#frank mildmay

[clove-pinks]

"The Little Midshipman" by Wilson Nesbit, on a 1930s tin of Macfarlane Lane & Co. biscuits.

...I found my captain, and presented my father's letter. He surveyed me from top to toe, and desired the pleasure of my company to dinner at six o'clock. "In the mean time," he said, "as it is now only eleven, you may go a-board, and shew yourself to Mr. Handstone, the first lieutenant, who will cause your name to be entered on the books, and allow you to come back here to dine." I bowed and retired. And on my way to Mutton Cove was saluted by the females, with the appellation of Royal Reefer (midshipman), and a Biscuit Nibbler; but all this I neither understood nor cared for.

— Frederick Marryat, Frank Mildmay (The Naval Officer).

[marryat92]

The circumstance of my going to sea affected my father in no other way than it interfered with his domestic comforts by the immoderate grief of my poor mother. In any other point of view my choice of profession was a source of no regret to him.

— Frederick Marryat, Frank Mildmay (The Naval Officer).

"Fitting Out": an 1820 drawing and watercolour picture by Captain Marryat (British Museum). The mother of the young midshipman destined for H M Ship Hellfire weeps at left.

[kaxenart]

A commission of Frank Mildmay with Bisexual Lighting for @clove-pinks

[maritime-matchups]

[givemogahug]

We don’t talk about Ezra (aka I watched enanto with Nevermoor brainrot)

Martha: We don't talk about Ezra , oh, no, no!

We don't talk about Ezra ... but

It was a winter day

Charlie: It was a winter day

Martha: They were they were in the plaza, and there wasn't a soul asking why 

Charlie: No one ever asked why 

Martha: the wundersmith sings and his hounds barking back 

Charlie: Wunder!

Martha: You telling this story, or am I?

Charlie: I'm sorry, little bee, go on

Martha:Ezra says, "the end is near”

(They are so dead)

In doing so, he spreads his fear

(Prepare for bloodshed)

Soon there was but graves and tears

Charlie: What a horrid story but sleep sound

Both: We don't talk about Ezra , no, no, no!

We don't talk about Ezra!

Jack: Hey! Spent my Childhood in fear of the Wundersmith returning 

I thought that hear him sort of humming, smell of burning

I associate him with the sound of baying hounds , Ooh-Awoo

Got a heavy duty with the burdens so unwieldy 

Always left the people of the free state reeling

Seeing the Wundrous gifts they couldn't understand

Do you understand?

Frank: a wicked, wretched man 

With eyes of gleaming black 

When you dew his ire there was no turning back

And now he haunts dark dreams 

And longs to hear us scream (hey!) 

We don't talk about Ezra , oh, no, no! (We don't talk about Ezra , oh, no, no!)

We don't talk about Ezra(we don't talk about Ezra !)

Chanda: he was a sweet young boy

Then- well you know (Oh, no!)

Sofia: his life was complicated but the story they show…(no, no!)

Jupiter: stay away from him he lies like wind blows (no, no! Hey!)

Chorus: if you want to live and you see him you should go! 

Mildmay: He told me that my dark fantasies were within reach if only I tried 

He told me that he loved me but I should have known, should have known, that he lied

Kedgeree: Oye, Israfel’s on his way

Mildmay: he tempted me with the power I dreamed  of if I gave him what he desired 

Jack: It's like I hear him now

Squall:Miss Crow, I want not a word out of you (I can hear him now)

Jack: I can hear him now

Mog:Um, Ezra ...

Yeah, about that, Ezra...

I really need to know about Ezra ...

Give me the truth and the whole truth, Ezra 

(Uncle Jove! your boyfriend's here)

Time for dinner!

A wicked, wretched man (it was a winter day, it was a winter day)

With eyes of gleaming black (they were in the plaza)

When you drew his ire (and there wasn’t a soul asking why)

There was no turning back (no one ever asked why!)

Now he haunts dark dreams (the Wundersmith sings and his hounds barking back)

And longs for our screams (Wunder!)

You telling this story, or am I?

I'm sorry,little bee , go on (oye , Israfel is on his way)

Ezra says, "the end is near” (a wicked, wretched man with eyes of gleaming black) 

In doing so, he spreads his fear

Soon there was but graves and tears

Kedgeree: He's here!

All: Don't talk about Ezra , no! (Why did I talk about Ezra ?)

Not a word about Ezra !

Mog: I never should've brought up Ezra !

This is PERFECT! I love it

I'm imagining mildmay being lowered to the ground on a swing made of vines now.

Pure gold

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Youths Demonstrate Wireless Power Invention,” Toronto Star. January 5, 1933. Page 3. ---- Claiming they have invented a process whereby electricity can be transmitted without a wire conductor, two Mildmay youths have startled the electrical world by a demonstration of their invention to some two score relatives and townsfolk in Bruce county. Placing a transmitter in a farmhouse a mile and a half from the village of Mildmay, Frank Fedy and his partner, Ted Hesch, received enough electrical current ‘from the air’ to light some 25 bulbs in the store of Fedy’s father without the use of wires of any description, they claim. In (1) is shown the home of Joseoh Reinhart, one and a half miles from the Fedy store, where the transmitter was placed the night of the demonstration. Ted Hesch (2), pal and partner of Frank Fedy in the enterprise, who is a blacksmith by trade. Frank Fedy is shown in (3) with part of the equipment he has invented. Joseph Reinhart (4), farmer, with his dogs, on whose farm the sending equipment was placed. Alex. Fedy’s store (5) lit up by the electrical current, and in (6) is shown Ted Hesch and (7) Frank Fedy, the youthful inventors.

[elyksina]

1812 Frank Mildmay & companion. Commission for @clove-pinks!

[somfte]

Okay per the recommendations from @marryat92 I downloaded Frank Mildmay and this note in the preface is so funny??

[clove-pinks]

My new desk/study area coming together very nicely, feat. Captain Marryat's portrait and signed cheque complimented by @elyksina art of Frank Mildmay.

[marryat92]

The discipline of public schools, bad and demoralizing as it is, was light, compared to the tyranny of a midshipman's berth in 1803.

— Frederick Marryat, The Naval Officer (Frank Mildmay)

Thomas Luny, A British frigate backing her sails as she heaves-to approaching Torbay with other ships of the fleet beyond, 1803. (Wikimedia Commons)

[marryat92]

Captain Marryat references this in a passage from The Naval Officer (Frank Mildmay), where the philandering protagonist justifies his behaviour:

I felt that I had a clear right to boast of constancy; nor were the flirtations of Halifax and Quebec at all incompatible with such a declaration. The fair sex will start at this proposition; but it is nevertheless true. Emily was to me what the Dutchman's best anchor was to him—he kept it at home, for fear of losing it. He used other anchors in different ports, that answered the purpose tolerably well; but this best bower he always intended to ride by in the Nieu deep, when he had escaped all the dangers and quicksands of foreign shores: such was Emily to me.

Dutchman’s Anchor

A term used to describe anything needed that’s been left at home. It stems from the tale (possibly of the 17th century)  of a Dutch captain, who commented after his ship had been wrecked that he had a most excellent anchor….. he just left it at home.

[kaxenart]

A commission for @clove-pinks of Frank Mildmay

[maritime-matchups]

welcome to ROUND 1 of the MARITIME MATCHUPS!

Round 1 Masterpost:

Nigel and Chauncey Badminton vs Peter Calamy

Henry Noble vs Hiram Nightingale

Horatio Nelson (As Portrayed by Jim Howick) vs Sir John Franklin

Midshipman Longley vs William Blakeney

Barrett Bonden vs the Dark-Spectacled Admiral

Francis Crozier vs James Barnes

Chadwick Goodfellow vs Marmaduke Bonthrop Shelmerdine

Arthur Courtney vs Midshipman Hollom

Alexander MacIntosh vs Frank Mildmay

Captain Chase vs Roger Byam

William Mowett vs Sir Edward Pellew

William Bush vs Thomas Pullings

William Laurence vs James Norrington

Archie Kennedy vs Frederick Wentworth

[clove-pinks]

has everyone seen Frank Mildmay yet I am not normal about this one lads 😭❤❤❤

he really has Marryat's eyes, dark and sparkling like the Dixon portrait, and that little smirk, my heart

The Naval Officer Frank Mildmay

"I was now in my twenty-second year; my figure was decidedly of a handsome cast; my face, what I knew most women admired. My personal advantages were heightened by the utmost attention to dress; the society of the fair Arcadians had very much polished my manners, and I had no more of the professional roughness of the sea, than what, like the crust of the port wine, gave an agreeable flavour; my countenance was as open and as ingenuous as my heart was deceitful and desperately wicked." -- Frederick Marryat, Frank Mildmay, or The Naval Officer

generated from the text prompt "young proud handsome arrogant smirking Royal Navy naval officer" and image prompts of: the naval novellist captain frederick marryat and a picture of ioan gruffudd as hornblower using the neural network AI midjourney with a few edits and tweaks post-generation

with thanks and inspiration to @marryat92

[butchcaseyjones]

i’m forcing myself into the nevermoor fandom so we’ve got orientation/gender headcanons

morrigan crow - she/her, cis girl, asexual lesbian

cadence blackburn - she/they, nonbinary lesbian

hawthorne swift - he/him, trans boy, bisexual

mahir ibrahim - he/him, cis boy, gay (he’s also jewish because i say so)

archan tate - they/he, genderfluid, gay and asexual

francis fitzwilliam - he/him, trans boy, bi aroace

anah kahlo - she/her, trans girl, pansexual 

thaddea macleod - she/her, cis girl, lesbian

lamya ra/lambeth amara - they/them, nonbinary lesbian

jupiter north - he/him, cis man, bisexual

jack korrapati - he/they, trans demiboy, gay

marina cheery - she/her, trans woman, lesbian (canon!)

dame chanda kali - she/her, cis woman, pansexual and polyamorous

frank - he/they, nonbinary, gay

israfel - they/xe/he, nonbinary, pansexual

roshni singh - she/they, cis woman, lesbian (canon!)

baz charlton - he/him, cis man, gay (gives off major homophobic vibes but i choose to believe homophobia doesn’t exist in nevermoor)

henry mildmay - he/him, cis man, agonizingly heterosexual

ezra squall - he/they, demiboy, bisexual

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Another literary contrubution of mine for Midshipman Monday, but this time, the aged admiral, on his way to subdue the town of Boston in the spring of 1774, recalls his own, far from happy days as a midshipman in the late 1730s, inspired to some extent by the classic 'midshipman tales' of the early days of C. S. Forester's Hornblower, Patrick O'Brian's The Golden Ocean, and perhaps even Frederick Marryat- at least in so far that young Samuel Graves is the exact opposite of the handsome, dashing Frank Mildmay.

Some slight warnings for period typical attitudes towards, among other things, religion and being (percived as) Irish, mild violence and derogatory language.

He was at sea again- at sea—! The breeze, the fine air- ‘twas what he had long missed, he realised, and although he had been so utterly happy at the Fort, and retained a certain melancholia when thinking of those left behind on shore (parting with Bridget and the infant Mary, his grand-niece, and particularly little Eliza Gwillim had been an abominably sorrowful affair), he was very glad of the timbers below his feet, and the billowing, white sails above.

A ship could by no means be called a place of refinement, or comfort: no-one who had ever smelt bilge-water or had found a weevil in his biscuit could say so. The confined space, the hard work and barely supportable lodgings made not for an elegant living— but he minded it not.

Elegance had never been part of his expectation for life: it had been known to him since the day of his birth that his was to be a life defined by his own doings, his own merit, always outshone by the deeds of three brothers older than he.

When his uncle had graciously provided him with the opportunity to leave the fogged obscurity of the Irish countryside and provided him with a letter of recommendation, he had been awfully glad, for he had thought himself never much cut out for any other profession. He had lacked the patient studiousness and deliberate, deceptive cunning to make a lawyer like his cousin William or a man of the cloth like his brother John, and he would never have joined the army, knowing that his grandsire had been murdered in that service, having never felt any desire to be pierced through the heart with a rascal’s bayonet or knife, and stabbed to death in his bed as well as the late poor Captain James John Graves.

The Navy had been the correct choice for him, and within no time, he had taken to sailing rather naturally. It was almost with a wistful fondness not unlike that he felt for his godsons and little niece that he thought of Mr. Graves, the Mid: an awkward young fellow, he recalled, a little too old (God d—m the years of his youth spent managing Gravesend and its lands at an age when other boys would frolic and play with little care in the world) of very few words and eager to please, yet not succeeding as often as he should have liked.

Having never been a man of particular eloquence, he had resigned himself to watching, and observing his new mess-mates. The latter had not been well pleased with this new addition to the midshipmen’s berth, another boy to compete for the captain’s attention and preferment, and shewed him their open dislike. His “lowering looks” and “sullen mien” were often commented on, though with age, he had realised there could have been done but little in that regard, for his face naturally bespoke his name, with features more severe and strong than the rubicund roundness so well-liked in a young countenance.

“…He, Graves?” He had not condescended to respond to whatever question (insulting, or making merry on his expense, no doubt) had been thrown his way on that particular night so many years ago, when he was freshly come on board and had been at sea for less than a month. He had been reading, and not paid attention to the game of cards or the conversations of the other mids that filled their berth with noises of public merriment that, like a ship without anchor, drifted and strayed from its course. From constant and inevitable observation he had come to expect that whatever had been said had not been of great substance, and almost certainly directed against him.

“Does the Teague know English?” one of them had asked in mockery of his quiet study of a book and wilful ignorance of their conversation, his voice raised like one desperately wishing to make himself understood to a foreigner without knowing their language and another replied, smirking: “Nay, they are all savages there, and Papists; though I believe those are much the same things.”

All of them knew full well he knew English— in fact, it was the language he had been accustomed to from birth, and could but identify two, or three words in the Irish, or Erse, as it is called by learned men, which he had heard spoken as a boy in back-alleys at country-fairs and the like. And his father had been a Man of the Cloth, a better Christian no doubt than this wretched set of dissipaters, drinking and playing cards for money with their meagre pay.

“I am no Teague”, he had barked indignantly, and risen to his feet. “Oh, but you are”, he was replied to with the smirking satisfaction of on thinking themselves quite superior on account of having dealt a smarting blow, “you sure talk like one.”

It was then that his patience was totally exhausted: for too long had he endured in martyred silence the malicious commentary of his fellow midshipmen, had accepted their dislike with resignation— he could not bear it any longer. He was aware that the boy who had insulted him was smaller than he, and lighter by three stone at least. His father had taught him to oppose violence against another man, to dislike fighting, but the late Reverend Graves’ words were but faint, inconsequential echoes in his ears when his first blow was struck, and the impertinent comrade’s nose broken.

He had proceeded to administer a sound drubbing to make certain no other would ever dare to insult him again, and made an example of the lad, whose swollen face had revealed his crime to the first lieutenant, who in turn had dragged him before their captain by the scruff of his neck, which he feared to have snapped this next instant by the captain's hands not unlike like that of a fat goose destined for the Christmas table at home in Gravesend.

The captain had, to his luck, done nothing of the sort, and instead berated him for near an hour, to make it plain such behaviour should not be tolerated aboard his ship, and he be disrated at the faintest whisper of another such fight. And did he know, the young sir, how such could easily be punished under the Articles of War? His captain had dealt to him a kinder fate; night-watches and some time in the main top-gallant cross trees had been enough to satisfy him in the knowledge that Mr. Graves would not shew disobedience again.

If those days when he had been but nineteen, and freshly at sea had been the worst of his service, then this present commission ought to be his best: although he was reluctant to harbour too much optimism, for one could never tell what might happen, he could not fully bridle the elation of having been given so prodigious a Command as the North American Station.