History- Love It, Hate It

French troops at Talavera by Hippolyte Belange

I’ve always wanted to be an author but I never dreamed of writing historical fiction. High school and college history teachers focused on memorizing dates. Having a good memory, I aced the tests and promptly forgot all the meaningless data. Then I discovered Regency romance and mystery and social history. I was hooked. Seeing how people lived and why things happened tickled my brain like amorphous dates and events never did.

The General's hat, Talavera

The excerpt from my wip, Mayhem and Mudlarks, is an example of how I used a story about a general’s hat from the Peninsular Wars.

“Lord Major Kenyon Randall Jamieson ushered Sherry into his small office at Whitehall, pointing out a chair in front a well-worn desk of indeterminate wood, before seating himself.

            “I thought you had no friends alive here?” Sherry pulled his chair closer to the lamp on the desk and sat.

            “I did not, until John Beckett, the undersecretary, read a recounting of my exploits in Talavera with the 29th Regiment.” Major pulled a bottle and two glasses out of a drawer.

            Sherry nodded a yes. “The battle that solidified your role and started mine as an exploring officer’”

            Major poured a substantial quaff of amber liquid in each glass and handed one to Sherry. “Or made my superiors afraid of ever sending me into battle again, especially after I told the story of the two officers who had their hats blown away by a cannon ball flying overhead.”

            “Lieutenant Duguid wasn’t too happy to return the only hat recovered to its rightful owner.”

            “I’m not sure that hat belonged to General Stewart. But rank has its privileges.” Major raised his glass in salute. “Now he war is over but the fears of rebellion on the home front have all the politicians and career civil servants yanking out their hair. They have no knowledge of real intrigue. Hence men such as ourselves have increased in value.”    

            “But I refuse to spy on my fellow Englishmen.” Sherry sipped on his whiskey to drown the sour taste in his mouth. He had been approached to do so on his return to London after Napoleon was safely ensconced at Elba…

        check out britishbattles.com

The Hunger

Image by Robin Anderson

She was perpetually hungry.  For as long as she could remember the gnawing emptiness of her gut had been the very definition of existence.  She attempted to erase or ease or appease it with any manner of food. 

As a youngster, Mum had found her gobbling up live ants as they exited their nest at the corner of the front porch.  “Biddy!  Have done!!  Them’ll sting yer tongue.  Dinner’s but five off.”

Another time her older sister, Margee, caught her climbing a tree in the woods trying for a nest of hatchlings.  “Git doon, Biddy.  Them’ll peck yer throat.  Here, I’ll dig ye some worms at the creek.”

Margee was always hungry too so they ate nasty worms to tide them ‘til supper.

As much as Biddy and Margee ate, they never grew fat; nice slender girls they were.  They grew up to be nice slender young women, but none too comely either of them.

Margee married a fat man and moved away.  Biddy stayed at home with her mum in the small cottage in the woods.  There was more to eat once Margee was out of the house.  And after Mum died, there was even more.

For a time, Biddy’s hunger was slaked.  And when there was not quite enough in the larder, neither Mum nor Margee was around to tell Biddy she ought not to eat ants and hatchlings.

This period of satiety inspired Biddy to pursue other projects.  When flour was plentiful, she taught herself to bake elaborate pies and cakes in the ancient wood fired oven at the back of the cottage.  It was a tetchy thing and hard to get started, but once it was hot, the oven was a good baker.  Biddy made bread too, which she shared with the crows that hung about the cottage, talking to her from high in the trees.  Most days her conversations with the crows were the only ones she had; the few neighbors who lived close by disappeared without ever saying good-bye.  Most would find it a lonely life but Biddy enjoyed her solitude.

She discovered a joy in painting and spent many contented hours adding colors to the inside and exterior of her little house.  She was no artist, she knew, but was gratified to hear a passing stranger agree with his frolicking child that her cottage looked good enough to eat.  Biddy smiled and waved her paint brush at the man and child.  Her stomach rumbled.

Eventually, the hunger returned.  Like a fury.  Neither food from the larder nor ants, nor baby birds, nor worms could squelch the ravening pains.  Mum was long gone and no help.  But there was still Margee and her fat husband.  Biddy decided to pay them a visit.  She put on her very best black dress.

She emerged from the woods into glaring sunlight.  It hurt her eyes, which she squeezed nearly shut.  She hunched her shoulders, drawing her head downward to evade the heat.  How could Margee bear this brightness?

Fortunately, her sister’s house was close to the forest.  Enclosed by a sturdy fence, the yard was itself filled with shrubs and trees and a small vegetable garden.  Margee had done well for herself.

Two young children played in front of the house but quickly caught sight of Biddy as she stood before the gate.  The little girl, clearly the bolder of the two, ran to greet her.  “Good morning, Ma’am.  Are you here to visit Mama?”

“Mama?”  Biddy’s voice came out a croak.  It had been a long time since she had spoken to anyone.  “Yes.  If your ma’s name is Margee.”

“Yes, ‘tis.”  The girl nodded eagerly as the boy drew closer.

Biddy smiled and licked her lips.  “I am Margee’s sister.  That makes me your auntie, I suppose.” 

The boy turned and ran toward the house shouting for his mama.  The girl stood staring at Biddy.  She smiled at first but by the time Margee was on the porch, then heading down the walk, the girl’s smile had faded.  A knowing one, Biddy thought, and frowned at the little jade.

Margee did not seem pleased to see her but turned her wrath upon the children.  “Git inside you two, there’s pots in ta kitchen need scrubbing.”  The children fled back to the house.  Margee leaned on the gate but did not invite Biddy in.  “And what might you be wantin’?”

“Just a visit wit ma sister.  Ye look good Margee, yu’ve gained weight.”   And indeed she had.   Her once boney form had taken on voluptuous proportions.  “Marriage must agree wit yu.”

Margee grinned sourly.  “It did, but the old man is gone now and I’m left wit his brats.”

“They look like sweet kids to me.”

“Maybe, but they’s not worth the trouble it takes to feed ‘em.  They ain’t mine, ya know; old man had another woman b’fore me.  And I can’t look out for another husband while I have two skinny kids in tow.”

“I’ll take ‘em off yer hands.  Bring ‘em to the cottage and then ye can go husband hunting.  Let ‘em stay with old Aunt Biddy for a spell.  At least ‘til ye find another fat man to marry.”

Margee said nothing but her eyes gleamed greenly.

“Invite me in for tea?”  Biddy laid her hand on the gate latch.

Margee swatted her away.  “Not today, Bid.  But I’ll take ye up on yer offer to babysit.  I’ll bring Hansel and Gretel into the wood early tomorrow morning.  I’ll even throw in a loaf of fresh bread.”

“Thank ya, sister, I’ll take good care of ‘em, I will.”

Her stomach growled loudly as Biddy turned toward home.  She would stoke a fire in the wood stove as soon as she got there and plan a veritable feast. And serve her niece and nephew.

Old Clothes for Sale

When researching or collecting clothing from by-gone days, it is easier to find apparel of the upper classes. This is simply because the poor and working class wore their garments out, seldom leaving more than rags behind.

Cities in Europe had markets for second hand clothing from at least the 16th century on. London had markets in Petticoat and Rosemary Lanes that carried gently used items, especially frock coats and great coats, as well as extremely worn clothing. Houndsditch market specialized in threadbare attire for the poor. These markets were characterized by writers of the time as boisterous at best and crime ridden at worst. Some claimed most of the clothing for sale was stolen.

By mid-century, the journalist and reformer, Henry Mayhew described London street markets:

Some of the wares are spread on the ground, on wrappers, or pieces of matting or carpet; and some, as the pots, are occasionally placed on straw. The cotton prints are often heaped on the ground, where are also ranges or heaps of boots and shoes, and piles of old clothes, or hats or umbrellas. Other trades place their goods on stalls or barrows, or over an old chair or clothes-horse. And amidst all this motley display the buyers and sellers smoke, and shout, and doze, and bargain, and wrangle, and eat, and drink tea and coffee, and sometimes beer”.

Campfield Market Manchester

The featured drawing is by Rowlandson of the Rag Fair at Rosemary Lane.

Mudlarking

Clay Pipes

Modern day mudlarks who shift through the mucky shores of the Thames recover a lot of pieces of clay pipes. When tobacco smoking first came to  London it was a costly endeavor. Consumers loved the stuff but used it in small amounts in the tiny bowls of clay pipes. These pipes had long stems to cool the smoke before it reached the mouth. They were easy to lose and dispose of and extremely breakable.  The tide of the Thames was rough on the objects in it’s grasp but it’s mud acted as an anaerobic preservative. The pipes might break but they stuck around for centuries.

Photo- Nicola White

I Love Maps

The internet has changed the way we find things in remarkable ways. I’m still a little leery of following Google’s directions without looking at the full map myself before I get into my car, but if I need to find places that existed 200 or more years ago good tools are available. Two of my favorite interactive maps are clear to read zoomed in and easy to find specific places. 

Agas map 1561 (above) not only has clear close-ups but finds places by category and gives you a list of related sites to further your research. https://mapoflondon.uvic.ca/agas.htm

Darton’s 1814 Stranger’s guide lets you zoom into sections to show specific streets, squares and landmarks https://mapco.net/darton1814/darton.htm

CHANGES

TheNightMail is changing!! You may have noticed the new WordPress theme. But wait, there’s more!

TheNightMail was originally created as a show place for Becky and Robin’s short fiction related to their screenwriting project, FREAKTOWN. It soon morphed into a straight out site for Flash Fiction accompanied by carefully curated images. It was not long before poetry, particularly haiku, made an appearance. More recently, there have been guest author contributions as well. Yes, evolution happens.

Now TheNightMail is changing again. Robin and Becky have returned to decades old writing habits and are producing novels and novellas under TheNightMail imprint. These farcical romance and mystery stories have historical settings, so you will find new sections on the blog devoted to “Regency”, “Flash Facts” and “Publications”. We will still endeavor to punch out flash fiction pieces for your consideration but hope you’ll click around the site and see what else is available in longer form.

Thanks for reading.

Image from flickr commons

Female Trouble

She was leaking.  Again.  It seemed only to happen in public.  At home it was never a problem.  She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations.  Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.

But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.

Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.

“Bluestocking.”

Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons

1816

It would be the fight of his life.  A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat.  No, it was far more serious.  The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake.  And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second.  But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Embellishment for Haiku

Image:  Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons