Tipping my (virtual) hat frenetically in the direction of Zodiac Killer Cipher-meister Dave Oranchak yet again, it’s time to reveal one of the very few cipher mysteries from Ohio. (Might it be the only one? Let me know if it isn’t!)

Dave had found this story mentioned on the consistently curious (in a nice way) Futility Closet website, which itself had presumably found it from a 1916 edition of “Enigma”, the magazine of the National Puzzlers’ League (later reprinted here).

“The police department of Lima, O., is greatly puzzled over a cryptic message received in connection with the robbery of a Western Ohio ticket agent. Here it is: WAS NVKVAFT BY AAKAT TXPXSCK UPBK TXPHN OHAY YBTX CPT MXHG WAE SXFP ZAV FZ ACK THERE FIRST TXLK WEEK WAYZA WITH THX.”

As normal with such half-remembered stories, there’s no mention of anything specific that might actually help us track it down. But I decided to have a look anyway: and quickly found two mentions of it in the Lima Times-Democrat newspaper. The original mention was on the 3rd July 1916 (though the scan of it is barely readable)…

Lima-03Jul1916

i.e.

“At the request of a citizen of …… (we present?) a note written in cypher. As it is of the utmost importance that the contents of the note be ascertained. Any suggestions by readers of this paper which will …. assist in learning …. of the note will be … appreciated. The note is as follows: …”

…while there was a follow-up mention on the 7th July 1916 with a (probably spurious) guess as to the alphabet…

Lima-07Jul1916

So the NPL transcript was nearly correct, except that it had split “ZAVFZ” into “ZAV FZ” (you can just about make out “zavfz” on the original Lima Times-Democrat report) and merged “WAYX ZA” to “WAYZA”. So, the correct “Ohio cipher” ciphertext should be:

WAS NVKAFT BY AAKAT TXPXSCK UPBK TXPHN OHAY YBTX CPT MXHG WAE SXFP ZAVFZ ACK THERE FIRST TXLK WEEK WAYX ZA WITH THX

Well… given that we still don’t know the exact town or date of the incident, and the Enigma retelling of the story seems not to have quite matched what the local newspaper actually said (e.g. it was reported by a “citizen”), we’re still left with plenty of mysteries. Perhaps other newspaper reports from the time will reveal more of the story… anyone who wants to take this on, please be my guest!

All the same, to me the ciphertext does look exactly like the kind of ad hoc partially-improvised agony column ciphers Tony Gaffney used to eat for breakfast, so maybe he’ll see straight through this particular visual trick and crack it quicker than you can say “vividly ovoviviparous”… 😉

The news rattling the bars of the Voynich research cage loudest right now is surely the publication of a paper by Marcelo Montemurro and Damián H. Zanette called Keywords and Co-Occurrence Patterns in the Voynich Manuscript: An Information-Theoretic Analysis, deftly summarized in New Scientist as New signs of language surface in mystery Voynich text.

M&Z’s abstract brings out a lot of what they were trying to do – and also points exactly to their mistakes.

Here we analyse the long-range structure of the manuscript using methods from information theory. We show that the Voynich manuscript presents a complex organization in the distribution of words that is compatible with those found in real language sequences. We are also able to extract some of the most significant semantic word-networks in the text. These results together with some previously known statistical features of the Voynich manuscript, give support to the presence of a genuine message inside the book.

Central Assumption: the authors implicitly hypothesize that they can get meaningful results for long-range comparisons because Voynichese is homogeneous across all its sections.

…The Problem: this assumption is false (or very nearly so), because there are significant macro-level differences in the way the language in different sections works (Currier A, Currier B, labels) as well as many mid-level differences (Herbal-A, Q13-ese, etc).

Central Conclusion: the authors believe that their language-centric statistical machinery has identified “The thirty most informative words in the Voynich manuscript”.

…The Problem: I’m pretty sure that the authors have in fact very probably identified arguably the thirty least informative words in the Voynich Manuscript. (That may be an independently useful result, but it’s probably not really what they were hoping for.)

I’ll explain.

Voynichese is extremely predictable at a letter-level: it has many rigid letter-level adjacency rules (‘4’ is almost always followed by ‘o’, etc) and position rules (4o- is consistently word-initial, -89 is consistently word-final, etc) and a high level of letter-context predictability.

Yet at the same time, it also has a very large dictionary relative to its text size. I often criticize Gordon Rugg for suggesting historically incorrect Cardan grille-like tables (i.e. they’re a century too late for the Voynich’s construction dating) and for inappropriately back-projecting his modern CompSci mindset onto the early Renaissance (i.e. it’s 500+ years too early for the kind of table-driven hackery he proposes). However, he is absolutely right that a reconstructed Voynichese “dictionary” would, to a modern computer scientist’s eyes, look very much as if it had been generated or permuted by some means.

The paradox is therefore that these two apparently opposite aspects of Voynichese are able to coexist: how on earth can we reconcile its letter rigidity & predictability with its wild word variability?

I think the key to resolving this is to grasp that there is some kind of generative or confounding principle at work within a rigidly predictable framework. That is, that even though there are lots of rules, these rules act as a kind of “container” for semantic or cryptographic variability to exist within.

Hence I believe that Montemurro’s statistical machinery is identifying “words” that fall within the container layer rather than in the confounded content layer. Hence these are arguably the thirty least informative words in the Voynich Manuscript.

It’s a hard point to understand, let alone accept: the confounding trick (some kind of transposition cipher? some kind of paper cipher machinery? some kind of cipher wheel?) driving Voynichese’s inherent variability remains as profoundly unreachable now as it has been for over 500 years.

My apologies to Montemurro and Zanette, but the central challenge we face isn’t to find new language-based statistical tests to apply to the Voynichese corpus, however clever they may be. Rather, it is to find ways of resolving the Voynich Manuscript’s central paradox: how is it that Voynichese is both letter-rigid and word-variable at the same time?

Incidentally, M & Z conclude in their paper that results point to a semantic link between the Recipe and Astro sections, and between the Herbal and Pharma sections. Actually, had they been more aware of the codicology analyses that have been done, they would have seen that their results are consistent with the writing phase order.

In fact, there are many indications that what I call Voynichese’s ‘container’ layer above evolved during the writing, with the most obvious evolution being between Currier A and Currier B. I suspect that what their statistical machinery has imperfectly captured is therefore simply a snapshot into the evolution of the container layer, and not anything ‘semantic’ as such.

In short, the aspect of Voynichese that is most nearly homogeneous across all its sections is its “container” layer: so what Montemurro and Zanette have done is make long-range comparisons between evolutions of the container layer. Currently, my best guess is that these are likely to be almost entirely composed of cipher system meta-tokens (shorthand tokens, transposition cipher placeholders, etc) rather than the semantic contents, which appear instead to have been confounded by some means.

So, rather than finding a “genuine message” (as New Scientist put it), perhaps they have instead found a “genuine container” for the message? This may prove to be a very useful result in its own right, but it’s probably not the smoking gun linguistic proof they were hoping to use to discredit Rugg’s tables.

Zodiac Killer Cipher supremo Dave Oranchak very kindly bounced this nicety my way: a tiny cipher sneaked into her High School yearbook by geeky/naughty Jessica Lee, that even managed to make it onto MSN:

Fluorine uranium carbon
potassium bismuth technetium
helium sulfur germanium thulium
oxygen neon yttrium.

If you’re already familiar with Notorious B.I.G.’s lyrical output, you’ll have a reasonable idea of what to expect. If not… well, decipher it at your peril. 🙂

I should also mention the Reddit commenter who thinks Lee should have done “More research, girl!“, and replaced “thulium oxygen neon yttrium” with “tritium molybdenum neon yttrium“, to preserve all the word breaks. But perhaps that would have looked too obvious and have been caught before going to press. So, my scoring of the duel is: Jessica Lee 1, Reddit Commenters 0. 😉

PS: here’s the cipher key you’ll need, courtesy of this useful website. Don’t say I don’t spoil you. Because I do.

Ac Actinium
Al Aluminium
Am Americium
Sb Antimony
Ar Argon
As Arsenic
At Astatine
Ba Barium
Bk Berkelium
Be Beryllium
Bi Bismuth
Bh Bohrium
B Boron
Br Bromine
Cd Cadmium
Cs Caesium
Ca Calcium
Cf Californium
C Carbon
Ce Cerium
Cl Chlorine
Cr Chromium
Co Cobalt
Cn Copernicium
Cu Copper
Cm Curium
Ds Darmstadtium
Db Dubnium
Dy Dysprosium
Es Einsteinium
Er Erbium
Eu Europium
Fm Fermium
F Fluorine
Fr Francium
Gd Gadolinium
Ga Gallium
Ge Germanium
Au Gold
Hf Hafnium
Hs Hassium
He Helium
Ho Holmium
H Hydrogen
In Indium
I Iodine
Ir Iridium
Fe Iron
Kr Krypton
La Lanthanum
Lr Lawrencium
Pb Lead
Li Lithium
Lu Lutetium
Mg Magnesium
Mn Manganese
Mt Meitnerium
Md Mendelevium
Hg Mercury
Mo Molybdenum
Nd Neodymium
Ne Neon
Np Neptunium
Ni Nickel
Nb Niobium
N Nitrogen
No Nobelium
Os Osmium
O Oxygen
Pd Palladium
P Phosphorus
Pt Platinum
Pu Plutonium
Po Polonium
K Potassium
Pr Praseodymium
Pm Promethium
Pa Protactinium
Ra Radium
Rn Radon
Re Rhenium
Rh Rhodium
Rg Roentgenium
Rb Rubidium
Ru Ruthenium
Rf Rutherfordium
Sm Samarium
Sc Scandium
Sg Seaborgium
Se Selenium
Si Silicon
Ag Silver
Na Sodium
Sr Strontium
S Sulfur
Ta Tantalum
Tc Technetium
Te Tellurium
Tb Terbium
Tl Thallium
Th Thorium
Tm Thulium
Sn Tin
Ti Titanium
W Tungsten
U Uranium
V Vanadium
Xe Xenon
Yb Ytterbium
Y Yttrium
Zn Zinc
Zr Zirconium

PPS: isn’t there a nerdy joke about IUPAC Shakur in there somewhere? Errrm…. maybe not. 🙂

When I was young, I often used to play Scrabble with my grandmother Win on my way home from school. (By which I mean her maisonette was on my route home, not that we played Scrabble on the bus.) Which probably helps account for the deep-rooted enjoyment I still get from weird and wonderful words, many decades later.

From way back then, my favourite English word has always been “svelte” (though “tergiversate” was nipping at its heels for a couple of weeks last year). The reason I particularly like svelte is that it’s (I’m struggling to describe) ‘productively onomatopoeic’, in that the slow ‘l’-sound in the middle makes it feels elegant (indeed svelte) on the tongue. Really, it’s a word with an unusual (but nicely matching) mouth feel, one that manages to stand out from a dictionary sized pack. With getting too synaesthetic on you, to me it’s a kind of David Gower four of a word, a left-handed ping that’s over the boundary before the fielders even notice it’s gone. Something can’t be half-svelte, it’s either got it or it hasn’t.

Svelte also brings right to the fore the mad ragtag heterogeneity of English, the arbitrary coupling together of chance encounters over the millennia. To some it sounds Svedish Swedish (or perhaps a piece of stray Elvish?) but it’s actually a French word (svelte), from an Italian (svelto, “stretched out”), from Vulgar Latin (ex + vellere, i.e. to stretch + out).

(You might therefore suspect that it shares some kind of origin with “vellum” which is also stretched out, but the latter has its roots in “veal”, i.e. young calves: hence vellum is properly fine calfskin.)

Languages are like that: for all their modern apologists, academies, and syntactic niceties, they’re at heart accidental rather than designed. Esperanto and all the other modern conlangs are all very well, but a good part of the charm of real-world languages is the way stray and mongrel words hop in to fill the semantic gaps that inevitably open up as culture mutates and evolves. English obviously needed a word that expressed presence of svelteness in an object, why else would svelte have succeeded and persisted otherwise?

But (and isn’t there always a but in Cipher Mysteries)… where’s all that in the Voynich Manuscript’s language? Even if William Friedman was completely and utterly wrong about the Voynich’s being an artificial constructed language (which he was), I really can see exactly why he thought & believed that. For Voynichese words show such a strong family resemblance – a strongly interlinked productive grammar, if you will – that it almost precludes anything else. Whatever Voynichese is, there is definitely an artificiality to it, or at least an abundance of artifice. I suspect that anyone trying to map Voynichese onto a direct language base will almost inevitably find (to their eventual embarrassment) that it’s just too artificial to be workable: and that’s pretty much what Elizebeth Friedman concluded too.

So here’s your Voynich paradox for the day. I’m sure that there can be no “svelte” in the Voynichese ‘language’ as we see it, because the overwhelming majority of its words arise from a compact productive grammar quite unlike that of a real, heterogeneous, messy, accidental, historic language: and yet the look of Voynichese so resembles a language that it’s hard not to feel as though you’re perpetually a mini-dictionary away from just reading it.

Of course, for me the resolution of this paradox comes down to a well-chosen bunch of steganographic tricks (such as verbose cipher, shorthand, etc) that serve to conceal the plaintext in a misleading form… but you will no doubt have your own theories about how to slice through such a Gordian knot. 🙂

A few days ago, I grabbed the chance to meet up with renowned crypto writer David Kahn at the Athenaeum Club in London while he was attending a conference on the Battle of the Atlantic. It was… simply a pleasure.

David_Kahn_At_The_Athenaeum_2013

He very happily signed my well-thumbed copy of “The Codebreakers” (1967), though I have to say it barely seems possible that he wrote his crypto meisterwerk close to half a century ago. He continues to research and write on crypto topics: a collection of his articles (“How I Discovered World War II’s Greatest Spy and Other Stories of Intelligence and Codes“) is due to be released in October 2013.

All that aside, he was eager to know about what was happening in the world of Voynich Manuscript research (and delighted to see my rather battered copy of Gawsewitch’s “Le Code Voynich”, even if it isn’t actually a facsimile edition) and urged me to write a state-of-the-art-circa-2013 summary of it for Cryptologia (he was one of its founders). Incidentally, he half-remembered being told recently that someone had cracked the Dorabella Cipher (which is possible, though slightly unlikely, I’d say).

But alas, my all-too-brief hour was up too soon: I had to leave and once more merge into the grey London streets. Yet the whole thing set me wondering for several days how best to summarize the Voynich Manuscript. Why is it that Voynich researchers can know so much about the manuscript’s minutiae, and yet agree on almost nothing? Why is it that the Voynich’s Wikipedia article is so long, yet says so little? Why write another analysis-paralysis piece on it?

Part of the challenge is that it often feels to me as if nobody has written a single word on the Voynich Manuscript that even remotely does it justice. Rather, it’s as if there’s a honey-pot of non-words and non-phrases for non-historians to dip their paws into, making every article and blog post written on it little more than a sweet (though ultimately unsatisfying) anagram of the preceding ones.

At the same time, in my own Voynich research it’s as if every day is Groundhog Day, where pretty much everyone else in Punxsutawney never learns anything, but instead sticks belligerently to their same futile and unhelpful non-positions, day in and day out. [*] For example, I would agree that it is entirely possible to construct alt.histories where the Voynich post-dates the 15th century (oh yes, and that the palaeography, the codicology, the Art History and the radiocarbon dating are all simultaneously wrong, or perhaps hoaxed in a peculiarly sophisticated way), but why on earth would anyone bother?

It’s a lot like fighting against a kind of post-modernist debating society, for whom the inevitable existence of doubt in any given fact makes it fair game to dismiss it. Such en masse debating may well be a great way of passing time, but it’s surely a lousy way of getting to the truth. I’m not interested in knowing what might conceivably have happened, I want to know what genuinely did happen.

*) All the same, I’m getting pretty good at ice carving. That’s bound to come in useful one day… 🙂

A correspondent has asked me to summarize the evidence I’ve found in the Voynich Manuscript suggesting bifolio reordering. As long-term Cipher Mysteries readers will know, I laid much of this out in my 2006 book The Curse of the Voynich: but a lot has also emerged in the years since.

A practical starting point here is my long-standing page on the Voynich Manuscript’s codicology. This points to evidence for a whole sequence of fairly direct codicological conclusions:-
(1) The Folio Numbers Are Not Necessarily Correct
(2) The Bifolios Are Not Necessarily The Right Way Up
(3) The Quire Numbers Are Not Necessarily Correct
(4) The Bindings Are Not Necessarily Correct
(5) The Quires Are Not Necessarily In The Correct Order
(6) The Quire Contents Are Not Necessarily Correct
(7) The Paints And Colours Used Are Not Necessarily Original

To this, I’d add some other evidence:-

(8) The quire numbers and the folio numbers are not (quite) consistent.

As John Grove pointed out back in 2002, the Voynich Manuscript’s Q9 (“Quire 9”) was rebound along a different fold after the quire numbers were added but before the folio numbers were added, leaving the Q9 quire number in the wrong place (i.e. not on the back page of its quire). And, as Glen Claston later pointed out, broadly the same thing happened for Q14 (the nine-rosette page): once Q14’s first binding fold collapsed or was damaged, the large multi-folio page was then restitched along a different, less obviously damaged fold, again leaving the Q14 quire number in the wrong place.

Of course, given that most of the (15th century) quire numbers look roughly a century older than the (16th century) folio numbers, a bit of rebinding between the two phases is perhaps to be expected. But all the same, this inconsistency should alert us to the fact that the bifolios were actively being worked on between the quiration and foliation.

(9) Some of the quire numbers’ downstrokes continue within the wrong quires.

I found two clear examples of this (Curse p.18): (a) the downstroke of the ‘9’ in “29” (i.e. ‘secund-us’) continues at the bottom of a page in Q6; and (b) the downstroke of the ‘5’ in “5t9” (i.e. ‘quin-t-us’) continues at the bottom of a page in Q3. In both cases (and particularly in the first of the two), it seems likely that at the time the quire numbers were added, the herbal bifolios were in quite a substantially order from the order we are presented with several centuries later.

(10) Vellum tears with parallel orientation may indicate that those bifolios came from the same tanned skin.

The examples I found (Curse pp.54-56) were on the f16-f9 bifolio and the f10-f15 bifolio, as well as on the f38-f35 bifolio and f36-f37 bifolio. The fact that the bifolios were still immediately adjacent in both cases loosely implies that the basic idea of codicological continuity during construction (i.e. that adjacent bifolios individual sections were probably folded and cut down from larger sheets of vellum) may well be sound. It also suggests that the f28-f29 bifolio (which has a stitched vellum tear) may be out of sequence.

(11) Currier “Herbal A” and Currier “Herbal B” bifolios seem jumbled up.

Back in 1976 or so, US Army cryptanalyst Prescott Currier noted two apparently distinct “dialects” of the ‘Voynichese’ language: he called these “A” and “B”, and pointed out a whole set of curious properties that helps you distinguish them from each other. Moreover, any given bifolio has only “A” or “B” writing on it: this broadly supports the idea that these correspond to two broadly separate writing phases, rather than two separate writers writing in parallel.

(12) The three sunflower-like drawings look to have been separated.

f33v, f40v and f50r all contain pictures of similar sunflower-like plants, and are all “Herbal B” pages: this reinforces the idea that the Herbal B pages should be looked at as a quite distinct content collection from the Herbal A pages. I’d add that the Herbal B “plants” seem far more artificial to me than Herbal A “plants”, some (but not all) of which actually resemble real plants (e.g. water lily, pansies, etc).

(13) Q13 and Q20 may have originally each been two smaller quires that were later merged.

There is a whole heap of content analysis that supports the idea that what we now call “Q13” was originally a ‘Q13a’ and a ‘Q13b’ (as proposed by Glen Claston in 2009) and that what we call “Q20” was originally a ‘Q20a’ and a ‘Q20b’ (as proposed by me in 2010).

This is not so very far from the observation [(3) above] that, given that the jars in the pharma section seem to progress from the end of Q19 to the start of Q17, Q19 originally preceded Q17. In short, we can’t be at all sure that the quire arrangement we see now matches the original quire arrangement or order – quires may well have been formed of smaller original quires that were merged (for whatever reason) before the quire numbers were added.

(14) The two pages with “chicken scratch” marginalia may well have originally been adjacent.

I suggested this in my 2012 Voynich Centenary Conference presentation “Between Vellum and Prague”, which tried to reconstruct how the Voynich Manuscript’s quires had moved around between its original ‘alpha’ state and the final (foliated) state. I think it would therefore be interesting to find out whether f66v (in Q8) and f86v3 (in Q14) were from the same vellum skin.

(15) Some bifolios that were (probably) central to a quire are now not.

f84v-f78r should clearly have been the centre of a Q13 quire (the pictures join across the bifolio’s central fold): but I should add that Rene Zandbergen also pointed out in 2010 that f18v-f23r may well have been the centrefold page-pair of a quire; and that I also suggested much the same of f33v and f40r in 2006 (Curse, p.70), though for a different reason.

Jumping ship from the French archives, might the British archives now help us find out what happened with the Le Butin / La Buse pirate cipher mystery?

To recap, what I’m trying to narrow down is the “large British frigate” mentioned by Le Butin: “at our last battle with a large British frigate on the shores of Hindustan, the captain was wounded and on his deathbed confided to me his secrets and his papers to retrieve considerable treasure buried in the Indian Ocean“.

I’ve decided to start by looking at the date range [summer 1795 to summer 1796] – partly because I think we’d have heard about it if it had happened on Admiral de Sercey’s watch (he started in summer 1796), but partly because I have a reasonable candidate who seems to have disappeared without a trace between November 1795 and late Spring 1796.

Hence what I’ll be doing is working out what “large British frigate”s were operating in the Indian Ocean around 1795-1796 (which is when I currently suspect Le Butin’s ship was hit by fire from a large British ship on the coast of Hindoustan). From H.C.M.Austen’s “Sea Fights and Corsairs of the Indian Ocean” and a multitude of other sources, I’ve pieced together a partial list of British ships operating in that arena at that time: though I believe I’ve probably got all the biggest ships (mainly because the British Navy never had that many ships sailing there), there may well have be others… but perhaps those will emerge as we tackle the primary sources.

Even though there may well be Admiralty reports to check as well, for now the first thing to do is to call up the relevant ship’s logs and see what they say. Note that “ADM 51” is the captain’s log section of the National Archives, while “ADM/L” is the lieutenant’s log section of the National Maritime Museum, and captain’s logs typically summarized the lieutenant’s logs (but adding details about changes to the ship’s inventory etc)…

Oh, it’s also very important to note here the difference in the 18th century between a “ship-of-the-line” and a “frigate”. Essentially, a ship-of-the-line has two decks of cannons (so that a set of ships can be arranged in an end-to-end “line of battle” so as to fire a multi-ship super-wide broadside at any enemy unfortunate to be in front of the cannons), while a frigate has only one row of cannons (though occasionally with others on the forecastle and the quarterdeck). Both ships-of-the-line and frigates were normally square-rigged on all three masts, so I believe you’d only be able to tell them apart when you were close enough to see how many rows of cannons a given ship had.

Technically, the British Admiralty only ever counted a ship as a frigate if it had at least 28 guns, while (confusingly) some “fifth-rate” 44-gun ships of this period had two decks of cannons but were still described as frigates. Personally, I have my doubts that Le Butin would have shared the Admiralty’s precise classification nuances. All the same, I suspect that his description of the ship as a “large English frigate” may be enough to narrow down our search, i.e. I suspect we’re looking for a big ship with a single deck of guns (probably more than 28 guns, but probably no more than 44 guns).

With these constraints in mind (and all the details that follow below), I think we can eliminate Suffolk and Centurion (both ships-of-the-line) and very possibly Diomede (a two-decker frigate) and Resistance (probably a two-decker frigate too, though it’s hard to be sure), as well as Carysfort (too small to be called “large”), Hobart (a sloop rather than a frigate) and Virginie (arrived in the Indian Ocean too late for our date range).

This broadly leaves us Sibylle, Oiseau, Heroine and Fox, with my best guess of the four being the massive 44-gun single-deck Sybille (simply because the others were all 32-gun frigates). Yet I don’t have any record of where the Sybille was between 1794 (when it was captured) and 1798 (when it was in the Philippines), so it is entirely possible that it wasn’t in the Indian Ocean or Indian Ocean at all during the period I’m focusing on. Fortunately, the Lieutenant’s Log should tell us exactly where it was and when. Bring on the primary evidence! 🙂

* * * * * * *

HMS Suffolk (74-gun third rate ship-of-the-line)
168ft long, 46ft wide, 1616 tons. Launched 1765, broken up 1803.
01 February 1795 – 21 September 1795 — ADM 51/1108
14 September 1796 – 30 September 1797 — ADM 51/1202
13 September 1795 – 13 September 1796 — ADM 51/1187
1794-1802 — ADM/L/S/497

HMS Centurion (50-gun fourth-rate ship-of-the-line)
146ft long, 40ft wide, 1044 tons. Launched 1774, sank 1824.
05 December 1795 – 23 March 1797 — ADM 51/1198
22 June 1797 – 23 January 1800 — ADM 51/4425
1793-1800 — ADM/L/C/92

HMS Diomede (44-gun Roebuck-class two-decker fifth-rate “frigate”)
140ft long, 38ft wide, 887 tons. Launched 1781, sank 2nd August 1795.
07 May 1794 – 06 May 1795 — ADM 51/1120
25 May 1795 – 03 August 1795 — ADM 51/4437
1793-1795 — ADM/L/D/125

HMS Resistance (44-gun fifth-rate frigate) [was this also a two-decker Roebuck-class “frigate”?]
140ft long, 38ft wide, 963 tons. Launched in 1782 and blown up in 1798.
28 June 1795 – 30 June 1796 — ADM 51/1194

HMS Sybille (44-gun single-deck frigate, with extra guns on the forecastle and querterdeck)
152ft long, 39ft wide, 700 tonnes. Launched 1792 as “La Sybille”, captured by HMS Romney in 1794, disposed of in 1833.
10 March 1795 – 30 April 1798 — ADM 51/1222
1795-1803 — ADM/L/S/616

HMS Oiseau (formerly La Cléopatre) (32-gun single-deck frigate)
145ft long, 37ft wide, tonnage not listed. Launched 1781, captured 1783, broken up in 1816.
01 January 1795 – 17 February 1796 — ADM 51/1115
03 May 1796 – 30 November 1796 — ADM 51/1183
1780-1781 — ADM/L/L/285

HMS Heroine (32-gun fifth-rate frigate)
Launched in 1783, sold in 1806.
04 March 1797 – 20 August 1798 — ADM 51/4457
01 February 1796 – 02 March 1797 — ADM 51/1193
1794-1802 — ADM/L/H/145

HMS Fox (32-gun fifth-rate frigate)
Launched in 1780, sold in 1816.
14 January 1793 – 11 January 1794 — ADM 51/371
15 January 1794 – 14 November 1794 — ADM 51/1146
01 January 1793 – 31 December 1795 — ADM 51/1107
15 November 1795 – 14 November 1796 — ADM 51/1180
15 November 1796 – 14 November 1797 — ADM 51/1211
15 November 1797 – 17 June 1798 — ADM 51/1257
1794-1801 — ADM L/F/216

HMS Carysfort (28-gun sixth-rate frigate)
118ft long, 33ft wide, 586 tons. Launched in 176, sold in 1813.
18 March 1795 – 31 March 1796 — ADM 51/1176
01 April 1796 – 02 March 1797 — ADM 51/1219
1795-1799 — ADM/L/C/64

HMS Hobart (formerly the French corsair ship La Revanche) (18-gun sloop)
Captured October 1794, sold 1803.
12 September 1795 – 27 March 1797 — ADM 51/1211
1795-1800 — ADM/L/H/159

HMS Virginie (44-gun French single-deck frigate)
Captured April 1796 off Ireland.
30 August 1796 – 29 August 1797 — ADM 51/1180
30 August 1797 – 10 August 1798 — ADM 51/1267
11 August 1798 – 14 September 1798 — ADM 51/1294
14 September 1798 – 13 September 1799 — ADM 51/1299

Who was the mysterious French sea captain who Le Butin (Bernardin Nageon de L’estang) got his pirate cipher from?

Le Butin claimed that this captain was mortally wounded in a naval battle with “a large British frigate on the shores of Hindoustan”, and on his deathbed – and having confirmed that Le Butin was a Freemason – he passed Le Butin his pirate treasure secrets, now widely presumed to be La Buse’s pigpen cryptogram.

All in all, taking this at face gives us a pretty specific historical puzzle to solve – we know where it happened (off the coast of Hindustan, so not too far from the ports of Surat, Diu, and Daman), broadly who did it (a large English frigate), and broadly when it happened (sometime in the 1790s). But can we be more specific?

Trying a little too hard for a quick answer, I drew up a list of Indian Ocean French corsairs who died during that period (perhaps surprisingly, many of them seemed to live to a tidy old age – crime may not pay, but state-licensed crime apparently does). For example, the French corsair Claude Deschiens de Kerulvay died on 11th September 1796 on his ship the Modeste having been wounded in a sea-battle with two well-armed English whalers the previous day… but that was off the coast of Mozambique. So, no real match there, it would seem. And the same proved to be the case with just about all the others.

I also previously dug up a mention of a sea battle of the coast of Hindustan that happened on 9th February 1796, where three French warships sailing under false flags engaged with the coastguard ship Real Fidelissima just off Diu. But that was a small Portuguese ship, guarding a Portuguese port in India… once again, “close, but no cigar”.

Even so, I worked out that two of the three French warships that attacked Diu were almost certainly the Cybèle (under Captain Renaud) and the Prudente (under Captain Tréhouart). The third ship might have been the brig Coureur (under Lieutenant Garaud), the corvette Pélagie (under Lieutenant Latour-Cassanhiol) which had joined Renaud’s division in 1795, the Jean-Bart (formerly the Rosalie, under Captain Loyseau), or even Deschiens de Kerulvay’s Modeste. Incidentally, the Modeste was laid up in May 1796, which would be broadly consistent with its having been the ship that the Portuguese coastguard and fort cannons damaged in the action off Diu… but that’s a bit thin as inferences go.

I think we can be a little more specific about the timing, though. Specifically, it seems very unlikely to me that it would have been after the summer of 1796, when the truly formidable Admiral de Sercey (who is commemorated on the Arc de Triomphe!) took control of the French Mauritius fleet. And given that the number of attacks by French corsairs on the British East India ships ballooned after 1793, the date range we’re interested in is probably from late 1793 to July 1796. That’s a reasonably good start… but not quite good enough. And so it was there that my train ran out of steam.

But then a copy of H.C.M. Austen’s (1934) “Sea Fights and Corsairs of the Indian Ocean” arrived through the post (the Cipher Mysteries budget only stretched to the 2003 paperback 2nd edition, but even that was hard enough to find). Having this lovely old slab to hand allowed me to cross-reference everything I’d found so far with Austen’s detailed accounts of the various Indian Ocean naval actions [even if some parts of it have clearly been superseded by modern research].

Even though I’m only half-way through it (it’s a big old thing, really it is), I’m now pretty sure that Le Butin’s dying captain will turn out to be none other than Jean-Marie Renaud, head of the French Navy’s Indian Station.

Renaud’s main claim to naval fame came from the action of 22nd October 1794, when he proposed a way to break the British blockade of Mauritius’ Port Louis. The Cybèle and the Prudente were badly damaged in the sea fight (and Renaud himself was wounded, though not fatally), but Renaud’s plan worked, and the blockade was lifted… for a few weeks, anyway.

Austen continues (p.64)…

Early in 1795, as soon as the two frigates had been repaired, Renaud took them out as naval corsairs. On 30th June, in the Straits of Sunda, they captured the Sea Nymph; on 8th July, in the mouth of the Palimban River, a Dutch and many other ships, one of which, the Acheines of 400 tons, was ransomed by the Nabob of Arcot for 120,000 francs.

…before finishing with a sentence that is both mysterious and unsatisfying…

No historian has as yet been able to trace the ultimate fate of Renaud.

The the Wikipedia page on Renaud asserts that (and:-
* “capitaine de vaisseau Renaud” was in Guyane in 1799 [BB4 139. CAMPAGNES. 1799. VOLUME 10]
* “capitaine Renaud”, captaining the Frigate Syrène in 1801 as per this quote from Guerin’s “Histoire maritime de France” (p.211) [note that “Cayenne” was the French colony in Guyana]:-

La corvette le Berceau remplaçait, dans la station de Cayenne, la frégate la Syrène, capitaine Renaud, qui, après un beau combat contre deux frégates anglaises, était allée déposer dans cette colonie le commissaire Victor Hugues, et elle avait en levé, le 10 juillet 1800, une bonne partie d’un convoi anglo-por tugais, amariné une corvette et mis en fuite un brig d’escorte, lorsque ayant conduit à bon port ses prises évaluées à plus de quatre millions, elle fut rencontrée par la frégate le Boston, de 32 canons, avec laquelle il lui fallut soutenir trois combats successifs à portée de pistolet.

I also found one further possible Renaud reference listed in the French Marine archives:
* “cdt. Renaud, enseigne de vaisseau” was commanding a ship called the Unité full of prisoners between Toulon and Mahon in 1801 [BB4 156. CAMPAGNES. 1801. VOLUME 6]

But no, I don’t believe that any of these references are to the same M. Renaud who sailed the Indian Ocean. For a start, I don’t believe that Renaud ever returned to France – the hero of the 1794 naval action would surely have merited some kind of official response, whether a pension or an honour. And for another, I simply don’t believe that he would have gone completely silent for 3-4 years at what was essentially the peak of his career.

No, the French marine archives of the period are sufficiently detailed and complete that any move by a well-thought-of figure would have been carefully noted (particularly by the enthusiastically bureaucratic Admiral de Sercey, whose letters fill the French Marine archives), but honestly, there’s nowt t’see there. OK, you may say that “absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence”: but here we do have plenty of evidence in the archives, all saying nothing about what Renaud was doing. To me, that’s arguably as close to “evidence of absence” as you’re likely to get.

I’d agree that a man about whose family, birth (place and date) and death (place and date) we currently know nothing is always going to be an easy lapel to pin a mystery medal on. But if I’ve got him figured out right, what’s the next step, hmmm?

Well… so far, I’ve played most of this from the French archival side: but now it’s time to (you’re way ahead of me) jump ship over to the British archives.

Hence my plan (such as it is) is to try to work out what large British frigates were anywhere near the Hindustan coast between 9th February 1796 (when Diu was attacked) and late March 1796 (when Captain Galloway of the American ship Restoration said “the Prudente, the Cybèle and a corvette returned to Port Louis … without any prizes.“). It’s a pretty tight window.

Really, the list of possible British ships who were in the exact place at the exact time must surely be quite short (no more than three or four?), so finding those out should be relatively straightforward. The carrot on the stick is that the papers of many British ships of this period are still accessible, along with contemporary Admiralty reports etc: so once those ship names are in hand, I believe it should be possible to go straight to the primary evidence and see what it tells us. There may be quite an unexpected story to be found there, you never know… 🙂

PS: there may possibly be more to see in BB4 86. CAMPAGNES. 1795. VOLUME 23 in the French Marine archives, as I’ve only seen the item summary: “Frégate la Prudente (croisière autour de Sumatra ; Saint-Denis-de-la-Réunion), cdt. Renaud, capitaine de vaisseau à titre temporaire. 2 frim. an IV” (i.e. cruising around Sumatra, 23rd November 1795). Even so, I suspect that’s where Renaud goes off the French radar and possibly onto the British radar… hopefully we shall see!

I’ve been reading more about La Buse & Le Butin, and I have to say I’m not hugely impressed by the research that has been done into either. More books on 18th century corsairs are (as Eddie Elgar might have said) ‘winging their woundabout way’ to Cipher Mysteries Mansions; but if what I’ve seen so far is any guide, I’ll be no less confused in a year’s time.

But really, I think that good historical research is painfully easy to spot, as it combines:-
(1) an appreciation of primary sources (or at least early secondary ones);
(2) a healthy scepticism towards the mythology built up around events and objects; and
(3) empathy towards the people involved (but without a lot of modern back-projection).

Even though we now arguably have better access to primary (or at least closely contemporary) historical sources than ever before, few historians now seem to have the knack for dealing with them properly. Perhaps this is from the slow-motion death of taught codicology and palaeography; or perhaps it’s from the way many of them seem eager to lock themselves into a tightly-specialized silo without no obvious broader-brush historical context or framework to bounce their research against. I guess you’ll have your own thoughts on this, it’s not exactly front page news.

Similarly, the guff that Internet sites pass off as “history” tends to be even more romantic and speculative than even Victorian historians ever managed. In particular, cipher mysteries are so plagued by this rot that I now routinely tell people it’ll take me at least a month to separate what’s real from what’s Maybelline in any new cipher strand – the whole “La Buse / Le Butin” thing is simply the exemple du jour of what is a miserable and much larger trend.

But to my hay-fevered eyes, it’s arguably empathy that I find most obviously lacking. The people of the past aren’t cut-out stick-figures jerking on a historian’s Punch-and-Judy stage, they were real people stuck in uncertain situations, operating blind of their actions’ future consequences. Their decisions were often (quite literally) life-and-death ones; so reducing past lives to mere critical reading textual exercises misses the point.

For me, empathy is that which transcends the details and defies the scepticism: it’s the negentropic force that gives History back the three-dimensionality stripped away by temporal distance, and that pulls the fragmentary pieces together into a sensible whole. Yet… I just don’t see who gives a monkey’s about empathy any more.

Do you?

As we saw in Part 1, Bernardin Nageon de L’estang (“Le Butin”) said in the note added to his will that he had been in a French corsair ship when the captain was mortally wounded:

We made many splendid captures from them, but at our last battle with a large British frigate on the shores of Hindustan, the captain was wounded and on his deathbed confided to me his secrets and his papers to retrieve considerable treasure buried in the Indian Ocean; and, having first made sure that I was a Freemason, asked me to use it to arm privateers against the English.

To my historical eyes, the problem with this part of his story is that, as a rule, French corsairs were many times more interested in capturing treasure-laden English merchant ships coming from the East Indies than in engaging with English frigates off the coast of Hindustan (far from the main Booty Route). In fact, I would estimate that during the period 1790 to 1800, there would have been less than five (and, indeed, quite possibly zero) naval actions involving French corsairs off the coast of Hindustan.

All the same, our starting point here ought to be to take Le Butin’s account at face value, and we only need to find one such action to make it substantially more plausible: and in fact, the fewer the actions we find, arguably the more likely we are to have identified the ship that Le Butin was on. But where on earth might we find primary evidence of an inconclusive sea battle in that place & at that time?

Step forward our white knight of the day – Roger Houghton who, according to his Guardian user profile, “spent a couple of years as a Purser’s Clerk on Union-Castle ships then joined the Hong Kong police for a tour and finally became a private investigator for thirty years“. His admirable website A Peoples’ History 1793 – 1844 from the newspapers contains a frankly unbelievable amount of primary evidence culled from old newspapers all over the world.

For our purposes, his France in Asia chapter contains hundreds of extracts from those editions of the Bombay Courier held in the British Library (though with several sizeable gaps, e.g. the whole of 1797), many of which relay news items culled from Mauritian newspapers brought to India on neutral ships. And it was there that the following article leapt out at me:-

Sat 12th March 1796 [date of the report]

The French have attacked the small Portuguese enclave of Diu, north of Bombay. On 9th February 1796 three warships under British colours were seen. Capt Josef de Souza of the Portuguese frigate Real Fidelesima supposed them to be Admiral Elphinstone’s squadron returning from the Cape.

He was anchored 2 miles off Diu fort and was preparing to honour the inbound ships in the required way when he received a broadside. The three ships then raised the tricolor and fired a second broadside. De Souza cut his cables and ran in under the fort. The three ships then exchanged fire with the frigate and the fort for about 4 hours when, with dusk approaching, the French left. One of their ships had to be towed away. Afterwards about 500 shot (from 9- 12- and 18-pounders) were collected from the beach where they had rebounded from the stone walls of the fort.

The Real Fidelesima then sailed to Goa with the Diu Governor Caetano de Souza and the colonial supervisor Antonio Baptiste de Cunha as passengers.

According to the 3decks website, the Portuguese ship (actually the “Real Fidelissima”) was a 24-gun corvette built in 1777 in Damao (a Portuguese enclave not far from Diu). Later, the ship was loaned to the British but ended up wrecked in 1817 near Perim Island in the Gulf of Aden (there’s correspondence on this in the archives). Similarly, a Portuguese site records her as having 28 artillery pieces (22 twelve-pounders and 6 six-pounders) and 200 men on board, used mainly as a coastguard ship and for protecting convoys out of India. Here’s what she looks like:-

real-fidelissima-small

All of which seems strongly consistent with the news report. So… might we have found our mysterious naval action? Might the captain on the towed-away French ship have been (as per Le Butin’s letter) mortally wounded?

Though this is certainly possible, we’re still a long way from being able to tell the whole story. The next challenge would be to try to find primary evidence from February-March 1796 as to what was going on – a set of three ships sailing under false flags would have been a suspicious sight. At that date, moreover, a crippled French corsair ship near Diu would have to be towed a very long way to find a friendly port – perhaps even the Seychelles. What is nice here is that we have a very specific date range to look for, which might strongly limit the amount of searching we need to do to find this ship & captain.

As far as Diu itself goes, one very useful secondary source is a paper “Diu, the commercial activity in a small harbour in Gujarat (1680-1800) : the Portuguese documents” (in English) by Luis Frederico Dias Antunes, published in the book SOURCES EUROPÉENNES SUR LE GUJARAT, because this refers directly to a good number of archival sources for what was happening there during the period we’re interested in. The most relevant archive he summarizes would seem to be the Filmoteca Ultramarina Portuguesa in Lisbon, whose Manuscript #12 covers the period 1791-1797. All the same, there is (as he notes) relatively little relating to Diu in the archives, so the chances are high that this will not yield the results we hope for.

In summary… to my eyes, the supposed link between Le Butin’s pirate cipher and La Buse’s (legendary) pirate cipher looks ever weaker. All the while that Le Butin’s letters largely seem to be checking out (even if the historical records on this are generally quite thin), the less need his story has of La Buse (who, after all, was hanged some 70 years earlier). But even so, there is plenty of room for manoeuvre on these volatile tides, and pirates have always proved difficult to pin down! We shall, with a spot of luck, see! 🙂