The Agrinautica

   I am running down a jungle path, a lane of reddish dirt bounded by giant leafy fronds. The ferns tower over me and crazily lurch in my vision as I toddle haphazardly with the speed of joy, excited to be going somewhere. Soon we're in a museum in the jungle, I stare in amazement at colorful butterflies lined up under glass cases.
   I thought this was a particularly memorable dream until one day I, as an elementary schooler, happened to mention it to my mother, sitting in our California home by the bookshelf topped with my great grandfather's old globe.
   “Oh that wasn’t a dream, when we were in Brazil when you were two there was a jungle path and museum just like that.” she told me, to my surprise.
   My father had been born just outside Rio. I was not, but some of my first memories were born in Brazil. The jungle and museum are joined in my memory by a spiral slide in a park, and then given further re-enforcement by two pieces of external evidence: a surreal painting of Rio by my grandmother, the abstract style of which is not unlike my memories; and a photograph of my mother holding me at the base of the colossal Cristo Redentor statue that spreads its arms above Rio, the iconic megalith of Sugarloaf visible in the harbor down below. This is the first photograph I am aware of in which I am recognizable for other than a ubiquitous baby -- to me, this memory and this photograph mark the beginning of my life.



   Memories sometimes need external confirmation to be believed, and sometimes external confirmation creates memories that may be merely imagined. But received memories can be as significant as the genuinely experienced.
   It could be said my earliest memory, that is, the earliest image I have in the montage of things that make up my self identity, actually takes place on February 14th, of the year 1630. On that date I picture a longboat crashing through the surf to run up the sand on a tropical beach, sailors jumping over the side to haul it up out of the waves as quickly as possible. In the background a large squadron of galleon-like sailing ships ride at anchor.
   Among the adventurers to swing himself over the side of the longboat and plant his feet in the soft Brazilian sand is Caspar van der Ley, a 35 year old German. I imagine him with the beaky nose of my Brazilian grandfather, under the sort of floppy broad-brimmed felt hat in fashion at the time, as he surveys this new land in which he'd settle. What dramas and trials did he leave behind in the mists of Westphalia, then in the grip of the bloody 30-Years-War?

   In 1653 I picture a young Robert Ransom stepping ashore on the sheltered coast of Cape Cod to join the rudimentary colony of Plymouth. He must have gazed in awe at the vast primordial forests teaming with mysterious natives and unexplored expanses. I imagine him with the boyish all-American grin of my Ransom uncles in pictures of their boyhood. He's first recorded as a servant, and I can't picture a Ransom as a Puritan, so he was probably one of the “strangers,” non-Puritan indentured servants in the colony. Court records indicate he was a mischievous, fractious lad, and one can only imagine what had propelled him from turbulent Cromwellian England to this challenging new world, and bearing a surname like “Ransom,” surely there’s a story there.

   A sleigh speeds through the night, hissing along the packed snow of the road from Russia, headed west to Konigsberg in Prussia. Branches whip past overhead. Wolves howl, to the left, to the right. Friederike von Magnitsky peers nervously over the back of the sleigh, a heavy fur hat pulled low over her head. Is that dark shape just barely visible in the gloom behind them a pursuing wolf? It's 1831, and the earliest specific image passed down to me from first-hand description, in a faded letter to her granddaughter Sidonie.

   July 17th, 1913, Germany – Wilhelm Fricke and his newlywed wife Sidonie bid goodbye to their families. Behind them the steamer Zeelandia bustles with activity as it prepares for the passage to Brazil. Did they know it was forever? Did his sister cry? Did his mother beg him to reconsider? Did his younger brother leave accusations of hating their fatherland ringing in his ears? Did Wilhelm sense the rising toxicity of nationalism and acrid winds of war, or merely long for the world's frontiers?



   1993 – In a classroom in California, I'm taught about the pilgrims of Plymouth colony, with their belt-buckle hats, and the waves of immigrants to America. Grainy black and white footage shows packed steamers passing the Statue of Liberty. At the time it doesn't occur to me that they have a past, that they may arrive with broken hearts grieving their lost homelands. They seem newly created beings without a past.

   2012 – I'm living with seven Brazilians in an apartment firecoded for four, in Brisbane, Australia. I never meet the landlord illegally profiting off this overpacked apartment, but I know they are a Brazilian by the last name of Wanderley. They are almost certainly a fellow descendant of Caspar Van der Ley. After 400 years and 10,000 miles, here we are, still traveling ever westward together.

   2019 – “Hi, euh, well–come to Schneets, how, eurm, I helpe you?”
   The employee behind the counter at the fast food schnitzel chain here in Australia speaks with an extremely halting Chinese accent. From her nervous demeanor I suspect it must be her first day. I was feeling tired and grumpy, and may have scowled for a moment.
   But then, in half a second, four centuries of memories flashed through my head, from Caspar's bare foot sinking into the Brazilian sand to the SS Zeelandia rounding the Sugarloaf. I remembered the heartbreak and loneliness, and thought of the added burden of a language barrier and racism she must face from local bemulleted Australians of the type that don't bother to reflect on their own history.
   It must have shown on my face, because next thing I knew she was smiling warmly at me. She finished her spiel with markedly less nervousness. I sat down to contemplatively enjoy the somewhat bastardized cuisine of a fatherland I never knew.

   It's 2020, and I walk in the Australian rainforest beneath towering ferns. My migrant visa for Australia will soon run out. The entire world has the apocalyptic feel of the global pandemic with migrants and expats feeling cut off and isolated in ways they haven't since the advent of modern air travel. US State Department advisories admonish us that if we don't return by the next available flight they can't guarantee there will be another. Should I return home to America or spend $13,000 on a visa to stay in Australia? My mother's recent words begging me to come back still ring in my ears, as do my brother's accusations that I hate America. But I don't hate America, I love it more than I ever knew, but sometimes that's not enough.

   This morning while I was huddling under the heater drinking my morning coffee I came across this fascinating three piece article: The Long Way Round: The Plane that Accidentally Circumnavigated the World and didn't even think about getting on with my day till I had finished reading through it. I think I'm going to order the book he mentions.



   And then it reminded me of another story of a crew trying to get around the world. While reading Peter FitzSimmons' "Gallipoli," he had mentioned that the German cruiser SMS Embden was lurking in the Indian Ocean threatening the ANZAC transports, and that the ship was eventually sunk and it's surviving crew marooned on an island, from which they then took a schooner on which they made it to Arabia, had many more misadventures involving bedouins and things before finally making it to Istanbul and being able to get on a train home. FitzSimmons just gave that overview but mentioned there was a book on it, and I had meant to get said book because it sounded interesting, but had forgotten until reminded this morning.

   But now I am confronted by the problem of that there are actually at least five books on the subject, all by authors I've never heard of. They all have about 4.2 of 5 stars from amazon and/or goodread and 6-7 reviews, but I'm assuming most readers/reviewers read only one of them so it's not really a good comparison. So how does one choose??

[Poll #2080976]




   In other news I'm slowly but surely composing the second episode of the podcast, my plan is to conflate all three of my Nigeria projects so I can thematically arrange all the best parts of all three. If I had more audio skills I actually have video interviews I did with local friends in Nigeria at the time which would be a fantasmical addition to the podcast (which may run more than one "episode" length if I put everything and the kitchen sink in, as I rather intend), but I'm not sure I have the audio magic to get the audio off the videos and into the audio recording.

   55 BC - Londinos of the Catuvellauni roared up the hill towards the hillfort of Breahinga. Led by several horse drawn chariots, the charging mass of Catuvellauni made a fearsome sight. Most of the warriors ran on foot, their wild hair flowing behind their mostly-naked bodies. Fur or leather wouldn't do much to stop an arrow or spear blade so it was considered by most more valuable to unencumber oneself, though many warriors carried a small wooden shield strapped to one arm.

   Upon reaching the walls, the charioteers wheeled their vehicles around as their riders hurled javelins over the walls. A light shower of rocks came back at them but many of the defenders were saving their stones for the massed infantry to come into range.

   The armor-clad Catuvellauni leaders skillfully leapt out of their chariots as they passed the front ranks of infantry to join the charge. Only the richest nobles could afford iron swords and armor and Cassivellauni, leader of the Catuvellauni, gleamed gloriously as he led the charge of the final hundred feet with his shining sword held aloft.

   The sky darkened as several hundred short javelins (barely more than short relatively straight sticks with sharpened flint spearheads attached) were hurled through the air at the defenders on the wall. Like a swarm of bees the dark silhouettes of hundreds of stones and rocks came out to meet them and quickly began crashing amid the attackers.
   Someone to Londinos' left was hit in the head with a dark rock, falling with a sickening crunch, but sheer luck left Londinos unscathed and the battle-frenzy left him unphased.
   The massed attackers reached the rough wall undeterred and began scrambling up it. Most of the first up the wall were easily knocked off by the defender's spears, but between the defender's that had been killed by javelins, and the simply overwhelming number and ferocity of the attackers, it was only moments before Londinos and other were on the wall fighting with their own spears.
   Londinos couldn't tell if it had been thirty seconds or thirty minutes before he found himself panting among the low thatched cottages inside the hillfort with no more enemies to be found.

   The Trinovantian king Imanuenti had been killed, but unfortunately, his son Mandubraci had escaped.

   54 BC - Londinos gazed up at the Cantiaci hillfort. Just one more just like the dozens that had fallen to the Catuvellauni host over the last few years. Cassivellauni, it seemed, was making war more or less constantly with nearly all the neighbouring tribes, and, proof of his military prowess, rather than sap his people's strength the constant wars had steadily increased the Catuvellauni territory and prestige.
   A delegation of could be seen descending from the hillfort holding aloft branches of truce. Londinos smiled proudly to know that their reputation was enough that they might not even need to fight any more to gain victory.

   "The Romans are back!" word quickly spread through the small army as the delegates began to converse with Cassivellauni. Londinos had heard of the strange giant armor clad army that had come to the shores for a brief time the year before but hadn't had a chance to see them before they had left, and hadn't been entirely sure they were just some myth the tribes to the south had invented to scare those to the north.
   "The Cantiaci and the other southern tribes want us to lead them in war against the Romans!" the second bit of shocking news spread through the army. Legend or not, the Roman threat was not one anyone was about to take lightly, and any animosity towards the Cantiaci was quickly forgotten as the army hastened into the welcoming hillfort to prepare an even bigger war.

   Londinos stood atop the hillfort's ramparts and watched the approaching army with apprehension as it marched from the south. Several pitched battles had proven that stones and throwing spears largely bounced off the armor-clad Roman soldiers. The make-up of their army had been truly shocking to behold - every single one of them wearing an iron helmet, armor of metal bands, very large iron-reinforced shields, and even swords! Even the javelins the Romans hurled were straight and uniform with an iron tip. And they were even designed to crumple on impact so they couldn't be thrown back! How could anyone fight a foe like this?

   Even so, the sheer mass of the united tribes of Britain could probably have pushed them back. Unfortunately, however, the treacherous Trinovantes, along with five other tribes, had switched sides to ally themselves with the Romans. Londinos wondered angrily what honeyed words the Romans had used to entice the tribes to betray their homeland to these strange short invaders.

   After being pushed back in earlier battles, Cassivellauni had retreated across the dark river Tamesas, which provides a major natural barrier between the south and the rest of the island of Britain and is only fordable in a few places. Spikes were placed underwater at the few fords, but still the Romans managed to get across the river, though at least they had been forced to leave their huge stone-throwing machinations on the far bank.
   Led by their traitorous Trinovantian guides the Roman army had inexorably marched into the heart of Catuvellauni territory. With 4000 chariots (what would have seemed an astronomical number before the Romans arrived with their hundreds of ships and tens of thousands of soldiers), Catuvellauni had ambushed, and harassed the Romans across his land, making maximum use of the mobility of the chariots against the infantry in a guerrilla war.


   As the dark mass of Roman legionares flowed closer across the rolling hills, the perfect order of their lines and columns could be distinguished. Londinos anxiously eyed his pile of stones and throwing spears. If only the tribes had remained united. If only the other tribes hadn't listened to the insidious words that would divide them all apart...

---

   As it happens Cassivellauni himself was forced to agree to the terms of Roman general Julius Caeser - to pay tribute and give hostages - and then the Romans left again. But 97 years later it would be on the pretext of these surrender agreements that Emperor Claudius would launch another Roman invasion that would subjugate Britain for the next three and a half centuries and forever change it.

   Londinos, whose name roughly translates to "wild one," would go on to settle on the banks of the Tamesas, which you may know as the Thames, and his little farmstead would be known as Londinion...

   In my research on Byzantine intrigue for the entry I just posted I came across countless tangles of shocking intrigue. I think a movie could probably be made about any one of the Byzantine emperors ... but the problem is where does one plot end and another begin??
   But I think I found a story arc I can shake free enough from the other tangles to share. This is just going to be the bare bones version


   Once upon a time there was a Byzantine noble by the name of Alexios Angelos. In 1184 or so he conspired against the new Emperor, his cousin, Andronikos I Komnenos (who had only recently ascended after having his predecessor strangled in 1183) and was therefore exiled to the Muslim lands.
   Now Andronikos had a henchman named Stephen Hagiochristophorites, nicknamed "bearer of the anti-christ" because apparently he was a particularly evil fellow who delighted in killing people. Sometime in 1185 Andronikos stepped out of town for a moment, and Stephen thought he'd take the opportunity to kill Alexios' brother Isaac, who had also been a conspirin.
   As it happens, however, when Stephen came for Isaac, it was Isaac who emerged victorious, killing Stephen. Isaac then took refuge in the Hagia Sophia basilica and the populace rose up in support of him, being unhappy with Andronikos' cruel rule.
   When Andronikos returned, much to his shock and dismay Isaac had been declared Emperor, and Andronikos was killed by angry mobs.

   Being now the Emperor Isaac II, Isaac had his brother Alexios ransomed from the Muslims, returning in 1190, and given the high ranking title of "Sebastokrator."
   In 1195 when Isaac had stepped out himself for a hunting expedition, Alexios declared himself Emperor Alexios III. He had Isaac captured and to reward him for his kindness naturally he had Isaac's eyes put out.
   Alexios had a rather strong willed wife who is said to have practically run the empire herself. However in 1196 her own brother and son-in-law accused her of adultery with a certain minister. Alexios had the minister assassinated and his wife sent to a convent. But after about six months he decided he rather missed her and had her reinstated.

   Isaac had a son, however. And this son was none too pleased with his uncle turning on his father and having his eyes put out, and what's more, this son had managed to escape the takeover and flee to Western Europe. At this time (1202) the Fourth Crusade was assembling in Venice, and Isaac's son (whose name also happens to be Alexios Angelos!) convinced them come unseat Alexios III in Constantinople in exchange for great promises of support for their crusade by the reinstated Isaac dynasty.
   The crusaders showed up and though Alexios III vastly outnumbered them and was occupying an extremely defensible fortress (Constantinople itself) he hid while the crusaders scaled the walls, and then he fled in the night in a boat loaded with as much gold as he could fit in it, but leaving his wife and all but one of his daughters behind.

   Isaac was woken up in his prison cell in the middle of the night and led into the palace, clothed in the imperial robes, and probably much to his surprise suddenly found himself declared Emperor again. His son was declared co-Emperor with him, as Alexios IV, in July 2003.


   Unfortunately the local populace and the crusaders didn't get along too well and in January, 1204, they rebelled, forcing Isaac II and Alexios IV to barricade themselves in the palace. This cove named Alexios Doukas, who apparently had noteably bushy eyebrows, and was a lover of one of Alexios III's daughters, volunteered to negotiate between the two sides... but instead when let in to the palace he strangled Alexios IV, and Isaac II is said to have subsequently died of sorrow. A candidate to replace the Emperor was then declared Emperor against his will, but knowing the mortality rate of Emperors this wise fellow refused to have anything to do with it and wouldn't even leave the Hagia Sophia. Unfortunately that didn't do him any good and on February 5th 1204 Alexios Doukas had him strangled and had himself declared Emperor Alexios V.
   Unfortunately there were still crusaders and they were still unhappy. In April, 1204 they took over the city of Constantinople themselves and Alexios V fled with Alexios III's daughter.
   The Byzantine Empire was once again facing a lack of an emperor and once again the person nominated refused to to acknowledge the position.

   Alexios Doukas fled to where Alexios III was hanging out in exile. Initially he was well received and permitted to marry the daughter. Within a few months, however, Alexios III decided to have Alexios Doukas blinded and cast out. Shortly Doukas was picked up and executed for treason in Constantinople.

   But wait! There's MORE treachery!

   Alexios III was captured in 1205 by the crusaders but ransomed by the Michael I Komnenos Doukas (to whom I'm assuming he's somehow related), the ruler of Epirus, in 1209. Michael had Alexios sent to his (Alexios') son-in-law in Nicaea.
   And guess what? You guessed it! He soon turned against his son-in-law, allying himself with the Sultan of Rûm, then at war with his son-in-law. Unfortunately for him the Sultan was soundly defeated and the son-in-law had Alexios confined to a monastery, where Alexios died within the year (probably after plotting against the abbot). Said son-in-law was subsequently declared emperor himself and appears to have ruled for 17 years without having to assassinate people left and right.

   193,000 BC, Africa – From above, under the thick clouds and through the heavy rain, it is hard to distinguish anything on the rolling hills below. The frequent flashes of lightning, however, bring out a rugged landscape of trees and shrubs and rock outcroppings in sharp relief for several seconds before disappearing into the murk again.

   In the back of a cave below, Prome huddles under a pile of furs and skins with the other seven members of his family. In the middle of their cave a pile of branches, sticks and tinder sits distinctly not on fire. The piece of charcoal that is meant to be kept constantly smoldering to start fires with had gone out some time ago, leaving them with no fire. No heat, cooking, or light, and this storm had been raging for days now.

   A blinding flash fills the cavern as lightning strikes particularly close, followed immediately by the reverberating KRAKOWWWWww of thunder. Branches explode off a short tree or bush on a nearby hilltop in a shower of sparks. Slowly, snakes of flame creep up the tree and dance into the sky. An orange glow spills out into the formerly monochromatic landscape around the burning bush.
   Prome and his father Iape both jump up to get a better look at the fire. It's probably only half a mile away but it's over dark, wet, rugged landscape. Still though, they really need that fire. Prome, middle aged at 22, says to Iape "you stay here, I'm going to go get fire."
   Prome wraps a fur cloak around himself tightly and clasping his trusty spear he hurries outside.

   Prome is at once buffeted by the wet gusting wind. He steps carefully amid the slippery limestone scree on the hillside and makes his way down the dark slope. Slowly he makes is way down among the boulders and dripping shrubbery. He keeps a vigilant eye out for dangerous animals but he doesn’t discern anything in the gloom other than trees and bushes waving wildly in the wind.
   A normally placid stream between the two hills has grown to a raging torrent. Prome eyes it with concern. He looks up to the hilltop, where an orange glow can still be seen. His family urgently needs the fire, there can be no turning back now! Hopefully the fire on the hilltop won’t be out by the time he can get there.
   Finding the narrowest spot, Prome takes a running jump off a rock and lands with a squelch in the loam amid the tall grass on the other side of the stream. He hopes he’ll be able to make that same jump on the return while holding his spear AND a burning branch.
   He begins the ascent. Lightning momentarily illuminates the left half of everything in front of him.

   At last Prome arrives before the burning bush. Several baboons that had been huddled around it for warmth scatter with startled hoots. Prome basks in the blessedly hot glow, such a wonderful feeling after being so cold and wet for so long.
   He only allows himself a moment of basking, however, glancing back anxiously at the opposite slope where his cold family is waiting. Furthermore he feels a bit exposed up here on the hilltop. The fire, burning like a beacon, is liable to attract the attention of any living thing in the vicinity. He finds a good sized branch that is only burning on one half, retrieves it from the conflagration, and, mentally bracing himself for the cold, turns his back to the warm glow and steals away into the night.

   He wouldn't make it home with the burning branch, however.


   Indeed, seen from above, the fire on the mountain is a singular landmark among the otherwise inscrutable dark undulating hills. Expertly surfing the violent buffets of the wind on its 20 foot wingspan, an enormous eagle, a teratorn, comes to investigate the fire. Even with the excellent vision of an eagle there’s not much to see in the darkness anywhere else anyway, and an eagle’s got to eat.
   Something else catches the eagle’s eye however. Moving down the slope from the fire there seems to be a smaller piece of fire bobbing around in a most unnatural manner. The eagle cocks its head to better examine this strange happening. Piercing through the rain and darkness the eagle is able to discern after a moment that it appears to be one of those smart relatively hairless apes carrying a burning branch. Not as much meat on their bones as some other things, but no tough hairy hide either. The teratorn commences several banking turns to put itself in position to dive upon its prey.

   Prome notices a disturbing sound above him in the nick of time, glances up just in time to dive out of the way as a huge bird of prey plants its dagger-line talons in the ground where he’d just been standing. Letting out an angry screech the monster bird knocks him over and tries to rip out his liver with its horrible hooked beak.
   Prome instinctively bashes it in the head with the burning branch, causing it to pull back with an outraged squawk. He continues the initiative with a lunge with his spear but the eagle knocks the pole out of his hand with a giant wing. The eagle attacks again and Prome again bashes it with all his strength with the flaming branch. As he does so he loses his footing and slips down the wet grass of the hillside. He goes careening through bushes and off rocks, holding desperately onto the burning branch.

   Prome lies dazed for a moment in the damp aromatic thicket of fennel he’s finally come to a rest in. Despite the wild ride he doesn’t seem to have any major injuries, nothing broken. The branch is barely burning any more but it should be enough if he can hurry it back to the cave. Prome tenses for another attack from the eagle.


   Large green spots. Blinking and shaking its head, that’s all the eagle can see. Those humans, they aren’t particularly dangerous foes usually, but they can pull some strange tricks, and being wacked in the head a few times with fire does a number to your night vision. Looks like hunting time is over for now, best get back to the safety of the heavens. With a few heavy flaps of its great wings the teratorn takes to the air.

   Prome wearily approaches the rocky scree near his cave. Almost home!
   A rock underfoot skids across the one below it in a shower of sparks, sending the exhausted torch bearer tumbling backwards again.
   He lands with a splash into a large puddle and the branch disappears underwater with a sizzle. He yanks it out and, slowly getting to his feet, he looks at it with extreme concern. It is totally out. He looks at his nearby cave and back at the faraway hilltop where the fire on the tree is starting to subside itself, incredulous at this disastrous luck.


   After a few moments, Prome thoughtfully approaches the two rocks which had made sparks against each other.

   "The Pilgrims" arrived in North America in December of 1620. What they found in the area they landed was abandoned Indian villages, some with unburied skeletons of the dead lying among the weeds --due to diseases introduced by earlier settlers,-- and a very hostile reception from those Indians still alive. It would seem the last European to come by (one of John Smith's lieutenants, Thomas Hunt) had decided it would be a jolly undertaking to capture some Indians to sell into slavery in Europe, and had gratuitously killed a number of others.
   Thomas Hunt had intended to sell the Indians for £20 a piece in Spain, but apparently some friars in Europe managed to interdict this plan, and one of the indians, known as Squanto, was able to make his way back to North America, and ended up at the Pilgrim's Plymouth Colony as a translater.

   In 1621 the Pilgrims celebrated what is regarded as "the first thanksgiving" in North America (there had already been a long tradition both in the New World and Europe for thanks giving feasts though). They somehow convinced some local Indians to attend.

   In 1622 Indians were again invited to a feast*. Their share of the liquor was poisoned and 200 Indians died. A further fifty were finished off by hand.
   Then pumpkin pie was probably eaten, though I doubt they had whipped cream.**

* Admittedly this occurred in Jamestown, some 600 miles South.

** Yeah I looked up the history of whipped cream, sounds like it would need to be colder than they could probably make it in order to whip properly

I don't usually attend Thanksgiving wearing arms and armour, but then again, I didn't just barely decide not to kill the guests THIS year

   Thankyou for tuning in to another Emo-Snal Classic Historical Downer! ;D
   Notwithstanding, I am looking forward to devouring some turkey/stuffing/pumpkin pie until I go into a food coma.


   And in other news, tomorrow I fly up to Portland for the weekend, check into the tallship Lady Washington on Sunday, and Monday set sail! Will be sailing for at least two weeks. Internet access may be spotty.

   In February 1754, 41 Virginian colonists began constructing a fort at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers at what is now Pittsburgh in Western Pennsylvania, in order to stake Amero-British claim to the region over French aspirations.

   Fort St George was only half complete, when in April of that year some 500 French troops arrived from the North and ordered the Virginians to return home. The French then built Fort Duquesne in place of Fort St George.

   Already en route to reinforce Ft St George, a young Lieutenant Colonel named George Washington made camp 37 miles southeast of Fort Duquesne to await further orders in lieu of destination no longer existing.
   Under strict orders not to attack the Virginians unless provoked, the captain of the French force sent one of his lieutenants, Joseph Coulon de Villiers de Jumonville, with 45 men, to make contact with Washington and deliver him diplomatic papers asserting French claim to the land and demanding he withdraw.

   Washington's indian allies advised him of the approaching group of Frenchmen. With 40 militiamen an 12 indian warriors (including Iroqois leader Tanacharison), Washington marched overnight to the encampment of the incoming Frenchmen. There the Amero-British took up positions behind rocks around the camp and at 7am on Washington's order opened fire on the camp. 10-12 Frenchmen were killed, 2 wounded (including de Jumonville) and 21 captured. Washington's forces lost one man.
   The wounded Jumonville managed to serve the diplomatic papers on Washington before being executed by Tanacharison.

   Writing to his brother following the bloodbath, Washington wrote: "I can with truth assure you, I heard bullets whistle and believe me, there was something charming in the sound."

   Back in Britain news of "the Jumonville Affair" evoked shock and disgust. One British statesmen described "a volley fired by a young Virginian in the backwoods of America [that] set the world on fire."

   And thus, the French & Indian War began.

   Spent 11 hours on campus today. Remarkably survived my HIS138A midterm but I have two midterms on Thursday, in HIS138C and ECN162. VEN3 was cancelled today, or more specifically the field trip to the vineyard was cancelled due to transportation problems, so I went to HIS130A (Medieval Warfare) instead.
   After class I went with Kristy to see Goodfellas, which her Italien-American Cinema class was showing. Altogether I was on campus for about 11 hours.


   This evening I randomly perused the wikipedia some more, and came across the following choice quote regarding the Battle of Hastings in 1066:
   Legend has it that William's minstrel Taillefer, who had accompanied the army across the English Channel, begged his master for permission to strike the first blow of the battle. Permission was granted, and Taillefer rode forward alone in a showy display to the English lines where he was promptly pulled from his horse and killed.
   What a noob.


Related
   Year Ago Today: Names in the Legend of Boot

I just drank half a bottle of jolt and I'm still mad tired, what is this??