Previous First
[Continuing chapter three]
Congressman Thomas Reynolds’s office was one of a handful occupying what had once been Washington’s first two-story building, the Hotel Claremont. The building was owned by the government now because the old Capitol was no longer large enough to accommodate both the House of Representatives and the Senate and all of their occupants. And these were the good offices; representatives and senators of lesser stature than Reynolds occupied offices over dry-goods and cigar stores.
The walls of Reynolds’s office were stained by the sticky haze of nearly two decades’ worth of accumulated lamp burnings. In a few places the stains were gummy enough that flies had become trapped; Travis had ample opportunity to study the desiccated corpses while waiting for Reynolds to return from what his secretary had insisted was a brief meeting down the hall. Why, he wondered, am I always the one kept waiting?
It would be different if Reynolds’s wife were here; it would be a pleasure to wait in her company. Susan Reynolds was a damned handsome woman, and Travis never saw her but that he felt that familiar stirring. She had never once given him a sign that she was interested, but he continued to hope. After all, he’d met few married women in Texas he couldn’t conquer, given enough time and opportunity.
26 September, 2019
25 September, 2019
Bonny Blue Flag 3.3
Previous First
[Continuing chapter three]
When Pakenham had left, Travis got up and walked to the framed world map that hung on the wall beside the door. So much of it was colored red, for Britain, that even the white of the Empire, dominating Central Europe, was dwarfed. How would this map look, he wondered, had the French succeeded in their revolution? Their great general, Napoleon, had been genius enough to conquer the entire continent of Europe had he not been so bold as to invade Egypt.
The general’s death, and France’s subsequent defeat, he remembered, had directly led to Britain’s claiming Louisiana. Travis had been just two years old when the United States, having rejected Jefferson’s bid for a second term because the man refused to fight for Louisiana, went to war with Britain to drive the old enemy once and for all from North America. After a promising beginning the result had been disaster. “Jefferson’s War,” they called it now, a sardonic tribute to the man who wouldn’t fight, who wasted his own greatness in the pursuit of a goal of mere self-sufficiency that was too small for the country he led.
[Continuing chapter three]
When Pakenham had left, Travis got up and walked to the framed world map that hung on the wall beside the door. So much of it was colored red, for Britain, that even the white of the Empire, dominating Central Europe, was dwarfed. How would this map look, he wondered, had the French succeeded in their revolution? Their great general, Napoleon, had been genius enough to conquer the entire continent of Europe had he not been so bold as to invade Egypt.
The general’s death, and France’s subsequent defeat, he remembered, had directly led to Britain’s claiming Louisiana. Travis had been just two years old when the United States, having rejected Jefferson’s bid for a second term because the man refused to fight for Louisiana, went to war with Britain to drive the old enemy once and for all from North America. After a promising beginning the result had been disaster. “Jefferson’s War,” they called it now, a sardonic tribute to the man who wouldn’t fight, who wasted his own greatness in the pursuit of a goal of mere self-sufficiency that was too small for the country he led.
24 September, 2019
Bonny Blue Flag 3.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter three]
“Unfortunately, sir, the feelings of the population do matter here,” Travis said. “And the blunt fact is that the people of Texas still want to be able to own slaves. They fought the Mexican Empire for precisely that right. Well, that and the ability to govern themselves without having to deal with a corrupt court and regent. But I cannot order Texans to change their minds. If we are to abolish slavery, it must be at our own speed and because it is our own idea.”
Pakenham smiled broadly. “I understand,” he said. “Really I do. So far as I’m concerned, you can keep your slaves until the Judgment. Africans are nothing but trouble in my opinion, and if you want to take that on yourselves you’re welcome to it.”
[Continuing chapter three]
“Unfortunately, sir, the feelings of the population do matter here,” Travis said. “And the blunt fact is that the people of Texas still want to be able to own slaves. They fought the Mexican Empire for precisely that right. Well, that and the ability to govern themselves without having to deal with a corrupt court and regent. But I cannot order Texans to change their minds. If we are to abolish slavery, it must be at our own speed and because it is our own idea.”
Pakenham smiled broadly. “I understand,” he said. “Really I do. So far as I’m concerned, you can keep your slaves until the Judgment. Africans are nothing but trouble in my opinion, and if you want to take that on yourselves you’re welcome to it.”
23 September, 2019
Writing Racism
Yesterday I wrote about encounters with racism, for the most part what I'd call incidental, in the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century novels I read while I was waiting for my eye to heal following surgery. One of the novels I read was Kipling's Kim, and I didn't say anything about it in the previous post because it made me think about my writing more than my reading, and yesterday's post was already long enough.
Kipling is usually dismissed, these days, as a racist imperialist (or an imperialist racist, I suppose). I'm not really interested in defending him here—my own opinion probably doesn't count for much anyway, old white and male as I am, and anyway I'm not even remotely interested in trying to defend "The White Man's Burden"; oy fricking vey—but from a writing perspective there's something about Kim that jumped out at me as I read it.
Kipling is usually dismissed, these days, as a racist imperialist (or an imperialist racist, I suppose). I'm not really interested in defending him here—my own opinion probably doesn't count for much anyway, old white and male as I am, and anyway I'm not even remotely interested in trying to defend "The White Man's Burden"; oy fricking vey—but from a writing perspective there's something about Kim that jumped out at me as I read it.
Bonny Blue Flag 3.1
Previous First
William Barret Travis leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The news from Buenos Aires was interesting, to say the least. That nephew of the great Napoleon who called himself Victor-Louis Napoleon had just contrived to have himself elected president of Argentina. From exiled comic-opera revolutionary to head of state in five years, he thought. Almost as impressive as going from failed newspaper publisher to secretary of state of the Republic of Texas in ten years. He smiled, and flicked an imaginary piece of ash from his heavily embroidered waistcoat.
Leaning forward, he wondered what it might be like to be secretary of state for the new Napoleon. I’m willing to wager, he thought, that unlike Texas, Argentina isn’t so strapped for funds that she has to gain most of her foreign intelligence from the columns of the newspapers. Turning the page of the Courier, he saw that the Federals were claiming a victory over the Confederates on one of the islands off the Carolinas. Nobody seemed to be able to exploit their battlefield successes, though, and the conflict between the two parts of the formerly United States looked set to last for years rather than the six weeks everyone had so confidently predicted last spring.
23 APRIL 1851
WASHINGTON-ON-THE-BRAZOS, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
William Barret Travis leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The news from Buenos Aires was interesting, to say the least. That nephew of the great Napoleon who called himself Victor-Louis Napoleon had just contrived to have himself elected president of Argentina. From exiled comic-opera revolutionary to head of state in five years, he thought. Almost as impressive as going from failed newspaper publisher to secretary of state of the Republic of Texas in ten years. He smiled, and flicked an imaginary piece of ash from his heavily embroidered waistcoat.
Leaning forward, he wondered what it might be like to be secretary of state for the new Napoleon. I’m willing to wager, he thought, that unlike Texas, Argentina isn’t so strapped for funds that she has to gain most of her foreign intelligence from the columns of the newspapers. Turning the page of the Courier, he saw that the Federals were claiming a victory over the Confederates on one of the islands off the Carolinas. Nobody seemed to be able to exploit their battlefield successes, though, and the conflict between the two parts of the formerly United States looked set to last for years rather than the six weeks everyone had so confidently predicted last spring.
22 September, 2019
Re-Reading Racism
I have spent the past week and a bit more or less unable to write—more specifically, unable to type, thanks to retinal surgery—and so to occupy my time I've been reading.
Well, okay, I am always reading, spending easily as much time reading as I do writing. But in this case I've very specifically been reading old novels and stories (following up my journey into Dumas the elder), from the period of the 1880s and 1890s into the first two decades of the twentieth century: titles such as Kidnapped, The Black Arrow, The Wrong Box (Stevenson); The Prisoner of Zenda, Rupert of Hentzau (Hope); Kim (Kipling); The Riddle of the Sands (Childers); and Valmouth, Santal, and Concerning the Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli (Firbank). Most of these books I had never read before; all save for the Firbank novels (which truly are uncategorizable) are adventure stories.
And, alas, all are full of incidents of what I'll call casual racism. (And dear lord, don't even ask about the misogyny...)
 |
| Title page of the novel Kim, from Wikimedia Commons |
And, alas, all are full of incidents of what I'll call casual racism. (And dear lord, don't even ask about the misogyny...)
13 September, 2019
Bonny Blue Flag 2.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter two]
“That will take some of the sting out of your having to leave everything behind,” Patton said, gazing in wonder at the stack of bills Cleburne held in his fist. They had pulled over to the side of the road—the track, really—a mile or so beyond an abandoned church two or three hours northwest of Vidalia. “Now all you need is someplace to spend it. How much is there?” he asked.
“Nelson had two hundred dollars and a note from Walker saying receipts must be provided for any horses bought.” Cleburne laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Armies are the same everywhere, I guess. McConnell had another twenty-four in coin. I can imagine how he got it.”
Patton felt a tension leave him, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore. The fact that Walker had provided money to buy fresh horses—and two hundred dollars was more than was necessary for a single rider—had to mean that it was Walker’s intent that Patton join him. The fear Nelson had brought forth had been groundless. He’d never know what the Georgian had actually intended for him, but at least he could allay his fears about his commander.
“Don’t you think we should stop now?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than a couple of hours in the last three nights, and not at all in maybe thirty hours now.”
“I’m in no better state than you,” the Irishman said. “And I don’t know I’ll be able to sleep, either, until I know that we’re past the immediate possibility of a pistol-ball in the back of the head. I’ve campaigned, Patton, more than you have. But this sneaking about is not a way of doing things I’m accustomed to.”
I rather like it, Patton was surprised to find himself thinking. He hadn’t felt this alert, this much alive, since he’d arrive at the military academy. This made him think of Stewart, and wonder what his friend had got up to since leaving. “You haven’t really explained how Stewart was able to talk you into following me,” he said.
Cleburne grinned ruefully. “He didn’t have to talk me into anything. I jumped like a fish at a fly. Just wanted some adventure, was all. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, since I’ve now more adventure than any ten men would want to swallow.” He looked about for a moment. “Let’s leave the road here,” he said, and led them into the woods a few minutes. “This should do.” He dismounted.
“I saw my share of adventure when I was with the colors, I suppose,” he continued after they had tied and hobbled the horses. “But shooting at wogs in India wasn’t my idea of a rich, full life. I thought I’d be able to build something for myself on the frontier, so I emigrated like so many other ex-soldiers. And then I found myself settling into a predictable life as a respected businessman, selling draughts to merchants and encouraging miscarriages in their mistresses.” He saw the look on Patton’s face. “Do I shock you?”
Patton shook his head, and hoped Cleburne believed him. He’d tried to present himself as a gay dog, but the truth was he knew almost nothing about women. He decided he had more important things to worry about just now. “You found that life boring?” he said. It was clumsy, but he wanted Cleburne talking about anything else.
“It was comfortable,” Cleburne said, “and that was the problem. I could have been a successful druggist in Dublin or London. Coming to North America was my way of forcing myself to build a new life, to try to be more than I’d been before. So when Stewart asked me to watch out for you—yes, Patton, he did—I didn’t think much about it—I just saddled my horse, packed an insufficient amount of food, and set off after you. I nearly lost you a couple of times; that Nelson was a good scout. But in the end your trail wasn’t too hard to follow, I guess.”
He sat up. “I’d no idea what I planned to do when I caught up with you beyond asking if I could go with you wherever it was you were going. But now that your Captain Nelson is dead, I think it’s fair for me to ask: What happens next?”
Aye, that’s the question, Patton thought. What do I dare tell him? I owe Cleburne a lot; he’s saved my life, after all. But it’s not a matter of whether I trust him. Will Colonel Walker trust him?
“Oh, God,” he said, realization dawning.
“What’s the matter?” Cleburne asked, sitting up straight.
What in the world am I going to tell Colonel Walker about Nelson? Patton asked himself.
One thing at a time, he decided. “This will take a while to tell,” he said to Cleburne. “What do you know about Texas?”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two
[Concluding chapter two]
“That will take some of the sting out of your having to leave everything behind,” Patton said, gazing in wonder at the stack of bills Cleburne held in his fist. They had pulled over to the side of the road—the track, really—a mile or so beyond an abandoned church two or three hours northwest of Vidalia. “Now all you need is someplace to spend it. How much is there?” he asked.
“Nelson had two hundred dollars and a note from Walker saying receipts must be provided for any horses bought.” Cleburne laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Armies are the same everywhere, I guess. McConnell had another twenty-four in coin. I can imagine how he got it.”
Patton felt a tension leave him, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore. The fact that Walker had provided money to buy fresh horses—and two hundred dollars was more than was necessary for a single rider—had to mean that it was Walker’s intent that Patton join him. The fear Nelson had brought forth had been groundless. He’d never know what the Georgian had actually intended for him, but at least he could allay his fears about his commander.
“Don’t you think we should stop now?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than a couple of hours in the last three nights, and not at all in maybe thirty hours now.”
“I’m in no better state than you,” the Irishman said. “And I don’t know I’ll be able to sleep, either, until I know that we’re past the immediate possibility of a pistol-ball in the back of the head. I’ve campaigned, Patton, more than you have. But this sneaking about is not a way of doing things I’m accustomed to.”
I rather like it, Patton was surprised to find himself thinking. He hadn’t felt this alert, this much alive, since he’d arrive at the military academy. This made him think of Stewart, and wonder what his friend had got up to since leaving. “You haven’t really explained how Stewart was able to talk you into following me,” he said.
Cleburne grinned ruefully. “He didn’t have to talk me into anything. I jumped like a fish at a fly. Just wanted some adventure, was all. I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, since I’ve now more adventure than any ten men would want to swallow.” He looked about for a moment. “Let’s leave the road here,” he said, and led them into the woods a few minutes. “This should do.” He dismounted.
“I saw my share of adventure when I was with the colors, I suppose,” he continued after they had tied and hobbled the horses. “But shooting at wogs in India wasn’t my idea of a rich, full life. I thought I’d be able to build something for myself on the frontier, so I emigrated like so many other ex-soldiers. And then I found myself settling into a predictable life as a respected businessman, selling draughts to merchants and encouraging miscarriages in their mistresses.” He saw the look on Patton’s face. “Do I shock you?”
Patton shook his head, and hoped Cleburne believed him. He’d tried to present himself as a gay dog, but the truth was he knew almost nothing about women. He decided he had more important things to worry about just now. “You found that life boring?” he said. It was clumsy, but he wanted Cleburne talking about anything else.
“It was comfortable,” Cleburne said, “and that was the problem. I could have been a successful druggist in Dublin or London. Coming to North America was my way of forcing myself to build a new life, to try to be more than I’d been before. So when Stewart asked me to watch out for you—yes, Patton, he did—I didn’t think much about it—I just saddled my horse, packed an insufficient amount of food, and set off after you. I nearly lost you a couple of times; that Nelson was a good scout. But in the end your trail wasn’t too hard to follow, I guess.”
He sat up. “I’d no idea what I planned to do when I caught up with you beyond asking if I could go with you wherever it was you were going. But now that your Captain Nelson is dead, I think it’s fair for me to ask: What happens next?”
Aye, that’s the question, Patton thought. What do I dare tell him? I owe Cleburne a lot; he’s saved my life, after all. But it’s not a matter of whether I trust him. Will Colonel Walker trust him?
“Oh, God,” he said, realization dawning.
“What’s the matter?” Cleburne asked, sitting up straight.
What in the world am I going to tell Colonel Walker about Nelson? Patton asked himself.
One thing at a time, he decided. “This will take a while to tell,” he said to Cleburne. “What do you know about Texas?”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two
12 September, 2019
A Possible Hiatus
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| Image from Wikimedia Commons, of course |
The most aggravating of these is the presence of a bubble of air in my left eye, which is behaving precisely the way the bubble in a carpenter's spirit level does... right down to the wobbling whenever the frame around it (i.e. my head) moves. The consequence of this bubble's behaviour is such that typing sets off a riot of jiggling movement in the affected eye. And this movement, after not very many minutes at all, induces a sort of motion-sickness. Nausea is not remotely conducive to creativity.
So I'm not currently able to write: this note is, in fact, the largest number of words I've been able to type in nearly a week. The Bonny Blue Flag posts that have been appearing this week were formatted and scheduled a week ago; when chapter two concludes I won't have any more material available for publishing. Let's hope that by the middle of the month I'm feeling better able to manage a keyboard.
In the meantime, I can read and watch movies without too much difficulty. So I've been entertaining myself by revisiting Kurosawa (Yojimbo, Sanjuro) and by doing something I'd always meant to but somehow never got around to: reading adventure novels from the nineteenth century. I started with Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo (I read the abridged version, which is 530 pages; the unabridged translation is something like 1,400 pages long and I'm not that desperate for entertainment), then went on to The Three Musketeers (Dumas was clearly paid by the word).
From Dumas I went forward fifty years to Anthony Hope's The Prisoner of Zenda. This novel was spoiled for me, somewhat, because decades ago I read George MacDonald Fraser's Royal Flash, which
Anyway, I am within the possible limits of recovery enjoying myself, and hope to resume posting on a more regular basis fairly quickly. Don't be dismayed, though, if I have to take a week off.
Stay tuned to this channel.
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