Posts Tagged ‘Scots Fusilier Guards’

British observers on McClellan's staff. Charles Fletcher is seated on the far right, and Edward Neville is also seated, third in from the right.

Almost everyone you talk to about British military observers in the American Civil War can think of only one – Lieutenant Colonel Arthur James Lyon Freemantle, Coldstream Guards. Freemantle is considered by most as a British military observer who chose to remain with, and ‘observe’ the southern side. Because perhaps of the fame of Freemantle through his book, Three Months in the Southern States, or possibly as a result of how he was portrayed in the recent movie, Gettysburg, even historians are unaware of two important historical facts:

1.  Although Freemantle was an officer of the Coldstream Guards, he was on leave of absence while in the States, likely didn’t have a uniform with him, wore tweeds most of the time, and was – in point of fact – more a “tourist” than anything else.  (David Horn, the then curator of the Guards Museum, London, and a renowned historian, tried to tell the Gettysburg movie folks these facts, but they insisted on putting Freenantle in a scarlet uniform as an official British observer at Gettysburg, regardless – Go figure.)

Lt Col Arthur Freemantle (In later years)

2.  On the other hand, there were a dozen or so authorized British military observers with General McClellan and the Federal Army of the Potomac for several months in 1862.  These officers, mostly from Guards regiments and the Royal Artillery, came south from Canada to join Little Mac’s staff.

You see, a brigade of Guards and other regiments, with accompanying artillery, had been sent to Canada by Her Majesty Queen Victoria in response to the “Trent” affair on the high seas.  During this incident, two Confederate politicians were taken from a British ship, HMS Trent, causing great outrage in Britain.  By the time these elite British troops arrived in Canada, things were smoothed over between President Lincoln and the Queen, and a nasty potential war on our northern border was averted.  This left these officers sitting in Canada with practically nothing to do.  Why not observe this “Yank” war first hand?

It is one of these British observers, Ian Carlyle, in the Scots Fusilier Guards, who is the hero of my recently released novel, The Gettysburg Conspiracy.  I modeled my character, Ian, after two of the actual observers on McClellan’s staff, Charles Edward Fletcher and Edward Neville.  They can be seen in the photographic image at the beginning of this blog.  These were both fine officers.

By the way, I survived the dentist.  My cunning plan worked like a charm.

Photographic image of British and other foreign observers with the Federal Army

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

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.]

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

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)