historical fiction

Every once in a while, a day off is welcome.  This is one of them.  I’m reading for my enjoyment, which happens to be a draft manuscript of a novel by a close friend, Kit Cooper.  I love it.  It is about one of my favorite periods and battles, the Anglo-Zulu War, and Rorke’s Drift.  It’s written as the journal of a private soldier who was there, and Kit has that ability to place his reader there as well.

Fine Remake

So thus I have spent my day.  Many relaxing hours with Kit’s manuscript, followed by watching one of the best Westerns made, “Monty Walsh: The Last Cowboy” starring Tom Selleck – from a book by Jack Schaefer.

I look at these westerns now for the horseback riding as well as plot, characters, dialogue, etc.  I was pleased to see what an accomplished rider Selleck really is, and his sidekick as well – Keith Carradine .  Of course, is there anything the Carradine family can’t do or hasn’t done?

This is actually a TV remake of a 1970 movie starring Lee Marvin and Jack Palance, also a great film.  The Selleck remake, unlike many remakes, is excellent, and has its own style and grace.  It was directed by Simon Wincer, who  brought us “Lonesome Dove,” so what can you expect.

1970 Original Film-A wonderful movie

The more I ride Sunny, my Appaloosa, the more I enjoy good westerns.  Funny thing that.

When I began to write for myself instead of ‘Uncle Sam,’ I was trying to make up my mind whether to write fiction or non-fiction – a major decision.  I was helped in this difficult time by a group of established writers, who, without pressing me in any particular direction, steadfastly guided me toward making a choice that I would not regret later.  Although I am a photographer and have a published non-fiction history book, my passion remains what I chose as a result of the influence of those wonderful writers.  I write fiction, and more specifically, historical fiction. I write this blog in the hope that my journey might help give better focus to folks out there who are trying to find their niche in the writing arena.

I’ve always thought that good historical fiction is a great way to get people interested in history, and can even be a learning tool. My interest in history, and in the Civil War in particular, began when I was a youngster with Stephen Crane’s  “Red Badge of Courage.”  It has been nurtured since then by such greats as C.S.Forester, Patrick O’Brian, Bernard Cornwell, Michael Shaara, and, of course, his son, Jeff Shaara.

From the first time I put pen to paper, or I should say finger to keyboard, to try writing fiction, I was hooked.  I loved developing the story, in harmony with a set of characters of my own creation.  I embraced the interaction of the characters, almost flowing along without me, except in my roll of quiet, backstage puppet master.  It was a narcotic, and I was quickly a hopeless addict.  So far at least my problem hasn’t been writers’ block … it’s having too much in my head to write about.  I must have at least a half dozen books swirling around in there, half written, trying to escape.

As I may have said before, I believe that fiction is meant to entertain, where non-fiction’s primary purpose is to enlighten or inform.  Historical fiction is rather unique in the fiction world.  In fact, if well-written and well-researched, historical fiction can provide the best of both worlds.  I guess that would be my ultimate goal – that my stories are entertaining, provocative, and historically informative.

I want to entice.  I want to inspire others to look more into the Crimean War, the American Civil War, or perhaps Lincoln’s exposure and vulnerability to being assassinated.

The Gettysburg Conspiracy by Will Hutchison

Today was an interesting day.  I heard Abraham Lincoln speaking my words in a scene from The Gettysburg Conspiracy, the latest release in my Ian Carlyle Series.

The book – A British officer in the Scots Fusilier Guards is an observer on General McClellan’s staff in the American Civil War. Assigned to the British Legation in Washington, he soon – against his will – becomes involved in a plot by rogue British industrialists to assassinate Abraham Lincoln .  The plot culminates in an attempt on Lincoln’s life while he is in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to give his famous address.  Ian must protect his country’s integrity, his family name, and, indeed, the President of the United States.

I reside in Gettysburg now and have been visiting it regularly for over twenty years.

When I think of Abraham Lincoln, in appearance and voice, I think of James

James Getty as Abraham Lincoln riding a white horse as he did to and from the cemetery where he gave the Gettysburg Address

Getty.  Jim has been giving spectacular historical impressions of Lincoln to Gettysburg tourists for thirty years, and indeed is recognized internationally as a Lincoln authority.

Not long ago I was asked to do an interview and reading from The Gettysburg Conspiracy for ACTV, the local television station.  Jim and I had actually done a similar reading earlier at a Book Launch in Gettysburg (http://willhutchison.com/blog/2009/12/06/cocktails-conversation-and-conspiracy-at-the-majestic-theater-gettysburg/).  Thus, I asked him if he would join me at this reading as well.  He, as usual, was very gracious and accepted my invitation.

Today we went to the studio for the interview.  ”Mister Lincoln” and I did a reading on camera of an excerpt from Chapter 21 of The Gettysburg Conspiracy.  The scene involved both Ian and President Lincoln in the garden at a White House reception.  I meant the scene to be a poignant confrontation, observed by Ian.  I read Ian’s thoughts and actions, while Jim read the words I wrote for Mister Lincoln to speak.

I can not tell you what an emotional experience it was for me to hear the words I wrote spoken by Abraham Lincoln.

The interview will be shown locally, and may be picked up by other area stations.  I also hope to get a copy to put on YouTube, and elsewhere as a video.  I will make it available through this blog and Facebook soon.

James Getty's Website: www.jimgetty.com

Garryowen Irish Pub, Gettysburg, PA

I was browsing on the web following up on a tweet I had received, and looking for a group of writers I might join in the Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, area. There was one, but it said ‘private’ and that seemed to defeat its purpose, so I moved on.

I noticed on the Meetup.com site a place to “start your own meetup group” with a self constructed web page – and with simple instructions even I could follow.  The rest, as they say, is history.

I’m now the organizer, at least temporarily, of a group willing to meet at the Garryowen Irish Pub in Gettysburg on each Wednesday night, 7-9 pm, to share and discuss techniques of writing, book publishing, book promotion/marketing, and anything else we can think of.  The fact is, three or four local writers have been meeting at the Garryowen on Wednesdays for some time, so it wasn’t much of a stretch – more an expansion.

I envisioned an informal gathering of writers with few rules – after all we’re meeting in a pub!  Topics will be decided at the previous meeting and announced on the web site. We’ll have dinner (Wonderful food at the Garryowen Irish Pub), paid for individually by each of those attending, and a few libations of your choice, complimented by lively discussions of topics important to anyone wanting to torture themselves into becoming a writer.

We actually had our first ‘formal’ (although it was terribly informal) meeting last night.  Five attended: four writers, and one world traveler who should be writing a book.  We intend to talk him into it.  The pub as a meeting place worked like a charm.  The owner and host, Kevin, and the managers, Anne and Josh, are most accommodating and gracious.

As it happened, the writers present were either published or about to be.  The group, however, is open to all writers at whatever stage in their writerly efforts they find themselves, even if they merely have a book in their heads they’d love to write.  Our world traveler describes himself as just a ‘reader,’ and he’s most welcome too.

I believe this group can be many things to many people. To begin with, it’s good to get together with a group of like-minded folks for a pleasant discussion, good food, and companionship. In addition, the discussions about various aspects of writing and getting published help us all in perfecting our craft, publication, and promotional efforts.

We hope to draw more participants over the next few weeks.  If your reading this (God, I hope someone is), and you’re in driving range – come join us and I’ll buy you a pint.

Gettysburg Writers Meetup Group –     http://www.meetup.com/Gettysburg-Writers-Meetup-Group/

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.]