter we took along as steward, you remember."
In spite of his anxiety to get into his hands the parcel in the old
skipper's pocket, Mayo listened with interest to this information; it
related to his own affairs with Fogg.
"I'm going to help the honest crowd in the Vose line management to tip
over that sale that was made, and when the right time comes I'll have
that white-livered clerk in the witness-box if I have to lug him there
by the ears. Now, Mayo, that girl didn't say what was in this packet."
He pulled out a small parcel which had been carefully tied with cords.
"She is in love with you, because she must be in love to go to so much
trouble in order to get word to you. If this is a love-letter, it's
a big one. Seems to be all paper! I have hefted it and felt of it
consid'able."
He held it away from Mayo's eager reach and investigated still more with
prodding fingers.
"Hope she isn't sending back your love-letters, son. But by the look she
had on her face when she was talking about you to me I didn't reckon she
was doing that. Well, here's comfort for you!" He placed the packet in
Mayo's hands.
The parcel was sealed with three neat patches of wax, and on each blob
was imprinted the letters "A M" in a monogram. Mayo turned the packet
over and over.
"If you want me to step out, not feeling as confidential toward me as
you used to, I'll do it," proffered Captain Wass, after a polite wait.
"I'm not going to open this thing--not yet," declared the young man.
"That's for reasons of my own--quite private ones, sir."
"But I'd just as soon step out."
"No, sir. Your being here has nothing whatever to do with the matter."
He buttoned the packet into his coat pocket. He had little respect for
Fletcher Fogg's delicacy in any question of procedure; the promoter's
animus in the matter of those papers was clear. Nevertheless, the agent
had crystallized in bitter words an idea which was deterring Mayo: would
he take advantage of a girl's rash betrayal of her father? Somehow
those seals with her monogram made sacred precincts of the inside of the
packet; he touched them and withdrew his hand as if he were intruding at
the door which was closed upon family privacy.
"I suppose you'd rather keep your mind wholly on straight business,
seeing what a bad position you're in," suggested Captain Wass. "Very
well, we'll put love-letters away and talk about something that's
sensible. It's too bad there isn't some tool we could have to pry open
that Vose line sell-out. The stockholders got cold feet and slid out
from under Vose after the _Montana_ was laid up."
"What has been done with her?"
"Nothing, up to now. Cashed in with the underwriters and are probably
using the money to play checkers with on Wall Street. Maybe they're
using her for a horrible example till they scare the rest of the
independents into the combination."
"Have the underwriters sold?"
"Yes. She has been bid in--probably by some tinder-strapper of the big
pirates. It's a wonder they let you get hold of this one."
"They thought she was spoken for. When they found that she wasn't, they
sent Burkett out here to blow her up."
Captain Wass was not astonished by that information.
"Probably! All the talk which has been circulated says that you were
junking her. I didn't have any idea you were trying to save her."
"We have been blocked by some busy talkers," admitted the young man.
"It's too bad the other folks can't do some talking and have the facts
to back 'em up, son. Do you know what could be done if that syndicate
could be busted? The old Vose crowd would probably hitch up with the
Bee line folks. The Bee-liners are discouraged, but they haven't let
go their charter. You wouldn't have to worry, then, about getting your
money to finish this job, and you'd have a blamed quick market for this
steamer as soon as she was off this reef."
The bulging packet seemed to press against Mayo's ribs, insistently
hinting at its power to help.
"I am going back and have a talk with old man Vose about this steamer,"
said Captain Wass. "Now, son, a last word. I don't want to pry into
any delicate matters. But I sort of smell a rat in those papers in your
pocket. When she took 'em out of her muff all I could smell was violet.
Do you think you've got anything about you that would help me--help
us--help yourself?"
"No, sir; only what you see for yourself in this steamer's
possibilities."
"Very well; then I'll do the best I can. But confound this girl business
when it's mixed into man's matters!" It was heartfelt echo of Mr. Fogg's
sentiments.
Captain Wass departed on his chartered motor-boat, after eating some
of the boiled fish and potatoes which made up the humble fare of the
workers on Razee.
Mayo based no hopes on the promised intervention of the old skipper. He
had been so thoroughly discouraged by all the callous interests on shore
that he felt sure his project was generally considered a failure. When
he was on shore himself the whole thing seemed to be more or less a
dream. {*}
* When the steamer _Carolyn_ was wrecked on Metinic Rock a
few years ago a venturesome young man, without money or
experience in salvaging, managed to raise a few thousand
dollars, bought the steamer for $1,000 from a frightened
junk concern, and after many months of toil, during which he
was mocked at by experienced men, managed to float her. She
was sold recently for $180,000, and is now carrying cargoes
to Europe.
They were reduced to extremities on board the _Conomo_. There was no
more coal for the lighter's engine, equipment was disabled, parts were
needed for worn machinery, Smut-nosed Dolph was pounding Hungryman's
tattoo on the bottom of the flour-barrel, trying to knock out enough
dust for another batch of biscuit.
Mayo had kept his promise and had not confided to Captain Candage the
source of the loan which had enabled them to do what they had done.
After a few days of desperate consideration Mayo sailed on the _Ethel
and May_ for Maquoit.
He avoided the eyes of the villagers as much as was possible; he landed
far down the beach from the house which was the refuge for the folks
from Hue and Cry. In his own heart he knew the reason for this slinking
approach: he did not want Polly Candage to see him in this plight. Her
trust had been so absolute! Her confidence in him so supreme! In his
mental distress he was not thinking of his rags or his physical
unsightliness. He went straight to the store of Deacon Rowley and his
looks startled that gentleman into some rather unscriptural
ejaculations.
However, Deacon Rowley promptly recovered his presence of mind when Mayo
solicited an additional loan. The refusal was sharp and conclusive.
"But you may as well follow your hand in the thing," insisted Mayo.
"That's why I have come to you. I hated to come, sir. I have tried all
other means. You can see how I have worked!" He spread his tortured
hands. "Come out and see for yourself!"
"I don't like the water."
"But you can see that we are going to succeed if we get more money. You
have five thousand in the project; you can't afford to drop where you
are."
"I know what I can afford to do. I have always said, from the first,
that you'd never make a go of it."
At this statement Mayo displayed true amazement.
"But, confound it all, you lent us money! What do you mean by
crawfishing in this way?"
Deacon Rowley was visibly embarrassed; he had dropped to this vitally
interested party a damaging admission of his real sentiments.
"I mean that I ain't going to dump any more money in, now that you ain't
making good! I might have believed you the first time you came. I reckon
I must have. But you can't fool me again. No use to coax! Not another
cent."
"Aren't you worried about how you're going to get back what you have
already lent?" demanded Mayo, with exasperation.
"The Lord will provide," declared Deacon Rowley, devoutly.
The young man stared at this amazing creditor, worked his jaws a few
moments wordlessly, found no speech adequate, and stamped out of the
store. He no longer dreaded to meet Polly Candage. He felt that he
needed to see her. He was seeking the comfort of sanity in that shore
world of incomprehensible lunacy; he had had experience with Polly
Candage's soothing calmness.
She came out from her little school and controlled her emotions with
difficulty when she saw his piteous condition.
"Let's walk where I can feel the comfort of green grass under my feet,"
he pleaded; "that may seem real! Nothing else does!"
By her matter-of-fact acceptance of him and his appearance and his mood
she calmed him as they walked along.
"And even Rowley," he added, after his blunt confession of failure, "he
has just turned me down. He won't follow his five thousand with another
cent. The old rascal deserves to be cheated if we fail. He is telling
me that he always believed we would never make good in the job. Is he
crazy, or am I?"
"Make all allowances for Deacon Rowley," she pleaded. "Keep away from
him. He is not a consoling man. But there must be some way for you,
Boyd. Let us think! You have been keeping too close to the thing--to
your work--and there are other places besides Limeport."
"There's New York--and there's a way," he growled.
"You must try every chance; it means so much to you!"
"Is that your advice?"
"Certainly, Boyd!"
He stopped and pulled the sealed packet from his coat. In the stress of
his despair and resentment he was brutal rather than considerate.
"There are papers in there with which I can club Julius Marston until
he squeals. I haven't seen them, but I know well enough what they are. I
can scare him into giving back all he has taken away from me. I can make
him give back a lot to other folks. And from those other folks I can get
money to finish our work on the _Conomo_. Look at the monogram on that
seal, Polly!" He pointed grimy finger and held the packet close.
"From--Miss Marston?" she asked, tremulously.
"Yes, Polly."
"And she is helping you?"
"I suppose she is trying to."
"Well, it's what a girl should do when she loves a man," she returned.
But she did not look at him and her lips were white.
"And you think I ought to use her help?"
"Yes." She evidently realized that her tone was a mere quaver of assent,
for she repeated the word more firmly.
"But these papers are not hers, Polly. She stole them--or somebody stole
them for her--from her own father," he went on, relentlessly.
"She must love you very much, Boyd."
They turned away from each other and gazed in opposite directions. He
was wondering, as he had through many agonized hours, just what motive
was influencing Alma Marston in those later days. With all his soul
he wanted to question Polly Candage--to get the light of her woman's
instinct on his troubled affairs; but the nature of the secret he was
hiding put effective stopper on his tongue.
"Under those circumstances, no matter what kind of a sacrifice she has
made for you, you ought to accept it, Boyd."
"I want to accept it; every impulse in me says to go in and grab. Polly,
hell-fire is blazing inside of me. I want to tear them down--the whole
of them. I do! You needn't jump! But if I use those papers which that
girl has stolen from her father I'll be a dirty whelp. You know it, and
I know it! Suppose you should tell me some secret about your own father
so I could use it to cheat him out of his share of our partnership? You
might mean all right, but after I had used it you would hate me! Now
wouldn't you?"
"Perhaps--probably I wouldn't hate you," she stammered. "But I'd think
more of you if you--yes, I'm sure I'd think more of you if you didn't
take advantage of my foolishness."
"That's it, exactly! Any man, if I told him about this situation, would
say that I'm a fool not to use every tool I can get hold of. But
you understand better! I'm glad I came to talk with you. I have been
dreadfully tempted. Your advice is keeping me straight!"
"I have not advised you, Boyd!"
"You don't need to use words! It's your instinct telling me what is
right to do. You wouldn't think it was a square deal for me to use these
papers, would you?"
"If you love her so much that you're willing to sacrifice yourself and
your work and--"
"Say it, Polly! I'm sacrificing your father, too! It's for a notion--not
much else!"
"No, it must be because you love her so much. You are afraid she will
think less of you if you take advantage of her. I think your stand is
noble, Boyd!"
"I don't! I think it's infernal foolishness, and I wish the Mayo breed
didn't have so much of that cursed stiff-necked conscience! Our family
wouldn't be where it is to-day." He spoke with so much heat that she
turned-wondering eyes on him.
"But it's for her sake, Boyd! It's--"
"Nothing of the sort! That is, it isn't as you think it is."
"I only think you love her."
"I don't want you to say that--or believe it!" he raved. "If you only
knew--if I could tell you--you'd see that it's insulting my common sense
to say that I'm in love with Alma Marston. I don't love her! I--I don't
know just where I stand. I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm in
the most damnable position a man can be in. And I'm talking like a fool.
Isn't that so?"
"I don't understand you," she faltered.
"Of course you don't. I reckon I'm a lunatic. I'll be rolling over here
and biting the grass next!"
His passion puzzled her. His flaming eyes, his rough beard, his rage,
and all the uncouth personality of him shocked her.
"Boyd, what--whatever is the matter? I'm afraid."
"I don't blame you. I'm afraid of myself these days!" He shook his
swollen fists over his head.
"It ought to encourage you because she is trying to help you!"
"Be still!" he roared. "You don't know what you're talking about. Help
me! There are women who can help a man--do help a man, every turn he
makes. There are other women who keep kicking him down into damnation
even when they think they are helping. I'm not going to stay here any
longer. I mustn't stay, Polly. I'll be saying things worse than what I
have said. What I said about women doesn't refer to you! You are true
and good, and I envy that man, whoever he is."
He started down the <DW72> toward the beach.
"Are you going back to the wreck?" she asked, plaintively.
"To the wreck!"
"But wait!" She could not control either her feelings or her voice.
"I can't wait. I don't dare to stay another minute!"
She called again and he halted at a little distance and faced her. He
was absolutely savage in demeanor and tone.
"Remember what I said about her! Don't insult my common sense! She
is--Oh, no matter!" He shook his fists again and went on his way.
She stood on the hillside and watched him row out to the little
schooner. And through her tears she did not know whether he waved salute
to her with those poor, work-worn hands, or again shook his fists. He
made some sort of a flourish over the rail of the quarter-deck. The
grieving and mystified girl was somberly certain that his troubles had
touched Mayo's wits.
XXXI ~ THE BIG FELLOW HIMSELF
Will had promised his Sue that this trip, if well ended,
Should coil up his ropes and he'd anchor on shore.
When his pockets were lined, why his life should be mended,
The laws he had broken he'd never break more.
--Will Watch.
They needed food, lease-money for their hired equipment was due, and the
dependents at Maquoit must be looked after.
Pride and hope had inspired the crew at Razee to salvage the _Conomo_
intact. Material removed from her would immediately become junk to be
valued at junk prices, instead of being a valuable and active asset
on board. But there was no other resource in sight. No word came from
Captain Wass; and Mayo had put little confidence in that possibility,
anyway.
There was nothing else to do--they must sell off something on which they
could realize quickly.
In the estimation of many practical men this procedure would have been
a warrantable makeshift, its sole drawback being a sacrifice of values.
But to the captains on Razee it seemed like the beginning of complete
surrender; it was the first step toward the dismantling of the
steamship. It was making a junk-pile of her, and they confessed to
themselves that they would probably be obliged to keep on in the work of
destruction. In the past their bitterest toil had been spiced with the
hope of big achievement; the work they now set themselves to do was
melancholy drudgery.
They brought the _Ethel and May_ alongside and loaded into her the
anchors, chains, spare cables, and several of the life-boats. Mayo took
charge of the expedition to the main.
The little schooner, sagging low with her burden, wallowed up the harbor
of Limeport just before sunset, one afternoon. Early June was abroad
on the seas and the pioneer yachting cruisers had been coaxed to the
eastward; Mayo saw several fine craft anchored inside the breakwater
and paid little attention to them. He paced the narrow confines of his
quarter-deck and felt the same kind of shame a ruined man feels when he
is on his way to the pawnshop for the first time. He had his head down;
he hated to look forward at the telltale cargo of the schooner.
"By ginger! here's an old friend of yours, this yacht!" called Mr.
Speed, who was at the wheel.
They were making a reach across the harbor to an anchorage well up
toward the wharves, and were passing under the stern of a big yacht.
Mayo looked up. It was the _Olenia_.
"But excuse me for calling it a friend, Captain Mayo," bawled the mate,
with open-water disregard of the possibilities of revelation in his
far-carrying voice.
A man rose from a chair on the yacht's quarter-deck and came to the
rail. Though the schooner passed hardly a biscuit-toss away, the man
leveled marine glasses, evidently to make sure that what he had guessed,
after Mr. Speed's remark, was true.
Mayo felt an impulse to turn his back, to dodge below. But he did
not retreat; he walked to his own humble rail and scowled up into the
countenance of Julius Mar-ston. The schooner was sluggish and the breeze
was light, and the two men had time for a prolonged interchange of
visual rancor.
"I didn't mean to holler so loud, Captain Mayo," barked Oakum Otie,
in still more resonant manner, to offer apology. "But seeing her, and
remembering last time I laid eyes on her--"
"Shut up!" commanded the master. "I'll take the wheel. Go forward and
clear cable, and stand by for the word!"
He looked behind, in spite of himself, and saw that a motor-tender
had come away from the _Olenia_. It foamed along in the wake of
the schooner. It circled her after it had passed, and kept up those
manouvers until the schooner's anchor was let go. Then the tender came
to the side and stopped. The mate and engineer in her were new men; Mayo
did not know them. The mate tipped respectful salute and stated that Mr.
Marston had sent them to bring Captain Mayo on board the yacht at once.
"My compliments to Mr. Marston. But I am not able to come."
They went away, but returned in a short time, and the mate handed a note
over the rail. It was a curt statement, dictated and typewritten, that
Mr. Marston wished to see Captain Mayo on business connected with
the _Conomo_, and that if Captain Mayo were not able to transact that
business Mr. Marston would be obliged to hunt up some other party who
could do business regarding the _Conomo_. Remembering that he had the
interests of others to consider, Mayo dropped into the tender, sullen,
resentful, wondering what new test of his endurance was to be made, and
feeling peculiarly ill-equipped, in his present condition of courage and
temper, to meet Julius Marston.
The latter had himself under full restraint when they met on the yacht's
quarter-deck, and Mayo was more fully conscious of his own inadequacy.
"Below, if you please, captain." He led the way, even while he uttered
the invitation.
No one was visible in the saloon. In the luxury of that interior the
unkempt visitor seemed especially strange, particularly out of place.
"You will excuse what has seemed to be my hurry in getting you over
here, sir, but I take it that your sailing into this port just now
coincides with the arrival of the Vose crowd in this city to-day."
Mr. Fletcher Fogg first, and now Mr. Fogg's employer, had given advance
information which anticipated Mayo's knowledge. The young man had been
having some special training in dissimulation, and he did not betray any
surprise. He bowed.
"It's better for you to talk with me before you allow them to make a
fool of you. I am prepared to take that steamer off your hands, as
she stands, at a fair appraisal, and I will give bonds to assume all
expenses of the suit brought by the underwriters."
"There has been no suit brought by the underwriters."
Mr. Marston raised his eyebrows. "Oh! I must remember that you are
considerably out of the world. The underwriters make claim that the
vessel was not legally surrendered by them. Have you documents showing
release? If so, I'll be willing to pay you about double what otherwise I
shall feel like offering. Take a disputed title in an admiralty case and
it's touchy business."
Mayo remembered the haphazard manner in which the steamer had been
transferred, and he did not reply.
Marston's manner was that of calm, collected, cool business; his air
carried weight. More than ever did Mayo feel his own pitiful weakness in
these big affairs where more than honest hard work counted in the final
adjustment.
"How much did you pay your big lawyers to stir up this suit by the
underwriters?" he blurted, and Marston's eyelids flicked, in spite of
his impassivity. There was instinct of the animal at bay, rather than
any knowledge, behind Mayo's question.
"Why should you suggest that I have anything to do with such a suit?"
"You seem almighty ready to assume all liability."
"I'm not here to have childish disputes with you, sir. This is straight
business."
"Very well. What do you want?"
"Have you documents, as I have suggested?"
"I have my bill of sale. I take it for granted that the folks who sold
to me are backed by papers from the underwriters."
"That's where you are in error, unfortunately. You are all made party to
a suit. Time clause, actual abandonment, right of redemption--all
those matters are concerned. Of course, it means injunction and long
litigation. I suggested assuming liabilities and stepping in, because I
am backed by the best admiralty lawyers in New York. I repeat the offer
Mr. Fogg made to you."
"You admit that Mr. Fogg made that offer for you or your interests, do
you?"
"Well, yes!" admitted Marston. "We allow Mr. Fogg to act for us in a few
matters."
"I am glad to know it. There has been so much cross-tag going on that I
have been a little doubtful!"
"Kindly avoid sarcasm and temper, if you please! Do you care to accept
the offer?"
Mayo glared at the financier, looking him up and down. Furious hatred
took away his power of sane consideration. He was in no mood to weigh
chances, either for himself or for his associates. He doubted
Marston's honesty of purpose. He knew how this man must feel toward
the presumptuous fool who had dared to look up at Alma Marston; he was
conscious that the magnate must be concealing some especial motive under
his cold exterior.
Whether Marston was anticipating blackmail from Mayo's possession of the
documents or had hatched up ostensible litigation in order to force the
bothersome amateurs out of the _Conomo_ proposition, the young man could
not determine; either view of the situation was equally insulting to
those whom he made his antagonists.
"Well!" snapped the magnate, plainly finding it difficult to restrain
his own violent hatred much longer in this interview. "Decide whether
you will have a little ready cash and a good position or whether you
will be kicked out entirely!"
"I don't want your money! You're trying to cheat me with fake law
business even while you are offering me money! I don't want your job! I
have worked for you once. I'll never be your hired man again."
"If I did not know that you have a better reason for standing out in
this fashion, I'd say that you have allowed, your spite to drive you
crazy, young man."
"What is that better reason?"
"Blackmail! You propose to trade on a theft."
Mayo struggled for a moment with an impulse that was almost frantic; he
wanted to throw the packet in Mar-ston's face and tell him that he lied.
Again the young man felt that queer sense of helplessness; he knew that
he could not make Marston understand.
"Mayo, I have tried to deal with you as if you were more or less of
a man. I was willing to admit that my agents had injured you by their
mistakes. I have offered a decent compromise. I have done what I hardly
ever do--bother with petty details like this!"
That impulse to deliver the papers to Marston was then not so insistent;
even Mayo's rising anger did not prompt him to do that. The wreck of a
man's life and hopes dismissed flippantly as petty details!
"Seeing that I am not able to deal with you on a business man's basis, I
shall handle you as I would handle any other thief."
Mayo turned to leave, afraid of his own desperate desire to beat that
sneering mouth into shapelessness.
At the head of the companionway stood half a dozen sailors, armed with
iron grate-bars.
"If those papers are on you, I'm going to have them," stated the
financier. "If they are not on you, you'll be glad to tell me where they
are before I get done with you."
The captive halted between the master and the vassals.
"I'm going to crucify my feelings a little more, Mayo," stated Marston.
"Step forward here where those men can't hear. It's important."
Marston knocked softly on a stateroom door and his daughter came forth.
She gasped when she saw this ragged visitor, and in her stare there was
real horror.
"I haven't been able to sift this thing to the bottom. By facing you
two, as I'm doing, I may be able to get the truth of the case," said
Marston, with the air of a magistrate dealing with malefactors. "Now,
Alma, I'll allow you a minute or two to use your tongue on this fine
specimen before my men use their bars."
"I heard what my father offered you. You must take it."
"I have other men to consider--honest men, who have worked hard with
me."
He trembled in their presence. Her appearance put sane thoughts out of
his head and choked the words in his throat. He saw himself in a mirror
and wondered if this were not a dream--if it had not been a dream that
she had ever loved him.
He wanted to put out to her his mutilated hands which he was hiding
behind him. He yearned to explain to her the man's side of the case. He
wanted her to understand what he owed to the men who had risked their
lives to serve him, to make her realize the bond which exists between
men who have toiled and starved together.
"You have yourself to consider, first of all. Much depends. In your
silly notions about a lot of paupers you are throwing my father's
kindness in his face!"
He stammered, unable to frame coherent reply.
"Be sensible. You have no right to put a heap of scrap-iron and a lot of
low creatures ahead of your personal interests."
There was malice in Marston's eyes. He saw an opportunity to make Mayo's
position even more false in the opinion of the girl.
"I'll be entirely frank, Mayo. In spite of our personal differences, I
want your services--I need them. I have found out that you're a young
man of determination and plenty of ability. I'll put you ahead fast if
you'll come over with me. But you must come clean. No strings on you
with that other crowd."
"I can't sell 'em out. I won't do it," protested Mayo. He did not
exactly understand all the reasons for his obstinacy. But his instinct
told him that Julius Marston was not descending in this manner except
for powerful reasons, and that he was attempting to buy a traitor for
his uses.
"How do you dare to turn against my father?"
"I--I don't know! Something seems to be the matter with me." He wrenched
at his throat with his hand.
"And after what I did--my wicked foolishness--those papers--"
"Go on! I propose to get to the bottom of this thing," declared Marston.
The young man drove his hand into his pocket, pulled out the sealed
packet, and forced it into the girl's hands. Marston promptly seized it.
"You have not opened it?"
"No, sir."
"I did not open it, either," cried the girl. "I sealed it, just as it
was tied up."
Marston ripped off the strings and the wax.
Outside a loud voice was hailing the yacht. "Compliments of Captain Wass
to Captain Mayo, and will he please say when he is coming back aboard
his schooner?"
The financier paid no attention; he was busy with the papers. His face
was white with rage. He threw them about him on the floor.
"Every sheet is blank--it is waste-paper!" he shouted. "What confounded
trick is this?"
"You'd better ask the man who gave that packet to your daughter,"
suggested Mayo. He seemed to be less astonished than Marston and the
girl. "I might have known that your man, Bradish, would be that kind of
a sneak."
"What do you know about Bradish being concerned in this?"
"I'm guessing it. Probably your daughter can say."
"I'll have no more of your evasions, Alma. I'm going to the bottom of
this matter now. Did Bradish give you this packet?"
"Yes, father."
"How did it get to this man here?"
"I gave it to a man named Captain Wass."
Again they heard the voice outside. "I don't care if he is busy! I tell
you to take word to Captain Mayo that he is wanted right away on his
schooner. Tell him it's Captain Wass."
"The devil has sent that man along at about the right time," declared
Marston. He strode to the companion-way. "Inform Captain Wass that he is
wanted on board here! Hide those bars till he is below!"
He came back, raging, and stood between Mayo and the girl, who had
seemed to find words inadequate during the short time they had been left
together.
"I don't believe anything you tell me! There's an infernal trick, here.
The papers are missing. Somebody has them."
His fury blinded his prudence.
He strode toward Captain Wass when the old mariner came stumping down
the companionway.
"Is your name Wass?"
"Captain Wass, sir."
"You took papers from my daughter and brought them to this man!"
"Correct."
Marston stepped back and kicked at the blank sheets on the floor.
"Perhaps you can tell me if these are what you brought.".
Captain Wass stared long at Mayo, at the girl, and at the incensed
magnate. Then he looked down at the scattered papers and scratched his
head with much deliberation.
"Why don't you say something?" demanded Marston.
"I'm naturally slow and cautious," stated Captain Wass. He put on his
spectacles, kneeled on the soft carpet, and examined the blank papers
and the broken seals. He laid them back on the carpet and meditated for
some time, still on his knees. When he looked up, peering over the edge
of his spectacles, he paid no attention to Mar-ston, to the latter's
indignant astonishment.
"Vose and others are waiting for us at the hotel," he informed Captain
Mayo, "and it's important business, and we'd better be tending to it
instead of fooling around here."
"No matter about any other business except this, sir," cried Marston.
"There can't be much business mixed up in a lot of blank sheets of
paper," snapped Captain Wass. "What's the matter?"
"I have lost valuable papers."
The old skipper bent shrewd squint at the angry man who was standing
over him. "Steamer combination papers, hey?"
"You seem to know pretty well."
"Ought to know."
"Why?"
Captain Wass rose slowly, with grunts, and rubbed his stiff knees.
"Because I've got 'em."
"Stole them from the package, did you?"
"It wasn't stealing--it was business."
"Hand them over."
"I insist on that, too, Captain Wass," said Mayo, with indignation.
"Hand over those papers."
"Can't be done, for I haven't got 'em with me. And I won't hand 'em over
till I have used them in my business."
"I shall have you arrested," announced Marston.
"So do. Sooner the whole thing gets before the court, the better." His
perfect calmness had its effect on the financier.
"What are you proposing to use those papers for?"
"To make you pirates turn back the Vose line property and pay damages.
As to the rest of your combination, the critters that's in it can skin
their own skunks. I guess the whole thing will take care of itself after
we get the Vose line back."
"You are asking for an impossibility. The matter cannot be arranged."
"Then we'll see how far Uncle Sam can go in unscrambling that particular
nestful of eggs. I'll give the papers to the government."
"Haven't you any influence with this man?" Marston asked the astounded
Mayo.
"No, he hasn't--not a mite in this case," returned Captain Wass. "He
needs a guardeen in some things, and I'm serving as one just now."
"You must get them from him--you must, Captain Mayo," cried the girl. "I
did not understand what I was doing."
"I will get them."
"I'd like to see you do it, son!"
He turned on the Wall Street man. "I'm only asking for what is
rightfully due my own people. I'm a man of few words and just now I'm
sticking close to schedule. Until eleven o'clock to-night you'll find
Vose, myself, and our lawyers at the Nicholas Hotel. After eleven
o'clock we shall be in bed because we've got to get an early start for
the wreck out on Razee. We're going to finance that job. And in case we
don't come to terms with you tonight we shall use our club to keep you
out of our business after this. You know what the club is."
Marston was too busily engaged with Captain Wass to pay heed to his
daughter. She went close to Mayo and whispered.
"You must quit them, Boyd. It's for my sake. You must help my father.
They are wretches. Think of what it will mean to you if you can help us!
You will do it. Promise me!"
He did not reply.
"Do you dare to hesitate for one moment--when I ask you--for my sake?"
"That's my last word," bawled Captain Wass. "There's no blackmail about
it--we're only taking back what's our own."
"Are you one of those--creatures?" she asked, indignantly.
If she had shown one spark of sympathy or real understanding in that
crisis of their affairs, if she had not been so much, in that moment,
the daughter of Julius Marston, counseling selfishness, he might have
fatuously continued to coddle his romance, in spite of all that had
preceded. But her eyes were hard. Her voice had the money-chink in it.
He started, like a man awakened. His old cap had fallen on the carpet.
He picked it up.
"Good-by!" he said. "I have found out where I belong in this world."
And in that unheroic fashion ended something which, so he then realized,
should never have been begun. He followed Captain Wass across the
saloon.
"Better advise your buckos to be careful how they handle them
grate-bars," shouted Captain Wass. "I'm loaded, and if I'm joggled I'm
liable to explode."
They were not molested when they left the yacht. The doryman who had
brought Captain Wass rowed them to the wharf.
"Those papers--" Mayo had ventured, soon after they left the yacht's
side.
"Not one word about 'em!" yelped the old skipper. "It's my
business--entire! When the time comes right I'll show you that it's my
private business. I never allow anybody to interfere in that."
That night, after the conference at the hotel, and after Julius Marston,
growling profanity, had put his name to certain papers, drawn by careful
lawyers, Captain Wass explained why the matter of the sealed packet
was his private business. He took Marston apart from the others for the
purpose of explaining.
"I haven't said one word to Vose or his associates about this business
of the documents. They think you have come because you wanted to
straighten out a low-down trick worked by an understrapper. So this has
put you in mighty well with the Vose crowd, sir."
Marston grunted.
"It ought to be kind of pleasing to have a few men think you are on the
square," pursued Captain Wass.
"That's enough of this pillycock conversation. Hand over those papers!"
"Just one moment!" He signaled to Captain Mayo, who came to them. "I'm
going to tell Mr. Marston why those documents were my especial business
to-day, and why you couldn't control me in the matter. I may as well
explain to the two of you at once. It was my own business for this
reason: I don't know anything about any papers. I never saw any. I
never opened that package. I handed it along just as it was given to me.
That's true, on my sacred word, Mr. Marston; and I haven't any reason
for lying to you--not after you have signed those agreements."
"Come outside," urged the financier. "I want to tell you what I think of
you."
"No," said the old skipper, mildly. "And I'd lower your voice, sir, if I
were you. These men here have a pretty good idea of you just now, and I
don't want you to spoil it."
"You're a lying renegade!"
"Oh no! I have only showed you that all the good bluffers are not
confined to Wall Street. There's one still loose there. Your man Bradish
probably had reasons for wanting to bluff your daughter--and save his
own skin. He'll probably hand your papers to you!"
Marston swore and departed.
"I laid out that course whilst I was down on my knees in his cabin,
sort of praying for a good lie in a time of desp'rit need," Captain
Wass confided to Mayo. "It wasn't bad, considering the way it has worked
out."
XXXII ~ A GIRL'S DEAR "BECAUSE!"
Cheer up, Jack, bright smiles await you
From the fairest of the fair,
And her loving eyes will greet you
With kind welcomes everywhere.
Rolling home, rolling home,
Rolling home across the sea.
Rolling home to dear old England,
Rolling home, dear land, to thee!
--Rolling Home.
There was no niggardliness in the trade the Vose folks made with Captain
Mayo. They contracted to co-operate with him and his men in floating the
steamship, repairing her in dry dock, and refitting her for her
route. She would be appraised as she stood after refitting, as a
going proposition, and Mayo was to receive stock to the amount of her
value--stock in the newly organized Vose line.
"Furthermore," stated old man Vose, "we shall need a chap of just about
your gauge as manager. You have shown that you are able to do things."
He was up on the _Conomo's_ deck after a long inspection of the work
which had been done under difficulties.
"You would have had this steamer off with your own efforts if your money
had lasted. Your next job is the _Montana_; but you'll simply manage
that, Captain Mayo--use your head and save your muscle."
"I'll get her off, seeing that I put her on."
"We all know just how she was put on--and Marston will pay for it in his
hard coin."
Under these circumstances Razee Reef was no longer a mourners' bench!
The dreary days of makeshift were at an end.
The lighters of one of the biggest wrecking companies of the coast
hurried to Razee and flocked around the maimed steamer--Samaritans of
the sea. Gigantic equipment embraced her; great pumps gulped the water
from her; bolstered and supported, as a stricken man limps with his arms
across the shoulders of his friends, the steamer came off Razee Reef
with the first spring tide in July, and toiled off across the sea in
the wake of puffing tugs, and was shored up and safe at last in a dry
dock--the hospital of the crippled giants of the ocean.
No music ever sounded as sweet to Captain Mayo as that clanging chorus
the hammers of the iron-workers played on the flanks of the _Conomo_.
But he tore himself away from that music, and went down to Maquoit along
with a vastly contented Captain Candage, who remembered now that he had
a daughter waiting for him.
She had been apprised by letter of their success and of their coming.
Maquoit made a celebration of that arrival of the _Ethel and May_, and
Dolph and Otie, cook and mate of the schooner, led the parade when the
men were on shore.
They came back to their own with the full purses that the generosity of
their employers had provided, and there was no longer any doubt as to
the future of the men who once starved on Hue and Cry.
Captain Mayo had declared that he knew where to find faithful workers
when it came time to distribute jobs.
Polly Candage had come to him when he stepped foot on shore, hands
outstretched to him, and eyes alight. And when she put her hands in his
he knew, in his soul, that this was the greeting he had been waiting
for; her words of congratulation were the dearest of all, her smile was
the best reward, and for her dear self he had been hungry.
But he would not admit to himself that he had come to woo.
When the soft dusk had softened the harsh outlines of the little hamlet,
and the others were busy with their own affairs and had left Mayo
and Polly to themselves, he sat with her on the porch of the widow's
cottage, where they spent that first evening after they had been saved
from the sea.
There had been a long silence between them. "We have had no
opportunity--I have not dared yet to tell you my best hopes for the
dearest thing of all," she ventured.
"The one up inland. I know. I am glad for you."
"What one up inland?"
"That young man--the only young man in all the world."
"Oh yes! I had forgotten."
He stared at her. "Forgotten?"
"Why--why--I don't exactly mean forgotten. But I was not thinking about
him when I spoke. I mean that now--with your new prospects--you can go
to--to--There may come a time when you can speak to Mr. Marston."
"I have spoken to Mr. Marston, quite lately. He has spoken to me," he
said, his face hard. "We shall never speak to each other again, if I can
have my way."
He met her astonished gaze. "Polly, I hate to trouble you with my poor
affairs of this kind. I can talk of business to Mr. Vose, and of the
sea to your father. But there's another matter that I can't mention
to anybody--except you will listen. I will tell you where I saw Mr.
Marston--and his daughter."
She listened, her lips apart.
"So, you see," he said at the end, "it was worse than a dream; it was
a mistake. It couldn't have been real love, for it was not built on the
right foundation. I have never had much experience with girls. I have
been swashing about at sea 'most all my life. Perhaps I don't know what
real love is. But it seems to me it can't amount to much unless it is
built up on mutual understanding, willingness to sacrifice for each
other."
"I think so," returned Polly, softly.
"I want to see that young man of yours, up inland. I want to tell him
that he is mighty lucky because he met you first."
"Why?"
"I can't tell you just why. It isn't right for me to do so."
"But a girl likes to hear such things. Please!"
"Will you forgive me for saying what I shouldn't say?"
"I will forgive you."
"He's lucky, because if I didn't know you were promised and in love,
I'd go down at your feet and beg you to marry me. You're the wife for
a Yankee sailor, Polly Candage. If only there were two of you in this
world, we'd have a double wedding."
He leaped up and started away.
"Where are you going?" she asked, and there was almost a wail in her
tones. "No, he does not understand girls well," she told herself,
bitterly.
"I'm going down to Rowley's store to see if he will take his money back
and let us save interest. He told me I'd have to keep the money for a
year."
She called to him falteringly, but with such appeal in her tones that he
halted and stared at her.
"Couldn't you--Isn't it just as well to let the matter rest
until--till--"
"Oh, there's no time like the present in money matters," he declared,
with a laugh, wholly oblivious, not in the least understanding her
embarrassment, her piteous effort to bar her little temple of love's
sacrifice so that he could not trample in just then.
His laugh was a forced one. He realized that if he did not hurry away
from this girl he would be reaching out his arms to her, declaring the
love that surged in him, now that he had awakened to full consciousness
of that love; his Yankee reticence, his instinct of honor between men,
were fighting hard against his passion; he told himself that he would
not betray a man he did not know, nor proffer love to a girl who, so he
believed, loved another.
"May I not go with you?" she pleaded, restraining her wild impulse to
run ahead of him and warn the deacon.
"Of course!" he consented, and they walked down the street, neither
daring to speak.
They found Rowley alone in his store. He was puttering around, making
ready to close the place for the night.
As they entered, the girl stepped behind Mayo and, catching the deacon's
eye, made frantic gestures. In the half gloom those gestures were
decidedly incomprehensible; the deacon lowered his spectacles and stared
at her, trying to understand this wigwagging.
"I'd like to take up that loan and save the rest of the year's interest,
Deacon Rowley," stated Mayo, with sailorly bluntness.
The girl was trying to convey to the deacon the fact that he must
not reveal her secret. She was shaking her head. This seemed to the
intermediary like direct and conclusive orders from the principal.
"No, sir, Captain Mayo! It can't be done."
"I don't call that a square deal between men, no matter what straight
business may be."
Polly now signaled eager assent, meaning to make the deacon understand
that he must take the money. But the deacon did not understand; he
thought the girl affirmed her desire for straight business.
"You took it for a year. No back tracks, captain."
She shook her head, violently.
"No, sir! Keep it, as you agreed, and pay your interest."
"Deacon Rowley, you're an old idiot!" blazed the girl.
When the deacon yanked off his spectacles, and Captain Mayo turned
amazed eyes to her, she put her hands to her face and ran out of the
store, sobbing. She was only a girl! She had no more resources left with
which to meet that situation in men's affairs.
Mayo's impulse was to follow, but the deacon checked him.
"I ain't going to be made a fool of no longer in this, even to make
three hundred dollars," he rasped.
"A fool! What do you mean?"
"You go settle it with her."
"What has Polly Candage got to do with this business?"
"It's her money."
"You mean to say--"
"She drawed her money out of the bank, and horn-swoggled me into lying
for her. What won't a girl do when she's in love with a fellow? If you
'ain't knowed it before, it's high time you did know it!"
That last remark of the deacon's had disgusted reference only to the
matter of the money. But it conveyed something else to Captain Boyd
Mayo.
He ran out of the store!
Far up the road he overtook her. She was hurrying home. When she faced
him he saw tears on her cheeks, though the generous gloom of evening
wrapped them where they stood. He took both her hands.
"Polly Candage, why did you risk your money on me?" he demanded.
"I knew you would succeed!" she murmured, turning her face away. "It was
an--a good investment."
"When you gave it, did you--Were you thinking--Was it only for an
investment, Polly?"
She did not reply.
"Look here! This last thing ought to tie my tongue, for I owe everything
to you. But my tongue won't stay tied--not now, Polly. I don't care if
there is somebody else up-country. I ought to care. I ought to respect
your--"
She pulled a hand free and put plump fingers on his lips. "There is
nobody up-country; there never has been anybody, Boyd," she whispered.
He took her in his arms, and kissed her, and held her close.
"Will you tell me one thing, now? I know the answer, sweetheart mine,
but I want to hear you say it. Why did you give me all your money?"
She put her palms against his cheeks and spoke the words his soul was
hungry for:
"Because I love you!"
THE END
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Blow The Man Down, by Holman Day
*** | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaBook"
} | 4,707 |
package org.specs.form
import org.specs.util.Property
class entityLinePropSpec extends org.spex.Specification {
def executor[T] = (a: T, m:org.specs.matcher.Matcher[T]) => a must m
"an entity line prop" should {
val e = EntityLineProp("label", 5, (_:String).size, "Hello", new MatcherConstraint(Some(5), executor))
"apply a function to an entity to get the property value" in {
e.get must_== 5
}
"not be empty after being copied" in {
val c = e.copy
c.toXhtml must not be empty
}
}
}
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaGithub"
} | 263 |
Q: Define a recurrence relation and prove by induction. I am trying to answer the following question:
Define a recurrence relation by $a_0=a_1=a_2=2$ and $a_n=a_{n-1}+a_{n-2}+a_{n-3}$ for $n\ge3$. Prove by induction: $a_n\le 2^n$ for all $n\ge1$.
Is it true that
\begin{align}
a_4 & = a_3+a_2+a_1\\
& =(a_2+a_1+a_0)+a_2+a_1\\
& = a_0+2a_1+2a_2\\
& = 2+4+4\\
& = 10?
\end{align}
But by our result $a_4<8$, but this does not hold for $10<8$.
Could it be possible that $a_n<2^n$ for all $n>1$ is not true. Looking for clarification on this problem?
A: $a_3 = 2 +2 +2 = 6$, $a_4 = 6 + 2 +2 = 10$, and $2^4 = 16$, so the hypothesis holds.
To prove the hypothesis by induction, we have already proven it until $n=4$. Now, assume it holds for $n=1,..N$ and we want to prove it for $N+1$. Then:
\begin{align*}
a_{N+1} &= a_N + a_{N-1} + a_{N-2}\\
&<2^N +2^ {N-1} +2^{N-2}\\
& = 2^2\times 2^{N-2} + 2 \times 2^{N-2} + 2^{N-2}\\
& = 7 \times 2^{N-2}\\
& < 8 \times 2^{N-2}\\
& = 2^{N+1}
\end{align*}
Where the second line comes from the induction hypothesis.
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"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaStackExchange"
} | 742 |
Q: Page only shows half of the absolute positioned popup I have a page that has some functionality that triggers a popup. That popup is defined as a div with some contents. That div has some css to give it a proper look, and also contains position:absolute.
The overlay is positioned relative to another element (the one that trigger it on the page and that element might be anywhere as the page is created dynamically), and sets the top of the popup equals to the bottom of the trigger element.
The popup is shown correctly most of the time, but if the trigger element is a the bottom part of the page, only the top part of the popup is visible. And for some reason (maybe because it's a absolute positioned element?) I don't get the posibility to scroll in the browser so I can see the rest of the contents.
Are there any way I can make it so that the popup "counts" as part of the page, and therefore enables scrolling inside the browser to be able to see all the contents?
A: Try .appendTo('body'); at the end of the calling line for the popup.
Another possibility to resolve the scrolling issue would be to use position:fixed; instead of position:absolute;
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Phileucourtus bicornutus är en skalbaggsart som beskrevs av Roger Paul Dechambre 2008. Phileucourtus bicornutus ingår i släktet Phileucourtus och familjen Dynastidae. Inga underarter finns listade i Catalogue of Life.
Källor
Skalbaggar
bicornutus | {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaWikipedia"
} | 3,071 |
Q: nodeschool javascripting ARRAY FILTERING var numbers = [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10];
var filtered = numbers.filter(function evenNumbers (number) {
return number % 2 === 0;
});
console.log(filtered);
I am total beginner to JavaScript, picking up the course offered by nodeschool. While in the exercise of "ARRAY FILTERING", I wonder what is the role of 'number' within the function evenNumbers as it was not declared beforehand.
A: It is declared, as a formal parameter to the callback evenNumbers (a function that takes an argument and tests whether it is even). filter will call the callback function once for each element of the array numbers, providing the element as the argument to the callback (which will assign it to number, via the usual function invocation process).
A: *
*numbers is an Array
*.filter is a method declared on Array.prototype
*.filter method accepts a callback function.
*Internally it looks Like,
,
Array.prototype.filter(callback[, thisArgs]) {
'''''
'''''
callback(currentElement, index, arrayObjectBeingTraversed)
});
So,
In your case,
callback --> function evenNumbers() {}
currentElement --> Number
More about Javascript Callback Functions
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\section{Introduction} \label{s:intro}
Silicon photonics platforms are becoming indispensable for developing low-cost integrated photonic circuits. Electro-optic (EO) effect is one of the main properties required in plethora applications including optical communications \cite {Mohapatra2008, Melikyan2014, Rueda2019, Abel2019}, quantum computing \cite{OBrien2009, Wang2020}, and neuromorphic applications \cite {George2019, Shen2017, Offrein2020}. The principal physical process behind these applications is the so-called Pockels or linear EO effect, which is related to the modulation of the refractive index of a material under an applied external electric field \cite {Lines2001}. Nevertheless, due to its centrosymmetric atomistic crystalline structure, pristine silicon features vanishing second-order optical nonlinearities; thus, it is unsuitable for EO applications. Bearing in mind that second-order nonlinear optical (NLO) responses strictly manifest in non-centrosymmetric materials, ferroelectric (FE) crystalline solids have emerged as the main materials of choice in EO applications. Such materials exhibit an intrinsic electric polarization that, in addition, can be controlled and tuned in a reversible manner by the application of an external electric field. \\
In the realm of EO applications, the most studied FE materials are currently ABO$_3$ perovskite-type crystalline solids. A representative member of this family is lithium niobate (LiNbO$_3$, LNO), a ferroelectric material featuring a strong Pockels crystalline bulk coefficient (r$_{33}$) of about 30 pm/V \cite{Turner1966}. LNO is widely applied in the telecommunications industry \cite {Wooten2000-reviewonLNO} and specifically in the fabrication of optical modulators. Despite LNO's complexity of integration on silicon substrates, several studies showed its compatibility with silicon photonics \cite {Wang2018, Rabiei2013HeterogeneousLN}. An additional appealing perovskite-type crystalline solid for EO applications is tetragonal ferroelectric barium titanate (BaTiO$_3$, BTO), featuring one of the highest Pockels bulk coefficients (r$_{42}$ $\approx$ 1300 pm/V) \cite {PRB-Zgonik1994}. However, the growth of high-quality BTO thin films on silicon without affecting its strong Pockels coefficient is still challenging and of high cost, although high-quality BTO films can be fabricated via molecular beam epitaxy (MBE), \cite {Abel2019, Messner2019, Xiong2014}. In addition to tetragonal BTO, its rhombohedral R3m phase also gained attention for cryogenic technologies as, for instance, for quantum computing \cite {Paoletta-PRB-EO, Eltes2020}.
Recently, it has been demonstrated that among HfO$_{2}$-ZrO$_{2}$-based thin films, orthorhombic Pbc2$_1$ \cite {Boscke2011} and rhombohedral R3m \cite {Wei2018} phases exhibit ferroelectric behavior. This is a significant outcome in terms of practical applications because both HfO$_{2}$ and ZrO$_{2}$ have an excellent silicon compatibility \cite {8423435-Ali,doi:10.1063/1.3636417-Muller, Park-energystorage2014, Silva-energystorage2021}. Combined with their ferroelectric nature, this might lead to significant breakthroughs in the realm of integrated photonic circuits that could significantly reduce the fabrication cost. Nevertheless, there is still much work to be done since the film quality and the ferroelectricity of ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ are not well optimized at high film thicknesses. This is critical for their optimal application due to the inverse proportionality between the optical losses and the film thickness \cite {fork_armani-leplingard_kingston_1994, Epitaxialferroelectricoxide}. In the case of the orthorhombic Pbc2$_1$ (o$-$phase), which is usually reported in polycrystalline thin films, ferroelectricity has been demonstrated in a large range of thickness from 1 nm to 1$\mu$m \cite {Cheema2020, undopedHfO2, Starschich2017, Shimura-2021}. This o$-$phase has also been reported in epitaxial thin films with a thickness thinner than 20 nm \cite {Lyu2018, o-HfO2-2021, Yun2022}. Regarding the rhombohedral R3m (r$-$phase), the reported thicknesses are ranged from 5 to 40 nm \cite {Wei2018, Silva2021, Ali2021}. Indeed, for applications, ultrathin films are often advantageous; for example, in the case of nonvolatile memories and ferroelectric field-effect transistors \cite {8423435-Ali, doi:10.1063/1.3636417-Muller}, energy storage \cite{Park-energystorage2014, Silva-energystorage2021}, negative capacitance \cite {Hoffman-negative-c, Hoffman2019}, and tunnel junctions \cite {Wei2019, Goh-2018-tj}.
In terms of NLO properties, the studies on ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ materials are scarce, leaving open the question of the potential of these compounds for optical applications. Indeed, to our knowledge, only two experimental studies can be found in the literature \cite {Kondo_2021_1, Kondo_2021_2}. They investigate the EO effect in Y$_2$O$_3$-doped HfO$_2$, reporting an EO coefficient of about 0.67 pm/V for (111)-oriented thin-films, a modest value compared to the ones in LNO and BTO materials. However, the exact EO coefficients of the two experimentally reported ferroelectric phases in HfO$_2$ and ZrO$_2$ are not known yet. Therefore, this study's primary objective is to report and investigate the EO coefficients of HfO$_2$ and ZrO$_2$ materials.\\
In this work, we study the second-order nonlinear optical (NLO) properties of the orthorhombic Pbc2$_1$ and rhombohedral R3m phases of ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$, relying on all-electron density functional theory (DFT) computations to report reliable EO coefficients. The obtained results are compared to the ones computed for the rhombohedral R3c LiNbO$_3$ (LNO) phase, for which experimental data are available allowing us to use LNO as a reference material. All reported EO coefficients have been determined from the microscopic second-order NLO responses of these systems that, in turn, they have been obtained via a coupled perturbed Kohn-Sham (CPKS) analytical approach developed and implemented in the CRYSTAL17 suite of quantum chemical programs by one of the authors of this study \cite{crystal14-2014, CRYSTAL17}. It has already been established that this perturbative approach delivers high accuracy molecular and bulk electric properties, free from numerical errors \cite{Maschio2012, Maschio2012-IR, Maschio2013, Maschio2015, Rerat-2016}. To achieve the maximum possible relevance with the available or future experimental data, the reported coefficients comprise electronic, vibrational effects, and piezoelectric contributions, which have also been obtained analytically. Especially for comparison between theory and experiment, such contributions are of essential importance for a reliable prediction of the overall NLO response of a given crystalline or molecular material and the complete understanding of its origin.\\
Our article is organized as follows: First, we give the theoretical background of our study, insisting on the close relationship between the macroscopic NLO susceptibilities and the microscopic hyper-polarizabilities of the unit shells. Then, we study the EO properties of LNO using CRYSTAL code, which will serve as the material of reference. Specifically, we report reliable values of its microscopic second-order responses and analyze the electronic, vibrational, and piezoelectric contributions. Finally, we report and discuss the Pockels EO coefficients of o$-$ and r$-$phase ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$, comparing them to those calculated for the R3c rhombohedral phase of LNO.
\section{Theoretical framework and computational details} \label{s: methode}
The microscopic linear and non$-$linear optical properties of a finite zero-dimensional system are defined in terms of a Taylor power series expansion with respect to an external applied electric field E$_{jkl}$ as
\begin{equation}\label{eq:1}
\mu_{i} = \mu_{0} + \alpha^{\textit{tot}}_{ij} E_{j}+ \frac{1}{2} \beta^{\textit{tot}}_{ijk} E_{j} E_{k} + \frac{1}{6} \gamma^{\textit{tot}}_{ijkl} E_{j} E_{k}E_{l} +...
\end{equation}
Where, \textit{i}, \textit{j}, \textit{k} and l stand for Cartesian coordinates (\textit{x}, \textit{y}, \textit{z}) , $\mu_{i}$ and $\mu_{0}$ are the induced and the permanent dipole moment, $\alpha^{\textit{tot}}_{ij}$ is the total dipole electric polarizability, while $ \beta^{\textit{tot}}_{ijk}$ and $\gamma^{\textit{tot}}_{ijkl}$ are the total first and second dipole hyperpolarizabilities, respectively. By the term total (\textit{tot}) it is implied that both electronic (\textit{ele}) and vibrational (\textit{vib}) contributions\cite{Bishop1990, Maschio2015, Rerat-2016} are taken into account, Hence:
\begin{equation}\label{eq:2}
\alpha^{\textit{tot}}_{ij} = \alpha^{ele}_{ij} +\alpha^{vib}_{ij}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}\label{eq:3}
\beta^{\textit{tot}}_{ijk} = \beta^{ele}_{ijk} + \beta^{vib}_{ijk}
\end{equation}
For three-dimensional periodic crystalline lattices, equation (\ref{eq:1}) can be written as
\begin{equation}\label{eq:4}
P_{i} = P_{0} + \chi^{(1)}_{ij} E_{j} + \chi^{(2)}_{ijk} E_{j} E_{k} + \chi^{(3)}_{ijkl} E_{j} E_{k} E_{l}+...
\end{equation}\\
Where $P_{i}$ is the unit-cell induced polarization while $\chi^{(1)}_{ij}$, $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$, and $\chi^{(3)}_{ijkl}$ stand for the total first order (linear), and the second-and the third-order (nonlinear) optical macroscopic bulk susceptibilities, respectively. The first and second coefficients of equation (\ref{eq:4}) are deduced from the total microscopic (hyper) polarizabilities per unit-cell volume (\textit{V}) as follows (in atomic units):
\begin{equation}\label{eq:5}
\chi^{(1)}_{ij} = \frac {4 \pi}{V}\alpha^{\textit{tot}}_{ij}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}\label{eq:6}
\chi^{(2)}_{ijk} = \frac {2 \pi}{V} \beta^{tot}_{ijk}
\end{equation}
The total first-order susceptibility $\chi^{(1)}_{ij}$ can be used to deduce the relative dielectric tensor $\epsilon_{ij}$, which in turn gives access to bulk refractive indices $n$ via the following expressions:
\begin{equation}\label{eq:7}
\epsilon_{ij} = \delta_{ij} + \chi^{(1)}_{ij}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}\label{eq:8}
n_{ii} = \epsilon_{ii}^{1/2}
\end{equation}
In the above equations, $\delta_{ij}$ represents the elements of the identity matrix ($\delta_{ij}=1$ for $i=j$, and $0$ for $i\ne j$). Note that we consider in this work a diagonal $\epsilon_{ij}$ tensor so that the subscript $i$ of $\epsilon_{ii}$ corresponds to one of the three principal axes $n_{ii}$ of the ellipsoidal indicatrix.
Now, to obtain the EO Pockels coefficients ($r_{ijk}$), as a first step, we consider the constant stress (or "clamped") conditions, wherein $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$ and the bulk refractive indices $n_{ii}$ given in equation (\ref{eq:8}) can be used to determine one out of the two terms contributing to the total $r_{ijk}$ coefficients. The clamped EO coefficient is denoted here as $r^{S}_{ijk}$, comprises both vibrational and electronic contributions, and is defined as:
\begin{equation}\label{eq:9}
r^{S}_{ijk} = - 2 \,\,\, \frac {\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}}{n^{2}_{ii} n^{2}_{jj}}
\end{equation}
In the second step, we should model and consider the relevant acoustic contribution stemming from the piezoelectric effect. This effect depends on the frequency of the applied ac electric field, as it originates from the inverse piezoelectric effect, according to which the application of an ac oscillating field induces mechanical deformations on the crystalline lattice. The resulting contribution to the $r_{ijk}$ coefficients, denoted here as $r^{p}_{ijk}$, is defined from the photoelastic tensor $P_{ij\mu \nu}$ and converse piezoelectric tensor $d_{k \mu \nu}$ \cite {Ebra2015, Zgonik2002} as:
\begin{equation}\label{eq:10}
r^{p}_{ijk} = \sum_{\mu , \nu =1}^{3} P_{ij\mu \nu} d_{k\mu \nu}
\end{equation}
The calculation of the tensorial components of $r^{p}_{ijk}$ is achieved via the computation of the photoelastic constants $\frac {\partial \eta_{ij}}{\partial S_{\mu \nu}}$ ($P_{ij\mu \nu}$) defined as the derivative of
the impermeability tensor $\eta_{ij}$ with respect to strain $S_{\mu \nu}$, which are the elements of the fourth rank photoelastic tensor, and of the converse piezoelectric tensor $\frac {\partial S_{\mu \nu}}{\partial E_{k}}$ ($d_{k\mu \nu}$) \cite {PRB-Ebra2013}. Finally, the total EO coefficients that we report in this work are calculated as $r_{ijk} =r^{S}_{ijk} + r^{p}_{ijk}$. More detailed information about photoelastic calculations can be found elsewhere\cite {PRB-Ebra2013, Ebra2015, Zgonik2002}. \\
All computations of frequency-dependent properties have been performed with the CRYSTAL suite of programs \cite {CRYSTAL17}. In order to determine the dynamic vibrational and electronic (clamped nuclei) hyper-polarizabilities, a fully analytical approach relying on the coupled perturbed Hartree-Fock and Kohn-Sham method (CPHF / CPKS) has been applied \cite{Maschio2015, Rerat-2016, Pascale2004, Zicovich2004, Maschio2013}.
In the case of LNO, we considered three different DFT functionals to investigate the dependence on the DFT method of the properties of interest and to compare the results with available experimental data. That includes the Becke, three-parameter, Lee-Yang–Parr exchange-correlation functional (B3LYP) \cite {Becke1993, Lee1988}, the pure Perdew-Burke-Ernzerhof one (PBE) \cite {PBE1996}, and with 25$\%$ Hartree-Fock (HF) exchange (PBE0) \cite {Adamo1999}. In the case of ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ (orthorhombic Pbc2$_1$ and rhombohedral R3m phases), only the B3LYP functional has been applied as it gives good results for LNO. The basis sets of LNO are taken from Refs. \cite {PRB-basisset-Nb}, \cite {Oliveira-basisset-Li}, and \cite {PRB-basisset-O} for Nb, Li, and O, respectively. The basis sets for ZrO$_{2}$ are from Refs. \cite {Oliveira-basisset-Li} and \cite {Valenzano2011} for O and Zr, respectively, while those for HfO$_2$ are taken from Refs. \cite{Basisset-O-HfO2} and \cite {PRB-basisset-Hf} for O and Hf, respectively.
\section{Results and discussion} \label{s: discussion}
\begin{figure}[H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.8\linewidth}
\hspace*{-0.5in}
\includegraphics [scale=0.6] {FIG1_Structures.pdf}
\vspace*{-70mm}
\caption{The crystallographic structures of a) LiNbO$_3$ (space group R3c), b) rhombohedral ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ (space group R3m), and c) orthorhombic ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ (space group Pbc2$_1$).}
\label{fig:1}
\end{figure}
\subsection{LNO rhombohedral R3c} \label{ss:LiNbO3}
We started our calculations with LNO, which features a ferroelectric R3c ground state at low temperatures. The crystal structure of the bulk system, built from ten atoms per unit cell, is shown in Figure \ref{fig:1}a (lattice constants and atomic coordinates are given in Table S.1 in Supplemental Material (SM) \cite{Ali2022}). Computed band gaps, dynamic refractive indices n$_{ii}$ and $\epsilon_{ii}$ values of LNO determined with three functionals of different types, namely B3LYP, PBE0, and PBE at an optical frequency corresponding to 633 nm wavelength, are listed in Table \ref{table:1}. Apart from electronic contributions, which can be trivially computed with the CPKS approach, the reported values comprise as well the respective vibrational contributions computed at the same level of theory. The wavelength (633 nm) was chosen to compare our results to available data reported in the literature; both experimental and theoretical data are reported in Table \ref{table:1}. Note that the EO properties are also investigated up to the near-infrared wavelength range in section \ref{ss:o-ZHO}.
Starting from the computed bandgap of LNO, it is seen that out of the three methods used, B3LYP and PBE0 yield notably larger values as compared to the reported experimental values. On the other hand, the pure PBE functional follows the opposite trend. The frequently cited direct band gap value of LNO, mostly concluded from optical experiments \cite {GapLNO-1990}, is about 3.78 eV. However, this value should be considered with care due to electron-hole attraction effects, which might induce important underestimations in the final outcome of optical measurement, as already discussed in Refs. \cite {Thierfelde-gap2009, PRB-Nahm2008}. Therefore, for LNO crystal, a band gap of 4.7 eV \cite {Thierfelde-gap2009} should be considered more suitable for comparisons between theory and experiment. Bearing in mind the latter correction, the B3LYP functional and the associated basis set reproduce the band gap of LNO better than PBE.
Turning our attention to the refractive indices computed in this study, we also notice that both B3LYP and PBE0 functionals yield values that fall very close to the available experimental measurements. On the other hand, pure PBE overshoots the experimental reference values, yielding values close to the earlier Local-Density approximations (LDA) reported results. This behavior is not surprising since pure DFT functionals generally underestimate the gap returning overestimated cell polarizabilities $\alpha_{ij}$ \cite {Bishop1990} and dielectric constants. Hence, it is expected to affect the refractive indices (equation \ref {eq:8}). Nonetheless, despite the apparent deviations in functional performance, all methods considered predict relatively stable birefringence values (denoted $ \delta n$ in Table \ref{table:1}), in good agreement with the available experimental measurements conducted on stoichiometric LNO crystals (cationic ratio Li/Nb $\sim$ 1) \cite{Schlarb1993, Bergman1968}.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.8\linewidth}
\caption{Band gap, refractive indices $n_{ii}$, the birefringence $ \delta n$, and dielectric constants $\epsilon_{ii}$ of LNO calculated at 633 nm wavelength using different functionals and compared to experimental results. Values in parentheses correspond to the static values (at "infinite" wavelength).}
\begin{tabular}{ c c c c c c c c}
\hline
&B3LYP & PBE0& PBE&LDA \cite {PRBVeithen2004}& exp \cite{Schlarb1993} & exp \cite{ Nelson1974}\\ [1ex]
\hline\hline
Gap (eV) &4.75& 5.29& 3.15& -& 3.78 &-\\[0.5ex]
n$_{xx}$ (n$_{o}$) &2.257&2.227 &2.497& 2.37 & 2.28 & 2.286\\[0.5ex]
n$_{zz}$ (n$_{e}$)& 2.149&2.120& 2.402& 2.35 & 2.18& 2.202\\[0.5ex]
$ \delta n$& 0.107& 0.107& 0.095&/ & 0.098& 0.09\\[0.5ex]
$\epsilon_{xx}$ &5.10 (4.71) & 4.96& 6.23 &/ & / &/\\[0.5ex]
$\epsilon_{zz}$ &4.63 (4.31)& 4.50& 5.77& / & / &/\\[0.5ex]
\hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:1}
\end{table}
The clamped EO coefficients r$^{S}_{ijk}$ of LNO, together with the corresponding electronic and vibrational contributions computed with the B3LYP functional, are listed in Table \ref{table:2}. We also list previous published experimental measurements and theoretical data in the same table. All properties have been deducted from computed $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ (for Pockels coefficient calculation, $\omega$ stands for a laser wavelength, $\omega = 0$ for a static electric field, and $\omega_{\sigma}$ is the sum of two wavelengths, see SM for more details \cite{Ali2022}) obtained at the same level of theory, considering only the four EO independent tensorial components of LNO r$_{33}$, r$_{13}$, r$_{11}$, and r$_{51}$ \cite {PRBVeithen2004}. The vibrational contribution is a result of the transverse optical phonon modes; they can be represented as $4A_1+ 5A_2 + 9 E$, where the $A_1$ and $E$ modes are Raman and infrared (IR) active; in contrast, $A_2$ modes are silent. The $A_1$ modes are coupled to r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$, while the $E$ modes are linked to r$_{11}$ and r$_{51}$. The corresponding computed phonon frequencies, showing a good agreement with available experimental data, together with the second-order nonlinear susceptibilities $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega,0)$ at a wavelength of 633 nm, are given in SM \cite{Ali2022}. Looking at the computed clamped EO coefficients presented in Table \ref{table:2}, the results obtained with B3LYP functional are in very good agreement with experimental results, notably for r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ coefficients. On the other hand, an overestimation of r$_{11}$ and an underestimation of r$_{51}$, respectively, are revealed. Nevertheless, our calculations expose that the most dominant contribution out of the two considered for r$^{S}_{ijk}$ is the vibrational contribution to the microscopic second hyperpolarizability of the unit cell. This result, relying on a hybrid DFT treatment of the wavefunction, confirms previous computations within the LDA approximation \cite {PRBVeithen2004}, producing at the same time a very good estimation of the EO tensorial components with respect to the experimental data.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.8\linewidth}
\caption{ $r_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ EO tensor (pm/V) of LNO at 633 nm wavelength: electronic and ionic (clamped), and piezoelectric (unclamped) contributions, together with results from previous calculations and experiments.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{2}{1.5cm} & &\multicolumn{3}{p{3cm}}{\centering B3LYP} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.6cm}}{\centering LDA \cite {PRBVeithen2004}} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering exp \cite{Turner1966}} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering exp \cite {K.K.WONG2002}}\\ [1ex]
\hline
Clamped & & $r^{ele}_{ijk}$& $r^{vib}_{ijk}$& $r^{S}_{ijk}$&\\ [1ex]
&r$_{33}$ & 7.19& 23.45 &30.64& 26.9 & 30.8 &34\\
&r$_{13}$ & 2.74 & 7.94& 10.68 &9.7& 8.6 &10.9\\
&r$_{11}$ & -1.02 & -6.84 & -7.86& 4.6 & 3.4 &/\\
&r$_{51}$ & 3.08& 19.43 & 22.51& 14.9 & 28&/\\
\\
Unclamped & &$r^{p}_{ijk}$ & & $r_{ijk}$ & & &exp \cite{Abdi1998}\\[1ex]
& r$_{33}$ & 0.95 & &31.59& 27 &32.6 & /\\
&r$_{13}$ & 1.42 & &12.1& 10.5 &10& /\\
&r$_{11}$ & 0.86 & & -7.00& 7.5 &6& 9.9\\
&r$_{51}$ & 10.77 & & 33.28& 28.6& 32.2& /\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:2}
\end{table}
We now consider the total unclamped EO coefficients $r_{ijk}$ of LNO, including the piezoelectric contribution, which is computed at the same level of theory as discussed above. We note that the photoelastic constants $P_{ij\mu \nu}$, here computed at 633 nm, are found relatively independent on wavelength above 633 nm (see Figure S.2 in SM \cite{Ali2022}). The same trend has been observed for MgO and CaWO$_4$ crystals from calculations at the PBE level \cite{PRB-Ebra2013, Ebra2015}. The piezoelectric contribution to the EO coefficients is listed in Table \ref{table:2} as $r^{P}_{ijk}$. Looking at the total $r_{ijk} =r^{S}_{ijk} + r^{p}_{ijk}$, an excellent agreement with experimental results is obtained. For the three coefficients r$_{33}$, r$_{13}$, and r$_{11}$, the vibrational contribution is still dominant, while r$_{51}$ coefficient has the highest piezoelectric contribution (Table \ref{table:2}). Three functionals, B3LYP (Table \ref{table:2}), PBE0, and PBE (Table S.5), give a piezoelectric contribution to r$_{51}$ of around 11 pm/V, that represents around 33 $\%$ of r$_{51}$ unclamped value, lower than the 48 $\%$ found in Ref.\cite {PRBVeithen2004}. Nevertheless, the r$_{51}$ EO coefficient is found with the highest piezoelectric contribution from the four independent EO coefficients of LNO material, in line with the previous theoretical results \cite {PRBVeithen2004}. Experimentally, only a piezoelectric contribution of about 4.2 pm/V has been reported \cite{Turner1966}. This disagreement might be due to the experimental method, which can not suppress the total piezoelectric contribution during the measurement of the clamped coefficient, as previously suggested in Ref.\cite {PRBVeithen2004}.
It is worth noting that the PBE0 functional showed an overestimation of the piezoelectric contribution to r$_{33}$ ($\sim$6 pm/V see Table S.5), which is higher than the value obtained with B3LYP and PBE functionals ($\sim$1 pm/V close to the 1.8 pm/V found experimentally \cite{Turner1966}). Moreover, pure PBE functional delivers a reasonable estimation of the EO coefficients (Table S.5), even though it underestimates the gap, thus, giving a high refractive index (Table \ref{table:1}) as discussed above. That is because underestimated gaps lead to overestimated susceptibility $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$; in return, this will compensate for the high values of the refractive indices when computing the EO coefficients r$^{S}_{ijk}$ (see equation \ref {eq:5}).
\subsection{ZrO$_{2}$-HfO$_{2}$ orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$} \label{ss:o-ZHO}
In this section, we present electro-optics properties of the o$-$phase of ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ compounds, with space group Pbc2$_{1}$ (No. 29). The optimization of Pbc2$_{1}$ ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ is performed using 12 atoms in a unit cell. The optimized crystalline structure and atomic positions are given in SM \cite {Ali2022}. The polarization was also computed for o$-$phase ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ via Berry phase calculation using Quantum Espresso (QE) \cite {Giannozzi2009}, in order to verify that the optimized polar phases are consistent with the ones reported in literature \cite {Boscke2011, Materlik2015}. Table \ref {table:3} displays the band gap, refractive indices, and remanent polarization of o$-$phase ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$; Note that regarding optical properties, no experimental data are available for comparison. However, we did obtain polarization values similar to previous calculations \cite {Materlik2015}.\\
It is well known that ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ compounds have a wide band gap, as they are used for high-k applications. From Table \ref {table:3} it can be seen that the band gap of o-HfO$_2$ is higher by about 1 eV compared to o-ZrO$_2$. Another feature is that the refractive indices at 633 nm of o-ZrO$_{2}$ are higher than the ones of o-HfO$_{2}$. This is interesting because a high refractive index is an essential element for silicon photonics applications in order to ensure a sufficient contrast with the refractive index of SiO$_2$ \cite {Messner2019}.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.6\linewidth}
\caption{ Band gap and refractive indices of orthorhombic Pbc2$_1$ ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ at 633 nm. The polarization P$_b$ (along the b axis) from Berry phase calculation is also shown.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c}
\hline
& o-ZrO$_{2}$ & o-HfO$_{2}$\\ [1ex]
\hline\hline
gap (eV)&5.40& 6.45\\ [1ex]
n$_{xx}$ & 2.204& 2.059 \\
n$_{yy}$ & 2.301 & 2.122 \\
n$_{zz}$ & 2.236 & 2.081 \\ [1ex]
P$_b$ ($\mu$C/cm$^{2})$ & 54 (58, \cite {Materlik2015} ) &49.5 (50, \cite {Materlik2015} ) \\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:3}
\end{table}
We also have to consider the vibrational modes of the Pbc2$_{1}$ phase, as these modes are directly linked and contribute to the EO coefficients. The primitive unit cell of Pbc2$_{1}$ phase with 12 atoms (4 formula units) results in 36 vibrational modes, 3 for translation modes, and 33 optical modes, having the following irreducible representation at the zone center $ \Gamma$: \\
\begin{equation}\label{eq:11}
\Gamma = 8 A_{1} + 9 A_{2} + 8 B_{1} + 8 B_{2}
\end{equation}
The $A_{1}$, $B_{1}$, and $B_{2}$ modes are Raman and IR active. Hence, they will contribute to the electro-optic coefficients, while $A_2$ modes are only Raman active. The calculated $A_1$ phonon frequencies are given in Table \ref{table:4}, and the $A_{2}$, $B_{1}$, and $B_{2}$ phonon frequencies are given in SM \cite {Ali2022}. Only a few experimental results concerning the phonon frequencies of Pbc2$_{1}$ o$-$phase are available for pure ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$. They are displayed for o-ZrO$_2$ in Table \ref{table:4}, showing a good agreement with the calculated phonon modes.\\
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.7\linewidth}
\caption{Calculated frequencies ($cm^{-1}$) of Raman and IR active $A_1$ phonon modes of ferroelectric ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ using B3LYP functional.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{2}{1.5cm} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering o-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering o-HfO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering r-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering r-HfO$_2$}\\ [1ex]
& \multicolumn{1}{c}{} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{exp \cite {Uwe-2022-Raman}} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{} \\ [1ex]
A$_1$ & 102 & /& 113 &171 &118\\
& 186 &200& 153& 220&171\\
& 291 & /& 253 &267&267\\
& 315& 320& 295&352&284\\
& 351& 340& 329& 449&423\\
&387&/ &369&534&537\\
&445&/&451&674&692\\
&566& 580&589&755&770\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:4}
\end{table}
The orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$ with a 2mm point group has five independent EO coefficients \cite {modernphotonics}: r$_{13}$, r$_{23}$, r$_{33}$, r$_{42}$, and r$_{51}$. Moreover, as given above, only $A_{1}$, $B_{1}$, and $B_{2}$ contribute to the EO coefficients in the Pbc2$_1$ phase. The $A_{1}$ modes are linked to r$_{13}$, r$_{23}$, and r$_{33}$, the $B_{1}$ and $B_{2}$ modes are coupled to r$_{42}$ and r$_{51}$, respectively. These five EO coefficients are computed at the same level of theory as discussed for LNO, and they are listed in Table \ref {table:5} showing the three different contributions, electronic r$^{ele}_{ijk}$, vibrational r$^{vib}_{ijk}$, and piezoelectric r$^{p}_{ijk}$. The first significant result is that the EO coefficients in o-ZrO$_{2}$ are higher and almost twice the ones in o-HfO$_{2}$. The r$_{13}$ and r$_{33}$ coefficients have the highest values of the five independent EO elements. For both ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$, these two coefficients have an opposite sign and are quite close in absolute values. Comparing the calculated EO results of o-ZrO$_2$ to those of the reference LNO material (Table \ref {table:2}), the r$_{13}$ of o-ZrO$_{2}$ is close to the r$_{13}$ of LNO, while the r$_{33}$ of o-ZrO$_{2}$ is around one-third of LNO. Unfortunately, no experiment results are available for pure o-ZrO$_{2}$ and o-HfO$_{2}$. However, for Y$_{2}$O$_{3}$-doped HfO$_{2}$ o$-$phase, EO coefficients have been reported with effective values of about 0.46 pm/V and 0.67 pm/V for (100) and (111) oriented thin films, respectively \cite {Kondo_2021_1, Kondo_2021_2}.
From Table \ref{table:5}, we also deduce that ionic is the dominant contribution to the EO coefficients in o$-$phase ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$, as in LNO. The approach used here for EO calculations also provides further insights into this ionic contribution computed by evaluating the Raman and IR intensities \cite{Rerat-2016}, as described in refs. \cite{Maschio2013} and \cite{Maschio2012}, respectively. In the case of LNO crystal, we found that the two $A_1$ and $E$ polar modes of lowest frequency contribute the most to r$_{33}$ and r$_{51}$, respectively, amounting to 43$\%$ and 36$\%$ of the value of these coefficients. This observation is in good agreement with previous calculations \cite {PRBVeithen2004}, and with the fact that for LNO, unstable phonon modes in the paraelectric phase transform into lower frequency and highly polar modes in the low-temperature ferroelectric phase \cite {PRBVeithen2004}. Nevertheless, ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ materials have numerous polymorphs \cite{Kisi1998} and other mechanisms that can stabilize the ferroelectric phase \cite{Materlik2015, Kisi}, away from the classical paraelectric-ferroelectric phase transition picture. However, looking at the lowest phonon modes in o-ZrO$_2$, the same trend is observed as in LNO material. For example, the lowest frequency $A_1$ TO (transverse optical) mode at 102 $cm^{-1}$ (Table \ref{table:4}) is responsible for about 40$\%$ and more than 60$\%$ of the values of r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ in o-ZrO$_2$, respectively.
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.8\linewidth}
\caption{The five independent elements of $r_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ tensor for Pbc2$_{1}$ space group, together with their respective electronic, vibrational and piezoelectric contributions, computed at a wavelength of 633 nm. All values are given in pm/V.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{5}{1.5cm} & & \multicolumn{5}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering o-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering o-HfO$_2$} \\ [1ex]
& \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{ele}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{vib}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{p}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$_{ijk}$} & & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{ele}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{vib}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{p}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$_{ijk}$}\\ [1ex]
r$_{33}$ & 2.10 & 8.75& 0.5 & 11.35& & 1.52 & 5.56 &0.14&7.22 \\
r$_{13}$ & -1.49 &- 9.29& -1.38 &-12.17 & & -0.81 & -6.32 & -0.83&-7.96\\
r$_{23}$ & -0.51 & -2.19&0 & -2.70& & -0.51 & -1.94 & 0&-2.58 \\
r$_{42}$ &- 0.53 & -0.95& 0& -1.48& & -0.54 & -0.83 & 0& -1.37\\
r$_{51}$ & -1.00 & -1.16& 0& -2.16& & -0.83 &-0.94& 0& -1.77\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:5}
\end{table}
\textit{Wavelength dependence of EO coefficients}: The EO values reported above are computed at 633 nm, while, for example, wavelengths for telecom applications are in the near-infrared region, typically around 1500 nm. Therefore, with a focus on the influence of laser wavelength on Pockels coefficients, the same calculations as performed at 633 nm were repeated at different wavelengths up to near-infrared. The results are displayed in Figure \ref {fig:2} for the unclamped r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ coefficients of LNO and o-ZrO$_2$. ZrO$_2$ is here chosen instead of HfO$_2$ because of its higher EO coefficients compared to HfO$_2$ (Table \ref{table:5}).
\begin{figure} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.6\linewidth}
\hspace*{-0.5in}
\includegraphics [scale=0.6]{FIG2_r_EO_wavelength.pdf}
\vspace*{-30mm}
\caption{EO coefficients (unclamped) r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ of LNO and o-ZrO$_2$ at different wavelengths using B3LYP functional.}
\label{fig:2}
\end{figure}
First, bearing in mind that the three contributions depend on wavelength, the electronic part is more sensitive to the electric field than the vibrational and piezoelectric contributions. Also, the electronic part depends strongly on the gap of the materials. Therefore, approaching the IR wavelengths, the electronic contribution decreases and converges to a static value \cite {Maschio2015, Rerat-2016}. This decrease is associated with a decrease in the refractive indices: At a wavelength of 1550 nm, the refractive index n$_{zz}$ is found to be 2.08 (2.19) for LNO (for ZrO$_{2}$), which is lower than the value obtained at 633 nm (Tables \ref{table:1} and \ref{table:3}). We found that the vibrational contribution remains almost constant from 633 nm to 1550 nm. The last contribution is piezoelectric, where the dependency on wavelength comes from the photoelastic coefficients, which remain relatively constant at high wavelengths (see Figure S1 in SM \cite{Ali2022}). The general relative increase of the total EO coefficients observed in Figure \ref {fig:2} when increasing the wavelength is thus due to the decrease of the refractive indices (see equation \ref{eq:9}). The EO coefficients of o-ZrO$_2$ are found lower than the ones of LNO at all investigated wavelengths. Nevertheless, in terms of applications, other parameters should be taken into consideration, such as the refractive index and the total dielectric constant, to define a figure of merit ($n^{3}$ r$_{ijk}$/ $\epsilon$ \cite{Epitaxialferroelectricoxide}, with $\epsilon$ a total dielectric constant comprising both the electronic and the ionic contributions) that could bring o$-$phase ZrO$_2$/HfO$_2$ as a competitive material for EO applications. Figure \ref{fig:3} displays the comparison of this figure of merit between LNO, HfO$_2$ and ZrO$_2$ materials. For r$_{33}$ coefficient, LNO has the highest figure of merit; however, the ones for ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ are not negligible. Considering the compatibility of ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ with silicon, these results are significant enough for further investigating different paths to increase the EO coefficients in these materials.
\begin{figure} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.5\linewidth}
\hspace*{-0.2in}
\includegraphics [scale=0.5]{FIG3_Figmerit.pdf}
\vspace*{-22mm}
\caption{Figure of merit ($n^{3}$ r$_{ijk}$/ $\epsilon$) of HfO$_2$ and ZrO$_2$ compared to LNO using r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ coefficients.}
\label{fig:3}
\end{figure}
\subsection{ZrO$_{2}$-HfO$_{2}$ rhombohedral R3m} \label{ss:r-ZHO}
In this section, we focus on the EO properties of the rhombohedral R3m (space group No. 160) phase of ZrO$_{2}$-HfO$_{2}$. This phase is less studied than the orthorhombic phase and has only been reported in compressively strained epitaxial thin films \cite {Wei2018, Ali2021}. For the EO investigation, we also used a unit cell of 12 atoms (4 formula units). One should note that in the case of the r$-$phase, an instability (with negative/imaginary frequency) of TO $A_{1}$-TO$_{1}$ phonon mode was observed when the phonon was computed at the optimized unit cell volume for r-ZrO$_{2}$ (141 $\AA^{3}$) and r-HfO$_{2}$ (136 $\AA^{3}$), the optimized unit cells being given in SM \cite{Ali2022}. For the calculation of EO coefficients and other properties to be reliable, one should have only real frequencies. To achieve such a condition for ZrO$_{2}$, an experimental volume ($\sim$132 $\AA^{3}$) was imposed together with a rhombohedral angle equal to 89.56° \cite {Ali2021}, forcing the imaginary phonon mode that is calculated at 82\textit{i} $cm^{-1}$ to move to 76 $cm^{-1}$ at the experimental volume. While for HfO$_{2}$, no r$-$phase unit cell volume was experimentally reported, the volume was reduced until achieving a positive phonon frequency, and the volume used here is 128 $\AA^{3}$.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.6\linewidth}
\caption{ Band gap and refractive indices of rhombohedral R3m ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ at 633 nm. The rhombohedral polarization P$_r$ from Berry phase calculation is also shown.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c}
\hline
& r-ZrO$_{2}$ & r-HfO$_{2}$\\ [1ex]
\hline\hline
gap (eV) &5.79& 6.77\\ [1ex]
n$_{xx}$ & 2.282& 2.114 \\
n$_{zz}$ & 2.271& 2.107 \\
$\delta n$ & 0.011&0.007 \\ [1ex]
P$_{r}$ ($\mu$C/cm$^{2})$ & 6.8 & 5.1 \\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:6}
\end{table}
The computed band gap, refractive indices, and polarization are displayed in Table \ref {table:6}. The band gaps obtained for ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ in the r$-$phase are significantly higher than in the o$-$phase. The remanent polarization for the r$-$phase was also computed via Berry Phase using QE. The value obtained for the polarization is lower than in the case of the o$-$phase, as expected from previous calculations \cite {Wei2018, Silva2021}. Note that this polarization depends strongly on the compressive strain, which is directly related to the rhombohedral angle \cite{Wei2018, Ali2021}. Here, the polarization is computed at a fixed angle using the rhombohedral primitive unit cell. In contrast, in Refs.\cite {Wei2018, Silva2021} the polarization is computed with hexagonal unit cells and at different compressive strains.
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.8\linewidth}
\caption{The four independent elements of $r_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ tensor for R3m space group, together with their respective electronic, vibrational and piezoelectric contributions, computed at a wavelength of 633 nm. All values are given in pm/V.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{5}{1.5cm} & & \multicolumn{5}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering r-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering r-HfO$_2$} \\ [1ex]
& \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{ele}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{vib}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{p}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$_{ijk}$} & & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{ele}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{vib}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$^{p}_{ijk}$ } & \multicolumn{1}{c}{r$_{ijk}$}\\ [1ex]
r$_{33}$ &- 0.11 & - 0.30 & -0.01 & -0.42& & -0.07 & -0.21 &-0.02&-0.30 \\
r$_{13}$ & 0.05 & 0.14& 0.05 & 0.24& & 0.03 &0.13&0.11 & 0.27\\
r$_{11}$ & -0.06 & -0.21& -0.20& -0.28& & -0.05 & -0.08 & -0.16& 0.29 \\
r$_{51}$ &0.05 &0.08& -0.25 &-0.12 & & 0.03 & 0.21 &-0.19 & 0.05\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:7}
\end{table}
As seen for o$-$phase (section \ref{ss:o-ZHO}), a unit cell with 12 atoms results in 36 vibrational modes, 3 for translation modes, and 33 for optical phonon modes. In the case of R3m space group, there are three different modes $A_{1}$, $A_{2}$, and $E$; the irreducible representation at $\Gamma$ zone center is:
\begin{equation}\label{eq:12}
\Gamma = 8 A_{1} + 3 A_{2} + 11 E
\end{equation}
The $A_{1}$ and (degenerate) $E$ modes are simultaneously Raman and IR active, while the A$_{2}$ modes are Raman active and IR inactive. The calculated $A_{1}$ mode frequencies are shown in Table \ref{table:4} for ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$, experimentally no data are available for ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ in r$-$phase. The $E$ and $A_{2}$ phonon frequencies are given in SM (Table S.8 in SM \cite{Ali2022})\\
Following the same method as described in sections \ref {ss:LiNbO3} and \ref {ss:o-ZHO}, the EO coefficients obtained for ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ r$-$phase are given in Table \ref {table:7}. Comparing these EO coefficients to the ones of LNO and o$-$phase, r$-$phase shows very modest EO values. This trend is also observed in terms of remanent polarization obtained for r$-$phase compared to orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$ (Tables \ref{table:3} and \ref{table:6}).
\begin{figure} [H]
\centering
\captionsetup{width=.5\linewidth}
\hspace*{-0.2in}
\includegraphics [scale=0.5]{FIG4_r_EO_angle.pdf}
\vspace*{-12mm}
\caption{r$_{33}$ EO coefficient of r- ZrO$_2$ computed at different angles.}
\label{fig:4}
\end{figure}
\textit{Strain dependence of EO coefficients}: Because the ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ R3m phase has a strong dependence on the compressive strain, r$_{33}$ EO coefficient of r-ZrO$_2$ is computed at different rhombohedral angles. The results are displayed in Figure \ref {fig:4}, showing a linear dependence of r$_{33}$ with respect to the rhombohedral angle. Even at a high compressive strain (rhombohedral angle of 88°), the EO coefficient is still lower than the one calculated for o-ZrO$_2$. Two main reasons cause the low EO coefficients of r-ZrO$_2$ compared to o-ZrO$_2$. First is the relatively high band gap in the r$-$phase, which reduces the electronic contribution. The second reason is that the $A_1$ low-frequency phonon modes have negligible contributions to EO coefficients in the r$-$phase, while similar modes highly contribute to the ones of the o$-$phase (see section \ref{ss:o-ZHO}). In more details, for the r$-$phase, from 8 $A_1$ active modes (Table \ref {table:4}), only 3 modes at 220, 352, and 449 $cm^{-1}$ contribute significantly to r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$. The modes at 220 and 352 $cm^{-1}$ give almost the same value of the hyper-polarizabilities $\beta_{33}$ (equation \ref{eq:6}), but with opposite signs, hence they cancel each other, therefore solely the mode at 449 $cm^{-1}$ is contributing to r$_{33}$. This is the most probable reason why the r$-$phase shows a lower EO coefficient than the o$-$phase. Finally, this gives r$-$phase a very low figure of merit compared to o$-$phase and to LNO as illustrated in Figure \ref{fig:3}.
\section {Conclusion}
In conclusion, we investigated the electro-optic Pockels coefficients of the ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$ compounds in two noncentrosymmetric phases: rhombohedral R3m and orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$. We determined that the o$-$phase has considerably higher EO coefficients than the r$-$phase. This remains true for a highly strained rhombohedral phase; the optical nonlinearity is weak compared to the o$-$phase. Moreover, r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ in the orthorhombic phase are higher in ZrO$_2$ than in HfO$_2$, with values of about 12 and 7 pm/V for ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$, respectively. Comparing the EO coefficients of o-ZrO$_2$ to rhombohedral LiNbO$_3$ reference material, the r$_{13}$ coefficient shows a comparable value to the r$_{13}$ of LiNbO$_3$. In contrast, the r$_{33}$ coefficient of o-ZrO$_2$ is three times lower than the r$_{33}$ of LiNbO$_3$. We observed that the polar and low-frequency phonon modes contribute most to the EO in the orthorhombic phase; the same trend is also observed in LiNbO$_3$. Our numerical results suggest that the ferroelectric orthorhombic phase of ZrO$_2$ and HfO$_2$-based thin films can be relevant for EO applications when considering their compatibility with silicon. Finally, considering the dominant contribution by the ionic part as identified in this work, we believe that doping ZrO$_2$/HfO$_2$ with a suitable element to stabilize the orthorhombic phase but also increase the ionicity of these materials will lead to high EO coefficients. Thus, ZrO$_2$/HfO$_2$-based compounds may be promising candidates for EO properties and their use in photonic devices.
\\
\\
\textbf{Acknowledgements:} This work has received support from the Agence nationale de la recherche (ANR) under project FOIST (N°ANR-18-CE24-0030), and from the French national network RENATECH for nanofabrication.
\medskip
\pagebreak
\setcounter{secnumdepth}{0}
\section{SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL}
\setcounter{equation}{0}
\setcounter{table}{0}
\setcounter{figure}{0}
\section{EO coefficients of LiNbO$_3$ and ZrO$_2$-HfO$_2$ materials} \label{s:1}
The electro-optic (EO) coefficients for 3m space group (SG) \cite {modernphotonics}, thus for ZrO$_{2}$-HfO$_{2}$ rhombohedral R3m (SG N° 160) and LiNbO$_{3}$ R3c (SG N° 161), have 4 independent EO coefficients with two possible representation:
\begin{align}\label{eq:13}
m\perp x_{1}\begin{vmatrix}
r_{11} & 0 & r_{13} \\
-r_{11} & 0 & r_{13} \\
0 & 0 & r_{33} \\
0 & r_{51} & 0 \\
r_{51} & 0 & 0 \\
0 &- r_{11} & 0 \\
\end{vmatrix} & &
&or& m\perp x_{2}\begin{vmatrix}
0 & -r_{22} & r_{13} \\
0 & r_{22} & r_{13} \\
0 & 0 & r_{33} \\
0 & r_{51} & 0 \\
r_{51} & 0 & 0 \\
-r_{22} & 0 & 0 \\
\end{vmatrix}
\end{align}
In the case of Pbc2$_1$ (SG N° 29 and 2mm point group), there are five independent electro-optic coefficients:
\begin{align}\label{eq:14}
\begin{vmatrix}
0 & 0 & r_{13} \\
0 & 0 & r_{23} \\
0 & 0 & r_{33} \\
0 & r_{42} & 0 \\
r_{51} & 0 & 0 \\
0 &0 & 0 \\
\end{vmatrix}
\end{align}
\section{ Symmetry of $\beta$ (SHG) and $\beta$ (EO / dc-Pockels) }
In the general case, the second order non-linearity $\beta_{ijk}$ is written as
\begin{equation}\label{eq:15}
\beta_{ijk} = \beta_{ijk} (-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega_{1}, \omega_{2})
\end{equation}
\textbf {Second harmonic generation (SHG)}\\
For SHG, $\beta_{ijk}$ ($\omega_{\sigma}$ = 2 $\omega$ and $\omega_{1}$ = $\omega_{2}$ = $\omega $ ) can be written as
\begin{equation}\label{eq:16}
\beta_{ijk} = \beta_{ijk} (-2\omega; \omega, \omega)
\end{equation}
So in the case of second harmonic generation, for example with $\beta_{yxy}$ equal to $\beta_{yyx}$, in general the symmetry given in (\ref{eq:16}) can simply be written as $\beta_{ijk} (-2\omega; \omega, \omega) =\beta_{ikj} (-2\omega; \omega, \omega) $.\\
\\
\textbf{EO / dc-Pockels effect}\\
For dc-Pockels effect, $\beta_{ijk}$ ($\omega_{\sigma}$ = $\omega$ , $\omega_{1}$ = $\omega$, and $\omega_{2}$ = 0) is written as
\begin{equation}\label{eq:17}
\beta_{ijk} = \beta_{ijk} (-\omega; \omega, 0) = \beta_{ikj} (-\omega; 0, \omega)
\end{equation}
The same permutation as given above for SHG then leads to $\beta_{xxz}$ (-$\omega$; $\omega$,0) = $\beta_{xzx}$(-$\omega$; 0, $\omega$). In other words, $\beta_{xxz}$ (-$\omega$; $\omega$,0) tensor element, where the static field is along z, is equal to $\beta_{xzx}$(-$\omega$; 0, $\omega$), so that the static electric field is always applied along z direction. But $\beta_{xxz}$ (-$\omega$; $\omega$,0) is not equal to $\beta_{xzx}$ (-$\omega$; $\omega$, 0) because in the latter tensor element the static electric field is along x. Finally, this will ensure that $r_{ijk}$ coefficients respect the permutation $r_{ijk} = r_{jik}$.
\section{Results} \label{s:5 }
\textbf { LiNbO$_{3}$}\\
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\parbox{0.4\textwidth}{
\begin{footnotesize}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c}
\hline
LiNbO$_{3}$ & a (\AA) &b (\AA) &c (\AA)\\
& 5.216&5.216&14.14\\
\hline\hline
Atom & x/a& y/b& z/c \\ [1ex]
Li & 0& 0&0.2614 \\
Nb & 0& 0& -0.0188 \\ [1ex]
O& -0.0473& 0.3435&0.0441\\ [1ex]
\hline
V ($\AA^{3}$) &111 \\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\end{footnotesize}
\caption{The optimized geometry for LiNbO$_{3}$, on the right the LiNbO$_{3}$ R3c structure.}
\label{table:8}
}
\qquad
\begin{minipage}[c]{0.4\textwidth}%
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\textwidth]{SM_LiNbO3_Primitive}
\label{fig:figure}
\end{minipage}
\end{table}
The refractive indices of LiNbO3 calculated using B3LYP functional, together with the electronic and vibrational contributions to the polarizability $\alpha_{ij}$, are reported in Table \ref {table:2}. The ionic contribution at 633 nm is almost null.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\caption{ Refractive indices $n_{ii}$ of LiNbO$_{3}$ at 633 nm wavelength using B3LYP functional, showing the electronic and vibrational contributions to the polarizability $\alpha_{ij}$.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c | c}
\hline
&electronic & vibrational & n$_{ii}$ \\ [1ex]
\hline
$\alpha_{xx}$ & 244.77& -0.60 &2.257\\[0.5ex]
$\alpha_{yy}$ & 244.77& -0.60 &2.257\\[0.5ex]
$\alpha_{zz}$ & 216.36& -0.48 &2.149\\[0.5ex]
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:9}
\end{table}
At the $\Gamma$ point, the optical phonons of LiNbO$_3$ can be classified according to the irreducible representation of the space group R3c into $\Gamma = 4A_{1} + 5A_{2} + 9E$. The A$_{1}$ and E modes are Raman and infrared active, while A$_{2}$ modes are inactive.
The calculated frequencies of the A$_{1}$ and E modes are shown in Table \ref{table:3} and compared with previous theoretical and experimental data. There is a good agreement between our calculations and available experimental values. In particular, B3LYP functional calculated frequencies are close to the experimental ones, with only a relative underestimate of the first A$_{1}$ mode. This might be due to the anharmonicity of this mode: The experimental frequency is substantially higher than the one calculated in the harmonic approximation; Considering the one-dimensional non-interacting oscillator approximation, a good approximation to the experimental value was obtained by Inbar and Cohen \cite {PRB-Inbar1996}. Increasing HF exchange (PBE0) gives relatively higher frequency values, while decreasing exchange (PBE(10$\%$) and PBE) brings lower values compared to the experimental results.\\
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\caption{ Raman and IR active phonon mode frequencies (cm$^{-1}$) of ferroelectric LiNbO$_{3}$ calculated with several functionals, compared with previous theoretical and experimental results.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c}
\hline
& B3LYB &PBE0 &PBE(10$\%$)& PBE & LDA \cite {PRB2000} & exp \cite {Kojima_1993} & exp \cite {Claus1972}\\ [1ex]
\hline\hline
A1 & 232 &251&242&234&208 & 256 & /\\
& 275 &291&279& 271&279 & 275&/\\
& 340&346&332&322 &344 &332 &/\\
& 636 &650&628& 611&583 & 637 &/\\
\hline
E & 143 &152&144& 140 &151 & /& 155\\
& 233 &241&229&221 &/& /& 238\\
&246 &259&250 &245&236 & /& 265\\
& 304 &315&302&294&307 & / & 325\\
& 344 &367&252&343& 334& / & /\\
& 361 &380&365& 355&352& / &/\\
& 427 &434&414& 402&432 & / &431\\
& 576 &589&572&560 &526 &/ &582\\
& 655 &674&654& 641&617 & / &668\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:10}
\end{table}
In order to obtain the EO coefficients of LiNbO$_{3}$ using CRYSTAL17, we computed the electronic and vibrational contributions to the second hyperpolarizability $\beta_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ at a wavelength of 633 nm as described in the main paper, then deduced the $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ values that are given in Table \ref{table:4} (see the main paper for the relation between the susceptibility $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$ and the hyperpolarizability $\beta_{ijk}$). For symmetry reasons, only 11 out of 27 elements of the rank three $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$ tensor are not null and only four elements are independent. These four elements are given in Table \ref{table:4}. We note that pure PBE functional gives the highest values of $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$, that is because pure DFT-PBE underestimates the gap, as discussed in the main paper.
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\caption{Non-zero elements of $\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ (pm/V) tensor in LiNbO$_{3}$ computed at a wavelength of 633 nm using different functionals, with their vibrational and electronic contributions.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{5}{1cm} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering B3LYP} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering PBE0} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering PBE(10$\%$)}& \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering PBE}\\
$\chi^{(2)}_{ijk}$ & \multicolumn{1}{c}{vib} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{ele} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{vib} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{ele} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{vib}& \multicolumn{1}{c}{ele}& \multicolumn{1}{c}{vib}& \multicolumn{1}{c}{ele}\\ [1ex]
xxx & 88.83 &13.28 & 66.43 & 8.18 & 104.8 & 19.53&136.17&50.30\\
xxz & -103.00 & -35.50& -84.37 & -28 &-129.2&-53.15&-183.4&-66.36\\
yzy & -228.52 & -36.56& -188.73 & -27.60 &-269.1&-54.53&-338.5&-102.4\\
zzz & -250.08 & -76.66 &-220.04 & -63.05&-296.9&-103.1&-396.05&-117.8\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:11}
\end{table}
Table \ref{table:12} gives the clamped and unclamped EO coefficients of LiNbO$_3$, considering only the four independent elements of r$_{ijk}$, and compares them with previous calculations and experiments. All functionals used in the present study agree well with experimental results, notably for the r$_{33}$ and r$_{13}$ coefficients. The clamped EO coefficients, taking in consideration the piezoelectric contribution, are also given in Table \ref{table:4}.
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\caption{ Total r$_{ijk}(-\omega_{\sigma}; \omega, 0)$ EO tensor (pm/V) in LiNbO$_{3}$ computed at a wavelength of 633 nm using different functionals, together with previous calculations and experiments.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
& & B3LYB & PBE0 & PBE(10$\%$)& PBE& LDA \cite {PRBVeithen2004} & exp \cite{Turner1966} & exp \cite{K.K.WONG2002} \\
\hline\hline
clamped&r$_{33}$ & 30.64 & 28.02& 30.45 &30.87& 26.9 & 30.8 &34\\
&r$_{13}$ & 10.68 & 9.14& 11.39 & 12.84& 9.7 & 8.6 &10.9\\
&r$_{11}$ & -7.86 & -6.06& -7.79 &-9.59& 4.6 & 3.4 &/\\
&r$_{51}$ & 22.51 & 19.41& 21.99 &24.51& 14.9 & 28&/\\
\\
unclamped & & & & & & & &exp \cite{Abdi1998}\\
& r$_{33}$ & 31.59 & 34.32& 30.90 &31.20& 27 &32.6 & /\\
&r$_{13}$ & 12.10 & 10.92& 12.61 &13.81& 10.5 &10& /\\
&r$_{11}$ & -7.00 & -5.00& -6.84 &-10.20& 7.5 &6& 9.9\\
&r$_{51}$ & 33.28 & 27.09& 31.94 &34.04& 28.6& 32.2& /\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:12}
\end{table}
As the experimental values of EO coefficients are usually measured at finite electric field wavelength, in Figure \ref{fig:5} we show the dependence of photoelastic coefficients on the electric field wavelength (nm). From 633 nm up to the near-infrared wavelength range, the two coefficients remain almost constant, while below 633 nm a decrease is observed.
\begin{figure} [H]
\centering
\includegraphics [scale=0.6] {FIG1_SM_Photoelastic}
\caption{Independent photoelastic p$_{52}$ and p$_{21}$ coefficients of the LiNbO$_3$ crystal computed at B3LYP level as a function of the electric field wavelength (nm).}
\label{fig:5}
\end{figure}
\textbf { ZrO$_{2}$-HfO$_{2}$}\\
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\caption{ The optimized geometry for ZrO$_{2}$ orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c}
\hline
o-ZrO$_{2}$ & a (\AA) &b (\AA) &c (\AA)\\
& 5.34&5.14&5.16\\
\hline\hline
Atom & x/a& y/b& z/c \\ [1ex]
Zr& 0.0274& 0.2644&-0.2545 \\ [1ex]
O1 & 0.3602& 0.0619& -0.1021 \\ [1ex]
O2& 0.2262& -0.4688&-0.0064\\ [1ex]
\hline
V ($\AA^{3}$) &141.62 \\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:13}
\end{table}
\begin{table} [H]
\centering
\caption{ The optimized geometry for HfO$_{2}$ orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c}
\hline
o-ZrO$_{2}$ & a (\AA) &b (\AA) &c (\AA)\\
& 5.28&5.07&5.10\\
\hline\hline
Atom & x/a& y/b& z/c \\ [1ex]
Zr& 0.0312& 0.2651&-0.2551 \\ [1ex]
O1 & 0.3618& 0.0638& -0.1051 \\ [1ex]
O2& 0.2267& -0.4699&-0.00278\\ [1ex]
\hline
V ($\AA^{3}$) &136.52 \\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:14}
\end{table}
The orthorhombic Pbc2$_{1}$ phase with a unit of 12 atoms (4 formula units) results in 36 vibrational modes, 3 for translation modes, and 33 optical phonon modes having the following irreducible representation at the zone center $ \Gamma$: \\
$$ \Gamma = 8 A_{1} + 9 A_{2} + 8 B_{1} + 8 B_{2}$$
The computed phonon frequencies are listed in Table \ref{table:8} .\\
For the rhombohedral phase R3m, also with a unit of 12 atoms (4 formula units) resulting in 36 vibrational modes, 3 for translation modes and 33 optical phonon modes, the irreducible representation at the zone center $ \Gamma$ is:
$$ \Gamma = 8 A_{1} + 3 A_{2} + 11 E $$
The calculated frequencies are given in Table \ref{table:8}. Note that the computed E modes here are degenerate. The lowest E-TO1 (transverse optical) mode frequency depends strongly on the unit cell volume and can also be affected by other factors, like strain, oxygen vacancies, etc.
\begin{table}[H]
\centering
\caption{Raman and IR phonon mode frequencies (cm$^{-1}$) of ferroelectric ZrO$_{2}$ and HfO$_{2}$ calculated using B3LYP functional. Experimental data are also reported when available.}
\begin{tabular}{c c c c c c c c c c}
\hline
\multirow{2}{1.5cm} & \multicolumn{2}{p{2.5cm}}{\centering o-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering o-HfO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering }& \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering r-ZrO$_2$} & \multicolumn{1}{p{1.5cm}}{\centering r-HfO$_2$}\\ [1ex]
& \multicolumn{1}{c}{B3LYP} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{exp \cite {Uwe-2022-Raman}} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{B3LYP} & & \multicolumn{1}{c}{B3LYP} & \multicolumn{1}{c}{B3LYP} \\ [1ex]
A$_1$ & 102 & /& 113 &A$_1$&171 &118\\
& 186 &200& 153& & 220&171\\
& 291 & /& 253 &&267&267\\
& 315& 320& 295&&352&284\\
& 351& 340& 329& &449&423\\
&387&/ &369&&534&537\\
&445&/&451&&674&692\\
&566& 580&589&&755&770\\ [1ex]
A$_2$ &172 &/& 122&A$_2$&169&117\\
&180&/&134&&332&312\\
&192&200&148&&586&595\\
&295&/&303&\\
&400&/&414&E&76&20\\
&482&/&496&&165&114\\
&561&/&581&&174&123\\
&634&/&654&&233&187\\
&659&/&674&&325&271\\[1ex]
B$_1$& 188& /&141&&358&304\\
&224&/&218&&456&436\\
&298&/&238&&536&540\\
&329&/&311&&586&594\\
&402&/&395&&683&702\\
&514&/&533&&721&726\\
&545& 550&554&\\
&726& /&736&\\ [1ex]
B$_2$& 165 & /&121&\\
& 233& /&226&\\
& 289& /&269&\\
&345 & /&312&\\
& 399&/ &369&\\
& 461& /&484&\\
& 622 &620&637&\\
& 683&/ &697&\\
\hline \hline
\end{tabular}
\label{table:15}
\end{table}
\medskip
\pagebreak
\bibliographystyle{unsrt
| {
"redpajama_set_name": "RedPajamaArXiv"
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Why Business Intelligence Turns CFOs into Strategic Advisors
Increasingly, companies are striving to be data-driven. Decisions are not only informed by data but are made precisely because of data. This enables companies to make more prudent and productive decisions which can help them discover and leverage their competitive advantages. Financial data has emerged as one of the most important sources of such crucial insights.
Financial business intelligence (BI) is a vital component in the C-level decision-making process. Correct and sound financial data helps companies understand their profit margins, costs, cash flows and other business-critical metrics. Since it falls into a CFO's responsibilities, this role needs to be reconsidered in line with the new business requirements of today.
In the past, a Chief Financial Officer was frequently viewed as little more than a glorified record-keeper. However, many CFOs have been taking on increasingly strategic roles in their companies, becoming vital players in business intelligence efforts. Many CEOs and other executives now rely on CFOs to act as strategic advisors who help them formulate and execute complex strategies using financial data insights.
Now, let's look at how financial business intelligence can redefine a CFO's impact at an organization.
Becoming More Proactive
BI stands for using the tools and processes to gather information and then making sound business decisions based on the findings. BI platforms have emerged as important tools for gathering, analyzing, and presenting such data, which simplify BI processes for employees, including C-level executives. Indeed, accessibility is one of the biggest benefits of modern business intelligence platforms.
Whereas corporate finance was once a reactive field often focused on past data, CFOs are increasingly using BI tools to become proactive strategists who use financial projections to chart their company's future. What's more, business intelligence allows fully integrating financial data with other data types used by a company for a complete picture of its performance.
Integrating Disparate Data Sources
Financial data is likely to be utilized more effectively than other corporate data types, owing to its importance and the fact that most companies are obliged to track it. Still, few companies are maximizing the potential of such data, especially since it is stuck in its own silo. The same can be said of other data sources, such as marketing and operations, with each being siloed as well.
For many years, companies wishing to analyze their data had to build entire research departments, complete with data experts and IT staff. Often, if a company executive or anyone else wanted data, they'd have to liaise with the research team, put in a request, and then wait for the data to be compiled, analyzed, and presented. This process was time-consuming, and by the time data reached the decision maker it was often out of date.
Meanwhile, financial teams often had to depend on the corporate research department to integrate financial data. If CFOs wanted to combine or compare it with another data source, say, from the sales team, they would need assistance from one of the data scientists on board. This bottleneck made it all the more difficult for CFOs and other financial experts to be proactive strategists and decision makers.
However, modern business intelligence platforms overcome this limitation and make it easier for CFOs to both access and work with data from a wide range of disparate sources. They allow integrating financial data and applying it effectively to decision making.
What to Factor In when Choosing a BI Platform
Many of today's business intelligence platforms are self-serving. If a C-level executive or other employee needs to access and even work with data, they can use the BI platform without calling for a data scientist. A well-designed and well-thought out BI platform should be easy enough for just about any tech-savvy employee to use it.
However, not all BI platforms are well-designed and user-friendly. Many legacy platforms remain difficult to handle for anyone outside the data research team. Many modern BI solutions are also convoluted and difficult to work with. Further, many-out-of-the-box BI platforms are inflexible and may not suit a particular company's needs. BI experts from Itransition suggest defining your company's objectives before selecting a solution.
Additionally, financial data offers a particular challenge as it needs to be both standardized and customized. The data and all corresponding algorithms for processing it must adhere to industry standards to ensure that it is sound, accurate, and can be understood by outside parties. At the same time, companies need to remain flexible while working with and compiling their financial data.
A custom BI platform is often a better solution. Despite that it is immensely difficult to develop, these efforts will be justified with tailored user experience and easy-to-comprehend user interface, while also making it possible to integrate the platform with other complex technologies in a company's ecosystem.
This is especially crucial when it comes to big data, and with more sources integrated, the more complexity usually ensues. Custom or customized platform-based BI solutions are capable of managing this load, working equally well with structured and unstructured data.
BI to Empower CFOs
Business intelligence technology is gradually sipping into corporate decision-making processes, and now CFOs can grasp this opportunity to become strategic advisors with the help of it. A well-thoughtout custom business intelligence platform makes it as easy as never before to gather, analyze, and visualize financial data to derive valuable insights. With such platforms, CFOs can become more proactive and gain clarity on their company's performance from multiple sources without integration barriers. Now is the time to embrace this definitive technology aiding in sustainable business development.
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{"url":"https:\/\/mathematica.stackexchange.com\/questions\/135639\/domain-of-a-composite-function","text":"# Domain of a composite function\n\nConsider the built-in function FunctionDomain to find a domain of a composite function f(f(x)) where f(x)=1\/x.\n\nf[x_]:=1\/x\nFunctionDomain[Composition[f, f][x], x]\nFunctionDomain[1\/(1\/x), x]\n\n\nThe output is True in both cases.\n\nApparently Mathematica simplifies the argument before applying the FunctionDomain. That's why it gives mathematically incorrect output (x=0 should be excluded). Composition[f,f][x]=f(f(x)) = 1\/(1\/x)= x. And the domain of x is all real numbers. In case when Hold function is applied to 1\/(1\/x) the output is x < 0 || x > 0 as it should be.\n\nFunctionDomain[Hold[1\/(1\/x)], x]\n\n\nOutput: x < 0 || x > 0\n\nBut when Hold is applied to Composition[f, f][x] The result is completely different. FunctionDomain[Hold[Composition[f, f][x]], x] returns the input as output.\n\nWhy doesn't it work? What am I missing?\n\nOne idea is to convert the Composition into a form that partially evaluates its arguments, something like:\n\nfreezeComposition[c_Composition] := Composition[\nApply@Hold,\nReplaceRepeated[#, Hold[x_]->x]&,\nApply@Defer,\nComposition[Hold,Evaluate,#]&\/@c\n]\n\n\nThen, we can do:\n\nf[x_]:=1\/x\nFunctionDomain[freezeComposition[Composition[f,f]][x], x]\n\n\nx<0||x>0\n\n\u2022 @ CarlWoll the function that you have defined works perfectly! However I'm not able to understand the syntax as I am a beginner user of Mathematica. \u2013\u00a0roman465 Jan 18 '17 at 13:59\n\u2022 I'm wondering if it's possible to achieve the same result using any of built-in Hold functions? I noticed that not only FunctionDomain but functions like Reduce and ReplaceAll return mathematically incorrect results. f[x_] := 1\/x; {Reduce[1\/(1\/x) == 0, x, Reals],Reduce[f[f[x]] == 0, x, Reals],Solve[1\/(1\/x) == 0, x, Reals],Solve[1\/(1\/x) == 0, x, Reals],FunctionDomain[1\/(1\/x), x],FunctionDomain[f[f[x]], x],1\/(1\/x) \/. x -> 0,f[f[x]] \/. x -> 0} How can I prevent (partial) evaluation of the first argument? \u2013\u00a0roman465 Jan 18 '17 at 14:25\n\u2022 @roman465. All of these simplifications occur because Mathematica always attempts to find a general solution to the problem while (sort of) ignoring special (or corner) cases. \u2013\u00a0march Jan 18 '17 at 16:21\n\nYou could use StrictFunctionDomain function from Domains package which evaluates given expression in special environment that prevents removal of removable singularities:\n\nf \/\/ ClearAll\nf[x_] := 1\/x\n\nStrictFunctionDomain[Composition[f, f][x], x]\n(* x < 0 || x > 0 *)\nStrictFunctionDomain[1\/(1\/x), x]\n(* x < 0 || x > 0 *)\nStrictFunctionDomain[Hold[1\/(1\/x)], x]\n(* x < 0 || x > 0 *)\n`","date":"2019-11-22 08:16:00","metadata":"{\"extraction_info\": {\"found_math\": true, \"script_math_tex\": 0, \"script_math_asciimath\": 0, \"math_annotations\": 0, \"math_alttext\": 0, \"mathml\": 0, \"mathjax_tag\": 0, \"mathjax_inline_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_display_tex\": 0, \"mathjax_asciimath\": 1, \"img_math\": 0, \"codecogs_latex\": 0, \"wp_latex\": 0, \"mimetex.cgi\": 0, \"\/images\/math\/codecogs\": 0, \"mathtex.cgi\": 0, \"katex\": 0, \"math-container\": 0, \"wp-katex-eq\": 0, \"align\": 0, \"equation\": 0, \"x-ck12\": 0, \"texerror\": 0, \"math_score\": 0.23377780616283417, \"perplexity\": 2322.5688231947747}, \"config\": {\"markdown_headings\": true, \"markdown_code\": true, \"boilerplate_config\": {\"ratio_threshold\": 0.18, \"absolute_threshold\": 10, \"end_threshold\": 15, \"enable\": true}, \"remove_buttons\": true, \"remove_image_figures\": true, \"remove_link_clusters\": true, \"table_config\": {\"min_rows\": 2, \"min_cols\": 3, \"format\": \"plain\"}, \"remove_chinese\": true, \"remove_edit_buttons\": true, \"extract_latex\": true}, \"warc_path\": \"s3:\/\/commoncrawl\/crawl-data\/CC-MAIN-2019-47\/segments\/1573496671245.92\/warc\/CC-MAIN-20191122065327-20191122093327-00000.warc.gz\"}"} | null | null |
class Assessment::ScribingAnswer < ActiveRecord::Base
acts_as_paranoid
is_a :answer, as: :as_answer, auto_join: false, class_name: "Assessment::Answer"
has_many :scribbles, dependent: :destroy
attr_accessible :std_course_id, :question_id, :content, :submission_id, :attempt_left
end
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