Posts Tagged ‘Robbie’

OK – I fall on my sword!  Was that me who wrote that Gettysburg never got snow like I grew up with in New York?

Robbie - The Snow Dog. At two feet he wasn't so happy to frolic ... it was over his inquisitive little head.

The Weather Gods proved me wrong – go figure. At my house we had over twenty inches the first go-round, and expect 8-10 more.  My plow guy didn’t get to us on his huge and demanding list until Sunday night, so I’ve been snowed in … imagine that.  You’d think that would give me lots of time to blog and Facebook, but it didn’t.

I chose to use the time to tackle a long-overdue a project.  I prepared a talk (PowerPoint) for Civil War Round Tables, and anyone else who will listen, on Lincoln’s personal security – or lack thereof. I became obsessed, and when that happens and I’m creating, I go into a bubble of intense focus until I’m satisfied with what I’m writing, photographing, or otherwise creating.

Work all night, sleep until noon, then back at it again … until it’s finished.  I made it, but it took a few days until I was pleased with the end result.  It timed beautifully with the snow.

When I research, or I should say, re-research an area of history, it is always fun, because each tid bit is like a new revelation.  Even if I knew it already somewhere in the historical archives in my mind – that quiet place I call my “history cave” – it’s still like picking up a bright new penny.  During this project, it was a piece of history that to me smacks of the stuff modern thrillers are made of … a real “24″ chair-grabber in the 1860s.

Abraham Lincoln

It has been called “The Baltimore Plot,” but should have been called “The Red Ballot.”  It is the story behind the assassination plot against Abraham Lincoln in February 1861, on his journey through Baltimore to his first inauguration in Washington.  This story has spies doing exceptional and dangerous undercover work, calamitous political intrigue, heros who save the day – indeed perhaps the country – in the nick of time, a romantic angle, and the strong ring of truth that resonates into our own time.

Are you intrigued yet ?  Well you’ll have to wait.  At least until tomorrow.  Then I’ll spin the “Tale of the Red Ballot.”

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

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