#chatham university

[pittsburghbeautiful]

Chatham University

Chatham University in Pittsburgh Chatham University is an esteemed private educational institution located in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Originally established as a women’s college, it opened its doors to male students in undergraduate programs in 2015. The university houses about 2,300 students, offering a broad range of programs in different faculties. Introduction to Chatham University Despite…

[brutalistinteriors]

Jennie King Mellon Library, Chatham University, Pittsburgh. Johnstone, McMillan & Associates

[thebotanicalarcade]

n348_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: Familiar trees and their leaves New York D. Appleton 1911 biodiversitylibrary.org/page/17024554 Happy Arbor Day! Tho commonly named Red Cedar is actually not a true cedar at all but a juniper species biodiversitylibrary.org/page/17024554 #bhlib

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Golden Ratio - Part One

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Derogatory language, angst, mentions of parental death, mentions of infidelity. Word count: ~4.5k

Chapter summary: Her relationship strains under the pressure of long distance, though she has her classmate, Michael, to help distract from the worst of it. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @assortedseaglass. No tag list. Please follow @ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She is sweaty and exasperated as she drags her suitcase over the cobbles of Holywell Street. One of the already precariously wonky wheels had finally given up the ghost and broken off as she’d dragged it up the stairs of Oxford train station, making the fifteen minute walk to her accommodation more tiring than it needed to be.

But she was here, finally. Oxford University.

Her dad had sold the car to make sure she had money to live on until her student loan and maintenance grant had been paid to her. He didn’t want her taking a part time job to make ends meet, she’d worked hard to earn her place here, her focus should be on her studies. Coming from a low income family meant she had qualified for the maximum amount for both maintenance loan and grant, but her first set of application forms had been misplaced by Student Finance, so she’d had to send in a second set, meaning there would be a delay with her first payment.

An unfortunate consequence of her dad not having a car is that she’d had to get the train to London Victoria, a tube to Paddington, then another train to Oxford. But it is not the fact that she is seemingly the only student whose parents aren’t obstructing the pavements with their cars in order to drop them off that makes her feel like an outcast, there is something deeper, more sinister feeling.

She sees it as she struggles to get her bag across the lawn of the Halls, people grouped in little clusters, as though they’ve been friends forever. They dress in Juicy Couture velour tracksuit bottoms and brand name Ugg Boots, while she wears her mum’s old Dr. Martens and a tartan skirt she’d bought in a charity shop for one pound fifty. She doesn’t fit in. She feels she may as well wear the word “poor” across her forehead like a scarlet letter.

Having checked in at the Porters’ Lodge and been given directions to the accommodation, it’s lonely as she unpacks her things, her room feeling empty and quiet. The only sounds are muffled talking and laughter coming through the closed window from outside. She feels lonelier still when she pulls out the framed photo of her and Rich. They’re both smiling, his arms wrapped around her waist as she leans her head against his. It had felt like their relationship would last forever when that picture was taken. That seemed like much less of a possibility over the last couple of weeks.

She had met Rich at the beginning of sixth form. Having attended Chatham Grammar School for Girls, she had decided to stay on there to do her A levels. The mathematics department was decent, and she had heard Russell Group universities were more likely to consider applications that came from grammar schools. Rich had transferred over from Robert Napier School. Where she was shy, quiet and reserved, he was lively, outgoing and sociable. His zest for life had shone a bright light on an existence that was, for her, otherwise dull and grey.

They were an unlikely pairing. She was logical, analytical and studied maths and physics. Rich was creative, free spirited and guided by emotion. He studied art and music. They had been together for two years and she had thought he was the one. But then it came time for UCAS applications, and where she had applied to Oxford, Cambridge and York, Rich had applied to Leeds, Brighton and Glasgow. It seemed that no matter where they were accepted, they were destined to be apart.

When she had received an unconditional offer from Oxford she had been elated, however, the crushing devastation upon hearing Rich had been accepted into The Glasgow School of Art with a conditional offer had quickly dulled her excitement.

She had never felt like an outsider or a loner when she was with Rich. Basking in his sunny disposition had felt effortless, she never felt alone. He was going to take all of that away, and she was unsure of how to cope with it.

“We’ll make it work long distance, don’t worry,” he’d told her, and she’d believed him.

But then he had actually gone to Glasgow. Fresher’s week in Glasgow started a week earlier than it did in Oxford, so Rich had moved away first. It didn’t take long for the texts and phone calls to dry up into nothing. She had heard from him once in the last few days.

She sighs as she slides up the screen of her beaten up Nokia. Still nothing. She had text to let him know she was leaving for Oxford today and he couldn’t even be bothered to reply. She knows it’s his first week at university and he’s likely busy and having fun, but how was long distance going to work if they never actually spoke to each other?

Despite the loftiness of the dining hall, it feels stuffy as she moves through it later that evening, taking a seat at a long table crowded with other students. She had hoped that the Fresher’s welcome dinner would be an opportunity to make friends, but everyone seems to be deep in conversation already. The chatter hums loudly like white noise, until it comes to a sudden stop.

“FUCKIN’ ASK ME A SUM THEN!”

She turns, mouth agape, to look at the pair of boys sitting a few places up from her. One is darked haired and seems nervous and uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The other is blonde, an angry, intense expression on his face, shadows cast across it from the lamplight on the table, as he stares in wide eyed anticipation. It was him who had shouted, clearly.

“Four hundred and twenty three times seventy eight,” the dark haired boy asks quietly.

Instantly his friend replies, without missing a beat, “thirty two thousand, nine hundred and ninety four.”

Involuntarily her eyes widen in surprise. She sits there and does the calculation in her head, though much more slowly than he had. 

Carry the two, eight times two is sixteen, plus two is eighteen, carry the one…he’s right. How is it possible that he came to that answer so quickly?

When her gaze lifts he is looking at her, observing her doing the working out in her head. He holds her stare, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. He knows she knows he is right, and it’s clear he feels smug about it.

Quickly looking away, she reaches for her water glass, wanting something, anything, to distract her. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel uneasy.

God, I hope I don’t have any classes with him.

She holds her timetable for the week in her hands as she moves her way through the corridors towards the lecture hall the following morning. The first week looks to be fairly light touch, with an introductory lecture for each of the courses; algebra, analysis, probability and statistics, geometry, dynamics and multivariable calculus. Today is the introduction to analysis, and she is excited to study under the tutelage of Professor Helen Byrne. Her research focuses on the development and analysis of mathematical and computational models that describe biomedical systems, with particular application to the growth and treatment of solid tumours, wound healing and tissue engineering. Professor Byrne is someone she has admired within the field for as long as she can remember, and she is very much looking forward to her tutorials with her.

Her excitement fades when she enters the lecture hall and immediately sees the angry guy from the previous evening.

Just my luck.

The only available seat is next to him, so she sits down, dropping her bag to the floor by her feet.

A hand extends out towards her in her peripheral vision, taking her by surprise and she turns in her seat towards it, shrinking back slightly. 

He seems utterly unperturbed by her reaction, keeping his arm extended. “I’m Michael Gavey.”

She blinks, regaining her composure as she leans forward, shaking his hand and introducing herself in return. His palm is clammy against her own, and she can still feel it there even after having let go and wiped her hand on her jeans.

“I saw you last night,” he says matter of factly, pulling his arm back and resting his elbow on the desk in front of him.

“Oh, yeah,” she says with a tight smile, nodding, “so you and your mate…is that like a party trick or something?”

“No, no party trick,” he says with a demure smile. “I’m a genius.”

She forces herself to laugh politely, assuming he’s making a joke, but she stops, her brow furrowing slightly when she sees he doesn’t share in the humour. He’s being serious.

Opening her mouth to ask a follow up question, she’s interrupted as Professor Byrne sweeps into the room. Her and Michael both face forward in their seats as she introduces herself to the class.

Over the next hour they are given an introduction to the course and what to expect in their first year, including an overview of the papers they will need to write and examinations that will be sat. She pays rapt attention, scribbling furious notes, until the lecture begins to wrap up.

“As it’s the first week, I will go easy on assignment setting,” Professor Byrne tells them all, “but there will be an assignment nonetheless.”

A loud, collective groan echoes around the lecture hall. Her and Michael are the only two not to join in.

“Now, now, settle down,” she chastises, “it’ll be fun. I’m sure you’re all aware of the Fibonacci Sequence, a series of numbers where each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers. Mathematically we can describe this as–”

She turns and scrawls xn= xn-1 + xn-2 on the chalkboard, before facing the students again.

“--I’d like you all to find an example of the Fibonacci Sequence in real life and present it back to the class during next week’s lecture. You’re to work in pairs, so buddy up, and see you all next week.”

Professor Byrne places the chalk back on the desk before striding back out of the lecture hall. The room is instantly a buzz with chatter, as people move between seats to find a partner.

She stays rooted in place, suddenly wishing Rich was here. It’s in moments like these that he flourishes, allowing her to take a backseat as he effortlessly navigates them through social interactions. Instead, she is alone and the space around her feels bigger and scarier with every moment that passes.

It’s only when she turns her head that she notices Michael has yet to move too. Gathering all the courage she can muster, she clears her throat and speaks to him.

“So…er…did you wanna partner up for this thing then?”

“I don’t like to work with others,” he says matter of factly, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” she says with a sigh, “but for this assignment we have to.”

“You’ve picked me because I’m a genius. You’ll expect me to do all the work while you get pissed with your mates.”

He fixes her with an accusatory stare, and she feels the heat of anger prickle her skin.

“Haven’t got any mates,” she mutters darkly.

He observes her for a few moments, elbow propped on the desk, jaw resting against his fist, and she fidgets self consciously in her seat. No wonder the other boy from last night had looked so uncomfortable. It feels like he’s studying her.

“Let’s go to the library,” he says simply, standing and picking up his bag.

“So, you’re a genius?” She asks, opening her notebook once they’re seated opposite each other at a table in the library, nervously tapping her pencil against the page.

“Hmm,” Michael nods, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, “I don’t even like maths, really. I can just…do it. Anything. In my head.”

She’s struck by how blunt he is, sucking in a breath as she considers what to say next. There is something so disarming about him, she gets the sense he’s analysing her every word and action.

“Right,” she begins, “so, er, for this assignment I was thinking about how Leonardo Fibonacci used rabbits to prove his theory. One hundred and forty four pairs of rabbits can be produced from a single pair of rabbits in a year, based on the sequence.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” Michael replies with a sigh.

“What?” She asks irritably, annoyed by his dismissal.

“What are you expecting us to do, go to a pet shop and buy rabbits? We’ve only got a week to do the assignment, we need to be more practical.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was using that as an example, not saying we do that exactly! Come on then, genius, what’s your suggestion?”

“Spirals,” he says with a slight shrug. He leans across, placing the tips of his fingers on her notebook and sliding it towards himself, before picking up her pencil. “There is a special relationship between the Fibonacci numbers and the Golden Ratio, a ration that describes when a line is divided into two parts and the longer part - A - divided by the smaller part - B - is equal to the sum of A + B divided by A, which both equal one point six one eight. This is represented by the Greek letter,” he stops to scribble a φ on the pad. “The ratio of any two successive Fibonacci Numbers approximates the Golden Ratio value.” He stops again, scrawling 1.6180339887 on the page. The bigger the pair of Fibonacci numbers, the closer the approximation. From there, we can calculate what's called the golden spiral, or a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor equals the golden ratio.”

She is stunned into a silence for a moment, a combination of his audacity to simply take her belongings, and awe at the rapidity with which his mind works. Collecting herself, she blinks a few times, looking up into his eyes.

They’re so blue.

“So…er…how do you propose we present this data back to the class?”

“A simple table is sufficient, look–”

His hand moves rapidly over the page, a complete table there on the paper when he drops the pencil into the gutter of the notebook and sits back in his chair.

“We present that,” he tells her, his eyes fixed on the page. “Using the values of the sequence as the edge length of squares arranged in the table, a spiral is generated.”

She leans over, sliding the notebook back to her side of the table, marvelling silently at his work. He is fascinating to watch. He’s right, he can just do maths.

“It’s good,” she says, eye flitting up to meet his, “solid. But it’s fucking boring.”

This time it’s his turn to be annoyed. “What?” He asks, eyes narrowing.

“Everyone is going to present something like this, because it’s easy,” she explains, “Don’t you want to stand out to Professor Byrne? We should do something outside of the box.”

“Hmm. Go on then, what are you thinking?” He rests his cheek against his fist, leaning against the table as he stares at her.

She feels herself grow warm under his scrutiny.

Does he always have to be so bloody intense?

“There are loads of examples of Fibonacci numbers appearing in nature. We could look for some? Flowers, perhaps.”

“I’ve got hayfever,” Michael states simply.

She sighs.

Of course you do.

“Then we’ll get you some Piriton! Come on, there are studies that show seed heads, pinecones, fruits and vegetables all displaying spiral patterns that when counted express Fibonacci numbers. This fits perfectly with the brief of the assignment and will leave a lasting impression.”

He moves his hand away from his face, resting his arm flat on the table and quietly drumming his fingers against it for a few moments. “Alright then,” he finally concedes.

“Great,” she grins excitedly, tearing out a page from her notebook and writing on it hurriedly. “Here’s my number, so we can meet up to work on it, and also my Hotmail address, in case MSN works better for you.”

He huffs through his nose as he takes the paper from her, a soft laugh escaping him. “The countess at hotmail dot co dot uk,” he reads with amusement, “very droll.”

“Shut up,” she grins back, “I made that in secondary school. Thought it was funny.”

Back in her room that evening, she’s excited to see she has a text from Rich, finally.

Hope ur enjoying it. Having so much fun here!

She sighs, throwing her phone down on the bed side table. No kisses, not even an “I love you”. 

Watching out of the window, she sees the giggling groups of students making their way out into town, readying themselves to spend the night drinking, making friends and having fun. Just like Rich is doing, not giving her a second thought, while she stays cooped up in her room without a friend in the world.

Suspicion nags at her, so she turns on her laptop, loading up MySpace. Rich takes number one place on her top eight friends, and she clicks on his profile. It looks much the same as it always does, but she decides to snoop further, clicking into his friends list. She can see he has recently friended a girl named Sophie.

Sophie is pretty, bright pink streaks in her hair, and a nose ring. Exactly Rich’s type. Her most recently uploaded photos are of groups of people, clearly all taken during Fresher’s week. A pit forms in her stomach as she sees that in almost all of them Sophie and Rich have their arms around each other. Worse still, Rich occupies space eight in Sophie’s top friends.

She closes the browser, blinking back tears. Surely, she is just being paranoid. They’re just friends. Friends have photos together, and it was normal that he would make new ones when he went away to uni.

Opening MSN Messenger, she hovers over Rich’s username. Unsurprisingly, he’s offline, he always is these days. She smiles when an add request from mgavey628318@hotmail.co.uk pops up. Of course he’d have Tau, the mathematical constant, in his Hotmail address. She clicks accept and he immediately appears in her online contacts. Looks like he isn’t out tonight either.

Double clicking his username, she chuckles to herself upon seeing his display picture is of Pythagoras. Such a dweeb.

“Want to work on our assignment tomorrow?” She types to him.

Barely a few seconds pass before she sees him typing back. “Yes. When?”

“We could meet at the Water Meadow at lunch time?”

“See you then.”

Straight to the point, no idle chit chat. She shakes her head and closes the messenger window, though finds herself strangely excited by the thought of seeing him tomorrow. She reasons that it’s because Michael is the closest thing she has had to a friend since arriving at Oxford.

She visits the nearby Tesco Express the following day, buying a meal deal for each of them and a packet of hayfever tablets for Michael. She has no idea of what Michael even likes, so plays it safe by buying a bottle of Oasis, a Crunchie bar and a ham and cheese sandwich for them both.

At precisely noon, Michael stands at the entrance to the Water Meadow waiting for her. She smiles as she looks at his t-shirt; maroon with a diagram of a circle on a gradient with a downwards acceleration of 9.81 meters per second, with the slogan “that’s how I roll”. A mechanics pun.

“Like your shirt,” she says as she approaches him.

He grins. “Thought you might, considering your email address.”

She averts her gaze. There is something about the fact that he’d thought of her when he’d chosen what to wear today that makes her tummy flutter.

Stop it. You’ve got Rich. Michael’s weird!

“I got you some hayfever tablets,” she tells him as they start to walk along the pathway that’s flanked by green space on either side. “Do you wanna have lunch first and then start looking for flowers?”

They settle, cross legged on the grass, Michael already having taken one of the tablets, chased with half a bottle of Oasis, and she spreads out the food between them.

She watches in fascination as his eyes widen at the sight of the Crunchie bars, snatching one up and tearing off the wrapper. Her mouth falls open slightly as she sees him hold it sideways, biting into it from the side, before devouring each of the pieces it inevitably breaks into.

“You like Crunchie bars then?” She asks, a little grossed out, but curious nonetheless.

He swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mother didn’t allow me to have sweets growing up, bad for your teeth, she said.”

She nods, a feeling over pity replacing the disgust that had roiled her stomach just seconds ago.

“So, is it your mum that pushed you into studying maths?” She asks, fiddling with the lid of her drink bottle.

“Sort of,” he says. “Mother never married, but she wanted a child. She used a sperm donor - a physicist, apparently - and was artificially inseminated to have me. She was thrilled when I showed a natural aptitude for maths, and has always encouraged me. It’s why I do it, why I accepted the scholarship, to make her proud. She’s been through so much to have me, it’s the least I owe her.”

Her face falls, a feeling of sadness overwhelming her, making her heart ache for Michael. There is something so tragic about the fact that he has lived his entire life adhering to the expectations of the person who had created him for their own selfish want of a child.

“What about you then?” He asks. “The bank of mummy and daddy paying for you to be here?”

She shakes her head. “I earned my place, just like you did, with straight As, though I don’t have a scholarship. Have had to take out loans to cover the cost. It’s just me and dad since mum passed away.”

“Oh,” Michael says, blinking rapidly, obviously surprised. “Apologies, I’d assumed a pretty girl like you would be the same as the rest of the vapid cunts studying here, if you can call it studying.”

She hums in acknowledgement, considering his words, turning her own Crunchie bar around in her fingers, focusing on the way the foil wrapper slides against her skin. His compliment makes her heart beat more rapidly, even if it is backhanded. “Like I said yesterday, I’ve got no mates. It was always Rich that was better at that sort of thing.”

“Rich?” Michael asks curiously, cocking his head.

“My boyfriend. He’s at uni in Glasgow.”

“Three hundred and sixty two point nine miles,” Michael states simply.

“Pardon?”

“That’s the distance between Oxford and Glasgow,” he explains, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How are you planning to make a relationship work with that sort of distance?”

“We’re doing long distance,” she argues, feeling herself growing defensive, scowling at him.

“Yeah, I bet that’s gonna work out great,” he scoffs, eyes widening, clearly mocking her.

“The Glasgow School of Art was the best choice for Rich to study what he wants to,” she retorts.

A grin spreads across his face. “Art?! I suppose you should be grateful he’s hundreds of miles away then, he sounds like a moron.”

She huffs, hurriedly shoving her things back into her bag. “Let’s just look for these fucking flowers and get this over with.”

The pair work for the rest of the afternoon in silence, the atmosphere is tense and angry, but they are productive nevertheless, settling on a patch of sunflowers to use for the assignment.

They look at the spirals of seeds in the center of the sunflowers and observe patterns curving left and right. Counting these spirals, their total is a Fibonacci number. They then divide the spirals into those pointed left and right to get two consecutive Fibonacci numbers.

Cutting down a couple of sunflower heads to use as examples, Michael also makes a diagram in his notes for them to present with their findings.

She feels satisfied by the time they part ways, but an uneasy feeling has settled over her that has dread gnawing into her gut as she thinks about Michael’s criticism of her and Rich’s long distance relationship.

Unsurprised to see she has no missed calls or texts from him when she goes back to her room, she opens up her laptop and logs back onto MySpace. This time when she looks at Rich’s profile her blood runs cold as she sees that Sophie now occupies space number three in his top friends. He’d had time to log on and change the position of a girl he’d met a couple of weeks ago, but couldn’t be bothered to send her a single message?

Before she can stop herself, she’s pulling out her phone and calling his number. She doesn’t care if this wastes all of her credit, she needs answers.

It rings for ages, and she anticipates being sent to voicemail, until he eventually answers, sounding breathless and distracted.

“H-hello?”

“Rich, it’s me,” she says quietly.

There’s a pause before he answers. “Oh…how’s my little nerd? Everything okay?”

She ignores the familiarity, keeping her tone neutral. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”

Not giving him an opportunity to respond, she pushes on. “Has something happened between you and this Sophie girl I’ve seen you on Myspace with?”

Another pause, except this time she hears him inhale a deep breath. “I was going to tell you when we came home for Christmas break. It felt wrong to break up with you over the phone.”

It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away, her heart twisting painfully as her vision blurs with tears. She swallows thickly, anger bubbling alongside her devastation, so that her tone is venomous when she replies “So, you were just gonna keep stringing me along for two months, so you could look like a good guy?!”

“Babe, no, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just–”

“You’re a piece of shit,” she cuts him off, “fuck you!”

She hangs up, chucking her phone down onto the bed, and immediately bursts into tears, holding her head in her hands as hot tears stream down her face, her shoulders shaking as her nose grows snotty.

Two years. Two fucking years and he’d chucked it all away for someone he’d known for two weeks.

She walks towards the sink in her room, looking into the mirror and sighing at her reflection. Her eyes are red and puffy, she looks a mess. Splashing cold water onto her face to rid herself of the worst of it, she then flops down onto her bed, opening her laptop.

Immediately she is met with her MSN chat window with Michael from the previous evening. He’s online.

Without thinking, she types out a message to him.

“Do you have any alcohol?”

Within seconds he’s typing a response.

“Would you like me to have alcohol?”

[lboogie1906]

Nathan Benjamin Young (September 15, 1862 — July 19, 1933) was an educator who helped advance African American education in the early 20th century. He became an educator after Booker T. Washington, who witnessed his skills in debating, invited him to teach at the Tuskegee Institute. Following his career as a teacher, he became a president of two major universities, Florida A&M University and Lincoln University. He and Henry Lee De Forest, the president of Talladega College, started a campaign to help improve education for the African American community.

He was born enslaved in Chatham, Virginia. His mother is Susan Smith, born enslaved in the South. They were sold off to a plantation overseer who tried to dodge the draft. His mother created a plot to escape slavery and run away to Tuscaloosa.

He attended Stillman College for three months. Following his work at this college, he attended Talladega College where he received a classical education in the teacher-training branch. Once he decided that his passion was to teach, he enrolled in Oberlin College where he obtained a BA and MA.

He was invited to serve as the head of the Tuskegee Institute’s academic department (1893-98) by Booker T. Washington. He was employed at Georgia State Industrial College as the Director of Teacher Training.

He served as the President of Florida A&M University (1901-23). He was forced to resign as president during the governorship of Cary A. Hardee, who wanted to abolish the college’s liberal arts program and convert it to a purely vocational school. He resigned under pressure from the Florida Board of Control. In response, students at the school staged a violent strike that burned down multiple campus buildings. He became the President of Lincoln University. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[trendingjournals]

World's Rarest Whale Washes Up On New Zealand Beach

The body of a spade-toothed whale — a species so rare it has never been seen alive — appears to have washed up on a New Zealand beach, scientists say.

The remains of the obscure, five-metre (16.4 foot) long, beaked creature were found near a river mouth in southern Otago province on July 4, government researchers said.

It was identified by marine-mammal experts from New Zealand’s Department of Conservation and the national museum, Te Papa, as a male spade-toothed whale.

A DNA investigation has been launched to confirm its classification, the scientists said.

“Spade-toothed whales are one of the most poorly known large mammalian species of modern times,” said the conservation department’s coastal Otago operations manager, Gabe Davies.

“Since the 1800s, only six samples have ever been documented worldwide, and all but one of these was from New Zealand,” Davies said in a statement Monday.

“From a scientific and conservation point of view, this is huge.”

The find was fresh enough to offer the first opportunity for a spade-toothed whale to be dissected, the conservation department said.

The species is “so rare next to nothing is known about them”, it said.

The body of the whale has been placed in cold storage and genetic samples have been sent to the University of Auckland as curators of the New Zealand Cetacean Tissue Archive.

It may take several weeks or months for the DNA to be processed and a final identification confirmed.

“The rarity of the whale means conversations around what to do next will take more time because it is a conversation of international importance,” the conservation department said.

The species was first described in 1874 from just a lower jaw and two teeth collected from the Chatham Islands off the east coast of New Zealand.

That sample, along with skeletal remains of two other specimens found in New Zealand and Chile, enabled scientists to confirm a new species.

Marine scientist Vanessa Pirotta said researchers would study the whale’s stomach contents, genetics, and how this sample compared to previous ones.

This could shine light on the whales’ behaviour, their population and why they are so rare, Pirotta told AFP, describing the discovery as “like hitting the jackpot”.

Because so few specimens have been found and there have been no live sightings, little is known about the spade-toothed whale and it is classified as “data deficient” under New Zealand’s Threat Classification System.

The first intact specimen was from a mother and calf stranding in Bay of Plenty in 2010, the New Zealand conservation department said.

A further stranding in 2017 in Gisborne added one more specimen to the collection.

[lightyaoigami]

hot box • not rated

read here or on ao3 • part of down bad

International students gather for a slapdash Thanksgiving in the US. Two special boys spend most of it in the bathroom.

“Welcome to the International Student Union annual Thanksgiving dinner,” said a chipper American student. She wore a burnt orange intarsia sweater with an ear of rainbow corn stitched into the chest; it seemed like something you would put on a doll, not a living adult woman. Light couldn’t remember her name, but he’d met her before – he knew she was named after an item, but he couldn’t remember which one. He decided, internally, to name her Corn.

“Every year, we welcome international students to Chatham Hall to observe the Thanksgiving holiday,” Corn continued. “It's an American tradition, and it is my honor to host you all for this year's theme: togetherness.” She gestured to a folding table with a jigsaw-puzzle arrangement of foil trays and enough Sternos to burn down the entire building.

“Togetherness,” L scoffed quietly, “nobody's ever done that before.” He was halfway through folding his leaf-printed paper napkin into a boat.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Light said quietly, the volume of his voice inversely proportional to his horror.

“Roger that, my liege,” L replied, dropping the boat onto Light’s plate. Corn was halfway through directing traffic to the serving table when L pushed his chair back and stood up abruptly. Light scowled. There was absolutely no reason for L to be so disruptive, but being contrarian for the sake thereof seemed to be one of his most cherished pastimes.

“Excuse me,” L half-shouted. “May I be excused?”

“Oh – of course. Sure.” Corn’s eyebrows knitted together as if someone wanting to leave her Costco-catered holiday might actually bring her to tears. “Please, take the time you need.” She waved her hand vaguely towards a long hallway, at the end of which lay a real, private bathroom – not the communal kind, covered in pink slime mold and errant pieces of floss.

L scurried down the hall. His gait was reminiscent of some kind of large rodent; a pine marten, perhaps, or a capybara. He seemed to skitter rather than walk.

L was absent from the communal table for ten minutes. Nobody expressed any material concern about him, but something niggled at Light that he could not name. What if L was crying, or making himself sick, or trying to climb out the window? Anything was possible, even something dreadful, and that made his hands itch.

He looked around to ensure the others were in conversation; they were supposed to attend the event to practice English, but it was abundantly clear that everyone had arrived with the sole intention of eating a mountain of free food and gulping down as much screw top wine as humanly possible. It was a bit insulting, really, seeing as they were sitting through full lectures in English. Light pushed his chair back gently, looked at Corn with an apologetic frown, and walked briskly down the hall to find a beam of light shining from under the bathroom door.

Light knocked gently with one finger. There was an odd smell in the air; not pungent enough to be a cigarette, but strong enough to rule out a plug-in air freshener, too.

L cracked the door open a centimeter. He was holding a skinny metal vape to his lips; Light didn’t want to stare, but it appeared to say something ridiculous like Sticky Icky Oozeberry across the top.

“Are you kidding?” Light hissed. “This is a university building. You're going to be expelled.”

“Fuck off, Yagami,” L said, his lazy voice seeping under the crack in the door. “I pay to attend this school, don't I? Fifty-four grand per year, to be exact. And that's before room and board! The least they could do is let me get a little high during these stupid rah-rah community events.” He opened the door and waved Light inside. His tarsier eyes were mildly bloodshot; he reached into his pocket for a bottle of Rohto Cooling Ice drops, which he squirted in and around his eyeballs with reckless abandon.

“Do I look alright?” He continued. Light stared at him. His face was so wet that it looked like he'd splashed it in the sink.

“No,” Light replied, bewildered. “You look insane. Like you've been crying in here.”

“Fine by me. I'll tell them I'm homesick.”

“Right.” Light rolled his eyes. “I'm sure everyone will buy that.”

***

Back at the table, L served himself three – or possibly four – glasses of cabernet sauvignon from a screw-top bottle.

“It's – it's free, right?” Light asked Corn.

“Of course,” she replied with a placid smile. “Nothing but the best for our guests from overseas.”

She gestured to his empty glass with the butt of a Moscato bottle. “May I?”

“If you insist,” Light replied weakly.

“He doesn't want that one,” L said as he shot his hand out to cover Light's glass. His voice was disproportionately authoritative, and his fingers were pressing down hard enough on Light's cup that it looked like the plastic stem might give way. Under the table, Light knocked his knee into L’s, but it didn't seem to register.

“It's fine,” Light mumbled, though the damage was surely done.

“It's not,” L said blithely. “Please do not serve my esteemed classmate dessert wine with his dinner course. Besides, he doesn't like sweet things.”

He turned to Light and leaned into his ear. “You're welcome,” he whispered.

Corn turned on the heel of her running shoes and slinked, defeated, to the buffet table to oblige L’s demand.

“What is wrong with you?” Light dropped his head into his hands. “You don't even know what I like. I don't even know what I like! You are my classmate, not my husband. Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair and began to pick at his green beans.

L’s expression was inscrutable. “I just – well, you never eat sweets in class. So. I extrapolated,” he said, rhythmically ripping the edge of a napkin.

He wasn't wrong; Light never ate sweets, in class or anywhere else. He tried to refrain from eating in class at all; when he did, it was usually a Ziploc bag full of blueberries or baby carrots.

Light pinched the bridge of his nose; Corn had returned and was serving him a massive pour of pinot grigio.

“Thank you!” L called after her as she walked away, defeated. “Cheers,” he said, turning to Light and gently touching the rims of their plastic cups together, careful not to slosh anything on the cornucopia-printed tablecloth.

***

45 minutes later, he leaned over the bathroom counter, splashing cold water onto his cheeks. The meal, it turned out, was the same as what they served in Chatham Hall; the free, flowing alcohol was the only thing that differentiated this dinner from an ordinary Thursday night on campus.

L stood next to him, having barged his way into the same bathroom to re-up his Rohto Ice Drops, and was now putting him awkwardly on the shoulder as he pressed his fingers onto his eyelids.

“L,” Light said gravely. “I’m going to die.”

“No you aren’t,” L sighed. “You’re just trapped in this tiny bathroom with me, your favorite classmate – no, favorite person at this school.” He slapped Light on the back.

“Spare me,” Light said. “I'm not doing this with you.” He dried his hands. “I miss home, I guess.”

“Oh,” L said and wrung his hands. Light looked up at him. He hadn't intended on turning a quick absconsion into a meditation on moving across the globe, but it appeared that free alcohol had other plans for him.

“I want to ride the train,” Light continued, pulling his eyelids down to inspect the puffiness. “Why are there only two train lines?”

“I mean, the auto industry lobby,” L said, rubbing his hands over his forearms. “Come on, you’re better than this. Free alcohol is not a license to liquidate your brain. Get it together.”

Light rested his forehead on his arms. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“You remind me of back there,” Light said, feeling incomprehensible. “Don't you miss it?”

L laced and unlaced his fingers. “Not really,’ he said, sheepish. “You can't go home again, and all that.”

“I can't go home? What?”

“It's an expression. Never mind.” L ran his fingers through his hair and sucked gently on his pen, blowing a cloud into the vent in the wall. “Let's go back out.”

“No,” Light said miserably. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

Light made a frustrated noise; he felt himself move as if to stomp his foot, but caught himself at the last minute. In spite of a near-tantrum, he felt somewhat obligated to maintain a shred of dignity.

“Well,” L sighed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “Would you like…I don’t know. A hug?”

“No.” Light wrinkled his nose. “Not from you.”

“Mm. Figured I’d ask.”

Light stared at the grout connecting the sink to the vanity. It was, miraculously, devoid of pink mold. “I,” he said stupidly.

“What?”

“Don’t – don’t,” he faltered. A part of him did want this, but the prospect of asking was so humiliating that it might have killed him. He picked up one hand, slowly, as if he were dragging it through molasses, and held it out. L stared at it and stuck his bottom lip out. After a minute, he reached out and squeezed it.

“Ew,” Light said, unmoving.

L nodded. “Ew.”

[champ-wiggle]

A shy penguin wins New Zealand’s bird election after campaign filled with memes and tattoos

By CHARLOTTE GRAHAM-McLAY; Updated 11:33 PM EDT, September 15, 2024

A hoiho or yellow-eyed penguin pictured on April 2, 2023, has won New Zealand's annual Bird of the Year vote, Monday, Sept. 16, 2024, after a fierce contest absent the foreign interference and controversies that have upset the country's avian elections before. (Hayden Parsons via AP)

WELLINGTON, New Zealand (AP) — It’s noisy, smelly, shy — and New Zealand’s bird of the year.

The hoiho, or yellow-eyed penguin, won the country’s fiercely fought avian election on Monday, offering hope to supporters of the endangered bird that recognition from its victory might prompt a revival of the species.

It followed a campaign for the annual Bird of the Year vote that was absent the foreign interference scandals and cheating controversies of past polls. Instead, campaigners in the long-running contest sought votes in the usual ways — launching meme wars, seeking celebrity endorsements and even getting tattoos to prove their loyalty.

More than 50,000 people voted in the poll, 300,000 fewer than last year, when British late night host John Oliver drove a humorous campaign for the pūteketeke -- a “deeply weird bird” which eats and vomits its own feathers – securing a landslide win.

A man rides past a mural celebrating John Oliver's New Zealand's 2023 Bird of the Year campaign in Wellington, New Zealand, Sunday, Sept. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/ Charlotte GrahamMcLay)

This year, the number of votes cast represented 10% of the population of New Zealand — a country where nature is never far away and where a love of native birds is instilled in citizens from childhood.

“Birds are our heart and soul,” said Emma Rawson, who campaigned for the fourth-placed ruru, a small brown owl with a melancholic call. New Zealand’s only native mammals are bats and marine species, putting the spotlight on its birds, which are beloved — and often rare.

This year’s victor, the hoiho — its name means “noise shouter” in the Māori language — is a shy bird thought to be the world’s rarest penguin. Only found on New Zealand’s South and Chatham islands — and on subantarctic islands south of the country — numbers have dropped perilously by 78% in the past 15 years.

“This spotlight couldn’t have come at a better time. This iconic penguin is disappearing from mainland Aotearoa before our eyes,” Nicola Toki, chief executive of Forest & Bird — the organization that runs the poll — said in a press release, using the Māori name for New Zealand. Despite intensive conservation efforts on land, she said, the birds drown in nets and sea and can’t find enough food.

“The campaign has raised awareness, but what we really hope is that it brings tangible support,” said Charlie Buchan, campaign manager for the hoiho. But while the bird is struggling, it attracted a star billing in the poll: celebrity endorsements flew in from English zoologist Jane Goodall, host of the Amazing Race Phil Keoghan, and two former New Zealand prime ministers.

Aspiring bird campaign managers — this year ranging from power companies to high school students — submit applications to Forest & Bird for the posts. The hoiho bid was run by a collective of wildlife groups, a museum, a brewery and a rugby team in the city of Dunedin, where the bird is found on mainland New Zealand, making it the highest-powered campaign of the 2024 vote.

“I do feel like we were the scrappy underdog,” said Emily Bull, a spokesperson for the runner-up campaign, for the karure — a small, “goth” black robin only found on New Zealand’s Chatham Island.

A karure, or Chatham lslands black robin pictured on Chatham Island in Sept. 2016 is runner-up to a hoiho or yellow-eyed penguin in the New Zealand Bird of the Year competition, announced Monday, Sept. 16, 2024. (0scar Thomas via AP)

The karure’s bid was directed by the students’ association at Victoria University of Wellington, prompting a fierce skirmish on the college campus when the student magazine staged an opposing campaign for the kororā, or little blue penguin.

The rivalry provoked a meme war and students in bird costumes. Several people got tattoos. When the magazine’s campaign secured endorsements of the city council and local zoo, Bull despaired for the black robin’s bid.

But the karure — which has performed a real-life comeback since the 1980s, with conservation efforts increasing the species from five birds to 250 — took second place overall.

This weekend as Rawson wrapped up her campaign for the ruru, she took her efforts directly to the people, courting votes at a local dog park. The veteran campaign manager who has directed the bids for other birds in past years was rewarded by the ruru placing fourth in the poll, her best ever result.

“I have not been in human political campaigning before,” said Rawson, who is drawn to the competition because of the funds and awareness it generates. The campaign struck a more sedate tone this year, she added.

“There’s been no international interference, even though that was actually a lot of fun,” she said, referring to Oliver’s high-profile campaign.

It was not the only controversy the election has seen. While anyone in the world can vote, Forest & Bird now requires electors to verify their ballots after foreign interference plagued the contest before. In 2018, Australian pranksters cast hundreds of fraudulent votes in favor of the shag.

The following year, Forest & Bird was forced to clarify that a flurry of votes from Russia appeared to be from legitimate bird-lovers.

While campaigns are fiercely competitive, managers described tactics more akin to pro wrestling — in which fights are scripted — than divisive political contests.

“Sometimes people want to make posts that are kind of like beefy with you and they’ll always message you and be like, hey, is it okay if I post this?” Bull said. “There is a really sweet community. It’s really wholesome.”

[mariana-oconnor]

The Golden Pince-Nez pt 3

Last time I came to the decision - entirely logically and data-driven and not at all because he made an incredibly rude comment about one of his servants - that The Professor was a hack, his life's work is founded on a lie and he either commited or is complicit in the murder of Willoughby Smith.

I also came to the conclusion that he smokes too many cigarettes. (1000 a fortnight, you know over a year that's 26,000? And he's getting them imported from Alexandria? Guy has a problem.)

Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning.

Was she stumbling around blindly, because I feel like with the prescription Holmes described, she's going to find it very difficult to get around on her own without her glasses.

I had never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion.

Let's play: Is Sherlock bored, or does he dislike the conclusion to this story?

Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest.

So she definitely exists and has been in the area. But Holmes doesn't seem to care about that, possibly because he already knows it must be the case and therefore this is of little concern.

He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred.

Man goes for walk. Vitally important information. It means that things may have occurred in the house without his knowledge, or that he might have been involved in something on his walk without anyone else's knowledge, such as meeting up with our lady with bad eyesight.

He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us.

Why are his eyes glowing? Eyes are not supposed to glow, Watson. Does he have tapetum lucidum? Is he a werewolf? Is he a demon? Has he finally smoked enough cigarettes that he has merged with the cigarette and now he is literally smoking?

Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge.

Second recorded incident of Holmes knocking things off tables like a cat.

I don't know what the cigarettes have to do with all this. I feel like it's going to be obvious. The only idea I can have is that he's part of some sort of artefact smuggling ring and every two weeks he gets a massive batch of 1000 cigarettes but hidden in the package are antiques. But why would that affect his appetite? And clearly he is getting all 1000 cigarettes because he's smoking all day and night. And why would that require Holmes to smoke like fifty in a go before?

So there must be something in the cigarettes? Are the rolling papers money? Are the rolling papers ancient documents? But then he smokes them, so that makes no sense either.

“Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.” Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor. “Indeed! In the garden?” “No, here.” “Here! When?” “This instant.”

You solved it by knocking some cigarettes off the table?

^Holmes and the Professor, probably

I mean, obviously he has connected the dots, he's Sherlock Holmes and he is controlled by the almighty god-writer of his universe who's feeding him all the lines. But still. What can you work out from knocking cigarettes off a table? Did they fall wrong? Or was there something on the bottom of the box?

“A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She had a key of her own."

So far, so not what I thought... this is not in keeping with my thoughts that the Professor dunnit.

UNLESS she was looking for evidence that he was a fraud and had previously talked to Willoughby about it, then when he refused to help her - loyal to his employer as he was - she took matters into her own hands.

Her possession of the key intimates that she has at one time had access to this desk. She's one of the previous secretaries that was let go for creative differences. Creative differences that were The Professor being a fraud, obviously (I refuse to believe this man has any academic ethics).

SO using the key that she kept after the termination of her old employment, she snuck in using her knowledge of the household and its schedule. The Professor came upon her and killed her, but knocked her pince-nez off and under the desk as he did so. No clue what he did with the body... put it in a crate of cigarettes?

THEN Willoughby comes back and asks if she came to see the professor, enquires about the allegations she made. The Professor says 'Oh no, dear boy. She hasn't been to see me, and she was a vary fanciful girl. You know what women are like.' Because he's a terrible person.

Then Willoughby finds the pince-nez, recognises them from his previous meeting with the lady and just as he's putting it all together STAB in the neck from the professor, but this time there isn't time to hide the body, the maid, Susan, is already there. the Professor hotfoots it away and leaves Willoughby there, forgetting all about the pince-nez still clutched in his rapidly cooling hand.

There are still some holes, and the cigarettes still make no sense and we have no body, so habeas corpus isn't exactly satisfied. We habeas pince-nez instead.

I could just read the story and find out, I guess.

I really want the professor to be a fraud. I want him to be totally discredited and disgraced. I want it so bad, you guys.

The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. “This is most interesting and instructive,” said he. “Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her.”

This might seem like he genuinely doesn't know what's going on, because he doesn't seem worried. Or, per my hypothesis, he's just an arrogant bastard who's convinced he's smarter than anyone else in the room.

“I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury."

Really? Random lady we don't know did it? That would be very unsatisfying. 'Guy dies in room holding glasses belonging to the person who killed him' isn't a very intriguing murder mystery.

"She ran down a corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come—both were lined with cocoanut matting—and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found herself in your room.”

Ah, that's why the shortsightedness is relevant. Should have guessed that was connected.

This is where the Professor kills her and stuffs her under his bed right, then smokes a million cigarettes to cover up the smell of her rotting corpse?

(I'm grasping at straws, let me be)

“And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a woman had entered my room?” “I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognised her. You aided her to escape.”

OK, that was like my... second theory last time? He's complicit in aiding the murderer.

Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet and his eyes glowed like embers.

Demon professor

Y'know, if he went into higher education and got tenure.

God that show freaked me out as a kid. Could not watch it.

“She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room.

OK, I know I suggested he was feeding her and that was why he was eating so much last time, but she's really been hiding in his room this whole time? Behind the bookcase? I guess she can come out when no one else is there, but she's just been living behind the bookcase this entire time?

...at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. [...] And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Watson: She was ugly, but for some reason I still respected her. It was a very confusing situation for me. This has never happened before.

It's okay, Watson. We all know you're a shallow bitch sometimes and we love you for it.

“Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are far from well.”

Yeah, because she's been stuck in this room with the chain-smoker for over twenty four hours and he hasn't cracked a window. Honestly impressed she hasn't suffocated.

“I have only a little time here,” she said, “but I would have you to know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

Secret Russian! Did not see that coming. I'd ask if that's why the imported cigarettes, but he was getting them from Alexandria, wasn't he? Although there's probably an Alexandria in Russia, there were like fifty gazillion Alexandrias. Every time Alexander the Great stopped somewhere for the night, he called it Alexandria. Now there was a guy who like the sound of his own name too much.

For the first time the old man stirred. “God bless you, Anna!” he cried. “God bless you!” She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. “Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?”

You just said you weren't going to tell them his name? I get that's not his full name, but still...

Also, this does not seem like a happy marriage. Not least because no one seemed to know he had a wife and he was hiding her behind the bookcase. Not traditionally a good place to keep one's spouse. Although I suppose it is more original than the attic. Professor Coram/Sergius beats Mr Rochester on that point, I suppose.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a University—I will not name the place.”

Thirty years is quite a big age gap... I feel like even at the time it would have been larger than average. Also, is she trying to hide things or could ACD just not be bothered to come up with a Russian sounding name?

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists, you understand. He and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions."

Firstly, I have now decided that this story is the sequel to Oscar Wilde's play Vera; or The Nihilists. Also, he's a Snitch. I knew I didn't like him. We all know what snitches get...

“Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty—if that is guilt—but he was not. He wrote for ever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken."

So, she was maybe kind of cheating on him? Honestly, they both seem a little terrible. although they might have just been good friends. It's a little ambiguous.

Also, the name of the love interest in Vera; or The Nihilists is Alexis, so... like... Is this deliberate? Admittedly that's not his real name... sort of... but still.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over I set myself to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would procure my friend's release."

But would they though? Would they? Maybe I'm cynical, but are they really going to let one guy go from the gulag just because you sent some letters purporting to be from him saying 'no, we have to be nice little nihilists and not kill people'? You're placing a lot of trust in a government you literally were attempting to undermine and overthrow because you believed it was corrupt.

I'm just saying.

"With this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as secretary—it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key."

So, I was right, one of the secretaries was involved!

Winning!

Also losing, but if you cut up all my theories and put them together you can sort of Frankenstein the right answer.

Still no explanation for the cigarettes, though.

She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet.

I assume that this did not involve tearing her actual dress and she's not just standing there, tits out, from here onwards. I have to assume that, although the wording is very dramatic, I feel like that would be mentioned.

“Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed. “Too late! I took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet.”

...

Anna, what have you done?

I have saved Alexis.

(There may possibly be 1 person who understands this... if that's you, hi! Thanks for existing.)

AND THEN, after she dramatically dies right in front of them from self-inflicted poisoning, there's a hardcut to them chatting on the way home.

"When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance."

That does explain the grass, but not the cigarettes. Did you use the smoke to find the hidden room by looking where it blew?

"I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase."

I feel like you didn't need quite that many cigarettes to do this. But also, dropping ash all over someone else's carpet is really rude. I know the Professor's a dick, but it's not like he's the one cleaning up after you. You just gave that poor housekeeper a horrible job and I bet she doesn't have a vacuum cleaner, and even if she does it's a manual one that requires pumping or something like that.

"...by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of the floor..."

You definitely did not need to knock the cigarettes off the table to get a good look at the floor, Holmes. You have on several occasions in the past literally just fallen face first onto the floor to examine it without bothering to say a word. You knocked those cigarettes onto the floor because you wanted to.

"Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion."

Not sure how successful it is to turn up with an extra body rather than a prisoner, but I guess the killer found justice??

Not exactly what I'd class as success. But ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I guess.

Good for you, Hopkins!

"I think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

And Alexis was freed from the gulag, Professor Coram/Sergius died from complications due to smoking and his work was never complete, and everyone else lived happily ever after. Apart from the dead people, who were still dead.

Never would have guessed betrayed Russian nihilist wife trying to free her lover from the salt mines. But really, in hindsight it's so obvious 🤣

And the next one takes place in a famous university town. Is it Oxford or is it Cambridge, that's the question.

[ofhouses]

1021. Walter Chatham /// Chatham Townhouse (Pugin House) /// Santa Rosa Beach, Seaside, Florida, USA /// 1989-91

OfHouses presents: Readings, part II - Charlotte Von Moos, ‘In Miami in the 1980s: The Vanishing Architecture of a Paradise Lost’.   (Photo: © Michael Moran. Source: Architecture 02/1992; The Seaside Research Portal, University of Notre Dame's School of Architecture.)

[listerbirdloml]

ANOTHER LISTER AS NOAH KAHAN SONG

The View Between Villages. maybe in their universe he wrote it. who knows. sitting on the hills between rochester and chatham. maybe the extended version has the voices of people who lived in the same sky rise as him. much to think about

[eddieredmayneargentinablog]

Les Miserables (2012) - Behind the scenes.

🎥 Video posted by Cinema Scope on YouTube

Les Misérables is a 2012 epic period musical film directed by Tom Hooper from a screenplay by William Nicholson, Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schönberg, and Herbert Kretzmer, based on the stage musical of the same name by Schönberg, Boublil, and Jean-Marc Natel, which in turn is based on the 1862 novel Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. The film stars an ensemble cast led by Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe, Anne Hathaway, Eddie Redmayne, Amanda Seyfried, Helena Bonham Carter, and Sacha Baron Cohen.

Set in France during the early nineteenth century, the film tells the story of Jean Valjean who, while being hunted for decades by the ruthless policeman Javert after breaking parole, agrees to care for a factory worker's daughter. The story reaches a resolution against the background of the June Rebellion of 1832.

Following the release of the stage musical, a film adaptation was mired in development hell for over ten years, as the rights were passed on to several major studios, and various directors and actors were considered. In 2011, producer Cameron Mackintosh sold the film rights to Eric Fellner, who financed the film with Tim Bevan through their production company Working Title Films. In June 2011, production of the film officially began, with Hooper hired as director. The main characters were cast later that year. Principal photography began in March 2012 and ended in June. Filming took place on locations in Greenwich, London, Chatham, Winchester, Bath, and Portsmouth, England; in Gourdon, France; and on soundstages in Pinewood Studios.

Les Misérables premiered at the Odeon Luxe Leicester Square in London on 5 December 2012 and was released on 25 December in the United States and on 11 January 2013 in the United Kingdom, by Universal Pictures. The film received generally positive reviews from critics, with many praising the direction, production values, musical numbers, and ensemble cast, with Jackman, Hathaway, Redmayne, Seyfried, Aaron Tveit, and Samantha Barks being the most often singled out for praise. However, Crowe's performance as Javert and singing were met with criticism. It grossed over $442 million worldwide against a production budget of $61 million. The film was nominated for eight categories at the 85th Academy Awards, winning three, and received numerous other accolades. Since its release, it has been considered by many to be one of the most famous adaptations of the novel and one of the best musical films of the 2010s and the 21st century.

#my screenshots

[theemptybloggercometh]

UNIT’s Latest Recruit

Fandom: Doctor Who/Doctor Who Redacted

Characters: Rose Noble, Mel Bush, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, Cleo Proctor

Context: Set a few months before The Legend of Ruby Sunday

Summary: When Rose doesn’t go back to school after getting into trouble for something that wasn’t her fault, she doesn’t realise the trouble’s only beginning

Triggers: Transphobia including misgendering, deadnaming and physical assault. Transphobic “jokes” and slurs. Reference to Rowling. Reference to racism. 

Word Count: 5933

The sound of the Nobel’s front door slamming shut reverberated around the up until then empty house.

“AHHHHH!!!” Rose cried out both out of anger and of anguish. Then, using the hand that hadn’t lowered since slamming the door, she suddenly tore her school bag of her back and threw it into the corner.

All her energy expended, she then fell against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the wooden floorboards. As tears start to well up deep down inside of her, she drew up her legs up to her chest and folded her head down onto her knees. Within seconds tears were blurring her vision and cascading down her face before falling onto her school blazer.

Her mind started whirling like one of those old film projectors, projecting her day back to her.

It had started off good enough. Having had an alright  sleep, she got downstairs to find the Doctor in the kitchen preparing breakfast for her, Wilf and Donna. As they were eating, Wilf told them stories about his old army friend who everyone, apart from Rose, who going to visit that day in Chatham.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t miss school today, Rose” he said

“I don’t believe it” Donna chided good-humouredly “after all the times you stressed the importance of education to me and now you’re encouraging her to play truant”

“I’m sorry, you’re right” he said and then added, in an over the top manner “I don’t know what I was thinking, school is the best place in the entire world”

Donna rolled her eyes 

“What is you kids say?” Wilf continued “my bad”

Rose laughed “OMG, Great-Gramps, I’ve told you, you can’t say things like that it just doesn’t sound right”

Unfortunately this was as good a day as the universe was going to allow her. Indeed, it started to go downhill as soon as she got onto the bus to go to school.

“Do you have a bus pass, mate” the driver asked

The gendered connotations of ‘mate’ set Rose’s teeth on edge.

“Miss” she corrected firmly before showing him the app on her phone

Apart from gesturing towards the seats, he showed no sign that he had heard her.  

As she climbed up to the top deck Rose really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he genuinely hadn’t seen her skirt or noticed her long hair. (Of course, she reminded herself, gender presentation does not equal certain pronouns or a specific gender identity) But then again, he wouldn’t be the first person to see that she was trans and decided to maliciously misgender her.

A few stops later, a couple of boys in Year 9 got on and they both sniggered as they passed her to sit at the back of the bus. Rose maintained her gaze looking at the passing houses and trees as the bus slowly made its way through Camden. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the boys were still mocking her.

The day took another dive when she was in second period biology.

“So the male of the species – ” Mr Robson was saying when a pupil raised his hand “Yes Connor?”

“How do we know it’s a male?” said Conner whilst leaning back on the stool so that it’s front two feet were raised from the floor

Rose looked up from her notes where she had been copying the diagram from the screen as a few other of her classmates laughed and saw Mr Robson’s glance towards her.

The teacher held up his hand and the laugher slowly died down “You know my rule about there being no silly question”

Despite this, Mr Robson himself doubted that a high achiever like Connor actually needed to ask this question; it was more likely that he was asking this to make a dig at Jas-, no, Rose. Mr Robson had freely admitted to his fellow teachers that this whole trans thing confuses him.  And that wasn’t even considering how to implement all the guidelines from the local authority and the government. He’s just a few years away from retirement, for Pete’s sake, and doesn’t need this aggro. And yet…and yet…just because he doesn’t get it, it doesn’t mean that Rose has to suffer, especially in his classroom.

“How would you find out?” he asked putting Connors question back to him

He instantly regretted this course of action as Connor put on an extremely exaggerated thinking pose which would have made Miss Coopper, Head of Drama, proud

“Um…” Connor replied “I don’t know…we could look at the genital”

“Right” affirmed Mr Robson simply, hoping this would shut the tangent down “Now where was I? Ah yes –”

“But sir?” Connor piped up again

Rose’s shoulders tensed; she did not like the way this was going 

Resisting the urge to say ‘what now?’, Mr Robson instead asked “Can it wait?”

“It’s just I thought we had to ask it how it self identifies?” said Connor whilst looking pointedly at Rose

As laughter rippled through the lab, Rose’s skin prickled with embarrassment. She absolutely hated being made the centre of attention. In a way, it wasn’t the joke – if you could call it that – that stung, much more so it was the laughter. The “joke” was predicably boring and unoriginal but the laughter depressingly showed how shallow the ‘acceptance’ of her peers actually was. It was moments like this when she felt like she was in a Victorian freak show, being brought out when people needed something to stare at; to be amused and horrified by in equal measure. 

“Quiet” said Mr Robson quietly like a storm rumbling off in the distance. The laughter silenced, he addressed Connor “If you manage to pass your GCSE’s, you might wish to study sociology and learn the difference between sex and gender”

Thirty minutes later, with laughter still ringing in Rose’s ears, the bell sounded for break and her day reached its nadir when she needed to use the bathroom.

Walking past the girls’ bathroom, Rose went down a side corridor to where the disabled bathroom was located. She felt a bit uncomfortable with using the disabled bathrooms and taking up space meant for someone else, someone who needed it more than her, but she had rationalised it as societies fault for having it’s weird obsession with keeping men and women separate.

But no sooner than she had thought that, she saw the bathroom had an out of order sign taped to its door “Ah, crap” she muttered

The nearest disabled bathroom to this one was in the English block. Rose bit her lip; could she make it that far? She cursed how her body just had to betray her like this and how she hadn’t needed to go whilst in the lesson.

Taking a deep breath, she went back up the corridor and before she could think about it a second longer, pushed open the door to the girl’s bathroom. Keeping her head low as she rushed past the girls standing by the sinks, she went into a cubical and quickly locked the door.

After she was done, she stood in the cubical waiting for the girls leave. When five minutes had passed without this happening, Rose knew she couldn’t stay put any long so took another deep breath and opened the door before walking to the sinks

Rose waved her hand in front of the sensor and focused on the sound of running water as she started to wash her hands. The girls next to her were still fixing up their makeup like nothing was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, this one time the world wouldn’t end because a someone nonbinary had used the bathroom  

This was when the universe decided to punish Rose for getting her hopes up.

Rose had just about finished holding her hands under the dryer when three girls in the same year group as her entered the bathroom 

“And do you know what he said to me” Grace was saying to Bella and Zara “he said – ” before stopping dead in her tracks with her expression suddenly going from delight to disgust  

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she demanded, glaring at Rose

Even though this was far from new, it was still unnerving especially as Rose was acutely aware that every girl was now staring at her. She fixed her eyes on the door as she shook the last remaining drops of water off her hands.

Having not got any response, Grace strode over and got right into Rose’s face “Answer me, freak”

Rose took a step back and collided into Zara; having been too focused on Grace, Rose had missed the other two girls moving behind her

“Oh my God, get off me” Zara snarled as she crossed her hands defensively across her chest “I swear he just tried to touch my boob, the pervert”

Grace came around to stand beside her and Bella as they marched menacingly forward until Rose’s back was pressed against the cold hard wall, the air thick with the sense of impending violence  

Rose couldn’t control her breathing. Her heart was beating against her ribs. Her feet were rooted to the spot. Her mind was screaming ‘GET OUT!’

Grace took another step forward and this is what Rose’s body needed to snap into action. Without thinking of what she was doing, Rose turned to the left and reached out for the door handle, in her haste nearly missing it, and yanked it open. As she was in the middle of taking a step forward she felt Grace’s hands press onto her back and push her forward out of the bathroom.

‘Fuck off, tranny’ she heard over her shoulder as lost her footing and crashed down hard onto the floor. Before she could even register that her right elbow, hip and knee were hurting, she was on her feet again and had turned to face Grace. She raised her fist and was about to drive it into her stupid face but just then Mr Robson rounded the corner.   

“ROSE NOBLE” he roared

Rose, her breath ragged, blinked. If the last few minutes had been going at double speed, now it was like everything was in slow motion. She looked at her hand and wondered how it had turned into a fist. She looked at Grace who’s look of fear was turning into smug satisfaction. Likewise, the murmurs of the teens who had stopped to stare were increasing in volume.

Rose dropped her arm to her side and took a step back. She turned to face Mr Robson who’s disappointment was etched on his face.

“Please go to Mrs Gallaghers Office” Mr Robson continued this time in a low voice.

“But, but, but” sputtered Rose

“No but’s.”

“You don’t understand”

“Oh I think I do.”

Rose noticed that one of the girls who had been putting on makeup was walking away “Hey” she pleaded “you saw the whole thing, tell Mr Robson what really happened”

But the girl looked down to her shoes and hurried along

“I’m not going to ask again; go now or you’ll be in more trouble” Mr Robson demanded

Rose spluttered again before she turned on her heel and walked down the corridor. Throwing the buildings door open she started to walk across the path toward the art’s building where her Head of Year’s office was situated. She was already thinking of what she was going to say to Mrs Gallagher – like Mrs Gallagher would believe anything she said.

Rose came to a sudden stop.

“Fuck this” she muttered

Turning around, this time, instead of going into the science block, she went quickly around it’s right side until she was at some steps. With her shoe’s clicking on the stone tiles, she made her way down where at the bottom was a short path to the school reception. Knowing the questions she would have to answer if she went through this to reach the school gates, she veered off from the path and walked across a patch of grass to the staff car park. Once she had got round the collection of Vauxhalls, Honda’s and Toyotas she ducked under the barrier and made her way onto the main road.  

Back in the present, Rose opened her eyes and wiped away her tears. She was glad that she had kept it together on the bus – this time with no problematic driver. And for once she was glad that the Doctor or her Great-Gramps were not here, as they would usually be at this time; it would have been so embarrassing for them to see her lose control like that. 

Her eyes felt sore and she knew if she looked in a mirror they would be red too. She felt like closing them again and sleeping a dreamless sleep for a thousand years, maybe then the world would be better.

As much as she would have liked just to stay where she was, she knew that she had to get up eventually. Indeed, this was going to have to be sooner rather than later as it was getting a bit uncomfortable sitting on the floorboards. Slowly uncurling herself from the floor, she gripped the top of the sideboard with her left hand and heaved herself up to a standing position.

With feet that felt like lead, Rose walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. After getting the tea pot ready, she stood waiting for it to boil. That was when she saw, over by the fruit bowl, her mum’s UNIT ID badge. Rose smiled, a weird sensation to be sure, but an fantastic idea had started to form in the back of her mind. 

The Doctor had once said ‘just walk about like you own the place’ and while this was a bit trickier as someone trans and of colour, Rose had put on her best nonchalant expression and walked through UNIT security like she had done it a thousand times. It had helped that she had done it a few times whilst visiting with her mum. It also certainly helped that she had changed out of her school uniform and was now wearing an purple jumper with a knee length black pencil skirt and ballet flats. This and her subtle makeup help make her look like a professional just starting out in her career instead of an awkward schoolgirl.

With its efficient hum of fingers clicking away on keyboards and hushed conversations, you might think that the Bridge of UNIT’s HQ was just like any other office in central London. That was until you saw the Vlinx and the soldiers dotted around, then you might start to get the idea that the work going on in here was a bit more important than that happening in the rest of the city. 

Rose had entered the Bridge and, keeping close to the walls, made her way over to the opposite side. She looked across to one of the workstations and saw that the operative was looking at pictures from the 70’s – or was it 80’s? – Axos incursion. Craning her neck to get a better look at the next operative along, she could just see over their shoulder that they were comparing various maps of Northumberland.

“Oh hey, Rose” a bubbly voice said behind her

Rose turned around to see Mel with a fresh cup of tea in her hands. She had thought she would have to make an effort to smile so was surprised with how naturally a smile spread across her lips.

“Hi Mel” she replied “you alright?” 

“I’m good thanks, how are you? Haven’t seen you in a long time”

“Yeah, the last time was…” Rose paused to think, conscious of the fact that that she was avoiding Mel’s question “It was my mum’s birthday, right?

“That was a very fun evening, my sides hurt for a week from laughing so much. Come, sit with me” Mel said as she began to walk to her workstation. Once she had reached it, she pushed some folders, a few pens and a half-full packet of Garabaldi biscuits aside and put her cup down. “Oh my, I’m such a…I forgot to ask if you wanted a drink”

“I’m good thanks”

“You’re sure?” said Mel as she went across to an empty workstation and wheeled it’s chair over next to hers.

“Umm. well, maybe a small tea” Rose said as she sat down and placed her bag on the floor

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Just a drop of milk, no sugar”

“One small cup of tea with just a drop of milk coming up. Make yourself at home”

And the thing was, Rose did feel like she was home from home. Here she felt totally safe. Here nobody was judging her. A feeling of contentment swept over her and for the first time since this morning she could properly breath.

When Mel returned, she shoved aside some memory sticks and memory drives to find space on her desk for Rose’s cup. “There you go” she said and anticipating that Rose might say something continued “I know, I know, it may look a mess, but I have a system”

“If it works for you that’s all that matters. Anyway, what are you working on at the moment?”

“This?” Mel said, logging onto her computer. The screen showed several lines, similar to an ECG “We’re picking these signals up from a satellite, but here’s the thing, where do you think they’re coming from?”

“I want to say space, but…”

“That’s too obvious, right? Think lower”

“Underground…no, the sea?”

“Yep, we’re think that the Sea Devils are waking up once more” 

Behind them, Kate, in a smart navy trouser suit, walked onto the Bridge and proudly looked at her hand-picked team. But a frown made its way onto her face as she tilted her head and started to walk forward. 

“Rose” she said firmly after approaching Mel’s workstation “can I have a word?”

“Oh, hi Kate, yeah sure” replied Rose, smiling

Once they had gone over to the side, Kate put her hand on her hips “I’m going to have to ask that you leave”

Rose’s jaw dropped “What! But I’ve been here lots of times before”

“With your mum who has security clearance, you don’t. How did you get in anyway?”

Rose went back to Mel’s workstation and retrieved her mum’s ID badge from her handbag. She handed it to Kate and then folded her arms across her chest. 

“Ah” said Kate handing the badge back to Rose “If you were anybody else, I would have you arrested”

“But that’s the thing” implored Rose a bit more loudly than she had intended. She motioned towards the workstations “this isn’t new to me. Why can’t I have security clearance”

“You’re sixteen” said Kate kindly

“But like I said, I’ve dealt with things some of these people haven’t. How about if I volunteer?”

“I’m really sorry” Kate put her hand onto Rose’s shoulder “I just can’t”

Rose brusquely shrugged off Kate’s hand “Okay” and went over to Mel’s workstation to retrieve her bag

“What’s going on?” enquired Mel over the sound of her mobile ringtone

“Nothing” murmured Rose, not looking her in the eye. Then she marched past Kate, who tried to touch her arm, and out of the Bridge.  

“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. This is a Central Line service to Ealing Broadway. The next station is Holborn”

The doors of the carriage soon slid shut and the tube jolted forward, but despite this, Rose continued to stare into the middle distance.

It was just one more stop until she needed to change for the Piccadilly Line and then a short journey to Leicester Square where she would need to change for the Northern Line to get to Camden. She could of course gone straight from Moorgate to Camden instead of this convoluted route from Liverpool Street, but that would mean passing through King’s Cross and she absolutely didn’t want to be reminded of anything to do with her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw the man who had just got on reading the Daily Mail. Biting her lip, she shifted her body away from him.

She got the Underground map up on her phone and traced her journey from Holborn to Leicester Square. Her eyes then followed the dark blue line back up to Holborn and then onto Russell Square. She tapped the screen a few times thoughtfully.

When the tube came to a stop, Rose got off and then started the long walk down the curved tunnel until she got to the Piccadilly Line section. Then instead of going down to the southbound side, she took the right side of the junction that eventually led her to a northbound train.

Fifteen minutes later, Rose emerged from Russel Square station and went down Marchmont Street until she was nearly at its end. There stood the white store front of Gay’s the Word, the oldest queer bookshop in the UK.

As she approached, she had a moment of doubt. Going here did have the feel of postponing the inevitable explanation she would have to give her mum. But then again, her mum wouldn’t be home for a good while yet. And if she did go home now all she would do is just wait for her to get back. At least here she would be doing something. Plus, she needed something to lift her spirts up and being here never failed in that regard.

With that decided, Rose surveyed the window display and saw some books that she had read like The Transgender Agenda, Pageboy and One Last Stop. Then her eyes lit up as she saw they had Rebel Robin back in stock; She had been looking for that everywhere. 

A bell dinged as Rose pushed open the door to the shop. The person sitting at the counter pricing a stack of books looked up from their task and waved at her

“Hi” she replied waving back

The shop always had a quiet peacefulness about it and today was no different even with several other customers present

Passing a hanging Progress Flag and a noticeboard which included posters for PrEP and an upcoming poetry evening, she got to the fiction section and went straight to ‘C’ to find A. R. Capetta. A few second later she had a copy of Rebel Robin clasped in her hands.

Later she was reading a synopsis that finished ‘discover that true love isn’t limited to romance’. Maybe next time she thought as she squeezed the book back onto the shelf with the rest of the ‘O’ authors.

She had moved onto perusing the nonfiction section when the bright pink spine of To My Trans Sisters instantly caught her eye. She reached out towards the book, but just as her hand was inches away, it collided with the outstretched hand of another woman.

“Sorry” Rose said, her hand recoiling

The woman waved Rose’s apology away “No, no, my bad”. She motioned towards the shelf “you first” 

But instead, Rose complimented the woman on her outfit especially her leather jacket.

“Ah thanks babe” the woman replied “it’s Versace, but” and here she leaned in closer conspiratorially “I found it in a charity shop for a tenner, just don’t tell anybody”

Rose laughed “Don’t worry, your secrets safe with me. I’m Rose by the way”

“Nice to meet you Rose, I’m Cleo. So are you a student or…?”

“Kinda, I’m still at school”

“Ah you’re playing truant” Cleo waved her left hand into the air and clicked her fingers “Yes, girl. I totally understand, school was absolute hell”

“Is it truanting though if you’re pre-emptively walking out before being suspended?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I got into an altercation with another girl. She pushed me and I went to punch her but guess who the teacher saw?”

“Damn, I’m sorry” said Cleo, her face full of concern as she placed her hand onto Rose’s arms

“I mean, that’s being trans all over isn’t it? Rose sniffed, determined not cry especially in front of someone she didn’t know, albeit an extremely friendly someone “the moment, the one moment, you defend yourself against all the crap that gets thrown at you, you forfeit society’s so called tolerance”

“Exactly, we’re never allowed to be angry, properly angry, even though we’ve got lots to be angry about”

“I’m exhausted being this angry though” Rose paused and briefly looked wistful “You know, I thought coming out would be the hardest part, but it’s what comes after. It’s hardened me. Years ago I would have said that violence was always wrong. But now…” Rose’s voice dropped slightly, almost as if she didn’t want to admit truly admit what she was about to say “punching her would have felt so very good –”

“For sure”

“But…but going to punch her is all evidence they needed that I’m, we’re, the dangerous ones” Rose put her hands on her temple and groaned

“But remember you we’re provoked”

“I know, it’s just…”

“Yeah” Cleo agreed simply

Rose groaned again “Sorry, I didn’t mean to vent like that”

“Don’t worry about it” Cleo said as she once again put a comforting hand on Rose’s shoulder “I know the feeling of how it is to speak to someone who gets it”

Rose nodded

“I know what you need” Cleo continued “a coffee…oh…do you drink coffee? Tea, you need tea. Maybe a slice of cake? I know somewhere really good around the corner, yeah?”

Rose nodded again “Just let me pay for this” she said holding up her copy of Rebel Robin.

They started to walk towards the counter and just before they passed the shelf that divided the back from the front of the store, Rose realised that all the other customer had already left.

“What the hell” exclaimed Cleo 

Rose stopped dead in her tracks. She could literally feel her blood run cold. Instead of the kind person sitting behind the counter, there with its wings outstretched and it’s face covered was a Weeping Angel. 

“Don’t blink” she yelled as she kept her eyes locked on the Angel

Cleo turned around to face Rose “Why?”

“I think that’s a Weeping Angel, at least I think so based on the Doctor description”

“Wait, you know the Doctor?” asked Cleo disbelievingly 

“You know the Doctor?” exclaimed Rose, her astonishment causing her to momentarily lose focus. Her eyes snapped back to the Angel but now it was no longer at the counter. Instead it was just an arms-length away from Rose’s right side with its face frozen in a scream. Automatically, as if to correct her mistake, Rose turned and stood square to the Angel.

“Wow, how did it do that?” shouted Cleo as she took a step back

 “They are quantum-locked” Rose replied

“What in the hell does that mean?” asked Cleo, her voice noticeably higher

“We’ve got to keep calm” said Rose soothingly, ironic given the fact that she was internally freaking out herself. Addressing the Angel she said, a lot more confidently than she actually felt, “So…so that’s really bad luck, mate. What are the chances, eh, I mean, not just one but two people who know about aliens and shit”

“Or maybe it’s not a coincidence” Cleo pipped up

Rose wanted to say ‘thank you’ but thought better of it. Gosh her eyes were starting to sting. “What we need is help” she started to explain. She tried to turn slightly to her left but could only manage a few degrees before she would lose eye contact with the Angel. Annoyingly this meant that she had to contend with the Angles outreached wing that divided her from Cleo. “I can’t get to my phone in my bag without looking away” she continued “but if I throw it to you, you can call Mel, she works at UNIT and will be able to help”

“Great, yeah ask the person who can’t catch why don’t you”

“Well, at least I throw like a girl” Rose slipped the bag of her shoulder and took a deep breath. For the first time, she was glad for those PE lessons; finally a use for learning how to do a rugby throw in. “Right here goes nothing”

The bag sailed over the Angel’s wing and then over Cleo. Cleo turned to grab it, but it fell though her arms. Despite herself, Rose winced. Instantly she looked back towards Angel but it was now exactly where Cleo had been standing.

Oh shit! Rose started to walk backwards; hadn’t she seen a door to the stockroom at the back of the shop? But as soon as the this plan formed it was shot down by the realisation that she would have to turn around to use the door handle.

Her eyes were now screaming in pain. How long could a person go without blinking she wondered? Why did this have to happen on a day she had been crying? But then again there hadn’t been that many days recently where that she hadn’t been crying to be honest. God knows what her emotions were going to be like once she got onto…

If she was going to go down, she wasn’t going down without a fight, even if the only weapon she had was her words. “This must be so difficult for you” she said, taunting the Angel. “wanting to feast but having to wait. How does it feel to be that powerless?”

She could feel her eyelids trembling as her eyelids got closer and closer. The Angel was getting more and more blurry. She knew she couldn’t hold on any longer. But her overwhelming thought was about wanting her mum.

“Go, go, go!” a voice yelled

Rose heard the breaking of wood behind her and then a second later felt someone or lots of someone rush past her. Something then rolled across the floor and emitted a few bleeps. Through her blurred vision, Rose could see an extremely bright light, brighter than any light source she had every encountered before. She wanted to cover her face but didn’t dare move.

“Angel neutralised, ma’am” said the same voice

Rose felt an arm go around her shoulders

“It’s okay, your safe now�� reassured Mel

As she collapsed into Mel’s arms, blinking rapidly, Rose felt like she had just swam the Channel; totally exhausted but also full of pure relief. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God” she repeated.

She watched as Kate strode over to where a grenade shaped object was shooting a beam of opaque light right at the centre of the Angel’s chest causing it to shimmer

“How’s the Quantum Beam holding up, Captain Gethin” she asked one of the soldiers who was part of a triangle formation around the Angel

“All good ma’am” he replied

Kate nodded “I want this taken to the Black Archives immediately”

“Yes ma’am” the soldiers chorused  

As Captain Gethin began to radio for equipment Kate turned her back on the soldiers, and faced Rose and Mel. “And, Sergeant Burns” she said to another solider “can you get Miss Nobel a very strong cup of tea”  

Rose, with her head resting now on Mel’s shoulder, asked “How did you know?”

“I can answer that” said a familiar voice behind her

Rose whipped around to see Cleo leaning against a shelf of bisexual nonfiction. She ran across the shop and threw her hands around Cleo in a huge hug. “h…h…how?” she exclaimed

“Well” Cleo began

“I’m really sorry” Kate put her hand onto Rose’s shoulder “I just can’t”

Rose brusquely shrugged off Kate’s hand “Okay” and went over to Mel’s workstation to retrieved her bag

“What’s going on?” enquired Mel over the sound of her mobile ringtone

“Nothing” murmured Rose, not looking her in the eye. Then she marched past Kate, who tried to touch her arm.

Mel shot Kate an enquiring look but knew from Kate’s expression not to pursue the matter. She leaned over to get her mobile and frowned as the screen was saying that it was Rose was calling her. But that couldn’t be, she could see Rose storming out of the Bridge.

Not knowing what to expect, she accepted the call. “Hello?” she said hesitantly

“You don’t know me, but my name’s Cleo Proctor and I need your help; Rose is in danger”

Rose’s eyes had widened as Cleo relayed this “Wow, what a stroke of luck only being sent back a few hours to the Royal Hope hospital of all places”

“I’m afraid that it wasn’t luck” said Kate “All UNIT badges are equipped with technology that means if someone is inadvertently or deliberately thrown back in time, they only go back a maximum of five hours and to nearby hospital, just in case they’re injured”

“It is good though that you chucked me your bag instead of just your phone” added Cleo “otherwise I would have been a goner”

Later, when Rose’s storiform cup only had the dregs of her tea remaining, her and Cleo walked out of the shop and down Marchmont Street. Cleo had offered to walk Rose home and she was prepared not to take no for an answer, but Rose leapt at having her by her side.

They had got a meter down the street when Rose was struck by an idea

“Wait a second” she told Cleo and ran back to the outside of the shop where Kate was on her mobile

“Okay, keep an eye on it and I’ll be back at HQ soon” Kate said before ending the call “yeah, Rose?”

“I was just wondering, the person working here taken by the Angel, what are you going to tell their loved ones, I mean they’re going to want to see the body, aren’t they?”

Kate looked thoughtfully at Rose “We going to say the body has already been cremated, an unfortunate administrative mix up, won’t happen again, that sort of thing”

“Uh…okay” 

“We have tried other ways, but this is the one that works the best” A few seconds of silence passed before Kate prompted “So…was that all?”

“Um…no” Rose replied hesitantly “So…like this is the second alien I’ve dealt with and if I say so myself, I think I dealt with it remarkably calmly whilst displaying good leadership skills as well as initiative so –”

“So you were wondering if this would mean you could have a job with UNIT?” Kate put her hands into her beige trench coat and after a long pause said “I’ll see what I can do, might have to be voluntary to begin with, but we’ll see”

Rose clapped her hands together “Great, thanks” She motioned to toward Cleo “I have to…”

“Yeah sure, I’ll let you know soon”

“Great” Rose repeated before going back to Cleo

“Everything sorted?” Cleo asked as they started to walk towards Russell Square tube station 

“Yeah” replied Rose “I was just asking Kate if I needed to sign the Official Secrets Act again. What about you, when are you signing it?”

“Kate’s going to contact me later on in the week” Cleo replied and then with a more tongue-in-cheek tone added “I’m really annoyed about it though; after all, I was only helping you as it would have been great for the podcast”

Rose laughed. It was a wonderful thing –  to laugh – Rose realised; it made her feel so glad to be alive. 

[ausetkmt]

William Lambert | Central Michigan University

An African American Leader of Detroit's Anti-Slavery Movement.

By Evelyn Leasher

Before the Civil War Detroit had a small but active African American population. One of the most active African American men of the time was William Lambert, who in addition to his public activities, ran a thriving tailoring and dry cleaning business. Lambert's name is prominent in many accounts of activities involving African Americans in Detroit from his arrival in 1840 to his death in 1890. He worked with the Underground Railroad, he organized an African American secret order, he led the Detroit Vigilant Committee, he was a deacon in his church, and he worked to bring publicly supported education to the African American children of Detroit. Lambert corresponded with many of the anti-slavery leaders of his day. He was a personal friend of John Brown and participated in the Chatham meeting in which John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry was planned.

In 1886 Lambert was interviewed by a reporter on the Detroit Tribune about his activities before the Civil War in Detroit. The resulting newspaper article is an important source of information about antebellum Detroit and African American activities there. That interview is the focus of this website. The newspaper article is reprinted in full with links to the various references made by Lambert wherever they could be found. For example, when talking to the reporter Lambert pulled from his desk a copy of Walker's Appeal for Freedom. There is a link to the Walker website which gives the full text of the Appeal, a publication banned in the South, which is full of references to the evils of slavery and which calls for the elimination of that portion of the population who refuse to grant slaves the right to be human. That Lambert was in possession of this document is important information which helps to understand his work.

Lambert also mentions an important co-worker in Detroit, George De Baptiste. In the article De Baptiste is repeatedly called Le Baptiste, but there is no doubt about the identity of the person. De Baptiste and Lambert worked together for many years on all aspects of anti-slavery work. When De Baptiste died newspapers carried lengthy obituaries which gave details of his life and his work on the Underground Railroad. There are links to these obituaries which give an idea of the scope of De Baptiste's work and the dangers he faced in pursuing his anti-slavery goals.

Lambert's detailed description of a secret African American organization which worked to free slaves is one of the few references to this organization. The elaborate ritual he describes and the secrecy of the work speak to the need to keep its existence hidden. There may be many reasons for this secrecy but one of the reasons may have been the danger involved in working to free slaves, especially after the 1850 Fugitive Slave Law was enacted.

Lambert's interview was conducted in 1886, many years after the events he was recalling. There are some statements which could not be verified or which were slightly wrong. For example, he and the reporter mention an article in Century magazine about John Brown by Col. Green of the United States Marine Corp. There is an article by Col. Green but it was not in Century magazine. A link to Col. Green's article is provided. The reporter also mentioned a poem by Richard Realf which has not been discovered, but information about Richard Realf is included. Another problem is in the estimate of the number of people who were helped by the Underground Railroad. Although it is not possible to give accurate figures of Underground Railroad work these figures do not appear to be realistic in comparison with the actual number of slaves in the United States.

The Underground Railroad has been written about and studied at great length. However, there is relatively little mention of the involvement of African Americans in the work. Lambert's interview makes clear that in Detroit African Americans were actively involved. They were organized and they were efficient and they were militant. They knew what they were doing and they were willing to take risks to free their fellow human beings from slavery and discrimination. Lambert is an example of a man who saw a wrong and did his best to remedy it.

At the end of the website there is a short bibliography for further reading. This is by no means a complete Underground Railroad or Detroit bibliography. This reading list stresses material which might help in understanding the antebellum Detroit scene. Of particular interest is the article by Katherine DePre Lumpkin in which Lumpkin uses this same Lambert article to discuss Detroit and the secret organization Lambert describes.

Detroit Tribute January 17, 1887, Page 2 FREEDOMS'S RAILWAY Reminiscences of the Brave Old Days of the Famous Underground Line Historic Scenes Recalled Detroit the Center of Operations that Freed Thousands of Slaves

The western underground railway paid no dividends, aspired to no monopoly, and never had a general meeting of its directors. Its objective termini were Canada and Freedom, and its trade was derived from the slave plantations of the south, its patrons were people of color, and its promoters and managers had their headquarters in Detroit. Some of them still live and all of them recall the days of the underground road with the hearty satisfaction that comes from a good work accomplished.

Among those living here, well known and highly respected, is William Lambert, age, say, 70; occupation, tailor and philanthropist; son of a slave father and free mother; a man of education, wide reading, rare argumentative power; the founder of the colored episcopal church of this city, and the leader of his race in this state. He is the warm, personal friend of Frederick Douglass, was intimate with the Rev. Highland Garnet, worked hand in hand with J. Theodore Holly, now bishop of Hayti; was the trusted counselor of Gerrit Smith, William Lloyd Garrison, and Wendell Philips, and had something more than a passing acquaintance with John Brown. Under such circumstance it is no wonder that William Lambert was chosen as active manager of the underground railway service. His energy was unflagging and his executive qualities of the highest order. Associated with him was George DeBaptiste, also colored, and like Lambert, possessing good executive ability. The pictures of both these men are worth turning to as presenting faces and heads whose phrenological development would attract attention were they Caucausian instead of negro. LeBaptiste is dead, but Lambert still lives, his mind and eye undimmed and his enthusiasm for the advancement of his race sparkling as brightly as ever. He told the greater part of this story which follows, but the charm of its narration is lost in the writing, for Lambert's modulated voice, his graceful gesticulation and the carefully chosen and accurately pronounced words with which he clothed his teeming ideas can only be suggested here. Nearly 40,000 slaves were made free by crossing them into Canada over Detroit and St. Clair rivers between the years 1829 and 1862, when the last one was ferried over. In the last twenty years of that time $120,000 were collected and expended to bring slaves from the south to Canada, by way of Detroit. There escaped to Canada in all the estimated number of 50,000 slaves. A few of these were not travelers on the underground road, but they were a small minority. The larger number were brought from Florida and Louisiana and from the border states. They were never left unprotected in their journeys, and the hardships they underwent to secure liberty were not only shared with them by their conductors, but repeated time after time by the hundred or so of men who cheerfully assumed this arduous duty.

Taking up Mr. Lambert's story of personal reminiscences he begins with 1829, at which time a band of desperadoes, something in general character like the James' Boys, were the terror of the southwestern states. McKinseyites they were called, and in number were some sixty or seventy. They robbed and pillaged wherever they could with safety, and these people were the first southern agents of the underground railway system of Detroit. "It was a long time," said Mr. Lambert, "before we could make up our minds to make use of these scoundrels, but we at last concluded that the end justified the means. Indeed we went further than that before we got through our work, and held that the effort to secure liberty justified any means to overcome obstacles that intervened to defeat it. These men would, with the permission of the slave himself, steal him away from the owner who had a title to him, and then sell him. From this second bondage they would steal him again and deliver him to us on the line of the Ohio river. They got their profit out of the sale, although they had to commit two thefts to do it. There were no steam railways in those days. We traveled at night, or if in daytime with peddling wagons. We had at one time more than sixty tin peddling wagons with false bottoms, large enough to hold three men, traveling through the south. Our association with the McKinseyites was from the very necessities of the case of short life. They were sure to be caught sooner or later, and at last some more daring robbery than usual brought some of them to prison and dispersed the rest. We then began the organization of a more thorough system and we arranged passwords and grips, and a ritual, but we were always suspicious of the white man, and so those we admitted we put to severe tests, and we had one ritual for them alone and a chapter to test them in. To the privileges of the rest of the order they were not admitted."

"Mr. Lambert," said the reporter, "there is among the poems of Richard Realf one that hints at the existence of the order whose ritual was filled with a marvelous imagry."

"Oh, you have seen that, have you?" and the old gentleman's eyes sparkled. "Well, I wrote that ritual and you shall see it."

He took from a desk where "Walker's Appeal for Freedom," and the letters of Mr. John Brown, Lloyd Garrison, and Wendell Phillips, and  Lucretia Mott were carefully preserved, two books bound in sheep, and of the pattern called memoranda books in the trade. In Lambert's own handwriting was the ritual, the names of the degrees, the test words, grips, description of emblems and lessons. It is impossible to give full space to them here. The order of using them was composed of nearly 1,000,000 free Negroes in the United States and Canada. Of their literary merit it can only be said that they rank with the best of all the orders, and as to the poetry and imagry so richly used, Mr. Realf, who was a white member of the order, had made no exaggeration. The title of the order was the "African-American Mysteries; the Order of the Men of Oppression." In the first chapter the degrees were captives, redeemed and chosen. A branch of the first degree was that of confidence which was used on the underground road. It could be bestowed by any one of those in or above the degree of chosen. It was from this degree that the agents sent to the south were selected. The oath administered ran thus:

I. A.B., do most solemnly and religiously swear and unreservedly vow that I never will confer the degree of confidence on any person, black or white, male or female, unless I am sure they are trustworthy. And should I violate this solemn covenant may my personal interests and domestic peace be blasted and I personally be denounced as a traitor.

This was a mild oath compared with those called for in passing to other degrees. To complete the confidence ritual, however, which was the one actively used by the underground railway managers: Word - "Leprous." Password - "Cross over" - spoken thus: Question -Cross? Answer - Over. First lecture: Q. Have you ever been on the railroad? A. I have been a short distance. Q. Where did you start from? A. The depot. Q. Where did you stop? A. At a place called Safety. Q. Have you a brother there? I think I know him. A. I know you now. You traveled on the road.

This conversation was the test. It was taught to every fugitive, and the sign was pulling the knuckle of the right forefinger over the knuckle of the same finger on the left hand. The answer was to reverse the fingers as described. It is an interesting feature of this history to remember that nearly 40,000 slaves used this test, and it was on the lips of every Quaker in America, the latter for the first and only time foregoing the use of "thee" and "thou" in order to make the test more certain.

The Grand charter lodge had its rooms on Jefferson avenue, between Bates and Randolph, about where No. 202 now is. When the applicant for the degree of captive was brought up for examination he was detained without while asked what it was he sought. "Deliverance," was the answer. "How does he expect to get it?" "By his own efforts." "Has he faith?" "He has hope."

He was clad in rough and ragged garments, his head was bowed. His eyes blindfolded and an iron chain put about his neck. When his examination was over his eyes were unbound and he was admitted to the fellowship of the degree of captive. When he passed to that of the redeemed the chain and fetters were stricken off, although before that, when his eyes were unbound and he was a captive, he found about him all the members of the lodge present, each of them with a whip in his hand. In this way the organization maintained its typical character. After passing to chosen there were yet five degrees, that of rulers, judges and princes, chevaliers of Ethiopia, sterling black knight and knight of St. Domingo. To pass into these was no small task upon the memory and studiousness of the aspirant. The last one has a ritual of great length dealing with the principles of freedom and the authorities on revolution; revolt, rebellion, government - in short a digest of the best authorities. It is of no little credit to the mental capacity of the colored race in that day when free schools were closed to them in most of the states that over 60,000 took the highest degree. It was when the highest ranks were reached that the full intention of the order were first learned. The general plan was freedom, and it is only in the presence of such records as these that the strength of the colored race in organization for their manumission becomes known.

It is from this body that John Brown took on his task of raiding Harper's Ferry. The history of the Chatham Convention (pdf), presided over by Elder W. C. Monroe of Windsor, and one of whose prominent members was Mr. Lambert, has been told in Redpath's history of John Brown (Roberts & Co., Boston, 1860) and it is gone into at some length by Mr. Farmer (pdf) in his excellent history of Detroit. In both of these it is shown that John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry was planned here, and much of the money used was subscribed here.

It was on some of the personal qualities of John Brown that the reporter opened the interview with Lambert which may run steadily along from this point. "Have you read the last contribution to the history of John Brown episode published in the Century, from the pen of Col. Green of the United States marine corps?" "Yes, I saw that, and he most unjustly says what so many have equally erroneously declared, that John Brown (pdf) was crazy. I knew him well, as the many letters you see here from him and this one from his wife of his execution will show. He was sane and reasonable, but he knew that what was necessary was to make a beginning. It was out of the circumstances of the case destined to be a failure of itself, but it opened the way. John Brown told me himself that he could not expect to escape martyrdom. 'But I shall have made the flame that will give the unquenchable light of liberty to the world,' he said, standing erect and pointing to heaven as he spoke. That was what he did."

"When did you meet Brown first?"

"Here in Detroit. I was expecting a train from the south and we were waiting for it at the lodge on Jefferson avenue. This was our custom. The fugitives were brought in from the country from Wayne and Ann Arbor so as to arrive at night. They would be brought to the vicinity of the lodge, when we would go and test them, and all those with them. Some twenty or thirty came on the night I speak of, and I went down to test them. Among others to whom I applied the test was a tall, smoothly-shaven man. When he had answered correctly I cried out: "Are you John Brown? You are: I know it, brother." "Yes, brother, I am John Brown." From that moment he and I were the firmest friends. He stopped with me at my house, then in the western part of the city, and became a conductor on the underground railway. He brought to Detroit more than 200 fugitives. Here are the books. If you care to go over them you will see the reports that give the dates and names, and from whence they came. He penetrated every part of the south, and visited every colored man that it was possible to get at, who had intelligence to grasp the idea of freedom, and yet made no boast of it. He was indefatigable in these respects. He was always on time, and his personal courage, tested a thousand times, was beyond dispute.

"When we had received the people at the lodge we then took them to the rendezvous, which was the house of J.C. Reynolds, an employe of the company then constructing the Michigan Central railway. He had been sent by Levi Coffin of Cincinnati, who was the head of the underground railway in the west. His residence was at the foot of Eighth street, just opposite the place where the first elevator was subsequently built. The house has long since been torn down. We would fetch the fugitives there, shipping them into the house by dark one by one. There they found food and warmth, and when, as frequently happened, they were ragged and thinly clad, we gave them clothing. Our boats were concealed under the docks, and before daylight we would have everyone over. We never lost a man by capture at this point, so careful were we, and we took over as high as 1,600 in one year. Some times we were closely watched and other rendezvous were used. Ald. Finney, Luther Beecher, McChubb and Farmer Underwood could tell you lots about these details. Finney's Barn used to be filled with them some times. It stood opposite the hotel property which bears Finney's name. Well, one night we had reason to believe we were watched.

Two persons were skulking about and we turned upon them. Brown seized them both and dropped them over the pier head first into the water. He had scarcely done so when he threw off his coat and plunged in after them and brought them safely to land. They would have certainly been drowned had he not interfered to save them. Once in Indiana, near Indianapolis, he was driving a covered wagon with nine fugitives concealed under some old furniture. He was pursued by some slave-hunters who had got on the trail in some way, and although they were armed and fired at him he boldly faced the crowd and drove them away, and brought his charge through in safety.

But those incidents of Brown were the recurring ones to every conductor, of whom we had as many as a hundred employed. It was recalled by all the old underground railroad people who are living. He wore a belt of seven revolvers and he used them when necessary with deadly aim. He engaged in the business of a conductor rather from the necessity of his nature for excitement than for any other reason. Over the revolvers he wore at all times a loose-fitting overcoat, with wide openings for the pockets cut high up, but no pockets. Into the holes he thrust his hands and drew his weapons unperceived and fired with telling effect through the cloth of his coat. I used to make those coats for him, and I knew how often they were marked by bullet holes and burned by exploding powder.

That fellow used to go down into any one of the states and get an engagement as driver and overseer and then get a train load and fetch them in safety every time. He brought over 1,500 to Detroit. At last he became so well known and had to run such risks that he was sent to the east, where he worked on the Philadelphia branch very successfully. It would be a picture if you could only have seen it, never to be forgotten, if you could have witnessed many of the scenes of families reuniting and of freemen reaching Canada. For any labor, or cost, or danger, that was our ample reward. I guess most of the incidents that happened in Detroit are pretty well known. After we got to Michigan we didn't have a regular route, but we did have others. We used to work up the Wabash river to Ft. Wayne, and then cross into Washtenaw county, where Ann Arbor is, you know.

There we had lots of friends and help. Then if the hue and cry had been sharply raised we would keep our people in concealment and get them over the ferry when we could. They used to lay in barns and all sorts of retreats and doubtless underwent many hardships, which at times caused them almost to regret their flight, but we got them through all right at last. Girls we often brought as boys, and women disguised as men, and men as women were frequent arrivals. When railways began to be built we used to pack them in boxes, and send them by express. We got thirty or forty through in that way, but the danger to their lives by reason of lack of careful handling and fear of suffocation made that means dangerous."

"In making some preliminary inquiries I heard of one Lovett who had three or four negroes who used to go south with him and allow themselves to be sold and share the proceeds after escaping with the underground railroad. Do you know him?"

"There was such a man from St. Clair. I do not remember that Lovett was the name. It was all very disgraceful, indeed. His accomplices were not permitted on the underground railroad after they were discovered, you may be sure. The man, whatever his name was, finally died in prison - was captured in Tennessee and, after being locked up in Brownsville jail, was removed to Jackson to prevent his being mobbed."

"Well, the story is that the underground railroad people gave the information that secured his arrest."

"That may be so. You see we could not stand upon hair-splitting questions of right and wrong when the main objective of our intention was threatened. I am not aware that we did anything more serious than Lovett's own acts themselves to imperil his safety."

"But what was the most important thing happening in Detroit in connection with your railroad on society?"

"Well, I suppose it was the one that led to fugitive slave law being introduced by Benton of Missouri in the United States senate. Benton, strangely enough, as perhaps you know, was the father of Mrs. John C. Fremont, the wife of the first candidate of the republican party for president. They eloped together. Well, there was a slave escaped from Arkansas some time in 1840 and we got him into Indiana among some abolitionists, who said he would be safe there. They taught him to read and so on and he came to Detroit. His name was Robert Cromwell. After awhile he went to Flint and opened a barber shop there. Now, one of the greatest difficulties we had was to keep fugitives from writing home and giving their addresses, or otherwise betraying their whereabouts.

Cromwell thought he'd be cunning, so he wrote to his old master, dating his letter at Montreal, and telling what he was doing and so on, and asking his master, whose name was John Dun, to send him his sister, and he would send him $100. But he posted his letter at Flint, and it went forward with the post stamp of the same date as that within. Dun knew that no one could come to Flint from Montreal in one day, so he came to St. Louis and looked up a Flint newspaper in the exchanges of the St. Louis Republican, and there found Robert Cromwell's advertisement, "next door to the hotel" that was described and named in Robert's letter.

About this time Robert began to think he had done a foolish thing, and becoming frightened hurried down to see me. He concluded to come to Detroit for a while and leave his shop in charge of some man. This he did, and then opened a little restaurant at the corner of Brush and Larned streets. His mother came to Flint and soon traced him here, but the slave law then was the one of 1790. It authorized the master to seize his slave and bring him before the judge of the United States court, who would make the necessary order to bring him back. Judge Ross Wilkins, of sainted memory, was then judge of this circuit, and the United States courthouse was the First national bank building at the corner of Jefferson and Griswold.

Dun knew that to get any warrant or summons would be to put Cromwell on his guard and he consulted with the United States district attorney, at that time John Norvell, who told him he could seize his slave and bring him before Judge Wilkins, who would then have to make the order, but it would be impossible to do this in the streets, the man must be enticed to the court-house.

Accordingly an officer, who was appropriately named Bender, went to Cromwell and told him to come to the United States court to give testimony as to the character of certain houses in the vicinity of his shop, Cromwell wanted to know what the United States court had to do with the character of the houses. Bender, said he knew nothing, had recently come there, and so on. Then the officer produced an unsigned subpoena. Cromwell laughed at this, and the officer then went away and returned to say that the judge had ordered him to fetch him. On this Cromwell went.

Dun stood just inside the door of the building, and as soon as Cromwell entered he pushed it to and attempted to seize his former slave. Cromwell dashed for the window and tried to escape, giving the alarm. This was heard above and its nature suspected by Judge Wilkins, who at once fled from the court, it is said, to the attic. Anyway he disappeared.

George Ball was the clerk of the court. He yelled down to Cromwell not to allow himself to be fetched up - for God's sake not to come up. By this time George Le Baptiste, myself, and a score of others, among them George Rogers, a lawyer, were on the ground, but we could not get into the court-house - the door was closed. Ball, however, came to the upper window and threw us out a key to come in by another door, and in two minutes we had Cromwell free from Dun and rushed him down to the foot of Shelby street, into a skiff, and into Canada.

While this was done Dun was detained on the steps, the crowd growing momentarily larger and more threatening, a number of Irish among them crying out, "Where's the man stealer?" "Let us at him." When I came back Jefferson avenue was filled with people.

There stood Dun on the steps, towering over every one about him, and looking for a means of escape. All at once Dun make a dash. He thrust the crowd aside like chaff blown from a fanning-mill, and tore down Jefferson avenue, where a friendly door opened for him and closed to shut out the crowd. Just at this time the passage of a state law had been secured making it a penal offense "to inveigle or kidnap any fugitive slave to return him to slavery." Mark the wording.

Well, Elder Monroe whose picture you have there and who died in Africa on the St. Paul Loando river, where he had gone to establish a colony of episcopalians, took the lead in this affair and we demanded Dun's arrest under the law. It was hours before the officers fetched him out and brought him to Justice O'Byrne's office at the corner of Woodward and Jefferson avenues. We colored people demanded admittance, which was refused us, and we appealed to Mayor Van Dyke (pdf). We told him that Dun was from Maryland, and the United States court had jurisdiction. Our law point was bad, but we were many in number and resolute.

The mayor made us a speech and then declared we should be admitted. It was decided to postpone the hearing until 9 o'clock the next day, and when a bankrupt merchant was offered as bail Elder Monroe objected. The judge threatened to put us out, and we asked him to begin.

Then John Norvell offered himself as bail, but Monroe remembered that a mortgage sale of his property had recently been published, and objected to him. What would have happened I cannot say had not Dun cried out that he wanted no bail, that he preferred to go to jail. The mayor begged that no disgrace be brought upon the city by mob law.

The state law should be enforced, he declared, and proposed that we form in a double line in the street, allow Dun to be brought down and to pass to the jail, then on the site of the public library, where we could see him enter and be assured that he would be kept. We agreed to this, and the colored people kept their word, but the Irish population had not so agreed, and the danger to Dun's life was very great.

Just as we got to the jail a rush was made but it was stayed. Well Dun lay in jail till the next term - three months - and being afraid of the mob let his trial go over, and lay in jail six months more. He was rich, and had big lawyers come up from St. Louis, but it was no use, and we would have sent him to state prison had it not been that the law read, "to return to slavery." He had inveigled and attempted to kidnap, but there were not able to prove that he did it to return him to slavery.

"Well, when the United States senate met, Senator Benton introduced a fugitive slave bill with a speech in which his wonderful faculty for invective was turned upon Michigan. The history of the case he recited and charged Michigan (pdf) with being the resort of a nigger mob. Gen. Cass, United States senator from Michigan, then replied; and defended the state and its colored citizens in a way that set our hearts beating with joy.

But afterwards, when we thought we had him ready to swallow, and came to him to lead the petition to the state legislature to strike out the distinctive words "white and colored" in the state laws and constitution, he evaded us. So we went in to defeat his presidential aspirations, and we did. That is the story of the inception of the fugitive slave law.

"Well, our work went forward here just thirty-three years. It was a great one, and I am satisfied with my share of it. I have told more of it to you than I ever did to any one before. Indeed, I am quite hoarse with talking."

The old gentleman rose, indicating thereby that he had talked himself out for one sitting, and, giving me a courteous good night, added that, some other day, he would like to tell about the Bulwer-Clayton Treaty at length. F.H.P.

FIFTY YEARS A DETROITER

WILLIAM LAMBERT, THE REPRESENTATIVE NEGRO OF THIS VICINITY

Fifty years ago last Wednesday William Lambert, the veteran negro citizen of Detroit, reached this city to remain here permanently. He had been here three years before, but he remained but a few weeks. His first visit to Detroit was as cabin boy on a steamboat. Mr. Lambert was born free at Trenton, N.J., his father having been a slave who had bought his own freedom. In those days all negro children who received education in the common school branches, received it at the hands of Quakers and other philanthropic white people, and young Lambert was one who was so favored. After the historical Watt Tyler massacre the feeling against all people having African blood in their veins was so strong that it was very uncomfortable for them to live in counties bordering the southern states and so many of them moved into Canada.

Young Lambert, about this time, accepted an invitation to accompany his schoolmaster, also a negro, on a visit to Canada. Reaching Buffalo, the teacher changed his mind and left the boy at that city while he took a run over to Toronto. The boy passed his leisure by haunting the wharves, and when the teacher returned to Buffalo he learned that Will Lambert had shipped aboard a steamboat. Upon reaching Detroit Lambert had had enough of sailing and so stopped off. He had no shoes or stockings, no coat and no hat, but he had a good constitution and could read, write and cipher quite well. More than that he had energy, self-confidence and ambition.

Three years after reaching Detroit to remain here permanently, he was the secretary of the first state convention of colored citizens of Michigan ever held and the following winter he made an able argument before the judiciary committee of the State Legislature in support of a resolution - adopted at the convention named - and of a petition signed by Judge Wilkens and forty other leading citizens of Michigan asking that the word "white" be stricken from the State Consitution.

From that time to the time of John Brown he was an indefatigable worker in the cause of anti-slavery and it was at his house in this city that many meetings were held by John Brown and his followers, Mr. Lambert being one of them. The subject of this sketch, now over 70 years old, is full of thrilling reminiscences of the underground railway, and reels them off with great gusto. He is also well to do in a worldly sense, a member of the Episcopal Church, of many years standing, and one of the wardens of the St. Mathew's Church. A thorough believer in the inherent abilities of the negro race, he does not air his views except upon invitation, and then he argues clearly, forcibly and fairly, and greatly to the credit of that race of which he is so marked and able a representative.

Detroit Tribune, May 1, 1890.

Detroit Free Press, April 29, 1890

TOOK HIS LIFE

WILLIAM LAMBERT, THE WELL-KNOWN COLORED CITIZEN, COMMITS SUICIDE.

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE DECEASED, WHO HAD LIVED HERE FIFTY-TWO YEARS

About 4:30 yesterday morning the dead body of the venerable William Lambert, Detroit's most prominent and distinguished colored citizen, was found hanging by a clothes line suspended from a rafter in the woodshed in the rear of his cozy home, 497 Larned street east. Sunday morning and evening Mr. Lambert attended service at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, of which he was a warden and prominent member, returning the evening about 9 o'clock. His wife soon retired for the night, but Mr. Lambert, in pursuance of a custom that he has observed for some time, sat down in a favorite rocking chair near a base-burner stove, in the family sitting-room, and alternately dosed and meditated. When his son, Cromwell, returned home about 11 o'clock his father was in his accustomed place by the stove, and the young man supposing that he would soon go to bed, went on upstairs to his own room.

At 4 o'clock yesterday morning Mrs. Lambert awoke, and discovering that her husband was not in the room, immediately aroused her sons, Cromwell and Benjamin, who made a careful search of the premises, with the startling result before stated. Benjamin, who first found his father hanging in the shed, at once cut the body down and sent for Dr. Lyster, who soon responded. The physician soon satisfied himself that there was no possible hope of resuscitating Mr. Lambert, as life had apparently been extinct for two or three hours at least. Coroner Brown was summoned and viewed the remains.

For the last three months the members of Mr. Lambert's family have observed with much concern that a change was gradually coming over him. He seemed to be losing his mental grasp, and developed a well-defined tendency to wander almost dazed, and it ws with considerable difficulty that he could be made to appreciate his surroundings. Dr. Eaton, who was consulted, said that he had incipient softening of the brain, and ought not to be permitted to be left alone at all. About two months ago he left the house in the night and was found early the next morning at his place of business, 273 Jefferson avenue. The probabilities are that while sitting by the fire Sunday night, he became unusually despondent, and the impulse to take his own life became so strong he could not resist it. The clothes line with which the suicidal act was consummated was doubled four times around Mr. Lambert's neck, and from the position in which he was found, it is believed that he stood on the partition of a coal bin until he had fastened the line to the ring in the rafter, and then jumped off.

William Lambert was well and favorably known in Detroit, where he has resided fifty-two years. He was born in Trenton, N.J., a little more than seventy-one years ago. At an early age he was taken in hand by a schoolmaster named Abner Francis, under whose tutelage he received a good education. In 1832 young Lambert accompanied Mr. Francis as far west as Buffalo, where they separated. Lambert shipping as a cabin boy on a vessel. During that season he made his first visit to Detroit. He returned east after a brief experience on the lakes, and remained there until 1838, when he took up his permanent residence in Detroit. He opened a small tailor shop at the corner of Brush and Larned and there carried on business in a modest, unpretentious way for a number of years. Subsequently he moved to 273 Jefferson avenue, where he has since remained.

During the operation of the fugitive slave law Mr. Lambert was one of the principal conductors of the underground railway, and through his efforts many a poor, despairing, hunted slave was helped across the border into Canada. He was a conspicuous figure in the Chatham convention that met in May, 1858, where John Brown and a score or so of the faithful met in conference. About that time Fred Douglass lectured in Detroit, and a meeting was held here at which that distinguished orator, Elder Monroe, George DeBaptiste, Isaac [ ], and Mr. Lambert were prominent figures. At these conferences Brown advanced his ideas and presented his plans, which were opposed by Douglass, but approved of by Lambert. At the Chatham conference a provisional constitution for the United States and a declaration of independence that John Brown had prepared, were adopted. The chief end aimed at in this constitution was the emancipation of all slaves, dissolution of the union was not asked for, nor anything subversive of good government advocated.

Mr. Lambert was elected treasurer of the league of liberty that came into existence after the convention adjourned, and in that capacity did much good work. Mr. Lambert was a man of wide information, a student all his life, and possessed the faculty of expressing his ideas and opinions with more than ordinary felicity. He was a contributor for several years to the Voice of the Fugitive, a Canadian publication that did notable service in behalf of the colored race. In this community Mr. Lambert has always held the friendship and respect of the very best people, who saw in him much to honor and esteem. He was an excellent and exemplary citizen in all the walks of life, and his demise will have the best and kindest thoughts of all. All day yesterday his late residence was thronged with friends and acquaintances, who called to tender their sympathies and condolence to the stricken family. Mr. Lambert had accumulated a handsome property, which is estimated at about $75,000. He was a Mason and Odd Fellow of high standing. He is survived by a widow and six children. His oldest son, Touissant, is a letter-carrier; another son is a resident of New Orleans, while his remaining sons, Cromwell and Benjamin W., have been associated with him in business. One daughter, Miss Ella, lives at home, the other is Mrs. Samuel Williams, of this city. The time of the funeral has not yet been definitely fixed.

[lboogie1906]

Dr. Jerome R. Riley (March 17, 1844 - December 31, 1929) From the age of ten he was able to recite long passages in Latin from Virgil’s Aeneid and then translate the sense of the verses. In 1856 he was among the first four graduates of the Buxton Mission School, where he gained a classical education in an integrated setting. He attended the University of Toronto, Ontario’s Knox College, graduating with honors. By 1861, he received his license to practice medicine in Canada West.

He left his practice in Chatham, Ontario, and joined the Union Army as a contract surgeon. He remained in the US after the War, becoming one of the five founders of the Freedmen’s Hospital, the forerunner of Howard University Hospital.

He attended the Chicago Medical College for a year in 1869. He transferred to Howard University in 1870, from which he an MD in Allopathic Medicine in 1873.

He moved to Pine Bluff, Arkansas, quickly rising to the post of Jefferson County Physician and Acting Coroner. He became an active Democrat and participated in the 1874 Constitutional Convention in Arkansas.

He returned to DC. He married the former Agnes N. Nalle of Virginia (1977-1910). He was hired as a Watchman for the Senate in the Forty-fifth Congress.

In 1891 the DC Democrats elected him as their president. He served two terms as head of the William J. Bryan Colored Democratic Club. In 1899, he formed the National Negro Anti-Expansion, Anti-Imperialist, Anti-Trust, and Anti-Lynching League.

He published The Philosophy of Negro Suffrage (1895). He wrote Evolution or Racial Development (1901) by Reach the Reached Negro (1903).

He and his wife lived in Seattle, Hartford. When his wife died in 1910 he moved to Brooklyn, where he would remain politically active and continue to write and accept speaking engagements until his death. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[mywifeleftme]

243: Dave Russell // Bricolage

Bricolage Dave Russell 1992, Hangman

Tracked on a reel-to-reel recorder in an afternoon in the basement of Billy Childish’s home in Chatham, UK and released on his personal label, 1992’s Bricolage was the first album by Dave Russell, a folk musician and poet who has been performing around London since the late ‘60s. While he got a flicker of interest from an MCA A&R man back in 1969, he’d never been picked up despite the era’s post-Dylan / Fairport Convention feeding frenzy. Upon listening to Russell this isn’t exactly surprising: between his sarcastic, paranoic lyrics, spindly fingerstyle playing, and pinched, aggravated voice, this is thoroughly outsider-coded music. If he were cast in a Pixar movie, it would be as the voice of a cranky leftist-libertarian mosquito troubadour.

Of course, the dyspepsia of Bricolage is what helps it rise above standard peace-and-love folk revival pablum. The songs inveigh against clinical psychiatry, Britain’s elite, ecological collapse, and uh cosmetics (Jonathan Swift style). Russell’s lyrics begin as poems, and you can often feel him bending his melodies to accommodate his intricate wordplay—songs with the simple cadences of traditional folk songs are crammed with syllables, while others drift off into more diffuse, atonal structures as he rambles. He plays fiercely, his technical precision juddering against the manic force of his picking. In interviews, Russell’s talked about his interest in progressive jazz and experimental classical music (e.g. Bartok, Stockhausen), and that bent reveals itself in the fractured, hair-raising virtuosity of story-song “Microscope”:

My favourite cut is probably his cover of the Jazz Butcher’s “Bicycle Kid.” While the Butcher original juxtaposes its hysterical description of an 11-year-old sociopath with a sunny guitar pop arrangement, Russell’s is a jagged Billy Childish-esque folk-punk screed that vibrates with irritated rage—when Russell sings the closing “You’re an evil little fucker” refrain you feel like he’s about to throttle the kid.

By the end of Bricolage I usually feel a little rubbed raw by Russell’s style, but beyond its status as an interesting footnote in the Childish/Thee Headcoats musical universe, on balance the record is a bit of an unplucked gem for aficionados of avant-folk music. As of late 2023, Russell still performs regularly in his community, and had a handful of CD-only releases around the turn of the millennium.

243/365

See also: Rob Hertner