Black Bart

“What’s your name, prisoner?”

“Roberts, third mate... but it won’t matter to you.“

“Welsh then, are ye?”

“Born in Casnewydd-Bach.”

“Ar, me too, from Milfordhaven... I hear say you can navigate a bit. True?”

Roberts didn’t answer.

Captain Davis eyed his captive menacingly for a few moments before easing into a knowing smile.

“The three pounds you make every month for your hard labor sets you at ease, does it? You don’t think I’ll drop you back on the Gold Coast without getting my worth, do ye? Lend me your services and you’ll see first-hand the plenty and satiety, the liberty and power that’s within your grasp. What say you think it over a bit, aye?”

Roberts spat on the deck.

For six weeks, Roberts and Captain Davis threatened, clashed, and cursed each other. Never before had the crew seen their Captain withstand such a challenge from one of his men, pressed or free. He’d had several opportunities to escape, but each time he’d find an excuse to stay. And during this time, Roberts did indeed lend his navigational skills, expertly. It wasn’t an easy thing to do among such a rough and lawless lot, but the crew was impressed. Impressed so much that when Davis was killed by soldiers on the Isle of Princes, they demanded he take his place as their captain.

Roberts accepted.

“Since I’ve dipped my hands in muddy water already, and must be a pirate, ‘tis better being a commander than a mere commoner. I promise my life will be short but merry!”

And it was.

Three years later on February 10, 1722, the prolific career of the Great Pirate John “Bartholomew” Roberts came to a bloody but predictable end. In that short time, he’d captured over 470 ships between the Americas and Africa.

A Growing Problem

As morning broke on April 13, 1981, the sun’s crepuscular rays slipped through window blinds bestowing on everything a heavenly yellow. André’s enormous contour gently vibrated in the striped glow as he occupied every inch of the tiny hotel bed. His arms and legs were bent crookedly above him like the handle of a spilled jug. Even so, he slept soundly.

Scattered across the floor were six empty cases of beer, three fifths of vodka, five bottles of Dom Pérignon, and one of Courvoisier. Half of it had been consumed by André after his guests left. Yet when he awoke, he wasn’t feeling any adverse effects. Apart from what the guests had drunk, the 7,000 calories of alcohol was his usual daily intake.

He was, however, very hungry.

He reached for the phone but to his frustration it was across the room. With a sigh, André rolled his aching legs underneath him and pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet. Unfortunately, the side of his foot came to rest on a dropped bottle. His ankle rolled sharply and there was a poignant snap.

“Uh oh.”

Picking up a pencil, he dialed room service.

“Hello boss, this is Mr. Roussimoff... can you send my breakfast right away? But I don’t have time for much, I’ve got to go to the hospital, just send up the first ten items on the menu...”

André missed seven months of work recovering from his broken ankle but his triumphant return propelled him to the upper echelons of his profession.

This incident was just a precursor to what the 7’5”, 520 lb, professional wrestler, André the Giant, would suffer for the remainder of his short life. His inherited acromegaly caused his body to grow unsustainably until his heart finally gave out in his sleep.

Missing Time

A small armada of five ships hastily set sail from the Guadalquivir River in southern Spain. After a month of waiting, their sudden departure from Sanlúcar de Barrameda was signaled only by a mate’s shout of “All hands!”

Captain Mendoza of the Victoria aimed his sights toward the western horizon. “Keep a sharp eye toward the Ocean Sea for sails, boatswain!” he ordered. Despite rumors that the Portuguese Navy had been dispatched to intercept them, none were seen and they navigated southwest towards the Canaries. “Helmsman, keep our nose pointed at the Trinidad, she carries our flag. We know we’re bound for the Spice Islands, but the rest remains a secret even to me,” he confided in a tone of irritation.

An adventure story like none ever told was now unfolding. When the fleet turned westward at Cape Verde, the mariners began to suspect that something new was afoot; something that had never been attempted, the success of which would send shockwaves through the halls of every court in Europe.

It almost ended abruptly as the crews reached despair in their second month of constant squalls and opposing currents. Only the providential appearance of Saint Elmo’s fire aboard the Trinidad stayed a mutiny.

On September 6, 1522, almost three years later, the Victoria returned to Sanlúcar de Barrameda; quietly, without Captain Mendoza, and without her sister-ships. She returned with just eighteen men, about two-hundred and sixteen short of the original complement.

But Ferdinand Magellan’s fleet was missing more than ships and men. It was missing a day.

This westward circumnavigation of the earth brought to light a new detail that needed to be clarified before man could properly call himself master of the oceans.

The debate pertaining to a definable International Dateline would continue on, even into the 20th century.

Magyar Szent Korona

On January 28th, 814, Charles the Great died.

One-hundred and eighty-six years later, a small party of men quietly worked at prying a marble lid from its foundation in the palace of Aix-La-Chapelle. As the corner seal broke free, a long swoosh of air sucked into the hollow space beneath their feet and quickly rushed back out. The workmen turned their heads and held their breath. After a few seconds they slowly exhaled and glanced furtively at each other’s faces. One of them sniffed.

The air was a little musty, but overall it was fresh.

The Holy Roman Emperor stood watching off to the side. In his hand was a scroll with a broken wax seal bearing the crossed keys of Peter. Otto III slowly moved forward as the laborers groaned and slid the top across the floor. With an intense expression marring his young face, he bent over the opening and peered down into the darkness.

“Give me light here!”

When candelabrum were lowered into the crypt, the sparkle of gold caught Otto’s eye.

Charlemagne sat in his throne the same as the day he was buried. Except for a twist of his neck which caused his head to tilt unnaturally to the side, the body was remarkably incorrupt. Atop his head was the crown.

For a moment, Otto’s youthful impetuosity almost took over.

That’s rightfully mine.

An open bible lay across Charlemagne’s lap and his finger was resting on a specific verse, Mathew 16:26. “For what doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul?”

Otto caught his breath.

“If the Pope wants István to have it, so be it,” he said and walked out.

Since then, fifty Hungarian rulers have been found to wear this “living” crown.

Fat Man

“You forgot your what?”

“My stamp,” Tsutomu said, “my jitsu-in... the one with the Mitsubishi seal on it.”

“Ah,“ his manager replied softly.

Tsutomu cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“I was walking back to the docks to get it, passing by the potato fields... it was 8:15... I saw the plane before I even heard it. Two little parachutes were falling behind it. I thought it was more of those American pamphlets but then... there was a light...”

He tugged at the cotton bandage wrapping his left arm. It had been on for three days and it was itching him badly. A change was in order after the work day was over. He looked out the window at the bright early-afternoon sun and shook his head for a few moments before he turned back and continued.

“When I awoke... when I awoke... there was a giant mushroom of fire rising up high into the sky... It was like a tornado, but it wasn’t moving... it just rose and spread out horizontally at the top. And there was a prismatic light. It was changing in a complicated rhythm, like the patterns of a kaleidoscope...”

There was a long silence before Tsutomu began to cry.

“We are very sorry...” the manager said and placed his hand on Tsutomu’s neck. “But we are glad you’ve decided to return to –“

A popping sound from outside stopped the tearful meeting short and the office shook, just slightly. The two men spun towards the window. A bright light, a thousand times brighter the noon sun, seared their shadows onto the wall behind them before it collapsed.

It was August 9th, 1945, and Tsutomu Yamaguchi was about to survive the atomic bomb explosion over Nagasaki – three days after surviving the one at Hiroshima.

status quo ante bellum

The main thrust of the attack moved steadily northward, casting aside with ease the skirmishers that met them as they approached the Rodriguez Canal. Defeated on Lake Champlain at the Battle of Plattsburg and then again at Fort McHenry near the entrance of Baltimore, the British were starved for a victory. On January 8, 1815, the 5,500 seasoned soldiers of Major-General Edward Pakenham vastly outnumbered the motley defenders of the Chalmette swamps and were poised to control the interior of the fragile American continent.

But as the invaders drew near, it seemed as though the doors to a fiery furnace were opened. The Tennessee and Kentucky volunteers found their range and let loose with antique muskets and boyhood squirrel-guns. These hillbillies and thrill-seekers stood four deep; as each one took his turn atop the muddy barricade, he slid down to reload and was immediately replaced by another. The fire was never-ending. And accurate.

1,500 canons backed them up from the rear.

The British mindlessly continued forward for twenty-five minutes amidst a fury of lead but even the few that actually made it to the canal soon realized that they had forgotten to bring in the cane bundles which were to have been used to breach the ramparts. Most died with their backs exposed. Many simply preferred to lie down rather than retreat and face that hell again.

Within two hours, the battlefield was cleared. Just seven Americans were dead. The British Navy abandoned its plans for New Orleans.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The battle was unnecessary.

The Treaty of Ghent had been signed two weeks earlier. Word just hadn’t reached the participants yet that the two countries were to return to conditions that existed before the war began almost three years earlier.

Little consolation to the 2,000 British casualties...

Cash Cow

On May 2, 1627, two teenage girls wound their usual way along a path in the forests of Jaktorowski to pray before a little Marian shrine. They did this once a week for as long as they could remember. Their parents did it and their parents before them. Their great-grandfather was the one who set up the shrine, as thanks for having been appointed royal gamekeeper in the primeval forest.

The pair walked slowly, barefooted together, soaking in the beautiful spring weather. Jasa began to sing as they strolled; an old song, about a magical Poland populated by fairies and elves. Elka always enjoyed listening to Jasa sing; her voice seemed to blend so nicely with the natural sounds of the forest.

Suddenly Jasa’s voice croaked and a very surprised Elka turned towards her with wide eyes, holding back a giggle. Jasa coughed and held her hand out in front of her mouth to catch a little black ball that came shooting out. Holding it up to Elka, they both inspected the fly as it tried to untangle itself. More flies appeared as they hurriedly continued on their way again.

Running quickly around a turn in the trail, the girls stopped in their tracks.

“Oh dear,” said Elka.

There was their father with his arms folded, looking over the rotting carcass of a massive cow covered in flies. He looked up at the girls and sighed.

“Well... we knew it was coming sooner or later,” he said sadly.

“The king isn’t going to be happy,” Jasa whispered.

Her father looked into her eyes and replied slowly, “We’re not losing our tax-exemption just yet, darling.”

The villagers of Jaktorowski waited three more years before informing the king’s inspector that the last Auroch, the prehistoric father of all domestic cattle, had died.

A Mixed Marriage

Miriam watched eagerly every day for sign of her baby brother; he had just gained glory as the victorious leader of a battle. She was proud of him but each day that passed brought increasing consternation. Rumors came fast as returning soldiers trickled in and at first she found it impossible to believe. But day after day passed and the report was the same. She kept her mother busy with little outings designed to prevent her from hearing the scandalous news.

At last, when she saw the royal flags approaching the encampment, she ran to get her older brother. She found him debating with some laborers by the roadside and felt guilty for disturbing him.

“Brother,” she cautiously interrupted, “he’s returned.”

He jumped up, grabbed her by the arm, and practically dragged her along as he hurried his way to the caravan. They arrived just in time to see their brother hop down from his horse and whisper a few words to a woman clad in fine silk being carried along in a gold-accented enclosure.

“Jered!” Miriam cried as she broke free from her brother’s grip, “Then it’s true! How could you soil your blood?”

He spun around, his eyes wide with surprise that quickly turned to anger.

“Don’t call me by that name today sister, my name is Mosheh!” he thundered, “And your loose words will only bring down a curse upon you! You beware too, Aaron...”

Moses, the babe who was drawn out of the reeds of the Nile three months after his birth on February 18, 1272 BC, who was adopted into the family of Pharaoh and who would later cross him to free his people from the Egyptian yoke, was according to Josephus, returning to Goshen as husband of his first wife, an “Ethiopian” named Tharbis.

Bacon Salad

On July 30, 1676, almost exactly one century prior to a similar but nobler event, a declaration was signed on the shores of the New World rejecting the rule of “parasites.” The signers of this declaration, both black and white, free and indentured, were led by a plantation owner named Nathaniel Bacon. Their unity under Bacon was based not upon the universal rights of man but upon the extermination of the American Indian.

To quell the murder-spree of these nearly 500 armed rebels, the Royal Governor of Virginia, from exile, sent for a company of British regulars.

The food aboard the troop-ship spoiled well before they arrived and the stomachs of the soldiers were growling when they finally reached the Virginia tidewaters. Finding the government ineffectual and the normal means of society in chaos, the Captain ordered his battery to fend for themselves around colonial Jamestown.

They scoured the hills looking for anything left of the fall foliage that was green enough to boil into a salad and they pleasantly discovered an abundance of one particular shrub that grew along the roadsides. Its white flowers made it easy to spot and the soft leaves released a gamey scent when broken.

With their bellies filled they went to sleep. By the end of the next day, each man who had partaken of the meal was confined to a cell: Quartermaster Higgins sat upon a stool, blowing a feather into the air for hours at a time. Chosen Men Smythe and Clarke licked their hands while staring menacingly into each other’s eyes. Sergeant-Major William rolled naked on the straw, laughing hysterically.

A dozen others exhibited like behavior.

It took eleven days for these effects of the “Jamestown Weed” to wear off, after which they remembered nothing and returned to suppressing Bacon’s Rebellion.

Ten Were Chosen

Advance soldiers of the 10th Legion broke through the charred bits of wall that remained of the rebel fortress. The scorched earth was still hot beneath their sandaled feet as they scrambled into the breach that had taken three months of siege to open.

It was the morning of April 16th in the year 73 and the sun was just breaking over the edges of the plateau that defiantly rose 1,300 feet above the western rim of the Dead Sea. The Romans expected to face fierce resistance but were surprised instead by a landscape devoid of life, dotted here and there with smoking ruins. They cast confused, disbelieving glances at each other as they passed by warehouses filled with grain, armories full of swords, and cisterns lapping with fresh water and they silently wondered where the stubborn occupiers had fled. The legionaries cautiously made their way into the heart of the fortress, still wary of ambush but encountering not a single soul of the nearly thousand-strong Sicarii along their way.

Suddenly, shields and swords were raised in unison as a shout broke the quiet, “There! Arms ready!”

In a courtyard approaching a synagogue, a mass of humanity awaited. Scores of them were there. But they were still. None of their hands held weapons. None were moving nor even standing. And none breathed. They sat or lay in little groups; men with their wives and servants; mothers with their children.

Each body bore a single wound. Some to the throat but most to the heart.

The same scene was repeated over and over throughout the day as the fort was scoured. Not until two women were found hiding in a cave with five children, was history able to record what happened that grisly day at the Jewish mountain fortress called Masada.

A Quarter Per

It was December 3rd, 1890 and a fuzzy layer of frost covered the grave markers at the Mt Lebanon Cemetery in Iselin, New Jersey. Two boys stalked slowly past a freshly-prepared grave, their heads down, looking for prints on the frozen dew of the undisturbed morning grass.

“He went in there,” Billy said as a cloud of escaping steam wafted above him like a feather falling in reverse. He tip-toed his way around a rubbish pile and pointed, “... stay around that side with the bag... on three.”

Tommy nodded and opened wide a thick canvas sack as he squatted down at the mouth of a little tunnel created by some broken lumber. He peeked in but didn’t see anything except a skinny shaft of light from the other side.

“Okay, ready,” he croaked as his heart picked up a little speed.

“THREE! YAHHH!” Billy screamed into the hole and slapped the wood hard enough to bring it tumbling down.

A spine-tingling shriek echoed off the headstones, and Tommy nearly missed the terrified cat as it bolted out of its collapsing shelter.

“Cat’s in the bag!” he shouted joyfully.

The pair ran back to Oak Tree Avenue, where a wooden crate was waiting. The lid was slid open just far enough to shove the bag in. A chorus of hisses and cries spewed forth.

“How many is that?” asked Tommy.

“Eight!” exclaimed a delighted Billy, “That’s two whole dollars! One for each of us!”

“I wonder what he does with these cats anyway,” Tommy wondered.

What Thomas Edison did with the cats and dogs collected by the neighborhood children was made well-known thirteen years later when he electrocuted an elephant, trying to sell to the world his “safe” direct current, as opposed to the “deadly” alternating current of his rival.

"For heaven's sake, stop it."

“You are our last hope, Dear Friend,” whispered Major Whittlesey, “else all’s lost.”

The flyer that the battalion commander was addressing sat quietly on a perch of broken timbers, nodding his head. He was a Brit by birth but had been attached to the communications group of the American 77th Infantry Division out of necessity. A shell exploded a dozen meters from the pair and showered them with rock and mud.

The 77th was trapped by a German division at the base of woody precipice and already had suffered the loss of 300 men. When the command learned of their predicament, they fired shells randomly towards the Argonne, hoping to somehow clear a route for their escape. But the shells instead became a deadly barrage, whistling atop the beleaguered soldiers. Word had to be sent to redirect the fire.

The messenger took off through smoke and screams.

As he gained altitude and flew slowly over the enemy combatants, several sharpshooters took aim at him. He was hit in the eye. And then in the breast. And then a bullet ripped through his leg and left it dangling.

He faltered and began to dip, nearly going into a tailspin. But miraculously, he regained control and steered clear of the battlefield. He made it to his destination and fell unconscious onto his back, the important dispatch wrapped tightly around his separated leg. The note read: "We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake, stop it."

The remaining 200 men of the division were thus saved.

When he eventually died of his wounds the next year on June 13, 1919, Cher Ami, with his handmade wooden leg, became one of the most distinguished heroes of WWI – as a carrier pigeon.

"Everyone is more or less mad on one point"

“Good morning, Sam,” Rud said in a voice uncharacteristically cheerful for him since his arrival in San Francisco on May 29th, 1889. He was expecting some good news on this morning.

A door-boy was sitting at a desk, applying a coat of polish to a pair of wing-tips. He snapped up from his labor when he heard his name called.

“Yassir, what can I...”Sam began, but his voice caught in his throat when his eyes met Rud’s.

“Is your proprietor available?” Rud asked, jokingly formal.

Sam dropped his gaze to the floor as he replied, “Well... sir... I... I think your story is really good.”

“What? You’ve read it, have you?”

“Well sir, not exactly all of it. I been workin’ on it for five days now and I don’t, well I don’t read that fast...”

“Five days? I dropped it off only a week ago! Didn’t you give it to Mr. Hearst?” Rud was flabbergasted.

Tears formed at the corners of Sam’s eyes as he explained. “Well sir... they gave it back to me the day after they got it. They said to tell you not to bother makin’ no more submissions.” Sam started breathing a little harder as he continued, “But I think it’s the best story I ever read.”

He bent down below his desk to pick up the manuscript sitting by his shine-kit and handed it carefully, almost reverently, to the gentleman. The margins of it were covered with smudges of black polish.

Rud noticed the handwritten note from the editor of the San Francisco Examiner that was clipped to it. It read: "I'm sorry Mr Kipling, but you don't know how to use the English language."

Two years later, Rudyard Kipling’s The Light That Failed would be published, its author already becoming known the world-round.

Wonderful Things

Nature had thrust him into the world miserably incomplete. Uneducated, it was only through his stubbornness that his life had at least been interesting, remarkable even.

Forced to resign from his government post, he spent years struggling as a small-time antiquities dealer, selling drawings and watercolors on the side. Through his periods of doubt and difficulty, he somehow managed to maintain the support of the wealthy 5th Earl of Carnarvon, George Herbert, that kept him busy traveling for months at a time.

And yet, at forty-eight years old, Howard seemed destined for obscurity. His benefactor was growing bored with the lack of successes and lately seemed more interested in his racehorses than in continuing their relationship. “Only one more year,” he said. “After that, I’ve got to find another hole into which I can throw my money.”

A few months later, on November 26, 1922, the Earl arrived in response to Howard’s telegraph regarding a possible discovery. He had brought his daughter and some friends with him, determined to at least make the trip a worthwhile vacation in the likely event that nothing else came of it. The little group met up with their host and huddled together by a decorative wall at the bottom of a flight of steps. A servant went chipping away at the upper left corner of the wall with a small chisel until a hole was made, large enough for an arm to reach through. He moved aside and Howard peered into the opening.

“Well,” the Earl asked, “can you see anything?”

By the light of a dim candle, Howard Carter whispered, “Yes... I see wonderful things...”

The discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen, in an area given up on by most experienced Egyptologists, continues to provide the world with “wonderful things” to this day.

The Wrangler

“Aristotle isn’t scripture,” the student said to himself. “Lord, I want to believe... teach me to believe...”

Watching from the upper gallery, his eyes followed two acolytes as they emerged from the sacristy and methodically began preparing for Mass. One cupped his hands over the taper at the end of a long brass lighting stick and followed his partner up the steps of the massive pulpit.

The teenager took his eyes off of the acolytes for a moment to look more closely at the pulpit. Nine reliefs were represented on it, beginning with the Nativity and ending in the Crucifixion. One of the depictions always troubled him, more so than even the portrayal of the Flagellation. There was a certain sympathy he always felt for those infants persecuted during the Massacre of the Holy Innocents and his mind began to drift, wondering how Herod could have been so barbarous.

He was snapped back to the present, sometime around February 26, 1583, when he noticed the acolytes standing at the edge of the rostrum. One leaned forward with arms outstretched, using a hook to pull the heavy chandelier above them a little closer so the other could light the candles.

When it was finally burning brightly, the chandelier was released and it swung freely. Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Something clicked in his mind as he stared at the swinging lights. It began to reach the center and as it did the swings slowed. He placed a finger over the artery in his neck and started to count. These observations made on the oscillation of the pendulum would later prove invaluable in the development of a more precise clock.

A soft murmur issued from young Galileo Galilei’s heart as he began his journey down the roads of faith and science.