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Doctor Who: Mangling History

Doctor Who has a long and noble history of attempting to convey history to its young viewers. It has not always been completely successful, however. Here are a few stories where they dipped into history -- but didn't get the history quite right.

The Gunfighters

On Doctor Who:
The TARDIS arrives in Tombstone, Arizona, just as the Clanton brothers arrive, looking to kill Doc Holliday for killing their brother. They promptly mistake the Doctor for him, because they don't know what he looks like. Wyatt Earp's brother Warren is killed, and Wyatt swears vengeance. This leads to a gunfight at the O.K. Corral. The Clantons, aided by Johnny Ringo, face down Wyatt Earp, Virgil Earp, and Doc Holliday; the Clantons and Ringo are shot dead, and our heroes take the opportunity to slip away in the TARDIS.

The depiction of the shoot-out in "The Gunfighters"

In History:
Of all the historical dramas in the first few seasons of Doctor Who, this is probably the least accurate. The Clantons weren't seeking to avenge a slain brother (yet), and there was no chance of them mistaking anyone for Doc Holliday, whom Ike Clanton had been busy trying to frame for some time. Warren Earp wasn't involved, and lived another 20 years. And the actual players at the gunfight were Doc Holliday and Wyatt, Morgan, and Virgil Earp facing down Frank and Tom McLaury and Billy Clanton (the latter three all died). Ike Clanton, killed in the shoot-out on Doctor Who, fled the fight in real life and continued the feud. Infamous cowboy Johnny Ringo wasn't at the gunfight.

The three dead Cowboys after the real gunfight: Tom McLaury, Frank McLaury, and Billy Clanton

As a side-note, set reports from the BBC's filming in Almeria, Spain (location of classics like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly), reveal that there will finally be a second Western on the show, probably the third episode of Series 7.

The Masque of Mandragora

On Doctor Who:
The Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane battle a living energy, the Mandragora Helix, in 15th-century Italy. The Helix intends to take over humanity at this delicate juncture between superstition and science, between religion and reason. There is a power struggle going on in the duchy of San Martino, and the rational, science-minded Prince Guiliano is accused of being a witch. In one scene, he explains to Sarah Jane his theory that the world is actually a sphere, as if he expects her to be shocked.

The conversation between Prince Guiliano and Sarah Jane starts at 2:50

In History:
Or would he have expected her to be shocked? Science was more advanced in the 15th century than usually given credit, even in Western Europe. Astronomy was fairly advanced, and the size and shape of the Earth had been known since antiquity; Eratosthenes even computed the correct circumference to within 2% of the actual value around 200 BC. The work of Dante Alighieri, who wrote his epic work The Divine Comedy over a century before reflecting the mainstream view of both church and secular authorities, clearly references a spherical Earth. So rather than being ahead of his times, Guiliano is behind them.


A diagram of Dante's depiction of the spherical Earth; it's a cutaway view, intended to show the structure of Hell underground

City of Death

On Doctor Who:
Visiting Paris, the Fourth Doctor and Second Romana stumble upon a complicated plot to steal the Mona Lisa -- by an alien who has six copies in his basement that have been bricked up since 1508, right after Leonardo da Vinci painted them. The alien plans on using them to bankroll a time machine that will get him back 400 million years, so he can prevent an explosion in the spacecraft that is carrying his entire species. The Doctor has to intervene, because that spacecraft's explosion is also what jump-started life on Earth.

Conclusion of the serial. As a bonus, watch for John Cleese and Eleanor Bron's uncredited cameo at 7:14; they appeared as a favor to their friend, script editor Douglas Adams

In History:
Perhaps the Doctor didn't need to worry quite so much; 400 million years ago, life on Earth was already well established. Life on Earth started about 3.5 billion years ago. That's just as well; our heroes would have found it very difficult to breathe if they had gone back to stop Scaroth just before the start of life -- it took more than a billion years just to establish an oxygen-based atmosphere. By 400 million years ago, there were already plants on land, and if our heroes had gone for a swim, they might have met one of these.

The King's Demons

On Doctor Who:
The Fifth Doctor, Degan, Nyssa, and Turlough arrive in England in 1215, where they encounter King John, busy harassing a minor lord in an attempt to extort taxes. But it can't be John; the king is in London taking the Crusader's Oath. This imposter king turns out to be a shape-shifting robot controlled by the Master, who intends to disrupt history by triggering a revolt against King John, preventing the Magna Carta from being signed.

The Doctor outlines the Master's plan

In History:
Actually, the Doctor has it pretty much backwards, and so does the Master -- it was the baron's revolt that forced King John to sign the Magna Carta. Only when it became apparent that he could not suppress the revolt with force of arms alone did King John consent to sign the decree, and he promptly renounced it once the barons left, plunging England into the First Baron's War. What's more, King John did end up dying during the war, of dysentery, an event which may actually have helped the Magna Carta; William Marshal, appointed protector of the nine-year-old King Henry III, used it as the basis of the new government in 1217. So rather than a baronial revolt preventing the Magna Carta, a baronial revolt was instrumental to its creation.


14th century copy of the Magna Carta

The Mark of the Rani

On Doctor Who:
The Sixth Doctor and Peri arrive in 1820s Killingworth, an English mining town, where previously gentle men have been turning into thugs embarking on Luddite riots. They meet the inventor George Stephenson, who is plotting a meeting of engineering geniuses, and who is working on a steam engine that he says could revolutionize transportation. The Doctor slyly tells him that his invention "will take off like a rocket," referencing an actual engine built by Stephenson in 1829.

The Doctor and Peri arrive in Killingworth

In History:
The real Stephenson probably would not have been keen to invite a group of engineering geniuses to a conference in the 1820s; in the 1810s, he'd been embroiled in a bitter intellectual property dispute because the intelligentsia didn't believe an uneducated man like him could have actually invented a safety lamp for miners. He understandably resented the attitude. And Stephenson didn't need to be told that steam power was the future; his first operational steam locomotive had already gone into service in 1814. While Stephenson indeed would go on to build the Rocket in 1829, it was important for a different reason: it won a speed race, and thereby the contract to build engines for the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, helping establish Stephenson's railway specifications as standards for the future.


The Rocket

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The Plucky Teenage Stowaway Aboard the First American Expedition to Antarctica
The Ohio State University Archives
The Ohio State University Archives

Documentary filmmaker and journalist Laurie Gwen Shapiro came across the name "William Gawronski" in 2013 while researching a story about Manhattan's St. Stanislaus, the oldest Polish Catholic church in the U.S. In 1930, more than 500 kids from the church had held a parade in honor of Billy Gawronski, who had just returned from two years aboard the first American expedition to Antarctica, helmed by naval officer Richard E. Byrd.

The teenager had joined the expedition in a most unusual way: by stowing aboard Byrd's ships the City of New York and the Eleanor Bolling not once, not twice, but four times total. He swam across the Hudson River to sneak onto the City of New York and hitchhiked all the way to Virginia to hide on the Eleanor Bolling.

"I thought, 'Wait, what?" Shapiro tells Mental Floss.

Intrigued by Billy's persistence and pluck, Shapiro dove into the public records and newspaper archives to learn more about him. She created an Excel spreadsheet of Gawronskis all along the East Coast and began cold-calling them.

"Imagine saying, 'Did you have an ancestor that jumped in the Hudson and stowed away to the Antarctic in 1928?'" Shapiro says. She got "a lot of hang-ups."

On the 19th call, to a Gawronski in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, an elderly woman with a Polish accent answered the phone. "That boy was my husband," Gizela Gawronski told her. Billy had died in 1981, leaving behind a treasure trove of mementos, including scrapbooks, notebooks, yearbooks, and hundreds of photos.

"I have everything," Gizela told Shapiro. "I was hoping someone would find me one day."

Three days later, Shapiro was in Maine poring over Billy's papers with Gizela, tears in her eyes.

These materials became the basis of Shapiro's new book The Stowaway: A Young Man's Extraordinary Adventure to Antarctica. It's a rollicking good read full of fascinating history and bold characters that takes readers from New York to Tahiti, New Zealand to Antarctica, and back to New York again. It's brimming with the snappy energy and open-minded optimism of the Jazz Age.

Shapiro spent six weeks in Antarctica herself to get a feel for Billy's experiences. "I wanted to reach the Ross Ice barrier like Billy did," she says.

Read on for an excerpt from chapter four.

***

As night dropped on September 15, Billy jumped out of his second-floor window and onto the garden, a fall softened by potatoes and cabbage plants and proudly photographed sunflowers. You would think that the boy had learned from his previous stowaway attempt to bring more food or a change of dry clothes. Not the case.

An overnight subway crossing into Brooklyn took him to the Tebo Yacht Basin in Gowanus. He made for the location he'd written down in his notes: Third Avenue and Twenty-Third Street.

In 1928 William Todd's Tebo Yacht Basin was a resting spot— the spot—for the yachts of the Atlantic seaboard's most aristocratic and prosperous residents. The swanky yard berthed more than fifty staggering prizes of the filthy rich. Railroad executive Cornelius Vanderbilt kept his yacht O-We-Ra here; John Vanneck, his Amphitrite. Here was also where to find Warrior, the largest private yacht afloat, owned by the wealthiest man in America, public utilities baron Harrison Williams; yeast king (and former mayor of Cincinnati) Julian Fleischman's $625,000 twin-screw diesel yacht, the Carmago; General Motors president Alfred P. Sloan's Rene; shoe scion H. W. Hanan's Dauntless; and J. P. Morgan's Corsair III. The Tebo Yacht Basin's clubroom served fish chowder luncheons to millionaires in leather-backed mission chairs.

Todd, a great friend of Byrd's, lavished attention on his super-connected pal with more contacts than dollars. He had provided major funding for Byrd's 1926 flight over the North Pole, and helped the commander locate and refit two of the four Antarctic expedition ships for $285,900, done at cost. Todd loved puffy articles about him as much as the next man, and press would help extract cash from the millionaires he actively pursued as new clients; helping out a famous friend might prove cheaper than the advertisements he placed in upmarket magazines. Throughout that summer, Byrd mentioned Todd's generous support frequently.

Two weeks after the City of New York set sail, the Chelsea, the supply ship of the expedition, was still docked at the Tebo workyard and not scheduled to depart until the middle of September. Smith's Dock Company in England had built the refurbished 170-foot, 800-ton iron freighter for the British Royal Navy at the tail end of the Great War. First christened patrol gunboat HMS Kilmarnock, her name was changed to the Chelsea during her post–Royal Navy rumrunning days.

Not long before she was scheduled to depart, Byrd announced via a press release that he was renaming this auxiliary ship, too, after his mother, Eleanor Bolling. But the name painted on the transom was Eleanor Boling, with one l—the painter's mistake. As distressing as this was (the name was his mother's, after all), Byrd felt a redo would be too expensive and a silly use of precious funds. Reporters and PR staff were simply instructed to always spell the name with two ls.

As Billy eyed the ship in dock days after his humiliation on board the New York, he realized here was another way to get to Antarctica. The old, rusty-sided cargo ship would likely be less guarded than the flagship had been.

As September dragged on, Billy, back in Bayside, stiffened his resolve. No one would think he'd try again! On September 15, once more he swam out during the night to board a vessel bound for Antarctica.

Since his visit two weeks prior, Billy had studied his news clippings and knew that the Bolling was captained by thirty-six-year-old Gustav L. Brown, who'd been promoted weeks earlier from first mate of the New York when Byrd added the fourth ship to his fleet. Billy liked what he read. According to those who sailed under Brown's command, this tall and slender veteran of the Great War was above all genteel, and far less crotchety than the New York's Captain Melville. Captain Brown's education went only as far as high school, and while he wasn't against college, he admired honest, down-to-earth workers. Like his colleague Captain Melville, Brown had begun a seafaring life at fourteen. He seemed just the sort of man to take a liking to a teenage stowaway with big dreams.

Alas, the crew of the second ship headed to Antarctica now knew to look for stowaways. In a less dramatic repeat of what had happened in Hoboken, an Eleanor Bolling seaman ousted Billy in the earliest hours of the morning. The kid had (unimaginatively) hidden for a second time in a locker under the lower forecastle filled with mops and bolts and plumbing supplies. The sailor brought him to Captain Brown, who was well named, as he was a man with a mass of brown hair and warm brown eyes. The kind captain smiled at Billy and praised the cheeky boy's gumption—his Swedish accent still heavy even though he'd made Philadelphia his home since 1920—yet Billy was escorted off to the dock and told to scram.

A few hours later, still under the cover of night, Billy stole back on board and was routed out a third time, again from the “paint locker.”

A third time? The Bolling's third in command, Lieutenant Harry Adams, took notes on the gutsy kid who had to be good material for the lucrative book he secretly hoped to pen. Most of the major players would score book deals after the expedition; the public was eager for adventure, or at least so publishers thought. The catch was that any deal had to be approved by Byrd: to expose any discord was to risk powerful support. Adams's book, Beyond the Barrier with Byrd: An Authentic Story of the Byrd Antarctic Exploring Expedition, was among the best: more character study than thriller, his grand sense of humor evident in his selection of anecdotes that the others deemed too lightweight to include.

Billy was not the only stowaway that September day. Also aboard was a girl Adams called Sunshine, the "darling of the expedition," a flirt who offered to anyone who asked that she wanted to be the first lady in Antarctica. (In the restless era between world wars, when movies gave everyone big dreams, even girl stowaways were not uncommon.) Brown told a reporter that Sunshine had less noble aspirations, and soon she, too, was removed from the Bolling, but not before she gave each crew member a theatrical kiss.

As the early sun rose, Captain Brown called Billy over to him from the yacht yard's holding area where he had been asked to wait with the giggling Sunshine until his father arrived. The captain admired Billy's gumption, but it was time for the seventeen-year-old to go now and not waste any more of anyone's time.

As Lieutenant Adams recorded later, "Perhaps this matter of getting rid of Bill was entered up in the Eleanor Bolling log as the first scientific achievement of the Byrd Antarctic expedition."

*** 

From THE STOWAWAY: A Young Man's Extraordinary Adventure to Antarctica by Laurie Gwen Shapiro. Copyright © 2018 by Laurie Gwen Shapiro. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Art
Art Lovers in England, Rejoice: France's Famous Bayeux Tapestry is Coming to the UK
Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

One of France’s most prized national treasures, the Bayeux Tapestry, is officially heading to England for exhibition. The loan will mark the first time the fragile 11th century work has left France in nearly 1000 years, according to The Washington Post.

French president Emmanuel Macron announced news of the loan in mid-January, viewed by some as a gesture to smooth post-Brexit relations with Britain, ABC reports. The tapestry depicts the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, a historically important event replete with guts and glory.

Stretching for 210 feet, the Bayeux Tapestry’s nine embroidered panels tell the tale of Harold, Earl of Wessex, who swore an oath to support the right of William, Duke of Normandy, to the English throne once King Edward (a.k.a. Edward the Confessor) died without an heir. But after Edward's funeral at Westminster Abbey, Harold breaks his oath to William so he could be crowned king instead. Believing he was the rightful ruler, William—today remembered as William the Conqueror—decides to wage war and ultimately defeats Harold at the Battle of Hastings.

The historical narrative has endured for centuries, but the tapestry's provenance has been lost to time. Experts think that the artwork may have been created in England, shortly after the Battle of Hastings, although it’s unclear who designed and embroidered the scenes. Its original owner, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, the half-brother of William the Conqueror, may have commissioned the Bayeux Tapestry. He became Earl of Kent after the Battle of Hastings, and this new title would have afforded him access to skilled artisans, The Guardian explains.

The Bayeux Tapestry is currently on display in the town of Bayeux in Normandy. It likely won’t leave France until 2020, after conservators ensure that it’s safe to move the artwork. According to The Telegraph, the tapestry might be be displayed at the British Museum in 2022.

[h/t The Washington Post]

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