More about Captain Kendall and NAS Lakehurst history 1945-1950…

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I’ve been going through yet more of the (digitised) papers in the Smithsonian’s Captain George Henry Mills Collection, and have more to share about Captain Charles Kendall and NAS Lakehurst history.

The CNATE Succession

At the start of the period in question (1945-1950), the base commander at NAS Lakehurst was Vice Admiral Charles (‘Rosey’) Rosendahl. However, when ill health forced Rosendahl to retire early, the base was temporarily run by Captain William Arthur (‘Art’) Cockell, who then handed over to Rear Admiral Thomas (‘Tex’) Settle. Settle was in turn replaced by George (‘Shorty’) Mills, who held the post of CNATE to mid-1949.

We can see much of this from a clipping from “The Bag Vet” (Number 1, Vol 1, 1st September 1946, p.1), an airship “News Sheet For All Vets of Blimpron 14”, which, along with all its where-are-they-now and would-you-like-a-job-flying-a-Howard-Hughes-blimp articles, also included airship-related news from various NAS bases such as Lakehurst:

(By way of explanation: a “blimpron” was a “blimp squadron”, Blimpron 14 was also known as “ZP-14”).

Captain Kendall updates

Even though Charles Kendall seems (unlike Rosendahl and Mills) not to have subscribed to The Bag Vet, a few news items relating to him do appear there. For example, in The Bag Vet, Jan 15th 1947:

Decoding the Navy acronyms, “C.O. ZP12” was “Commanding Officer of Blimpron ZP-12”: this was the blimp squadron that covering the Atlantic during WWII. “X.O” was “Executive Officer”, who was normally the Number Two on a given base. So it seems from this that Kendall started as Executive Officer under Tex Settle, but then became Experimental Officer at the start of 1947.

Incidentally, there’s a nice picture of Kendall as C.O. ZP-12 in “United States Naval Air Station Lakehurst New Jersey – A Photographic Essay”, a copy of which is in the George Mills Collection:

The Bag Vet (Vol. 1, Number 5, 1st Nov 1947) mentions the demise of Project Helios (note that Commander Henry Calvin Spicer Jr was for a while the designated pilot for Project Helios):

So, at some point in 1947, Captain Art Cockell was SDO NAS Lakehurst, Captain Charles Kendall was Experimental Officer, and Lt. Commander Alcide Theriault was Assistant Experimental Officer beneath Kendall. However, we can date this organisational change to before 24th August 1947, because that sadly was when Lt. Commander Howe (“Training Officer” above) died in an automobile accident:

Incidentally, in a US Navy context, a “Flag Officer” means a commissioned officer senior enough that they are entitled to fly a flag at the place they exercise their command. While this normally applies to rear admirals or higher, it can also apply to someone who has commanded a squadron of vessels. Yet in such cases, this normally only applies for up to a couple of years until a suitable promotion (normally to rear admiral) can be put in place.

So it would seem that in 1947, Captain Charles Hansford Kendall was very close to becoming an Admiral in the US Navy, a rank his older brother Henry Samuel Kendall had previously reached. It therefore seems likely to me that Kendall would have taken on the role of Experimental Officer at NAS Lakehurst only on a temporary basis: at that time, he was surely headed for a bigger role within the Navy before too long.

Where next in the archives?

While it has been helpful going through the (fully-digitised) George Mills Collection at the Smithsonian, and frustrating looking at the finding aid for its (entirely undigitised) J. Gordon Vaeth Collection (boo), it left me wondering if I was even looking in the right place.

I think it fair to say that George Mills was more of an administrator who liked LTA, while Vaeth was an airship enthusiast (if not actually a bit of an LTA history obsessive). But both of them were left firmly in the shade by Vice Admiral Charles Rosendahl: following his early retirement, Rosendahl seems to have spent the next 30-odd years writing constantly about airships – from the archives, there seem to be few newspapers or magazines or journals to which he didn’t submit pieces or articles concerning LTA.

And so it is that Charles Emery Rosendahl’s voluminous collection of LTA material at the Special Collections Department, Eugene McDermott Library (at the University of Texas at Dallas) has ended up, without much doubt, as the best place to look for answers to historical questions about airships and US Navy LTA history in general. This contains over 330 boxes of material: there’s a finding aid here.

Why is this so good? For example, whereas the George Mills Collection has a few cherry-picked issues of “The Airship” from NAS Lakehurst, the Rosendahl Collection holds (I believe) every issue from 1944 right through to 1958. Similarly, Rosendahl has Vol. 2 Number 6 of The Bag Vet (Mills only goes up to Number 5), along with a whole load of rare LTA newsletters that it would seem nobody else has ever heard of.

Even though I think I have already unpicked much of the raw history I was hoping to find, the answer to the thorny question of what actually happened to Charles Kendall still evades me. Yet there seems a good chance that the answer will be found in the Charles Rosendahl Collection, either in “The Airship” or The Bag Vet (Vol. 2 Number 6), if only I could find a way to look there…

Captain Charles Kendall at NAS Lakehurst…

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A few days ago, I wondered whether I might find any clues to what happened to Captain Charles Hansford Kendall not when Rear Admiral Tex Settle was base commander of NAS Lakehurst (1946 – September 1947), but when Captain George Henry Mills was (October 1947 to June 1949). Helpfully, Captain Mills’ family made a substantial donation of his papers and notes to the Smithsonian Archives not too long ago: and – amazingly – almost all of the George H. Mills Collection is digitised and available online. So there is plenty to work with…

11th March 1947

There’s a brief mention of Captain Kendall here, in a memorandum from Tex Settle (it’s in one of the files holding correspondence between Mills and Settle):

16th August 1947

Close to the end of his time at NAS Lakehurst, Tex Settle sent out a fairly robust letter summarising the difficulties he had experienced as base commander. Kendall’s name was on a list of addressees, but unfortunately it’s not clear (to my eyes, at least) what was marked against his name:

I tried zooming in but it’s no clearer, the punched holes went straight through the interesting bit, alas:

10th October 1947 – Lakehurst Org Chart

This organisational chart of the base dated 10th October 1947 was something I found interesting: this was in Memos – Naval Airship Training and Experimental Command (CNATE) personnel, 1947-1949. You can see that the Chief Staff Officer position (immediately below CNATE, the base commander) was a hugely important position (page 4):

Page 2 includes a list of the major roles under CNATE at Lakehurst, including the Experimental Officer role (which was essentially head of the Experimental Section):

Oddly, Charles Kendall’s newspaper obituaries gave conflicting accounts of his position at Lakehurst: the Associated Press version was that he was Chief of Staff (CSO) to the base commander, while the reporter who talked to his widow noted that he was NAS Lakehurst’s Experimental Officer.

However, page 1 of the same document shows that it was Captain William Arthur (“Art”) Cockell who was the CSO as of October 1947:

November 1947 – List of Lakehurst Personnel

The following document gives a list of NAS Lakehurst personnel as of November 1947. This starts with RADM Tex Settle (who had just left), and you can see Captain George Mills as CNATE just below:

At the end of the section listing all the Captains, we see Captain Art Cockell and Captain Charles Kendall, who were both noted as being base Staff:

And yes, you can see that Captain Kendall’s entry was clearly marked as “SICK”.

January 1948 – Visitors to Base

A different series of document give CNATE News Memoranda, which are a lot like cut-down versions of NAS Lakehurst’s “The Airship” newsletter, but much more tightly focused on the NATEC part of Lakehurst, rather than its (numerically larger) training section.

Here we can see visitors such as airship designer C. P. Burgess coming over from BuAer visiting the base:

15th June 1948 – XZPN Design Visit

Here we get to see the first active mention of Charles Kendall I found from George Mills’ time as CNATE:

Hence it would seem that Associated Press (later) got it wrong: Kendall was not Lakehurst’s CSO, but NATEC’s Experimental Officer.

25th April 1949 – Naval Hospital, Philadelphia

This, alas, is the last mention I was able to find of Charles Kendall in the George Mills Collection, and signals Kendall’s impending transfer to the Naval Hospital in Philadelphia:

Because Captain George Mills left Lakehurst (and indeed retired from the Navy) in June 1949, the series of CNATE memoranda the Smithsonian has finishes just before Captain Kendall’s death (in the Naval Hospital) in August 1949. Hence – unless further CNATE memoranda appear – this report may also prove to be the end of the line for this particular archival trawl.

Wanted: Physicist Collaborator (to help solve a gnarly cipher mystery)…

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I’ve got a historical material science / metallurgy / applied physics itch I’d really like to scratch, but it falls far beyond my (relatively meagre) physics skillz. I’ll describe the challenge as best I can, (hopefully) enough for one or more potential physicist collaborators to step forward to help me move the whole narrative forward. Thanks!

The Alloy Challenge

The scenario: the year is 1937, and you are a highly-skilled metallurgist. You have just been handed an ingot of a little-known (and incredibly expensive) shiny new alloy.

The challenge you have been set by your bosses:

  1. How would you fashion this into a foil? (You can do this however you like)
  2. How would you predict (and then measure) that foil’s tensile strength?
  3. How would you join pieces of that foil together (e.g. brazing or riveting) so that the lap tensile strength isn’t significantly weaker than the foil’s tensile strength.

To help you, you can assume you have a copy of the First Edition of Hansen’s (German, later translated into English) “Constitution of Binary Alloys”, along with a state-of-the-art-for-1937 laboratory / technical library. 😉

Email me (nickpelling at nickpelling dot com) and I’ll tell you the alloy! Thanks!

Guy de Cointet’s “A Captain From Portugal” (1972)

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French artist Guy de Cointet (1934–1983) once made a series of enciphered artworks, one of which found itself uploaded to imgur (by user “drpoopandpee”, *sigh*) in 2020, triggering a brief flurry of interest on Reddit from user Doc_Skeef.

Once Klaus Schmeh posted about it, it didn’t take his readers long to realise that it was (in part) a simple substitution cipher. For example, the ciphertext at the centre of the cover image looks like this:

This can be transcribed as:

     A CAPT
     AIN FR
     OM POR
     TUGAL.

How can you tell this? The cipher alphabet used for the above appears on a different page:

Here you can see the “=” glyph at the top (for plaintext ‘A’), with the ‘<‘ glyph immediately below it (for plaintext ‘C’), etc, which should get you started reading “A CAPTAIN…” on the cover page. A nice piece of work by Klaus’ commenter Armin!

“Bands of pigmentation”

But one of the other pages, once correctly decrypted (by commenters ShadowWolf and Matthew Brown) offered up a mysterious plaintext for which nobody had an explanation:

like bands of pigmentation in the zebra, the ridged elevations formed on the shell of the argonaut and on the giant cactus of the west present …

I can now actually reveal that this text came from “Finger Prints, Palms and Soles: An Introduction to Dermatoglyphics“, a 1943 book by Harold Cummins Ph.D., and Charles Midlo M.D. I’ll transcribe the full section (“Other Patternings In Nature”, pp.34-36), simply because the OCR of the original book is so bad (which may possibly explain why nobody found it before).

There are numerous parallelisms in nature of dermatoglyphic configurations and of minutiae of individual ridges. The analysis of what might be termed the geometry of biology is a field in itself.

One of the most striking illustrations of dermatoglyphic parallelism is the form and arrangement of stripes in some animals, the zebra being a familiar instance (Fig. 32). The bands of pigmentation in the zebra, and in a negative fashion the light stripes separating them, show remarkable resemblance to the configurations and minutiae of epidermal ridges. The stripes have ends and forkings which simulate minutiae and there are triangular consolidations of stripes which resembled triradii. The several areas presenting unlike directions of stripes might be likened to configurational areas in a palm or sole. In some zebras there are regional organizations of strips that may be likened to dermatoglyphic patterns and vestiges.

Hair arrangement also is suggestively similar to dermatoglyphic configurations. Hairs are projected at a slant from the skin. In a restricted region of the body the hairs slant in a common direction (fig 33) but adjoining regions may present quite different slants as exemplified by the parting of the hair of the scalp and the occurrence of one or two whorls on the crown. Other regions of the body likewise present local [p.35] distinctions of hair arrangement, and though that arrangement accords with a common general topography, there are individual differences. The areas in which the hairs point uniformly in one direction may be compared to open fields of the dermatoglyphics. The crown whorl and similar configurations elsewhere are patterns, and the irregularities localized at the points of juncture of three or four areas of different hair slants correspond to triradii.

Like bands of pigmentation in the zebra, the ridged elevations formed on the shell of the argonaut and on the giant cactus of the West present bifurcations and ends resembling the minutiae of eipdermal ridges. Inanimate nature is not lacking in similar illustrations. Sand whipped by wind or waves, may show ridges conforming with surprising exactness to the characteristic of epidermal ridges, with forkings, enclosures and ends (Fig. 34). Similarly, some cloud formations exhibit bands with ends and [p.36] forkings. Periodic precipitates (Liesegang rings) resulting from diffusion into a gel of a substance reactive with another substance contained in the gel, behave under some conditions like the lines of cellular proliferation which produce epidermal ridges. If the gel is contained in a capillary tube of uniform bore and no disturbing factors modify the reaction, the passage of the diffusing solution is marked by a succession of regularly spaced discs of precipitate which on edge view are seen to be perfectly plane. Variations in caliber of the tube or sudden changes in temperature produce warping and other irregularities of these discs which as shown in figure 35 are in edge view curiously like the irregularities of epidermal ridges.

The physical principles responsible for the configuration of wind swept sand, banded clouds or of periodic precipitates are probably simpler in their operation than the factors which underlie the production of dermatoglyphic configurations and ridge minutiae. Nevertheless, the forces concerned may prove to have more in common than mere outward resemblance of their effects.

But What Does It All Mean?

OK, I’ll cheerfully admit that I have no idea. But Cummins and Midlo’s book is all about fingerprinting, so I went off a-hunting to see if I could find a Portuguese captain who was historically connected with fingerprinting in some way. Though I found nothing even slightly of interest, perhaps others will have more luck than me. But it’s a start!

Patrick O’Neil, and the interwar hunt for Mauritian treasure (Part 3)…

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In Part 1 and Part 2, I looked at how early British ‘geophys’ technology and Mauritian treasure hunting dreams converged in the 1920s. But once the Liverpool firm of W. Mansfield & Co had been persuaded by the Klondyke Syndicate to jump into the Bernardin Nageon de l’Estang treasure-hunting fire, I think it’s safe to say that just about all outcomes were going to be bad.

So what did happen next? And who exactly was “Captain Russell”, Mansfield’s main man in Mauritius?

The Death of the Dream

From a short article in the The Daily News (4th February 1927, p.10), we can see almost exactly to the day when Mansfield’s expensive treasure-hunting collaboration with the Klondyke Syndicate ended up:

After several unsuccessful attempts to locate what is known as the “Klondyke Treasure” on this island, Captain Russell, of Liverpool, is returning to England.

It is understood that Captain Russell was sent out by a large Liverpool firm for the purpose of prospecting for precious metal. A staff of 50 men and women, under his control, have been engaged for the past 18 months in elaborate excavations. Each successive attempt has ended in failure, and the expedition has finally decided to abandon the treasure hunt.

The last attempt alone is said to have cost £15,000.

But who was he? For several years, I and others have been trying to find out more about Captain Russell: apart from a few brief newspaper articles (such as the Daily News article above), he seemed to have been almost as hard to find as the Klondyke Treasure itself.

Well, that was the situation until this weekend, when my latest attempt to rake keyword phrases through the British Newspaper Archives at long last yielded what seem to be interesting results…

The Lusitania!

In the Linlithgowshire Gazette of 17th May 1935 p.3 (don’t say I don’t spoil you), I found an article discussing a particularly hi-tech sea expedition to locate the wreck of the Lusitania:

An expedition will set out from the Clyde next month to the wreck of the Lusitana [sic] to attempt to retrieve documents and other valuables locked in her strongroom.

Cinema pictures and still photographs of the liner will be taken to show the world how the former pride of the Clyde lies shattered under the waves.

The venture is being organised by the Argonaut Corporation, Ltd., of London and Glasgow.

A ship named the Orphir is now being fitted out in the Beardmore Dockyard at Dalmuir.

The equipment embodies all the latest contributions of modern science and engineering to deep-sea exploration. One of the most valuable units is a flexible metal diving suit, fitted with mechanical hands, which will enable divers to work safely and comfortably in depths hitherto unattainable, with the mobility of the ordinary rubber dress.

Wonderfully, the (actually very fascinating) Coast Monkey website has some pictures of this state-of-the-art diving suit from 1935 being lowered into the water with intrepid diver Jim Jarrett inside, which you really need to see here to appreciate:

The metal dress was tested in Loch Ness by experts, who testified that at a depth of about 450 feet they had the same freedom of movement as was possible at only a few feet down.

With the new dress, divers will be able easily to reach the Lusitania, lying 280 feet deep, and work their way freely into the wreck, if necessary burning a passage through the steel hull with oxy-hydrogen burners.

Locating the Wreck

The article continues:

It is known that the Lusitania lies approximately ten miles off the Old Head of Kinsale, Ireland, and it will be necessary to scour about 15 square miles of the ocean bed to find her.

To eliminate the hit-or-miss element in the search, the organisers of the expedition will divide the area into squares, each of which will be explored in turn until the ship is located or the entire area covered.

A buoy will be anchored in the centre of the square, and measuring with a rangefinder the distance of the ship from the buoy, in conjunction with compass bearings, the invisible sea furrow ploughed by the ship will be accurately traced on a specially made chart. The chart will show the area covered each day, and make it impossible for the navigator to duplicate his tracks.

NOTHING FANTASTIC

Captain Henry Russell, marine superintendent of the expedition company, explained on Monday the method of operation in detail.

Captain Russell emphasised that there was nothing hare-brained or fantastic about the expedition. “I might emphasise that we are not going to make any attempt to refloat the Lusitania – a project which would be absurd,” he said.

“Nor do we expect to find any bullion on board. This is not a treasure-hunt. It is a practical demonstration of what can be done to explore the hitherto unrevealed secrets of the ocean bed with our modern apparatus.

“After the Lusitania we intend to explore other wrecks.”

Now, I can’t yet definitively prove that this Captain Henry Russell setting off to the Lusitania in 1935 with hi-tech sounding gear was the same Captain Russell who had previously gone to Mauritius on behalf of William Mansfield. But… I think it’s overwhelmingly likely.

His “Romantic Quest”

The Motherwell Times of 19th July 1935 (p.8) wasn’t fooled: this trip to the Lusitania was indeed “Captain Henry Russell’s Romantic Quest”:

Captain Henry Bell Russell, commander of the salvage vessel Orphir, which left Dalmuir on Monday afternoon on the first lap of her epic-making expedition, as a result of which it is hoped to raise the treasure of the Lusitania, the great Atlantic liner sunk off the Old Head of Kinsale on May 7, 1915, by a German U-Boat, is a Wishaw man.

His residence is in Coltness Road, Wishaw. Captain Russell has considerable experience of deep-sea diving work in the Persian Gulf as one of the masters employed by the Indo-Burma Petroleum Company, which has released him temporarily to command this unusual expedition.

So we now know that his full name was Henry Bell Russell, and that in 1935 he was living in Coltness Road, Wishaw. What do the archives have to tell us about this no-longer-unnamed man?

About Captain Henry Bell Russell

Thanks to the very useful ScotlandsPeople website, I was able to quickly find that:

  • Henry Bell Russell was born in 1897 (in Govan, ref 646/2 1505)
  • His first wife was Mary Eveline Arthur, they married in 1929 (in Kelvin, ref 644/13 246)
  • Another Henry Bell Russell was born in 1933 (probably Captain Russell’s son?)
  • Henry Bell Russell had a house and a cottage in Cardross in 1940
  • His second wife was Mary Meehan Hamilton, they married in 1946 (Maryhill, ref 644/12/51)
  • Henry Bell Russell died in 1989 (mother’s surname Imrie) aged 91 (Glasgow, ref 605/ 455)

Patrick O’Neil was able to confirm much of this (though via quite different databases):

  • Henry Bell Russell was born 8th October 1897 in Govan
  • His parents were Henry Russell, a commercial traveller born in 1869, and Margaret Russell, born 1871
  • In the 1901 census, he had older sisters Margaret I (Imrie?) born 1896, Marion B (Bell?) born 1894, and Mary Mci (Macintosh?) born 1893.
  • He joined the Navy on 12th December 1916 as a student: he became a quartermaster rating
  • At that time, he was: 5 ft 4½ tall, 33 inch chest, black hair, blue eyes, fresh complexion.
  • His first wife (according to the Shetland Times) was Mary Eveline “Queenie” Arthur, and they married on 2nd September 1929
  • He later formed a metallurgy / chemistry company called United Compositions (Ltd), 108 Douglas Street, Glasgow, with Charles Norman Exley, a chemist of 16 Elie Street, Glasgow.

And, rather nicely, here’s a fetching picture of our fellow as a young man in his pre-Captain days:

I further found that from 1914 to 1916, he was enrolled at The Glasgow School of Art studying Drawing and Painting, leaving his course in December 1916 to sign up for the Navy. His address then was 9 Minerva Street in Glasgow.

Captain Russell’s Mysterious Second Wife

There’s one final scrap to throw to any genealogical wolves whose previous mild interest in Captain Russell hasn’t by now been utterly sated: a series of slightly confused posts from 2011 on GenesReunited by a poster called “Big” (whose account has since expired).

These relate to Captain Russell’s mysterious second wife Mary Meehan Hamilton: I additionally found a record of them travelling on the motor ship (MS) “Patella” from Curacao to New York in March 1947, which one might suspect was part of their honeymoon.

The poster “Big” seemed to think that Mary Meehan Hamilton was born in 1912, married a Mr Adams in 1924 (yes, really), had seven children (sadly some of whom died from diptheria), was with child when marrying Captain Russell, but married him bigamously under the surname “Cunningham” (her second husband’s surname).

Maybe inside all this morass of detail there’s a four-hour Snyder Cut of Captain Russell’s epic life just itching to be made, who knows?

And next…

Will there be a Part 4 to this story? Right now, I’m kind of hoping there won’t… but still, “never say never“, as they say in showbiz, amiright?

Patrick O’Neil, and the interwar hunt for Mauritian treasure (Part 2)…

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In Part 1, we saw the outlines of how technology converged with Mauritian treasure hunting mania in the 1920s. But what was that technology, and how ultimately did it link in with Mauritius?

“Listening for Coal”

The person behind the sounding technology was a Mr W. Mansfield, and the story behind it appeared (very appropriately, it has to be said) in The Liverpool Echo, 12th June 1924, page 7, under the title: “Listening for Coal / How Liverpool Inventor Finds Seams / Treasure-Hunters Agog. / Story of Hoard Buried by Pirates“. Tiresomely long title aside, I think the article bears quoting in full:

An invention by Mr William Mansfield, of W. Mansfield and Co., engineers, of Liverpool, by means of which not only the position, but the actual shape, of metalliferous deposits deep in the ground may be indicated on the surface, has aroused widespread interest, especially in the mining industry, for which it was particularly intended to apply.

This instrument follows the automatic water and oil finders of the same company, which are being used, it is claimed, with 100 per cent. of success in all parts of the world, and which are supplied on the principle of “no full supply, no pay.”

So, what Mansfield was offering was a kind of echo-sounding technology, which he claimed could be used for many types of prospecting & searching.

In seeking for metals or coal deposits, a very simple electrical device is set up on the surface of the ground, sending a curious musical note through the earth, and a couple of assistants – a man and a boy can carry out the tests – can indicate the presence or absence of what they seek by means of sounders.

Wherever the note is clearly heard the ground is sterile so far as metals or coal are concerned, but when the note diminishes greatly or ceases entirely the indications are that they are walking over deposits. By stepping on and off this cone of partial or complete silence and driving pegs they can outline the form and extent of the deposit, and a simple calculation gives the depth.

News of the invention has greatly increased the enthusiasm of those who believe they know, roughly, where treasure lies buried, and Mr. Mansfield has had many calls from such people.

One treasure hunter had the instrument tested on a piece of ground in Cheshire, where a quantity of metal was buried some twelve feet below a ploughed field. Two men who were entirely ignorant of the position of the “treasure” located the place with precision by means of the automatic finder.

The treasurer[sic]-hunter bought the instrument, and he and a party have taken it to the Spanish Main confident that if they don’t find the doubloons they seek it will be because they are not there.

OK so far: but it’s the final section below that’s arguably the most interesting, because it makes a direct link to Mauritius a couple of years before Captain Russell travelled there (on his doomed treasure hunt):

Mr. Mansfield told an “Echo” reporter that it was child’s play to find a chest of metal a few feet down, and he was too busily occupied with the serious work of which the apparatus was capable to accept all the offers he received to join in expeditions for the discovery of hidden gold and silver which might not exist except in the minds of the seekers.

A letter from the magistrate on the island of Mauritius, in the Indian Ocean, is being looked into, however.

This gentleman, Mr. H. E. Desmarais, and a number of influential friends believe there is £30,000,000 worth of treasure buried on the island, representing booty seized by pirates from British and Spanish vessels well over a hundred years ago.

The proposal made to Mr. Mansfield is that he should locate the treasure for them, and receive a quarter of the find.

In view of the influential backing, Mr. Mansfield is making inquiries. As he points out, if nothing is found, a one-fourth share would not go far to meet his expenses in going out to Mauritius!

By the way, who was H. E. Desmarais?

The above article refers to H. E. Desmarais as a “magistrate”: and indeed Google helpfully supplies links where H. E. (Henri Eugène) Desmarais appears in the Colonial listings as Moka Magistrate for Mauritius (with a salary of 7,000 rupees in the 1890s), having been first appointed there on 1st August 1884.

A family tree on MyHeritage says that Desmarais was born 11 March 1843, and died 22 August 1928. He married Wilhelmina Sophia Henriette Ferdinandine Dancker on 2nd September 1868 in Melbourne: they had ten children. He was the third son of Jean Baptiste Evenor Desmarais, of Port Louis, Mauritius, who himself had been an attorney-at-law. His own law training was as a student of the Middle Temple (18th August 1863): he was called to the bar 30th April 1866.

There is a (paywalled) mention in Alfred North-Coombes’ (1971) book “The Island of Rodrigues” that suggests one of Desmarais’ early appointments was as Rodrigues’ Police Magistrate in 1876.

And finally: in the 1922 Blue Book of the Colony of Mauritius, H. E. Desmarais was listed as receiving (as a retired District Magistrate) a 4,216 rupee pension (79%) since 1913, having then retired “of Old Age”.

All in all, it seems entirely reasonable that Desmarais would have been a member of the Klondyke Syndicate. Incidentally, the mention of his “influential friends” was without doubt a heavy-handed (and deliberate) reference to the “Par nos amis influents, fait toi envoyer dans la Mer des Indes et rends-toi à l’Isle de France, à l’endroit indiqué par mon testament” sentence that appears in letter BN2.

W. Mansfield’s Company & Technology

The 1914 “Who’s Who In Business” includes the following description of W. Mansfield’s company:

Mansfield, W., and Co. Consulting Engineers and Well Boring Engineers, Creewood Buildings, Brunswick Street, Liverpool. Hours of Business: 9.30 a.m. to 6 p.m. Established in 1900 by W. Mansfield, the present principal. Premises: Extensive. Branches: Yenangyat, Promo and Eastern Boronga. Business: Consulting Engineers for many important irrigation projects. Pioneers of Long Staple Cotton Growing in Burma. Owners of Oil and Mineral properties; Well Boring Engineers. Patent: Mansfield’s Automatic Water and Oil Finders. Connection: United Kingdom, Foreign and Colonial. Telephone: No. 1392 Central, Liverpool. Telegraphic Address: ” Mantles, Liverpool.” Codes A B C, Engineering and Private. Bankers: National Provincial Bank of England, Ltd. Mr. W. Mansfield is a member of several Engineering and other Societies. He is interested in Educational questions and has travelled throughout Europe, Asia, and Africa.

From the Grace’s Guide entry on the company, you can see that it was selling its water finder technology by at least 1911. Mansfield’s company later hit the papers in 1931 (10th October, Liverpool Echo, p.13) when a 30-year-old employee sadly got hit on the head and died: and it was still advertising in 1934 (18th July, Liverpool Echo, p.13).

So, what did its metal-finding device look like? Luckily, we don’t have to rely on mere verbal descriptions of Mansfield’s echo-sounding technology, because there are a number of advertisements and articles that contain actual pictures (even if the endorsements that go with them do sound somewhat made-up, it should be added). Here’s a W. Mansfield advert from Chambers’s Journal that sits above an advert for a Dulcitone (which is why the Royal College of Music has a scan of the page on its website):

Coming up next…

In Part 3, I hope to tell a little of the story behind Captain Russell, who led Mansfield’s treasure hunting expedition to Mauritius…

Patrick O’Neil, and the interwar hunt for Mauritian treasure (Part 1)…

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I’ve had some interesting emails recently from Patrick O’Neil, who I’m very pleased to report has picked up my long-dropped baton on Mauritian treasure hunting in the period between the two world wars. By uncovering a number of sources I was unaware of (and with only minor assists from me), Patrick has started to reconstruct a side of this story that was previously only hinted at.

“Treasure Hunting in Mauritius”

An article titled “Treasure Hunting in Mauritius” by James Hornell in the 9th April 1932 edition of “The Sphere” (p.57) vividly sets the scene. The famous Mauritian treasure is none other than Surcouf’s, its author asserts, hidden in a cave “on a lonely stretch of coast”, but never retrieved:

A few years ago a plan giving clues to the position of the cave was brought to Mauritius – once a death-bed legacy ! A syndicate [the “Klondyke Syndicate”] of well-known local people was formed to follow up the clues. It was easy enough to identify the narrow gully or gorge in the cliffs up which Surcouf had carried his loot ; two of the stones marked on the plan were located, one with what seemed to have a letter or figure roughly carved upon it. Hope ran high, but now a check was registered ; no trace of a cave could be found ; it was thought that a landslide had taken place covering the mouth. Trial cuts were made here and there but no progress was made, and when the money subscribed ran out, the work ceased.

Hornell goes on to tell us how the search for the treasure then went ‘hi-tech’:

At a later date negotiations were opened with an engineering firm in England, and under agreement of equal shares to each party, an electrical divining instrument, designed to locate metal, was brought into use. Unfortunately the only spot where the pointer became agitated was over a surface of solid rock. From this it was inferred that the landslip had covered the entrance to the cave to a great depth, and that the spot indicated was above the end where the treasure lay. Weary weeks passed in cutting a way down through dense basalt rock of extreme hardness. Ten feet down they went without success ; then to twenty and on to thirty ; at about thirty-five they struck earth, and this raised their hopes to fever pitch. Immediate success was assured – the earth-filled cave was reached at last ! The island authorities were notified and a detachment of armed police went excitedly down to the gully to afford protection, So sure was the engineer of success that a motor lorry was requisitioned to convey the gold and jewels to the bank.

What happened next? Sadly, the dismal punchline is all too easy to predict:

Alas ! Hard rock soon reappeared and the electric indicator still encouraged further effort downwards in the same spot. Two months later when the depth of the shaft had reached over fifty feet I was invited by the engineer to visit the place. I could but admire his tenacity of purpose in face of prolonged disappointment and his patience in laboriously cutting a shaft through virgin rock with chisel and crowbar, afraid as he was to use explosives.

Incidentally, if you’re wondering who the author of this piece was, I’m pretty sure he was the “internationally well known fish expert and colonial adviser based in India” (and former Director of Fisheries in Madras) James Hornell F.L.S. F.R.A.I. (1865-1949), who wrote numerous books on fish, fishing, fishermen, and fishing boats all the way from Britain to Oceania. And did I mention he was interested in fish?

Anyway, even though this helps us glimpse the big picture, we are still left with many questions. For example: where was this site?

“A spot known as Klondyke”

Helpfully, a column in The Daily News of 13th April 1926 reporting on this story describes the location (albeit somewhat inexactly):

The scene of the search is a spot known as Klondyke, on the west coast of Mauritius, in the Black River district, and the treasure, which has come to be spoken of as the Klondyke treasure, is believed to have been secreted there between 1780 and 1800 by the Chevalier de Nageon, a noted privateer.

Unlike the version of the article that was reproduced in the Brisbane Telegraph (which I typed up here), this includes a rough-and-ready map, with a piratical “X” to mark the (approximate) spot:

The article continues:

A number of attempts have been made, at intervals since 1880, to find the treasure, and excavations were made in accordance with instructions sent to a Mauritian from one of his relatives in Brittany.

Then the Chevalier de Nageon’s own plan was said to have been found, and a company was formed to begin regular diggings.

Some stonework and other clues tallying with the plan were brought to light from time to time, but nothing else happened, and the shares of the Klondyke Company – held by about a score of persons – became temporarily worthless.

But by the end of last December these shares were selling at 5,000 rupees (about £375) each. This was because Captain Russell had come across new indications which gave rise to the highest hopes.

(Incidentally, has anyone ever actually seen a physical share in the Klondyke Company? I’m sure I’m not alone in wanting to have one framed on my wall.)

There was also a mention at the article’s end that “the native diggers, as I hear today, are feverishly excited concerning yet another treasure, supposed to have been hidden by the same Chevalier de Nageon at Pointe Vacoa, Grand Port“. As you’d of course expect, “(f)abulous figures are mentioned in this latest story”: the Mauritian treasure hunting ‘virus’ is one that constantly mutates…

To be continued…

In Part 2, I’ll go on to look a little more closely at the Liverpool engineering company and their strange machine…

New article on Moustier’s cryptograms in EOS science magazine…

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I’ve just had some nice emails from Belgian writer Dirk Huylebrouck, whose article on the mysterious cryptograms in Moustier church is (today) appearing in popular Belgian science magazine EOS. Dirk’s article has some great photographs, and even includes some insights from codebreaker Jarl van Eycke (whom readers here may know as jarlve and/or from the deservedly famous Zodiac decryption). It’s a nice piece of work, well illustrated and well laid out, one which I heartily recommend to all my Belgian readers.

And here’s the article…

And even better, here’s a PDF of Dirk’s English translation of his own article. Modestly, he asked whether I would prefer to edit it a little: but it’s actually a very clear and entertaining read just as it is, and all that my well-meaning edits would probably achieve would be to lose both his voice and the article’s charm.

Dirk also suggested that I might like to include images of his photos of Moustier’s twin altars here, simply because there are so few of these on the Internet. I am of course more than happy to oblige (click on this for a decent-sized resolution, both images are (c) 2022 Dirk Huylebrouck):

Finally, the interesting bit…

If I have even a small criticism, it would be that the article gives perhaps a little too much space to Rudy Cambier’s Nostradamus-based Moustier theory (which I covered here back in 2013). But in the end you can’t deny it’s a Belgian theory, so I guess Dirk had plenty of reason to indulge it just a little for EOS. 😉

Of course, even though his article captures much of the spirit of the Moustier cryptograms, Dirk is such an eminently sensible chap that he doesn’t hazard his own (inevitably doomed) guess as to what is going on. To be fair, Jarl’s crypto insights – for example, that there are far fewer letters repeated on each line of carved text than you might generally expect – do seem to run directly counter to just about any natural language hypothesis you might have about any possible underlying text. So perhaps there are fewer sustainable (supposedly) “common-sense” readings here than you might otherwise think.

The article also highlight’s Philippe Connart’s suggestion of a possible link with 10th century lettering found at the abbey of Saint-Amand-les-Eaux (40km away). All the same, that does make me wonder whether what we are looking at in Moustier might be an (imperfect) copy of a much older carving, which itself had become worn and illegible over time, leaving us at least “twice removed” from the original.

Dirk’s collaborator Evelyn Bastien (who translated his article into French) felt compelled to add the following open question: “Even if it’s an ‘exercise’, wasn’t it just as easy to engrave a simple prayer, rather than incoherent letters?” This was in response to a theory I once proposed that the ragged nature of the Moustier lettershapes suggested that it might just have been some kind of mason’s practice. And Evelyn’s point is sensible and well-made, because that theory implies a double mystery – not only did someone carve mysterious letters, but also someone else erected those same mysterious letters in their church.

But to be fair, that double mystery is what sits right at the heart of the Moustier enigma: for the challenge to our minds isn’t just that someone made the cryptograms at all, it’s also that a church community then valued them sufficiently to celebrate its own faith right alongside those cryptograms.

In the end, it’s entirely true that all attempts so far to resolve one of this linked pair of durable mysteries have thrown little (or indeed no) light on the other one. But maybe EOS’ readers will prove to have some interesting ideas that have so far evaded us all… here’s hoping!

Voynich Paper Suggestion #5: Raking IR images of f116v

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Here’s a suggestion for a Voynich Manuscript paper that I think might well be revealing: taking raking IR images of f116v. But why would anyone want to do that?

Multispectral imaging

Since about 2006, I’ve been encouraging people to take multispectral images of the Voynich Manuscript, i.e. to capture images of the manuscript at a wide variety of wavelengths, so not just visible light.

My interest here is seeing if there are technical ways we can separate out the codicological layers that make up f116v. To my eyes, there seem to be two or three different hands at play there, so it would make sense if we could at least partially figure out what the original layer there looked like (before the other layer was placed on top, I guess at least a century later).

And in fact one group did attempt multispectral scanning, though with only a limited set of wavelengths, and without reaching any firm conclusions. (They seem not to have published their results, though I did once stumble across some of their test images lying around on the Beinecke’s webserver.)

The Zen of seeing nothing

Interestingly, one of that group’s images of f116v was taken at 940nm (“MB940IR”), which is an infrared frequency (hence “IR”). This revealed… nothing. But in what I think is potentially an interesting way.

Here’s what it looks like (hopefully you remember the michitonese at the top of f116v):

Main banks Transmissive

That’s right! At 940nm, the text is invisible. Which is, of course, totally useless for normal imaging. For why on earth would you want to image something at a wavelength where you can’t see any detail?

Raking Light

The interesting thing about this is that one kind of imaging where you’d want the text itself to be as invisible as possible is when you’re doing raking illumination, i.e. where you shine an illuminating light parallel to the surface. At the edges of penstrokes (if you’re looking really closely) at high-ish magnification, you should be able to use this to see the shadows of the edge of the indentations left by the original quill pen.

And so I’ve long wondered whether it might be possible to use a 940nm filter (and a non-LED light source) and a microscope / camera on a stand to try to image the depth of the penstrokes in the words on f116v. (You’d also need to use an imaging device with the RG/GB Bayer filter flipped off the top of the image sensor; or a specialist b&w imaging sensor; or an old-fashioned film camera, horror of horrors!)

What this might tell us

Is this possible? I think it is. But might it really be able to help us separate out the two or more hands I believe are layered in f116v? Though I can’t prove it, I strongly suspect it might well be.

Why? Because vellum hardens over time. In the first few years or so after manufacture, I’m sure that vellum offers a lithe and supple writing support, that would actually be quite nice to write on. However, fast forward from then to a century or so later, and that same piece of vellum is going to be harder, drier, more rigid, slippier, scrapier – in short, much less fun to write on.

And as a result, I strongly suspect that if there are two significantly time-separated codicological layers on f116v, then they should show very different writing indentation styles. And so my hope is that taking raking IR images might possibly help us visualise at least some of the layering that’s going on on f116v, because I reckon each of these 2+ hands should have its own indentation style.

Will this actually work? I’m quietly confident it will, but… even so, I’d have to admit that it’s a bit of a lottery. Yet it’s probably something that many should be able to test without a lot of fuss or expense. Does anyone want to give this a go? Sounds to me like there should be a good paper to be had there from learning from the experience, even if nothing solid emerges about the Voynich Manuscript.

Voynich Paper Suggestion #4: Unpicking the k/t gallows

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Anyone who spends time looking at Voynichese should quickly see that, rare characters aside, its glyphs fall into several different “families” / patterns:

  • q[o]
  • e/ch/sh
  • aiin/aiir
  • ar/or/al/ol/am/om
  • d/y
  • …and the four “gallows characters” k/t/f/p.

The members of these families not only look alike, they often also function alike: it’s very much the case that glyphs within these families either group together (e.g. y/dy) or replace each other (e.g. e/ee/eee/ch/sh).

For me, one of the most enigmatic glyph pairs is the gallows pair EVA k and EVA t. Rather than be seduced by their similarities, my suggestion here is to use statistics to try to tease their two behaviours apart. It may sound trivial, but how do EVA k and EVA t differ; and what do those differences tell us?

The raw numbers

Putting strikethrough gallows (e.g. EVA ckh) to one side for the moment, the raw k/t instance frequencies for my preferred three subcorpora are:

  • Herbal A: (k 3.83%) (t 3.28%)
  • Q13: (k 5.38%) (t 2.27%)
  • Q20: (k 5.19%) (t 2.76%)

Clearly, the ratio of k:t is much higher on Currier B pages than on Currier A pages. Even if we discount the super-common Currier B words qokey, qokeey, qokedy, qokeedy, qokaiin, a large disparity between k and t still remains:

  • Q13: (k 4.3%) (t 2.46%)
  • Q20: (k 4.58%) (t 2.89%)

In fact, this k:t ratio only approaches (rough) parity with the Herbal A k:t ratio if we first discount every single word beginning with qok- in Currier B:

  • Q13: (k 2.71%) (t 2.41%)
  • Q20: (k 3.57%) (t 2.86%)

So there seems to be a hint here that removing all the qok- words may move Currier B’s statistics a lot closer to Currier A’s statistics. Note that the raw qok/qot ratios are quite different in Herbal A and Q13/Q20 (qok is particularly strong in Q13), suggesting that “qok” in Herbal A has a ‘natural’ meaning and “qok” in Q13/Q20 has a different, far more emphasised (and possibly special) meaning, reflecting the high instance counts for qok- words in Currier B pages:

  • Herbal A: (qok 0.79%) (qot 0.68%)
  • Q13: (qok 3.04%) (qot 0.74%)
  • Q20: (qok 1.84%) (qot 0.70%)

Difference between ok/yk and ot/yt

If we put ckh, cth and all qok- words to one side, the numbers for ok/yk and ot/yt are also intriguing:

  • Herbal A: (ok 1.38%) (ot 1.31%) (yk 0.51%) (yt 0.48%)
  • Q13: (ok 1.07%) (ot 0.91%) (yk 0.17%) (yt 0.12%)
  • Q20: (ok 1.53%) (ot 1.47%) (yk 0.19%) (yt 0.14%)

What I find interesting here is that the ok:ot and yk:yt ratios are just about identical with the k:t ratios from Herbal A. Consequently, I suspect that whatever k and t are expressing in Currier A, they are – once you go past the qok-related stuff in Currier B – probably expressing the same thing in Currier B.

As always, there are many possible reasons why the k instance count and the t instance count should follow a single ratio: but I’m consciously trying not to get caught up in those kinds of details here. The fact that k-counts are consistently that little bit higher than t-counts in several different contexts is a good enough result to be starting from here.

Might something have been added here?

From the above, I can’t help but wonder whether EVA qok- words in Currier B pages might be part of a specific mechanism that was added to the basic Currier A system.

Specifically, I’m wondering whether EVA qok- might be the Currier B mechanism for signalling the start of a number or numeral? This isn’t a fully-formed theory yet, but I thought I’d float this idea regardless. Something to think about, certainly.

As a further speculation, might EVA qok- be the B addition for cardinal numbers (1, 2, 3, etc) and EVA qot- be the B addition for ordinal numbers (1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc)? It’s something I don’t remember seeing suggested anywhere. (Please correct me if I’m wrong!)

So: do I think there’s room for an interesting paper on EVA k/t? Yes I do!