Archive for December, 2009

I suspect we are all reflecting on the past year.  World events alone were enough to cause us pause – mostly involving that unmentionable word ‘Terrorism,’  which is likely being called something politically correct like ‘man-generated acts of random violence perpetrated in the name of a group or cause’  -  or in government-ease MAGARVIPNGC (I sometimes fear the inmates are finally running the asylum.) We also lost a few really good folks in 2009, like Andrew Wyeth, artist, J.G. Ballard, novelist, and Jack Cardiff, cinematographer and director.

I suspect many of us are reflecting on what it is we, personally, accomplished this past year.  Mine was unusually fruitful, if not overly ambitious.  In January/February my wife and I (and our dog, Robbie) traveled to Taos, New Mexico, to a wonderful rented hacienda, where I found the quiet and inspiration to write my latest novel, The Gettysburg Conspiracy.  I then spent the next months rewriting it until I’d hammered it into something I wanted to publish – writing is rewriting!

For the last half of 2009, I actually succeeded in publishing this novel, and bringing another five-year project to a close by successfully publishing a photographic compilation of surviving Crimean War artifacts – Crimean Memories: Artefacts of the Crimean War.  They are both on the street now, and I will spend much of 2010 promoting them.

What did I learn this past year?  I learned that writing one, and publishing two books in the same year, although rewarding, is not something I will likely do again.  I am beginning to meet myself coming and going.  I am supposed to be retired from two careers – the military and Federal law enforcement.  I think I can say with full confidence that I have officially flunked ‘retirement.’

The other thing I learned this past year is how much I love and need my family (That would be Rosemary, Robbie, our dog, and Lummy and Sunny, our horses).  My family have a lot to put up with in me.  I am eternally thankful for their forbearance and support.

I know that the coming year will be awesome, and would like to wish anyone reading this … and I hope someone is … the happiest of new years, filled with the richness of love, friendships, and peace.

Taos hacienda - New Mexico

My family - minus the equine branch

I can’t speak for others who write historical fiction, but I have developed a philosophy in plot and characters.  I personally do not want to distort history, even in a novel.  As a historian, I believe that to be a disservice to history and to the reader.

Flying under the radar means to me that you try diligently not to change any major part of history by remaining below the flow of recorded events and characters.  This is especially difficult when some of your characters are real historical figures, and you are giving them life and dialogue.  It is, however, possible if you remain steadfast to that historic flow.

I try to create a group of fictional characters who carry the story as heros, villlians, or participants in the action, then I weave them in with real people of the time.  The story takes place at a level beneath the actual historical line, the radar if you will.  Ian Carlyle, for instance, isn’t a general or a major politician.  He’s a company commander or staff officer (First book in Ian Carlyle Series, Follow Me to Glory), a British observer on McClellan’s staff, or a military liaison officer at the British legation (Second book in the series, The Gettysburg Conspiracy)  - all minor positions in the big historical picture.

Latest Release by Will Hutchison

The Gettysburg Conspiracy is a perfect example of my point.  It is a story about a fictitious assassination attempt on Abraham Lincoln.  We know there were such threats and attempts.  The story is thus plausible.  We know he had terrible security in Washington and when he traveled.  We know he went to Gettysburg for the address.  We know his bodyguard, Ward Hill Lamon, was concerned for his safety in Gettysburg.  Thus, the story is even more plausible.

Could it have happened?  We know it fails, but how does it fail?  How does the hero foil the plot?  Who are the bad guys?  What will happen to them?

Someone much better at this than me once said something like -”fiction is drama, and drama is conflict.”  Even if you know the end, you can create drama within the tale.  After all, in most crime dramas, the bad guy inevitably gets caught.  We all know that.  The questions are who is he, how does he get caught, who catches him, and am I, the reader, invested in the characters – both good guys and bad guys.  In historical fiction you can add more questions:  Is the story historically believable?  Could it have happened?  Is the background and setting authentic and plausible?  Is the dialogue real for the historic period?

Some time as Lincoln rode back to DC from Gettysburg by train, Ward Hill Lamon might have quietly whispered to him, “Say, Abe, there was an attempt to assassinate you back there in Gettysburg.  Not to worry, we took care of it.”  Lincoln might nod his head and resume looking out the train window as it rolled east toward Washington.  Thus, below the radar of history … a minor footnote at best, yet a good story when you’re hip deep in the middle of it.

Map of Site of Gettysburg Address as drawn by the conspirators - Map by Curt Musselman

Ian Carlyle, surrounded by scenes from The Gettysburg Conspiracy - Sketch by Peter Culos

The real Bob. He can be seen at the National War Museum-Scotland, at Edinburgh Castle

Sticks survived the Crimean War, and came home a hero in his own right.  His comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards even fashioned a medal for him.  As they made their grand victory march through the London streets, past their beloved Queen Victoria, Sticks led the regiment.

His heroic deeds in the Crimea were legend.  He even disappeared for weeks from the frozen trenches before Sevastopol.  He returned wearing a Russian religious medal around his neck.  The Sergeant Major winked, and said, “Guess the damned Ruskies know a good dog when they see one, aye.  Glad ta hav ye back laddie.”

Private Gorman also survived the war.  He left the Scots Fusilier Guards a few years later, but Sticks chose to remain.  He had found a home, indeed a calling.  Sean knew it as well.  Sticks didn’t belong to him.  He belonged to the Scots Fusilier Guards, and still does – in memory.

———————————————————————————

Yes, there was a real Sticks, but his name was “Bob.”  He did belong to a butcher, but may well have chosen the life of a soldier, rather than having been rescued by one, as in my fictional tale.  He fought in many of the battles in the Crimean War beside his comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards, and survivied the war.

He even survived the freezing trenches of that first winter of 1854.  His mates did fashion a medal for him, and a collar of white belt leather, festooned with regimental buttons.

Unfortunately, the irony of fate caught up to Bob.  On a cold February morning in 1860, he was marching through London in his usual place at the head of the Scots Fusilier Guards.  Outside Buckingham Palace he was run over by a butcher’s cart and died as a result of the accident.

Much mourned, his spirit lives on, even today.  You see his friends just couldn’t let him go.  They had him preserved, and he can be seen by all of you – sitting tall, still on guard duty, at the National War Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh Castle.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my tale about Sticks as much as I’ve enjoyed spinning it for you.

In memory of Bob … a warrior.

There were many dogs with the British in the Crimea, including this one with officers of the 57th Regiment of Foot.

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, based on a very real story]

The war had begun.  Britain and France, unlikely bedfellows, were joined, with the help of Sardinia, against Russia – ostensibly to protect “poor, invaded, Turkey.”  As the 1st Battalion, Scots Fusilier Guards marched to the ships, they were led by a proud, prancing Sticks, his black and brown coat shining in the sun.

The marching troops passed by the amazed butcher along the way.  Private Gorman, marching near the head of the column, noticed Sticks’ back stiffen, his head tilt slightly higher, and he could have sworn he heard Sticks sniff loudly as he marched past his former master.

The sea journey was uneventful, except in choppy waters – Sticks being one of the few who did not tear his insides out retching over the rail.  Varna, along the western coast of the Black Sea was the army’s staging area.  It was also where cholera hit the British and French forces – hard – sometimes killing a hundred men in a day.  Sticks watched over his brothers in arms, adding joy to the last few moments of their lives when the sickness consumed them.  He was saddened by the losses, which cut his new friends down within hours of showing the first signs of illness.

“I think I have it, Sticks, heaven help me,” Sean Gorman pronounced one morning, when a grey pallor appeared on his face.  Sticks whined, remained with his friend … but he seemed to know that Sean would not succumb … or perhaps he willed it.  By the third day, it was determined that Sean had serious diarrhea, but not the cholera.  In time he recovered and was back with the regiment.

The real Sticks, whose name was actually "Bob" - This wonderful sketch is courtesy of an unknown artist

The regiment finally moved across the Black Sea to the Crimea, and a confrontation with the Russians.  Sticks first saw action at the Alma River, where the Scots Fusilier Guards were in the thick of a frontal assault on a Russian position fortified with cannon.  While they waited to assault, solid shot and shell rained down upon them perilously.

“What the divil is he aboot, Private Gorman?” asked the Sergeant Major, looking behind his line of soldiers, who were hugging the ground as close as possible.  He was watching Sticks cavorting about the field to their rear like he was playing with toy balls on a London green.

“He’s…he’s chasin’ after them cannon balls, Sar’nt Major.  He’s been doin’ it fer the longest time.”  They had been under intense cannon fire for over an hour.  The men’s nerves were frayed, stretched to the limit.  Watching this tiny dog scampering about was giving them a calming hope of survival.

“Ach, he is a charmer, that one,” said the Sergeant Major, laughing.  “You lads take heed now,” he bellowed.  “If the wee Sticks can stand this hell, then I’m damned sure we kin stand it.”  There were shouts of “Aye, that’s the God’s truth!” and “Charge on, Sticks, lad!”

The attack soon began in earnest.  First they crossed the Alma … where Sticks found he could swim, and Private Gorman went flat on his face in the water.  As the regiment moved up a gradual slope toward the enemy, men began to fall from the ranks.

Sticks would run to each, sniffing, prodding.  If the man lay still, he’d go on to the next.  If the man moved, he’d bark loudly until other soldiers or one of the bandmen, who were used to carry wounded to the rear, came up to aid the fallen man.  Sticks was utterly fearless and relentless. There were times when he ran so fast he outstretched the moving line of guardsmen, and had to be called back – bullets kicking up ground around him.

An officer went down, hit once in the leg.  It was the young lieutenant who had been Officer of the Day when Sean found Sticks in the snow. The ground where he lay was exposed except for a pile of rocks nearby.  The officer was hit again in the arm while lying on the ground. Sticks ran to his side and began dancing around, barking.  Sean heard the bark and recognized the wounded officer.  He moved quickly, grabbing the officer by his shoulder belt and coatee collar, dragging him behind the rocks.

“Good work, Sticks, lad,” he said, “but ya better bide here behind these rocks.  It’s no a safe place out there.”

Two bandsmen with an improvised stretcher came up.  Sean ran on to catch the regimental line moving ever closer to the Russians.  He looked back over his shoulder. “Stay – boy!  Stay!”

There was, of course, little or no chance of Sticks “staying.”

[The Conclusion, Part VI, will be along tomorrow with more of the real story behind the fictional tale.]

{Photograph at top taken by Roger Fenton}

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, but based on a very real story.]

The butcher’s nose was broken in two places from the Sergeant Major’s blow.  After weeks in hospital, an indignant butcher appeared before the Scots Fusilier Guards Adjutant, demanding compensation and punishment for his assailants.  The Sergeant Major had already spoken to the Adjutant.  Sticks was already becoming a beloved mascot to the regiment, and indeed the entire Guards Brigade. He had taken to soldiering like it was a family tradition.

“Compensation and punishment yer askin’, is it?” the Adjutant inquired, politely.

The smug butcher nodded, saying, “It’s only right, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, my man, and so you shall have it.” The butcher smiled, thinking he had won some great prize.

The Adjutant called in his clerk, then said to the butcher.  “Aye, well, sir, here it is.  The compensation will be that I don’t throw you behind bars, and the punishment will be that your contract with this barracks to supply beef has been cancelled.  Yer never ta come back ta this barracks again.  Yer dog’s a wee bit healthier now.  If yer seen here again, I’ll set the dog on ya and let ‘im chew ta his heart’s content.  Och, now, da ya kin that, sir?  Was I clear enough for ya?”

The butcher stood in shocked silence.  The Adjutant ordered, “Take this poor excuse for a man ta the gate, and boot him out.” The clerk dragged the bewildered butcher away.

Over the next months Sticks became stronger and more relaxed in the company of the men of the Scots Fusilier Guards.  He endeared himself to one and all.  He was fed and cared for primarily by Sean Gorman, and occasionally the Sergeant Major, but he visited the other soldiers at their toil each day, making them smile.  Each one felt he owned a small part of the dog named Sticks.  He didn’t belong to one; he belonged to everyone.

Sticks even learned to stand tall at formations, proudly viewing all his friends in their strange high bearskin caps as they prepared for the day’s guard duties.  He was ever punctual and always first on parade.  The rest of his time he spent prancing about Wellington Barracks like he owned it, which in a special way, he did.

[Part V, where Sticks goes to the Crimean War, will be along tomorrow.  Stay tuned.]

[This is a fictional tale, written by Will Hutchison, but based on a very real story.]

The Sergeant Major of the Scots Fusilier Guards became involved in the tale the very next day.  Alerted by the young lieutenant, he told Private Sean Gorman that he must search for the owner of Sticks, as he was now known, and return the dog if he could.  Word of the canine foundling spread like spilled wine across the Guards Brigade, and, unfortunately the tiny dog was recognized.  He belonged to a butcher, whose shop on Petty France Street provided beef to the barracks under contract.

A reluctant Private Gorman appeared at the butcher shop the next day, accompanied by the Scots Fusilier Guards Sergeant Major, who had taken a personal interest in the scruffy little creature.  The butcher, a huge, rotund, surly fellow with a jowly face and long scraggly black hair, was anything but glad to see his charge.

“So there be the little bastard,” he snarled as they entered the shop.  He grabbed the now shivering Sticks from Sean and abruptly threw him in a corner.

Sticks yelped and cowered as he watched both Sean and the Sergeant Major become very agitated.  The butcher said, “Ya shoulda left the pisser freeze out there.  More trouble than he’s worth. Caught ‘im eat’n beef I’d just cut. Kicked ‘im right out the door, I did.”

Sean’s face was turning red. He clenched and reclenched his fists.  The Sergeant Major laid a hand on Sean’s shoulder, stepped in, and said, quietly, “Perhaps he was hungry, da ya think?”

“Hungry, my achin’ arse.  He don’t deserve ta eat.  Plenty of rats around here for ‘im ta catch if he’s a mind.  Earn ‘is keep then, he would … earn ‘is keep.”

“Do I ‘ave this right, then?” the Sergeant Major asked.  “Ya kicked this dog out in the snow, on the worse night I kin recall in London, because he ate a few scraps a beef?”

“He’s my dog, I ‘ave the right, I do.  So bugger off.”  Sean lunged at the wide-eyed butcher, who was three times his size.  The Sergeant Major grabbed him by his collar.  Sean struggled a bit, but calmed down quickly.

The butcher had stepped back, picking up a cleaver, fear showing in his eyes until he saw the boy restrained.  He must have thought the Sergeant Major, a big man himself, was on his side.  “My dog … I’ve the right.  I’ll kill the little bastard if I want.”  He turned toward Sticks and raised the cleaver – a grave mistake.

The Sergeant Major let go of Sean, and grabbed the butcher by his unkempt hair.  In an even quieter voice the Sergeant Major said, “I donna think so, my fat friend.” He didn’t have to pull hard to take the man off balance and down on the floor of the shop.

He butcher wasn’t through yet.  He slowly rose, dazed, but determined, cleaver still in hand.  The Sergeant Major easily swatted the knife aside, and struck the man full in the nose with a blow that jarred the whole room.  The butcher’s eyes glazed over and he went down – for good this time.

The Sergeant Major turned his back to the fallen butcher and walked out of the shop.  As he reached the door, he said, simply,  “Pick up yer new dog, Private Gorman, and see he’s taken good care of.”

[Part IV will be along tomorrow.  Stay tuned.]

[This is a fictional tale by your humble servant, but based on a very real story.]

As Private Sean Gorman, Scots Fusilier Guards, leaned down and brushed the snow away from the mound, he saw two large eyes staring back at him from around a snowy, hairy face.  It was a tiny terrier, with a pug nose, not much bigger than a puppy, shivering in a pathetic bundle with sticks for legs popping out of the wet fur.  Now Sean recognized the cries for what they were, although he’d have sworn they were a baby.  He dropped to one knee, letting his musket fall in the snow.

“There, there, now me wee friend, who’d leave ya out here ta freeze like this?  Tak it easy wee one, you’ve a friend in me.”  He scooped up the small dog up in his arms, cradling it close for warmth. The dog seemed to know he was safe … looked up at Sean, then placed his head on the red coatee and feebly wagged his tail.

Sean was wrapped in thought, trying to figure something out.  ”That’s what I’ll call ya … ‘Sticks,’ fer yer legs are mere twigs, yer that fragile.”

“What’s all this, then!”  shouted the voice behind Sean, who turned quickly and saw with horror it was the Corporal of the Guard.  “Ye’ave left yer post Private Gorman.  Where’s yer damned weapon, Private Gorman?  Yer in deep trouble now, Private Gorman.”

Walking up to them out of the blizzard was a young officer, the Officer of the Day.

Sean was still holding the small dog, his weapon buried in the snow.  He was had, all right, well and truly.  Caught out and done in.  He turned to the corporal, stammered, “Corporal, I, I, I,” then turned toward the officer, said, “Well sir, I …”

“Have ye nothin’ ta say fer yerself, Gorman, nothin’ ta say,” bellowed the corporal.  Sean hung his head, but he refused to let go of the dog, who was just beginning to stop shivering.

“I’ll sort this out, sir,” the corporal said to the young officer.  “I’ll have this man relieved at once and on charges, quick as ya like.”

He turned back to Sean, “Now get rid of that damned mutt and pick up yer musket.”

The officer spoke for the first time.  “Yes, corporal, you do that. You have this man relieved at once, but he’ll be coming along with me.”  He said to Sean, “Pick up you’re weapon, lad, and come along.  Handle that poor dog with care as you go, he looks in need of some warmth.”

“But, sir,” the corporal said, in dismay, “this man left ‘is post!”

“Didn’t you hear the cries, corporal?  You might want to clean out those ears if you didn’t.  I heard them.  Was on my way out to investigate myself.”

“Yes, sir, but …”

“There are no but’s, corporal.  Understand me?  This could have been an attack on the castle gate.  What better time than Christmas eve.  Royal family could have been in grave danger.  The man did credit to the regiment.  I see it that it was the sentry’s duty to investigate.  You call for a relief to cover this post.  In the mean time, you cover it if you have to.”

“Aye, sir.”  The corporal was at attention now.  Sean, in amazement, retrieved his musket and hurried after the officer.

As the officer left he shouted over his shoulder, “Be thankful I don’t bring you on charges for not seeing a possible danger, corporal.”

The dog gave what sounded like a muted snuffing sound at the frustrated corporal, and snuggled closer in Sean’s arms.  The young officer was smiling.

[Part III in the continuing adventures of “Sticks” will be along tomorrow.]

[This is a fictional tale by your humble servant, but based on a very real story.]

Although a more modern Scots Guards sentry, it gives the idea of the loneliness of the post - Courtesy of the Scots Guards Appreciation Society

Private Sean Gorman, Scots Fusilier Guards, had been on duty at the castle gate guarding the Royal Family for hours.  His frail, slender frame was cold, wet, and covered in snow, from his tall bearskin cap to his shiny black brogans.  His bright red coatee was a barely visible pinkish colour under the layer of white fluff.  He stood at a rigid attention, staring straight ahead, waiting … waiting … waiting for his relief.  Guard duty, he thought in disgust, on Christmas eve, 1853, I’ve no luck at all.

The monotony was mind-numbing, but he had learned to steel himself.  His brain raced from one thought to the next, but his physical being was rock hard and unmoving. Och, what in hell was that, he thought, listening to a distant crying.  A wee bairn, a baby … it sounds like a baby. Out there in front a the gate, in the snow.  Och, no.  It must be with its mum.  Just walkin’ past, hurrying to the warmth and crackle of a bloody great fire.

There it was again.  The high-pitched whine, closer this time.  The swirling thick snow blocked Sean’s view but for a few feet ahead.  The cries were not changing.  It wasn’t passing by.  It was heart-wrenching, pleading.

What am I ta do, Sean thought.  I canna leave my post.  The punishment for such a transgression was severe – a court martial, prison.

He stood rigid for another twenty long agonizing minutes, as he listened to the pitiful crying.  He could take it no more.  He snapped out of his trance-like guard state, and ran down the road through the churning blizzard toward the cries.

He heard its exact location along the side of the road before he saw it.  The cries were emanating from a small mound of snow.

As Sean gazed down into the snow his eyes widened.  God save us, what’s all this?

[Part II of the continuing adventures of "Sticks" will be along tomorrow.]

Yes.  On the road again – thank you Willie.  Southbound from snowy Gettysburg to not-so-snowy Louisiana.  Roads were clear, but there was and still is a lot of snow on the way south.  Then we crossed the border into Tennessee.  It was like a miracle – no snow, much warmer, and a sudden burst of rich green grass covering rolling hills.  My first thought was what magnificent horseback riding country.

I’ve been all over the world.  It may sound cliché – a bit flag-wavish – but I really don’t care.  I never cease to be touched by the beauty of this country.

Robbie on his throne in Big A-- Truck, with Rosemary keeping him still for the camera

Last minute packing and prep for our trip south.  Leaving Gettysburg at double-oh- dark thirty tomorrow morning. Robbie, our Shetland Sheep Dog, full name Robert Burns Hutchison, knows he’s going and is excited.  He travels amazingly well.  We’ve made the back seat area of the Big A– Truck his castle.

It’s built up to allow him to be on the same level as Rosemary and me, and he can come up front to sit or stand between us whenever he wants –  to make certain we’re safe … and of course to ensure he doesn’t miss anything. Mostly, though, he comes up front to guard us against all those evil people who might dare to venture inadvertently within ten yards of the truck. The rest of the time he merely curls up on his “throne” in the rear area, where he can look out the windows, enjoy the sights and smells, and munch contentedly on the odd treat.

He loves going to hotels, and they love him.  He actually prances across the lobby – the center of attention, a dog star with his entourage, nodding to his fans as he passes. In the motel room he immediately finds a place, then lets us know with his body language and his eyes that it is, in fact, his place.  No luggage must be set down there under pain of bark or stern look.  He may occasionally growl in a low voice if ‘evil doers’ (read hotel staff or guests) pass the room too close, but no constant barking … unless they’re impertinent or intrusive enough to come to our door.  Then he’s up, on guard, and might let out one sharp, piercing bark of warning to the impudent outsiders that his charges are being protected by the ever vigilant Robbie Security, Inc.

When he wants to go out, he barks once, softly, but insistently. There’s no mistaking his meaning, and he won’t repeat it.  His searing gaze says it all.  He who must be obeyed wants to be taken for a walk – immediately!

He prides himself on remembering exactly which room is ours.  Upon our return from our walkabout, he pulls me to it, stops in front of the door, sits abruptly, looks up, and tells me with his eyes, “Yes, Dad, this is the room.  Now lets go in.”

Now I know that every one of you who have a dog have similar tales to tell, but allow me this indulgence … Robbie is awesome!

In case I forget in my travels, folks, have a wonderful holiday season, and the very best year yet.

Robbie in a festive mood at Christmas