A thousand ways to talk, and only one correct

One of the peculiarities of the way Burnished Rows of Steel is written is that it is distinctly not easy to understand. Beyond the way that many posts are labelled by month rather than by day, there are also numerous cases where what is presumably supposed to be important scene-setting data is rendered in dialogue between characters.
But by far the most annoying is the phonetic accents. Presented below are some examples of the accents used.








The Prinz Albert
A minor one, but one which is especially odd because of the way we are told in the same paragraph that the enunciation is impeccable.

“– No pride!” the elder barked in impeccably enunciated English, with just the hint of a Continental accent. “You haff simply and horribly not one particle of pride.” The angrier he got, the more amused the younger officer became.

Le Frenchman
As should be expected of someone from Canada, Private Calixa Lavallée is barely comprehensible in English.

“Zir, Privat Lavallée reportin’ as order’…zir,” he said to Kent, before acknowledging the second officer. “Commandant – uh, mazor.”

Oddly, the degree of the accent of his fellow Frenchman, a major, goes back and forth.

“Capitaine, is it not customary in zis regiment to ask a senior officer if he has any additional requests?” the major said, with a hint of an accent only slightly akin to that of Lavallée.

…
“Lavallée, come with me. I am Major Duffié, of the 2nd New York Cavalry, currently on special service with the 55th New York. Tell me, Lavallée, do you love America? And do you love Quebec?”


...

“Interesante… étrangère, indeed. Lavallée, would you be interested in doing something more exciting in this war than playing the trumpet?” the major asked. “Are you ready to do something more exciteen’ than playin’ the trumpet?”

Maybe this operates on Allo allo rules and they were always speaking French.






De Erikshon



Barely comprehensible. Odd for someone who's been living in England or America for over thirty years.

“Vell, she is going to empress and admonis’ those who ‘tink der only vay to build an ironclad steam batt-ree is by spending three-and-a-half millions on vat amounts ta’ a ship of the line,” the Swede, Captain John Ericsson, artillery officer and naval architect, half-visionary and half entrepreneur and all gadfly, said emphatically.

“Dey vill be monitoring us closely, von’t dey? Ufter all, dere’s an English varship, von of der vuddin valls, in New York Bay today, as we speak…sauce for the gunder, eh? I ‘tink we shud propose to call her the Monitor. Give her a special name, eh, Mister Focks?...she’s der furst of her type, after all. She deserves a name wort’ bein’ remember…”

Ze Oirish-French combination



This does not contribute well to the understandability of the scene.

“Bloody ‘ell, these woods are thick, and these damn shoes are too…” the Irishman said, his breath turning white in the cold. “And Jay-zuz, ‘tis cold…colder than Mayo…”
“Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver, Irish … ze woodz are not az tick az you are; learn to walk an’ talk quietly, or de arr-cees will git you, afore you can take off the red and put on za bleu,” hissed the man leading the procession, dressed in the thick white overcoat and toque of the Quebecois. “I tink we are over za bohder, though…”
“I’m no bleedin’ red coat, Frenchy,” the Irishman said, lowering his voice as he floundered in the snow. “No `damn bloody coats of bloody red’… we’re riflemeh-”
“Shut up, Mick,” the third in line said, helping the fallen man back to his feet, and knocking some snow off his comrade’s grey greatcoat. The rescuer, too, wore a greatcoat; underneath, both men wore green, almost black, tunics.
“Our friend Felix ‘ere is jus’ trying ta’ ern ‘is pay, right, Felix? And as soon as ‘e and ‘is friends deliver us to the Yahnks, back ‘e goes ta’ cuddle wit’ Madame Poutray, right, Felix?” the second Irishman said. “But where is that damn blockhouse, enny way?”
...
“Hey, there is it – Amerikay! ... the land where no man has to bow,” the clumsy man said, almost singing. “Paddy, we made it…”

(Irishmen named Mick and Paddy. Presumably it's the classics.)









The Johnny Reb
The only clue that these men are Confederates at all is how they talk about money in the bank. Their near-perfect accents early on suggest that they're actually British secret agents.

“You wasted a ball, Tom,” the older of the two, with a flamboyant mustache and goatee, said. “I had both of mine picked out…”
“I didn’t think you were going to take the Frenchman, at first; didn’t want him to spill,” the younger man said, unslinging an Enfield rifle and dropping to one knee. “Once a crimp, always a crimp…he’d sell us out, sure.”
“Oh, he would have…one betrayal begets another,” the older man said, as he unslung his rifle and took the same position.
...
“Pick out any of ‘em you see with bit of braid, and drop ‘im,” the older man instructed his comrade. “Then we head north up the Richelieu, cross over, and head for the railroad. We can travel in style from St. John’s through Mount Royal to Kaybeck city and lay low…”
“I hear there’s a particularly ripe low town there; not quite the high yallers in Under-the-Hill, down in Natchez, but we should be able to find ourselves some fine Frenchie girl companionship and thaw out,” the younger man said, breathing in slightly as he sighted down the rifle’s barrel. “Especially with all that money still in the bank in Montreal … once the ice breaks and the river opens up, mebbe’ even take ship for Europe, huh, John?”

Funny how they can pronounce “Richelieu” but have trouble with “Quebec”.






I omit the accent of de Tobriand. It's mostly just “ze” instead of “the”, though intermittently – and the odd French phrase. Tobriand has lived in the Americas for three decades at this point.






The Aristocwat (wot wot?)
There are a number of people in a meeting in Quebec. The accents are terrible – the French-Canadian Tache is understandably French, but the drawl of Monck makes it nearly incomprehensible. It's like a cartoon.

“Sir Awwan, I do not beweeve we need to begin acting wike the Lord Protector in Ireland, or the Scottish clearances,” Monck drawled out, deliberately. “Or, for that matter, as General Wethewall did during the troubles in ’37… one waw at a time, after aw, gentlemen.”
...
“Sir Etienne, you know I cahn cawl out the fwank companies for theiw annual duty; Sir Awwan assuwes me that will bring thousands of your mehn to the cowors,” the Viscount drawled. “And given youw own wecord in the wast waw, I am vewwy suwpwised to hear such pessimism…”
...
“Oh, yes, quite well said, sir; dweadfuwwy sowwy if you saw it any other way,” the viscount said simply, and then quite gracefully changed the subject. “Ah, Genewal Williams, ‘pwaps you could weview our cuwwent militawy situation, in wight of the additional weinfowcements from Bwitain … I know you have meht with Cowonel Wowsewey; how will the second contingent be used in connection with the troops aweady hwew in Canada, and General Doyle’s in the Nova Scotia Command?”
...
“Ah, thank you, cowonew … Awthough we are confident there wiww be more twoops from Bwitain, cowonew, the facts aw we can and wiww defend the cowonies with the forces here today, cowwect, Genewaw Williams?” Monck drawled. “Although some assistance from the patwiots of Bwitish Nowth Amewica would be helpful, would it not, cowonew Wowsewey?”

There are no words. Well, 'uttewwy widicuwous', perhaps?






The True American




Trick question. Americans speak normally.