Missive from Steamtopia

18 November, 1888

Dearest Cousin Ryan -

I write to you from the the land of Steamtopia. The same that many have tried to find, but none when sober claims success. The superstitious rumours have it guarded by magic, like the Isla de Muerta , only found by those who already know where it is. The truth is, it is the Pirates who jealously guard the secret of its location, and woe be to any tongue that wags.

I have been living in Steamtopia for two years now. This is my first chance to send a letter to you. The mail packets don't stop here, at least by choice. If they do somehow wander into our sphere of influence, they can never leave. Before I departed on my cruise to adventure - it seems much longer ago than just two years - we talked about my desire to look for Steamtopia. You laughed at me. "Pipedreams and folly!" you said. Well I found it - or maybe I should say that it found me - as the little steam freighter I weighed anchor with was attacked by the Airship Pirates, and the few of us lucky enough to survive are now permanent guests of Steamtopia.

I have made myself quite useful to the Pirates, as most of them are relatively unlettered and unskilled except in the areas of sailing, flying and mayhem. I started by repairing some of their machines. They have an amazing assortment of things they've captured or pilfered from half the globe. Most are incomplete or broken, and they often have no idea what it is that they have.

Luckily there is no shortage of power. I have the steam engines and boilers from several different ships to chose from. The island has an abundance of hardwood trees with such high oil content that the wood will burn like good coal soon after cutting without need to be seasoned. I have had one of the steam engines set up for stationary power that runs a woodshop with a complete assortment of machines belt driven from overhead shafts. We have a huge bandsaw that was bound for a shipyard in the new world. That and a jointer and planer allows us to produce as fine of finished boards as can be found in any port in the world. This is a great help in repairing the frequent damage to the Pirate fleet.

We have begun to create a similar metal working shop with drop hammer forges and an as yet primitive turning engine. I hope to eventually build a gear-cutting mill which would be essential to developing my own versions of certain machines you might be able to guess at the nature of.

With my worth proven to the satisfaction of nearly all - pirates being a rather independent lot - I have been granted some freedoms and trust beyond those of lesser conscripts. This letter is a boon, allowed to go out with an "innocent" trading ship that will call at an honest port and trade for some essentials that have not been acquired in the usual ways.

My days here are full, with the work of repairing and maintaining the machines, and running the wood mill. Still there is plenty of time for relaxing strolls through the woods, nay, jungle I should say. There I can, often as not, pluck my repast from the trees and vines as I go, sampling fruits the like I never saw before I left home. There are few dangers other than my fellow man. The wild boars can be ferocious if surprised, but they have learned respect for the weapons we routinely carry and generally make themselves scarce. There are several varieties of brightly plumaged birds, all of which are quite tasty broiled, but there are no serpants of any kind.

As I wander, I am reminded of that book of Daniel Defoe's that so enticed me to adventure that I left family and inheritance and took to ship with no thought of where I would come to land. Little did I imagine that I would become artificer to the legendary airship pirates.

The weather here is mild, too warm and humid much of the year, but never cold. From time to time in the warm season vicious wind and rainstorms will nearly flatten the trees with their force, but we have used the lumber I make to good effect adding stout doors and shutters to the thatched pole bungalows that are the usual abode here. Then we stay dry and comfortable inside with large stocks of european wines and rum to help keep our cheer. Rough as they are, the pirates have a certain charm, and some are fine musicians.

Though few have any formal education, they are not without talents and craft. They seem to universally love creating the most outlandish personal adornments, influenced and mixed together with all the differences of their varied national backgrounds and whatever baubles and feathers take their fancy - none are remotely the same, but all would make the boldest Gipsy look like the most conservative banker. A favorite with many are polished brass gears that they take from captured watches and clocks.

This later use I bewail as I have much need of these gears for the various inventions that I and a couple of other mechanics have begun work on. We have a surprisingly good library here, the Pirate officers require books on captured ships to be brought to the Island untouched, to be sorted later by those who can read. There was quite a large pile of them when I arrived. My favorite, the true treasure of the library, is a beautifully leather bound set titled the "Illustrated History of Technology" with exceedingly fine engravings. The first volume is unfortunately missing, and the second all but completely ruined by seawater, but volumes three and four consist of the most important inventions of the current industrial age with details of patent drawings and application descriptions. This set - along with some odd issues of "Scientific American" and a few books of mathmatical tables - comprise our technical shelf.

With these sources to work from, and the bits and pieces of machines that come our way we have been able to cobble together a variety of steam powered machines that do nearly anything that man can imagine. In some cases we have gone far beyond the original inventor, and could apply for patents ourselves, if only we were part of civilized society. I predict that our isolated pirate island will become a steam utopia beyond even the reports of Jules Verne.

Please let my Aunt and Mother know that I breathe still, and bear them my love as I may but seldom have the chance to send any message. You needn't trouble yourself with my Father, I fear he will never again admit that he ever had a son named Alexander, or if forced by birth records to admit, will claim me dead as an infant.

With life long affection,
Your Cousin
Alexander Watt Babbage

Testing. 1. . . 2 . . .

Oh dear. I still don't think that I have quite got the hang of this computing stuff. Nevertheless herein are to be found excerpts from my scrapbook including anecdotes, photographs and illustrations of the world of Steamtopia. My hope is that anyone who stumbles across them will find the vicarious experience of this world through my writings, etc. enjoyable and come to appreciate what a wondrous and marvellous world it is, as I have. Happy viewing!