Archive for December, 2009

I am packing for our Christmas trip down New Orleans way to visit my stepson and his lovely wife, and I am reminded of a Christmas season during a simpler time in my life.  I only had a small rucksack.  My bulkier gear consisted of a poncho to be used as a ‘basha’ type shelter and for protection from the incessant rain, a poncho liner to ward off the night chill, and an extra pair of socks.  In rucksack, on belt, and in pockets went numerous smaller items such as maps, compass, homemade distance-counting beads, my trusty K- Bar knife, a complete swiss army knife (if I was lucky), the essential all-purpose Model M1A1 eating tool – - – a plastic spoon, tooth paste, tooth brush and one small towel.  Of course in those days I carried as much water as I could manage, rations, the clothes on my back, and little old me. I could go anywhere, do anything, and be perfectly content.  We also didn’t worry much about snow.

Not so today !

Now my toilet kit is full of things you have to plug in.  I am going south out of the snowbound Gettysburg area, so I need winter clothes for travel at the start, and fall type clothes as we near the 50-60 degree weather.  In case we might go out to eat at some point, I need slacks and a sport coat.  Then there’s sweats to lounge in, as well as extra socks, shorts, belts, and shirts. Add to that my computer and accessories so I can keep on a bloggin’ and I’m almost packed.  Oh, right, I forgot, saddle, bridle, and a pair of boots – just in case we run into stay horses we might ride.  Did I mention the dog, our wonderful Shelty, and all the paraphernalia that goes with traveling with an animal?

It’s a good thing we have a “BAT-mobile” (Big-A_ _ Truck).  I sound like I’m complaining, but I’m not – not really.  After all, in that simpler Christmas season I also carried ammunition and a weapon, and had to duck a lot.  This is much, much better.

Will and one of his Marines in simpler days - III MAF, Republic of Vietnam

House in first real snowfall of 2009

This is the first real snow in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in 2009, and just before Christmas.  It is so clean, so beautiful.  makes you think of crackling log fires, snuggling warm.

Watching the snow twirl lazily down is mesmerizing, alluring, bewitching, exquisite.  Robbie, my Shelty, absolutely loves it … romping about, tossing it in the air, actually lying in it as though it was a soft white blanket. This is always my first impression.  I almost hate to walk through the first snowfall because my footprints will mar its tranquility.

Inevitably, the darker side appears, in spite of our good thoughts –  slippery streets, accidents, freezing – biting – numbing cold, airports locked in, stores out of food and a snow mound away.  As the wonderland abates, I am reminded of a studies of the Crimean War for my novel, Follow Me to Glory. The winter of 1854, and a British army totally unprepared for winter. I described it this way:

No matter how many times he’d been warned, Ian was ill prepared for what he saw when he cleared the connecting trench and moved into the much wider main trench, which formed a “T” with the zigzag leading up to it.

The men were lounging about along the trench, one man up on the fire step every eight to ten yards, his mate resting below.  Many of these soldiers had fought next to him at Inkerman, but as he passed among them, he hardly recognized anyone, either by name or that they were members of the elite Scots Fusilier Guards.

Ian’s frock coat was a bit shabby after months of service, and certainly his cloak was a wreck.  The only new item he wore was a field service cap given him by Nigel Kingscote upon his arrival back from hospital.  However, his worn and threadbare garments were nothing compared to these guardsmen.

Due to the scarcity of water, they were authorized to grow beards, and they were growing thick, long and ungroomed.  Their once bright scarlet coatees were faded and torn, with visible patches of every kind.  Some cut their high collars off for more freedom.  Many cut the swallowtails off to make patches of at least a similar colour for the upper coat.  It mattered little, because the coats had faded, turning many an odd brown-purple colour.

Trousers were patched, mud-caked and badly frayed at the bottoms, some with open holes worn through the knees.  Ankle boots were in tatters, wrapped in bits of cloth, or strips torn from haversacks, tied with rope just to hold them together.  Their wool stockings were either in bits showing above the boots or none-existent.

There were still a few bearskin caps visible.  One odd-looking bearskin had been cut open and pulled down well over the ears.  The men wore a variety of other homemade headgear, some from pieces of blanket, they ranged from turbans to haversacks pulled down.  Others had hand-knit wool caps or stockings over their heads, cutting a hole for their faces.  There were forage caps and field service caps, and a very few sealskin caps worn by the newer draft recruits.

Among some of the new recruits he also saw sealskin coats, but most of the company wore their shabby greatcoats over their tunics, wrapped in as many blankets as they possessed.  A few had lost their greatcoats and wore only blankets with holes cut in the top for their heads or wrapped round their necks and tucked into belts.  The seriously unlucky ones had lost both their blankets and greatcoats.  These were merely standing along the trench, shivering in their discoloured coatees around meagre fires glowing from holes dug into the trench side.  There was barely enough wood in the trenches to keep the tiny fires alive.

They even found a useful purpose for discarded news journals sent from home or bought or stolen locally, but not as fuel for the fires, as Ian might have suspected.  They stuffed the paper as a layer of insulation down their trousers, inside their coats.

For gloves, they wore mittens made from woollen stockings, or wrapped blanket wool around their hands, tied with string.  A resourceful few, the company quartermaster having no doubt overlooked them, even cut open the top of their bearskin caps and were using them as muffs to warm their hands.

Ian’s initial impression was that they were drugged or drunk.  They looked filthy, vermin-ridden, and were staring into empty space, leaning against the trench walls, weaving slightly, or sitting in the filth at the bottom, not caring.  Their scraggly beards were surrounded by long hair poking unceremoniously out of whatever head covering they wore.

Ian was struck by their stone-like, stoicism.  They weren’t joking or grumbling.  There was none of the expected soldierly banter as he passed through the trench.

Ian’s nostrils cringed at the putrid stench of filth and decay.  He saw, with sadness, their sunken hollow eyes, the grey pallor of their skin, chapped and cut lips.  Their blank stares reminded him of Peter’s look after the incident at Eton.  There was no light in their eyes.  The deplorable conditions were sapping them of their energy, their dignity, their pride. They looked like stooped old men, twice – three times their age.

There was only one item of equipment that was spotless and bright.  Ian had seen it with Goodlake’s lads, and he saw it again now.  In the hands of each soldier was his Minie´ rifle musket, clean, ready and fit for killing.  Ian credited this, without asking, to the vigilance of MacGregor.  No matter how hard the system beats men like these down, they will still rise up fighting given the right incentive, Ian thought.

Punch Magazine summed it up in one cartoon:

Crimean War Cartoon - Appeared in Punch Magazine

Other Ranks, 47th Regt, prepared for the tenches before Sevastopol

Other Ranks, 68th Regt, winter clothing

Yesterday I received a note which read, “I enjoy reading your books, but wonder what you read for entertainment.”  As already mentioned in an earlier blog, I don’t read as much historical fiction as I would like from concern that some of it might “creep” into my own writing.

For pure enjoyment, I tend toward police, espionage, and general thrillers, but they must be well researched, have good characters, good dialogue, and a great story. Daniel Silva, James Patterson, Caleb Carr (although his books like “The Alienist,” which take place around the turn of the century, are, I suppose, historical fiction), and Nelson DeMille are all on my personal bookshelves.  One of my very favorite characters is Silva’s Gabriel Allon.  The contrast of a world-renowned art-restorer who is an Israeli assassin is both stunning and compelling – and Silva knows his stuff.

I am looking forward to reading a few of the relatively new releases “I, Alex Cross,” and “The Defector.”  I have also not yet read “Angel of Darkness.”  Yes … So much good reading, so little time.  I must squeeze writing in somewhere.

Follow Me to Glory - First in the Ian Carlyle Series

The title of the first book in the Ian Carlyle Series is “Follow Me to Glory.”  The Crimean War, during which the bulk of the story takes place, was an absolute disaster. There had not been a major war in Europe for 40 years, since Wellington fought Napoleon. In 1854, the British were ill prepared to fight such a large-scale war. Too many of the lessons learned against Napoleon had been forgotten, and Wellington was no longer around. The butcher’s bill for this forgetfulness was paid in soldiers’ lives.

I chose the title because Ian Carlyle’s dream is to follow in his soldier-father’s footsteps and lead men in battle. For Ian Carlyle, as he comes of age, this means to lead men to “glory.”

In that earlier time, and I fear too often today, those who first go to war, and those at home who cheer them on, have this sense that “glory” is out there, a prize to be had if your brave enough, or lucky enough.  The reality falls way below this naïve expectation.  Warriors know that better than anyone.  They know that sometimes you have to fight, but there isn’t a damned thing about it that you can call “glory.”

Ian manages to navigate through some rather horrendous challenges as he grows to manhood. He overcomes these hurdles and evolves into such a warrior and leader, but the story is more about his coming to terms with what glory isn’t, then what it is.  Most folks who have been in harm’s way, the soldiers who have to fight the dirty, ugly wars, will explain that truth. In the end, it boils down to kinship with your fellow soldiers, an intense commitment to those in your charge, and plain, simple survival.

Last action of Ian Carlyle before Sevastopol in the Crimea, painting by Peter Culos

I have been asked how I develop Ian Carlyle’s romantic interests, and how I write love scenes. I can tell you it isn’t that easy. In the first draft I wrote of “Follow Me to Glory,” set in the era of the Crimean War, there was no romance.  Then several lovely ladies of Gettysburg told me pointedly that if there were no love scenes, not only wouldn’t they buy the book, but no one else would either.  I caved like a cheap tent, ran home to my office, and created the sensual and strong-willed Jasmine.  The book is much better for having done so.  It adds a poignant divergence from the war.

To accomplish the challenge of writing about romance, I first found I had to put myself inside their world – not only Ian’s, but Jasmine’s as well. I was reluctant and somewhat embarrassed to go there, worried what I wrote would be seen as silly or superficial.  The dreaded: “His characters lack depth.  They don’t seem real.”  I had to get past that.  ”It is what it is,” I told myself.

Ian likes strong women.  I placed Jasmine in a man’s world, especially in Victorian England, managing a drinking establishment with an iron fist, yet with a certain persuasive softness as she deals with unruly customers. She is also worldly, with a mysterious background.  I made Ian naïve and innocent by contrast.

As their relationship grows, Jasmine patiently teaches Ian. Translate that to a lovely oriental lady in Japan who taught a young inexperienced seventeen-year-old Marine corporal about the real world over a hundred years later. I found myself becoming more comfortable writing about what I’ve learned of life and romance.

In the sequel, “The Gettysburg Conspiracy,” Ian is more mature, a seasoned veteran on many levels.  Jasmine is for now out of his life, although she manages to come back into it for a second time before the first book ends.  In this, the second book in the Ian Carlyle Series, he meets two women, both strong, but otherwise with very little in common.  One is a specter from his past, and the other a newfound romance.  Ian uses the lessons in life taught him by Jasmine with gusto at times, and with a delicate balance between intense passion and gentle compassion at others.

I was reluctant to write romance and love scenes initially, but I can’t deny it – it’s mischievous and great fun!

A youthful Ian Carlyle in the Crimea

Deciding on a fictional hero for an entire series is a daunting task, not to be pursued lightly. The character will last for years and through many adventures. He will grow older as the series progresses. I had certain aspects of my protagonist in mind from the beginning. For instance, I am a Scot. My father, a character in his own right, was born there. He was raised in the north, and considered himself a highlander, although actually born south of Glasgow in Kilmarnoch. He emigrated to Canada, then to the US. He had a thick brogue. In fact, I had a strange quasi-Scottish accent until I was about ten, when it began to fade away. I wanted my hero to have my roots, and, like my father, be a bit of a rogue and a maverick.

I chose the name Carlyle, because it was a sept of the Clan Bruce of Scottish nobility. The first name, Ian, just seemed to fit. His home was originally Dunmore Hall, until I found through research and friends in Scotland that there was a thriving Dunmore Hall, family, and estate, and they well might take offense to being fictionalized. Thus I made up the name Dunkairn, as Ian’s home. A ‘cairn’ is a mound of stones with crevices. These cairns are all over the highlands. It came to mind from a wonderful cairn terrier I had once owned. Like all such creatures, he was raised to hunt – to drive critters from among these cairns so his master could make the kill. I changed the ‘c’ to a ‘k’ on purely a whim.

I’d had my fill of reading about enlisted men who, against all odds, rose from the ranks in the 19th century British army to become officers of the Queen. The overwhelming majority of the British officer corps did not fit this mold. They came into the army as officers, and, in most cases, had to be able to afford the considerable purchase price and maintenance costs of their commissions. Each promotion was purchased, and the higher, the more expensive.

I made Ian the second son of the Earl of Dunkairn, just to complicate his life even more. As the second son he would not inherit the title, and, in that Victorian period, his options were limited. It would have been appropriate for him to go into the army.

There are many British regiments I am fond of, particularly Scottish regiments. At the top of that list, however, is the Scots Guards, or as they were titled in mid-19th century, the Scots Fusilier Guards. As part of the Guards Brigade, the Household Guard of the Royal family, they were, and remain, the elite of British military. I also wanted him to join a regiment his father, the Earl, might have been in during the Napoleonic Wars, many years before. The Guards are replete with officers who are also titled nobility. One might easily run into a Lieutenant ‘His Lordship’ so and so, or Captain ‘Sir’ so and so. What better regiment for my hero to join than the Scots Fusilier Guards?

To develop Ian’s military background, I spent countless hours at the Scots Guards Archives at Wellington Barracks, London, and, of course, at the Buckingham Arms, across Petty France Street from the rear gate – one of my favorite pubs. With the expert help of Kevin Gorman, Archivist, Scots Guards, who has since become the son I never had, I was able to pin down two of the Scots Fusilier Guards officers who served on George B. McClellan’s staff, Army of the Potomac, in the American Civil War – Captain and Lieutenant Colonel (dual rank system in G uards only)Edward Neville and Captain and Lieutenant Colonel Charles Henry Fletcher. I combined their service records and backgrounds to come up with the fictional Captain Ian Carlyle.

The end result was the character study described in Follow Me to Glory:

“Then, of course, there was Captain Ian David Carlyle, himself. Ian was of medium height, his ramrod posture making him look much taller. He had a delicate face, like his mother’s, with the straight nose, high cheekbones and strong chin of his deep highland roots. Having been brought up largely in London, he had only a trace of Scottish accent, unless he chose to charm or mock someone. At those times his brogue became as thick as he wished, a useful skill that he had learned to impose as one might turn a fine horse, with a flick of the wrist.

Ian had thick sandy-brown hair, which appeared red in bright sunlight, and clear blue eyes that, when focused, could quite literally melt the hardest heart. These same eyes could also turn to iron straight away, and cut through the resolve of most opponents in an instant, another useful skill.

Ian carried himself with the decisive and confident demeanour of a military officer. He wore this bearing like a badge of honour. This, like so many aspects of Ian’s character, was his father’s and Angus’ influence. [Angus is his mentor, a crusty old highlander.]

Ian was, after all, second son of the Earl of Dunkairn. He was here in the Crimea at the end of a long personal struggle, and wanted this war badly, to pursue his own dreams of glory.”

Period Photography by Roger Fenton, and sketches by Peter Culos

Ian Carlyle in American Civil War - 6 years after Crimea

Scots Fusilier Guards officer in Crimea - Used as model for Ian's early sketch

Group of British observers on McClellan's staff in American Civil War

Edward Neville (left), Unidentified officer (middle), Charles Fletcher (right)

The first in the Ian Carlyle Series.

What on earth possessed me, a Yank, to write for my debut novel a book about the Crimean War, a very British war – not well known in the US.  Actually it didn’t start out that way. My original thought was to write about British observers in the American Civil War on General McClellan’s staff. There were about a dozen of them.

I began writing about these Civil War observers, but it soon dawned on me that they received their combat experience, and became the fine officers they were, in the Crimea, six years before our Civil War. I decided that the setting for the first novel must be the Crimea. I would bring my characters into the American Civil War in the sequel. The Crimean War then became my passion, my obsession, if you will.

Through the next three years of research I made numerous visits to the UK, and two trips to the Crimean battlefields.  After a ton of hours at the Scots Guards archives at Wellington Barracks, London; Eton College; and various amazingly beautiful places in Scotland; I finally felt I could put pen to paper … or more precisely finger to keyboard.

Actually, people know more about the Crimean War than they may realize. For instance, the Charge of the Light Brigade – Florence Nightingale, the lady with the lamp – the ‘Thin Red Line’. These all came out of the Crimean War. It took place at the height of the reign of Queen Victoria, and was primarily fought on the Western coast of the Crimean peninsula (present day the Ukraine), between 1854, and 1856.

The war’s origins are shrouded in political mystery and intrigue, ranging from somewhat bogus religious reasons to the expansionist doctrine of the Russian Czar, Nicholas I, in an effort to gain free access (A warm water port)  between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea. The spark which caused the feces to hit the fan was when Russia invaded the then Ottoman (Turkish) Empire.

Britain and France, the most unlikely of bedfellows, came to Turkey’s aid, supported by Sardinia. Although a Turkish Army basically forced Russia back across her borders, the people and governments of Britain and France felt strongly that Russia needed to be taught a lesson. Thus in September 1854, a combined allied army landed on the Crimean peninsula. Their mission was to capture Sevastopol and sink the Russian Black Sea fleet harbored there.  Their long term strategic goal was to stop Russia from ever again entertaining ideas of expansion in the Mediterranean.

The Russians sunk a major part of their own fleet to block the harbor to British and French ships, and it took the allied army, at great cost, the next two years to ‘capture’ Sevastopol. In the end, the Russians merely evacuated the city in good order, and left it to the British and French.

I think a writer must follow his instincts and above all his passion. I guess my original intent was that “Follow Me to Glory” would be a prequel to the major American Civil War work, but as I researched and wrote, Ian Carlyle’s owing up adventures and his Crimean combat experiences took on their own character and importance.  Thus, it is a prequel in the sense that it is the first in the Ian Carlyle Series, where his character comes of age as a man, then as an officer in the caldron of war.  The sequel, “The Gettysburg Conspiracy,” brings Ian Carlyle, now a seasoned veteran, into the American Civil War. There will also be at least a third in the Ian Carlyle series. I am determined, however, that each book will be of equal importance, and each will stand alone as a story in itself.

I did ponder the idea of making the setting for the series in a different era, but there is such a strong connection and impact between the Crimean War and our Civil War (only a few years apart) that I doubt there is any other period or set of wars which would so readily lend themselves to my vision.

I have always been mesmerized by this simpler Victorian age. Where they were more gentle and genteel among themselves, yet still using terribly blunt linear tactics when throwing armies at one another head-on. The lines drawn in cultural values, and in war, seem to me clearer than more recent conflicts. Of course, there’s that passion of mine for the 19th century. I couldn’t very well ignore that, could I?

My latest historical fiction release tells of a plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln while he was giving his famous Gettysburg address.  There was no such plot to my knowledge, but his personal security and colleagues were certainly concerned over his safety while in Gettysburg – thus it wasn’t much of a historical stretch.

My research for the book left me in awe, and led me to wonder at the lack of security for Lincoln even in Washington. With the many threats against him, and considering the mood of the country during his presidency, I am astonished there were not more attempts on his life.

Today we see the President surrounded by highly trained Secret Service agents, diligently watching the crowd through sunglasses, ready to instantly spring into action.  In Lincoln’s day, you might have seen him strolling totally alone to and from the telegraph office in Washington, where he monitored news from the seat of war, or riding a horse unaccompanied back and forth to his summer residence at the Soldier’s Home – miles away from the White House.

Lincoln’s protection, at least until 1864, would have at best been his close friend, confidant, and unofficial bodyguard, Ward Hill Lamon, an entourage of other friends and politicians tagging along (unarmed and ill prepared), regular Army soldiers around his office and DC residence, and perhaps a cavalry detachment along when he was traveling.

In Gettysburg, for instance, there was no advance security party to make certain any local threats were neutralized, or crazies rounded up.  No one ensured in advance that the routes President Lincoln took to see the battlefield, to the cemetery for the dedication, or the speaker’s platform itself, were safe from snipers.  Yes, there were lots of soldiers in town, in the parade to the cemetery, and surrounding the platform.  Additionally, Lamon – armed to the teeth himself – ensured that Lincoln was surrounded by thirty or so unofficial “marshals.” However, a determined sniper or crazy in the crowd lining the way would have had far more ready access to kill Lincoln in 1863, than today.

Also, like so many of our presidents, Lincoln didn’t wish to be seen as hiding from the American people behind security personnel. On the contrary, he wanted to appear accessible to the citizens.  He thus frequently thwarted protection efforts.

After researching the serious lack of depth in Lincoln’s personal security, my story line became even more plausible.

Ian Carlyle and scenes from "The Gettysburg Conspiracy" - Sketch by Peter Culos

Late posting to journal today, or, in fact, it’s tomorrow so I missed a day.  I suppose that means this post covers two days.

I’m in that creative time from midnight to dawn.  I’m using it now to write small snippets from my research for the next novel – a paragraph here, a chapter section there.  Hopefully it will all come together when I start writing in earnest some time around the February/March timeframe.

My research … my primary focus right now … takes me to many interesting places.  First I read voraciously within all the areas of historical interest I think will enter the plot, taking copious notes and writing a bit now and again.  Then, I must walk the walk.  I’m a fair distance away from that at this moment, but when I go, it will take me far and wide.

Ian Carlyle, my hero, will have his adventures … he insists upon it.  I’ll visit Saskatchewan and Alberta, Canada, as far out as Calgary.  I may need to visit some of the Indian reservations.

I must go to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Museum to study the history of the North-West Mounted Police in the 1880’s.  I went to the RCMP Criminal Intelligence Course in Ottawa in my sordid past, and may renew a few old acquaintances there to pick their brains.  I will need to touch base with the FBI Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico (These are the real “Criminal Minds” folks). I attended the 119th Session of the FBI National Academy there, and I’ll need to discuss with them a profile of a specific serial killer type to make my story accurate and believable. (Am I intriguing you yet?)

The interesting part of the research to me thus far is my discovery of the drastic difference between the way the US handled the conflict of settlers versus Indians when our west was being “won,” and the way the Canadians handled the same type problems.

A bit oversimplified, our approach was more or less “the only good Indian is a dead Indian,” and we sent in the Army with a heavy-handed military solution. The Canadian Government used a far more even handed law enforcement approach, much less severe and more focused on individual crimes and wrongdoing.  They sent in a small mounted police force (the NWMP) rather than the Army.  They attempted to dispense justice equally regardless of race, thus gaining the Indians’ trust as being fair-minded. It is an interesting contrast, and worth exploring even in today’s world.

North-West Mounted Police 1886 - Known by its members as The Force

Last night was a cold, wet, windy, and very dark thing. After a few pints at the Garryowen, I decided to watch a good movie. As I sat searching through my DVD collection I could see the trees in the woods surrounding the house waving back and forth alarmingly. When this happens I always consider when one of these mighty trees might break like a twig and fall on the house.

Something else occurred to me while I was searching for a movie to ward off the fierce wind, as it had so many times before. I needed to be careful of my choice. Although I’m still in the research phase of my next novel, I’ll be writing soon enough. I have found in the past that while writing, I can’t read other novels or look at movies that might be even remotely related to my story. Otherwise there is the danger that I might come afoul of the dreaded ‘creeping sickness’. That somehow, somewhere, the story, characters, or even scene setup might creep from what I was watching or reading into my own story.

This probably sounds silly if you’ve never tried writing fiction, but I suspect those of you who have gone down this lonely, agonizing road will see and understand my plight.

So, my friends, I with great reluctance set aside the John Wayne classics, Zulu, Appaloosa, and Lonesome Dove, and inserted my worn copy of “As Good as it Gets.” A wonderful movie, and as far from historical fiction dramas as I thought I could get. On the other hand, it wasn’t a total loss. If you’ve seen it, than you know it is an amazingly funny film, marvelously acted, and containing some of the very best dialogue (in my opinion) in filmdom.

No trees fell, the wind settled down, and I was happy with my choice – because it made me laugh.

Historical fiction by Will Hutchison:

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