Posts Tagged ‘Ian Carlyle’

OK.  Call it outrageous self-promotion, but I don’t care this time.  What a great day. First I found out that my latest release in the Ian Carlyle Series, The Gettysburg Conspiracy, was accepted for sale in National Park bookstores.  This opens a whole new world of promotional opportunities.

Then late this afternoon I discovered that The Gettysburg Conspiracy was selected as a finalist in the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards for best historical fiction. I was surprised and pleased. It’s always good to know someone recognizes your work.  In fact, it’s good to know someone is actually reading it

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

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

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)

I still can’t get over the book launch for my new release. It was more than fun. Folks came expecting merely to see me signing books, but we gave them an entertaining time as well. The food was delicious, our ‘marketeers’ –  the great people from 3rd Idea here in Gettysburg –  organized it and their own Mak McKeehan acted as MC. My lovely wife, Rosemary, introduced the festivities.

There was a “Conspiracy Cocktail” for one and all present, which was received with gusto…and no, I can’t divulge the recipe – not yet. Keith Rocco, the acclaimed historical artist, was also there as my special guest. I’ve known Keith for many years, and he was kind enough to allow me to use his painting, The Last Stand, for my cover art. Bob O’Connor, a fellow Infinity Publishing author also joined us.

Decked out in my family’s plaid (the MacDonald Clan) to honor my main character, Ian Carlyle, a Scotsman of course, I read my novel’s first chapter. After all, they say if the first chapter doesn’t grab you, the rest of the book is likely to put you to sleep.

Ach, but my reading wasn’t the hit of the evening by far. Jim Getty has been portraying Abraham Lincoln in Gettysburg for more than thirty years, and for many, me included, he is Lincoln in voice, dress, and demeanor. He was kind enough to read a very poignant portion of my book in which Lincoln speaks with great compassion to a severely wounded soldier. He read it as Lincoln, in first person. Where it would read Lincoln said, _____ – he would say “I said.” The audience was in stunned silent, listening to his every word, taking themselves back in time. For me to hear my words read like that was electrifying.