Plantagenets as Kings of Numenor?

Fun Facts: Henry V, King of England (and claimant to the throne of France via Edward III) and Charles VI (actual King of France) agreed by the Treaty of Troyes (May 1420) that upon the death of Charles VI, Henry V and his heirs would receive the French crown. Unfortunately, both of these kings died in 1422, and Charles VI (who was given to bouts of madness) survived Henry V by two months. Henry's infant son, Henry VI (son of Henry V and Catherine of Valois--Charles VI's daughter) then became King of England and King of France, and everyone lived happily ever after--not quite. Charles VII was still in France and he had supporters who did not recognize the Treaty of Troyes. Of course, the English were still in France, as were the Burgundians who were allied with the English. These enemy forces occupied much of northern France - including Paris, and Rhiems which was the traditional place for the crowing of the French kings. Enter Joan of Arc. Under her spiritual leadership, the French lifted the siege of Orleans, and took back several other places, crushing the English in the Battle of Patay--the French equivalent to the Battle of Agincourt. The French marched to Rheims and crowned Charles VII king. The Burgundians later captured Joan of Arc at Compiegne (one of my favorite places), and turned her over to the English who invited her to the to be the barbecue in May 1431. The Burgundians eventually left the alliance with the British and no French princes recognized Henry VI's claim as King of France. Over another decade or two, the French drove the English completely from France, with the lone exception of Calais.

Why the overlong and tedious history lesson? The actual reason is because over the last few weeks I re-watched The Hollow Crown series which comprises Shakespeare's Richard II, Henry IV parts 1 and 2; and Henry V. Naturally, that got me to thinking about the actual history, and one fact leads to another, and for every sentence I included in that little synopsis, there were hundreds that I did not. I was tempted to go all Dan Carlin's Hardcore History on it and go back to Edward III and creep forward from there. I'm disappointed that I don't have the time for that, and you probably don't have the attention span to read it anyway, but there are a lot of really cool and interesting things I left out. Maybe I'll come back to some of them sometime. Anyway, I hit upon a what if. What if Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings loosely modeled his Kings of Numenor upon the Plantagenets, and the Tudor Kings and their successors were the mere Stewards of Gondor until the real kings returned? Suppose Calais is represented Minis Ithil, making the Anduin a stand-in for the channel.

I just did a search and couldn't find anyone else making that connection. I'm sure there's a reason for that. The reason being that there's no merit to the idea. It is, however, interesting to consider. Learning about Tolkien's service in WWI and the conditions in the trenches and shell holes etc., certainly makes me think he incorporated some of that in his description of Frodo and Sam's journey through Mordor. So is it unreasonable to speculate upon him borrowing a bit of the history of English succession for his mythology?

***

As for my own battle against the blank page and the growing mythology of my alternative history flintlock fantasy, I've broken 83,500 words--make that broken, bent, mangled, wrecked, strangled, beaten, brutalized, and misused that number of words. Of course, the word count is slightly less than that number because I keep my notes reminding me of things to include in upcoming parts of the story and notes on things to go back and edit all at the end of my current place in the book, so those notes are always easy to find. I was aiming for 90K words. I think I will exceed that, but I'm still hoping to remain under 100K words for completion of the book.

Here's a partial cover reveal for Clamorous Harbingers:

It's a departure from the flame motif that I used on the first two books in the series, and a little darker than the tone of the book actually merits, but I made a command decision and now I'll ride that decision into the ground.

I have to finish the book soon, because I've got another novel working in my head that I need to move on before the ideas grow weary of waiting and catch the bus to that land populated entirely by the great ideas that I never acted upon. I did write a couple thousand words on it during the week, but that was just to get it started. When I woke up one morning the ideas were banging on my brainpan for attention, demanding the respect of being converted into writing, so I wrote the opening scene which included four important characters. It's a cross country swashbuckling adventure.

***

Speaking of riding things into the ground (I know that was an entire paragraph ago, but I added the intervening paragraph after I wrote this), the Corsican Brothers graced us with their presence and forced us to ride the 4 wheeler all over the west 40 again this week. They even wore jeans instead of shorts, so I could tell they were serious about wanting to ride. It was the first thing they requested when they came through the door. Unlike last week, the machine fired up right away. I still had to jump-start it, but the process went quickly and smoothly this time. I was also helped by the fact that I put gas in it before I tried to start it this time.

***

As for the skirmish game, I think I've hit upon the proper modification to the grappling rules, but I didn't get to play test them. I also came up with an idea for handling a minefield, and another for calling in artillery and air strikes.

I've seen a number of authors on fb reading their books. I've found them really awful for the most part. My advice is as follows: Raise your laptop or webcam up so that it's level with your face. I don't want to look up your nose or have you looking down at me the whole time. Second, practice reading before you go live--better yet, don't go live. Record it and post it after you've watched it, and maybe deleted that first effort and made a second or third recording.  I mention this because I thought about reading some samples from my books and posting them online. I watched myself on the webcam and determined that as bad as those other authors look--I look worse, even withe the webcam raised to be level with my face. I decided to use a cover of the book I'm reading instead of my own made-for-radio face. The learning didn't stop there. I learned that I need practice reading the female parts. The female voice I did during the practice recording sounded like a chain-smoking old lady with a bad cold. My wife will verify that I'm being too generous to myself with that description--but she's not here to stop me, so I'll describe it as I will. Anyway, I'm hoping to read and post a chapter or two this week. We'll see. Maybe one of my friends will send me a sample of them reading from one of my books.

Fun Fact: Celebrimbor forged the three Elven rings, Narya, Nenya, and Vilya; He also designed the Doors of Durin--the doors to Khazadum--that would be the Mines of Moria for those of you who have lives beyond Middle Earth and The Lord of the Rings (Khazad-dum for the raging purists who do not have a life outside of Tolkien's creation) which bear the stars of the seven sons of Feanor. That's fitting, as Celebrimbor was the last in the line of the House of Feanor.

I may wax dull and tiresome (including some witticisms no doubt less amusing than I think they are) about the three Elven rings at a later day. For now, I'm interested in the similarities between Celembrimbor and Mintawkana, a legendary character from my Tomahawks and Dragon Fire fantasy series. Both individuals were skilled, talented, and selfless, and their actions are relevant to the epic adventures which follow. I had not considered the similarity between the two until today. Mintawkana's story is still growing, so there may be many similarities before the end.

Speaking of the fantasy series--mine rather than Tolkien's--book three, Clamorous Harbingers, is moving right along toward the finish. It's closer than I originally thought as the resolution to an important side adventure will not be resolved until the following book, so that I can dedicate the remainder of book 3 to wrapping up the matter which has been the primary matter of interest since the opening of the story. There were days this week when the story rolled along so well that the words poured forth in a steady stream from the fountain of creation to flow across the page, letting the ink color the pages like gold settling upon the stream bed. I may write the ending now, and then return to the present spot in the adventure to write forward to that climactic finish already chiseled splashed upon the final canvas in brilliant technicolor. There are only a few chapters to go, either way.

***

In other news, none of us have succumbed to the crisis du jour, although the world has nearly shut down around us. I did put the torch to some zombies--weed zombies. The weeds grew up last year (or the year before) when the weather and my time were such that I got behind on spraying. The were huge and dead. It was a pleasure to dispatch them in an infernal blaze.

The Corsican Brothers made a visit. They brought along their parents. The highlights were the barbecued pork ribs and the four-wheeler safari through the jungle that is the west 40. They never grew weary of riding the bumpy trail with its straightaways, sharp turns, and the tall grass and towering plant carcasses within which savage predators could have been lurking, poised to pounce on the unsuspecting adventurer.

"Lurk" is one of those words that sounds a bit primitive, as if it still drips rivulets of primordial soup, and sports saber-like teeth. Merriam-Webster online indicates the first known use of the word was in the 14th century. So it may be somewhat younger than that particular soup.

Speaking of soup, I attempted to read a flintlock fantasy novel this week. I picked it up for free. The GIF above illustrates my experience with the book. The book is written in the present tense, which makes every sentence slap me like that fish in the GIF. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, determined not to be repulsed by the author's poor decision on that matter. Unfortunately, he had erected a glyph of warding to obstruct my path in the form of prolific descriptions of things in which I had no interest and which did not add to the story; a story buried in ambiance is a story to well concealed to interest me. I really wanted to like this book. I was hoping to find an unappreciated, or unknown author whose work I could celebrate, recommend and discuss. I only got five or six short chapters in before the fish to the face became unbearable. I won't give the book title or author name; he has enough problems without my adding to them. Besides, he'll probably sell more books than I will. Honestly, it's much easier to criticize than to praise, but I had hoped to spend my time engaged in the latter rather than the former.

Fun fact: Julius Caesar was captured by pirates at the age of 25. To clarify, Caesar was 25. I don't know how old the pirates were. The story goes that when the pirates told Caesar the ransom to be paid for his release, he told them that they didn't know who they had captured, and he voluntary doubled the ransom. Apparently he promised the pirates, whom he treated rather disrespectfully, that he would see them all crucified after he was released. His friends returned with the ransom and the pirates released him. He was not a general at this time, but he raised a fleet and sailed back to the island where the pirates had remained. He captured the pirates and charged them two dollars each for their freedom--in other words, a buck an ear. No. He didn't release them. He imprisoned them and asked the local governor to execute them. When the governor proved reluctant, Caesar had them crucified on his own. Some sources indicate that being merciful, he had their throats cut before their crucifixion. That story begs for a funny punchline, but I'm not seeing it. Maybe you can tell me the punchline.

***

Writing Progress: Did I mention that Book 3 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series has a title? If I didn't, it does. Even if I did, it does. The title by which it shall be known, now and forever, or until I change my mind, is: Clamorous Harbingers. Yes, in keeping with the theme of the titles in the series, it is from Shakespeare. In this case it's from a line in Macbeth. I may post the line later. I will. I'm sure I will.

I know. Clamorous Harbingers sounds like the name of a really bad band. If you glance at the title without reading it too carefully, you could misread it as Glamorous Hamburgers. The misreading might make for an entertaining and eye-watering treat. (DYSWIDT?)

As for the actual progress, I don't know precisely how many words I've got into it so far because I've used a copy of Book 2 as a template, deleting an old chapter every time I'm ready to start a new chapter. (The answer if 72,337 words, precisely. I wasn't happy with that inadequate response, so I did a text selection to the end of the new material to get an exact count). I am currently finishing chapter 17. I think I have 5 to 8 chapters left, with my chapters coming in between 3,000 and 10,000 words, but most average around 5,000 words. The end is in sight--and it's even better than a sharp stick in the eye the breakfast I had in Bayeux, which was fabulous; it was huge, I tell ya.

The romances are but minor subplots (mostly) in the exciting adventure, and they're developing very slowly, what with all the fighting dragons, fighting the British, fighting the natives, capturing, rescuing, magic wielding, and trying to stay alive, and all--except for Antonio's romances; there's nothing slow about Antonio and romance.

And don't forget the new beasties. The new creatures in this book are rife with dark possibilities, but they may surprise you. Speaking of "rife," it is a fun word. Merriam-Webster.com states that the word has been around for over 900 years and that it's from:

 Middle English ryfe, from Old English rȳfe; akin to Old Norse rīfr abundant

It does sound like some old Viking word to me.

***
Last week I found time to game with my skirmish rules an encounter (between British troops, Native warriors, and young dragons) which was loosely based on an event from Book 3 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series. I won't bore you with the details, but in the game the dragons won. Pictures follow. The partially and poorly painted British soldiers represent who you think they might. The partially painted woodland Indians and primer-brown natives represent who you think they would. The plastic dinosaurs represent the two young dragons. The dragons entered upon the happening of the triggering event and they displayed neither partisanship nor mercy. They were equal opportunity hazards.

This pic is from near the end of the game. I think the soldier in peril may have escaped.

This was first contact. Unfortunately for the natives, they were able to move more quickly through the forest. This ability gave them an advantage against the soldiers, but also put them directly into the path of the young dragons at the time of the triggering event.

One of the warriors at the lower left could have escaped, but he suffered from an excess of untimely valor and became a woodland happy meal while his leader fled the scene.

Choices, choices. The dragonling, having already finished the appetizer, decides upon an entree.

There was absolutely no demand for this episode of the Kru Wars, but I had committed myself to a two part installment when I subtitled the previous one (Part I) so here it is. More pictures at the end.

Tellereth Outpost

(Part II)

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

     The terrible scream lanced into their ears from upstream—from the Nahorn side of the river. Four unarmored Kru, one armed with a bow, and the others wielding a blade of jagged steel in each clawed hand presented an unusual sight as they advanced across the gray-green grass of the plain toward the barracks. The other creature, or pair of creatures which moved as one, proved to be the source of the mind-jarring screams. A great, black spider with a human archer upon his back walked among the four savage Kru

     “What is it?” Zorereth cried from his position on the bridge, fear and doubt clawing at his thoughts.

     Kolmor shouted back, “A screaming spider. I’ve heard of them. They live in the Garkag Mountains, I’ve been told. I’ve never seen one. That thing on its back is a man. We know how to kill one of those!”

     “The noise, it hurts,” Zorereth said. “It tells me to run away.”

     “Aye, so it does. Fight it. Fight the fear. Noise can’t hurt you,” Kolmor shouted to the younger man.

     Kolmor said no more, but his mind pondered the timing of this attack. They meant to strike us while our attentions were occupied by their friends from across the river. If they had arrived only a few minutes sooner, they’d have caught us like a misplaced hand between the hammer and the anvil. We’re not deployed to fight them with most of us on the bridge, or upon the wrong side of it, but things aren’t as bad as they could’ve been.

     He looked to the enemy. He could barely see the heads of the Kru dog faces over the river barricade. One of the Kru disappeared around the back of the barracks. Kolmor stepped away from the body of the Kru he had slain only moments before, and ran for the bridge. He had to get back on the Nahorn side to lead the fight.

***

     Gendorg urged the great spider forward with the power of his own mind commanding the mount. He had received two gifts from the pale lady: the ability to control the spider, and the special arrows she had given him. He discerned from the position of the enemy that the attack by the Kru across the bridge had already failed. He rode past the barracks on his right and toward the bridge beyond at his left as he fitted an arrow to his bow. He would have to seize victory himself this day.

***

     Thormo raised his bow. He was the closest warrior to the new attackers. He stood near the abutment on the Nahorn side of the bridge. The constant, ear-piercing scream of the spider caused him to hesitate for an instant. In that moment, the archer, wrapped in bands of blue, white, and gold cloth, loosed an arrow from atop the back of the screaming spider. Thormo had the presence of mind to duck behind the solid wood wall along the bridge. With only the faintest sound of impact, the enemy arrow struck the edge of the guard wall.

     Thormo raised up and returned fire at the archer. The arrow flew at the enemy, passing beneath his raised bow arm but failing to find the archer’s body. Unfortunately, the dog face archer who had advanced beside the spider had better luck with his shot. The missile penetrated Thormo’s hauberk to lodge in a rib bone. Unable to contend with both the spider’s unnerving scream and the arrow in his side, Thormo retreated to the center of the bridge above swift waters of the Tellereth, and huddled against the guard wall. He hated to see himself act in such a cowardly fashion, but for all the courageous words he had heard and had spoken to inspire others, his mind could find no hold upon such words at this moment. Even thoughts of his wife and children eluded him.

     Two of the wild Kru, gray-skinned and barely clothed with a furred hide about the waist, dashed past the spider and over the roadway. One of them vaulted the bridge abutment and leaped down from the other side. Meanwhile, the dog face who had gone behind the barracks appeared and sprinted up the roadway toward the bridge.

     Mellereth denied the fear brought by the awful arachnidian screams, and lifted his bow. As he drew back the arrow, the string snapped. The arrow clattered to Mellereth’s feet in the premature release, and the bow bounced and shuddered within his hand. The warrior threw the bow to the bridge planking next to the arrow. He drew his sword, racing toward the dog face. As Mellereth neared the end of the bridge, the archer upon the spider loosed another arrow. The peculiar missile struck Mellereth’s scaled hauberk and seemed to disappear in a cloud of dust. Gripped by a sudden panic, Mellereth threw himself over the bridge wall, falling to the turf between the river barricade and the bridge abutment. His body shook as though seized by a momentary paroxysm before he could push away the doubt which had seized him, and take stock of his situation.

     The spearman Zanfreth had been the most distant from the new enemy’s advance. He left the breach in the river barricade and the patch of brush to face the two wild Kru loping his way. Zanfreth raised his spear and charged the nearest one. The Kru raised his twin blades high, running forward to meet the warrior’s charge. The dog face avoided the tip of Zanfreth’s spear, ducked, and rolled to slash beneath the warrior’s shield, cutting a bloody path across Zanfreth’s leg below the hauberk. Stepping back with the wounded limb, Zanfreth stabbed at the gray-skinned dog face. With one blade the Kru knocked the point away before it could pierce his coarse-haired torso, and slashed at Zanfreth with the other. Zanfreth avoided the jagged blade but his wounded leg failed him. He stumbled at the feet of the dog face.

     The other Kru didn’t follow his fellow to battle Zanfreth, but moved against the fallen Mellereth. The blond warrior hurried to rise and establish his footing to meet the fierce attack. With no shield to protect him, he had to face the whirling blades of his enemy with only his sword. The jagged blades failed to intimidate Mellereth, and he swept aside the enemy steel to jam his sword into the dog face’s naked side. The Kru yelped in pain and hopped back several steps. A third Kru raced past the dog face as that one retreated from Mellereth, and leaped in to clash with the blond warrior on his own.

     As Kolmor ran to the crest of the bridge, Zorereth upon the bridge avoided one of the spider rider’s strange missiles. He struggled against the pounding fear and sent an arrow in response. The shaft tore through a band of cloth hanging from the enemy’s arm, harming only his wardrobe but not his person.

     The wild Kru archer sprinted forward and vaulted up the abutment to the roadway. As he raised from his crouched landing, he brought up his bow with an arrow knocked. The dog face found his target and released the shaft. The iron barb of the shaft pierced Zorereth’s hauberk and stabbed into his belly. The Nahorn warrior shouted out against the pain, against the fear hammering against his courage with each intense repetition of the spider’s scream. He clenched his teeth, aimed the tip of his arrow for the Kru’s chest, and sent it swishing swift and true from his bow to the target. He watched the dog face crumple like a wineskin with a rent torn in the bottom. One of the spider rider’s strange missiles whizzing past his face jerked his attention away from the fallen Kru.

     Balured, upon the opposite bank of the Tellereth, leaped for the top of the bridge abutment. His shield caught upon the edge of the obstacle and he fell to the ground. In a flash he regained his feet and clambered up to the roadway.

     Mellereth parried the blades of the dog face who had rushed him after he had wounded and repulsed the previous Kru attacker. Mellereth’s steel bit into the naked flesh of the dog face’s side. The dog face yelped and turned away, scampering back beyond his wounded comrade, and abandoning the fight altogether. Mellereth spun about and ran toward Zanfreth who had found his feet.

     The Kru abandoned his attack against Zanfreth to slash at the attacking Mellereth. The jagged Kru blades sliced across Mellereth’s bright scales but did not wound the warrior. The dog face spun to turn his blades upon Zanfreth who took the deadly blows upon his shield.

     The first Kru Mellereth had wounded realized that he would recover from the injury, and paused to lick the wound with his long tongue. He growled in anger and dashed toward the warrior, salivating for vengeance.

     No longer troubled by two opponents, the Kru renewed his attack upon the wounded Zanfreth. He deflected the spear and slid down its length, driving one of his blades into the warrior with all his weight. The connection between the scales parted and the blade stabbed into the flesh below the shoulder. The wound burned and Zanfreth feared that the Kru blade might be poisoned. He could no longer hold back against the pressure of the spider screams and the wounds to his leg and shoulder. He broke and ran, barely turning the final flurry of the Kru’s last attack as he hurried in terror from the field.

     Upon the bridge, Kolmor romped past Zorereth to the Nahorn side of the bridge, and narrowly avoided a glimmering missile from the bow of the spider rider.

     Thormo remained paralyzed with fear, unable to move from his crouch against the bridge guard. He fought an inner battle for mastery, trying to grip and hold his will and courage rendered slippery and untenable by his wound and the incessant, fear-inducing screaming.

     Balured shielded his mind against the spider cries. He rushed across the bridge to Kolmor’s side. Balured saw that Mellereth was engaged with one enemy, and that the Kru who had put Zanfreth to flight would join against him. Balured leaped from the abutment, falling forward, rolling to his feet and launching himself toward the dog face.

    A great wave of panic had been steadily rising. Kolmor felt it crashing upon him, drowning him in fear and doubt. He struggled to move, to think at all. In an effort requiring every ounce of will that he could scrape together and focus into action, he hurled his axe at the spider rider. The axe tumbled end over end toward the rider who endeavored to nock another missile to his bow. The blade bit deeply into his ribs below the bow-arm, and stuck, wedged in his side. Kolmor’s throat voiced a victory cry.

***

     Gendag held his position upon the black mount, adding his screams to those of the spider. It was possible that he was not too seriously injured. The blade had not penetrated deeply. A number of ribs had been broken and he likely had some other painful damage that would probably heal in time. Nevertheless, his blood flowed freely, staining his wrappings of colorful cloth, and it required great focus to command the spider. If he should take another wound, or pass out from the pain, he risked losing control of the beast. He cursed the two Kru who had fallen to their deaths as they had made the difficult crossing of the Tellereth with him over the narrow but deep ravine farther upstream. If those two had not fallen, if the Kru sent to attack the bridge had waited for his approach, he might be unwounded and bearing moustached and bearded heads in victory to the pale lady. It was not to be. She would be angry, but she would heal him. He had become one of the valuable ones upon whom she had poured a portion of her power—a small, but not insignificant portion. He would return another time with a properly timed attack. For now, he directed the spider away, leaving the outpost and bridge to their defenders—this time.

     Theer gave a snarl when he realized that Gendag was riding away. He hated the human with his pretty clothes and mysterious arrows. Nevertheless, the human served the lady, and she had commanded Theer to serve under the human’s commands. If the human upon his mighty creature believed it proper to leave the field, Theer would leave with him. The dog face had hoped to see the great spider drag Nahorn defenders into its dark maw to rend and feast upon those pale bodies. He would not see that today, but if he loped away wearing his own wounds as proof of his bravery, he might delight in such a spectacle another day. Theer turned away, taking a cut from the tip of the Nahorn sword which sliced across his shoulder blade, and hurried after Gendag and the spider.

Vun saw Theer turn and flee. Vun understood that he was the last of the pack in the fight. He ducked away from the two Nahorn warriors and their swords. He ran to the end of the Nahorn barracks before wondering if he might find a narrow way at the stable in which to make a stand against these yellow beards. He stopped and turned to assess his enemy.

***

     Mellereth followed upon the heels of the retreating foe. When the thing turned to face him, Mellereth shouted a war cry and stabbed at the Kru. The dog face parried his strike and pushed him away. Balured, right behind Mellereth, crashed into the Kru, knocking him to the ground. Mellereth joined Balured, but the dog face scrambled to its feet before they could pin it to the ground. The dog face’s wicked blades held Balured at bay, but Mellereth charged in, kicking the feet from beneath the Kru.

     Kolmor, free of the near paralysis caused by the spider’s screams, hurled himself into the fight against the last of the hated Kru. The resilient dog face bounced to its feet, churning the twin blades in a slashing double windmill toward Mellereth. With the other two Nahorn warriors interfering with the dog face’s attack, Mellereth avoided the blades and drove the point of his sword through the Kru’s liver and into its spine. The dog faced dropped for the last time, coloring the hoof-trampled ground with the ichor that had keep it alive.

Copyright © 2020 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

Another episode from the Kru Wars, specifically "Tellereth Outpost Part II" will post next week if all goes as planned. The episode will add some new elements to the story as more enemies of Nahorn appear.

Today I have two books to review. Before that, let me prattle on about my writing in Book 3 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire series. I had a blast writing about captures, escapes, skirmishes, burning buildings, and a dose of banter about political philosophy. Alex, Lucette, the dragon hunters, Lee, and the smugglers are divided into various groups and are working out their separate (but connected) adventures. Young dragons, crown troops, native warriors, gryphons, and French soldiers thwart their heroic endeavors. I estimate another 40K words to the exciting conclusion.

Here's a link to the first three chapters of Book 1

If you have read and enjoyed Threading the Rude Eye, please post a review on Amazon, goodreads, and the many fantasy or alternate history oriented fb pages. As long as I'm on my knees in supplication, let me add that Book 2, Power to Hurt really needs reviews. I promise that Book 3 is even more fun and exciting than the first two books in the series.

Now, having risen from bended knee, let me tell you about a book I absolutely loved: Harlow Giles Unger's Lafayette.

When I was in school, we learned a little about Lafayette. He seemed to be a side note, a peculiar Frenchman who tagged along with Washington during the latter part of the revolutionary war. Although he was tremendously popular in America during his lifetime, we have mostly forgotten about, or have under rated his contributions to the war for independence. I've come to the conclusion that he was as indispensable as Washington. I don't see how the war would have been won without the victory at Yorktown and that victory could not have happened without the French; arguably, the French would not have been there had it not been for Lafayette.

“Such a glorious cause,” wrote Lafayette, “had never before rallied the attention of mankind. Oppressors and oppressed would receive a powerful lesson; the great work would be accomplished or the rights of humanity would fall beneath its ruin. The destiny of France and that of her rival [England] would be decided at the same moment. . . . I gave my heart to the Americans and thought of nothing else but raising my banner and adding my colors to theirs.”

Unger, Harlow Giles. Lafayette (p. 15). Turner Publishing Company. Kindle Edition. 

Unger takes the reader on a journey through the American Revolutionary War, as well as the French Revolution, Bonaparte, and subsequent events and revolutions in France up to the time of Lafayette's death. Unger includes many letters to or from Lafayette, and he details the marquis' crucial role in all of these events. One cannot help but admire and love Lafayette as presented by Unger. He is an heroic, tragic figure, instrumental in helping America achieve independence and liberty, and yet unable to bring his own nation to taste of the same blessings. Especially interesting are the letters of the American statesman Gouverneur Morris from Paris at the beginning of the revolution. He could see what Lafayette could not. Lafayette may have opened up a can of revolution in France, but the French chose license rather than liberty because they had not the same culture and history as the Americans. Lafayette remained on intimate terms with many of the founders, including Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton, until their deaths. His return tour of the 24 states in 1824 lasted over a year and was a veritable nonstop celebration of love and admiration for Lafayette.

It is a fascinating read. I rate it: Liberty's Love Story, a romantic tragedy must read for every American.

Although I was truly saddened when I had finished Lafayette because the story had ended, I felt the exact opposite when I concluded Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms.

I received this paperback from my daughter (the talented artist who won't do a book cover for me) when she graduated from college. (I know the picture is for the audio book, but it was the paperback that I read). It was one the bookstore would not buy back. Having read it, I don't blame the bookstore.

Hemingway has a way of taking a story rife with danger and excitement and running it through a fine sieve to filter out all of the interesting bits. The weak and tepid remains are what make it into his story. I guess some people like that. I'm not one of them.

SPOILER ALERT -  If you read the next paragraph you won't need to read the book at all, as the paragraph reveals absolutely everything--and may even be more exciting than the actual book.

In this story, an American who has enlisted in the Italian Army drives an ambulance during WWI and falls in love with a nurse--and the love story is just that exciting. He gets wounded, goes to the hospital, and drinks a lot. He goes back to the front. The Italian Army disintegrates. He is nearly executed. Most of the people he knew die. He escapes with the nurse to Switzerland where he drinks some more. She dies giving birth to a dead child. The end.

I rate it: Watching Paint Dry -- dull, boring, nondescript paint upon an uninteresting surface.

Well, they can't all be winners. Sure it may have layers and make commentary upon the futility of war in particular, and of life in general, of the death of nations giving birth to a stillborn peace, but a pithy short story could have made a more potent statement, and wasted less time.

For fun, here's a picture from next week's episode: