Historical Fiction That Grabs Your Heart and Feeds Your Soul
It was a simple excerpt from my family’s genealogy book that grabbed my attention: “Mr. Prince at fifteen years of age entered the Armory at Springfield, Mass., as an apprentice, and worked his way up to the position of inspector.”
The Armory at Springfield? What is that?
Thus began my journey to uncover part of my family’s history that eventually unfolded to become my novel, The Legacy of Deer Run. [Read more…] about The Legacy of Family
As the bell rings yet again for another school year, ‘tis time to consider the beginnings of education in America. These roots run deeply into the very foundations of the settling of this country, for the tradition of going to school began twenty-seven years after the Mayflower arrived with the Pilgrims.
It was 1647 when the colony of Massachusetts passed the Old Deluder Satan Act, requiring any town with 50 or more households to hire a teacher for reading and writing. If there were 100 households, that upped the requirement to operating a grammar school for older students. This law was passed because parents became lax in teaching the basics of reading and writing, and the concern was that the colonists be able to read their Bibles. Hence the name of the law, so “that old deluder, Satan,” could not “keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures.”
While schools today fight to keep Christianity out of the curriculum, the education of young colonials was filled with prayers and the Bible. The usual tablet for teaching was called a hornbook, a wooden paddle with a parchment inscribed with upper and lower case letters as well as the Lord’s Prayer. The written document was affixed to the wood with a thin layer of processed cow’s horn—the colonial version of lamination.
Some youngsters began their schooling in a “Dame School” which was held in someone’s home where the children learned the basics of reading by the woman of the household. These dame schools were often the sole education for young girls.
If there was a schoolhouse in the community, it was one room and the schoolmaster that was hired was usually a young, unmarried man, who took the job before settling on a trade. Boys went to school in the winter for several weeks when there were no crops to tend. Girls (if they were lucky) went to school in the summer.
New England schools were numerous and paid for by local taxes. Farther west and south, these one-room places of learning became more scarce. The two colonies with the greatest numbers of formal schools were Virginia and Massachusetts—the first two colonies founded on American soil.
One of the more famous schoolmasters in colonial Connecticut started out teaching in the small community of East Haddam in the winter of 1773-74. The eighteen-year-old Yale grad was described as handsome, athletic and kind. Author Eric Sloan wrote that this teacher was so well liked that his students gave him a send-off party when he took a position in the larger town of New London.
“I’ll miss you,” the departing teacher said. “And I wish that part of me could stay back in East Haddam with you. I do regret there is only one of me.”
As this schoolmaster headed for his new teaching position, the rumbles of the Revolution were being felt. He joined the Continental Army while still a teacher in New London. But his other profession was as an American spy. When the British discovered secret military plans written in Latin and Greek and hidden in his shoe, Nathan Hale was arrested and then hung.
His famous last words embodied the spirit of the Patriot cause: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Nathan Hale, beloved schoolmaster, was hung on September 22, 1776.
His schoolhouse in East Haddam is now a museum overlooking the Connecticut River.
(Photos from Storrowton Village Museum, West Springfield, MA)
I admit it—I’m a complete history geek.
And few things excite me more than the arrival in my mailbox, just a day apart, of not one but TWO new releases in the non-fiction category: Bunker Hill by Nathaniel Philbrick and Revolutionary Summer by Joseph J. Ellis.
Thanks to my husband, I’ve become a fan of Book TV. Steve is like Sherlock Holmes when it comes to ferreting out authors of the American Revolution era who speak on that program in front of audiences of history addicts like myself. My husband knows I will leave everything else aside to watch such an interview. This, to me, is great “Reality TV!”
When Joseph Ellis was the guest author on Book TV, I loved watching him speak with his self-amused laugh and interesting banter about the summer of 1776 that he calls, “the crescendo moment in American History.”
But it was Nathaniel Philbrick that I was most excited to hear. I felt a connection of sorts with the “other Author” (Philbrick) who toured the Jason Russell House in Arlington, Massachusetts just a few weeks before I did in July of 2012.
“Nathaniel Philbrick!” My jaw opened wide in teen-like adulation when the historian at the Russell House told me this must be author month: Philbrick was going to visit there to do research for “Bunker Hill.”
Many folks may not even be familiar with Philbrick’s work but he has penned Mayflower, Sea of Glory, and In the Heart of the Sea, among other historical non-fiction accounts. I have not scanned more than Mayflower and, while at times it read like a textbook, his research was impeccable. He was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for that book. And I am his geeky fan. 🙂
So, touring the creaky floorboards of the 1700’s home and its owners who I write about in Fields of the Fatherless, I felt a special kinship with both the historical figures that lived there as well as the historian.
Philbrick’s book is non-fiction; mine is fiction based on actual events. In my genre, I attempt to bring to life through words the people who lived the terrifying tale that helped win American Independence. Both genres have their place on the book self. Both serve to educate and help us remember that we owe a debt of gratitude to those who came before us and sacrificed so much.
Nathaniel Philbrick may never read Fields of the Fatherless. But I will certainly peruse the pages of his well-researched book about Dr. Joseph Warren and the battle of Bunker Hill. After all, I walked every step to the top of the Bunker Hill monument as a child. History courses through my blood.
Book TV, anyone?
Burning Sky by Lori Benton is one of those riveting novels that make you regret the need for sleep. Each chapter begged me to proceed to the next and, when the final page was viewed, I reluctantly closed the book, wishing the story would continue on.
This is the tale of Willa Obenchain. After twelve years of captivity with the Mohawk tribe, the grieving young woman can barely say her own name. Her ability to speak her native English is as much a struggle as sorting through her sense of who she is. Is she still the white frontier-settler Willa or has she transformed into the woman dubbed Burning Sky by her Indian captors?
Her self-identity is further complicated by three men: a neighbor from her distant past, the Indian warrior from her adopted clan, and the stranger whose faith appears far stronger than his ability to survive the wilderness.
Willa is also faced with returning to an empty cabin that was once her home, now destined for auction because her parents were dubbed loyal to the British cause in the recently won American Revolution. How can she defend their honor when she doesn’t know where their loyalties truly were, or even worse, where her parents are?
Although these challenges threaten her sense of peace and trust in the God Who spared her life, the greatest battle for the stalwart Willa is recovering from a deeply, painful loss. Her seemingly-solid faith is in danger of succumbing to despair.
It is not surprising that author Benton is an artist, as her palette of words paints vivid descriptions of the frontier wilderness with both its beauty and harshness. But it’s the characters who are the true masterpieces. They are skillfully wrought through rich dialogue that is both credible and compelling. Benton has a depth of understanding about human nature that brings her cast of characters to an outstanding level of believability.
The history of America after the Revolution comes alive in these pages in a way that no textbook could ever teach. It is a tender yet realistic story that captures your heart and begs for a sequel.
I give Burning Sky 5 out of 5 Stars
Author Bio
Lori Benton was born and raised east of the Appalachian Mountains, surrounded by early American and family history going back to the 1600s. Her novels transport readers to the 18th century, where she brings to life the Colonial and early Federal periods of American history, creating a melting pot of characters drawn from both sides of a turbulent and shifting frontier, brought together in the bonds of God’s transforming grace.
Excitement coursed through me as I buttoned my thick sweater and wrapped my crocheted scarf around my neck. I practically raced for our rental car sitting in the dirt parking lot at the bed and breakfast where we were staying. My husband was amused at my school-girl anticipation, but he understood.
It was the day to visit the site where my great, great, great, great-grandfather had built a family cabin—a long-awaited treasure in a series of precious discoveries as I learned more about my ancestor, Daniel Prince, who had come to America in 1776. His intent upon joining the 21st regiment of the British Army was to conquer the Colonials; instead his heart was conquered by a young American farmwoman. He stayed in this country after escaping from a line of prisoners of war and the rest, as they say, is history.
But it was my family history—and I was chomping at the bit to meet up with the historian at the Williamsburg, Massachusetts historical building.
Ralmon Black is a sturdy, bearded fellow who had provided me with several interesting tidbits about Daniel (my Redcoat ancestor). The most amazing photo Ralmon had sent me in my research showed the Prince Monument. A three-foot-tall piece of granite, this perfectly shaped rock was painstakingly chiseled by a now-deceased Prince ancestor. The small edifice proclaims the following: “Site of log cabin built by Daniel Prince, a Burgoyne vet, 1782.” At the very top, an image of the British Union Jack is carved into the stone.
No one in my immediate family had ever heard of this monument! I was determined to visit it, so my husband and I made arrangements that Fall of 2009 to climb the wooded hill to the site of my grandfather and grandmother’s cabin. They raised eight children there, including my 3rd great grandfather, Daniel Prince Jr. Another rock nearby was chiseled with the words: “Birthplace of Prince twins 1784.” Daniel, Jr was a twin of James Prince and the two became famous as the oldest living twins in the 1800’s. Both reached their 90’s.
Our small party of seven began our journey up the hill. Now the site of a maple business, foliage covered the land that had once been cleared for homesteading. Our group included four Prince descendants—my nephew who lived in the area, two descendants of the twin James, and myself—the historian, Ralmon Black, his elderly aunt who put us all to shame with her stamina, and my husband, Steve. We began our pilgrimage on a chilly, sunny morning.
The closer we got to the site of the old homestead, the more excited I grew.
This was where my ancestors worked, played, lived and loved. I could feel my blood stirring.
We nearly walked by it. Trees camouflaged the remnants of the past. But there it was, standing tall amidst the ferns, looking like both monument and tombstone.
I tenderly touched the chiseled words that declared its place of remembrance for lives now long gone. Lives that shared the same blood with me. Lives that have lived through myself and all the many hundreds of descendants that have birthed since 1780 when Daniel and Mary’s first child was born.
It was a reverent moment.
My nephew and I, following the historian’s instructions, filled in the words on the stone with chalk. It made the etching more legible in the photo shown here. We caressed the stone with our fingers as photos were taken, grins wide enough to span the generations.
After what seemed too short a visit, we began the descent back down the hill. Unexpectedly, tears brimmed. I sniffed them back and then felt a gentle, persuasive urge to turn back—to fill my being with the mysterious connection of family that overwhelmed me. It was almost a physical presence of belonging. It wooed my senses to revel in my ancestors. They were so much a part of me, I could almost feel their love.
As I turned back again to descend the hill—turning back to the present—I carried their love with me.
It was the 4th Anniversary of my daughter’s death and I would have preferred to stay in bed. Keep the curtains closed. Pretend I wasn’t alive.
Instead, God spoke to my heart in a tender, inaudible voice that was both persistent and undeniable: I was to write a book.
Although I’d been a freelance writer off and on for years, writing a book had not been on my itinerary. In fact, since Bethany died from a brain tumor, I had pretty much retired my “pen,” submersing myself in my fulltime job as an RN working with special needs children. Tending their needs was a balm to my soul as I was able to bring comfort and joy to their handicapped lives. I wanted to make them live as fulfilling a life as possible—something I hadn’t been able to accomplish with my own child. She was gone and nothing could bring her back.
There was irony in me writing a book. It had always been my daughter’s dream to be a writer. Why should I be the one left behind to create words? It didn’t seem fair. But life is definitely not about fairness.
And though I was too busy to write, I began my research. The idea implanted in my heart on that dreaded anniversary was to write a historical novel based on my great, great, great, great-grandparents. I had always been fascinated with my family history dating back to the American Revolution: A British prisoner of war, falling out of the line of prisoners, wandering to the hometown of a young colonial farm woman. They met, married, the Redcoat became an American citizen, the woman birthed eight children—it was the stuff of fairytales—but it was my family’s heritage.
The amazing thing is my editor/husband never questioned my “assignment.” He went with me to the used bookstore to find books about the Revolution. He picked up library books for me. He helped me edit my first draft (it was horrible!). He coached me in ways to improve my story. He watched me act like a woman on a mission, and he never said, “You can’t do this.” I am blessed.
When my book was submission ready, reality struck. It was 2009 and the publishing industry was sinking fast. One friend in the industry told me that this was the worst time for new writers to try to submit. Unless you were a proven moneymaker, you were wasting your time.
Instead of discouraging me, I became more determined than ever. I had not spent countless hours researching, writing and editing to see my project flushed down the drain of defeat. Although it was still considered unprofessional in the literary world, I opted for self-publishing.
That decision took courage and I took some flack from those with their traditional-publishing-noses in the air. Fortunately, I was ignorant enough of the elite culture at the time to crawl into the closet of embarrassment. I plodded on. I entered contests and my book won a few awards, including Finalist in Romance at the Los Angeles Book Festival. Accolades encouraged my heart. I wrote a sequel and then another—all award winners. My third book was contracted with Sword of the Spirit Publishing and the first two will be added to that same publishing house in 2013.
My journey has not been easy. But as I anticipate my 4th book releasing with Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas in Fall, 2013, I shake my head in amazement. I’m not in awe of my capabilities for I know that anything I write is through the blessing of God’s gifts. But I am in awe of the One Who placed a call on my grieving heart and transported me on an unexpected path—a journey to fulfill my daughter’s dream. I hope to honor her memory with my work.
(Photo of hearth courtesy of Thomas Deitner)