Fighting Byng: A Novel of Mystery, Intrigue and Adventure — Story, Setting & Ideas

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In Category - Mystery Collections

Authors: Stone, A., Bird, Leslie Pern [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2012 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Fiction; Detective and mystery stories Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 60,881

Reading time 265 min

Text sections 6

This digital edition of Fighting Byng: A Novel of Mystery, Intrigue and Adventure — Story, Setting & Ideas is described by source-level measurements including 60,881 words, 4 hr 25 min estimated reading time, and 6 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 16.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #40821

A surveyor's first-person account of Howard Byng, a wild Georgia character, leads into a mystery involving a German submarine, a sunken boat, and a girl's desperate underwater rescue. The narrative shifts from comic chaos to tense maritime action.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
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Edition quality

File: pg40821

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Things looked squally as I scrambled away from the kicking mule and I eyed his master somewhat ruefully. It was then that I noticed a sign of mental bigness in the youngster. I also noted that he was much larger physically, and more husky than I had first thought him to be. Even after his long run he wasn't winded, his ample chest accounting for that. He wasn't mad, either, but very much excited. Experience had taught me that a man with his kind of nose seldom gets mad--just fierce. With a litheness and strength surprising he threw up the edge of the tent, dived into the wreck and literally dragged "Jeff Davis" out, continuing meanwhile his complimentary remarks about the perverseness of all mules and "Jeff" in particular.

On four feet again the maddened mule, still feeling himself to be the injured party, kicked viciously with both hind feet at his owner, then started straight across our wrecked home at break-neck speed down the faded cart track.

"Did you-all ever see such a damn mule?" This question was addressed particularly to me. Even in the excitement the youngster shrewdly discerned that I was in charge. "Let him go; he'll stop. A mule won't go far after you doan want him," he added. Then, for the first time, he noticed how unpopular he was with my husky, malarious eight.

The fellow interested me not a little. I smiled encouragingly, but my main thought was to get the tent in place and a new breakfast cooked so we could get to work.

"I ain't 'sponsible for that there mule, suh, but I reckon I'm goin' to help you-all put the tent back," he said to me in kindly tone of voice. But getting the side remarks of the disgusted men, and especially our big "axe-man," and the cook, who saw more than double work ahead, Byng's eyes opened wide.

"You kaint help a mule running away. It's bawn in 'em. Anyhow, it won't take long to git the tent up again." He eyed me expectantly and my sympathy went out to him. "I'll do it myself," he added affably.

"Of course it isn't your fault," I replied. "A mule is a mule; that is why he is called by that name."

For a moment I thought the matter would get by amicably, but another flood of profanity from big Jake and aimed directly at the Georgia Cracker brought the tension to the breaking point.

In the code of the turpentine woods it is perfectly proper to swear at a mule no matter who owns it, and a mule expects to be "cussed." But to include the owner, or driver, is an insult that calls for trouble.

Instantly the young stranger stopped his work and stepped back a few paces. There he listened carefully to all that was said, and as long as he could stand it, his steel gray eyes taking on a fire that I well understood. But my men from the North did not grasp the situation. In a voice not so very loud, but plain enough to be heard by all, the Cracker, in a wonderful Southern drawl, began to say something.

"I reckon I kain't fight you-all all at once, but I'll take you-all one at a time and whup the whole bunch of yer." He then glanced over toward me as though expecting a square deal. I gave him a kindly twinkle of encouragement, but his challenge had the effect of quieting matters for a brief period. Then big Jake, who seemed to be in a particularly bad humor, began to snort and swear again.

Jake had long since elected himself boss bruiser of the party, and without contest. We had been in the Dismal Swamp so long and eaten so much quinine that if he had said he was the devil himself, or any other bandit, all hands would have assented. Now they looked to Jake to prove his claims as a bad man.

Jake, thoroughly confident, quit work and swaggered over toward the Cracker. He still gave vent to most insulting tirades. I felt somehow that Jake was recklessly going against an unknown quantity, but I said nothing. If he was well licked once it might make him a better camp fellow.

Jake rushed at Byng bellowing like the king bull of a herd, but the Cracker boy stood his ground with chin slightly elevated, his jaws set until a knob showed on the lower angle.

"Yer crazy mule breaks up our camp and spoils our breakfast and now yer want to fight--is dat it?" Jake sneered, his words in purest "hobo."

The Cracker boy glanced at me and seemingly understood how I felt. Nevertheless, he watched Jake with eyes strangely fierce.

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The novel opens with a memorable first impression: the narrator describes Howard Byng as a cross between a Wild Man of Borneo and a pirate, dragged through a turpentine forest by a runaway mule. The scene is pure comic chaos—a tent wrecked, breakfast destroyed, and the narrator's survey gang, fresh from the Dismal Swamp and full of quinine and peevishness, caught in the middle. The language is vivid and colloquial, with Byng's Georgia Cracker profanity treated almost as a performance art. Yet this rough introduction gives way to a more serious adventure, as the story shifts from the Georgia woods to the sea, where Byng's daughter displays a fierce determination that transforms her from a delicate child into a raging woman. The structure moves from land-based misadventure to maritime peril, with the narrator's voice anchoring both halves.

From Mule Wreck to Submarine Chase

The book's structure hinges on a sharp geographic and tonal shift. The first chapter is rooted in a Georgia turpentine camp, where the narrator's surveying gang is introduced to Howard Byng through a mule-driven disaster. The prose is earthy and humorous, full of physical comedy and regional dialect. By contrast, later excerpts place the reader on a boat off the coast, facing a German submarine—the Boche boat—that fires on a vessel called the Sprite. The transition is abrupt, and the narrator offers no explanation for how the setting changed. This leap suggests the novel may be episodic, moving from one adventure to another without bridging material. The narrator's voice remains consistent, but the stakes escalate from property damage to life-threatening violence.

Recurring Images of Wildness and Determination

Two images recur across the excerpts: the wild man and the determined woman. Byng is first described as a wild man, hatless and barefoot, his profanity likened to a hurricane. Later, his daughter undergoes a transformation that the narrator calls “sublime” and “terrible”—her face changes to that of a “raging woman of fearful determination.” The same wildness that characterized Byng's entrance reappears in his daughter's eyes as she prepares to dive underwater to rescue her father. The narrator explicitly compares her to a “maddened woman,” and the language of savagery and fierceness links father and daughter. This parallel suggests that the novel uses physical wildness as a marker of inner strength, though the excerpts do not reveal whether this trait is inherited or learned.

Movement Between Land and Sea

The narrative moves not only in setting but in the physical elements of land and water. The opening takes place on solid ground—a camp in a turpentine forest—but the action quickly becomes aquatic. The later scenes are dominated by boats, diving, and underwater rescue. The daughter disappears “over the side as smoothly as a seal” and later goes to the bottom of the sea guided by a down line. The narrator, a surveyor accustomed to mapping land, is now an observer of maritime warfare. This shift from terrestrial to marine environments may reflect a broader theme of displacement or adaptation, but the excerpts offer no explanation for the change. The reader is left to infer that the novel's mystery and intrigue are tied to the sea, while its adventure begins on land.

The Narrator's Limited Perspective

The story is told in first person by a surveyor who is often a passive witness. He describes Byng's entrance, the mule wreck, and the submarine attack, but he rarely acts. During the climax, he holds the boat steady while the daughter takes charge, and he admits to trying to “shrink up to invisibility” when confronted by the enemy. His observations are detailed—he notes the bandaged hand of the German leader, the double insulated wire, the battery—but he does not explain the technology or the plan. This limited perspective keeps the reader in suspense, as the narrator himself does not fully understand what is happening. The effect is a mystery that unfolds through the eyes of an outsider, which may be a deliberate structural choice to heighten tension.

Readers should pay attention to the narrator's role as an observer rather than a hero. His descriptions of Byng and his daughter are filtered through his own surprise and admiration, which may color the portrayal. The abrupt shift from Georgia to the sea is unexplained in the excerpts, so the full novel likely contains bridging material that clarifies the connection. The recurring image of wildness—in both father and daughter—suggests a thematic link worth tracking. Finally, the technical details of the submarine attack and the underwater rescue are presented without explanation, leaving the reader to piece together the mechanics of the plot.

There's a moment in Fighting Byng where the chaos of that Georgia riverbank gives way to something colder and deeper—the submarine’s shadow, the girl’s stillness under water. It stayed with me longer than the adventure did. That quiet weight beneath the fun is what I also felt tracing the darker currents in The double dagger — Background and Themes. Funny how those echoes linger.