I went to a Civil War Museum in Battle Lake, Minnesota a couple of weeks ago.

A little museum with a hand lettered sign out front that said Civil War Museum. I went mainly to find fodder for a blog post.
It ranks as one of the most interesting places I’ve ever been.

I can only dream that I can convey just a bit of how much I enjoyed it.

I’m putting up about a tenth of the pictures I took.

I hope to do another blog post about the other things in this museum, the NON-Civil War related things.

The picture above is of the museum, located in an old hotel called Prospect House. I stole this picture off the Prospect House Facebook Page.

Go to Facebook and search for Prospect House & Civil War Museum to read more.

Less than half the house was open to the public. There is more to find.

Mr. Jay Johnson, who owns and runs the museum, commented that he knew some of it was just plain TRASH they hadn’t thrown out.

But one hundred year old TRASH is really fascinating.

Here is Jay Johnson. He made our tour so fascinating. He’s not a historian. He’s not sure what to do with all this stuff.

But he knows it’s very rare and cool and he’s trying to treat it with respect and share it with the world.

It’s his home. He moved there to care for his mother in her declining years and now this huge house is all his.

As he began going through the house, while his mom was still living, he realized NO ONE had EVER thrown anything away in this large hotel (well, large for the small town it is in).

In among so much cool stuff, he found a treasure trove of possessions belonging to his grandfather, James ‘Cap’ Colehour, a captain in the Civil War.

That’s his picture above holding his Spencer Rifle, given to him during the war. Below are two sleeves from a Union uniform. Cap Colehour was wounded on two separate occasions. Both times he survived, healed and went back to the fighting.

Cap saved both sleeves and brought them home with him.

And Mr. Johnson found them in the house. They’re in a glass case in the museum along with pictures and letters.

This is a close-up of the picture of one of the two sleeves. The white mark is a bullet hole. There is one in the other sleeve, too.

This is the letter, written by the doctor who treated Cap BOTH TIMES. Different battles, same doctor.

If you look really closely at the picture above, there is a hand written note on the letter from the doctor  from Cap saying,

Blood from wound acc’d (acquired?) at Muscle Shoals, March 25, 1864.

There was so much more. I could write about this forever. There were newspaper clippings everywhere. I could still be there reading.

A huge part of the charm of this was Jay Johnson talking about his family history. He was so clearly interested in it and overwhelmed by it. The museum is a work in progress. I told him he needed to get an intern from a college. He needed a traveling exhibit. He needed a website with a DONATE buttom on it.

He’d just nod and say, “Yep, those are all great ideas. I need to do that.” The man is busy just going through things.

The closed off hotel is stuffed with things he’s only begun to discover. Jay said he found a stash of letters from his great grandfather home, plus other family who were in the war.

Can you imagine the wealth of information those letters contain?
Just one large room was full of the Civil War things he’d found. Only a part of the house is open and the other rooms are full of old furniture and other yet-to-be-discovered things.

This link will take you to the Prospect House facebook page with a nice detailed story of Cap Colehour.
http://ja-jp.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=134487949918190

If you’d like to talk to Jay Johnson or help support Prospect House and Civil War Museum, contact Jay at: Prospect House, 403 Lake Ave. N., Battle Lake, MN 56515

We were fishing on a lake near the museum, which is how I ended up there.

I can’t think about my time in that museum with out grinning. Fun, cool, different, fascinating.

Mary Connealy

I was going to blog about vigilante justice (an oxymoron in most cases) in the west but then, well, the Fourth of July intruded on my thought processes.

I was traveling last week, really a necessity after the death of my mom two weeks earlier, and I returned yesterday, the Fourth of July, and became captivated by the History Channel and its hours on the founding of our nation.

This blog is not really about our west, but it is about the war that decided that future. I’ve always been unhappy that the publishing industry usually vetoed anything to do with early American history, particularly the American Revolution. No interest, they contended. Or too controversial. I sneaked several books through, mainly by starting them with a prologue in Scotland. (Yes, I can be very sneaky). But when I first started writing, I didn’t know about the “rules” and the “taboos.” Therefore, my first two books were the two “no no’s in publishing: the Civil War and the American Revolution.”

 The Civil War book escaped the taboo because it took place in the western theater of the war (New Mexico). The second, titled “Swampfire,” luckily fell into the hands of an editor who also loved early American history and was willing to take a risk.

One of my all-time personal heroes is Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox in South Carolina. Some of you out there might remember the Disney series called “The Swamp Fox.” Others might recall “the Patriot,” with Mel Gibson that was modeled after Francis Marion.

Francis Marion was a central character in “Swampfire,” and so I was delighted Sunday afternoon when the History Channel basically reported that he and other guerrilla leaders like him played a vital part in winning the war. 

After four years of  war, the British, stalemated in the north, turned their sights to the South and had they won we would be a far different nation today.

In the south, the British won battle after battle against inept American generals, and those victories encouraged the British loyalists and grew their number.   South Carolina became a caldron of divided loyalties. Father against son, brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. When we talk about divided loyalties in this country, we think about the Civil War, but none can match the ferocity of the divisions in 1780. Homes were burned by neighbors. Those thought friendly to one side or another were tarred and feathered by previous friends.  When it was thought the British were winning in the south, many changed sides, and the war in the south seemed  lost, But then guerilla bands cropped up throughout South Carolina. They cut communication and supply routes, harried the British in hit-and- run attacks and gradually bled the British.

It was Francis Marion who, among three guerrilla commanders, fascinated me. His plantation was burned because of his patriot loyalties and he lost everything. He was fifty, old for the time, but tireless. He’d fought with the Patriots for years but when the British came to South Carolina, he took to the swamps with a small band of men.   He emerged at night to attack the British and was one of the few who didn’t succumb to illness.    He drank a glass of vinegar every day and urged his men to do the same. They didn’t, and he alone was one of the few among them who didn’t suffer from malaria. Now we know that vinegar repels mosquitoes, but he just knew it worked.

The swamps were not a welcoming place and he lived there for  a year, sleeping during the day and attacking at night. They moved constantly, never spending a night in the same place. He got the name Swamp Fox when a particularly brutal British officer named Tarleton was charged with catching him and finally gave up, saying it was impossible to catch the “swamp fox.” The tales and legends are many. The History Channel reported on Sunday that although he led men in battle he himself never shot a man. In all I’ve read about him, I’d notr heard that particular fact although I did know he decried vengeance and was known to be very fair. I read diaries of men who rode with him and their devotion to him was remarkable and never wavered. Francis Marion, a bachelor, finally married his cousin at fifty-four after the war.

I’ve always believed that fiction writers can never compete with the real life characters who paraded through our history and had such a great impact on it. Francis Marion was one of the people.

 I’m stretching a point and justifying this blog because the American victory in the south led to opening of the country, especially those lands  west of the original thirteen colonies. We owe so much to those who who founded, and fought for, this nation.    I hope we as a nation we never forget them.

Do you have a real life American hero?     I’ll select by random one of those who respond and send them a copy of  “Swampfire.”

Thumbing through my ‘In This Day In History’ calendar, I saw that May 9^th is the birthday of Marie Isabella Boyd, better known as Belle Boyd, one of the most colorful and famous female spies for the Confederacy.

Born in the Shenandoah Valley area of Virginia on May 9^th, 1843, Belle grew into a confident and headstrong girl.  Her father owned a general store and managed a tobacco plantation, and when Belle was twelve he sent her to Mt. Washington Female College in Baltimore, Maryland to complete her education.  She graduated in 1861, a very well educated woman for her time, and in July of that year, somewhat by chance, her career as a spy had its beginnings.  According to her own account, on July 4th a group of drunken Union soldiers tore down a large Confederate flag that hung on her family home and replaced it with a Union flag.  When one of them cursed and pushed at her mother the already angered Belle became enraged and shot the man on the spot.   Chaos ensued as the soldiers began firing shots at the house and threatened to burn it down.  It wasn’t until the guards arrived that the near-riot subsided.  The Confederates, naturally, considered Belle’s act one of simple justice.  The commanding officer of the Union forces conducted a hurried investigation and convened a board of inquiry.   Belle, putting aside her pistols, employed her feminine wiles, augmented with tears and pretty smiles, with the result that she was exonerated. 

However, sentries were posted around her home with orders to keep a close watch on her.  The intrepid Belle used this situation to her advantage, charming at least one of the officers into revealing military secrets which Belle handed over to the Confederacy.  And thus began her career as a spy.

Her exploits grew more daring and colorful with time.  It was said that Belle Boyd was not graced with a pretty face but that she had a ‘fine body’ and ‘winning ways’ which the Union troops found quite charming.   Not for her were disguises of modestly inconspicuous housewives and dowdy travelers.  Belle reveled in her own flamboyant personality and played it to the hilt.  Employing a dramatic air and joyous recklessness, she flirted and cajoled and dissembled her way into the confidence of her enemy and stole what secrets and information they held close.  She could appear at one moment cunning and naïve the next, confounding her opponents.

Unashamedly unconventional, she shocked even close friends with her antics – visiting camps, calling on officers in their tents, dancing with both Northerners and Southerners.  Belle obviously believed in having a good time while she performed her duty.  And her secret weapon, one that got her out of hot water on more than one occasion, was reliance on male gallantry.  She had an uncanny ability to appear contrite, confused and naively overwhelmed, a skill that elicited the ‘pat her on the head and send her on her way’ response from men in authority.

By the time of her 21^st birthday she’d been arrested a half dozen times, ‘reported’ nearly thirty times and imprisoned twice.  She’d even, in one of her more sensational and romantic exploits, persuaded one of her Northern captor to marry her and switch sides!

During her second imprisonment, the summer heat and confinement took their toll on Belle’s health.  Doctors told her she needed to get away on a trip and Belle hatched a plan to resume her espionage activities by carrying Southern dispatches to England. 

In May of 1864 she boarded the three-masted schooner Greyhound, a cotton bale transport ship, under the name Mrs. Lewis.  They were barely a day out, however, when a Federal vessel began pursuit.  The risk for Belle was dire.  The Federal Government took extreme exception to those who carried messages from the Confederacy to European powers.  In an attempt to outrun their pursuers, the Greyhound’s crew tried to lighten their load by tossing overboard their cargo of cotton and even a keg containing twenty-five thousand dollars.  When capture seemed inevitable, Belle burned her precious dispatches.  The Federal forces did in fact overtake the Greyhound, boarded her and took control.   The ship was placed under the command of an Ensign Samuel Hardinge who sailed it directly astern the Federal ship Connecticut as they made their way to Fortress Monroe.

Belle was immediately struck by the young ensign and him by her.  Before they reached their destination, Sam had asked Belle to marry him.  Though smitten, Belle tarried over giving him an answer.  He was, after all, a Union military man.  When Sam aided her in effecting the Greyhound captain’s escape, however, Belle was convinced and agreed to marry him.

Sam, however, was in trouble with his superiors.  For his part in the escape he was arrested, tried and dismissed from the Navy.  Meantime, Belle had made her way to Canada, where she was still being closely watched by Federal forces.  She finally set sail for England where she did what she could to continue to aid the Confederacy while she waited for Sam to join her.  When he eventually did they were married amidst great fanfare at St. James church in Piccadilly.  One Englishman described the bride this way “Her great beauty, elegant manners and personal attractions generally, in conjunction with her romantic history … concur to invest her with attributes which render her such a heroine as the world has seldom if ever seen.”

Though Belle longed to return to her beloved South, the many outstanding Union threats against her made such an undertaking to fraught with danger.  So while Belle remained in London, Sam returned, ostensibly to visit his and Belle’s family, though some say he carried Confederate dispatches.  He was arrested as a Southern spy and tossed into prison where he fell sick.  Belle sold most of her possessions and finally wrote her memoirs, an embellished version of her exploits as a confederate spy.

In January of 1865 Belle petitioned Abraham Lincoln to release her husband, attempting to use her memoirs as leverage.  Her letter said, in part:

I have heard from good authority that if I suppress the Book I have now ready for publication, you may be induced to consider leniently the case of my husband, S. Wylde Hardinge, now a prisoner in Fort Delaware, I think it would be well for you & me to come to some definite understanding– My Book was not originally intended to be more than a personal narrative, but since my husband’s unjust arrest I had intended making it political, & had introduced many atrocious circumstances respecting your Government with which I am so well acquainted & which would open the eyes of Europe to many things of which the world on this side of the water little dreams– If you will release my husband & set him free, so that he may join me here in England by the beginning of March — I pledge you my word that my Book shall be suppressed

Lincoln did not respond to this offer. But Sam was released from Fort Delaware in February and Belle’s book, entitled Belle Boyd in Camp and Prison, was published in London by Saunders, Otley and Company in 1865.

Upon his release, Sam returned to her in London, but prison had taken its toll and he died a few months later of the ailments contracted during his incarceration.  Belle was a widow at the age of twenty-one.

Belle went on to establish a theatrical career in both Europe and America.  She married twice more and had four children. 

She died in Wisconsin while on tour at the age of 56.

A funny thing happened when I was browsing through “The West, An Illustrated History,” a new book I recently purchased from Barnes and Noble’s bargain shelf (this department is very dangerous for me). I was looking for some unique slice of western history I could blog about when I wandered upon General Henry Sibley and Col. Edward Canby.

I stopped and read with avid interest. These two gentlemen, after all, are responsible for my writing career.

Yep. Single handedly they turned me from a public relations practioner into a writer.

I had built a small public relations company after years as a journalist. I specialized in real estate and politics. A strange combination, you might think, unless you realize that many developers and Realtors have zoning issues at stake, and there’s a symbiotic relationship between local and state politicians and real estate interests.

And then I read a copy of “Military History,” a monthly magazine. I love history. I majored in journalism and minored in American History in college, and my particular interest had been the American Revolution and the Civil War, interests that continued through the years.  I’d read all the Bruce Catton books among many others on the “war of  brothers.”   One reason I picked up this particular issue of “Military History” was the featured article on the Battle of Glorieta Pass in New Mexico.

General Sibley, a Louisianan who was known to fight almost as hard as he drank – one soldier called him a walking keg of whiskey — was selected to fulfil the Confederate dream to stretch its new republic far beyond Texas, north to the Colorado goldfields and all the way west to California. He was tasked to lead 3,700 Texans to Santa Fe, take the Colorado gold fields (desperately needed by the cash-poor south) and then to California.

Ordered to stop him was Lt. Col. Edward Canby who had some 4,000 poorly trained Union volunteers. What interested me most, though, was not the battle but the relationship between the two men. The magazine article said they’d been roommates at West Point and that Sibley married Canby’s sister. But in “The West,” the author, Geoffrey Ward, said yes, they had been roommates, but that Canby had been Sibley’s “best man,” and had married Sibley’s wife’s first cousin. I’ve read other accounts that claimed similar but slightly different marital relationships.

Bells went off in my head. Loud bells. Persistent bells. I knew, of course, that many friends, roommates, even relatives had met on opposing sides of a battlefield. That sad fact was probably the source of my fascination with both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. Friends fighting friends and brothers fighting brothers for the sake of principles. There is no stronger conflict, both internal and external.

This was a powerful example of those conflicts and suddenly my mind started building scenarios. I must add here that I’d never read a paperback romance. I had loved Mary Stewart and Victoria Holt and Frank Yerby and Frank Slaughter. I had particularly enjoyed Elswyth Thane’s Williamsburg series (particularly “Yankee Stranger”) but I had never been exposed to “romances.” I didn’t even know they existed.

All I knew is I had to write this story. Although people had previously suggested I write a book, I’d always scoffed at the idea. I was a journalist. I knew “who, what, when, where and why.” Adjectives and adverbs had been trained out of me. But still . . .the idea wouldn’t go away.

My tale was on a much smaller scale than a great battle of thousands. My hero – a Yankee major – was sent to take command of a Union force detailed to stop a Rebel band intent on capturing a Colorado gold field. The two – the Yankee and the Confederate – had been roommates and best friends  at West Point. My heroine is the sister of the rebel commander. Having lost everyone else dear to her, she insisted on being with him and served as a nurse to his men. And so I had several conflicts. More than several. Between the two men, between the Yankee and my heroine, and her with her brother.

I wrote early in the morning and late at night, obsessed with the story and its conflicts.. I didn’t write for publication. I just wrote for me. I never even thought of sending it to a publisher. And like many new writers of fiction, I had great doubts about showing it to anyone. There was too much of me in that book. I would be revealing parts that I didn’t particularly want to share.

But then I  read about a “How to get published” course at Emory University and on a whim I decided to go.   Nothing to lose, right?   One of the speakers was from Georgia Romance Writers, and  all of a sudden I realized I was writing a romance. I joined the group, the manuscript won second place in a contest, and I started sending it out to publishers. I received really nice rejection letters, most of which said they were not buying civil war romances but would like to read something else. I immediately started writing a Revolutionary War book, completely unaware that it was as unwanted as the Civil War.

To make a long story short, the Revolutionary War book, “Swampfire,” sold, then the Civil War story, “Between the Thunder,” was pursued by two editors. I learned then never say never.    Write what you have to write.

All those feelings came rushing back when I read again the story of Glorieta Pass: the feverish writing, the pain of  rejection letters, the joy of a sale.

But back to the battle.  The Union forces defeated the rebels, and General Sibley headed back to Texas with what was left of his forces. Col. Canby followed at a distance but did not attack again. He was later accused by some in the  War Department of not attacking the remaining southern forces because of the relationship with Sibley.

My interest in the war continues in many of my westerns. The end of the Civil War sent hundreds of thousands former soldiers west. The rebels went because there was little left of their homes. The northerners went because they had been exposed to life outside of factories and small farms. Opportunity beckoned, especially with ever new discoveries of gold and silver.   But they all took emotional as well as physical scars with them and that, of course, make for great heroes.

So thank you, General Sibley and Col. Canby. I owe you both much.

I love a good historical, and any story with an unlikely hero is bound to find its way onto my keeper shelf. When I discovered Gone With the Wind, I found both, as well as a love for Civil War era tales. Imagine my surprise when I found out one of the most surprising tales of the era took place almost within walking distance of where I was born in Jefferson County, Texas.

Picture it: Five thousand Union sailors in a flotilla of seventeen vessels against 44 Confederate artillerymen at the command of an Irish saloon owner. Sounds like the making of a sound defeat or a Hollywood action movie, doesn’t it?

In truth, it is the story of a band of soldiers called the Davis Guards, or Company F of the First Texas Heavy Artillery Regiment stationed at tiny Fort Griffin on the mouth of the Sabine River. Their stunning victory is one that Confederate President Jefferson Davis called “one of the most significant military victories in world history.”

Richard “Dick” Dowling started life in County Galway, Ireland. After immigrating to New Orleans then losing his family to yellow fever, Dowling settled in Houston in the mid-1850s, where he established a chain of saloons. The most successful of these, the Bank of Bacchus, was situated on Courthouse Square in downtown Houston and was, according to several sources, the first business in the city to boast gas lighting.

At the outset of the war, Dowling enlisted and eventually found himself assigned to the remote outpost of Fort Griffin (near the city of Sabine Pass, Texas). To pass the time – which moved quite slowly in the mosquito-ridden lowlands – Dowling drilled his men on artillery exercises. These lazy-day activities came in handy on September 8, 1863 when a flotilla of seventeen Union vessels appeared on the horizon. While the four-dozen men scrambled to their well-rehearsed positions, the brown waters where the Sabine River poured into the Gulf of Mexico filled with enemy ships. The first two crafts were quickly disabled by the Davis Guard sharpshooters, blocking the channel and effectively keeping the other fifteen ships out of the river.

At the end of the battle, 350 prisoners had been taken and the enemy had retreated leaving significant amount of supplies, weapons and ammunition behind. Lt. Dowling and his men were heroes, hailed by President Davis and commemorated with medals melted down from Mexican silver.

Interesting fact: two streets in downtown Houston are named for Dowling. The first is obviously Dowling Street. The second is Tuam, named for the city of his birth. And ironically, the Yankees couldn’t best him but the yellow fever that took his family back in New Orleans did. Dowling died in 1867 of the disease, just a few scant years after his stunning victory. Not the ending I would have written, but still quite a story!

So, what sort of history can you find within walking distance of your birthplace?

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Leave a comment to get your name in the drawing for a copy of The Confidential Life of Eugenia Cooper.

 Kathleen’s Website

Thanks Petticoats & Pistols for having me here today! Why did I join this anthology? Everyone’s enthusiasm made me want to take part. The Wild Rose Press’s editors’ interest in our proposal increased our desire to write the novellas. We all chose a different time, either before, during, or after the war in my case, and we dove in.

My family’s experiences inspired my story, Are You Going to the Dance? With TWRP’s support, it all came together easily. I enjoyed it so much I have written two other novella’s since, and I have one out now with Red Rose Publishing, titled Pure Pleasure, and have sent another novella, a werewolf historical, to The Wild Rose Press for consideration. Along with all our anthology stories, I’m anxious to see Are You Going to the Dance? in print because the story that inspired it is dear to my heart.

What did towns that didn’t choose to fight in the war do instead?

Jeanmarie Hamilton: My great great grandfather came to Texas from Holland. In Texas he married my great great grandmother who immigrated from Alsace Lorraine. My story, “Are You Going to the Dance?” is inspired by their experiences, but does not represent them. He and many folks in the German communities of the Texas Hill Country believed in preserving the Union. If he had been caught taking the mules he raised to the Union army, he could have been shot by the Confederates.

The town where he lived in Texas voted to form local militia units rather than send men to the Confederate army. His son joined the local militia unit and took part in protecting their own town. All of the local citizens, farmers, and ranchers enjoyed frequent weekend gatherings to dance and socialize.

My great great grandmother was also independent and it is said of her that she would have rather been outside riding her horse and working with the men than working inside the house. One night, she found an Indian brave who had been wounded during a raid, but not discovered by the farmers.

 She saved his life without the farmers knowing, and as a result his tribe never again raided their farm.

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Excerpt from Are You Going to the Dance?:

Lexie went to the front window. Friends from the Lipan camp had come to trade. They carried baskets of honey. Though she was happy to see them and trade for the honey, she worried for their safety. With the raids uncontrolled, and the militia convinced the Lipan were responsible, it could be dangerous for them to venture so far from home.

“I’ll see what they need. It shouldn’t take long. Go ahead with what we’ve started.” Lexie put down the dress pattern, left the parlor and opened the front door. The Indians were almost to the front yard. She waited on the porch for them. They waved to her and she returned their greeting.

The group included the fathers of two families and their older sons, all of whom she knew and trusted. She greeted them in their language, having learned from her mother. “Good evening. It’s good to see you.”

They answered her in kind, smiles on their darkly tanned faces.

“What are you carrying?” She waited while they started across the front lawn.

“Honey to sweeten your bread,” said Mr. Domingo, the older of the two fathers.

Lexie stepped down from the porch. She crossed to meet them and accept their honey. Hoof beats rumbled from the direction of town. Lexie recognized Clay’s militia racing down the road. They’d seen the Indians. Fearing Clay and his men would arrest them, she warned, “Go. You must get away. Hurry.”

The Indians left their baskets and ran for the corn field. As they started to hide among the tall stalks of corn, she turned to flag down Clay and his militia. Seeing that the oldest of the sons, Ynez Domingo, had been watching to make sure the others got away, she yelled and waved her arms at Clay, desperate to distract him from following the Lipan.

When the militia never slowed, she screamed Clay’s name. He and his men kept on. In horror she watched the brave turn toward her as an explosion blasted from someone’s rifle. He spun and ran deep between the rows of corn stalks.

“No!” she cried. She ran after her Lipan friends, desperate to protect them. Her hem caught on dried leaf stems. Strands of her hair tangled in the waving leaves.

Clay galloped his horse hard toward her. Before she could stop him, he swept her up in front of him in the saddle. In turmoil, she held onto his arms while he guided his horse to the back of her home. He reined his mount around the baskets of honey and toward the far side of the house to the back porch. He eased her from his lap and her feet touched the ground. She spun to glare at him.

“Go inside and stay down,” he warned.

* * * *

Jeanmarie Hamilton considers Texas home as it was to some of her ancestors — men who were farmers, ranchers, judges, lawmen, — women who would rather be outside riding their horses than inside cooking, who learned to speak the language of the Lipan Apache, stopped hangings, and raised children. She loves writing stories set in the Southwest about heroes and heroines, the problems they overcame, their fears and triumphs and the forever love they can’t deny. You can find her at:  http://www.jeanmariehamilton.com/

Susan Macatee: I didn’t know there were towns that didn’t chose to fight. I do know for a fact that families on both sides tried to keep sons from fighting. Many shipped their sons either North or South to keep them out of the war, but it often backfired as they ended up fighting for the other side.

Caroline Clemmons: Although there was no local militia in my story, I know there were in many parts of the country.  My family moved into town, and there were a lot of people migrating to escape the conflict.

Mary Ann Webber: I haven’t heard about this happening in either the North or the South. Emotions ran so high in the South that people were cautious about appearing “soft” on the Union. In my story, No Decorum, Juliet sits in church and nervously listens to her father’s sermon. She’s afraid the congregation will eventually notice he doesn’t speak out against Lincoln like the other ministers in town. Also, she is unnerved because he’s allowed a Yankee soldier to attend their church — that is, until she falls in love with the young man.

Jennifer Ross: Obviously, towns in Canada didn’t choose to fight in the American Civil War.  But I was totally amazed at the number of individual “Canadians” (we weren’t a country yet) who volunteered or were “recruited” for the Union Army.   Check out this site (Susan Macatee!) it even includes a Canadian woman who volunteered, posing as a man!

Isabel Roman: I had no idea that there were towns who decided not to fight! In school (and I have a BA in American History) I was taught that it was a country-fight: everyone took a side, families were torn apart, the literal north vs. south was the end all be all of the entire existence of the country! I’ve since learned the American Revolution was the true civil war, and there were entire sections of people who never fought, didn’t care because they weren’t involved, and barely kept up with the news. Huh.

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Jeanmarie will give away to 1 lucky commenter: $10(USD) The Wild Rose Press gift certificate. Remember, everyone who leaves a comment on the day of the post for each of the six days will be entered into a drawing to win a copy of Northern Roses and Southern Belles signed by all six authors.

The Civil War as you’ve never read it! Northern Roses and Southern Belles now available from The Wild Rose Press!

Blog Tour Calendar:

Saturday August 1: Isabel Roman is at Night Owl Romance http://www.nightowlromanceblog.blogspot.com/

Sunday August 2: Jeanmarie Hamilton is at Petticoats & Pistols http://petticoatsandpistols.com/

Monday August 3: Susan Macatee is at Love Romance Passion http://www.loveromancepassion.com/

Tuesday August 4: Caroline Clemmons is at Slip into Something Victorian http://slipintosomethingvictorian.wordpress.com/

Wednesday August 5: Mary Ann Webber is at Arkansas Diamonds http://arkansasdiamonds.blogspot.com/

Thursday August 6: Jennifer Ross is at Romantic Crush Junkies http://www.romanticcrushjunkies.blogspot.com/

Every writer’s process is different for developing stories. Personally, I can’t just sit down and write a story.  I have to see it, hear it…the characters have to talk to me, compel me to want to learn more about them, to care about them.  In November I began to embark on writing a new western series…well…almost.  I began to think about writing a new series. This is the first time I have finished a book and didn’t have another already in the works. I was starting with a blank page and this vague idea to write a series based on the founding and development of a western boomtown. But where, who, and what historical element could I tap into? Too many options can be a mind-boggling thing!  I went on a research book-buying spree and poured over books about pioneer doctors, pioneer teachers, mail-order brides, western madams, desperados, railroads and ranchers–in a sense I was mining for characters, sparks of inspiration to help me form a community. I read countless intriguing tales, and yet, nothing really called to me, no voices or faces of new characters formed in my mind. I’m not one to take notes (I’d only lose them), either something takes hold in my mind or it doesn’t. I needed a series title, character names. For me, these are cornerstones I use to build a visual foundation and a connection to my story.

It wasn’t until I’d gone to Borders to find a World War II book for one of my boys that I happened across GREAT MAPS OF THE CIVIL WAR—not just a map book, but one with a pocket on each page containing a map of a major battle, and on the pages were accounts and information about the cartographers who drew those maps. I had never realized what a huge part these map makers played in the war or the danger they faced. Cartographers on both sides risked their lives to survey battle grounds where opposing troops patrolled and capturing the others maps was a prized advantage. I was mesmerized for days and began to see an image of a hero, a scarred and callous Civil War veteran and skilled cartographer who’s life now has no direction (much like my writing at this point!).  One tidbit of information that had stuck out in my mind from earlier readings about post Civil War was the movement of the railroad and their campaigns to lay routes into the mining territories of Colorado, Wyoming and Montana. Since I’ve already written a series in Wyoming, the other two states were at the top of my list for possible locations. This newly forming hero was the perfect candidate for a railroad surveyor team to travel  into the western frontier for possible railroad routes. 

I still had no heroine, no set location, no burning drive to lead this team in one direction or another. All through November and December as I shopped and worked on my house I chipped away at the hardpan of my brain, trying to find the vein of my story.  As of last week I was still waffling between Colorado and Montana…did the heroine meet up with the men on the trail or was she already in a mining community–was she a widow, a virgin, a spitfire with a grudge against the railroad? What was the significance of their first encounter? Nothing would stand out and sing to me. I needed a bolt of lightening!! Just one strong jolt to charge this story and bring my characters to life!

This past Monday my boys went back to school and as I drove home in the blessed silence, I heard it, this soft whisper in my mind…Copper Canyon.  I don’t know where those particular words came from—perhaps the copper faucets I’ve been trying to decide on for the new kitchen (still haven’t moved home), but this moment was the lightening strike I’d been waiting for, the charge of inspiration to breath life into these characters who’d been bumping around in my mind, waiting to be grounded. I got home and Googled Copper and Montana. Wouldn’t you know, Montana had the world’s largest copper mine, first discovered in the early 1870’s–the major vein wasn’t tapped into until the 1890’s–the early claims were just enough to start small booms–Eureka!!!!!

After two months of mining and chiseling out vague impressions of character story arcs my Copper Canyon Series has life!  In the past few days I’ve been fleshing out the characters and storyline which has been unfolding in my mind with bold color. This is a picture I sent to my editor with the suggestion for the series title…the working series title, which could change–as they usually do  

This is where I’ll be for the next few months, and the months after that as I dig into the second book in the series–which is already coming along nicely–strange how a single spark can make such a huge difference.

Here’s wishing lots of lightening strikes for all y’all!  Anyone else’s new year starting off with a bang?  I hit a bit of a bump on Tuesday when I got a speeding ticket after dropping off my boys *ggg* My resolution was to find balance in ‘09, so I guess that balanced out my excitement from Monday–I guess I need balance and Cruise Control  ;-)

My upcoming June Anthology STETSONS, SPRING AND WEDDING RINGS, with authors Jillian Hart and Judith Stacy, is already up for Pre-order on Amazon! 

A big thanks to the ladies from Petticoats and Pistols for inviting me to come blog! 

When I was working on my new release, The Bargain, I had a rare chance to do research with my husband.  (Not the way you’re thinking.  LOL.)  Like the hero in my story, my husband is a doctor, although in a different specialty.  The history of medicine is a hobby of my husband’s, so he enjoyed sharing with me what it was like to be a doctor back in the 1800’s.  I’d like to share with you what I discovered.       

The first Medical College in America was founded at the University of Pennsylvania in 1765.   American medicine in the mid-19th century was a far cry from today’s curriculum of 4 years of college, 4 years of medical school, and 3-6 years of residency training.

Most aspiring doctors would spend a few months in a medical school for 2 terms, often without having a college degree, then spend a year or two apprenticed to a practicing doctor where they would learn the practical aspects of patient care.  Medical students were renowned for their raucous and drunken behavior.  Most medical schools in America were privately owned and run by individual doctors.

 Medical techniques were still rudimentary.  No anesthesia, save for perhaps intoxicating the patient with liquor, was available at that time for surgery – even ether was not yet available.  A surgeon was prized for his ability to perform operations quickly due to the pain, and a good surgeon could, for example, amputate a leg in about 2 minutes.

Antibiotics were still decades in the future, so post-op infections were the rule, with mortality rates for even simple operations running about 50%.  Wounds were usually cauterized with boiling oil or hot pokers after surgery.  The operating theaters in hospitals were often located in towers or in a separate building so that other patients could not hear the screams of the surgery patients.  Surgeries of the abdomen or chest were uniformly fatal.

Medicine theory was still grounded in the passive, nature-based principles of Hippocrates, a Greek physician from 4^th century BC, and Galen, the 2nd century AD Roman physician. Some herbs were available in 19^th century America and some plants were used, such as the foxglove plant which provided digitalis for dropsy, or congestive heart failure, but the mechanism of action was unknown and doses were not precise.

Hospital wards were unsanitary to say the least – often 3-4 patients shared a bed, and one could often awaken to find oneself sleeping with the corpse of a bedfellow who had passed on during the night.  Doctors had little knowledge of the germ theory, which was doubted and ridiculed by some doctors, so handwashing between patient visits, or even between the doctor doing an autopsy and examining his next patient, was rare.  No wonder people would do most anything to avoid going into a hospital when they could.

With standard medicine in such a state, many people sought out herbalists or homeopaths who, even if their nostrums were ineffective, at least did little harm and let the patient heal by themselves if possible.  This was preferable to the frequent bloodletting or provision of emetics and strong purgatives to make the patient vomit or have diarrhea which were among the “heroic medicine” treatments most doctors used at the time.

Of necessity, medical practice advanced during the Civil War, possibly due to the sheer number of patients. Attention began to be paid to basic hygiene as cause and effect perhaps became more readily apparent, and army physicians began to compare notes on epidemics and infection. Slowly, new methods of dealing with traumatic injuries were developed and patient care overall began to improve, although it was still primitive. Some believe that medicine advanced more during the Civil War than during any other four-year period in history.

My latest release, The Bargain, takes place in a Union field hospital in the closing days of the Civil War. It is the jumping off point for my Western series, Finding Home. Researching the medical practices of the time gave me a greater sense of admiration for the doctors of the Old West and what they went through to try to help others. 

I have an autographed copy of my new release The Bargain to give away. I’ll draw a winner from all the comments.  Thanks in advance for stopping by to leave a comment. 

The Bargain is available in print & e book from www.whiskeycreekpress.com 

I always enjoy hearing from readers.  You can write to me at catherinestang@cox.net

You can check out my releases at www.catherinestang.com 

My blog is www.cathystang.blogspot.com  My newsletter is http://groups.yahoo.com/group/catherinestang.   

Civil War Widows 

In Petticoat Ranch, my hero Clay fought in the Civil War as did Sophie’s first husband. Research can really lead you into fascinating areas. I saw this head line on a story the other day.

Gertrude Grubb Janeway, age 93, died Friday Jan. 19, 2003, at her home in Blaine, Tenn. She lived in a three-room log cabin bought for her by her husband in 1927. She was the last surviving widow of a Union soldier. Her husband, John Janeway, died in 1937 at age 91. She married her husband in 1927 when she was 18 and he was 81. In an interview in 1998 she said they sparked for three years because her mother would not sign for her to marry. As a Union widow pensioner Janeway received $70 per month from the Veterans Administration until the day she died. Gertrude never remarried and talked all her life about how much she loved John. So that article led me to this one:

Alberta Martin, 97, Confederate Widow, Dies

The person thought to be the last-known Confederate widow, Alberta Martin, was born Dec, 4, 1906, and died at age 97 in Alabama on May 31, 2004. In 1927, at age 21, she married William Jasper Martin, then 81. William and Alberta had one son. Mrs. Martin died nearly 140 years after the Civil War ended.Her marriage in the 1920s to Civil War veteran William Jasper Martin and her longevity made her a celebrated final link to the old Confederacy.And, do you think we’re done yet? No!

Widow recalls marrying Civil War veteran

The publicity surrounding Alberta Martin’s death prompted relatives of Maudie Celia Hopkins of Arkansas to reveal that the 89-year-old was in fact the last civil war widow.

Any veterans in your past?

My father, Jack Moore—who never did much traveling at all until he retired, spent a year and a half in Korea. There’s traveling for you. Can your parents remember when the lights went on? My mom and mother-in-law can. Ask them about it. You can see the amazement in their eyes at the miracle of an electric light bulb. At church one day someone mentioned WWII and I asked the lady who brought it up, ‘Did your husband go to war?’ She said, “Everybody went.”

I remember someone saying Laura Ingalls Wilder came west on a wagon train and lived to see a rocket launched into space. It’s just not that long ago.

Tell me what the oldest person you know lived through. World War II? The Dust Bowl? The Depression? And if you don’t know the answer to that, go talk to them. Have you ever heard the saying,

“When an old man dies, a library burns down.”

There is a book in everybody’s story, and a library in an old person’s story.

Who’s the oldest person you know? Tell me about your own living history.