WRITEALOT: history

Showing posts with label history. Show all posts

Friday, 1 May 2015

FFB - Castles

Having covered a castle or two in my posts about Segovia/Salamanca/Avila, it seems appropriate to feature this book review, originally published in the Portsmouth Post in 2005. Castles is a lovely tome to own, a fascinating book to read and it’s also useful as the definitive guide to the most impressive historic buildings and sites in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. This is the latest revision of a classic bestselling book by Plantagenet Somerset Fry who died in 1996. Fry was a world-renowned authority on castles and, in case you wondered, actually changed his name by deed poll. A second edition was published in 2009 and is still available.

British and Irish castles are fascinating and romantic places to visit. Whether they’re ruins, restored heritage sites or still occupied, they evoke times past, the scenes of historic events that shaped our countries and our people – battles, sieges, executions, negotiations, kidnappings and betrayals. Grim and compelling history written in stone.

The vast majority of the castles were constructed as a result of the Norman invasion and are generally characterised by the motte and bailey. The motte is a mound on which a castle was built while the bailey is the courtyard within the castle walls, often circling the motte.

While these castles acted as places of defence and offence, they were also occupied by the local lord and his family. As time passed and society became more settled and secure, the need for castles diminished, save for defence against foreign invasion. The last to see active service was Dover Castle, which was used as the control centre for Operation Dynamo, the evacuation of Dunkirk. A garrison was maintained there until the 1950s.

Portchester is a fine example of a Norman castle built within the confines of a late third century Roman Saxon shore fort. Reputedly, it has the most complete Roman walls to exist in northern Europe. Portchester was well used by England’s royalty and still has the old twelfth century church. Basing House near Basingstoke is worth a look too, where Civil War re-enactments are staged each year.

Arundel is another castle which began life just a few years following 1066 and was added to in subsequent centuries, being rebuilt after serious damage during the Civil War. It was brought up to its present magnificent appearance in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

In East Sussex, Herstmonceux is more a great fortified mansion than a castle and became the Royal Greenwich Observatory in 1946 but it’s now a study centre.

Lewes is one of the very few castles with two mottes associated with one bailey. When the castle was built, boats could navigate from the Channel up the Ouse so that Lewes was actually a useful port in East Sussex. Way back in 1846 the London and Brighton South Coast Railway constructed a tunnel, which is still in use, under the bailey of the castle.

As this book attests, there are literally hundreds of castles in Britain and Ireland. Virtually every one is covered, many descriptions accompanied by attractive and often haunting colour photographs.

Many of the castle names have impinged into our subconscious. Names such as Bodiam in Sussex, Colchester in Essex, Hever and Rochester, Kent. Chester in Cheshire, Windsor, Tintagel in Cornwall, Ludlow in Shropshire, Warwick in Warwickshire, Barnard in Durham, Bamburgh and Alnwick in Northumberland. St Andrews and Ravenscraig in Fife, Stirling in Aberdeenshire, Beaumaris on the Isle of Anglesey, Edinburgh, Caerphilly, Prembroke, Newport, Powys, Caerleon in Newport, Caernarfon and Conwy in Gwynedd and Hay-on-Wye in Powys, whose remains now house several of the famous second-hand bookshops. Ardrossan in North Ayrshire, Drogheda in Louth, Dublin, Donegal, Dunluce in Antrim, Enniskillen, Wicklow, Waterford and Trim which was used in the film Braveheart. Falkland Castle in Fife, where you can still find the original royal tennis court built in 1539.

There are at least five Newcastles – Bridgend, Emlyn in Carmarthanshire, Lyons in Dublin, Under-Lyme in Staffordshire and Upon-Tyne. The latter was built by the Conqueror’s son in 1080. Nearby is Tynemouth which was one of the largest fortified sites in England; it was integrated into the Priory and now all that’s left are the ruins of the priory and the castle gatehouse, which overlook the mouth of the Tyne and the bleak North Sea.

For the purpose of this review I’ve gleaned a few interesting snippets from the book concerning several notable castles. Every castle is identified by its national grid map reference and basic opening times and access details are provided (though subject to change, naturally).

Cornwall’s St Michael’s Mount’s original church was consecrated in 1144 but was destroyed in an earthquake in 1275. This is a magical place to visit.

Leeds Castle is nowhere near Yorkshire; this Kent castle’s name stems from the original Esledes and was bought by a wealthy Anglo-American lady in the 1920s and she spent the rest of her life transforming it.

Blair in Pitlochry doesn’t belong to the Prime Minister but to the Dukes of Atholl. Dumbarton in Scotland is recorded as a stronghold for longer than any other site in Britain; it was built on a volcanic neck of basalt rock jutting out into the Clyde.

Glamis in Angus was the childhood home of the Queen Mother and was featured in Macbeth. Linlithgow in West Lothian was the birth-place of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Cardiff castle was raised on the site of a Roman fort in 1080 and over the centuries has been remodelled and improved and is considered one of the best to visit in Wales; note especially the ornate ceiling in the Arab Room.

Ireland has more than 3,000 castles, most overgrown ruins and until recently they were resented and seen as symbols of hated foreign rule and domination. Castle Blarney is famous for its stone; anyone who kisses it is supposed to be blessed with eloquence. Besides being a twelfth century castle, Carrickfergus has served as a prison, armoury and air-raid shelter.

Corfe in Dorset was owned by Sir John Bankes; his widow led the garrison to fight off two Parliamentarian sieges, though she was defeated by an act of treachery and the castle was slighted – one of several useful terms to be found in the glossary – damage or destroy to make it unfit for further use.

Ashby de la Zouch (Leicestershire) features in Sir Walter Scott’s classic Ivanhoe. Scott was clearly besotted by castles, writing the two-novel tome Kenilworth after the castle of that name in Warwickshire.

I can’t resist mentioning the rarity Shropshire’s Moreton Corbet which was built by the head of an old Saxon family rather than a Norman, in about 1200. Another Morton can be found in Dumfries - a fourteenth century castle tower on a high promontory overlooking Morton Loch.

Brief but illuminating feature spreads with illustrations provide more facts and anecdotes on life in early castles, medieval weapons and the people’s food and drink. There are also articles on sieges, entertainment, sport and the English Civil War, among others.

You’ll spend many an hour with this book and if you live in the UK you’ll be inspired to go out and seek out the castles themselves, to celebrate your heritage and glory in the rich human tapestry of our islands’ history by visiting a castle.

Wednesday, 29 October 2014

Blog Guest - Robin Moreton - historian and author of erotic thrillers

Today, my blog guest is Robin Moreton, the penname of the author of Assignment Kilimanjaro, an erotic thriller set in the First World War. A while ago it struck me that it might be a novel idea to interview other writing Mortons from time to time. My first interview was with Alison Morton in May this year and can be found here and I've downloaded her books Inceptio, Perfiditas, and Successio. Also, I’ve recently downloaded four books – Mrs Jones, Molly Brown, Wildewood Revenge, and Bedlam by B.A. Morton, who has a strong following. As far as I know, she is not a relative, either.

Q & A

Interesting to meet you, namesake!

Thanks for inviting me, Nik.

I’ve got several books by other Mortons; coincidentally one of them, Babs Morton comes from the north-east, my neck of the woods! Where do you hail from, Robin?

It’s a small world. Hampshire, England. I think my forebears come from the north of England, but it’s a long time ago since they moved south – I think it was just after the Jarrow marches…

Erotic fiction is almost respectable these days. As this is your first foray into fiction, having previously settled on writing history books, why were you drawn to erotic fiction?

Well, it’s partial fiction, in my view, since I’m rather the official narrator for Tilda Cuve-Banks. Tilda’s record of her exploits – or that may even be sexploits! – were acquired by my agent. She’s mysterious regarding the provenance of ‘the packages’, as she calls them. Anyway, my agent knew of my interest in the period, which is also the time that Tilda operated, and felt I could perhaps put a modern spin on the yarns. Tilda was certainly ahead of her time in many respects. It’s a myth that the Victorians and Edwardians were afraid of sex. In fact, many revelled in it, and particularly enjoyed writing and reading about it.

Tilda was a spy for the British. How many missions did she go on?

The current batch of papers give details of three – East Africa, the Balkans, and Turkey. My agent is being close-lipped regarding the possibility of any more ‘packages’…

So Kilimanjaro might not be a one-off?

That depends on the readers. If enough clamoured for more, I’d be happy to sift through those papers again and write a sequel. I have plenty of non-fiction projects to occupy me until that time arrives.

The story seems to show a strong affinity for Africa. Is this something you picked up from Tilda?

Partly. She has a wonderful turn of phrase, but some of her pages are merely notes and observations. I was already in love with Africa, actually. I was fortunate enough to visit the continent on several occasions. This fulfilled a long held ambition of mine, as I’d been brought up on a diet of the books by H Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Me, too! Sorry, go on…

Well, I visited Mombasa, where some of Assignment Kilimanjaro is set, as well as Bahrain and South Africa. The continent does tend to get in your blood, in your heart. History fascinates me, naturally, and that’s why writing about it is my first love.

Even so, I’d always wanted to write a sexy adventure about a strong woman. You know, there were many brave and intrepid women explorers who defied convention in the 1800s and travelled the ‘dark continent’. These Tilda papers seemed like a dream come true. I was doubly pleased to be able to go back to the time of the First World War in east Africa, a neglected period.

Assignment Kilimanjaro is a heady mix of fact and fiction, it seems to me. How much is fact?

Often, I found that I had to extrapolate from Tilda’s notes at certain points. Yes, she definitely did meet the real historical characters that keep cropping up. Winston Churchill, the heroic Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, and spymaster Mansfield Smith-Cumming, for example. In that respect it’s a variation on the Flashman books, though Tilda is no coward – quite the opposite.

I like the realism you’ve injected. I must admit I tend to think of Tilda as reminiscent of Modesty Blaise.

Yes, only with much more sex. In some ways she resembles the wartime comic strip Jane, who always seemed to lose her clothes yet raise the morale of the troops…

Yes, I recall that some commentators said that the more clothes Jane lost, the more morale rose in the troops! What else have you written?

I’ve also written a non-Tilda erotic short story set in the American Civil War – ‘The Corporal’s Punishment’, published by Xcite Books. It's a play on words and is featured in a collection of erotic stories here by four other Xcite authors. My other works are academic, non-fiction, and written under a different penname.

Why use a penname?

While I’m not fazed by the nature of this type of book, it’s quite possible that in the academic field my reputation, such as it is, could unwittingly be affected. That’s why I haven’t provided you with an author photograph!

I would certainly caution any potential reader, that if you’re offended by graphic sex descriptions, then sorry, but this book isn’t for you. Not the best of sales pitches, I know, but I want to be up-front about that. Bad choice of words there, perhaps?

Not at all…

My publisher, Accent Press – under the imprint Xcite Books – is offering Assignment Kilimanjaro in a free iTunes offer for October, ending on the 31^st. Amazon may also Price Match this offer. If you could promote this offer that would be great! All this week it has been in the top 20 on Amazon. Here is the iTunes link:
https://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/assignment-kilimanjaro/id546634091?ls=1&mt=11

Thank you, Robin!

Excerpt

ASSIGNMENT KILIMANJARO

PART ONE – TILDA GOES DOWN IN THE JUNGLE

Chapter 1: A memorable flight

Lake Amboseli, British East Africa – February, 1915

‘You seem pleased to see me,’ she said. Good heavens, she thought, he certainly fills his khaki shorts! So the gentleman dresses on the right. ‘My name’s Tilda Cuve-Banks. What is yours?’

‘Hal Denby,’ he replied, the slight warm breeze ruffling his dark-brown hair and the short sleeves of his sweat-patched shirt. A careworn brown leather belt supported a sheathed knife, a belt of .45 ACP cartridges and a holstered pistol – it looked like a Colt M1911. His shorts came to a couple of inches above his knees. Nice, sturdy knees, too; his legs were deeply tanned and very muscular and covered in quite a few old scars. Socks round his ankles and tough worn boots ensured he could travel in any terrain.

Denby’s dark left eyebrow arched and his steel-grey eyes roved over her. ‘Is that Mrs Cuve-Banks, then?’ His quick darting eyes had noted her wedding ring.

She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said but had no intention of explaining that Lord Quentin Banks, her young husband of four weeks, had died in the trenches. Even in these war-torn times, it usually felt safer if travelling as a married woman.

He smiled, the mouth thin and a little on the cruel side, she thought. Judging by the tumescence in the right leg of his shorts, he seemed to like what he saw.

Tilda was as tall as he was, though high-heeled lace-up white kid boots aided her in this. She wore a long-sleeved white chiffon dress with a high collar, the bodice decorated with white beads. As she stood there, her bulging leather briefcase in one hand, her other hand clamping the white pith hat on her head, he could just distinguish the tanned flesh contours of her legs and arms as the light wind blew off the lake against her. Tilda’s dark auburn hair was tied in a chignon but already wisps had broken free and fluttered around her elegant neck and high cheekbones.

He took her hand and shook it. His grip was firm, as was hers. He let go and turned to look at the biplane that bounced on the water of the rippling lake; its fuselage was tethered alongside a long thin jetty made up of wooden planks on sturdy thick piles of tree trunks. A man – probably the pilot – was tinkering in the front cockpit.

Denby frowned dubiously at the patched canvas and repaired struts and dangling rigging wires and gestured at the seaplane. ‘We seem to be fellow passengers,’ he said in an ominous tone.

Ignoring his statement of the obvious, Tilda checked out her immediate surroundings.

Tied to the other side of the jetty was a small fishing boat. Four Africans were unloading wooden boxes of fish; she could smell them from here – men and fish. Behind her was a mud-spattered Ford box-truck, already half full with fish and other produce. Four mules were tethered beside the vehicle; the rich smell of manure and the perpetual buzz of flies also carried to her on the breeze.

The fishermen and farmers would get a fair price for the food, she knew. All to help the war effort against the Prussian Colonel Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck.

As she hadn’t responded to Denby, he tried again: ‘Are you going all the way?’

‘I always do,’ she replied, her light blue eyes flashing suggestively as he jerked round and studied her.

Assignment Kilimanjaro (Xcite Books, an imprint of Accent Press)

from Amazon UK here

from Amazon COM here

Note: Apparently, Robin started a blog for Tilda but hasn't had time to add to it; for what it's worth, it is here

Friday, 26 September 2014

FFB - The War at Troy

This book was released (2005) to coincide with the major film release of TROY. Lindsay Clarke’s retelling serves to reveal in eloquent prose the characters behind these tales of two powerful generations of men and women on the cusp of history and myth.

Clarke has used the classics – The Greek Myths by Robert Graves and The Iliad by E V Rieu, among others, to retell these tales in modern prose and has succeeded brilliantly.

The characters – there’s a helpful glossary of deities and mortals at the back of the book – are all drawn well and believably. You feel for them in their happy and tragic moments. Especially the time when King Agamemnon has to sacrifice his daughter to the goddess Artemis. These scenes are particularly moving as the thirteen-year-old meets her father for the first time in nine years. He must kill her to appease the gods, ‘for the good of all.’ How hollow those words ring through history!

As we know, the gods ceased to have form once nobody believed in them anymore. At the time of Troy, men not only believed in their gods, some actually met them.

Unlike the film, which had a limited time-span to tell its story, this book fills in the background to Paris, explaining how he was adopted by a woodcutter and only learned of his true birthright as King Priam’s son from the interfering goddess Aphrodite. From that point on, his life is blighted. More than once afterwards, he wished he’d stayed in the countryside! We can sympathise with him and the other characters, knowing what will happen.

In fact, Helen’s flight with Paris was merely the excuse that Agamemnon needed all along. What comes across here, however, is the honourable and generous nature of Helen’s husband Menelaus – truly, the film did him a disservice! His betrayal by Paris was great indeed.

But the story is more than about the love affair between Helen of Sparta and Paris of Troy. They are merely the cause. It’s about heroism, stubbornness and honour. When King Priam sneaks into the Myrmidons’ camp to claim his son’s body, you feel for the anguish of the old man and even for Achilles. (This was conveyed very well in the film, too).

The war with Troy actually raged for ten years, as prophesised. And it was in under thunderclouds and rain, not only under the blazing sun. Some of the battle scenes are gripping and gruesome and you can almost feel and smell the stink of warfare.

There’s humour, irony, cunning, laughter, betrayal, tragedy and of course cruelty aplenty in these pages. Striding this stage of epic stories about Troy is Odysseus, wise, honest and clever; he was of course the originator of the wooden horse, a fine piece of writing that blends dreams and facts. Yet there are other mortal men who were looked upon as almost gods – Achilles, Ajax and Hector. Their names – and others, such as Cassandra, Penelope, Electra, Orestes and Thetis – echo down the ages. Clarke has managed to bring them alive again for a new readership who might balk at the apparent dry classics.

The sequel, Return from Troy (2006), is about Odysseus.

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

Writing – research – Toxicology-01

No self-respecting crime writer would be without their guide to poisons – the so-called coward’s weapon.

The ancient Greeks called the herb monkshood or wolfsbane “stepmother’s poison”. The citizens of Imperial Rome were forbidden to grow it in their gardens. Yet poison usage was so common that the rich employed food tasters.

There are many known natural poisons, mostly of plant origin. Their attraction – besides their efficacy – was that they were undetectable in a dead body.

More recently the mineral arsenious oxide – arsenic – became readily available for poisoning rats and other vermin. It was the most common substance employed for murder, its faintly sweet taste not noticeable in food; the lethal effects were attributed to acute gastric disease.

In 1836 a simple and definite test for the presence of arsenic in a dead body finally became available, but to get to that point took several chemists several decades. In 1775 the Swedish chemist Carl Wilhelm Scheele discovered that when arsenious oxide was treated with nitric acid and zinc granules, it became a poisonous gas (subsequently named arsine). Later, German chemist Johann Metzger showed that if arsenious oxide were heated with charcoal a mirror-like deposit would condense on a cold plate held over it; the element arsenic. In 1810 in Berlin Dr Valentine Rose extracted the stomach contents of a suspected victim of poisoning, dried the liquid to a white powder, and heated it with charcoal to obtain the characteristic mirror; thus the Metzger test proved sufficient evidence against a domestic servant who had poisoned several of her employers.

Then in 1832 an elderly English farmer, George Bodle, was alleged to have been poisoned by his grandson John. James Marsh, a former assistant to the eminent scientist Michael Faraday, was asked to demonstrate at the trial that Bodle’s coffee had contained arsenic. He did so, but the jury were not convinced so found the grandson not guilty. Frustrated, Marsh went back to Scheele’s initial discovery and developed the Marsh test – treating the suspect matter with sulfuric acid and zinc, he passed the arsine that was evolved through a narrow glass tube, which was heated over a short distance. The arsenic mirror formed further along the tube; any undecomposed gas was burned at the end of the tube and formed a second mirror on a porcelain plate. As little as 0.02 milligrams of arsenic could be detected in this manner, and in 1836 Marsh was awarded the Gold Medal of the Society of Arts for his technique.

The first forensic use of the Marsh test was made by Mathieu Orfila (1787-1853), a Spaniard. In later years, he wrote, ‘The central fact that struck me, that had never been perceived by anyone else … was that toxicology does not yet exist.’

Mateu Josep Bonaventura Orfila - Wikipedia commons

He published his first Treatise of General Toxicology in 1813. In 1819 he was appointed professor of medical jurisprudence at Paris University.

In 1840 Marie Lafarge, a 22-year-old was accused of murdering her husband. Prosecution declared that arsenic was found in the food, but not in the organs of the body. Orfila used the Marsh test and proved conclusively that the previous tests were botched. Furthermore, he stated; ‘I shall prove, first, that there is arsenic in the body of Lafarge, second that this arsenic comes neither from the reagents with which we worked nor from the earth surrounding the coffin, also that the arsenic we found is not the arsenic component that is naturally found in every human body.’ He did and Marie Lafarge was found guilty and sentenced to prison with hard labour.

More to follow in due course.

Friday, 15 August 2014

Saturday Story - 'Creation Myth'

CREATION MYTH

Nik Morton

Sydney harbour, 1870 - Wikipedia commons

Sydney, Australia, 1840

Twirling her parasol, Harriet Brady crossed the dusty street, trying not to look over to her left where the town came to an end. Her face reddened but it had nothing to do with the scorching sun. Against her will, she remembered the first time that she had glanced in that direction, at the ramshackle dwellings. Why couldn’t Mama send one of the shop staff to Mrs Haltwhistle’s to pick up the embroidery, for heaven’s sake! Every Thursday, Harriet had to walk the length of Sydney on this particular errand. Of course, Mama had no reason to alter the routine since Harriet would rather die than explain her confused emotions. Yet she had to admit to feeling quite the lady strolling down the street. It was just this particular end of town that sent uncontrollable shivers through her delicate frame.

Mrs Haltwhistle ran a busy sweatshop, turning out embroidered table-cloths, handkerchiefs and antimacassars which Mama sold at a tidy profit from her shop, though of course she didn’t call it that, she preferred the much grander name of emporium – Brady’s Emporium. ‘One day, my dear,’ she told Harriet often, ‘I will have a string of emporia all over Australia!’

Standing in the shade of the balcony above, Harriet furled her parasol and tugged on the bell-pull to the right of the front door, next to the wooden plaque engraved with MRS EMILY HALTWHISTLE, SEAMSTRESS.

A metal bell clanged inside and in a moment Daisy the maid, wearing a dark grey shift, answered the door.

Daisy curtseyed and said, ‘Mrs Haltwhistle is expecting you, Miss Brady.’ Every week, that was all that she ever said.

At each visit Harriet deliberately had to drag her eyes away from Daisy’s pockmarked cheeks and her lazy left eye. Poor mite, she thought, and followed Daisy along the cool dark passage, her shoes clattering on the wooden boards; Daisy made no sound, as she was bare-foot.

The building was two-storey, with a balcony running all round the second floor and this was where Mrs Haltwhistle welcomed Harriet. The small wicker table was set for two, the porcelain plates and cups glinting in the shade of the overhanging roof. A plate of sponge cakes was in the middle, beside a silver teapot.

Those cakes were scrumptious but after tasting one at their first meeting, Harriet had refrained at each subsequent visit because she felt sure her bodice had become far too tight as a result. Indeed, she feared that her clothes must shrink in the wash. It was just too awful. Mama couldn’t afford to buy new garments as she sank all her earnings into more merchandise.

Mrs Haltwhistle was a stout woman, fashionably wearing a voluminous dress, jacket bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves, and quite filled the wicker armchair. ‘So nice to see you again, my dear,’ she said, gesturing at the empty chair beside her. Washed-out blue eyes hid behind spectacles. ‘Please sit down and partake of tea with me, why don’t you?’ Her odd phrasing never changed, either.

This was so tedious, Harriet thought. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘You are too kind.’

The chair creaked as Mrs Haltwhistle leaned forward to help herself to another sponge cake. ‘You look the picture of health,’ she said, which was a surprising departure for her.

‘I do?’ Harriet daintily lowered her cup. ‘I must admit that I feel just fine.’

Fingering her spectacles, Mrs Haltwhistle persisted, ‘The heat isn’t bothering you, then?’

‘No, of course not, Mrs Haltwhistle.’ Harriet smiled. ‘After all, I am quite acclimated. I have been here four years.’

Nodding, Mrs Haltwhistle glanced over the balcony baluster. ‘So you have.’

Despite herself, Harriet followed her hostess’s gaze.

Sprawling on the edge of town stood thirty or so dwellings made from discarded wood and brick. On a really hot day, if the wind was in the wrong direction, the open sewerage sent a noisome stink into the town. Amidst this squalor sat and lazed around black women and men. A few men were stumbling around, hands clutching rum bottles to their chests. Many of the women shamelessly bared their breasts or brazenly suckled their infants. All of them here tended to wear hand-me-down English clothes that didn’t suit them.

According to Johnny-can-do, their brethren in the outback only wore pigments of paint or scar-tissue and no clothing, information which sent Harriet’s pulse fluttering.

They were not the popular image of a noble savage, Harriet had thought on first encountering an aborigine when she landed here with her mother in 1826. Yet, she had since revised her opinion and indeed she considered that many of them were handsome, some ruggedly so. Several, she found, were more intelligent than the convict settlers who frequented Mama’s shop. That was where she had first met Johnny-can-do.

Harriet’s heart trembled now and unwelcome shame washed over her. She felt faint. She almost toppled her teacup as she awkwardly set it down in the saucer. She lifted a hand to her forehead. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered, ‘perhaps the heat is affecting me, after all.’

Mrs Haltwhistle’s small eyes peered over her pince-nez. ‘It isn’t the heat, my dear...’

‘A long way back in time,’ Johnny-can-do had said some weeks ago, ‘all the spirits of the earth except one were asleep. The great Father of All Spirits was awake. You always have someone to keep an eye out, don’t you?’ He smiled, exhibiting big white teeth. He was proud of his mastery of English, learned painstakingly in Miss Bellow’s school.

Harriet was enraptured by this strange creature who resembled a young man yet was something else entirely, something quite magical. She wasn’t in the least embarrassed by his bare chest which glistened with sweat. Now, after four years here, she wasn’t even bothered by seeing half-naked aborigine women. Indeed, it seemed quite natural.

They were sitting cross-legged near the little creek that ran past the town and into the harbour. Mama was busy, as usual, in her emporium.

‘What did the Father of All Spirits do?’ Harriet asked.

‘He gently woke the Sun Mother and as she opened her eyes a warm ray of light spread out over the sleeping earth. The Father told her he had work for her. She was to go down to the Earth and wake up the sleeping spirits and give them solid form.’

Harriet had always loved fairy tales and this sounded like one too. ‘He seems to be a typical man, bossing the woman around,’ she observed.

‘That is the natural way of things, Harriet,’ Johnny said.

‘I wouldn’t let you order me about,’ she vowed.

‘What, not just a little bit?’ he wheedled playfully.

‘Well, perhaps just a little, if I liked it.’ She leaned back, her elbows supporting her on the grass. A thought struck her. ‘There aren’t any snakes here, are there?’

Johnny shrugged and wrinkled his flat nose. ‘Could be. I caught one here last week.’

Harriet sidled closer to him. ‘You caught a snake?’

‘My family, it has to eat.’

Harriet pulled a face but didn’t move away. He seemed fearless and brave. She shook her head, golden tresses flying free over her shoulders, and dismissed her fanciful thoughts. ‘You were talking about the Sun Mother. She was sent down to the Earth.’

‘Before I was interrupted,’ he added.

She pulled a face at him then settled down to listen, determined not to ask any more questions as she didn’t want to break the thread Johnny was spinning.

Johnny gestured with both hands, as if encompassing the sky and their surroundings. ‘The Sun Mother glided down and wherever she walked plants grew in her wake and after all her travels she rested in a field, pleased with herself. But there was no rest for her, it seems, as the Father told her to go into the caves and wake the spirits there. She did as he bid and insects fled from the caves to populate the earth, many mingling with her flowers in the field. She told all her creatures to enjoy the wealth of the earth and to live peacefully with one another. Satisfied, she rose into the sky and became the sun.

‘When the Sun Mother departed in the west, the living creatures were afraid, fearing that the end of time had come, but eventually she appeared from the east and they got used to the regularity of her coming and going. The creatures lived together peacefully until, sadly, envy crept into their hearts and they began to argue.

‘Distressed, the Sun Mother came down again to make the peace. Then she gave each creature the power to change their form to whatever they liked. This was not a good decision; she was not pleased. Rats changed into bats and there were giant lizards and fish with blue tongues and feet. And hares that carried their young in pouches and hopped great distances - you call them kangaroo.) The oddest creature had the bill of a duck, teeth for chewing and a tail like a beaver’s.’

‘That’s the platypus!’ she exclaimed, unable to resist interrupting.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Sorry, go on...’

‘I will,’ he said mock-sternly. ‘The Sun Mother decided she must create new creatures and gave birth to two children, the Morning Star and the Moon, who gave birth in turn to two children who were sent to Earth.

‘They became our ancestors,’ Johnny said, smiling. ‘The Sun Mother made us superior to the animals because we have a part of her mind and will never want to change our shape.’

Changing shape - that was the problem, Harriet now knew as she left Mrs Haltwhistle’s in a daze. Under her arm was a brown paper bundle of embroidered material.

My shape is changing, she told herself again.

Mrs Haltwhistle had tried to be delicate about it.

While Johnny-can-do talked of his people’s creation myths, they had lain together and procreation had occurred.

As she felt her tight waistline she knew it was no myth.

I am ruined, she thought, and carried the parcel down into the shantytown where Johnny-can-do lived.

This must be her life now because she would not consider Mrs Haltwhistle’s option: ‘I know someone who can get rid of the little blighter for you.’

God help me, Harriet thought, but my child will not live in this godforsaken shanty town! But it will live.

Her heart tumbled as she saw Johnny-can-do. He had seen her too and he waved, his face lighting up with a huge grin.

Harriet walked up to him and grabbed his hand. ‘Come with me, Johnny,’ she urged. ‘We’re leaving. Going inland. I’m setting up my own shop and we will live as man and wife.’

***

Previously published in The New Coastal Press, 2010.

Note: The original didn’t begin with the place and date explained, as that becomes evident in the story’s telling, but I thought it was appropriate here!

If you liked this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat, which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

Saturday, 28 June 2014

Saturday Story - 'For Valour'

A short story inspired by the Help for Heroes campaign and also to commemorate the first awards of the Victoria Cross.

FOR VALOUR

Nik Morton

Victoria Cross - Wikipedia commons

June 26, 1857

‘Good heavens, she should be at home and out of sight! Isn’t she just deplorable?’ whispered Mrs Armstrong-Holmes, fluttering a lace handkerchief in front of her nose, as if there was an unpleasant smell nearby.

‘There should be a law against it,’ opined Mrs Radcliffe, looking down her hooked nose. ‘It is thoroughly common to display her condition like that!’

‘Come along, Jimmy,’ Winifred Cambridge said, gently tugging her five-year-old boy along beside her green brocade skirts. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as they walked past the two women.

Within a few moments she had forgotten their sour remarks as she was too concerned about getting through the crowds for a better view of the ceremony. Her heart was hammering in her chest and little Jimmy was near to tears himself, hemmed in by the people.

Hyde Park was crammed with representatives from all the regiments who had fought in the Crimea as well as many families and friends. Fortunately they were blessed with a fine sunny day. The slight breeze snapped at the countless colourful flags and made the bright satin and silk dresses ripple and shimmer.

Huge marquees had been set up, the tables groaning under the weight of food and drink. Coloured pennants fluttered; standing all around were the proud bearers of the regimental standards. Sunlight glinted off the metal of weapons and helmets. Across the park carried the sound of horses snorting and soldiers barking orders.

At last, a gentleman made way for her and Jimmy, doffing his smart top hat. ‘Don’t mind me, ma’am, I can see well enough over your shoulder.’

‘Thank you, sir, you are most kind.’ Winifred moved little Jimmy in front of her, his head just resting against her bump. ‘I’m hoping to see my husband, Sergeant Philip Cambridge.’

The man twirled the moustache above his Vandyke beard. ‘Bless my soul, I recall the name well.’ He bowed. ‘Charles Gledhill, ma’am, at your service. I’m the brother of Captain Daniel Gledhill.’

‘Oh,’ Winifred said, the smile swiftly falling from her face.

Charles Gledhill turned to the woman next to him and said, ‘Enid, dear, let me introduce you to Mrs Philip Cambridge. Mrs Cambridge, Mrs Daniel Gledhill.’

Dressed in fashionable black, Captain Gledhill’s widow wore a slouch hat decorated with purple and white orchids. Her dark bright eyes were in shadow and, thought Winifred, understandably puffy. ‘My dear, I’m pleased to meet you.’ She observed Winifred’s prominent bulge and added, ‘Are you quite well enough to stand here?’

Winifred smiled. ‘I must admit my back aches, but I could not miss today.’

‘No, I agree,’ Mrs Gledhill said. ‘Nor could I.’ The sun caught a glint of moisture on her eyelids.

‘At least the weather has turned out fine,’ said Winifred to lighten the mood.

‘You cannot trust the weather in June, my dear,’ said Mrs Gledhill, ‘but if the Queen is to be present you can be sure the sun will shine.’

‘They say it never sets on our Empire,’ Winifred added.

Suddenly, an eerie hush fell on the entire park. Winifred felt her heart flutter as she caught sight of the monarch. She had never been so excited in her life!

The Queen looked simply gorgeous in her ivory silk dress, the bright blue sash draped elegantly over her left shoulder. She had reigned for twenty years and looked almost as fresh as she had when she inherited the throne at eighteen. Her consort and husband Albert sat beside her in all his military finery.

Ensconced in a gold-inlaid throne, Queen Victoria sat on a dais in front of the sixty-two officers and men who were about to be honoured.

Winifred spotted her Philip standing to attention about halfway along the line. She leaned down and pointed for Jimmy. ‘See, there’s your daddy!’ she whispered. Jimmy waved and Philip saw them both and winked fleetingly: he might be a hero, Winifred thought, but he still feared the wrath of the sergeant-major who was responsible for the assembly’s protocol.

The Queen was flanked by several aides who carried cushions that held the new awards. Now she stood up and addressed the crowds: ‘It gives me great pleasure to present my personal award, the Victoria Cross, the highest and most prestigious award for gallantry in the face of the enemy, to so many brave warriors of our Empire.’

The first to step forward was Commander Raby of the Royal Navy. Two years earlier almost to the day this naval man – with the help of two others – had rescued a private of the 57^th Foot, who was wounded in both legs and lying between the trenches, and carried the soldier to safety.

Many people were stirred by the bald announcements of bravery in the London Gazette. Winifred couldn’t begin to imagine how horrendous it must have been for Philip and all these men.

The siege at Sevastopol must have been truly appalling, she thought. Every day hundreds of cannon battered down the fortifications and yet the Russians repaired them each time before the next bombardment. Ear-splitting shells shattered limbs and sanity. Soldiers manned the trenches night after night through two harsh winters.

She gleaned what little she could from the eloquent and brave newspaper reporters like Mr Russell. When he returned home eighteen months ago, Philip never spoke about it at all. Her heart went out to him as he often stared off into space, perhaps mindful of the wounds that still grew inflamed when he relived that particular day.

On 19 April, 1855, at Sevastopol, Crimea, Corporal Philip Cambridge

of the 77^th Regiment volunteered for a spiking party at the assault on

the Redan and remained with the party even after being severely

wounded. Later that same day, he went out under heavy fire to bring

to safety a wounded man.

It was notices such as this that annoyed Winifred. Those responsible made no allowance for people like her who had no idea what a ‘spiking party’ was, for goodness’ sake! Indeed, it could have been a jolly jape, like a birthday party, for all she knew. Of course Philip explained – to her great embarrassment – that he and the others were sent out to spike the Russians’ guns – that is, to make them inoperable by blocking or destroying their barrels or hammering a metal spike into the touch-hole. It sounded awfully technical – and dangerous.

It must have been bad enough to face the enemy cannon onslaught, but to actually go right up to their gun barrels seemed quite suicidal. Even now, two years after the event, she grew weak-kneed at the thought of it.

Last night on the settee in their front parlour, where they had retired after eating, Philip finally spoke in detail about the incident. While she sat with her tea and he his brandy, he said that he had felt quite scared yet strangely alive.

‘It was as if everything around me was moving slowly. My perceptions were so acute, dearest Winifred,’ he said, sipping some brandy. ‘My senses were attuned; my very skin could feel the roughness of my uniform. I could hear the blood in my veins. It was almost like a religious experience.’

‘Oh, Philip,’ she exclaimed, ‘that sounds quite sacrilegious!’

‘I do not mean it to appear that way, dearest. Perhaps when we fear death or terrible maiming, we’re closer than ever to God.’

She nodded and kissed him, tasting the strong liquor on his lips. Wiping her mouth on a napkin, she said, ‘Yes, that most probably is what you felt.’

‘Heightened senses, I imagine.’ He grinned, a twinkle in his eye as he patted her gravid bump. ‘Just like it is when I’m with you.’

Even though they had been married eight years, Winifred blushed.

She felt her cheeks glow now at the memory.

The sovereign began presenting the bronze Victoria Crosses.

At last it was Philip’s turn. He limped slightly as he approached the Queen and Winifred’s heart felt fit to burst with pride. Philip saluted and bowed his head as the VC was pinned to his chest. Her majesty leaned towards him and spoke briefly. She would be anxious to discover what the Queen had said for the rest of the day, until Philip was allowed to fall out or whatever military men do when they are dismissed.

It seemed most appropriate that all of the medals were cast from the bronze of Chinese cannons captured from the Russians at Sevastopol, making them unique. Like the men here today. Like her husband, Philip.

The days and weeks and months of anxious waiting seemed so long ago now, a distant memory, as if happening to someone else. Winifred could barely remember those sleepless nights and the terrible constricted feeling in her throat when she checked the casualty lists.

How her heart had lurched when she read Philip’s name through blurred lashes. She thanked God that he was only wounded, that he was alive. She flushed and felt selfish and awful when she realised that many of the women beside her had no consolation at all: their husbands, sweethearts and sons were not coming back, ever.

Enid Gledhill had been one of them. Her husband was a captain in Philip’s regiment and led the attack on the rifle pits in front of the Redan. They managed to drive out the Russians at the point of their bayonets, without firing a shot, but the 77^th suffered many casualties, among them Captain Daniel Gledhill. Now Mrs Gledhill stood tall and steely-eyed as the monarch honoured the living heroes. There was no such thing as a posthumous award, which seemed a little unfair, Winifred thought.

Later, when Philip limped towards her, his eyes shining bright and full of love for her, Winifred felt quite faint. He lifted up Jimmy into his arms and in front of all manner of people he gently embraced Winifred and kissed her cheek.

‘Philip!’ Winifred whispered. ‘Everybody is looking!’

He lowered his son and held his wife at arms’-length. ‘Let them!’ His chest was thrust out and the bronze cross caught the sun, scintillating. ‘Her majesty was right. Our loved ones are just as brave, to wait for us.’

Winifred gasped. ‘Is that what she said? Really?’

‘Yes. And it’s true. Throughout history, while the men go off to fight, the women have to be brave and carry on with their lives. Looking after the home and the children.’

‘I never thought of myself as being brave,’ she said.

‘Well, you are, my dear.’ Philip Cambridge, VC, unpinned the medal and put it into his wife’s hand and closed her fingers over it. ‘That’s our medal, not just mine.’

***

Previously published in The New Coastal Press in 2009.

***

If you liked this story, please consider trying my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat. It features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in a new case ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat 20-story Collection, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback for £4.99 ($6.99) and much less for the e-book versions – UK or COM.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Crooked-Cats-Tales-Mrs-Abraham-ebook/dp/B00JV8I4G4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1403793374&sr=1-1&keywords=crooked+cats%27+tales

Thursday, 5 June 2014

Writing tips - What is a novel's origin?

What’s the impetus to write a novel? It can be an idea, a phrase from a book, an incident read in a periodical, or an inspiration from some person or incident.

For The $300 Man, I stumbled on an interesting fact while doing research into another western. The Union draft allowed for draft dodgers – if they paid a substitute to take their place – and the going rate was $300. The title of The $300 Man was born. [Different novels will originate in other ways – the title may not come to mind at first, or even when the book is finished!]

In 1861, Andrew Carnegie, 25, invested in Columbia Oil Co. He never enlisted in the Civil War but purchased a substitute. His firm pumped 2,000 barrels a day; he also invested in the new steel industry. Two years later, at the war’s height, John D. Rockefeller, 23, built with four partners an oil refinery in Cleveland near Cuyahoga River. He avoided military service by buying a substitute.

Once I had my title and the initial idea about a substitute, I then had to decide on why anyone would accept the money to go and possibly get maimed or killed. The thought of being maimed brought to mind a few heroes (and villains!) who wore a hook. I decided my hero would lose a hand in the Civil War and a hook would replace it. A special hook, however, that is adaptable for use with other tools or utensils.

You might be able to start straight in on your novel – or you may need to plot it first. That’s entirely up to you. Working from a rough plot-plan makes the going easier – and usually there are still surprises on the way to make the story interesting to you, the writer.

For this novel, which would take place some years after the war, I wanted to mention $300 early on – and decided that the hero would always carry that amount – a significant reminder for him. And to create action to hook the reader, I’d have him getting robbed. These are the first words of the book, in the Prologue: The Hook:

‘$300 – that’ll do nicely!’ said Bert Granger as he finished thumbing through the billfold Corbin Molina had been encouraged to hand over. As added persuasion, Bert held a revolver in his other hand.

‘That’ll do nicely’ is a modern American phrase which I used for a bit of fun.

I wanted the novel to be more than a traditional western, though it would contain many of the genre’s traits. As I built up the storyline, I found that it contained romance, action, betrayal, family disputes, historical events, and courage. A good mix.

The writing doesn’t always go from beginning to end. That’s why I use a plot-plan document. Certain scenes might pop into my head concerning particular characters – but those scenes may be further along in the story. It doesn’t matter – put them into the plot-plan till you need them. Think of how films are made – scenes and characters are rarely filmed in linear fashion (usually it’s for convenience and cost reduction) – the film’s all slotted together in the correct order at the editing stage.

- excerpt from Write a Western in 30 Days, pp 6/7.

E-book from Amazon com bought from here

E-book from Amazon co uk bought from here

or paperback post-free world-wide from here

On Amazon.com this book has eight 5-star reviews and two 4-star reviews; on Amazon.co.uk it has an additional three 5-star reviews. The book keeps dropping into the top 100 Amazon charts. Many thanks to everyone who has bought the book, enabling this to happen. I know of at least two people who have bought the e-book and the paperback version!

This book is a very useful guide for anyone wanting to write genre fiction – that is, any genre, not only westerns. Those aren’t my words, but the opinion of reviewers on Amazon.