Futility Closet - 307-The Cyprus Mutiny

Episode Date: August 10, 2020

In 1829 a group of convicts commandeered a brig in Tasmania and set off across the Pacific, hoping to elude their pursuers and win their freedom. In this week's episode of the Futility Closet podcast we'll describe the mutineers of the Cyprus and a striking new perspective on their adventure. We'll also consider a Flemish dog and puzzle over a multiplied Oscar. Intro: Mark Twain slipped an esophagus into a 1902 short story. Designer Alan Fletcher's West London studio is secured with an alphabet. Sources for our feature on William Swallow: Warwick Hirst, The Man Who Stole the Cyprus: A True Story of Escape, 2008. John Mulvaney, The Axe Had Never Sounded: Place, People and Heritage of Recherche Bay, Tasmania, 2007. Robert Hughes, The Fatal Shore, 1987. David Chapman and Carol Hayes, eds., Japan in Australia: Culture, Context and Connection, 2019. Andrew Steinmetz, Japan and Her People, 1859. D.C.S. Sissons, "The Voyage of the Cyprus Mutineers: Did They Ever Enter Japanese Waters?", Journal of Pacific History 43:2 (September 2008), 253-265. Ian Duffield, "Cutting Out and Taking Liberties: Australia's Convict Pirates, 1790–1829," International Review of Social History 58:21 (December 2013), 197–227. E.R. Pretyman, "Pirates at Recherche Bay or the Loss of the Brig 'Cyprus'," Papers and Proceedings of the Royal Society of Tasmania 88 (1954), 119-128. Mark Gregory, "Convict Era Broadsides and Ballads and the Working Poor: Part 1," Australian Folklore 32 (November 2017), 195-215. Tim Stone, "How a Samurai Manuscript Vindicated the Wild Claims of Convict Escapee William Swallow," ABC Radio National, Sept. 9, 2019. Troy Lennon, "Convicts Chased Freedom From Tasmania to China," [Surry Hills, N.S.W.] Daily Telegraph, Aug. 14, 2019, 35. Rachel Mealey, "The Brig Cyprus: How an English Surfer Solved the Mystery of an Australian Pirate Ship in Japan," ABC News, June 24, 2017. Joshua Robertson, "Australian Convict Pirates in Japan: Evidence of 1830 Voyage Unearthed," Guardian, May 27, 2017. George Blaikie, "Slow Trip to China," [Adelaide] Mail, Oct. 27, 1951, 4. "Piratical Seizure of the Government Brig Cyprus," [Hobart, Tasmania] Colonial Times, Sept. 4, 1829. Stephen Gapps, "The Last Pirate," Australian National Maritime Museum, May 31, 2017. "William Swallow," Convict Records of Australia (accessed July 26, 2020). "As we approached the barbarian ship the dog wagged its tail and whined at us. Its face looks like my illustration. It did not look like food. It looked like a pet." Watercolors by samurai artist Makita Hamaguchi, 1830, from the Tokushima prefectural archive. Listener mail: Wikipedia, "A Dog of Flanders" (accessed July 31, 2020). Wikipedia, "Dog of Flanders (TV series)" (accessed July 31, 2020). Wikipedia, "Dogcart (Dog-Drawn)" (accessed July 31, 2020). Wikipedia, "Drafting Dog" (accessed July 31, 2020). Wikipedia, "Belgian Draft Dog" (accessed July 31, 2020). "An Icon of the Belgian Army in WWI, the Dog Cart," War History Online, March 3, 2014. De Belgische Mastiff. Wikipedia, "Carting" (accessed August 2, 2020). "A Dog of Flanders," National Purebred Dog Day, Dec. 5, 2018. Wikipedia, "Bouvier des Flandres" (accessed August 2, 2020). This week's lateral thinking puzzle was contributed by listener Marie Nearing. Here are four corroborating links (warning -- these spoil the puzzle). You can listen using the player above, download this episode directly, or subscribe on Google Podcasts, on Apple Podcasts, or via the RSS feed at https://futilitycloset.libsyn.com/rss. Please consider becoming a patron of Futility Closet -- you can choose the amount you want to pledge, and we've set up some rewards to help thank you for your support. You can also make a one-time donation on the Support Us page of the Futility Closet website. Many thanks to Doug Ross for the music in this episode. If you have any questions or comments you can reach us at [e-mail]. Thanks for listening!

Welcome to the Futility Closet podcast, forgotten stories from the pages of history. Visit us online to sample more than 11,000 quirky curiosities from an airborne esophagus to an alphabetic gait. This is episode 307. I'm Greg Ross.. I'm Greg Ross. And I'm Sharon Ross. In 1829, a group of convicts commandeered a brig in Tasmania and set off across the Pacific, hoping to elude their pursuers and win their freedom. In today's show, we'll describe the mutineers of the Cyprus

and a striking new perspective on their adventure. We'll also consider a Flemish dog and puzzle over a multiplied Oscar. And just a quick programming note, we'll be off next week, so we'll be back with a new episode on August 24th. In episode 272, we described Van Diemen's Land, or what is now Tasmania, which served as a penal colony in the early 19th century. At the time, it was the southernmost settlement in the world, and Macquarie Harbor, on its

bitter western coast, was the place of ultimate banishment, where convicts faced unremitting hard labor, and even those who escaped found a wilderness so harsh that they might be driven to cannibalism, as Alexander Pierce was in that episode. Pierce was still a recent memory in 1829, when another group of convicts were put aboard a brig at Hobart Town to be sailed around the coast to the harbor. Among these was William Swallow, a former sailor in the Napoleonic Wars who had turned to thieving as a second career. Swallow was both recalcitrant and resourceful. During his first

term, he'd managed to escape the colony altogether and returned to housebreaking in England. Recaptured, he was now ordered sent to Pierce's Old Haunt on the western coast, the most feared place in the colony. If you were going to escape this fate, Swallow knew he must do it before they reached the harbor. There had been very few successful escapes from that awful place, and most of the convicts who had managed it were thought to have died in the island's interior. That meant pirating the brig, something that had never been done before. He chose his conspirators carefully. Most of the convicts with him were hardened criminals facing life sentences, and they gladly seized this last chance at freedom. The brig, the Cyprus, put to sea on August 5th, and,

happily for Swallow, it encountered a westerly gale midway through its journey and sought shelter in Recherche Bay on the island's southern coast. They lay there five days waiting for a fair wind, and one day the leader of the military guard, Lieutenant William Carew, decided unwisely to go fishing further up the bay. He took the longboat and set out with the ship's doctor and the first mate. And he chose to do this while many of the convicts had been allowed on deck for exercise, and most of the military detachment and crew were between decks taking supper. The mutiny was almost embarrassingly easy. The convicts seized the sentries, locked the soldiers in their quarters, fetched hammers and chisels from the ship's stores, and knocked off each other's irons.

When the fishing boat came up, Carew tried to come aboard, but the convicts put him off. Seeing that he couldn't succeed, he asked for his wife and two children, and they were put into the boat with him. Swallow said that anyone who didn't want to man the brig could remain at the bay,

and at 2 a.m. the soldiers were sent ashore, along with some of the ship's crew and 15 convicts who wanted no part in the mutiny. By dawn, all the boats had returned to the Cyprus, and the mutineers gave three cheers and set sail. Within two hours, Van Diemen's Land was out of sight. Eighteen convicts had thrown in their lot with swallow, and they sailed off, knowing that they must evade capture. If they were caught, they faced flogging, longer sentences, and possibly hanging. They left behind 44 men, women, and children in Recherche Bay.

The convicts had left them enough food for about a week, but there was no guarantee they'd be discovered in that time, so the castaways made several dramatic bids to save themselves. First, a Cockney convict named John Pobjoy set out with two companions to follow the coast toward a timber-felling station 80 kilometers away, but halfway there, they were confronted by hostile aboriginal people and were forced to return. Undaunted, Pobjoy proposed making a boat and sailing for help. Amazingly, another seaman, named Thomas Morgan, managed to build a canoe out of wattle branches and the remains of some canvas hammocks, using only three pen knives as tools. When the boat had been waterproofed with boiled soap and resin, it proved shakily seaworthy, and Pobjoy and Morgan rowed unsteadily

out to a ship and managed to arrange a rescue for their castaways. For this, they each received a full pardon. Carew, the lieutenant whose bad judgment had brought on this misfortune, was court-martialed and cashiered, but later pardoned and returned to duty. By the time of the rescue, the Cypress had made her getaway, and there was much speculation as to where she was headed, perhaps Peru, New Zealand, or the South Seas. In fact, she was headed east, with Swallow as her captain, since he'd planned the mutiny and was the only experienced navigator on board. Most of the convicts had voted to head for America, but they had too little water for such a long voyage. So they crossed the Tasman Sea and put in at the South Island of New Zealand,

where they sawed off the ship's figurehead, painted her sides black, and changed her name to Friends. Swallow forged a new set of ship's papers identifying her as an American trader out of Boston and recorded the log of a phony voyage from Manila, and they put to sea again. They set sail now for Tahiti, 2,500 miles to the northeast. The voyage was long and difficult. Swallow had inadequate instruments and was tacking constantly against northeasterly winds. They didn't sight their destination until late September, more than a month after leaving New Zealand. And even then, unfavorable winds kept them from landing at the principal port.

So Swallow proposed heading instead for Tonga, and they reached an outlying island six days later. They stayed there for six weeks and gradually divided into two groups, those who wanted to remain on the island and those who wanted to continue their flight, perhaps toward China or Japan. At length, Swallow agreed to go with the latter group, and a reduced crew of ten men put to sea again in the middle of November, headed northwest. In January, they sighted the coast of Japan. This was an unusual time to be visiting Japan. As we explained in episode 172, in this period the country's borders were closed to outsiders. Foreigners who landed on Japanese soil faced a death sentence. Swallow

says the mutineers encountered several small vessels along the coast, but that these kept well clear. He says the Cypress edged southward, found a promising bay, and dropped anchor near an imposing fort. Presently, an official-looking boat put off from the shore and came alongside, and what Swallow calls a Japan chief climbed aboard. He spoke no English, but made signs to indicate that he wanted a letter explaining why they were in his port. Swallow wrote a note saying they needed fresh water and firewood and would trade anything for it, and the man withdrew. Four hours later, he returned and indicated that unless they departed by sunset, they'd be fired upon, and to underscore his point, he displayed

a large cannonball. Unfortunately, there was no wind, so the mutineers couldn't leave the bay, and Swallow says that at sundown, the Japanese opened fire from about 50 boats. The guns in the fort joined in. One shot hit the ship at the waterline, and another knocked Swallow's telescope from his hand. The convicts endured these attacks until 10 p.m., and then a light breeze came up and they were able to get underway. As they crossed the East China Sea, they found eight inches of water in the hold, presumably due to damage at the waterline. They managed to reach the coast of mainland China, scuttled the ship off the trading city of Canton, and made their way ashore in several bands. They had agreed to claim they were sailors from an English brig that had foundered off the coast, but under questioning, their stories began to diverge,

and the investigating committee concluded that, quote, there is every reason to entertain suspicions that some nefarious proceedings are concealed in the mysterious affair. By that time, Swallow and three others had escaped aboard an East India man bound for London, but the authorities dispatched a warning on a faster ship, and the police were waiting when they arrived. Two of the escapees became the last men executed in England as pirates. Amazingly, Swallow was acquitted of that charge. He managed to convince the court that the others had forced him to navigate the ship, but he was still guilty of escaping, and he was sent back to the Antipodes, where he died four years later. Normally, that would be the end of the story, but it's found a wonderful modern postscript. For years, historians

doubted Swallow's claim that he'd stopped in Japan. He was a criminal and a demonstrated liar, and there seemed to be no Japanese record of the visit. It was thought that he'd made up the story of a Japanese attack to explain how the ship had come to sink. But in 2014, an expatriate Englishman named Nick Russell bought a beach shack on Teba Island off the coast of the township of Muji on the Japanese island of Shikoku. The back of the house overlooked an expanse of water where samurai accounts said that a barbarian ship had arrived in 1830. The samurai commanders had been ordered to repel any foreign incursion and had fired upon it. Russell asked the curator of the

local archive whether he could see the original records of the encounter. The old Japanese script was hard to decipher, but one of his English students helped him translate it into modern Japanese. One of the records contained detailed watercolor paintings of the ship and its crew, and the ship was flying a British red ensign. Russell thought at first that it might have been a whaler, but he learned that mutinies were fairly common in this period, so he typed the words Mutiny 1829 into Google and the cypress came up. He discovered that the two accounts, Swallows and the Samurais, match one another extraordinarily well, too well to attribute to chance, and well enough to convince historians of the period. Warwick Hurst, the former curator of manuscripts at the State Library of New South Wales, said, I have no doubt that the Japanese account describes the visit of the Cyprus.

This means that after all these years, we have not only validation that Swallow did stop in Japan, but a description of the Japanese side of that encounter. The record says that a foreign ship anchored off Muji on January 16, 1830. A commander named Yamauchi ordered a samurai named Makita Hamaguchi to disguise himself as a fisherman and row out to check the ship for weapons. Hamaguchi wrote, as we approached the barbarian ship, the dog wagged its tail and whined at us. Its face looks like my illustration. It did not look like food. It looked like a pet. And there's a watercolor illustration of a dog with one of the British sailors. I'll put that in the show notes. Quote, some of them were painting the outside of the ship with tar. One was climbing the mast and

another was mending the sail. Each of them was involved in some task. All of them stopped work and looked at us. At first we kept our distance at about 50 meters, but they waved to us to come closer and did not seem to be hostile, so we rode over to get a better look. Hamaguchi describes sailors with long pointed noses who asked in sign language for water and firewood. He said the captain appeared to be 25 or 26 years old and had placed tobacco in what he called a suspicious looking object, sucked and then breathed out smoke. He said the man was wearing a scarlet woolen coat with cuffs embroidered with gold thread and the buttons were silver plated. He said this was a thing of great beauty, but as clothing it was gaudy. He said the sailors

exchanged words among themselves like birds twittering, and that one sailor had bared his chest to show him a tattoo of the upper body of a beautiful woman. And he said that another produced a big glass of what appeared to be an alcoholic beverage and indicated that we should drink. We declined by waving our hands, upon which they passed the glass around themselves, A local samurai commander named Mima monitored the brig's movements. He said, since it arrived yesterday afternoon. Through the spyglass, I can see a floor halfway up the mast, and one of the crew climbs up there to look out. The men on the ship do not look hungry at all, and in fact they seem to be mocking us by diving off the stern and climbing back onto the ship again. It is very strange that everyone who goes out for a closer look returns feeling very sorry for them. I think they are pirates. We should crush them. Mima stayed up until dawn with his

superior Yamauchi discussing what to do. Yamauchi was under orders to follow an 1825 edict from the shogunate in Tokugawa which read, All foreign vessels should be fired upon. Any foreigner who landed should be arrested or killed. So he ordered his samurai officers to communicate this to the ship's crew. He said, Go aboard the barbarian ship and with sign language tell them to leave immediately. If they do not comply, show them a large lead ball and tell them we are ready to fire it at them from Teba Island and reduce them to matchwood. But the barbarians told the samurai messengers in sign language that they needed five days to mend their sails and paint the ship.

When Yamauchi refused, the sailors asked for three days and gave the messengers a letter to pass on. Hamaguchi writes, Commander Yamauchi was not happy. What did you accept a letter from them for? Take it back at once. Finally, when the ship didn't raise anchor, Hamaguchi writes that a cannon fired on it like a thunderclap, followed by an eerie screeching noise as the old, deeply pitted ball flew between the two masts of the barbarian ship. To escape the cannon fire, the ship limped slowly westward between two samurai firing positions. But Hamaguchi writes that at about this time, the feudal overseer realized it was a British ship and became extremely angry, and he ordered fire on the ship's waterline. Quote, two cannonballs hit and shook

the ship badly. The foreigners were standing and yelling. Another ball hit the ship's hull, and one or two crew lay on the deck, apparently killed or injured. Hamaguchi writes, the others turned towards commander Yamauchi's boat, all removed their hats and appeared to be praying. Yamauchi asked an underling when the wind might improve and was, quote, good enough to share this knowledge with the barbarians through sign language and they swiftly turned the brig across the wind. Before the ship finally sailed away, Hamaguchi writes, a strange pipe and singing could be heard. The sound was like that made by a child's penny whistle, nothing like a real flute. It was eerie. Hearst, the manuscript curator, said there were too many coincidences for it not to be true when compared with Swallow's own written account, which is held in the National Archives

in London. The coincidences include the dates of the ship's appearance, the crew's pleas for water and firewood, the letter of the samurai commander, and the ship's attempts to sail without wind to escape Japanese cannon fire. Even the ship's dimensions, as recorded by the Japanese, match those in a bill of sale for the Cypress that's held in the New South Wales State Library. Hurst said, I haven't been able to find any other records of ships arriving in Japan, and it's not surprising, because the Japanese actively discouraged all Western shipping from coming to their country. This would have been well known in seafaring circles, and there would have been no point for ships to go to Japan. Swallows landed there because they were absolutely desperate for wood and water and supplies,

and the ship needed repairing as well. If all this is true, then William Swallow's misguided mutiny has found a lasting historical importance. The Cypress may have been the first Australian ship to reach Japan. The puzzle in episode 290, and no spoiler here, was about a tourist who boarded the correct train only to then realize that he hadn't boarded it correctly. Alana Howitt wrote, Kia ora from New Zealand. I was listening to episode 290 and have an alternative solution for the puzzle about the tourist boarding the train incorrectly. When I lived in the UK, I used to catch a train from London to a town in Somerset to visit my now husband. This single train used to split in half mid-transit and the two trains would head off to different destinations. If you got on the wrong carriage at the last station

before the train split and ignored the announcements telling you which carriages were for which destination, then you could find yourself at a different destination to the one you intended. Keep up the good work. I used to listen to your podcast as I commuted to work, but currently I listen while pushing my baby around in his buggy to get him to nap. And I hadn't heard of trains splitting in mid-transit to become two different trains, and I wasn't really able to find anything about it when I tried looking into it. So interesting to hear about it, and I guess that would make a good

alternative answer that does fit the puzzle. That's a dangerous train. I imagine that happens a lot. People realize too late that they're on the wrong one, and then the one, I mean, you can't jump from one to the other. What are you going to do? Alex Baumann sent a follow-up to a topic we've covered a couple of times. What with Belgium going into loose lockdown, I went to Antwerp for the first time in months. I passed by the statue for Nello and Patrasche in front of the cathedral, and I was reminded of your topic of things that are famous internationally but unheard of in their country of origin. Except that in this, the well-known story has nothing to do with its purported country of origin. In this, the well-known story has nothing to do with its purported country of origin.

Nello and Patrasche were the protagonists of A Dog of Flanders, an 1872 English novel written by Ouida, pseudonym of Marie-Louise de la Ramee. It is a sentimental story of a poor boy Nello who sells milk in town with his cart drawn by Patrasche. Dog carts were very common in Belgium up to the early 20th century, something the British found especially barbaric. He has a talent for art, but due to his poverty, no hope of becoming an artist. Misfortunes pile up, and the story ends with Nello trying to get to see the descent of the cross by Rubens in the Antwerp Cathedral and freezing to death with his dog on Christmas Eve. The story is vaguely set in Antwerp, and at one time the village came to be identified as Hoboken, now a suburb of Antwerp, which also gave its name to

the city in New Jersey, although there was no compelling reason for that. In fact, the story takes place near a canal, of which there are none around Antwerp, and is most probably inspired by the Mechelen-Louisville Canal, which the author did visit and is coincidentally where I grew up. All this to say that it is set in a pretty fanciful storybook version of Flanders. The book remained completely unknown in Belgium, but was widely popular in the English-speaking world. There have been several film adaptations and crucially became something of a children's classic in Japan, with a successful anime adaptation which further spread its fame in East Asia, to the extent that Boon Joon-ho of Parasite fame made his directorial debut with a dark

satirical version of the story. The first inkling we had of its existence in Belgium was when Japanese tourist groups started showing up, asking about Nello and Patrasche, which completely baffled the locals. Some attempts were made to create something to please the Japanese tourists in the 80s, with a statue being built in Hoboken and a plaque in front of the Antwerp Cathedral, tellingly sponsored by Toyota. Efforts to support the story touristically have always been half-hearted, because for one thing, many people here still have no idea what all the fuss is about. Also, some people want Antwerp to be known for its actual history, art, and literature, and not for some sentimental story dreamed up by an English author that inexplicably got popular in Asia. It can be seen as selling out to Asian tourists by playing into foreign stereotypes about Flanders. On the other hand, it is not much different from visiting,

say, Juliet's Balcony in Verona or the places where Harry Potter was filmed. If people love a story so much they come all the way to visit, who are we to tell them they came for the wrong reasons? Anyway, the plaque in front of the cathedral was replaced in 2016 by a fairly substantial monument. Whether this has more to do with the spending power of East Asian tourists than an appreciation of the Dog of Flanders is an open question. It does provide a nice photo opportunity, though. And Alex sent a second email after he actually read some of the Dog of Flanders and said, As to why the author said it in Flanders, I can think of two reasons. The first would be the dog. Belgium was well known at the time for its dog carts and sturdy breeds of working dogs. These

breeds may still exist. You'll have to ask someone who knows about dogs. In 1914, the Belgian army went to war with dog-drawn carriages for machine guns. Up to the early 20th century, a dog cart was a common way for merchants to transport their wares into towns. So with the British sensibility about dogs, it would make sense to write one of these animals in your story. The second is the social background. Flanders, and especially rural Flanders, was desperately poor in the mid-to-late 19th century, yet the country was dotted with cities with impressive medieval and Renaissance architecture and art. The contrast between the wretched condition of the present inhabitants and the monuments to the glory of the past struck more than one observer at the time.

So to make your protagonist an artist born at the wrong time is also an understandable choice. For me, this explains the reluctance of the tourist authorities to embrace the story. Antwerp wants to be seen as a vibrant, cutting-edge creative center and not be associated with heavy-handed stereotypes of the 19th century. In a way, this is the problem Salzburg has with the sound of music. Every year, well, perhaps not this year, streams of tourists arrive who completely bypass the rich and varied history of the city itself in order to see the places where the movie was shot.

It is the Hollywood version of Austria pushing away the real one. Of course, in Salzburg, they are well aware of the existence of the sound of music, while in Belgium, a dog of Flanders remains obscure, unless you make your money with Asian tourists. So I read a synopsis of the story on Wikipedia, and it really is a rather grim story, which seems unlikely today for a children's story, but that did seem to be more common in earlier centuries. According to Wikipedia, A Dog of Flanders is extremely popular in Japan, Korea, and the Philippines, to the point where it is seen as a classic.

It's inspired a number of live-action and animated Philippines, to the point where it is seen as a classic. It's inspired a number of live-action and animated adaptations, including several American movies, starting with one from 1914, and several Japanese works, starting with a popular 1975 animated TV series of 52 episodes, which is said to have reached an audience of 30 million viewers on its first broadcast. Wikipedia says that of all the various adaptations, only two have retained the same ending as the novel, while the others substituted a happier one. And as Alex noted, though, the story is rather less well-known in Belgium itself, and wasn't even translated into Dutch until 1987, more than a century after it was written. What strikes me about that is that, from what he was saying, it's a fanciful version of Antwerp to begin with. Yeah, yeah.

So it resonated in East Asia, but it's not real. Do you see what I mean? Right. Just like a sound of music doesn't represent what Salzburg is actually like. But the sound of music was written in the West, and it resonates with those people. You know what I mean? This is weird. Oh, oh, oh.

That it's a fanciful version, something that doesn't exist. A fanciful version of Flanders written by an English author and very popular in Asia. Yeah. It doesn't seem like something so sort of false or imaginary could resonate with anyone. Well, I guess if you're Asian, you have no idea what Flanders is actually like, right? You don't know what Antwerp is actually like, so this is all you know of it. Yeah. I was interested in Alex's comments about the Belgian working dogs and how they were possibly the reason for Weta setting her story in Belgium. As Alex had mentioned, Patresche pulls a cart for Nello to sell milk, and dog carts pulled by drafting or draft dogs were traditionally used

in Belgium and the Netherlands, with some breeds of dog bred specifically for this purpose. It seems that dog carts were used in other countries too, but to a lesser extent. So, for example, they were used at one time in England, but were actually outlawed in London starting in 1840 due to there being a nuisance to pedestrians. Alex mentioned that Belgium was known for its sturdy breeds of working dogs, but that he didn't know if they were still around. I found some information about a dog breed called the Belgian Mastiff, also known as the Belgian Drafting Dog, and this breed was bred in Belgium

specifically to pull loads and was actually extinct for a while, but efforts have been underway by a Belgian non-profit group since the 1990s to restore the breed, which has now been successfully recreated. And apparently, a 1999 movie version of a dog of Flanders that was filmed in Belgium used a Bouvier de Flanders to portray Patrasche. That breed is a herding dog originally bred in Flanders. Its name is actually French for cow herder of Flanders, but they were also sometimes used to pull carts, and possibly because of the movie, this breed is now sometimes associated with Petrèche. This breed apparently almost went extinct during each of the two World Wars, but does seem to definitely still be around today. So drafting dogs were used in both World Wars by different countries for tasks such as pulling small field guns or pulling carts for wounded soldiers, with the Belgian army in World War I being particularly known for its drafting dogs

when its rather successful use of dog carts for moving machine guns attracted the attention of the international press. And even though I wasn't really familiar with dog carts, apparently nowadays you can still find them in use in various countries, sometimes still for transportation of goods, but more typically for entertainment, like in parades or for children's rides, or for sport, where dogs pull either supplies or people competitively, a bit like dog sled races, which I was a little more familiar with. I remember years ago writing an item for the Futility Closet website about what were called

turnspit dogs, which, as I understand it, were a whole breed of dogs that were bred to walk on treadmills in order to turn meat that was roasting over fires. I think this was in England years ago. So that's like really specific. And I think they're extinct now. But it's just, it sounds like it's kind of, I remember at the time having trouble believing that that existed. But I guess there's no reason you couldn't, you know, give a dog a job like that. Yeah.

Thanks so much to everyone who writes to us. We always appreciate hearing from our listeners, and we learn quite a bit from you. So if you have anything you'd like to share with us, please send that to podcast at futilitycloset.com. It's Greg's turn to try to solve a lateral thinking puzzle. I'm going to give him an odd-sounding situation, and he has to figure out what's going on, asking yes or no questions. This puzzle comes from Marie Nearing. In 1939, one man received eight Oscars for the same film.

Why? Why? Yes. This was a very good film. It was a very good film. It was, actually, but. But that's not the reason why. Yes. Normally not one person gets eight Oscars. Wow. So did, wow. Okay. Did he do everything? I guess he must have on the film? No.

All right. Is this movie a Virta eight oscars yes um did he play eight different parts no that would be stunning if you got an oscar-worthy performance on the eight different parts i probably would have heard of it i don't even know that they have enough categories that he could do that you said 1939 1939 yeah that was a big year it was a big year um although because he got the oscar in 39 it means actually the movie came out in 38 1939. 1939, yes. That was a big year. It was a big year. Although, because he got the Oscar in 39, it means actually the movie came out in 38. If you think about how that works. Okay.

But I've heard of it. Yes, you have. I guarantee you have. Is he an actor? No. A director? No. What an equivocal answer.

No, no. I'm just trying to think. I'm trying to think what you'd call them. Well, okay, would you say, so eight Oscars, were those in categories that are sort of still used today? I've heard of these different. No. No. And the number is significant.

Eight. Eight. Well, I keep going to acting, but that's probably bad. Would you say they were all for essentially the same, I don't know how to say this, job undertaking tasks? Yes. Yes. Okay, that helps.

But not acting? Not acting. So he did the same sort of thing eight times. No. No. No. He did the same thing once yes and got eight oscars yes okay i'm just racking my brain for movies that came out in 38 but i don't know enough of them that's a good puzzle okay Okay. Was this something...

Well, of course it would be. Have I heard his name? Yes. Does... If I'd seen... Okay, if I've... I didn't even ask this. Suppose I've seen the movie.

Okay. Which maybe I have. You probably have at some point. This doesn't help much. Does his work appear throughout the film, or is it like in one scene or something? I guess you'd have to say throughout the film. I keep not wanting to go and try to figure out what his job is. Does it have to do with...

I think it would be hard to guess his job. I'm not exactly 100% sure what the job title would be. I have an idea, but... How do I ask this? Is it represented by eight distinct things in the film? Like eight different characters or eight different pieces of special effects or something? It would have to be. That's somewhat on the right track.

I mean, not eight, though, but... One. No. Sorry. Eight characters? Did I already ask you that? No, it's... There's not eight characters that he was given eight Oscars for.

There was a specific number of characters that contributed to the eight Oscars. But they all went to one person. Yes. See, that's what I'm hung up on. Like, if you had some... I don't know. King Kong came out around then, and conceivably Willis O'Brien. But they wouldn't give you eight Oscars for one, even a great job of, you know.

Yeah, this was kind of a special circumstance. Would you say it had to do with the drama, that it's essentially a creative rather than a technical job? Yes. Writing? No. No, I don't. I'm making faces because I'm not sure. All right, because I keep...

I mean... I don't want to go up that tree if I don't have to. Right, right. This is definitely somebody you would have heard of. I don't know if you're going to connect the year 1938, but you would probably connect this film with the 30s. But you say it was essentially one task that this person did. A pretty big task, but yeah, I mean...

He did not actually appear in the movie. You wouldn't see him in the movie. No, but he's essentially creative, so he's like a director or... Let's say creative. Big creative. Something to do with, like, set dressing or costumes? No. Just all the way top-level creative.

Well, the writer, then. Director or the writer? Producer, maybe? Okay. Got eight Oscars. Yes. For doing one thing very well. For the whole movie.

It's really for the whole movie. Does it have to do with... No, you wouldn't get an Oscar for that. And it was just the people giving out the awards being pretty cute. Because it would have been one oscar but they added on seven more uh is this a children's movie why do i want to ask that yes is it the snow white it is snow white and the seven dwarfs walt disney yes in 1939 walt disney received one regular-sized special Oscar and seven miniature statuettes, each representing one of the seven dwarfs, to honor his pioneering work for the film Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, which was the first full-length, hand-drawn animated feature film. especially adults, weren't going to sit through a feature-length cartoon. And the film was quite a gamble for Disney,

who had to borrow most of the $1.5 million needed to make the film, which required hundreds of technicians to create it. But when it premiered in Hollywood in December 1937, it received a standing ovation from the star-studded audience. And when it had its public debut in February 1938, it was an immediate box office sensation, quickly grossing a staggering $8 million during the Great Depression, the most made by any film up to that point. And now it's a classic. And Shirley Temple is actually the one who presented him.

Little 10-year-old Shirley Temple gave him the awards. So thanks so much to Marie and to everyone who sends us puzzles. We are always on the lookout for more. So if you have any for us to try, please send them to podcast at futilitycloset.com. And just a reminder that we'll be off next week. In the meantime, if you'd like to become one of the awesome supporters of our show and check out some bonus content like outtakes, extralateral thinking puzzles, more discussions on some of the stories and peeks behind the scenes,

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