Friday, 10 March 2023

Pirates




“Essentially, Pirates were people who rejected society and created their own little world on their ships. Their community was multicultural and everyone got an equal share of the prize. They answered to nobody but themselves. Their deeds were reported in newspapers and other publications, which flew off the shelves, for the common people to consume. 

In Britain and Colonial America, when people gathered around in taverns to hear someone read the news, pirates were always a subject that came up. They read about pirates who brutally murdered their hostages, stole large ships with huge caches of supplies, were captured and put on trial, and were sentenced to harsh public deaths at the gallows. 

Reading between the lines, they learned about how pirates brought desired forbidden items into the colonies. These stories were gulped down like the tastiest of rums. What really made pirates seem so cool was that they were able to cast off all of their social obligations and roles. 

During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, your status was pretty much fixed from birth. If you were born poor, you would stay poor. If you were fortunate enough to be born wealthy, you would stay rich. If you were born into a skilled middle-class family, you would follow in your father’s footsteps. Sailors often came from either poor or middle-class families. If they were less fortunate, they were put onto ships at a very young age and, over time, could work their way up a bit. If they were middle-class and educated, they could become a First Mate or Quartermaster before long. Pay was based on position and was often withheld for various reasons. Pirates, on the other hand, only needed to know how to sail (or to be able to learn quickly) and to be brave in a fight. They were assigned duties based on their skills, and money or prizes were doled out equally so that everyone had a fair share. A destitute man could become extremely wealthy after just a year or two on a pirate ship. One way to avoid the risk of capture and hanging while still enjoying the benefits of piracy was to become employed as a privateer. During wartime, sailors were called upon to fight against specific enemy ships, depending on the country that hired them. These sailors were given letters of marque, which, again, were official documents that gave them permission to attack and rob enemy ships. They would be paid in whatever loot they could steal. A letter of marque, however, was like a contract. It had an expiration date that was usually at the end of whatever conflict was taking place. At that point, the sailors were required to stop their privateering and return to a legitimate line of work. Many privateers enjoyed being able to rob ships and steal anything they could carry because it guaranteed a much higher income than they would have earned as a merchant or naval seaman. Plus, it was a lot more fun and adventurous to travel the world as one wished in search of new things to steal. Be honest—what would you choose to do? Captain William Kidd was one of the most well-known pirates during the Golden Age of Piracy, the years from 1650 to 1730, in which pirates were most active and organized throughout the Caribbean and North American colonies. Pirates may have existed since the day people figured out how to make a boat float, but this time period was different because it was the first time history saw a pattern of large, organized societies made up of hefty pirate fleets. During this era, ownership of the colonies and Caribbean islands was constantly fought over by various European powers. Britain managed to secure Jamaica from Spain around 1670 with the Treaty of Madrid, but one of the requirements of this treaty was to rid the seas of pirates. With the uptick in persecution, pirates who already lived in the Caribbean began to scatter, but then formed their own squadrons. This persisted for the next fifty-odd years. Piracy also flourished during the early eighteenth century because peacetime had returned, and many people who worked as privateers in wartime (as in the War for Spanish Succession, a fourteen-year conflict about who would succeed to the Spanish throne after King Charles II’s death) were suddenly unemployed. The number of pirates shot up to the point where Britain had to begin an extermination campaign to get rid of them all. Pirate…or Criminal? Captain Kidd became the prime scapegoat. His exploits created the first concurrently-documented manhunt in history, rendering him one of the most famous pirates that ever lived. Newspapers were constantly publishing articles with the latest news of his exploits until he was finally captured in Boston. His life and death captured the public’s attention, forever changing our perception of pirates. But were pirates criminals? And who was in charge of capturing them? 

The definition of Piracy has always been debated. Official definitions of piracy were written into English law in 1536 when King Henry VIII signed the Offences at Sea Act 1536 (28 Hen 8, c.15), which was later modified in 1700 to create the Act for the Effectual Suppression of Piracy. (This would be reissued twice, in 1717 and 1721, in continued efforts to curb piracy.) 

However, both laws essentially used the same definition. Pirates were legally defined as “hostis humanis generis” : Enemies of all Mankind. In essence, A Pirate was anyone who robbed, plundered, and murdered on any type of body of water.

As for their pursuers, England had a special court — the High Court of Admiralty — for all things related to the sea and exploration. 

The Admiralty was created in 1260 to ward off potential Viking invaders, but their authority did not grow until Henry VIII passed the above-mentioned act. This law officially declared England An Empire and made Piracy punishable by England no matter where in the world the pirates were. The High Court of Admiralty was ordered to put its complete focus on Pirates. 

Admiralty Officials then had the power to arrest pirates just for being accused of Piracy.

If Britain was attacked for any reason, or even just harassed, the deliberately vague wording of this definition became very convenient. If The Government wanted a certain group of sailors punished or killed, it could easily twist the definition of Piracy to serve its purpose. 

Anyone who committed any sort of crime could be considered A Pirate. Even if the person did not Murder anyone, it could be suggested that their Robbery was an intent to harm their own nation. Bam. Pirate. This legal ambiguity meant that it was sometimes hard to decide who really was a pirate, which presented a major problem. 

What if a man killed someone or stole something on his own ship? What if someone killed another person at sea without taking anything? 

Many “pirates” did not consider themselves pirates. 

For instance, Captain William Kidd had specific orders from the British government to rob French ships while sailing the Indian Ocean. 

His fatal mistake was robbing a big and powerful Armenian ship. In his defense, he thought it was a French ship, or so he claimed. Throughout his trial, he maintained that he was absolutely most definitely not a pirate. He had legal orders to rob enemy ships in the East Indies. “Then produce proof,” Admiralty officials told him. “Bring us your letter of marque.” 

Kidd, unfortunately, could not produce the letter of marque, because it had conveniently disappeared. 

Another example is Richard Coyle, a sailor accused of murdering his captain. 

Was this Piracy? 

Or—just as bad, if not worse—was this Mutiny? 

Naturally, at his trial, Coyle claimed that he was innocent. “I had no choice but to murder him!” he declared. “That man was not really our captain. The ship’s carpenter killed our captain and then forced me to sail under him. I had no choice but to avenge my real captain!” The judge was no doubt exasperated by this claim. There was always a reason. 

“Very well,” the judge said, calling his bluff. “Produce some witnesses, or someone who can vouch for your character, and we will look more closely at these charges.” 

Coyle was never able to produce any witnesses, and so he was sentenced to hang.

Coyle was not unique. There were other cases like his. The Admiralty never actually called him a pirate, but others were, just for the sake of semantics. This was the case for Captain James Lowrey, who was found guilty of the murder of Kenneth Hossack, a prisoner on his ship. Lowrey’s chief mate, James Godderar, was the star witness of this case. He claimed to have watched Lowrey beat Hossack to death. The circumstances of how Hossack came to be a prisoner, however, were murky, and it seemed no one could provide any specific details about this. 

“Did the captain accuse any of the crew of acts of piracy?” the prosecutor asked. 

“No, he did not,” Godderar responded. 

The context of the murder was also tricky. Did Lowrey intend to beat the prisoner to death, or just give him a routine beating? Did the prisoner do something to antagonize him? The details were too unclear. 

Finally, out of sheer frustration, The British argued that, by taking Hossack a prisoner, Lowrey had stolen a man. Since Lowrey beat him to death, he had killed a man. 

Therefore, Lowrey must be a pirate. 

So they declared him one and hanged him for it.

This is why many pirates did not believe they were pirates. The rules were so fluid and constantly changing that they often did not know they had committed a serious crime. Murder on the high seas? Meh. It happened. Sometimes ships had to battle, and in battles there were deaths. 

Robbery? This also happened. During battles, people took advantage of the takings if they had the opportunity. 

Sometimes these actions were also a necessity. What if there was a crew member who began threatening the lives of everyone on board? The crew member could be marooned. 

But what if they were not anywhere close to a spit of land? It is very unlikely that a dangerous crew member would be killed in cold blood. Instead, they would be locked up or chained belowdecks. 

However, if a fight broke out, death was always a possibility due to the available weapons and the harsh realities of living on a ship. 

There could also be an accident. What if someone caused someone’s death unintentionally? Perhaps there was a fall due to human error or an emergency situation that would cause panic, such as a ship threatening to capsize during a storm. Not every case could be defined as Murder in the way that the Admiralty wanted to consider it. 

It is a similar case for robbery, although, yes, it would be harder to justify. Sometimes robbery happened out of necessity rather than for the sake of stealing goods for monetary gain. Medicine and foodstuffs would be the items most needed on ships, especially if an illness broke out or extenuating circumstances caused a food or water shortage. These times would be desperate and, unfortunately, one side would have to suffer as a result. 

But could desperate needs be taken into consideration? This is a question that no doubt would come up. 

It is also important to consider that many people were forced into piracy. These people were usually hostages taken on after a battle to replace members of the crew who were killed. The hostages were either kept in custody or forced to swear their fealty and join the crew. In the eventuality that the pirates were captured, the hostage would plead innocence. This was a complicated situation because it was difficult to prove that the person was forced into piracy against their will. There would have to be witnesses to speak for him, but pirates generally did not betray each other. The law boiled down to what was written on paper. If murder and robbery were committed on the high seas, it was piracy, punishable by death. After the turn of the eighteenth century, the law became even more strict. In efforts to stop piracy, colonists and governors were explicitly forbidden to deal with pirates. If they did, they would be considered pirates as well, and therefore subject to the law. After all, in the end, how is helping a pirate different from actually being one? 



WILLARD (v.o.) "I was going to the worst place in the world, and I didn't even know it yet. Weeks away and hundreds of miles up a river that snaked through the war like a main circuit cable and plugged straight into Kurtz. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz's memory, any more than being back in Saigon was an accident. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story is really a confession, then so is mine."

In the briefing room :

 COLONEL LUCAS "Come on in.. At ease. Want a cigarette ?"

 WILLARD "No, thank you sir."

 LUCAS "Captain, have you ever seen this gentleman before ? Met the general or myself ?"

 WILLARD "No, sir. Not personally."

 LUCAS "You have worked a lot on your own, haven't you ?"

 WILLARD "Yes, sir. I have."

 LUCAS "Your report specify intelligence, counter-intelligence, with ComSec I Corps."

 WILLARD "I'm not presently disposed to discuss these operations, sir."

 LUCAS "Did you not work for the CIA in I Corps ?"

 WILLARD "No, sir."

 LUCAS "Did you not assasinate a government tax collector in Quang Tri province, June 19th, 1968 ? Captain ?"

 WILLARD "Sir, I am unaware of any such activity or operation - nor would I be disposed to discuss such an operation if it did in fact exist, sir."

 GENERAL CORMAN "I thought we'd have a bite of lunch while we talk. I hope you brought a good appetite with you. You have a bad hand there, are you wounded ?"

 WILLARD "A little fishing accident on R&R, sir."

 CORMAN "Fishing on R&R... But you're feeling fit, ready for duty ?"

 WILLARD "Yes, general. Very much so sir."

 CORMAN "Let's see what we have here... roast beef and..., usually is not bad. Try some Jerry, pass it around. Save a little time when we'll pass both ways. Captain, I don't know how you feel about this shrimp, but if you'll eat it, you never have to prove your courage in any other way... I'll take a piece here ..."

 LUCAS "Captain, you heard of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz ?"

 WILLARD "Yes, sir, I've heard the name."

 LUCAS "Operations officer, 5th Special forces."

 CORMAN "Luke, would you play that tape for captain, please. Listen carefully."

 ON TAPE "October 9th, 0430 hours, sector PBK."

 LUCAS "This was monitored out of Cambodia. This has been verified as colonel Kurtz's voice."

 COLONEL KURTZ (on tape) " I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. That's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving. "

 ON TAPE "11th transmission, December 30th, 0500 hours, sector KZK."

 KURTZ (on tape) " We must kill them. We must incinerate them. Pig after pig, cow after cow, village after village, army after army. And they call me an assasin. What do you call it when the assasins accuse the assasin ? They lie.. they lie and we have to be merciful for those who lie. Those nabobs. I hate them. How I hate them..."

 CORMAN "Walt Kurtz was one of the most outstanding officers this country has ever produced. He was a brilliant and outstanding in every way and he was a good man too. Humanitarian man, man of wit, of humor. He joined the Special forces. After that his ideas, methods have become unsound... Unsound."

 LUCAS "Now he's crossed to Cambodia with his Montagnard army, who worship the man, like a god, and follow every order however ridiculous."

 CORMAN "Well, I have some other shocking news to tell you. Colonel Kurtz was about to be arrested for murder."

 WILLARD "I don't follow sir. Murdered who ?"

 LUCAS "Kurtz had ordered executions of some Vietnamese intelligence agents. Men he believed were double agents. So he took matters into his own hands."

 CORMAN "Well, you see Willard... In this war, things get confused out there, power, ideals, the old morality, and practical military necessity. Out there with these natives it must be a temptation to be god. Because there's a conflict in every human heart between the rational and the irrational, between good and evil. The good does not always triumph. Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature. Every man has got a breaking point. You and I have. Walter Kurtz has reached his. And very obviously, he has gone insane."

 WILLARD "Yes sir, very much so sir. Obviously insane."

 LUCAS "Your mission is to proceed up to Nung river in a Navy patrol boat. Pick up colonel Kurtz' path at Nu Mung Ba, follow it, learn what you can along the way. When you find colonel infiltrate his team by whatever means available and terminate the colonel's command."

 WILLARD "Terminate ? The colonel ?"

 CORMAN "He's out there operating without any decent restraint. Totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct. And he is still in the field commanding his troops."

 CIVILIAN "Terminate with extreme prejudice."

 LUCAS "You understand captain... , that this operation does not exist, nor will it ever exist." 

In helicopter :

 
How many people 
had I already killed? 
There was those six 
that I know about for sure. 
Close enough to blow 
their last breath 
in my face. 

But this time it was 
An American and 
An Officer. 

That wasn't supposed to make any difference to me, but it did

Shit...charging a man with Murder 
in this place was like handing out 
speeding tickets in the Indy 500. 

I took The Mission —
What the hell else was I gonna do? 
But I really didn't know what I'd do 
when I found him.

I was being ferried down the coast in a Navy PBR, a type of plastic patrol boat, pretty common sight on the rivers. They said it was a good way to pick up information without drawing lot of attention. 

That was OK, I needed 
the air and the time. 
Only problem was,
I wouldn't be alone.

Jacobites






Worf







(As happy gamblers play below, Worf sits alone at a table and stares at nothing.

O'BRIEN
You look like you could 
use some company. 

WORF :
Chief, do you remember the time 
we rescued Captain Picard 
from The Borg? 

O'BRIEN
How could I forget? 
It was touch and go 
there for a while. 
There were a couple of moments when I thought we were all going to wind up 
being assimilated. 

WORF
I never doubted the outcome. 
We were like warriors 
from the ancient sagas — 
There was nothing 
we could not do. 

O'BRIEN
….except keep the holodecks working right.  (grins)

WORF: 
(It is not reciprocated) I have decided 
to resign from Starfleet. 
O'BRIEN: Resign? What are you talking about? 
WORF: 
I have made up my mind. 
It is for the best. 
O'BRIEN: 
Look, I know how much 
you miss the Enterprise, 
but I'm sure they'll be 
building a new one soon. 

WORF: 
It will not be the same. 
The Enterprise I knew is gone
Those were GOOD years
but now it is time for me to move on. 

O'BRIEN: 
And do what? 
WORF: 
I do not know
I thought I would be 
returning to Boreth, 
but now that is impossible. 
I have made an enemy of Gowron, 
and every other Klingon 
in the Empire. 
O'BRIEN: 
All the more reason 
to stay in Starfleet. 

WORF: This uniform will only serve to remind me of how I have disgraced myself in the eyes of my people. I suppose I could get a berth on a Nyberrite Alliance Cruiser. They are always eager to hire experienced officers. 
O'BRIEN: 
The Nyberrite Alliance
That's a long way.
 What about your son? 

WORF: 
Alexander is much happier 
living with his grandparents 
on Earth than he ever 
was staying with me. 
One thing is certain. 
The sooner I leave here, the better. 
My continued presence on Deep Space Nine would only be a liability to Captain Sisko in his dealings with the Klingons. 

QUARK: 
Do you hear that, Chief? 
Seventy two decibels. 
Music to my ears. 

O'BRIEN: 
I think I liked it better 
when it was quiet. 
QUARK: 
You want quiet, go to the Replimat. 
This is Quark's the way 
Quark's should be. 
The way it was meant to be. 
Am I glad we finally got rid 
of all those Klingons. 
Present company excepted, 
of course. 

(Worf leaves.) 

O'BRIEN: 
I got to hand it to you, Quark. 
You really know how to make 
your customers feel welcome. 

QUARK: 
What do I care? 
All he ever drinks 
is prune juice.

[Captain's office]

SISKO: 
I'm sorry, Mister Worf, but I can't 
accept your resignation at this time. 

WORF: 
I do not understand. 
What further use 
could I BE here? 

SISKO: 
I'm not •sure• yet. But as long 
as the fighting continues between 
the Klingons and the Cardassians, 
I need you here on the station. 

WORF: 
If you think that is wise. 

SISKO: 
I don't know if it's WISE or not — 
But I DO know that 
you're a good officer, 
and right now I need EVERY 
good officer I can get. 

Spares









  “Hugh and Emilie were old friends of Pa’s. They lived in Norfolk, and we often went to visit them for a week or two, during school holidays and summers. They had four sons with whom Willy and I were always thrown together, like pups into a bunch of pit bulls.


  We played games. One day Hide and Seek, the next Capture the Flag. But whatever the game it was always an excuse for a massive scrap, and whatever the scrap, there were no winners because there were no rules. Hair-pulling, eye-gouging, arm-twisting, sleeper holds, all was fair in love and war and at Hugh and Emilie’s country house.


  As the youngest and smallest I always took the brunt. But I also did the most escalating, the most asking for it, so I deserved everything I got. Black eye, violet welt, puffed lip, I didn’t mind. On the contrary. Maybe I wanted to look tough. Maybe I just wanted to feel something. Whatever my motivation, my simple philosophy when it came to scrapping was: More, please.


  The six of us cloaked our pretend battles in historic names. Hugh and Emilie’s house would often be converted into Waterloo, the Somme, Rorke’s Drift. I can see us charging each other, screaming : Zulu!


  Battle lines were often blood lines, though not always. It wasn’t always Windsor versus Others. We’d mix and match. Sometimes I was fighting alongside Willy, sometimes against. No matter the alliances, though, it often happened that one or two of Hugh and Emilie’s boys would turn and set upon Willy. I’d hear him crying out for help and down would come the red mist, like a blood vessel bursting behind my eyes. I’d lose all control, all ability to focus on anything but family, country, tribe, and hurl myself at someone, everyone. Kicking, punching, strangling, taking out legs.


  Hugh and Emilie’s boys couldn’t deal with that. There was no dealing with it.


  Get him off, he’s mad!


  I don’t know how effective or skilled a fighter I was. But I always succeeded in providing enough diversion for Willy to get away. He’d check his injuries, wipe his nose, then jump straight back in. When the scrap finally ended for good, when we hobbled away together, I always felt such love for him, and I sensed love in return, but also some embarrassment. I was half Willy’s size, half his weight. I was the younger brother: he was supposed to save me, not the other way around.


  Over time the scraps became more pitched. Small-arms fire was introduced. We’d hurl Roman candles at each other, make rocket launchers from golf-ball tubes, stage night battles with two of us defending a stone pillbox in the middle of an open field. I can still smell the smoke and hear the hiss as a projectile rocketed towards a victim, whose only armor would be a puffer jacket, some wool mittens, maybe some ski goggles, though often not.


  Our arms race accelerated. As they do. We began to use BB guns. At close range. How was no one maimed? How did no one lose an eye?


  One day all six of us were walking in the woods near their house, looking for squirrels and pigeons to cull. There was an old army Land Rover. Willy and the boys smiled.


  Harold, jump in, drive away, and we’ll shoot you.


  With what?


  Shotgun.


  No, thanks.


  We’re loading. Either get in and drive or we shoot you right here.


  I jumped in, drove away.


  Moments later, bang. Buckshot rattling off the back.


  I cackled and hit the accelerator.


  Somewhere on their estate was a construction site. (Hugh and Emilie were building a new house.) This became the setting for possibly our fiercest battle. It was around dusk. One brother was in the shell of the new house, taking heavy fire. When he retreated we bombarded him with rockets.


  And then…he was gone.


  Where’s Nick?


  We shone a torch. No Nick.


  We marched forward, steadily, came upon a giant hole in the ground, almost like a square well, alongside the construction site. We peered over the edge and shone the torch down. Far below, lying on his back, Nick was moaning. Damned lucky to be alive, we all agreed.


  What a great opportunity, we said.


  We lit some firecrackers, big ones, and dropped them down into the pit.



 26.



  When there were no other boys around, no other common enemies, Willy and I would turn on each other.


  It happened most often in the back seat while Pa drove us somewhere. A country house, say. Or a salmon stream. Once, in Scotland, on the way to the River Spey, we started scuffling, and soon were in a full scrap, rolling back and forth, trading blows.


  Pa swerved to the side of the road, shouted at Willy to get out.


  Me? Why me?


  Pa didn’t feel the need to explain. Out.


  Willy turned to me, furious. He felt I got away with everything. He stepped out of the car, stomped to the backup car with all the bodyguards, strapped himself in. (We always wore seatbelts after Mummy’s disappearance.) The convoy resumed.


  Now and then I peered out the back window.


  Behind us, I could just make out the future King of England, plotting his revenge.


 27.



  The first time I killed anything, Tiggy said: Well done, darling!


  She dipped her long, slender fingers into the rabbit’s body, under the flap of smashed fur, scooped out a dollop of blood and smeared it tenderly across my forehead, down my cheeks and nose. Now, she said, in her throaty voice, you are blooded.


  Blooding—a tradition from the ages. A show of respect for the slain, an act of communion by the slayer. Also, a way to mark the crossing from boyhood into…not manhood. No, not that. But something close.


  And so, notwithstanding my hairless torso and chirpy voice, I considered myself, post-blooding, to be a full-fledged stalker. But around my fifteenth birthday I was informed that I’d be undertaking the true stalker initiation.


  Red deer.


  It happened at Balmoral. Early morning, fog on the hills, mist in the hollows. My guide, Sandy, was a thousand years old. He looked as if he’d stalked mastodons. Proper old-school, that was how Willy and I described him and other such gents. Sandy talked old-school, smelt old-school, and definitely dressed old-school. Faded camo jacket over ragged green sweaters, Balmoral tweed plus fours, socks covered with burrs, Gore-Tex walking boots. On his head was a classic tweed flat cap, thrice my age, browned by eons of sweat.


  I crept beside him through the heather, through the bog, all morning long. My stag appeared ahead. Inching closer, ever closer, we finally stopped and watched the stag munch some dry grass. Sandy made sure we were still downwind.


  Now he pointed at me, pointed at my rifle. Time.


  He rolled away, giving me space.


  He raised his binoculars. I could hear his rattly breath as I took slow aim, squeezed the trigger. One sharp, thunderous crack. Then, silence.


  We stood, walked forward. When we reached the stag I was relieved. Its eyes were already cloudy. The worry was always that you’d merely cause a flesh wound and send the poor animal dashing into the woods to suffer alone for hours. As its eyes turned more and more opaque, Sandy knelt before it, took out his gleaming knife, bled it from the neck and slit open the belly. He motioned for me to kneel. I knelt.


  I thought we were going to pray.


  Sandy snapped at me: Closer!


  I knelt closer, close enough to smell Sandy’s armpits. He placed a hand gently behind my neck, and now I thought he was going to hug me, congratulate me. Atta boy. Instead he pushed my head inside the carcass.


  I tried to pull away, but Sandy pushed me deeper. I was shocked by his insane strength. And by the infernal smell. My breakfast jumped up from my stomach. Oh please oh please do not let me vomit inside a stag carcass. After a minute I couldn’t smell anything, because I couldn’t breathe. My nose and mouth were full of blood, guts, and a deep, upsetting warmth.


  Well, I thought, so this is death. The ultimate blooding.


  Not what I’d imagined.


  I went limp. Bye, all.


  Sandy pulled me out.


  I filled my lungs with fresh morning air. I started to wipe my face, which was dripping, but Sandy grabbed my hand. Nae, lad, nae.


  What?


  Let it dry, lad! Let it dry!


  We radioed back to the soldiers in the valley. Horses were sent. While waiting, we got down to work, gave the stag a full gralloching, the Old Scottish word for disemboweling. We removed the stomach, scattered the junky bits on the hillside for hawks and buzzards, carved out the liver and heart, snipped the penis, careful not to pop the cord, which would douse you with urine, a stench that ten Highland baths wouldn’t cleanse.


  The horses arrived. We slung our gralloched stag across a white drum stallion, sent it off to the larder, then walked shoulder to shoulder back to the castle.


  As my face dried, as my stomach settled, I felt swelling pride. I’d been good to that stag, as I’d been taught. One shot, clean through the heart. Besides being painless, the instant kill had preserved the meat. Had I merely wounded him, or let him get a glimpse of us, his heart would’ve raced, his blood would’ve filled with adrenaline, his steaks and fillets would’ve been inedible. This blood on my face contained no adrenaline, a credit to my marksmanship.


  I’d also been good to Nature. Managing their numbers meant saving the deer population as a whole, ensuring they’d have enough food for winter.


  Finally, I’d been good to The Community. A big stag in the larder meant plenty of good meat for those living around Balmoral.


  These virtues had been preached to me from an early age, but now I’d lived them, and felt them on my face. I wasn’t religious, but this “blood facial” was, to me, baptismal. Pa was deeply religious, he prayed every night, but now, in this moment, I too felt close to God. If you loved Nature, Pa always said, you had to know when to leave it alone, and when to manage it, and managing meant culling, and culling meant killing. It was all a form of worship.


  At the larder Sandy and I took off our clothes and checked each other for ticks. Red deer in those woods were rife and once a tick got onto your leg it would burrow deep under the skin, often crawl up into your balls. One poor gamekeeper had recently been felled by Lyme disease.


  I panicked. Every freckle looked like doom. Is that a tick? Is that?


  Nae, lad, nae!


  I got dressed.


  Turning to Sandy to say goodbye, I thanked him for the experience. I wanted to shake his hand, give him a hug. But a small, still voice inside me said:


  Nae, lad. Nae.

 


Monday, 6 March 2023

Sodomites


Why can’t it just be about Flowers…?

— Charlie Kaufman,
Adaptation 

Because Successful Flowers 
go to Seed.

“For Oscar Wilde —

Posing as a Sodomite”


Queensberry’s handwriting was almost indecipherable [That’ll be the cerebral Syphilis, then.] : The hall porter initially read “ponce and sodomite”, but Queensberry himself claimed that he’d written “posing ‘as’ a sodomite”, an easier accusation to defend in court. Merlin Holland concludes that “what Queensberry almost certainly wrote was “posing somdomite [sic]”.




“Consider for example the history of what was once The” Great Sin against Nature. The extreme discretion of the texts dealing with Sodomy – that utterly confused category – and the nearly universal reticence in talking about it made possible a twofold operation.”

Okay. Here’s Foucault saying that this is a category. The Homosexual Identity, as understood in terms of Sodomy, is a category. 

He’s going to go on to say that it’s punishable in the extreme by Law, but in the meantime he’s saying there’s no discourse. There’s a kind of almost universal silence on the subject. You don’t get silence in Dante, as I’m sure you know, but in most cases in this period nobody talks about it. 

It’s punishable, severely punishable by Law, and yet nobody talks about it. 

This would seem to violate Foucault’s own premise that Discourse constitutes Identity but also plainly does contradict Butler’s claim that Foucault supposes that Discourse always constitutes Identity.

Let’s continue :
… [T]he nearly universal reticence in talking about it made possible a twofold operation : on the one hand, there was an extreme severity (punishment by Fire was meted out well into the eighteenth century, without there being any substantial protest expressed before the middle of the century)

[Discourse is here failing also in that it’s not constituting a site of resistance, and nobody’s complaining about these severe punishments just as on the other hand nobody’s talking very much about them [“The Sodomites”]  : 

There is, in other words, an Erasure of Discourse], and [he continues] on the other hand, a tolerance that must have been widespread (which one can deduce indirectly from the infrequency of judicial sentences, and which one glimpses more directly through certain statements concerning societies of men that were thought to exist in the army or in the courts) –

In other words, he’s saying there was An Identity [“Sodomite” or “Sodomist”] and that identity was not – at least not very much – constituted by discourse. As you read down the column, he’s going to go on to say that in a way, the plight of the homosexual got worse when it started being talked about. Yes, penalties for being homosexual were less severe, but the surveillance of Homosexuality – the way in which it could be sort of dictated to by Therapy and by The Clergy and by everyone else who might have something to say about it – became far more pervasive and determinate than it was when there was no discourse about it. 

In a certain way, Foucault is going so far as to say silence was, while perilous to the few, a GOOD Thing for the many; whereas discourse which perhaps relieves the few of extreme fear nevertheless sort of imposes a kind of hegemonic authority on all that remain and constitutes them as something that Power-Knowledge believes them to be, rather than something that in any sense according to their sexuality they spontaneously are

It seems to me that this pointed disagreement with Foucault, raised by Butler, is answered in advance by Foucault and that even there, when you think about it, they’re really in agreement with each other. Foucault’s position is more flexible than she takes it to be, but that just means that it’s similar to her own and, as I say, that fact together with the broad shared political agenda that they have seems to me to suggest that they’re writing very much in concert and in keeping with each other’s views.

 



Introduction

This essay has been written in order to stimulate discussion about what has been described as General Charles Gordon's homosexual traits. The discussion begins by outlining the evidence often cited as proof that Gordon was a latent homosexual, then examines John Pollock's refutation of these allegations, and finally offers an alternative explanation for Gordon's behaviour.

Evidence for Gordon's alleged homosexuality

It has to be stated at the outset that there are no confessions written by supposed lovers. There was no court trial, as in Oscar Wilde's case, or army record of him having been cashiered for what was then, a serious offence. Writers who have maintained that Gordon was a closet homosexual, such as Richardson, largely rely on his behavioural traits to provide their evidence.

What is this evidence? Firstly he began his days by having a cold bath (a fact cited by many authors including Pollock). This is often explained as being necessary to "cool his passions." Secondly, there is his liking for small children, in particular boys. There is no doubt that Gordon enjoyed the company of young boys. From all accounts he seemed to have sought them out, spent time with them in his home and nursed them when they were sick. It has to be said that this suggests not only latent homosexuality but latent paedophillia. Thirdly, there is Gordon's aversion to women: he is on record as having refused invitations from women if he felt that he was being lined up to marry a young woman. Gordon remained a bachelor all of his life.

On their own, none of these facts provide conclusive proof of homosexuality, but taken as a whole, to the modern mind, it would seem to be fairly conclusive proof that Gordon was, as Pollock puts it, "sexually orientated towards men."

Pollock's refutation 

Pollock, who does not set out to refute the evidence point by point, starts by admitting that Gordon felt "ill at ease with women," and he then asserts that "many clues suggest a man of normal male instincts who was determined to stay celibate." He then quotes from a number of sources to show that Gordon approved of marriage but felt that he had never met a woman who would put up with his way of life. Pollock quotes at length from Gordon, that he needs a woman who would be "prepared to sacrifice the comforts of home, and the sweet society of loved one and accompany me whithersoever the demand of duty might lead. . . .Such a woman I have not met, and such a one alone could be my wife!"

Pollock's two points seem to conflict, for it could be argued that by saying he had never met a woman suited to be his wife, Gordon was avoiding making a socially unacceptable statement, that is, "I am not interested in women." Pollock did not effectively refute the allegation that Gordon was homosexual.

An alternative explanation for Gordon's behaviour.

Gordon presents as an enigma to historians, who usually aknowledge the following about Gordon:

1. He found normal social interaction difficult. He did not relate well to his peer group; fellow officers found him difficult, and he could often be tactless. 

2. He found it hard to relate to adults, but related well to children.

3. He was meticulous and thorough in all he did, whether it was map making, being a governor-general, a social worker or teacher

4. He was obsessed with routines. Gordon would not start work until 8, even when he knew that important matters needed his attention. He had a cold bath every morning. This routine probably began during his school days; it was quite normal for public school boys to have a cold bath every day.

I would like to suggest that these are all traits of a condition called Aspergers syndrome, which the National Autistic societydescribes in the following way: "Aspergers syndrome is a form of autism, a disability that affects the way a person communicates and relates to others. A number of the traits of autism are common to Aspergers syndrome including:

  • Difficulty in communicating
  • Difficulty in social relationships
  • Lack of imagination"

However, people with Aspergers syndrome usually have fewer problems with language than those with autism, often speaking fluently, though their words can sometimes sound formal or stilted.They also do not have the accompanying learning disabilites often associated with autism, in fact, they are often of average or above average intelligence.'

They are also prone to depression in later life owing to their desire to have normal social contact, which they are unable to maintain. Gordon is known to have suffered from bouts of depression.

Lack of facial expression is another trait of Aspergers syndrome, pictures of Gordon usually show him with a straight face. It is thought that Aspergers syndrome is an inherited condition, Pollock describes Gordon's paternal ancestors as "the solemn Gordons," this would seem to indicate that Gordon's father possibly shared his condition.

Conclusions

Today Aspergers syndrome is usually diagnosed in childhood by a consultant psychologist. It is not possible to have Gordon diagnosed. From the available evidence it is possible to deduce that Gordon had this condition. Why go to all of this trouble? Gordon would have found it highly offensive to be described as homosexual. He was a deeply religious man, and being a homosexual would be regarded as a sin in the circles he moved in, as would any unatural attraction to children. 

References

Pollock, John. Gordon, the Man behind the Legend. Oxford: Lion, 1993.

Richardson Mars without Venus

If you wish to comments about this essay please e-mail me on pemersh@tagteacher.net.