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GEOGRAPHIES OF MEDIA
Series Editors: Torsten Wissmann
and Joseph Palis

SOUND,
SPACE AND
SOCIETY
Rebel Radio

Kimberley Peters
 Geographies of Media

Series editors
Torsten Wissmann
Faculty of Architecture and Urban Planning
University of Applied Sciences
Erfurt, Germany

Joseph Palis
Department of Geography
University of the Philippines Diliman
Quezon, Philippines
Media is always spatial: spaces extend from all kinds of media, from news-
paper columns to Facebook profiles, from global destination branding to
individually experienced environments, and from classroom methods to
GIS measurement techniques. Crucially, the way information is produced
in an increasingly globalised world has resulted in the bridging of space
between various scalar terrains. Being and engaging with media means
being linked to people and places both within and beyond traditional
political borders. As a result, media shapes and facilitates the formation of
new geographies and other space-constituting and place-based configura-
tions. The Geographies of Media series serves as a forum to engage with
the shape-shifting dimensions of mediascapes from an array of method-
ological, critical and analytical perspectives. The series welcomes proposals
for monographs and edited volumes exploring the cultural and social
impact of multi-modal media on the creation of space, place, and everyday
life.

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/series/15003
 Kimberley Peters

Sound, Space and

Society
Rebel Radio
Kimberley Peters
Department of Geography and Planning
University of Liverpool
Liverpool, UK

Geographies of Media
ISBN 978-1-137-57675-0    ISBN 978-1-137-57676-7 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-57676-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017958009

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2018

The author(s) has/have asserted their right(s) to be identified as the author(s) of this work
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
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lisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the
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tional affiliations.

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Printed on acid-free paper

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The registered company is Macmillan Publishers Ltd.
The registered company address is: The Campus, 4 Crinan Street, London, N1 9XW, United
Kingdom
For Madeline, to whom I owe my musical education.
 Preface: Not Fade Away

In the second book of the Geographies of Media series, we turn to a

medium that has been around for about one hundred years. Radio and
sound media have received a lot of attention, especially from media stud-
ies, but when it comes to geographic research, the bibliography is rather
scant. This is both interesting and ironic, as radio remains the most impor-
tant medium worldwide, and in many regions of the world far more
important than television or the Internet.
After focusing on the possibilities of cyberspace for the creation of local
identity in the twenty-first century in Tobias Boos’ work on the Contrade
of Siena, Italy, we felt the need to make sure that the title of the preface
comes true for the role radio plays in geographic investigation: Not Fade
Away. On another level, Not Fade Away builds the starting point for
Kimberley Peters’ research on Rebel Radio, as the first song ever broad-
casted from the pirate radio ship Caroline in 1964 was so titled. The
Rolling Stones, like many other bands back then, did not get the airtime
they needed to satisfy many UK listeners. So, ships like the Caroline
embarked on their mission to deliver music outside national territories and
conventions. Kimberley Peters’ look at the social limitations of a national
radio company such as the BBC is enlightening and surpasses the techno-
logical discussion about radio waves.
Rebel Radio, it seems, is a perfect illustration for media geography
being under the umbrella of social geography as a whole. Before social
media communication was shortened to tweets and likes, the transmitter–
receiver model of Rebel Radio constituted a vivid producer–listener inter-
action. Of course, listeners would not phone in and they were certainly

vii
viii PREFACE: NOT FADE AWAY

not able to provide DJs on sea with instant feedback by pressing a button
on their smart phones. Participating in the relationship between broad-
caster and receiver seems to have happened more on an imaginative level—
another angle of geographic research on which Peters has very amply
provided insightful comments and observations. An even deeper investi-
gation into the imaginative geographies of listening to radio could easily
fill another book of the Geographies of Media series.
Reading through Kimberley Peters’ book will provide you with an idea
of how it must have been, tuning into those ‘socially abnormal’ radio
shows. The taste of sea salt is almost in your mouth when you learn about
the dichotomies of land vs. sea, of open areas vs. closed confinements, of
the cozy blanket over the listener’s head vs. the roaring thunder around
the DJs’ cabin. It tells us that the context of place is of importance when
it comes to media production. Even though the sound source may be
outside territorial borders, the quality of this uncertain Otherness, to use
a phenomenological term by Edmund Husserl, resonates in the transmit-
ted sound waves.
Morality is another recurring term in the discussion. While it was not
officially illegal to broadcast rock music from international waters to the
British homeland, it was seen as morally renegade. Future inquiries on
moral boundaries as having spatial and social implications in other media
geography research and studies would make for interesting trajectories
that link imaginative geographies within a larger media project.
Politics also play an important role in Rebel Radio. Soundwaves as a
natural phenomenon elude the grasp of geopolitical conformities. Altered
sound waves, carrying the rebel soundscape to receivers inside ‘enemy’
territory, are no exception. Just like the visual dominates geographic dis-
cussions over sound, so the visible takes precedence over acoustic
entities.
Thinking about the defenselessness of a government to prevent sound
waves from infiltrating national airspace, and realizing the enormous
potential for alternative voices to be heard, the discussion of Rebel Radio
leads us back to the twenty-first-century cyberspace and the still expand-
ing Internet. Today, about ten percent of radio listeners in the UK already
use computers, smart phones, and apps to listen to their favorite radio
shows. While digital transmission comes with a much clearer quality of
sound, radio becomes much easier to regulate too. Anybody who has ever
tried to tune in to a radio station from a foreign country has experienced
access restrictions, due to a non-valid IP address. So, Kimberley Peters’
 PREFACE: NOT FADE AWAY
   ix

inquiry not only tells a story of an old medium on an old pirate ship from
about 50 years ago, it also urges us to think about the future development
of radio, including alternative audio podcasting. Maybe, keeping the
soundscape transmitted via radio waves in our daily lives would provide us
with more than just a nostalgic retrospective. If nothing else, white noise
and bad reception might be the very part of the listening experience we do
not want to miss out on.
Or, as Steve Jobs puts it: “Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The
rebels.”

Wiesbaden, Germany Torsten Wissmann


Quezon, Philippines Joseph Palis
 Acknowledgements

When I first moved to Liverpool home became a top-floor flat, overlook-

ing the Irish Sea and the Mersey Estuary. The television was packed away
in storage, and so, for eight weeks, the radio was my company. It became
the soundtrack to the end of summer, and to new beginnings. Radio, it
seems, has accompanied many moments of my life. As a teenager, in the
1990s, I would sit and tape-record the top 40 chart on my twin cassette
recorder, listening intently for the number one. During road trips in my
late twenties, and even now, the radio has been a constant passenger.
As a scholar of the sea, I didn’t set out to write a book about radio. Yet
radio was always there in the background (as radio often is). For four
years, as part of my doctoral research, I had been enveloped in an offshore
world, exploring the socio-spatial politics of perhaps the most famous of
pirate stations—Radio Caroline. I was primarily interested in the maritime
dimensions of the enterprise, how the sea and ship made possible the
actions that came to define decades of broadcasting history. Yet the broad-
casting dimensions remained on the fringes of my writing.
This book brings radio to the foreground and fulfils a long-held desire
to write about a number of exceptional moments in broadcasting history
that have shaped the radioscapes we hear today and the often-forgotten
people who were a part of that story. It is a book that would not have been
possible without the exceptional generosity of those who participated in
the research, who spared me their time, and shared with me their passion
for pirate radio. I am indebted to all those who are part of the Radio
Caroline organisation, the Ross Revenge Restoration Crew and Netley
Support Group who welcomed me into the Caroline community for the

xi
xii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

duration of my project. I am also grateful to all of those I met whilst inter-

viewing, who gave me such an evocative insight into what it was to listen
to Radio Caroline against a soundscape of limited British broadcasting.
My thanks also go to archivists at the National Archives, Kew, and at the
Manx National Heritage Library for helping me locate the textual materi-
als which enriched this research. In piecing together this book, from the
narratives heard and materials collected, any omissions, shortcomings, or
errors are entirely my own. My thanks go to Holly Tyler who commis-
sioned the book and Joanna O’Neill for her patience and tireless work in
ensuring that I delivered it. My further thanks go to all at Palgrave and
Springer for their assistance in the stages of production that followed.
Finally, the academic support provided whilst I conducted this work
was crucial and I owe my thanks to the Economic and Social Research
Council (PTA-031-2006-00022) who funded this research; Tim Cresswell
and David Lambert who oversaw it; and Royal Holloway’s ‘Landscape
Surgery’, which offered a supportive working environment during my
PhD years. More recently, I am grateful to colleagues Peter Merriman,
James Kneale, Gareth Hoskins, Jen Dickinson, Hilary Geoghegan, Sarah
Mills, Phil Steinberg and Peter Adey who have all engaged with and com-
mented on various iterations of what has now become this book. My fur-
ther thanks go to Torsten Wissmann and Joseph Palis, the Palgrave Media
Geographies series editors.
As always, none of this would have been possible without Jennifer—my
other constant passenger.
Liverpool, 2017 Kimberley Peters
 Contents

1 Audible Introductions: Space, Sound, Society   1

2 Contextualising Caroline: The Offshore Pirate  21

3 Offshore Outlaws: Intimate Geopolitics at Sea  39

4 Audio Atmospherics: Listening from Land  57

5 Broadcasting Borders: Controlling the Air  75

6 Sounding Out Conclusions  95

Encore 113

Index 117

xiii
 Prelude

When wireless telephony technology was first channelled in such a way as

to transmit spoken voice at the turn of the twentieth century, listeners
introduced to this medium of communication were confused and fright-
ened (Sconce 2000). Wireless signals had first been harnessed by Samuel
Morse in the mid-1800s, allowing coded messages to span new geographi-
cal scales, condensing time and space (Harvey 1989); this compared to the
onerous transportation of written mail. The infamous dots and dashes of
what would be called ‘Morse Code’, whilst perhaps not comprehendible
to all, were acceptable at least. Yet when the communication of voice
through the same medium—electromagnetic radio waves—was to occur,
some could only make sense of the phenomenon by blaming ghostly infer-
ence (Sconce 2000). These were voices from the ‘other side’ —another
world. ‘Radio’ was a ‘haunted media’ and paranormal forces could be the
only explanation for such disembodied sound (Ibid. 2000). Radio, it
seemed, was coming from nowhere.
In the 2007 track ‘Radio Nowhere’, from the aptly named album
Magic, Bruce Springsteen describes this quality of radio—of trying to pick
up a signal, searching out the sound of a radio station that seems to be
‘nowhere’. Radio or electromagnetic waves do not require a medium to
move through. They travel, buoyed by their own energy, through a vac-
uum of space. Radio waves are both nowhere and yet everywhere. They are
all around us. We walk through invisible waves simply by going about our
everyday business. Spoken words and music from radio transmissions
flood into everyday spaces wherever we tune in—be it in the car, at home

xv
xvi Prelude

or at work. Yet in Geography, radio seems to have no place. And if we were

to locate it or unpick its spatiality, where would we begin?
In 2010, somewhere in the midst of conducting this research, I found
myself sitting with a Sony Walkman in a modern-looking office complex in
London’s Docklands listening to a private archive collection of pirate broad-
casting recordings from the station Radio Caroline. Prior to this, my only
direct audio engagement with the station had been through CDs of selected
key moments of the station’s history which had been opportunely captured,
packaged and made available for sale on a fan website. Hearing these tapes
was an altogether more unadulterated listening experience. The recordings
were far from perfect. The stop and start of the cassette recorder interrupted
the flow. The sound quality was rough and raw. The tapes lacked a logic or
order to an outsider. They were just the recordings of a young man. I asked
my research participant why he made and kept so many of them. There were
boxes upon boxes of tapes on the table around me. His answer, even now,
sticks with me. He said he had a sense he was listening to something special.
I’d been studying pirate radio for some time, but until that point I had
to admit that I didn’t really ‘get it’. Yet I remember being sat with those
recordings, my ears enclosed in headphones, shutting my eyes and being
transported. The sound took me to another time, another place: the
1970s; a ship at sea. I felt enveloped in something unique; I became part
of a family of listeners, linked together invisibly. Radio’s supernatural qual-
ities emerged. This was a radio from somewhere, and that somewhere
mattered.
A prelude is the opening sequence or motif of score—a piece of music,
or also any performance, action or text. It sets the tone. It introduces the
theme. This book ‘traces’ and ‘places’ radio in geographic scholarship
(Anderson 2015). Over the course of the chapters to follow it reveals the
people behind radio—from those who produce it, to those who listen, and
the lively forces and things—electromagnetic waves, antennae, receivers
and so on—which drive it.
This is where the story begins.

References

Anderson, J. (2015). Understanding Cultural Geography: Places and

Traces. Abingdon: Routledge.
 Prelude 
   xvii

Harvey, D. (1989). The Condition of Modernity: An Enquiry into the

Origins of Cultural Change. Oxford: Blackwell.
Sconce, J. (2000). Haunted Media: Electronic Presence from Telegraphy to
Television. Durham and London: Duke University Press.
Springsteen, B. (2007). Radio Nowhere, from Magic. USA: [CD]
Columbia Records.
 CHAPTER 1

Audible Introductions: Space, Sound, Society

Abstract Why examine the relations between sound, space and society,
and why do so through the lens of rebel radio stations? This chapter sets
the scene for the book, attending to the turn towards multi-sensory geog-
raphies, geographies of sound, music, and mediated geographies, before
outlining the need to take radio seriously within such work. Notably, this
chapter argues that current scholarship related to radio could push further
through investigating how the very aesthetics of sound shape (and are
shaped by) space, and society. The chapter closes by signposting the book
to follow, with a brief overview of chapters.

Keywords Multi-sensory geographies • Non-representational geographies

• Mediated geographies • Sound • Radio

I discovered by listening to the radio that there was some fantastic

imagery available… it wasn’t the kind of childhood where you’d all sit
around reading books so suddenly I discovered that this little box
[a transistor] created some fantastic pictures… I had this imagery
about these guys on Radio Caroline so I got into the whole idea about
hippies, album music, whatever—and it was just the most fantastic
picture in my mind.
(Interview, Listener and Disc Jockey 1, June 2008)

© The Author(s) 2018 1

K. Peters, Sound, Space and Society, Geographies of Media,
https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-57676-7_1
2 K. PETERS

Examining the effects of music on audiences in nineteenth century con-

cert halls, musicologist and conductor Leon Botstein has argued that the
rousing sounds of classical music scores created rich, detailed visual pic-
tures for listeners in an age prior to the invention of moving image—the
television, as a source of mediated entertainment. Music—or sound—he
argued, ‘created an experience of the visual and emotional imagination
that would not otherwise have existed’ (Botstein 1995, 588). The assem-
bled sounds of instruments, reverberating within the acoustic space of the
concert hall forged ‘an experience unique to … [the] properties’ of both
sound and space (Botstein 1995, 588). For society at the time, mental
pictures were evoked and replayed through sound, and through the spaces
in which the organised sounds of music were heard. In short, sound,
space, and image were tied together.
With the invention of the radio in the late 1800s (Lewis and Booth
1989) the imagination-inducing capacities of sound and music would be
amplified as disembodied voices and noises emanated from wireless boxes
(Sconce 2000). Much has been written on the impact of radio; of spoken
word, audio plays, news readings, documentaries, advertisements, and
music, to create ‘ways of seeing’ (Bolls and Lang 2003; see also Wissmann
and Zimmerman 2010, 2015). As media scholars Bolls and Lang have
noted, radio advertising has been a particularly powerful form of promot-
ing given products, with listeners literally ‘seeing it on the radio’ (2003,
33). And, as the quote at the start of this chapter reveals, for listeners of
the offshore pop pirate station Radio Caroline, the visual imagery made
possible through listening, as opposed to directly seeing, could not be
underestimated in the overall experience of engaging with sea-based illicit
broadcasting. Through listening to Radio Caroline an image was conjured
of the musical corsairs of the seas, an offshore community ready at the
record decks to bring eager listeners on land the latest music, in often
unconventional formats.1
It is surprising, given the connections between image and sound, that
vision as a standalone sense has been given priority in a number of aca-
demic disciplines, from geography to anthropology to ethnography, as a
way of knowing and understanding the world (Stokes 1997). Yet this fol-
lows the perspective that vision is the most ‘dominant’ of the senses
(Swanston and Wade 2013; Wissmann 2014). Even our language reveals
a bias towards visual thinking where common descriptors such as ‘illus-
trate’, ‘demonstrate’, and ‘show’ all elude to the sense of sight. As Stokes
has contended, ‘social experience insistently privileges the visual’ and,
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 3

moreover, academic disciplines ‘unerringly continue to reproduce this

fact’ (1997, 673). This can certainly be said of geography. Traditionally,
geography has been a visual discipline (Driver 2003). From the formal
beginnings of the subject as a modern discipline in the mid-nineteenth
century, vision was central to collection of data (Guarín 2004). Alexander
von Humboldt, one of the most influential figures in establishing geo-
graphical studies at the time, focused his work on the visual, on the ‘pat-
terns underlying particular, observed phenomena’ (Peet 1998, 11),
depicting these through elaborate diagrams and maps (Guarín 2004,
607). From these beginnings, a geographic discipline emerged that would
rely heavily on images of the places geographic explorers travelled to and
observed. Many of the images captured by subsequent geographers in the
form of sketches, paintings, and photographs would then be shown to an
audience back home in exhibitions and on lantern slides in concert halls
and classrooms. Images were central to the production of geographical
knowledge, providing a way of reproducing and representing the world
‘out there’ to an audience who couldn’t experience that world for them-
selves in a time before travel was accessible to all (Driver 2003).
And it seems that geographers have never lost the obsession with the
visual. The discipline continues to draw heavily on visual images whereby
students, teachers, and researchers use a variety of ‘visual technologies’
(Driver 2003, 227)—globes, maps, charts, images, photographs, and
more recently film—as windows to the world. To provide an example,
writing on urban space, Torsten Wissmann notes how the visual ‘domi-
nates standard urban vocabulary of experience’ (2014, 1). Geographers
then might be said to have an ‘enchantment with the visual’ (Driver 2003,
227). Yet with a turn to ‘sensuous geographies’ (Rodaway 2002), alerted
to ways of knowing beyond vision alone, there is now a wide appreciation
that the full range of bodily senses are vital for understanding engage-
ments between society and space. This book is part of the ongoing effort
to take seriously senses other than vision in the social sciences, and in
particular, within geography, through a focus on the spatialities of sound
(see Revill 2016; Wissman 2014). Yet this book is also about taking seri-
ously the production and consumption of a specific kind of sound—that
which is shared through the medium of radio. Whilst sound and ‘sound-
scapes’ (Smith 1997) have emerged as important foci for making sense of
lived worlds—and whilst a wide range of work has emerged in relation to
sound (paying attention to urban soundscapes; the politics of voice; the
global–local relations of music; memory-making and sound; audio
4 K. PETERS

t­echnologies and sound-recording—see Wissmann 2014; Kanngieser

2012; Connell and Gibson 2003; Butler 2006; Watson 2014 respec-
tively)—radio has received far less attention in recent studies (see Bull
2004; Keough 2010; Pinkerton 2008a, b, 2018; Pinkerton and Dodds
2009; Weir 2014; Wilkinson 2015 for notable exceptions).
Yet radio is historically the most pervasive form of mass-media com-
munication (Crisell 1997, 4), and it remains so today (Chignell 2009).
With a shift not only towards geographies of the senses but also media and
mediated geographies (see Adams et al. 2014) the radio has been sorely
absent, with audio-visual communications—television and increasingly
the internet—dominating examinations. Radio—old, outdated almost—
seems less worthy of our attention. Whilst radio has featured in some geo-
graphical analysis (albeit less than other media), it has often been used to
explore other spatial phenomena—the workings of youth and community
groups (see Keough 2010; Wilkinson 2015), the politics of technology
use in developing countries (Manyozo 2009), or the distribution of geo-
political power (Pinkerton and Dodds 2009; Weir 2014). Accordingly,
this book draws attention to the geographies of radio broadcasting itself,
to uncover how in understanding this technology, its illicit use, and the
elemental mediums through which it is made possible, new geo-political,
geo-social, and geo-physical knowledge can be forged. In particular, this
book seeks to focus this analysis on the distinctive production, consump-
tion, and regulation of sound, and the spacings of sound in respect of radio
broadcasts. In what follows, radio is not a medium to understanding
socio-cultural and political life; rather socio-cultural and political life is the
means through which to make sense of the capacities of radio in modern
society, whereby the ‘fugitive, fragile temporal qualities of sound are cen-
trally implicated in the … qualities of sonic space and spatiality’ (Revill
2016, 241).
That said, whilst this book forms part of a corrective to the ocular-­
centric studies of geography and the social sciences more broadly, it does
not understand sound to be a discrete sense—disconnected from the other
senses in meaning-making. Early writings on sound and soundscapes have
sought to move geography ‘beyond … visible worlds’ (Smith 1997, 502),
as though vision is in contest with other, somehow separate senses.
However, as the Radio Caroline Listener and Disc Jockey revealed at the
start of this chapter, sound can create vision—pictures—or images in the
mind. Hearing and seeing are bundled up in a sense that might at first be
understood as only audible. As Sarah Pink has argued, ‘images [do not]
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 5

exclusively “belong” to the visual sense’ (2011, 6). Whilst sound is the
focal point of this book, it is with the acknowledgement that the linkages
between sound, space, and society are forged through sounds that evoke
images, felt emotions, and affects (following Pile 2010). Radio, it will be
argued, has been a special technology and soundscape central to socio-­
spatial formations and political contestation. Drawing on the example of
unauthorised, so-called rebel radio stations (in particular, the longest run-
ning offshore pirate station, Radio Caroline, which operated from 1964 to
1991), the capacities, atmospheres, and affects of sound will be critically
unpicked. The remainder of this chapter sets the scene for what is to fol-
low. In the next section the ‘turn’ towards multisensory geographies is
explored in greater depth to contextualise approaches to making sense of
sound. Thereafter, the lacuna in studies of radio, and the production, con-
sumption, and regulation of broadcasted sound will be addressed, open-
ing up the rationale for this book to address the connections between
sound, space, and society through the activities of rebel radio stations.
Finally, an outline of the book will follow, signposting the chapters to
come.

Towards a Multisensory Geography

A geography of sound is not by any means new (Revill 2016, 240). Since
the mid-1990s (and as Leyshon et al. show, even earlier (1995)), geogra-
phers have been alerted to the spatial understandings made possible
through a critical interrogation of sound in the form of noise (as disorgan-
ised and disruptive sound; see Ingham et al. 1999), sound (including the
audible dimensions that represent and structure daily life; see Smith 1994;
Wissmann 2014), and music (Kong 1995; Johansson and Bell 2009).
Studies have since proliferated, exploring the spatialities of audible worlds
in diverse, wide-ranging ways. Such studies have been rationalised by
arguing the need for multisensory knowledge in an ‘ocular-centric’ disci-
pline (see Rose 2007, 2). As Gillian Rose has stated,

The most obvious way of characterising geography as a visual discipline…

would be to point to the plethora of visual images used by geographers
when producing, interpreting and disseminating geographical work: all
those maps, videos, sketches, photographs, slides, diagrams, graphs and so
on that fill textbooks, lecture halls, seminars, conference presentations...
(Rose 2003, 213)
6 K. PETERS

Vision remains important, even fundamental, to geography, and scholars

have continued to analyse visual images and experiences in innovative ways
(see Garrett 2011; Pink 2015; Rose 2014). Yet there remains mileage in
recognising that to focus purely on the visual is to ignore the place of
sound, touch, taste, and smell. As Stokes contends, ‘what we know about
ourselves and others and the spaces we create for ourselves is also built out
of sounds. We forget these sounds, or pretend they are not there, to our
disadvantage’ (1997, 673). And as Susan Smith has noted, ‘senses other
than sight might contain and construct geographies which are rather dif-
ferent from those encountered in the visual world’ (1997, 503–504). In
short, we must take ‘audio media’ seriously given that it has a ‘major
impact in shaping and characterising our experience of the world’
(Wissmann and Zimmerman 2010, 371).
The move towards ‘multisensory’ geographies (see Rodaway 2002)
coincided with, and was also driven by, a broader theoretical innovation in
the discipline alerted to ‘non-representational’ worlds (Thrift 1996). With
the work of Nigel Thrift (1996, 1999, 2004a, 2008) and others (see
Anderson and Harrison 2010; Lorimer 2005, 2008; Nash 2000), geogra-
phy was to experience a critical shift that has reshaped both what geogra-
phers study (their empirical objects of concern) and how they study (their
theoretical approaches to understanding). ‘Non-representational theory’
or ‘more-than-representational theory’2 has advanced contemporary
human geography through paying attention to the world as it is lived, felt,
practised, and performed. For Thrift,

Non-representational theory arises from the simple (one might almost say
commonplace) observation that we cannot extract a representation of the
world from the world because we are slap bang in the middle of it, co-­
constructing it with numerous human and non-human others for numerous
ends (or more accurately, beginnings). (Thrift 1999, 296–297)

This way of thinking and doing geography attempts to consider life as we

engage with it, taking into account the performed, embodied, and sensual
nature of everyday worlds. As Cresswell has demonstrated, spaces and
places are not static abstractions; rather we are constantly involved in the
practices that make and shape place (Cresswell 2004, 38). Place, in short,
is lived—forged, formed and evolving ‘through constant and reiterative
practice’ (Cresswell 2004, 38). And as Wissmann shows in his examina-
tion of the urban realm, places are forged through sound, where repeated
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 7

sounds make place (see 2014, 25). Non-representational theory has there-
fore allowed scholars to develop an ‘animated geography of place’ (Massey
and Thrift 2003, 293). In this animated consideration of place, the body
and the sensing body are vital as the medium through which the world is
practised, performed, and lived.
Where the body was once ‘abandoned’ in the social sciences (Lefebrve
1991, 407), scholars have challenged the myth that what we know is the
product of an objective and reasoned mind, detached from the person
generating the knowledge (see Harding 1986; Haraway 1988). Instead,
we understand knowledge to be situated by gendered, sexed, raced, aged
bodies, and the capacities of those bodies to forge knowledge through
sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell. There is now a wide appreciation
that to better unpack social, cultural, and political phenomena, we need to
consider the way our senses help us to engage with and make sense of the
world around us. Critically interrogating vision—the ‘gaze’, ‘ways of see-
ing’, and the sensory dimensions of sight—has been central to this shift,
and there remains much work to be done concerning vision ‘in its own
right’ (Smith 1997, 503). Sound has been a further area that has attracted
a ‘steady stream’ of scholarship (to follow Gallagher and Prior 2014, 267),
alongside geographies of touch (Dixon and Straughan 2010), taste (Waitt
2014), and smell (Johnston and Lorimer 2014). However, although
sound has previously drawn much attention, this has been focused in par-
ticular areas—notably music (see Connell and Gibson 2003: Johansson
and Bell 2009) and sonic interpretations of landscape, space, and exclu-
sion (for example, Atkinson 2007; Boland 2010; Matless 2005; Wissmann
2014).

Sonic Geographies: Previous Work and Future Trajectories

Music, as an acoustic art form where vocal and instrumental sounds are
organised in ‘harmonies’ for the ‘expression of emotion’ (Oxford English
Dictionary 2017), has, unsurprisingly, been at the centre of most ‘sonic
geographies’ (Gallagher and Prior 2014). For most of us, music is a per-
vasive part of everyday life, from the ambient recorded sounds present in
shopping centres, to the radio in the car, to engagements with ‘live’ music
in bars, concert halls, and arenas. Music, as Smith notes, is all around us
and is ‘central to the geographical imagination’ (1994, 238). Accordingly,
geographers have considered music as an art form that permits alternative
spatial representations to emerge other than those possible through visual
8 K. PETERS

forms (paintings, photographs, and so on) (see Smith 1997). They have
also critically explored the ways in which ‘music is spatial—linked to par-
ticular geographical sites, bound up in our everyday perceptions of place,
and a part of the movements of people, products and cultures across space’
(Connell and Gibson 2003, 1). Notably, scholars who have focused on the
geographies of music have explored the ways in which music—or sound-
scapes—is mutable and mobile across space.
Connell and Gibson, in particular, have challenged spatial associations
often developed between styles of music and space, dislocating knowledges
of music as deriving from fixed origins (2003). Trying to ‘localise’ music,
they argue, can be artificial as, although music can have deep-­rooted con-
nections with a particular place, and with identities in that place, it most
often has a spatial trajectory back into the past and into the future, from
one place to another (Connell and Gibson 2003, 34). Rap music, for
example, can be geographically traced to Long Island in the 1970s as a
cultural expression which ‘reflected upon and challenged social and eco-
nomic decay, police oppression and life in a drug-dominated cultural
milieu’ (Leyshon et al. 1995, 429). Yet rap is also a musical form which
stretches beyond such spatial (and temporal) confines, from New York to
the African continent, from ‘hip hop’ to the ‘traditional’ musical form of
‘call and respond’ from which ‘modern’ rap styles developed. Rap music
has also stretched forwards in space and time from Long Island to the west
coast of America and LA, where a different kind of rap scene developed
during the 1990s. As Leyshon et al. note, to place rap ‘risks denying the
mobility, mutability and global mediation of musical forms’ (1995, 429).
Music—sound—in short, moves and allows us to develop more relational,
less territorially-bounded understandings of culture.
Moreover, geographers have explored the ways in which music is politi-
cal (Johansson and Bell 2009, 2) and can act as a medium through which
the politics of place can be read in lyrical form (see Moss 1992, 2011). As
Susan Smith argues, music ‘informs practices of domination and empow-
erment … [it is] a medium through which boundaries are established and
transgressed, and in which difference is marked out and challenged’ (1997,
502). And as Lily Kong echoes, the words accompanying music have the
capacity to unhinge hegemonies in order to ‘express protest and resis-
tance’ to norms (1995, 188). However, music isn’t just political in its lyri-
cal guise but in the very way music is composed and heard, where the very
qualities of sound evoke visceral affects, which can in turn provoke p
­ olitical
action (Jackiewicz and Craine 2009; Waitt et al. 2014). An exploration of
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 9

music, then, can unlock different socio-spatial and political knowledges of

operations of power.
The same might be said of other manifestations of sound, in particular
voice, whereby a different ‘politics of identity’ can be recognised through
aural dimensions. As David Matless has contended, places are ‘defined and
contested through sound’ (2005, 747). Philip Boland has demonstrated
how thinking with voice and accent can create radically new spatial imagi-
naries, where territorial boundaries are not defined by ‘place-bound’ defi-
nitions, but by sound (2010, 6). Drawing on the distinctiveness of the
‘Scouse’ accent, Boland notes how

Scousers sound and speak differently to other English people and especially
those in the North West region in which Liverpool sits … those who do not
share the requisite voice are deemed not to belong … This is why locals refer
to residents of Runcorn …Warrington … and St Helens as “woollybacks”…
and “plastic Scousers” (i.e. not ‘true’ Scousers). (Boland 2010, 6)

As such, a sonic cartography of place reveals new socio-spatial tensions

where accents reveal inclusions and exclusions. Sound is not innocent;
rather, ‘moral, political and cultural judgements’ are made in relation to
what we hear as well as see (Boland 2010, 4), leading to forms of ‘sonic
exclusion’ (Matless 2005, 747). Kanngieser’s recent work takes Boland’s
sonic spatial politics one stage further, where she argues that it is the
‘acoustic qualities and inflections of voices—the timbres, intonations,
accents, rhythms and frequencies’—that ‘impact on how we speak and lis-
ten to one another’ (Kanngieser 2012, 339). Here, it is the very character
of sound that is said to be revealing of socio-cultural and political worlds.
It is these lessons from the work on music and voice, alert to geo-
graphic territories, movement and mobility, space and power, and the
audible socio-spatial qualities of sound, that could be pushed further
through their application to radio, and broadcasted sound more specifi-
cally. There is also a need to further develop understandings of sound, and
sound as constitutive in the making of space, whereby sound is under-
stood not as a ‘thing’ but as ‘a set of processes and properties operating in
and through other materials’ (Revill 2016, 241). For Revill, like Botstein
(1995), sound is not a singular thing. Sound is a process that opens up the
capacity to see, but also to ‘touch’, whereby listeners can feel visceral
effects through the sense of hearing (Revill 2016, 251). This book takes
on the challenge of exploring the capacities of sound and the spacings
10 K. PETERS

made possible by sounds, through the example of illicit broadcasting, a

mobile, political phenomenon deeply implicated in the production of
space and new ‘acoustic territories’ (LaBelle 2010, and Chap. 5).

Recognising the Place of Radio

Within a shift that has taken seriously the relations between space, sound,
and society, radio has been oddly absent, and inaudible in the conversa-
tion. Yet radio can open up new geographical understandings of the spati-
alities of sound, and of sonic politics and audible culture. Radio is a
technological development which, in essence, harnesses invisible waves,
using these to transmit sound (and also image). Radio waves are all around
us. Although they do not require a medium for transmission (they can
move through an empty vacuum), they occupy the very elemental spaces
we move through—land, sea, and air (Adey 2014). As Patrick Weir notes,
radio waves represent a vast ‘electromagnetic ocean’, ‘through which we
pass, unnoticed, on a constant basis’ (2014, 849). It is this invisible
resource (following Thrift 2004b)—this charged ‘matter’ (Anderson and
Wylie 2009)—which has been vital to the technological development of
radio stations as mediums of mass communications that can transmit
sounds when such waves are utilised through a process of modulation.3
Recognition of the presence of radio waves can be traced to the scientific
work of Henrich Hertz, yet it is Marconi who has been credited with the
invention of wireless telephony, which would be the forerunner to radio
communications as we now know them (Weightman 2004).
Radio communication as a source of sound, and one that is enabled
through the very elemental qualities of space and through non-human or
more-than-human matter (Whatmore 2006), demands attention by geog-
raphers interested in the relations between sound, space, and society. To
date, work concerned with radio has been somewhat limited, whereby
examinations of the technology act as a medium for understanding the
spacings of socio-cultural and geo-political life, rather than being a central
concern itself (see Wilkinson 2015 and Pinkerton and Dodds respec-
tively). For example, Pinkerton and Dodds have demonstrated how a
focus on acoustic spaces and in particular the process of broadcasting and
the practice of listening can open up new geopolitical scholarship (2009,
10). In their important work, they indicate the spatial capacities of radio
in ‘transcending national boundaries’ (ibid. 2009, 13), creating new geog-
raphies of reach in respect of the communication of political messages.
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 11

Likewise, they show how radio broadcasting has had a firm place in
‘national life’ (ibid. 2009, 15) and in the subversion and contestation of
laws, rules, and norms at the scale of the state where music and spoken
word transmitted through broadcasts can challenge the established doxa
(see Cresswell 1996). Significantly, they have urged for greater attention
to be paid to listening and listeners and the reception of radio broadcasts
in both the Global North and South (Pinkerton and Dodds 2009, 24).
On a more local scale, recent work by Wilkinson has explored the capacity
of radio to act as medium for youth engagement in civic life (2015). Here
radio has the ability to be harnessed for a range of community-orientated
activities, bringing benefits such as enabling a ‘youth voice’ to be heard in
a society that increasingly censors the young (Wilkinson 2015, 130). Yet
in these cases, radio is not necessarily explored in and of itself, but as a
means for making sense of identity politics (Wilkinson 2015) and enacting
diplomacy, propaganda, and political control (Pinkerton and Dodds
2009).
More recent work has been attentive to the means through which radio
waves predominantly pass—the air—and the geopolitical control and con-
testation over aerial resources (Adey 2014; Weir 2014). As Weir notes,

Sovereignty of the airwaves is both historically contentious and a live issue

today … Issues surrounding the politics of ownership, maintenance and par-
titioning of frequencies are central questions in both political geography and
the sociology of technology. (Weir 2014, 849–850)

For Weir, radio is both material and social. It relies on ‘matter’ (to follow
Anderson and Wylie 2009)—in this case electromagnetic waves—and the
technical assemblage of antennas and receivers, and in turn the collection
of parts that come to constitute these technologies. Through this material
assemblage, radio is social. It is ‘instrumentalised by human activity’, both
through the harnessing of waves in radio production and through the lis-
tening practice that defines radio consumption. Yet little has been said of
the qualities of sound produced by radio broadcasting and the reception
and ‘perception’ of those sounds (Wissmann 2014)—of music and voice—
and the ‘atmospheric’ way (see Anderson 2009) that they are packaged
through radio transmission. Whilst media and communications studies
have had much to say on what is broadcast (and its culture and politics)
(see Hilmes and Loviglio 2002), the production, consumption, and regu-
lation of sound in respect of radio broadcasts is not purely about what is
12 K. PETERS

broadcast, but the sonic qualities of the broadcast made possible through
the spacings of sound—the spaces produced by and producing sound (see
also Revill 2016).
This book attends to the lacuna in research in geography—but also the
wider social sciences—concerned with radio in and of itself, and the quali-
ties of sound and the spacings of sound made possible through broadcast-
ing. In order to explore this disciplinary silence and give voice to the
geographies of sound, space, and society, this book will use the story of
offshore radio piracy as a framework for exploration. Radio piracy, like
sound, is not a new topic for academic scholarship (see Chapman 1990;
Langlois et al. 2010; Moshe 2007; Peters 2011; Soffer 2010; van der
Hoven 2012). The history of radio piracy—that is, the unauthorised, clan-
destine use of or ‘stealing’ of waveband frequencies (Robertson 1982)—
has been told often, but mainly from the perspective of media historians
and cultural theorists (Chapman 1992; Humphries 2003; Skues 2010). Yet
radio piracy is, as this text will show, also an inherently geographical story.
On Easter Sunday 1964, pop station Radio Caroline aired its first broadcast
from a ship, the MV Frederica, located three miles from British shores, in
the North Sea. The phenomenon of broadcasting from international
waters, back into the territory of a nation state where commercial radio was
prohibited, was an act of defiance, of resistance, but—as this book will
argue—it was one made possible not merely through what was broadcast,
but the very capacity of sound, and spacings of sounds where broadcasts
were produced, received, and controlled. Drawing on this discrete case
study, this book traces the geographies of rebel radio stations, interrogating
the production, consumption, and regulation of sound. The text will fol-
low the social organisation of life within the confines of the radio ship at sea
that produced the particular ‘sound’ of pirate radio from the 1960s through
to the 1990s; the audio qualities or ‘atmospherics’ of sound consumed by
eager communities of listeners on land, and the transgression of territorial
borders via rebel sound-spaces and the subsequent government responses
that ensued. The structure of the book is next outlined in greater detail.

Voicing the Way Ahead

Following this introduction, Chap. 2, ‘Contextualising Caroline: The
Offshore Pirate’, builds a justification for the relevance of ‘rebel radio’ as
a useful example for understanding space–sound–society relations and for
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 13

unlocking new geographies of sound and broadcasting as a central aca-

demic concern. Offshore radio piracy, it is argued, marks a pivotal moment
at which the relationship between sound, space, and radio radically
altered. Prior to 1964, the soundscape of the British Isles was dominated
by the radio transmissions of one, authorised broadcaster: the British
Broadcasting Corporation (BBC). With the advent of radio technology in
the late 1800s, and its subsequent development as a mass communica-
tions medium by the 1920s, concern over the misuse of the technology,
and its harnessing for propaganda, led to the desire to control use. Keen
to ensure radio was also beyond the influence of government, a Royal
Charter set out that the BBC—an unbiased institution—would broadcast
for the public good. Yet by the 1960s, with huge societal change, a baby-
boom generation, and new fashions and music emerging, there came a
demand for alternative forms of radio broadcasting, which the BBC sim-
ply could not (and would not) provide. This chapter charts the context of
the emergence of the rebel radio pirates, offering a historical overview
whilst also setting the scene for the analysis of sound, space, and society
to follow, which will pay attention to the production, consumption, and
regulation of sound.
Starting with the production of sound, Chap. 3, ‘Offshore Outlaws:
Intimate Geopolitics at Sea’, unpicks the way distinctive spatialities (the
pirate radio ship, at sea) were bundled up in the production of a particular
‘sound’—an intimate sound—that would characterise illicit broadcasting.
The chapter also attends to the ways in which the sound created at sea and
on ships was constituted in the making of those very spaces (following
Revill 2016; Wissmann 2014). Unlike conventional forms of ‘landed’
broadcasting where disc jockeys enter a studio, air their show, and leave
again, this chapter explores how the spatialities of offshore radio dictated
a very different style of broadcasting. Sound produced on the ship, at sea,
was shaped by the sea itself (causing records to skip and transmissions to
break down in poor weather) and by the ‘outlaw’ society at sea, who could
not simply leave the vessel and go elsewhere. Indeed, pirate radio broad-
casting was unique because the socio-spatial organisation of life onboard
created particular sound-spacings on the air. The chapter investigates the
‘outlaw’ nature of the socio-spatial organisation, where, on board ships at
sea, contemporary boundaries of acceptability of the 1960s were pushed
to new limits, in turn producing ‘rebel’ soundscapes, which were appeal-
ing to listeners on land.
14 K. PETERS

Chapter 4, ‘Audio Atmospherics: Listening From Land’, turns atten-

tion from the production of sound to its reception, considering how the
millions of listeners of rebel radio stations received (or consumed) the
broadcasting they were able to access. This chapter also moves elementally
from the sea to the ‘earth’ or land. It contends that the pirate radio broad-
casting was a particularly atmospheric and affective listening experience.
The chapter begins by exploring how the spaces of land, air, and sea
coalesce through listening practice. For audiences, places physically dis-
tanced and different (the ship and sea) were felt miles away on solid, dry
land. Listeners encountered another world from their own through an
immersion not only in sounds, but through the distinct qualities or ‘atmo-
spherics’ that these sounds diffused in homes, garages, workplaces, cars
(Anderson 2009; Stewart 2011). As such, via sea-based broadcasts, mil-
lions of listeners over three decades felt an atmospheric sense of ‘being-in-­
the-seascape’ and, resultantly, became enveloped in the politics surrounding
the pirate broadcasting phenomenon, namely the ongoing fight for free
radio. This chapter explores these atmospheric engagements and the polit-
ical action of listeners that ensued.
Having examined the political registers enlivened through listening
practice on land, Chap. 5, ‘Broadcasting Borders: Controlling the Air’,
turns to an examination of the movement and mutability of sound
through radio waves, and the ability of radio to create new spatial territo-
ries, marking a shift in attention from earth to air and the matter of elec-
tromagnetic waves. This chapter considers the challenges faced by the
British government in regulating and controlling the threat to order
posed by rebel radio stations. The chapter begins by examining govern-
ment objections to the soundscapes of the radio pirates, before exploring
the responses put in place to contest sound waves reaching listeners
onshore. Notably, the chapter explores the efforts to control the spacings
of sound—the wavelengths and the material and physical technologies—
that enabled rebel radio broadcasts to propagate through the air. It dem-
onstrates how only wholesale legislative change could ‘sink’ the radio
pirates (Peters 2011).
Over the course of five chapters, this book examines how space, sound,
and society coalesce—through the production, consumption, and regula-
tion of radio broadcasting, via the elemental spaces of water, earth, and air.
Such an effort, this book will argue, is essential for taking seriously the
geographies of radio, and in particular the spatialities of sound, which are
still under-examined in the literature. Drawing conclusions, the final chap-
ter, ‘Sounding Out Conclusions’, summarises the central contributions of
 AUDIBLE INTRODUCTIONS: SPACE, SOUND, SOCIETY 15

the text and paves the way for future studies of sound and radio, highlight-
ing potential avenues of further exploration, particularly the need to inter-
rogate relations between sound, space, and society in respect of
contemporary on-land pirate radio, which remains vibrant with the possi-
bilities raised by internet-based broadcasting, and the continued use of
FM, short-wave transmissions.

Notes
1. When Radio Caroline first broadcast in 1964, shows were presented to
British audiences in a previously unheard style. More pop music was played
(often consisting of the whole record rather than a limited part of it), adver-
tising was featured (as the primary source of income funding the station)
and there was also a top-40 chart. In the 1970s, when this format (albeit
without advertising) was recognisable on land-based station BBC Radio 1,
Radio Caroline again deviated from the norm, on occasion playing the
whole side of a record rather than individual tracks, just because they could
(Interview, Radio Caroline Manager, May 2008).
2. Non-representational thinking is based on the contention that the world
cannot be reduced to representation. ‘More-than-representational’ thinking
(as coined by Hayden Lorimer 2005) offers a further way of thinking,
whereby there is an acknowledgement that representation remains an
important way of knowing and understanding. ‘More-than-representational’
approaches therefore offer a careful corrective alert to the ways that
­non-­representational thinking offers us something in addition to, rather
than instead of, representational approaches.
3. Modulation is where a radio wave is formatted or encoded with informa-
tion. Encoded or modulated electromagnetic waves can be sent from an
antenna (i.e. at a radio station) and these can be picked up by technology
designed to receive waves (i.e. a radio set). Frequency modulation (known
as FM) is one of the most common forms of modulation and allows radio set
users to ‘pick up’ frequencies that radio stations have modulated to particu-
lar wavelengths.

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 CHAPTER 2

Contextualising Caroline: The Offshore

Pirate

Abstract This chapter introduces the case study around which this book
is developed: offshore, rebel broadcasting stations such as Radio Caroline.
It also justifies the relevance of this example for understanding sound–
space–society connections. Offshore radio piracy marks a pivotal moment
in social history. The soundscape of the British Isles was dominated by the
radio transmissions of one, authorised broadcaster: the BBC. Yet by the
1960s demand for alternative forms of radio broadcasting were rising.
This chapter charts the context of the emergence of the radio pirates; how
the spaces of the air and sea legally enabled their activities; the subsequent
style of sound broadcasting that was made possible; and the key moments
of the phenomenon that led to its eventual closure.

Keywords Radio Caroline • British Broadcasting Corporation • British

broadcasting history • Radio • Pirate

On Easter Sunday 1964 Radio Caroline broadcast for the first time to
British shores aboard the MV Frederica, a 702 tonne ex-passenger ferry
that was anchored three miles from the shore of Essex, outside UK territo-
rial waters in the North Sea (Humphries 2003, 16). It was the first station
of its kind to broadcast specifically to UK audiences and it formed part of
a proliferation of so-called radio pirates operating from ships at sea, broad-
casting popular music from the 1960s onwards, until 1991. The UK was

© The Author(s) 2018 21

K. Peters, Sound, Space and Society, Geographies of Media,
https://doi.org/10.1057/978-1-137-57676-7_2
22 K. PETERS

not alone in witnessing the presence of ships, anchored offshore, utilising

international waters to transmit radio programmes into state territories
with restrictive broadcasting laws. Sea-based radio piracy was first seen off
the coast of the Netherlands with the so-called Baltic pirates broadcasting
pop music from ships back into Dutch territory from as early as 1958, with
the first station, Radio Mecur, broadcasting from the vessel MV Cheeta
(Humphries 2003). In the 1960s pop stations were also found around the
coast of the north island of New Zealand, where Radio Hauraki (now a
legal land-based station) first broadcast in 1966 (Bell 1982). In the 1970s,
the station ‘The Voice of Peace’ began ‘political and ideological’ broad-
casts from international waters into Palestine and Israel which were to last
some 20 years (Soffer 2010, 159).
Since there has been recognition of the presence of radio waves as a
‘resource’ to be harnessed for human use (see Thrift 2004), contestation
has arisen over how best to manage that resource. Managing the use of
radio was deemed especially important given the capacity of waves to
carry forms of communication—voice, music, and more recently image
and other audio-visual data (Thrift 2004, 269). Regulatory frameworks
were also sought to delineate frequency modulations (see Chap. 1) to
prevent ‘interference between users’ and ‘overcrowding’ of the airwaves
(Robertson 1982, 72). Yet managing an invisible resource and one that
‘crossed international borders indiscriminately’, with little respect for
the spaces of national jurisdiction, posed severe problems. It was recog-
nised almost as soon as wireless telegraphy developed that regulation
would need to be international in scope, and the first regulatory board
was formed in 1865, called the International Telegraph Union
(Robertson 1982, 72). Thereafter, following several incarnations, the
International Telecommunications Union (ITU), a unit of the United
Nations, would set the conventions for use of radio and later audio-
visual communications (ibid. 1982, 73–74). Yet, as Robertson notes, the
conventions of the ITU, although binding, lacked enforcement (1982,
73). Agreements over frequency allocations were made (based on ITU
conventions) at the regional and national level, according to an ethos of
cooperation (ibid. 1982, 73). Accordingly, weaknesses in the structure
of resource management—past and present—have left radio waves open
for users to harness ‘gaps’ in the frequency milieu. Radio piracy refers,
very broadly, to the ‘taking’ or ‘stealing’ of unallocated frequencies and
it has occurred as long as radio waves have been known to exist (see
Sakolsky et al. 2010, 3).
 CONTEXTUALISING CAROLINE: THE OFFSHORE PIRATE 23

Whilst radio piracy is by no means only an offshore phenomenon (and

plenty of pirate radio stations have operated and continue to operate on
land; see also Chap. 6), unauthorised sea-based broadcasting provides an
exceptional context for unpacking how space, sound, and society coalesce
through the production, consumption, and regulation of radio broadcast-
ing. As radio historian Peter Chapman has noted, offshore pirate radio
produced a ‘unique environment’ (1992, 248) which brought an assem-
blage (see Anderson and McFarlane 2011) of air, sea, land, national space,
extra-territorial space, radio technologies, records, resistance to societal
norms, DJs, and listeners in to touch. It is the uniqueness of sea-based
illicit broadcasting which brings into acute focus the distinct spatialities
made possible by transmitted sound, and the ways space was imbricated in
the very character of sound itself. This chapter introduces Radio Caroline,
the rebel radio station central to this book and to the effort to unpick the
relations between sound, space, and society. The chapter begins by sketch-
ing out the circumstances which led to the arrival of pirate radio ships off
British shores, tracing a history of British broadcasting. Thereafter the
chapter draws on a range of sources from media historians, communica-
tions scholars, and previous Radio Caroline DJs, to provide a chronologi-
cal account of the station and its vessels to the present day. Throughout
the course of this historiography, the need to further interrogate the spa-
tialities of the phenomenon and of the production, consumption, and
regulation of sound is revealed.

A History of British Broadcasting

Whilst today it may seem strange that a broadcasting station was aboard a
ship, some three miles from the coast of Britain, Radio Caroline was a
direct product of its time, a consequence of British broadcasting policy
(Chapman 1992, 1) and the ‘cultural revolution’ of the 1960s (Marwick
1998). Crisell notes that radio was ‘the first genuinely live mass (commu-
nications) medium’ (1997, 4). The radio was invented in the late 1800s as
a result of technological advances in wireless telephony and Morse code;
yet it is Marconi who is accepted as the creator of radio (ibid. 1997, 11;
see also Chap. 1). Initially radio was used by the military as a method of
communication, but it also became popular with amateur radio enthusi-
asts (Lewis and Booth 1989, 51). By 1919 radio was an ‘established
medium’; however, whilst in the US broadcasting emerged as a commer-
cial asset, the UK was keen to regulate broadcasting more stringently,
24 K. PETERS

particularly because of a concern over the overcrowding of airwaves

(Robertson 1982, 72). As Johns has noted,

two principles, then, [were] … axiomatic for the coming British broadcasting
regime: that the state must forestall chaotic interference by restricting the
number of broadcasters, ideally to one; and that the broadcaster must be nei-
ther crassly commercial nor overtly controlled by the state. (Johns 2011, 18)

In the UK (and indeed other nations including the Netherlands, France,

Canada, and New Zealand) it was decided that broadcasting was a power-
ful medium that should be organised at the national level, based on
regional agreements and in line with international convention. In the UK
context, in 1922 six major radio manufacturers came together to form
what was then the British Broadcasting Company (Cain 1992, 9), which
later, in 1927, was to receive a Royal Charter to become the British
Broadcasting Corporation, or BBC (ibid. 1992, 19). The BBC would be
the sole organisation permitted to broadcast in the UK. The shift from
company to corporation was significant, and was enacted by the first
director-­general of the BBC, John Reith, for whom broadcasting was a
public and ‘national resource’ (Crisell 1997, 14, and following Thrift
2004). For Reith it was important that radio was not at the whim of gov-
ernment or at the hands of commercial enterprise (Johns 2011, 18).
Broadcasting was a ‘public service’ and the airwaves, and radio waves,
were a resource that should be used to meet the needs of a broad public
audience (McDonnell 1991, 1). Indeed, the BBC’s programming policy,
as a public service broadcaster, was to provide for the majority and the
minority (Lewis and Booth 1989, 58) with a mixed programming
approach including ‘drama, sports, light and classical music, news, reli-
gion, talks, interviews and discussions, light entertainment’ (Crisell 1997,
23).Yet whilst this ethos underscored the organisation of broadcasted
sound, in reality, the soundscapes developed were tied to a ‘Reithian pater-
nalism’ (Lewis and Booth 1989, 61)—a desire to steer or guide the nation
through a three-stranded approach that sought to ‘educate’, ‘inform’, and
‘entertain’ the public (Cain 1992, 12). As Cain has noted,

…broadcasters had a moral duty to use radio as an instrument of enlighten-

ment. Public taste was too fickle and uncertain to be taken as a guide to
programme making. The broadcasters should set their own standards of
taste and should accustom the public to those standards. Informational,
 CONTEXTUALISING CAROLINE: THE OFFSHORE PIRATE 25

educational and entertainment programmes would be provided by a broad-

casting elite for the benefit of the whole public. (Cain 1992, 2)

Entertainment, in particular, was not high on the BBC’s agenda (in spite
of being one of the programming policy strands). It was thought that
entertainment should only feature for the purpose of relaxation (Barnard
1989, 12) and in such instances not be ‘frivolous’ (Cain 1992, 18). Music
that featured on the BBC tended to be classical in style, in the hope that a
national appreciation for ‘fine music’ would develop and grow (Lewis and
Booth 1989, 62). However, as Lewis and Booth note, ‘the failure of the
BBC to satisfy popular music tastes had, by the 1930s, driven listeners in
their thousands to Radio Luxembourg and Radio Normandy’—overseas
stations which were providing a markedly different soundscape of popular
music programming (Lewis and Booth 1989, 62).
For many, the BBC’s supposedly ‘all-inclusive’ programming was
deemed elitist, upper-class, snobbish, and with a strong emphasis on ‘high
culture’ as opposed to popular culture (McDonnell 1991, 2; Crisell 1997,
27). During the Second World War, broadcasting became lighter and had
greater American influence, mainly with an aim to boost morale (Cain
1992, 44). After the war, the BBC failed to permanently adopt this lighter,
more entertaining style of broadcasting, arguing that it was no longer a
prerequisite in peace time (Lewis and Booth 1989, 78). Indeed, the BBC
criticised such programming as ‘vulgar’, ‘tripe’, and ‘filth’ (Lewis and
Booth 1989, 77). Yet the war had altered the perspectives of listeners who
were no longer happy that their listening was dictated by the BBC, a seem-
ingly unrepresentative authority. They had fought for freedom, yet UK
broadcasting provided little ‘freedom of choice’ over what was produced
by presenters (who were at the whim of the BBC’s schedule), or con-
sumed by listeners tuning in (Crisell 1997, 47). Yet between 1945 and the
late 1950s, with little alternative, BBC radio would enjoy relative success.
However, this would soon be challenged (Crisell 1997, 68). First, the
dominance of radio and of broadcasted sound as a primary means of mass-­
media communication would be threatened by television and the develop-
ment of audio-visual communication (ibid. 1997, 70). Second, a new
audience was emerging with a post-war ‘“baby boom” generation, born in
the mid- to late 1940’s came of age in the sixties’ (Donnelly 2005, 1).
Third, in spite of the rising importance of television, the transistor radio
was invented, revolutionising ways of hearing for radio audiences (Crisell
1997, 134). Radio programmes, which could previously only be heard via
26 K. PETERS

large, weighty wireless boxes that families would sit around (much like a
television), could now be received via small, mobile, lightweight transistor
radios. The BBC, focused on the technology of television, failed to
­recognise that the transistor would ensure the continued importance of
mediated sound alone where listening could take place anywhere—in the
car, at work, on the beach. They failed to adapt their radio programming,
whilst also failing to appreciate a young new population of listeners, eager
to engage with the latest music trends via portable radio sets (Donnelly
2005, 1). Indeed, with a baby-boom generation who were ‘less like their
parents than any generation in modern times’ (Donnelly 2005, 1), new
styles of music emerged. Yet the BBC—stuck in its ways—provided no
outlet for the soundtrack of contemporary life at the time (Lewis and
Booth 1989, 81–82).
The BBC struggled to adapt to new musical trends for various reasons,
but mostly these were related to the very qualities of the sounds that con-
stituted modern music at the time (see Revill 2016; Kanngieser 2012). As
Chapman notes,

Rock and roll, with its racially mixed parentage, patented sneer, dumb inso-
lence, rapid turnover of product, and built-in obsolescence was deemed to
be inappropriate to the (BBC’s) public service pursuit of the great and the
good. (Chapman 1992, 2)

Moreover, the BBC were restricted by their mixed programming policy

which prevented them from broadcasting a single programme comprising
just music, let alone ‘pop’ and ‘rock n’ roll’ music. This meant that
although the BBC did not seek to play such music, even if it had wanted
to, the corporation was severely restricted in its ability to do so. As Lewis
and Booth have concluded then,

…it took a long time and extraordinary circumstances before the BBC
would abandon its notions of what radio ought to be in favour of what an
increasingly large and vocal section of its audience wanted it to be. (Lewis
and Booth 1989, 82)

One of those ‘extraordinary circumstances’ was the rivalry the BBC would
face from offshore radio piracy—illicit sea-based broadcasters who recog-
nised the demand for alternative programming to that offered by the
BBC. It is from this backdrop, of the BBC’s ‘bemused indifference’ and
 CONTEXTUALISING CAROLINE: THE OFFSHORE PIRATE 27

‘outright hostility’ to new emerging trends in music, that, according to

Chapman, radio piracy was born (1992, 1), offering the baby-boom
­generation a playlist for their lives, accessible via cheap, reliable transistor
radios.

Rebel Radio: Introducing ‘Caroline’

Radio Caroline occupies a special place in the history of unauthorised
broadcasting as the first, the last, and the longest running of all of the
offshore ‘rebel radio’ stations globally. It was also one of the longest run-
ning pirate stations to broadcast per se, operating for some 27 years, on
and off, between 1964 and 1991. The station continues, albeit legally and
onshore, to this day. The station was founded by a wealthy idealist, the
Irish entrepreneur Ronan O’Rahilly. A manager to emerging music artists,
he sought to promote a singer who was signed to his books—Georgie
Fame (Humphries 2003, 7). Just as the BBC had a monopoly on broad-
casting, a small number of record companies (Decca, EMI etc.) had a
monopoly over artists and airplay (ibid. 2003, 7). Generally the BBC
would only broadcast music published by these large established compa-
nies. O’Rahilly found that he could not get his artist heard on the air-
waves. The only option therefore was to challenge the mainstream
broadcasting traditions and bring the music to the air himself.
Yet an alternative radio station to the BBC was not possible in the UK
because of the Royal Charter, which enshrined the corporation as the sole
broadcasting body in the country (Crisell 1997, 22) to provide broadcast-
ing ‘quality’ and to prevent the airwaves from congestion and the interfer-
ence that might emerge with multiple stations airing transmissions
(Barnard 1989, 46). It was impossible within national boundaries and
international conventions for there to be authorised radio stations other
than those operated by the BBC. Indeed, the BBC had three main broad-
casting stations (on different amplitude (AM) modulations). These were
the ‘Light’, the ‘Third’, and the ‘Home’ stations, each offering slightly
different programming based on a ‘cultural ladder’ of listeners—from the
upper to lower classes (Lewis and Booth 1989, 78–79). O’Rahilly, how-
ever, was inspired by the 1950s Baltic pirates, such as Radio Mecur, oper-
ating offshore (Humphries 2003, 9). From this geographic location—at
sea, beyond the territorial limit of the nation-state, where UK broadcast-
ing rules applied—he recognised a loophole that could be exploited
(Peters 2011, 2013). He set about transforming the MV Frederica, a large
28 K. PETERS

passenger ferry, into a functioning radio station. And in early 1964, he

sailed it out to sea with a crew of seafarers and disc jockeys, from docks in
Ireland, voyaging around the southern coast of Britain, before setting
down anchor in the English Channel, three miles offshore from Felixstowe,
outside what was then the territorial limit, but where, via amplitude mod-
ulation, listeners across the populated south-east of England could be
audibly reached.
It was a clever plan which would reveal the inadequacies of grounded
conceptions of territory (see Peters et al. 2018). The regulations guiding
radio transmissions in the UK were based on territorial, place-based,
grounded areas of jurisdiction. Yet electromagnetic waves know no bound-
aries (Robertson 1982, 73). Radio waves do not respect cartographic lines
that delineate spaces neatly into national areas. As Adey, Anderson, and
Lobo-Guerrero explained in relation to the ramifications of the 2010 vol-
canic ash cloud which would prevent over 95,000 commercial flights from
departing in the space of a week,

[the] cloud drifted and crossed territorial boundaries [and this] … permits
us to reflect on the transgression of other borders. The cloud’s mobility
began to undo the geopolitical lines of the state and its management of air-
space (Adey et al. 2010, 338)

When ‘80 million cubic metres of magma that were lifted around 4 miles
skywards’, tephra began to move with the air, and the air crossed bound-
aries (Adey et al. 2010, 338). Governing the incident was nigh-on
impossible, and airlines had to simply wait for the dust-filled air, and the
risk it posed to the engines of planes, to simply dissipate. Although
nations extend their boundaries vertically in respect of national ‘air
spaces’ (Adey 2010), the ash cloud highlighted the artificial nature of
such boundaries and their weakness against the very elemental mobilities
of the world. Likewise, in his examinations of air-based, chemical war-
fare, Peter Sloderdijk has revealed how the elemental capacities of air
allowed it to carry chemicals into and across spaces, working as a trans-
boundary weapon, which ultimately attacked from ‘within’ as harmful,
invisible gases were breathed in by unsuspecting victims (2009, 47). As
Ingold reminds us, air is not separate from our existence—present above
us, as ground is below us. Rather we live in and through air—in an
entanglement with the elements (Ingold 2011, 115). Air cannot be
boxed, or contained; it is all around us as a vital resource (Adey 2014, 1).
 CONTEXTUALISING CAROLINE: THE OFFSHORE PIRATE 29

Electromagnetic waves are likewise all around us (Weir 2014, 849),

ready to be harnessed irrespective of hard borders or boundaries.
Radio Caroline’s most recent manager uses the term ‘incidental’ to
describe the past relationship between ships and radio stations (Interview,
Radio Caroline Manager, May 2008), but it was exactly the position of the
ship, in international waters, beyond the hard cartographical state bound-
ary line, which enabled pirate radio to function. From a platform in inter-
national waters, regulated under the 1958 Geneva Convention on the
High Seas (the international convention governing maritime space at the
time), there was no stipulation to prevent broadcasting (Robertson 1982,
79). Accordingly, ‘broadcasting from the high seas… [could] arguably be
characterized as a freedom’ of that space at the time (ibid. 1982, 82). In
other words, pirates played by the rules of cartographic, place-based inter-
pretations of law—on land and at sea. UK convention dictated that only
the BBC could broadcast within British territory. International conven-
tion dictated that broadcasts from ships in the high seas outside of specific
national territories could transmit freely. And this is exactly what such
stations did—broadcasting from appropriately flagged ships1 where their
physical position legitimately allowed the activities that they were engaged
with.
Yet such place-based and grounded territorial interpretations of space
ignored the very ‘elemental’ qualities of air through which broadcasted
sound propagated (Adey 2015, 71), and the capacity of electromagnetic
waves to carry modulated radio communication invisibly across space in
ungovernable ways (Peters 2011, see Chap. 5). Radio pirates utilised the
space of the sea to harness an invisible transboundary resource which
made it possible for them to circumvent the UK’s restrictive broadcasting
laws. That their broadcasts emanated from a geographic point outside of
British territory meant that they in fact broke no rules at all. The nickname
of ‘pirates’, it could be argued, was rather questionable (see Peters 2011).
In short, to return to the comment of Radio Caroline’s present manager,
the ship was not an ‘incidental’ factor in the story of illicit broadcasting; it
was an essential one in achieving the goal of airing varied pop and rock n’
roll music in the 1960s (Interview, Radio Caroline Manager, May 2008).
Given the limited soundscape offered by the BBC, when Radio Caroline
first broadcast to the south-east of England on Easter Sunday of 1964, it
started an offshore phenomenon that would draw in millions of eager lis-
teners who had previously heard nothing like what was now on the air. As
interviewees noted,
30 K. PETERS

I began listening to the station Easter 1964 when it first started transmitting
from the North Sea. At that time there was only the BBC and Radio
Luxembourg broadcasting music and that was only for a few hours a day. I
wanted pop music to listen to all day and there was no other station provid-
ing this service. (Interview, Listener 1, March 2009)

The era when I grew up was sort of the era when the pirates were really
influential and everybody, all my mates were all listening to pirates, and cos
there were quite a few of them you could tune around from one station to
another and if you didn’t hear a record you wanted you might hear it on the
next one… and although it doesn’t seem feasible now, to hear all that music
was like completely new and everybody was fascinated. (Interview, Listener 2,
December 2008)

Indeed, the 1960s saw a proliferation in offshore stations, including Radio

London, Radio City, Radio 390, Radio England, Britain Radio and Radio
Essex (see Harris 2007). These stations tapped into the new potential of
radio because they were able, out on the high seas, to claim unallocated
frequencies and utilise the mobility of radio waves from the fixed locale of
the sea to reach mass audiences on land. Here, as Rudin notes, ‘the pirate
stations… were meeting a public appetite that the BBC could not, or
would not, satisfy—[and] even critics had to concede that they had genu-
ine popular appeal’ (2007, 238).
It is unsurprising that the government, BBC, and ITU were unhappy
with the situation, but they were slow to act, scared of isolating voters and
licence-fee payers who so evidently loved their offshore heroes.
Parliamentary accounts reveal differing objections to the presence of off-
shore pirates and the soundscapes of their broadcasts which emanated
from radio sets up and down the country. First and foremost, they were
concerned with the cluttering of frequencies and the interruptions that
pirate broadcasts could cause to ‘authorised’ and ‘permitted’ radio use
(see House of Commons Debate, 2 June 1964 vol. 695). Yet other rea-
sons, aside from the appropriation of air space and radio waves, also
became evident. Physically located beyond British jurisdiction, ‘rebel’
radio stations were also beyond other national rules and regulations.
Stations such as Radio Caroline had ‘no restrictions on their use of
records’; they were required to pay ‘no royalties’; and nor did they need
to acknowledge any ‘copyright or performance laws’ (Crisell 1997, 140).
As Robertson is quick to note, ‘the pirates were successful at least in part
 CONTEXTUALISING CAROLINE: THE OFFSHORE PIRATE 31

because they were, in effect, getting a free ride’ (1982, 75). It was this
other ‘piratical’ behaviour that the government deemed intolerable,
alongside the use of unallocated frequencies. The evasion of copyright
laws positioned stations such as ‘Caroline’2 as somehow ‘immoral’. As
some commentators have argued, the real issue against radio piracy was
not the unregulated use of radio waves, but rather the threat their very
existence posed to all that was rational and orderly in society (Peters
2013). Radio pirates defied the power of government, making a mockery
of the system of law. As Robertson notes, ‘the real problem European
states found with sea-based pirate stations was not frequency interference
but rather the threat posed’ (1982, 71). Part of this threat was also, as this
book will go on to argue, manifested in the very sound that pirate radio
created. In the 1960s, stations played music that challenged the safe and
known musical soundscapes that graced British radio sets (Chapman 1992,
2). American-inspired beats and melodies disrupted the cultured acousti-
cal quality of classical music. The lyrics accompanying these new
soundtracks were provocative and, as such, were morally dubious. The
style of programming was unrefined, based on a US-inspired ‘top 40’ ‘hit
parade’ (Crisell 1997, 139).
Consequently, formal opposition to the pirates would come, first in
the form of the 1965 European Agreement for the Prevention of Broadcasts
transmitted from Stations outside National Territories, which saw
European member states form a united front against the pirates, and
then via national legislation which each county enacted as a response to
the problem. The UK legislation was enforced in 1967, entitled the
Marine Broadcasting (Offences) Act. This act could not outlaw broad-
casting from the high seas. This, as Robertson notes, was a given right
under the 1958 Geneva Convention on the High Seas (1982, 77). The
British government could, however, make the stations impossible to run
by making it illegal for British firms to advertise on the stations, for sup-
plies to reach the stations from British shores, and for British people to
listen to them (this under the 1949 Wireless Telegraphy Act). No longer
a viable business choice, one by one the stations closed before the
enforcement of the 1967 Act. Offshore pirate radio stations had a short,
vibrant, three-year window of activity off the coast of Britain. But the
1967 Act was not to mark the end. From these beginnings (or indeed
endings), pirate radio continued, offshore and onshore, around Britain
and globally.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 – Mernék fogadni, hogy kend megint a tanítóhoz küldte azt a
gyereket.
– Bár ott volna! – véli András.
– Hányszor nyergeltette meg kend neki azt a szamarat, mi?
– Egyszer!
– Ejnye, András, bizony fránya ember kend, aztán mégis
megengedte kend egyszer?
– Azt tartom, elég volt neki egyszer is, – nem t’om mikor
kéredzkedik rá másodszor.
– Tudtam mindjárt, hogy ezt mondja kend.
– Ha olyan jól tud a nagyságos úr mindent, hát most mondja el a
többit is.
– Leesett a szamárról?
– Biz az úgy volt.
– Kificzamodott a gyereknek a lába?
– Persze, hogy nem a szamáré ficzamodott ki.
– Most hát fekszik a gyerek?
– Nojsz, még azért nem hal ám meg, de sánta nem lesz, – veté
oda András nagyobb megnyugtatás végett, egyszersmind szemközt
nézvén az úrral, hogy arczán a nyugalmat láttassa.
– Persze kendnek nem elég ennyi baj?
– Ha csak az ő baja volna a baj, akár elő sem hoztam volna.
– Hát ha baja nincs, mi lehetne nagyobb baj?
– Az, hogy nem itthon esett le, hát nem is fekszik itthon.
 – Ez az a nagy baj? – mondja nyugalommal az úr – adja kend ide
a nádpálczámat.
– Minek? – kérdi egy állóhelyből a hajdu.
– Minek?… hát megnézem azt a gyereket, a hol van, – menjen
kend szaporán.
– Azért akár meg se mozduljak, úgy is tudom, hogy nem megy
oda.
– Talán a szomszédban van? – kérdé kínos gyanítással.
– Eltalálta, nagyságos úr, mert a szamarat megriaszták a kutyák,
aztán beszaladt a szomszéd udvarra, onnét a kertbe, ott leejtette az
úrfit, az a lábát ficzamította ki, a gróf úr meg a méltóságos asszony
maguk fölvitték, orvost hivattak, lábát helyretették, most már semmi
baja – mondja András, jó hirtelen elmondván mindent, hogy az úr
szóba ne kaphasson, aztán befejezvén a beszédet, azt mondja:
eddig van!
Az úr hihetőleg megértett mindent, mert nem ismételteté a dolgot,
András nem talált több mondanivalót; tehát maradt egy nagy hézag
a beszélgetésben. András hátratette kezeit s úgy billegtette, s
olyanforma várakozásban volt, mint az inas, mikor eltörött kezében a
lábas és nem tudja, hogy összeszidják-e csak, vagy egyéb is
következik?
– Hát ezt is megadta érnem az isten! – sóhajt föl Baltay egész
fájdalommal. András pedig állást változtatott; mert látta, hogy felhős
ugyan az ég, de még sem üt le.
– Most már mi lesz abból a szegény gyerekből? – kérdi nagy
bánattal az úr Andrást.
– Az lesz, hogy még ma meghozzuk, harmad- vagy negyednapra
fölkél, két hét alatt pedig fölülhet a szamárra, ha nagyságos úr azt
akarja, hogy máskor meg majd a nyakát törje ki.
– Nem elég volt, hogy egy öcsémet már elemésztették? – szólt
indulattal az úr.
 – Nagyságos uram, ha már valamit gondol, legalább ne mondja
nekem, az isten áldja meg; mert tudja, hogy én néha neki
bolondulok, aztán a magam esze után megyek, akkor pedig nem
tudom, mikor jövök vissza.
– Nohát nem szólok – mondja Baltay – hanem bocsásson meg
az isten, ha mondom, hogy ez az egyik lemaradhatott volna rólam.
– Bizony még megrikatja magát, nagyságos uram – tréfálódzék
András egész szokatlanul – a fiúnak semmi baja s a mi kis hús
levedlett róla, majd fölszedi, ha fölkelhet.
– Hát gondját viselte kend?
– Volt annak jobb dajkája, mint én, – az öreg nagyságos asszony,
meg a grófné, meg a gróf úr ő méltósága, – pedig volt ám vele
vesződség; mert míg a lábát helyrerántották, nem állta ám meg
ordítás nélkül, pedig ilyenkor a maga gyerekét is szívesen kilökné az
ember, hát még a másét!
– Látta kend?
– Mind a két szememmel, nagyságos uram, – mondja András
neki tüzesedve, egyszersmind kifelé menvén azon szándékkal, hogy
átmegy a gyerekért, – hanem még volt valami mondanivalója, mit el
is mondott: Elhiheti a nagyságos úr, hogy egy párszor félre kellett
mennem, hogy ne lássák meg, midőn a könyűt kitörlöm szememből;
aztán – mondja némi szemrehányással – ilyenkor eszembe jutott
ám, hogy ennek az embernek én faragtam meg a rovást.
András kiment, Baltayt nagyon meghatá a néhány szó és
gondolkozóba esett. Most már nem a fiúnak sorsán aggódott, hanem
a multakat össze-vissza hányván, ámbár szerencsétlen öcscsének
megmagyarázatlan kimulása szüntelen gondolatai közé tolakodék,
valamint arra is kínosan gondolt, hogy akárkinek egyetlen vétket
elengedjen abból, hogy a jó régit levetkőzze a mostani puhaságért –
mégis kezdi belátni, hogy nem közönséges ember lehet az, ki
gyöngéden birja ápolni ugyanazt, ki neki okvetlenül rövidséget
okozott.
 – Na, nem bánom – mondja magában – egy bolondját
elengedem! – s ezzel elment azon szobába, hol András a rovásokat
tartja és hosszú keresgélés után megtalálván, a legelső vonást
megnézte.
– Tudom, – beszéli önmagának – ezt a pipáért kapta! Na
Festetics sem dohányzik, azért mégis ember a talpán, bár sok vadat
csinál, de jó szándékból; legyen meg, ennek ezt elengedem; –
mondja tovább, lefaragván az egyik vonást, – hanem kettő még
fönmarad; azért, hogy még olyan nagy emberek egészségére sem
iszik egy csöpp bort, mint Batthyányi meg Festetics, aztán egy
könyvért még az apja kardját is elcseréli.
Mire készen volt a lefaragással, hallotta, hogy a fiút hozzák, tehát
ölelésére sietett, s látván, hogy a fiú vidám, fájdalma nincs, – Baltay
a gyermek ágyához ült és késő estig enyelgett vele s elképzelé azt a
boldogságot, hogy e fiú méltó lesz azon örökségre, mit ő hagyand
neki.
Míg Baltay a gyermekkel enyelgett, András addig a tanító urat
hordozta meg a házban és hamarjában megösmertette a házi
körülményekkel, hogy tudja magát mihez alkalmazni, mit annál
szívesebben cselekedett András, mert látta, hogy az ifjú nem tartja
fönn az orrát, hanem megtalálja azt a szót, mit minden ember
legkönnyebben megért.
– Ifijuram! – mondja beszéd közben András, – tudja-e azt,
mekkora lehet egy dominium?
– Azt tudom, hogy sok falu belefér.
– Úgy-e?… hát még kettőbe?
– Abba még több fér, András.
– Kivált ha akkora, mint a mi urunké!… azért ifiúr, a lelkére adom
ám, hogy ne maradjon a korpa a gyerek fejében, hanem rázza tele
tudománynyal, ne kimélje a szót.
– De mikor úgy félti a nagyságos úr!
 – Mit tud ahhoz a nagyságos úr, ő gazdag, azt gondolja,
kevesebb is elég, hanem uram, a nagyságos úr a toronyból nézi a
világot, onnét persze az egész világ kicsiny, egy-egy ember akkora,
mint egy macska, hanem, ifjú uram, alulról fölfelé jobban meglátszik,
milyen nagy már csak a torony is. Erre tanítsa az úrfit, hogy ő is
legalulról kezdi.
– Emberré tesszük András, lelkemre fogadom!
András odanyújtá kemény tenyerét, és a tanító markába csapott
egyet, mintha a legnagyobb dolgon alkudtak volna meg, s egy
darabig némán a szemébe nézett, mintha a képén keresné a
jóváhagyást, s midőn így is meggyőződött, egy isten áldásával
magára hagyta a tanító urat s elment néhány szobán keresztül a
maga szobája felé.
Mielőtt oda érne, egyik szobában megállt, gondolkozott, mintha e
nagy háznak gondja örökségképen maradt volna reá, minthogy ő azt
oly híven teljesíté, de volt ebben a megcsontosodott hűségben egy
oly érzelem, mely vérvegyületében az igazságtalanságot nem tűrte
meg s minthogy ő maga érdemetlenűl egyetlen falatot nem tett a
szájába, a hasonlót mástól is megvárta.
Némileg megnyugtatá magát a ma történtekre nézve s odább
indult, hogy kis szobájában megtalálja még a mai napra való dolgot s
még csak egy szobán kelle átmenni, azon tudniillik, melyben a
rovások álltak.
Már az ő szeme megszokta a körülnézést és rögtön észrevette,
hogy a padlón valami forgácsféle hulladék van, fölvette, aztán
gyanítólag a rovások között keresgélt és csakugyan megtalálta a
rovást, melyről az öreg előbb egy rovást lefaragott. Az öreg az ablak
világosságához tartá a jól ösmert rovást s azt mondja:
– Egyet már lefaragott, megmondtam én ezt neki előre,
megérem, hogy még a többit is maga faragja le.
 IV.
(A lajtai tábor.)

Nehéz időket mért Isten e nemzetre; de ha rá nem mérte volna,

mai napig sem tudnánk, mennyit birhatunk el.
Az ingatag nád fölött elröpül a vihar, minden erejével akar
megbirkózni az erős tölgyerdővel, mit vesződjék a náddal, hisz a
hitvány jószág alig egy év alatt magától lerothad, mig a büszke tölgy
század óta áll már, s élő tanúja önmagának, hogy annyi küzdelem
után lett oly erős, hogy erősebb mint egy századdal előbb.
Megkivánta az elemek csatáját az ember, – odahagyá a családi
tűzhelyt, hogy fölkeressen egy másik embert, ki szintén csak azt
keresi, hogy vagy őt üsse agyon valaki, vagy ő üssön agyon mást.
Égnek a tábortüzek a Lajta partján, a lovak nyergelten falják a
zabot, mit a gazda köpönyegszárban vetett eléjük, s a virgoncz
legények pipaszó mellett verik azt az ellenséget, mit a szójárás
unalomnak nevez.
A fölkelő sereget megállította a Lajta, idáig szól el az ország
törvénye, s a viznek túlpartján ha meghallják is, de meg nem értik,
és nem is engedelmeskednének neki, ott már nem laknak magyarok.
Tehát mit akar e sereg? – kérdezték százezren, – mit lesik az
országszélen azt az ellenséget, ki már száz mérfölddel előbb
ellenségnek mondja magát? S miért bevárni a sáskát saját
földünkön, mikor azt már jóval előbb másén is
agyoncsapkodhatnánk?
A franczia sasok sebesen repültek, a stájer hegyeken már rég
átszárnyaltak, a diplomácziának sima szavait elnyelé az ágyúk torka,
s e rohamteljes árnak olyan gátat kelle vetni, mely ha kell, előbbre
megy s ha kell, mozdulatlan fallá válik, ezt az eleven kerítést pedig
emberekből szokták összealakítani.
Mielőtt a franczia sereg megérintené a magyar határokat, a lajtai
táborban fegyverben állt a magyar nemesség; de a Lajtánál
áthághatatlanabb lőn az országos törvény, mely szerint a nemesség
csak az ország védelmére állott föl; s a parancsnokokban elfogyott a
lélekzet, mert senki sem kivánt vállalkozni elsőnek arra, hogy a
Lajtát áthágván, maga útján a megszegett törvényen hagyjon
nyomot.
Míg a főbb tisztek a ponyvasátorokban tanácskoztak, addig a
legénység gondtalanul kötődött egymással az őrtüzek előtt, melyek
egyikénél a legvilágosabb lángnál, éppen a legfeketébb arczot látjuk
meg.
A fölkelő seregnek jó része fogadottakból szaporodván föl, a
többi közé egy keserves czigány is vetődött, éppen az, kit az ozorai
kocsmában láttunk, ki az otthoni nyomorúságot háromszáz forintért
hagyta el, szegődségképen fölfogadván, hogy ő is elmegyen a lajtai
táborig.
– Na, czigány, hogy adtad el a bőrödet? kérdi Holvagy Pista, kit
azért adtak a sok ujoncz közé, hogy a mint lehet, legrövidebb idő
előtt egymás mellé taszigáljon lovat és embert s ki egyszersmind azt
is megmagyarázta, hogy az ágyúgolyó, a kit egyszer elér, annak
sohasem lesz derékfájása.
Addig-addig beszélt Pista mindenféle háború-darabot, hogy a
czigány már egy szálig mindent elhitt, még azt is, mit az nem is
mondott: hanem úgy megutálta a háborút, hogy a mint ő háromszáz
forintot kapott azért, hogy ide jött, azonképen adna ő most hatszáz
forintot és csak annyiban mult, hogy nem adott, hogy midőn
dolmányt és csákót összekeresett, még a háromszáz forintból sem
volt már több öt bankó garasnál, már pedig ehhez még igen
messzire esik a hatszáz forint.
– No, czigány, hogy adtad el a bőrödet? – kérdi tőle Pista.
 – Bár eladtam volna! – feleli a czigány, – most majd csak magam
is könnyebben meghúzódnám benne!
– Ne búsulj, czigány, – vigasztalja a másik – a hol szűk lesz,
majd bővít rajta valami éles kardú saséros (chausseur).
A czigány végtől-végig megborsózott, minek aztán éppen az a
kellemetlen következése lőn, hogy még szűkebb lőn a bőr; mert a mi
kis üres hely maradt, talán egy-két jó falatnak, hogy az kipótolja
zsiradékkal azt, mi eddig a fekete kenyértől mindig megvedlett, –
mondom azon üres helyet beülte a félelem, s a czigányt oly
nemeslelküség szállta meg, hogy ha jó módjával megtehetné, még a
bőréből is szivesen kiugranék, ha éppen valaki belekivánkoznék.
 – No, czigány, hogy adtad el a bőrödet?

Míg a czigány így kínlódott, a Lajtának túlpartján eső faluban

éppen szemközt nyolcz ágyú helyezkedék el, még pedig oly furcsán,
hogy valamennyinek torka átnézett a lajtai táborra s az egyiknek
nyilása úgy a czigánynak irányába esett, mintha csak madzaggal
mérte volna ki valaki.
– Minek azs azs ágyú? – szólal meg a megrémült czigány.
– Majd meghallod, ha megszólítják, – mondja neki Pista.
– Ezs a mi ágyúnk? – véli ismét a czigány, – azst is mivelünk
állítják semközt?
 – De már azt csak a hátad mögé állítják – jegyzi meg amaz –
hogy hátra ne fuss.
– Na, úgy se baj, – mondja a czigány – ha a túlsó ágyúk hátunk
mögött akarnak maradni, úgy hazsafelé majd csak elmenyünk
golyóbics nélkül is.
– Nem addig van az, mert nem hogy hazamennénk, hanem
átmegyünk a Lajtán, s ha nem mész, czigány, hát majd utánad
küldenek egy pár golyót vendéghívónak.
– Mit is mondott kend? – kérdi a czigány foghegyről.
– Azt, hogy átmegyünk a Lajtán.
– Ott van azs ellenség?
– Majd csak ráakadunk, ha itt nem, hát máshol.
– Dejs azs irgalmát – kiált fel a czigány – nem addig van azs, –
ha azs azs ellensig a mi ellensigünk akar lenni, hát ne kerestesse
magát, hanem gyijjen maga; ín ugyan nem megyek utána.
– Majd csak oda mész te is czigány, a hova a többi!
– Ha a tebbi elmegy is, én itt maradok, őrzsöm a hazsának
határát, én ezsírt segődtem be.
– Nem kérdezik azt tőled, czigány!
– Azst elhisem, – kiált föl a czigány, – de én megkérdezstem ám,
mikor a foglalót adták, hogy meddig megyünk? s engem csak a
Lajtáig fogadtak; azsírt ha azs ellensíg gyinni akar, hát gyijjen ide; de
ín egy lépést sem megyek odább!
A párbeszédet trombitaszó szakasztá meg; s mi tegyünk egy
fordulót a legközelebbi sátorig, melyben herczeg Batthyányi Lajos, a
fölkelő sereg ezredese tanyázik, s a sátorban két főrangú bécsi úr
tanácskozásra jelent meg nála.
A ponyvasátor belseje csak annyi kényelmet adott, hogy a
tanyázók szemei elől némileg elvonulhatának, s a két bécsi úr
kényelmesen tanácskozhaték a herczeggel.
Nem kell mondanunk, hogy a birodalomba betört ellenség
ellenében többé nem használt egyéb, mint egy új hadsereg, mely a
hátrálót megtámasztani birja; s e hadsereget majdnem úgy kelle a
földből előteremteni.
Azonban mielőtt e végső eszközhöz nyulnának, azt is meg kelle
tudni, hogy volna-e még a föld hátán is ember és volna-e kedve
háborúba menni?
Ezen kisérletnek eredménye lőn az 1796-iki fölkelés az ország
védelmére, de – mint jól tudjuk – a franczia sereg irányában az
ország határa éppen a Lajtánál végződik, s ha mi az országot csak
ott akarjuk megvédeni, a franczia sereget a Lajtáig kellene ereszteni.
– Herczeg! – mondja az egyik bécsi a herczegnek – a franczia
sereg előtt magyar katonák is állnak, kérdem önt, a franczia akkor
leszen-e csak ellensége a hazának, melynek földjén most állunk,
vagy mindenütt, a hol magyaroknak vérét ontják?
– Mindenütt ellenség! – mondja a herczeg némileg fölemelvén
jobbját, mintha a lelkesülés mondatná vele a szót.
– Annál jobb!… kiált a másik – mi akadályozza a fölkelő sereget,
hogy a Lajtát azonnal átlépje?
– A törvény! – válaszol a herczeg.
– És e törvény megmenti a hazát, herczeg?
– Nem!… volt az újabb válasz, s aztán folytatá – de midőn
alkottuk, azon hitben voltunk.
– Jó, édes herczegem, az ön belátása elég, ön egyike a felsőház
legtekintélyesebb tagjainak, uradalmaknak ura, a fölkelő sereg
ezredese, példáját mindenki követi, vezesse ön át a sereget, hogy
hazájával a birodalmat is megmenteni segélje.
– Parancsuk van önöknek? – kérdi kemény hangon a herczeg.
 – Küldetésünk czélja nem parancs, hanem értekezés.
– Jó, – válaszol a herczeg – úgy a vád egyedül rám esik,
magyarok csinálták a törvényt, ha kell, inkább szegje meg a magyar
maga, mintsem mást kelljen vádolnia ezért; tehát holnap hajnalban a
fölkelő sereget átviszem a Lajtán; isten önökkel.
A két küldött néhány másodperczig meghatottan állt a herczeg
előtt, érezék, hogy nagyszerű pillanatot élnek, mely pillanatnak föl
kell jegyezve lenni a sors könyvében, hogy midőn a kölcsönös
számvetésben elhibáznák a számot, tudja meg mindenik, hol kell azt
újra kezdeni.
Mind a három némán állt meg egy helyben, mintha eleven
szobrai volnának egy olyan vállalkozásnak, mely csak azért oly
drága, mert ára nincsen, s ha e példa nem volna, mindegyiknek
sajnálnia kellene.
Egyedül maradt a herczeg. Ekkor az oldalfüggöny szétvált, s egy
férfit látunk kilépni sötét öltönyben és holt halaványan.
– György! – szólítja meg a herczeg gróf Festetics Györgyöt, kit
szivfájdalma nem birt otthon tartani keszthelyi magányában, s a
legnagyobb óvatossággal bár, de mindenütt a herczeg kiséretében
volt s éppen így tanúja lőn az egész beszélgetésnek.
– György! – ismétli a herczeg – nem tudom, miként itélsz
cselekedetemről; de inkább magam töröm meg a legszentebb
törvényt, melynek engedelmességgel tartoznám, mint hogy olyan óra
jőjjön, melyben azt más, akadálynak tartván, magától ellökje. Így
nem irtózom bevallani, hogy én törvényszegő vagyok; de azért a
törvény mégis szent marad és ha kell, hoznak helyette mást.
– Helyedben milliószor is azt tenném! – feleli Festetics.
– Barátom, Krisztus Isten fia volt, s anyja mégis megsiratta, mikor
dicsősége helyén, a keresztfán látta.
– Azt hiszed, áldozat leszek?
 – Lehetsz, barátom, de én szivesen lennék, mert könnyebben
viselném azt a terhet, mi az áldozaté, mint azt, melyet annak kell
elviselnie, ki nagy lelkednek tanuja lőn, de bizonysága be nem
számoltatik.
– Nyugodjunk meg, barátom, veszély ideje van, hol áldozatok
kivántatnak, hol azonban az áldozatot mind a két fél megsajnálja,
mert tudja, hogy ez áldozat tudta, hogy egy szerencsétlen
pillanatban áldozattá válhatik – és higyj nekem, erre a czélra egy
Batthyányi csak olyan jó, mint akárki más.
– Igazad van, – mondja a gróf – csak azt a gyanusítást viselhesd
el, mit egy pár gyarló hazánkfia utánad talál szórni.
– Mindegy, ezt is el fogom tűrni. Egyébiránt, – veti közbe a
herczeg, önérzettel egyenesedvén föl – családom története
nyolczszáz éves, tehát egyidős a magyar történettel, az én nevem
herczeg Batthyányi Lajos, ám hirdessék, hogy én áruló vagyok!
– Nagy ember! – mondja a gróf, átkarolván a herczeget, – hadd
állok melléd, hogy árnyékoldalad én legyek.
A hadosztály minden alsóbb parancsnokával tudatá a herczeg a
dolgot, s egytől-egyig megnyugvának a parancsolatban, mely a
herczeg szájából a katonai szigor kérlelhetlen hangján mondaték ki
és mindenkiben azt a tudatot ébreszté föl, hogy e parancsolatnak
csak engedelmeskedni kell.
A Lajtának túloldalán volt egy német falu, melynek a vízre dülő
partján levő dombon emelkedék a postaház, előtte pedig egy üteg
ágyú volt lemozdonyozva, mellette égő kanóczczal állván a tüzérek,
kik semmiről sem értesültek, csak gyaníták, hogy hiában nem
gyujtatták meg velük a kanóczokat.
Ugyanazon éjen még minden ember előtt felolvastaték a napi
parancs, mely következőképen szólott:
«A mely ezred harmadik parancsszó után sem mozdulna meg az
átmenetre, a postaház előtt levő ütegnek parancsa van az ezredre
lőni.»
 Mire megvirradt, a legénység készülten várá a parancsszót; de a
hadtestparancsnok nem hagyá el a sátort, melynek belsejét
nyughatatlanul járta összevissza, pedig egész éjen át nem aludt.
Az izgalom átjárta idegzetét, megérzé a rendkívüli vállalkozás
súlyát, s néhány órára volt szüksége, míg a test, úgyszólván
megadja magát a lélekerőnek, hogy elérje azt a nyugalmat, a mi a
munkához okvetlenül szükséges.
Még néhányszor körüljárta a sátornak belsejét; multját számolá el
magának, mintha végórájára menne és vallomást kellene tennie
cselekedeteiről.
Megállt… Fiai jutának eszébe.
Nem! nem! a fának oly sok ága van, mely törzséből hajlik ki, s oly
sok az a gyökér, melyeken helyéhez kapaszkodik, s mindtől
elszakadni nagy erőszakba kerül.
A szív dobbanása hangosabb lőn, mintha a lélek ott szólamlanék
meg a lüktetésben és az ember emlékezetéhez kérdést tenne, hogy
a válság órájában a koczkán fiai sorsát nem lökte-e el! Szíve
melegéből szétterült a vér két orczáján, s önkéntelenül szívéhez
kapott, mintha féltené, hogy e kötelék tán mégis megtágulhatna.
Nem! – riadt föl saját lelkének nyomása alól – a fiúknak mindig
elég szerencséjük, ha apjuknak tetteit láthatják, s tudják, mit kell
maguknak tenniök, hogy kevéssé gyarlóbbak és sokkal nagyobbak
legyenek, mint apjuk!
Ezen megnyugodván, jobbágyaira gondolt, mintha tán azok is fiai
volnának, s a végső órának megszámolt perczeiből osztályrészöket
kikérni nekik is joguk volna.
Gyarló élet, melynek végpercze csak oly közönséges, mint az a
fogadó, melybe pihenés végett szálltunk, s mielőtt távozni
engednének a nyitott kapun, számlájával áll elő a fogadós: ime,
meddig kisér el a földi kötelék és annak hány szála húzódik meg,
hogy visszatartson bennünket a földre.
 Végig haladt emlékezetével azon a néhány ezer arczon, melyről
a bánatot annyiszor letörlé, s kiknek emlékezetében maig is
szeretetben maradt meg azon időből, mikor a magyar mágnástól
csak koldulni lehetett.
Még ez érzelemmel is meg kelle küzdenie, s a küzdelem
eredménye meghozá azon vigasztalást, mit az élet igazolt: «Mit
aggódom, hisz itt van fiam, Fülöp!» – mondja sebesen kilépve a
sátorból, s néhány percz alatt nyergében ült, oly szigorral arczán,
mintha az irgalmat sohasem ismerte volna.
Egy pillanatra áttekintett az ágyútelepre, de nem áll már a földön,
melyen oly gyakran botlik az ember: alatta érzé a büszke mént, mely
megússza vele a léget, s a szabad folyam megdagasztja a kebelt,
hogy a csatavágy élve után kéredzkedik az ösztön, míg a hideg
észnek egy ösztöne jelentkezik, a vasszigorúság.
Röpült a ló, – a sorokban átvillan a megható jelenet, s minden ló
büszkébb lesz, mintha tudná, hogy a legelső lépésben a dicsőség
útjára lép ki, s midőn a legelső szó elhangzék a megindulásra,
minden ló, úgyszólván magától indult meg, csakhogy nem is
tartóztatták vissza a kantárt.
Bódulat volt-e ez, vagy öntudat, mely a tegnap és azelőtt
makacskodó népet a legelső szóra megindítá? – nem kérdezzük. A
herczeg a hídfőhöz nyargalt, elléptetendő saját ezredét.
Az első sorban látjuk a czigányt, kinek arcza most nem azért
feltünőbb, mert tán szokás szerint legfeketébb, hanem mivel
szokatlanul – legfehérebb volt; s minthogy őt most már figyelemmel
kisérjük, lássuk, mi történik vele?
Egy éjszaka nem elég arra, hogy egy czigány úgy megvedlett
légyen, mint az a lúd, melyről a tollat lemellesztették; – benne az
igazságérzet csapott lármát, s ha már mondók, hogy maga is
megadná a hatszázat, ha visszamehetne, akkor könnyen elhihetjük,
hogy háromszázért csakugyan nem akar tovább menni, mint a
meddig a fogadott munkát elvállalta.
 Ne kérdezzük, mit csinálna akkor, ha csakugyan itt volna az
alkalom, hogy akadna elég franczia, kik közül a maga részét ő is
kivághatná; most csak azt nézzük meg, miként áll meg a híd szélén,
s éppen a a herczeggel szemközt megvállva mondja:
– Itt a Lajta!

Igen természetes, hogy a czigányért egymagáért nem fognak

elsütni nyolcz ágyút, de mielőtt az óvást megtehetné, az utána
tódulók átnyomták a hídon, ott pedig rögtön zár alá tették, jobban
mint azt a lovat, mit a hetvenhetedik öreg apja legelőször elcsipett.
Gondolt is ám valami olyat, a boldogtalan, hogy ha most lóvá
változnék, és a réten künn legelne, aztán valamelyik a nemzetségből
elugratna vele; de mit használ, ha a jó kivánság nem teljesedik
mindig, s az ember valamint maga magát nem teheti, úgy mások
sem akarják lóvá tenni.
Rögtön megülték fölötte a törvényt, s minthogy idegen földön
voltak és ellenség előtt, elővették azt a katonaorvoságot, mi arról is
használ, ha valaki valamit tesz, de arról is, a mit valaki nem tesz.
Hasztalan tagadnók a dolgot, a boldogtalan czigány háromszázat
kapott azért, hogy a Lajtáig elment, s ime, hogy a Lajtán átmenni
nem akart, kerek számmal olyan kemény százat fog kapni, hogy
maga sem adná háromszázért, de másnak sem kéne.
Tévedés elkerülése végett megkérjük olvasóinkat, hogy az első
háromszáz és utóbbi száz között méltóztassanak külömbséget tenni,
hogy az aprópénz nálunk pénzzel is adatik, meg mogyorófa
pálczával is; és a czigány éppen az utóbbival lenne kifizetendő, a
nélkül, hogy nyugtatványt kérjenek tőle.
Az itélet kimondaték, s utolsó orvosságképpen csak annyi van
hátra, hogy katonaszabály szerint két pajtás az ezredeshez
könyörögni menjen.
 Holvagy Pistára esett a választás, – nem is késett, hogy illő
módon megjelenjen az ezredes előtt.
– Pajtásunkért jöttünk könyörögni, ezredes uram!
– Mi a büntetés?
– Száz bot, ezredes urunk! – mondja mind a kettő.
– Mi a mentség?
– Hogy a boldogtalan más helyett állt be, s a mint pajtásaink is
tudják, csak a Lajtáig fogadták meg, s már most azt hitte, hogy neki
van igazsága.
– Ellenséget verni jöttünk, nem játszani! – mondja a herczeg. – Itt
nem lehet kiállni a sorból, s a mely hézagon egy kifér, utána megyen
a többi; tehát álljon ki a példa.
– Ezredes urunk, – szólának a pajtások, – a mint egyet ráütnek
arra a czigányra, azonnal meghal, ezredes uram,… hát még száz
bot alatt!
– Sokaljátok?
– Igen!
– Álljátok ki helyette, ha sokaljátok! – mondja a herczeg, ki
akarván térni a dologból.
– Jelentem alásan, – mondja Holvagy Pista kemény hangon, –
egy magam kiállom!

A herczeg megdöbbent a szónál, s nem akart utjába állni egy

nemes érzületnek, hanem a kegyelem szavával ereszté el őket.
Boldog isten, hol van az a mérték, melylyel a nagy emberek
nagyságát megmérik?
 V.
(Két ember a gáton.)

Milyen szerencse, hogy a teremtő kigondolta a halált, az

emberek különben nem tudnák egymást agyon verni.
*
Ment a lajtai tábor, s maga után a folyammal együtt a nevet is
elhagyá, s részben beolvadt azon tömegbe, mely a franczia sereggel
szemközt állt.
Nem czélunk a hadjárat megírása, – legfölebb azon néhány
emberrel van dolgunk, kiket a sors idáig vezetett; tehát kisérjük őket
nyomról-nyomra, hogy a fonál el ne szakadjon kezeink között.
A szabadosok kis csapata rég küzd már az ellenség ellen, s bár
mennyit fogyott számban, két emberünk még él, az egyik Holvagy
Pista, a másik pedig Meddig Józsi, ki még a sorban is szomszédosa
volt régi ellenségének, s a két ember még a legveszettebb
ágyuzásban is ráért arra ügyelni, hogy valamivel hátrább ne
maradjon, mint a másik; s éppen azért mindig készen volt a
legnyaktörőbb vállalkozásra.
A hadiszerencse babérait a franczia táborra hullatta, s az osztrák
seregnek balszárnya roppant földterületen volt kénytelen elhuzódni a
nagy test felé, hogy biztos állásban fogadhassa el a csatát; de míg e
pontot elérnék, kemény kisérletek vártak az utóseregre.
A hadtestparancsnok megállapodék egy hegylánczolat
oldalában, s midőn az elővigyázati szabályok biztosságáról
meggyőződék, a tiszteket tanácskozásra gyűjté össze, hogy a
lankadó seregbe némi lelket öntsön.
 Elveszté alakját a tanács és bizalmas beszélgetéssé vált; hisz a
lezsarolt nép még önvédelemért is csak egykedvüen tőn valamit, –
és a hadtest közeledett azon ponthoz, midőn a katona nem azért
nem engedelmeskedik, mert nem akar, hanem mivel nem tud.
Egy meghajszolt tömeg volt ez, mely hátrált gyávaság és megállt
vitézség nélkül, – azaz végképpen elfáradt, s a hadtestparancsnok
keserűen kikelt ez elfásultság ellen, mely megáll, nem azért, hogy
szuronyt ragadjon, hanem, hogy agyonveresse magát.
A tisztek kínos szégyennel hallák a panaszt s a tömeg szótlanul
állt.
– Legtöbb panaszom van a magyar ezredekre; – szólt utóbb
harsányan a parancsnok, – őket kiméltem legjobban, midőn a
hátráló seregben elől eresztém őket.
– Kár volt! – mondja egy nagy homlokú fiatal tiszt elég
hallhatólag.
– Mi az? – kérdé a parancsnok, meghallván az észrevételt.
– Kár volt őket elől ereszteni – mondja ismét a tiszt.
– Miért? – kérdi amaz kemény hangon, mintha nem volna
elkészülve e közbeszólásra.
– Azt hiszik, ha már őket is dologtalan hagyják, nincs mit
védelmezni.
– És ha hátul hagynám őket, hadnagy uram? – kérdi a vezér.
– Szivesebben menne visszafelé, ha verekedhetnék, legalább azt
vélné, hogy az ellenséget ingyen nem ereszti maga után.
– Ön a Vallis-ezredből való?
– Igen! – válaszol katonai rövidséggel a tiszt.
– Szolgált ön magyar ezredben?
– Hisz magyar vagyok.
 – Hogy hivják önt?
– Kisfaludy Sándor! – válaszol a kérdett, s a fővezér
megelégedék ennyivel; reggel pedig egy magyar gyalogezred s két
század huszár rendelteték az utócsapathoz, hogy az utánnyomuló
ellenséget föltartóztassa.
Midőn az elcserélés megtörténék, a hadtest parancsnoka maga
mellé rendelé Kisfaludyt, hogy a sorokat megszemlélje, s nagy
meglepetéssel látá, hogy az ezred lelkesült «éljen»-ekkel fogadja őt.
– Miért kiabálnak? – kérdé Kisfaludyt, ki az ezred szárnyára
léptet, s a legelső embert kérdi:
– Atyafi! de jó kedve van!
– Legalább, uram, ha szaladni kell, hátra is üthet az ember.
A parancsnok megelégedék a válaszszal, s az utolsó csapathoz
közeledék, megállván, egy századparancsnok előtt, ki a nagy
bajuszú huszárokat éppen rendbeállította.
– Kapitány úr!… szólítja meg a szabadosok parancsnokát, – két
emberre volna szükségem.
– Várom a parancsot. – Mondja a tiszt katonai
engedelmességgel.
– De mindkettő bátor legyen.
– Valamennyi! – mondja a tiszt.
– Tudom, – mondja a vezér elismeréssel, – de nekem a
bátorságnál is több kell, vakmerő embereket akarok.
– Olyan is akad!
– Állítsa ki őket kapitány úr, hadd látom őket, – mondja a vezér
némi megindulással, mint midőn félig tudja az ember, hogy két
embert olyan helyre fognak állítani, hol hihetőleg agyon fogják lőni, s
ez a fél bizonyság még a legvitézebb katonában is szánalmat
gerjeszt.