A blog post about the 2nd Earl of Chatham and the book Jacqueline Reiter wrote about him.
I read an awful lot of books of historical non-fiction. The
occasional one is excellent. I read a fair number of
contemporary documents about the siege of Cawnpore for my book, Cawnpore, but honestly there was hardly
anything that wasn’t included in Andrew Ward’s astonishing Our Bones Are Scattered. It read like a novel too. In fact, I’d
recommend it over my own book but at more than 700 pages it’s maybe a bit heavy
for a holiday read.
Most of the historical stuff I labour
through, though, is beyond awful. I hate saying this, especially when I’ve met
some of the authors, but they really can’t write, which is sad seeing that
history is essentially about telling stories. (The clue is in the name.)
So let’s hear it for the amazing and
amusing Jacqueline Reiter (a clear case of nominative determinism if ever there
was one). This is a woman who writes so well that I even read (and mainly
enjoyed) her PhD thesis. I haven’t even read my wife’s PhD thesis. (It’s also
historical and, in fairness, I’ve read most of it in bits and she is also a
brilliant writer – possibly not unconnected to the fact that she didn’t train
in history.)
Jacqueline is an excellent speaker, a decent writer of short stories, and publishes an intermittent but stellar blog, but The Late Lord is (as far as I know) her only published book.
It is a biography of the 2nd
Earl of Chatham, the son of the Elder Pitt and the brother of the Younger.
I’ve met people born into a family of
over-achievers and it’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. The poor guy
can’t make a speech or hold an opinion without somebody comparing it
unfavourably to his father or his brother. Painfully shy to start off with,
this drove him to become a virtual recluse, which meant everybody attacking him
as a stand-offish snob on top of everything else.
The
Earl should have hidden away in the country and bred horses, which seems
pretty well what he was put on the earth to do, but he had an enormous sense of
duty: to his country (which never appreciated him) and to his brother (who
knifed him in the back when it became politically convenient). Unable to star
in politics and unfitted for a professional career, he took what was
traditionally the role of the third son and tried to make a career in the army.
He was conscientious and personally quite brave (a key attribute for early
19th-century commanders), being wounded in action. His brother though, saw him
as more valuable as political cannon fodder than the traditional sort, so after
being wounded he wasn’t allowed to serve in action again until the Younger had
ended his political career. At this point, he was given command of a doomed
expedition to the Low Countries which was supposed to be a joint naval-military
operation. The venture failed spectacularly with the army blaming the navy, the
navy blaming the army and the politicians (who bore a significant amount of the
responsibility) blaming the most convenient scapegoat, which turned out to be
him. Unable to quite believe how completely he was being stitched up, he made a
totally inadequate defence and retired in public disgrace.
Failed politician and failed
general, the poor man’s main solace was his personal life until his wife went
mad and died after a long illness, leaving him distressed beyond measure. At this point the King (as far as I can see his only staunch
supporter in his life) made him governor of Gibraltar, in an attempt to give
him both an income (it goes without saying that he was broke) and a reason for
getting out of bed in the morning (which, as it happens, he very often didn’t
do, being a particular enthusiast for long lie-ins).
North View of Gibraltar from Spanish Lines: John Mace (1782)
He hated Gibraltar, but as with
almost everything else in his life, he persevered with a sense of duty and was a
solidly, if unspectacularly, good governor. The posting,
though, broke his health (he was already 65 when he arrived there) and he
returned to England after four years. For ten years he lived quietly with his
health continuing to deteriorate although, paradoxically, with the man himself
away from the public gaze his reputation began to recover. His funeral, after a
stroke in 1835, was, Reiter assures us, “in grand style” at Westminster
Abbey.
Reiter narrates the Earl’s life with
genuine sympathy and makes the politics of the early 19th century
much clearer than anybody else I’ve read. She doesn’t condescend to the
readers, but neither does she assume knowledge that most amateurs like me will
not possess. The book is indexed and annotated to within an inch of its life
(possibly more than the non-academic reader really wants) but it remains lively
and well written and a thoroughly enjoyable read. If only more history books
were written like this, more people would be interested in history.
Entertaining Mr Pepys is the third and, probably final, book in Deborah Swift’s series about Mr Pepys’ women. Although the protagonist, Mrs Knepp is an actual historical character who Pepys knew, the man himself is only incidental to the story. In fact, all the scenes featuring him could be removed without affecting the story arc at all.
In the second in the series, A Plague on Mr Pepys, Swift had moved away from the privileged world of the Pepys household in order to explore the poverty and misery of the artisanal class. This time the focus is on the world of the theatre, but again we see the way in which the mid-17th century trapped and exploited women. Mrs Knepp has been cast adrift by her uncaring father into an unloving marriage. Mr Knepp is a brute, using his wife as an unpaid servant. All that keeps her going is that she has one servant of her own who, being black, is even lower down the pecking order than she is.
Other women have more incidental roles, exchanging sexual favours for better parts in the theatre or driven mad by cruel husbands (in a scene of full-on Dickens-esque madness, she stands in the street as London burns, “her arms waving like a crazy statue”). Even Mrs Pepys complains of the cruelty and meanness of her husband though, by the standards of the time, Pepys seems to have been quite a good husband and her life was comfortable, verging on luxurious.
Samuel Pepys by John Hayls (1666)
If the first three quarters of the book reads, at times, like a feminist tract, does it give a fair picture of the position of women in the world of the period? I’m not sure that it does. We meet an orange girl whose mother was a prostitute and who is, at 14 years old, already little better than a whore herself. Bright and sassy, she still seems doomed to a miserable, and probably short, life, but this is Nell Gwynne, who is to become the King’s mistress. We hear lots about the present hardships of the characters but little about their future success.
We get a rather one-sided version of their married lives, too. We are assured that, though Mrs Knepp spends a lot of time with Pepys, they are not lovers. This is the Pepys who, we know from his diaries, will literally bend a serving girl over in a corridor and have his way with barely a break of step as he passes. But Mrs Knepp is unsullied by Pepys (though an excellent Historical Note suggests at least two lovers). Poor Mr Knepp: brute as he is, he is at least a faithful brute.
The problem that I have is not so much that the women have miserable lives but that Swift clearly believes that they are miserable mainly on account of their being women. You don’t have to be a committed Marxist to interpret the exploitation of women as an example of the general exploitation of the weak by the strong. Mrs Pepys, as we have seen in earlier books in the series, is not above casual cruelty to servants and the book does not dwell on the hardships faced by the labouring man of the period. In fact, Knepp’s business (he hires carriage horses) requires a yard full of lads who, one suspects do hard work fetching and carrying for rather more kicks than ha’pence. Even so, Mrs Knepp is quite happy to see them go without food when she spends the meat money on theatre tickets, demonstrating that the rule that the strong will exploit the weak applies across both genders.
Sadly (and uncharacteristically), Swift allows the requirements of the plot elements to over-ride the characterisation at the beginning of the story. Mrs Knepp has apparently had a very happy childhood with a father whom she loves and who seems to have loved her back. With her mother’s death, her father marries a wicked step-mother and the poor girl is foisted off on a clearly unsuitable husband after which her father cuts off all contact. It doesn’t ring true and sticks out as an obvious plot device in a book in which most of the other relationships are lovingly and credibly delineated. Even the ghastly Mr Knepp is given a back-story that makes him a sympathetic character despite his frequent cruelty.
Even with these reservations, the book demonstrates Swift’s fine grasp of her period. It’s full of convincing detail: the use of limes to avoid pregnancy; the actor-manager’s insistence on women playing roles where they are disguised as men because “Killigrew likes you in breeches so they can see your bum”; the casual prejudice against Catholics. She takes you into that world and makes it real. You hear the noises and smell the smells (and how revolting many of those smells are). If the miserable domestic life of Mrs Knepp sometimes acts as a bit of a drag on the plot we, like her, can at least escape to the theatre and the world of the King’s Players is as lively as the world of Knepp’s stable yard is dull.
The book, like the theatrical performances that are such an important part of the story, is divided into three acts. Act Three sees a dramatic change of pace. Domestic drama and sexual politics give way to the horror that is the Great Fire of London. Here Swift comes into her own. She has a flair for melodrama and, with the fire, melodrama is clearly appropriate. Swift first describes the fire as we see it in Pepys’ diary.
Elisabeth peered over Janey’s shoulder. There was an orange glow a little way off on Marke Lane.
“Fancy you waking us up for that,” Elisabeth said. ”It’s just someone’s bonfire. Someone could piss it out.”
By the morning more than three hundred houses have been burned down and the Thames is clogged with the boats of refugees fleeing the flames. We see the disaster from the point of view of several of the characters: Pepys burying his parmesan cheese in his garden; a Frenchman returning up the River from a trip across the Channel; Knepp with a stable full of straw and horses terrified by the smell of burning. We move from the detail of horses trapped in their stalls and people staring in dismay at the wreckage of their houses pulled down to make firebreaks, to a broader view of the impact of the fire on the city.
Burning of old St. Paul’s, by Wenceslaus Hollar Engraving (Yale Center for British Art)
The landscape of London was like mouth with missing teeth, full of blackened stumps and gaps. The view was alien; unrecognisable. Half-burned joists and rafters stuck out from church steeples, in the distance something exploded.
By the time the fire is burned out, relationships have been changed for ever. “It’s a purification,” one character says. “London needed it.” There is talk of how the city cannot survive, though we know, of course, that it did. Out of the fire, came a better London and, in this book, better people. Even Knepp is redeemed and, at last, Swift allows that some men do try to be decent people, even prepared to sacrifice themselves for the women they love. (No more details because spoilers!)
In the end, the fire redeems not only the characters but the book. Any criticisms that the reader has in the earlier chapters are likely to be burned away in the flames. If some of the reconciliations seem a little pat, well, it worked for Dickens, so I don’t see why Swift shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it too. She has, once again, produced a gripping and convincing tale of the Restoration. If you enjoy this period (and books like M J Logue’s An Abiding Fire) you should definitely read this one.
[This is an extended version of a review that first appeared in Historia, the on-line magazine of the Historical Writers’ Association: http://www.historiamag.com/ ]
A couple of weeks ago I posted an unashamed plug for When Stars Will Shine, an anthology of Christmas stories with a military theme, which was being sold to raise money for Help for Heroes.
This week I’m posting an article by one of the writers, Jane Risdon, explaining why she feels so strongly about this charity.
Nowadays we have a smaller army and we fight fewer wars, but we fight wars nonetheless and when the government feels the need to put young men and women in harm’s way, it still sends them. Jane’s is a military family and many of her relatives have fought and suffered for their country. She writes about her family’s history with the armed services here.
Many people question the need to go to war, but while the governments we vote for send people to fight, we have a responsibility to help those who come back damaged. Help for Heroes was born out of the disastrous failure to treat the wounded of the Afghan War with honour and dignity. Sadly, there will be other wars and the need for Help for Heroes will continue.
A family history
Last year I had the opportunity to contribute a short story for an anthology which would go on sale to raise funds for Help for Heroes. I jumped at the chance. I’ve contributed towards charity anthologies in the past, roughly one every two years, when a cause is close to my heart. Help for Heroes is such a charity.
My family has served in the British armed forces for generations, mostly in the Army but not exclusively, and we have long connections with various regiments and also with the Royal Military Academy (RMA) at Sandhurst. My maternal Grandfather served there, my Father was an Instructor there and so was an uncle, and a cousin and his two sons have passed out as Officers, during the latter part of the 20th century, and their cousin has also passed out during the mid-21st century. They all went on to serve in the various conflicts we all know about and many of which are still on-going, sadly.
Sovereign’s Parade, RMA Sandhurst
My maternal Grandfather served in WW1 and was in France. He
was gassed more than once and discharged eventually with ‘influenza,’ which I
soon realised when researching family history, is a euphemism for being gassed.
He suffered all his life from what was called, ‘spongy lung,’ and he eventually
died from being gassed, in 1955. He didn’t get any help, either mentally,
physically or financially, and therefore when he was laid off work at the RMA
every winter for three months, he and his family struggled to survive on money
they put aside every month in a small insurance policy which paid a pittance
per week when he was unable to work, fighting for every breath.
My Grandmother’s first husband served in WW1 and various
other conflicts including in Afghanistan, South Africa and India. He was
wounded at the Somme and discharged with shrapnel injuries which eventually led
to his death in 1923. Again, he did not receive any financial or psychological
help. He and my Grandmother served in the RFC (Royal Flying Corps/RAF) after
his discharge and prior to his death.
In 1916 one of my Grandmother’s brothers was giving his life
at The Somme whilst another brother was arrested and incarcerated in HM Prison
Wakefield, for his part in the Easter Uprising. I often think of this and
wonder what conversation around the dinner table must have been like for the
others left behind in a small village in Tipperary.
Of course, every household in the British Isles and beyond
experienced their loved ones being sent off to war and they had to deal with
the consequences if/when these men and women returned possibly (probably) injured,
both mentally and physically.
My paternal Grandfather and his brothers went off to WW1, having lied about their ages so they could join up. All three had been through the Duke of York School in Kent which was a boarding school for children of soldiers who were orphaned or whose family couldn’t afford to keep them. I know my Grandfather was 14 when he was in the trenches in France.
Great Uncle George in his Duke of York School uniform before he went into WW1 aged 14 ( (c) Jane Risdon 2020 )
He served in France and was posted to India where he joined the British Indian Army. He was sent to Africa in WW2 with his men – mostly Indian Sikhs – to fight Rommel, and returned to see India gain independence in 1947 when he and his family returned to England. Except my own Father, who had joined the British Army in India and was posted to Africa and various other conflicts before being sent to the RMA Sandhurst as an Instructor. From there he went to Singapore and Malaya (Malaysia) to help rout-out bandits raiding rubber plantations in Johore Bahru – where my Mother and I joined him in 1954. We lived in many countries whilst he was still serving, and one of my brothers became a ‘boy’ soldier and eventually joined the same regiment as my father and served in Bosnia, Ireland and elsewhere.
Janes’s father in Sumatra, 1947 ( (c) Jane Risdon 2020 )
A paternal Great Uncle served on submarines in WW2: one he
was on sunk. He returned home a shadow of his former self following his
experiences trapped inside for a long time. He was a talented artist and had
hoped before the war to study in Paris. Sadly, he suffered the rest of his life
with mental illness and he didn’t get the help our Forces hope to get today. He
used to book himself voluntarily into a local psychiatric hospital whenever he
felt himself losing control and he’d stay there until he felt well enough to
leave. He was not violent, just someone who’d become agitated and withdrawn,
tormented by what he’d seen and experienced.
I could go on listing relatives who served over many years, going back to the very first Army/Navy we had as a country, but I am sure every family can do this. My Great Uncle inspired me to contribute to When Stars Will Shine which is raising funds for a charity helping those suffering the physical and mental wounds which result from their service on our behalf.
When Stars Will Shine
Emma Mitchell had the idea to curate the anthology and has
been instrumental in putting the whole project together along with 24 authors
contributing their stories, and the services of the proof-reader and cover
designer have also been given freely. All funds raised from sales of the
paperback and eBook go to the charity. Emma has worked tirelessly to ensure the
success of our anthology and I really want to thank her and her colleagues as
well as my fellow authors for making our anthology such a fabulous read and
delight to be associated with.
Do please go to Amazon to discover the book and the authors involved. There are million-selling authors and first time authors and an eleven year old girl whose poem is the opening contribution. We’ve received some fabulous reviews.
This is the latest book that Sapere have been kind enough to
send me for review. It calls itself a legal thriller, but
it shares many of the attributes of a police procedural. Think Law and Order with the emphasis on the
lawyers.
Sapere sent it to me because it was
described as a historical mystery. It has a prologue in London during the
Blitz, which I felt caught the period
better than many thrillers. Most of the book,
though, is set in 1965. I can remember 1965, so, for me, it’s odd to think of
this as a historical novel, but it meets the criteria that I use. It is a book
firmly embedded in its period – so much so that I wondered if it was a reprint,
but the copyright assures me that it was written in 2019.
Not only the period, but the legal
procedures are totally convincing. At the end of the book there is a note about
the author who, it turns out, was a practising barrister. His books are based on real cases and draw on his personal
experience and this intimate knowledge of the law definitely shows through.
Although it will appeal to lovers of the police procedural who are in the
position of solving a whodunnit closely based on actual crimes, it can get a
bit turgid at times. For example, court depositions are not literary works and
many of them are reproduced in full. This can slow the narrative, but the
subject matter is generally gripping enough and I would imagine that most
people will have no trouble pushing through occasional dull passages.
Possibly in an attempt to keep the
excitement level up, the whole book is written in the present tense. I did not particularly enjoy this approach, but I found that I
was automatically putting all the verbs into the past tense as I read, so
though it occasionally jarred it was not a huge problem.
I did not warm to the protagonist
who is too much a creature of the plot to really come alive. He is provided with a family and a back story and these
incidental characters are much better fleshed out than the hero, although I
found they very often intruded because this was the only point at which I was
aware of coming in in the middle of a series. The plot, though, definitely
carried me along although the twist at the end did not come as the surprise
that it should have.
Overall this is the sort of book
that will appeal to people who like period piece detective mysteries. I imagine fans of Agatha Christie or even the Inspector Morse
books, for example, may well be in for a treat.
I reviewed this book in a piece about how I spent a lazy few days in the country and the writer (whose Twitter presence as @CandyKorman is regularly entertaining) didn’t notice the review. “Serves her right for not reading your wonderful blog carefully enough!” I hear you cry. But I try to be nice, so here it is again, with a few words about one of her other books as well.
Bram Stoker’s Summer Sublet
Out in the country without TV or internet, I was lucky to have taken a copy of Candy Korman’s Bram Stoker’s Summer Sublet, a gloriously silly spin on vampire stories, set in today’s New York. Wilhelmina (obviously cursed from birth with a name like that) is recovering from the shock of finding her fiancé in flagrante with another woman and has decamped to a stranger’s house to pet-sit her dog and strangely loquacious parrot, while her now ex-fiancé enjoys the honeymoon they would have spent together in Italy. She is in an understandably emotional state – the sort of emotional state where you might easily decide that your next door neighbour is a vampire. Having another neighbour whose name is Dr Van Helsing probably doesn’t help keep her imagination in check. Or is it all her imagination? (I’m not telling – you’ll have to read it for yourself.)
Candy Korman has a lovely prose style and writes with a strong sense of place. I felt I was in New York – quite an achievement isolated in the middle of Wales. Ms Korman has written several books based around old-school monsters and I’ll definitely be reading another.
Poed
This novella is a wonderful pastiche of Poe’s writing with lots of sly (and not-so-sly) references to his stories. Like the residents of The Usher Institute for the Study of Criminal Psychopathology, it’s nuts. But, unlike the assembly of killers hidden away in the Institute, it’s nuts in a good way. A great, short, fun read.
