The Executioner by Katherine Pym

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David and Sarah Kirke live in a time of upheaval under the reign of King Charles I who gives David the nod of approval to privateer French Canadian shores. When Louis XIII of France shouts his outrage, King Charles reneges.

After several years, the king knights David and gives him a grant for the whole of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Soon, David is carried in chains back to England. He entreats Sara to manage the Ferryland plantation. She digs in and prospers, becoming the first entrepreneur of Newfoundland.

 Bio: Katherine, her husband and their puppy-dog divide their time between Seattle and Austin. Katherine loves history, especially of early Modern England which is filled with all sorts of adventure. 

~*~*~*~

King Louis XVI's execution by Sanson

Executioners are interesting although it is not easy to find a lot of data on these guys.  I know of two who were completely different. One was thoughtful, the other a menace to the public.

Charles-Henri Sanson

Charles-Henri Sanson was the executioner during the French Revolution. He executed Danton, Robespierre, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Before Camille Desmoulins was guillotined, he handed Sanson a locket of his wife’s hair. “Please return this to my wife’s mother.” 

Sanson honored Camille's wishes. While he was at the Duplessis’ household, Camille’s mother-in-law learned her daughter would be executed. Afraid Sanson would be recognized as the one who had guillotined Camille, and would Madame Duplessis’ daughter, he dashed away from their house, mournful of his vocation.  

I read once that the offspring of executioners in France were never allowed any other vocation but that of an executioner. He must marry an executioner’s daughter, thus keeping their grisly profession within a lower social stratum, and within the family. (Everyone must have been related. How many executioners could there have been in France in a given year?)

They were not allowed to live in town but at its outskirts. One of Sanson’s descendants was a known herbalist. People came to him for cures. Another Sanson, who could not bear a life of executing people, committed suicide. 

Jack Ketch somewhere in the crowd.

An English well-known executioner was Jack Ketch. There are no known pictures of what the man looked like. The one that shows up on Wikipedia and other sources is not the correct Ketch, but from the autobiography of another Jack. The clothes are not of the 17th century, either. 

English executioners were taught several ways to execute an individual; i.e., with fire, the axe, and the rope. I’m not sure if Ketch was very proficient in his vocation or a complete fool. He botched most of his executions.  

The hanging knot is supposed to be placed on the side of the neck so that when the poor wretch is thrust in the air, his neck should break, but Jack liked to put the knot at the back of the neck. This meant long strangulation. Family members were forced to run under the Tyburn hanging tree, grab the wretch’s legs and yank down, hoping somehow for a quick end. 

The Tyburn Tree

When Jack used the axe, he knocked the blade against the person’s neck several times before the head came off.  One tortured fellow was Lord Russell. It took four strokes of the axe before the man was finally dispatched. Because of his cruelty, a hue and cry reached the king. Jack Ketch was forced to write a note of apology to the Russell family, which published in 1683.

The Handsome Duke of Monmouth

The Duke of Monmouth expressly requested Jack Ketch make good use of the axe: “Here,” said the duke, “are six guineas for you. Do not hack me as you did my Lord Russell. I have heard that you struck him three or four times. My servant will give you some gold if you do the work well.”

There is no evidence if Ketch took the money, but he disregarded the duke’s request. It took several strokes to finally behead the lad. 

~*~*~

Many thanks to Wikicommons, Public Domain, &

Old and New London: A Narrative Its History, Its People, and Its Places, The Western and Northern Suburbs, Vol. V.,  1892, by Edward Walford

Priscilla Brown tries to cull her books

This contemporary romance is set on a dreamy Caribbean island, with not a bookcase in sight.

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It was the fault of Shakespeare. Wanting to check the list of characters in Richard III before attending a theatre performance, I pulled William Shakespeare Complete Works from the non-fiction bookcase. Why had this heavy book been placed on the just-reachable top shelf? Not a practical idea; however, I did manage not to drop it and break a foot.  Not having looked at the tome for who knows how long, the first thing I did was remove the crumpled brown paper cover. I wondered why whoever put  it on (me?) thought it necessary to hide the title. Not as if I'd be reading  it on the bus, when a novel's lurid cover featuring a couple in flagrante delicto might require concealment.

Having sorted out Richard's relatives, I tried to return the book to its space, but in its absence a couple of its neighbours had moved in  No way was this chubby chappie going to fit. Hence, a re-organisation of the whole contents of the bookcase became unavoidable, a task still in progress, involving an embarrassing amount of dust, and regular re-fuelling with coffee and cake.

This particular bookcase holds almost all of the household's non-fiction except for my writing-specific books, and some encyclopedia-style and size which enjoy a bookcase all to themselves.Are all these titles necessary? Surely some could go to the recycling or to the charity shop?

During the re-shelving process, with smaller books on higher shelves, some go straight back into line, and Shakespeare has found a new home on a middle-height shelf alongside literary non-fiction. I can't help delving into other volumes, and I'd like share a couple.

 A small leather-bound copy of The Tempest hid next to its big brother, as if for protection from the complete works. The maroon cover is fraying at the edges, its spine has been "repaired" (not by me) with sticky tape, but the pages are intact. The inscription, written  in black ink in elegant copperplate handwriting, intrigues me. To dear Emmie, with sincere wishes for many happy returns of the day; the signature is a flamboyant and underlined Arthur, and the date is Nov.15th 07. (That's 1907 not 2007.) Pencilled on the back inside cover, a note reads November 1905, Trees Production. I have no proof, but am assuming Arthur was a relation of mine; he may have been one of my grandmother's brothers, or perhaps may go back further. Unfortunately we don't have a comprehensive family tree, and there's no one left to ask. I do remember discovering the book during a house move twenty years ago, but at that time had no interest in following up its provenance. I have no idea when or why it came into my possession. My writer's mind is now asking questions: Who was Emmie? She's dear, but how close were she and Arthur? How old was she on this 1907 birthday? Did they go to see the play together  in 1905? Maybe there's a story here, and in case, I've kept the book with my writing ideas.

The Atlas of Languages, subtitled The Origin and Development of  Languages throughout the World, is an account of language families. While it is not the kind of book to sit down and read as one might a novel, it is eminently readable and lavishly illustrated, with maps, photographs and diagrams; a treasure for anyone interested in the thousands of languages, linguistics and writing systems historical and contemporary. An aside: this title had been advertised, and when I went to the bookshop to buy it, only one copy remained. I and another potential purchaser reached for it at the same time. We smiled. He generously let me have it...we went for a coffee...(Well, I am a romance writer!)

Pausing to dip into several more books slowed the undertaking, but provided moments of reminiscence, of joy and of sadness. With three-quarters of the bookcase contents dealt with and nothing in the "dispose of" box, I admit to a culling failure. I can't part with anything. I will just have to buy another bookcase.

Happy reading! Priscilla

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I Remember When...

(Reposted from the BWL Canadian Historical Brides blog)

photo © Janice Lang

Memories can be tricky little devils. Some are so crystal clear that no manner of dispute by people who were there can derail our version of that particular truth, even if it might be a tad faulty. They can be faded sepia by time like an old photograph, or replayed in the mind like a scratchy copy of an 8mm home movie. Others are dim recollections, fragments here and there, disconnected one from another, some even running together to form one imperfect memory. And then there are other those that remain intact throughout our lives, complete with enough sensory imagery to recall every detail.

I retain a number of such memories, some from earliest childhood…like when I was two or three and I made my first snowman (a tiny one, about the size of a baby doll) outside our apartment in the Bronx. I didn’t want to part with it, even as my mother insisted it was time for a nap. Eventually she acceded to my demands and let me take it upstairs, where we put it in the bath tub for safekeeping. Not understanding the properties of snow at the time, I woke from my nap and eagerly made a beeline to the bathroom, only to find a puddle, my red woolen scarf, and a couple of pieces of coal where my masterpiece had been. A lesson in disappointment.

My all-time favorite memory from childhood is quite the opposite. After over 60 years, it remains as vivid as yesterday.

I was six years old on Christmas Eve in 1956, when my dad took me to the gas station to have snow tires put on my mom’s car. I don’t remember why I went along with him to Frank’s Amoco, but there I was in the office, standing face-to-face with a glossy little stub-tailed black mutt. Sitting by the door to the bays on an oil-stained spot, he reacted with a joyful countenance as soon as he saw me enter. We struck up a conversation (mostly one way). But he had an expressive face and cocked his ears in a most appealing way, tilting his head when I spoke, as if he understood everything I said.

Time soon came for the car to get moved into the shop, so we all filed back out onto the blacktop. The day was chilly and blustery (I’d been wearing mittens, which I’d taken off inside). Just as we stepped out the door, a mighty blast of wind took one of my mittens and blew it across the lot. I watched in a dull sort of stupor as the mitten flew on a swirling gust and then kicked around at the curb. Before I could take a step toward it, the dog tore off, picked it up, trotted back to me, and dropped the mitten at my feet. And there was that look he gave me as he sat gazing up so expectantly, wagging his little tail….

I thought he had to be the smartest dog in the world (on a par with Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin), and I told him so. Together we climbed into the back seat of my mother’s 1955 Rambler and went up on the lift while the mechanic changed the tires. All the while we talked about what it would be like if he could come home and live with me. I told him about my two sisters and our mom, our house and yard, and “the pit,” which was the greatest place on earth for us kids to play. Like the world’s biggest playground surrounded by acres and acres of trees, and slopes to sled down in winter, picking blueberries and blackberries in summer….

The whole time we were up there on the lift, Frank and my dad had been involved in what looked to be a conspiratorial conversation, and when the dog and I got out of the car, my father was smiling from ear to ear.

“Do you want that dog?” Frank asked with a wink at my dad.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. It just couldn’t be true. But when I glanced up at my father, heart thumping with wild expectation, anticipating a let-down, he grinned at me like a little boy and nodded. Of course I wanted the dog, and so did he it seemed, almost as much I did.

Shadow and me, circa 1964

I guess Frank was relieved that the stray mutt had found a place to live and be loved. He explained that the dog had shown up at the gas station a few days before and hung around day and night following the mechanics as they went about their business—a kind of a nuisance—but they fed him scraps from their lunchboxes and he slept in the shop and earned his keep watching over the place. They called him Shadow, and that was to be his forever name.

My mom wasn’t thrilled—not one bit—and it took all we had to convince her that I would walk him, feed and clean up after him. Finally, she gave in, albeit reluctantly. After all, he was smelly and grungy with grease and dirt. So we gave him a bath in the tub. With all that filthy, soapy water gurgling down the drain, I fully expected him to turn white.

For the first few weeks, Shadow would manage to get out of the house and disappear from morning until supper time. We soon discovered that he spent that time hanging out at his old place of employment (a goodly trek, I might add)…until he discovered Paul the mailman. For a couple of years he even got picked up and dropped off at our house on the days Paul’s route was scheduled through our neighborhood. He became the most famous dog in our part of Massapequa. Wherever we went (he followed me on my bicycle), kids would always shout,“Hey, isn’t that the mailman’s dog?”

Shadow retired from the US Postal Service when Paul was replaced (I learned from my mother later in life that he was a bit of a Lothario). 

For the remainder of his life Shadow’s only job was as friend, protector, clown and trickster. He also had a lot of Scrappy-Doo in him, often getting into fights with much larger dogs and paying the price. But he survived the follies of his youth to remain with us for 14 years before crossing over the Rainbow Bridge a week shy of Christmas Eve, 1970. By that time we had shared countless adventures and had lots of fun together. And I had a trove of stories to tell my kids as they grew up. Maybe one day I’ll write them down. 

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, "The Serpent’s Tooth" trilogy: Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife,  and The Return of Tachlanad, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online retailers.

The Loaf Mass

Catherine Schuyler burning the wheat before General Burgoyne can feed it to the invading British army

Schuylerville, NY before the Battle of Saratoga

http://amzn.to/1YQziX0  A Master Passion, The story of Alexander & Elizabeth Hamilton   ISBN: 1771456744

We’re about to celebrate the first of the old harvest festivals--Lamas, or The Loaf Mass. Living in an area that still has a great deal of agriculture, I’m keenly aware of the seasons, though I’m also darn glad I don’t farm for a living. Mother Nature isn't always kind to the farmers who feed the rest of us. This year She started spring with a long stretch of uncharacteristic cold and rain, delaying planting.

Then just about the time corn and other temperature sensitive crops begin to grow, She''ll sometimes send a “a flash drought.” Not this year, though! This was generally a good year, and though things were late, there was plenty of water. When those waving green vistas turned gold, the harvest began well.

Now, in wide swatches to the east of us, where the six mule teams still pull threshers and barefoot women hoe kitchen gardens and hang clothes on lines, the corn stands high and tasseling. If we can just get a few more inches of rain into the ground, this year should provide a spectacular harvest of maize too.  

When I lived in England long ago, I was thrilled to enter my neighboring square stone Saxon church and see great loaves of bread, three and four feet high. Some had been baked in special lidded pans, but many others were carefully fashioned by hand. A stiff hard to hand-mix dough is necessary, with a nice egg wash at the end to make them shine. (It's more about keeping its shape and less about being good to eat.) Some of those loaves were shaped like sheaves of wheat and others like men. They were leaned against the altar rail among the more usual floral offerings.

When I asked who the men were, I was told that they were “John Barleycorn, the life of the fields.” This was in a pub where I sat decorously drinking a Baby Cham besides my glamorous mother--so perhaps that particular informant was thinking of the hearty, earthy local ales that were being drunk all around us. (I'd hear the phrase again, some years later, back in the States, sitting in an art house in Cambridge, MA, while watching an extremely disturbing British movie called The Wicker Man.)

Another gentlemen, of a more scholarly bent, protested. He said that these loaves were a living link to the past, to the powerful Celtic sun and smith god, Lugh. Yet another man, this one in a green tweed jacket, disagreed. He claimed the loaves represented an even more ancient Celtic divinity, a god of vegetation, one who was born, died, and resurrected again every spring, on and on, for more than a thousand years all across the British countryside. That divinity's name--since the genocide of the Roman occupation--had been forgotten.

St. Just in Roseland, Cornwall

Years later, and now baking my own bread, an Uncle who owned many, many farms presented me with a bucket of wheat that had come straight from his harvester. Cleaning out the residual dust and chaff and then grinding it into flour took time, but the bread I made from this had an extra dimension of taste, a nutty sweetness that apparently gets lost even from the finest brands of commercial flour.

 Now swaddled in a/c and so distanced from our original place in nature, enthralled by our gadgets, the Loaf Mass reminds me of a time when all humans grubbed dirt. They endured summer heat and desperately prayed for rain, hoping to raise enough food to get them and theirs through the next winter.

The impulse remains to say thank-you to the earth and the living gifts she bestows which sustain us. August always begins in my house with the baking of a few celebratory loaves, no matter how goll-durn hot it is outside.      


~~Juliet Waldron

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