Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Trust, But Verify ...

November
OAS Photo
So as fate would have it, I awakened in the wee hours of Tuesday. Rolling over and checking my timepiece, I saw that it was barely 0415. Too damned early to get up.

As I rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep, a small part of my brain (I like to call it the "pain in my ass" part of my brain) whispered, "Don't you have a doctor's appointment today? At like 1500, meaning you'll have to leave work early then make the time up later."

I lay there, I thought about it. If I got in before 0700, I would only have to make up maybe an hour, no problem really. But what the heck, I'm tired. I want to sleep.

The PITA part of my brain just gave me a smug look and whispered, "Oh well, I'm sure you know best."

0500, well before sunup, I said, "The heck with it, I'll get up now. I'll still get in wicked¹ early."

So up I got, to the shower I went, and some time later arrived at my place of employment. The sun was almost up (it came up at 0653 according to my sources) so I went in and got to it.

At 1345 I departed work for a 1500 medical appointment. I arrived at the appointed time (which of course was 15 minutes early) and checked in.

The nice lady at reception asked my name, my address, and kept glancing from the computer to me, as if the world was somehow off its axis.

"Uh, your appointment is Wednesday."

In my mind I'm thinking, "And today is Wednesday, is it not?"

But no, it most certainly was not.

Yes, I had arrived at my 1500 appointment early ...

Twenty-four hours early.

I could have sworn on Monday that the nice lady who scheduled the appointment had said, "We have a couple of times tomorrow," at least that's what I think I heard, "and some on Thursday."

Thinking more about getting it over with, rather than actually paying attention, I said "Let's shoot for tomorrow." (Really, I swear that's what I said.)

Maybe the lady said she had times on Tuesday and Thursday, maybe I just heard it that way. We'll perhaps never know.

I did check the appointment data I'd sent to my cell phone after the fact. Yup, clearly said the 20th of November, not the 19th.

So today, WEDNESDAY, I get to try again.

Source
Like Buck was wont to say, "It's always sumthin' ..."



¹ A very New England adjective, means "very." So "wicked early" = "very early." Trust me on this one. I was born in New England, I speak the lingo. Well, most of it anyway, I don't say "chowdah," I say "chowder." At least I think I do ...

Tuesday, November 19, 2024

History is My Thing

History
Mosaic by Frederick Dielman. Located in House Members Room,
Library of Congress Thomas Jefferson Building, Washington, D.C.
Source
The figure of History, in the mosaic's center, holds a pen and book. On both sides of her, there are tablets mounted in a marble wall with benches on either side of the tablets. The tablets contain the names of great historians. One tablet contains the names of the ancient historians Herodotus and Thucydides in brighter gold, followed by Polybius, Livy, Tacitus, Bæda, Comines. The other tablet contains the name of the modern historians Hume and Gibbon in brighter gold, along with Niebuhr, Guizot, Ranke, and the Americans Bancroft and Motley. At the foot of one of the tablets is a laurel wreath symbolizing peace, and at the foot of the second tablet is an oak wreath symbolizing war. A palm branch designating success rests against the wreaths and tablets.

The female figure on one side of History is Mythology. As the symbol of the theories of the universe, she holds a globe of the earth in her left hand. The Greeks' female sphinx to her right represents the eternally insoluble Riddle of the World. Tradition, the aged woman seated on the other side of History, represents medieval legend and folk tales. She is shown in the midst of relating her old wives' tales to the young boy seated before her. The distaff in her lap, the youth with a harp in his hand (a reference to the wandering minstrel of the Middle Ages), and the shield are reminders of a past age. The mosaic includes ancient buildings from the three nations of antiquity with highly developed histories: an Egyptian pyramid, a Greek temple, and a Roman amphitheater.

Along with the mosaic panel representing Law above the north fireplace, this mosaic was prepared in Venice, Italy and sent to the Jefferson Building to be put into place. Both mosaics were made of pieces, or tesserae, which were fitted together to provide subtle gradations in color. (Ibid)

While it is tempting to continue on immediately with the series I began with the Battle of Towton, it requires more research before I can continue. The Wars of the Roses were long and ever-so-complicated. Spanning thirty years (1455 to 1487, Towton falling near the beginning in 1461), the next big battle after Towton wasn't until 1471. Oh sure, there were lots of other things going on in that span of time, but here's the thing, I haven't done enough research to write on that time period. Without the research, the writing would be hollow.

For what it's worth, I think we'll catch up with Graham of Masongill in the future, he didn't die of his wounds, but they did leave him horribly scarred. The two commoners, Rufus and Thomas, will also return, I'm just not sure when. There is much on my plate at the moment.

Anyhoo ...

Why do I write so much about historical events (some admittedly fictitious but set in a framework of what actually was going on at the time)?

I don't recall when exactly I was bitten by the history bug, but I do know that it was early in elementary school. I knew something of history in 1st Grade because when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered "fighter pilot." At some point I had seen a picture book of World War I aircraft and the pilots that made them famous. It stuck in my mind.

So I fell in love with history, specifically military history, at a very young age. Though I never became a fighter pilot (weak eyes) my love of history never faded.

But why military history?

Another topic which caught my interest in elementary school was World War II. Our little school library had a series of books regarding that war, mostly from the American perspective, simply written, with lots of pictures.

Having three uncles (technically one was a great-uncle) who had fought in World War II made a personal connection for me. And no, none of them ever talked about the war. That fact came in handy later in life when I learned that those who would talk about it, weren't there.

At any rate, from there I "graduated" to the Napoleonic Wars. Again, it was a book, this time I think it was in junior high, on the Battle of Waterloo (which launched a lifelong fascination with that battle).

Military history has lots of drama, lots of very big personalities, lots of action. I suppose that's what attracted me as a young lad. It's only later, growing up, that I learned the cost of all that.

War is mud, blood, piss, shit, horrible pain, and the loss of life on a scale which beggars the imagination. It's filthy and perhaps the furthest thing from glory there is. Yet ...

It is also heroism, sacrifice, the willingness to die so that others might live. There must be some sort of glory in war, otherwise why do we keep doing it?

Robert E. Lee said ...

It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it.

There's a fellow who knew a thing or two about war.

So there we have it, why I do this. There will be more historical fiction coming down the pike, just not right away. Some of the things I write take a lot out of me, so it takes a few days to want to do it again.

But I will.

It's who I am.



Monday, November 18, 2024

Locks, wine, beer and schnitzel

 Well Campers, we’re one week into our big adventure. At the time of writing this post, I am sitting on the upper deck in the lounge, watching barges go through a lock on the Main River. (No Beans it’s not the main river in Germany rather it is the Main River, pronounced “Mine” River.) According to our cruise director, we’ll go through 63 locks on this trip. But, it’s kinda fun to watch and figure out how the whole system works.

Spent a lot of time exploring towns that were old even before Columbus’s journey. We visited a few that were built in the first half of the previous millinium.

 Man, did I feel young again, at least for a while. 

No, this castle wasn't that old, but it was built in the 1500's so...old!

 Got on the Boat in Nurnberg, which was where the Nazi Leaders were tried, convicted and executed.  No sympathy.  Don't start a war if you can't win it.  Also, don't murder several million people just because you don't like their beliefs. 

Our next stop was Bomberg.  Another walking tour, another castle, another church. Much like Nurnberg, this town was pretty much destroyed in a night fire bombing raid by the RAF.

This is a picture of a diorama of the town after the raid in April of 45.  The only building that was mostly intact is the Church which is in the top center.  It suffered some roof damage, but nothing like the rest of the town.
 
War sucks! Don't start one if you can't win.  
 
After that bit of depressing history, we decided on lunch.

 With beer, of course!

Next stop was a winery.  First on the agenda was a tour of the cellars.  Quite old, the family had been in business for at least 500 years.
 
 

The bottle of wine in the middle was made and bottled in 1529.  It's been valued at 1.2 million Euro's.  According to the winemaker, it's not drinkable.  However, their Riesling current release is quite nice.

Back on the boat, it's time for our first wine seminar. Mrs J had set up our friends at Texas Hills Vineyard to put it on. Unfortunately, Gary had passed away in the interim. His wife, Kathy, stepped up in his place and, although nervous, did a fantastic job.

Had most of the 65 passengers on the boat attend the tasting. Started with a nice Chardonnay (I'm not a fan of Chardonnay, but this one was quite good) then a couple of outstanding Reds.  This was followed by a nice dinner where their wines were served again.  As good as they were by themselves, they were better with the dinner.

Shortly thereafter, we called it a night.

One last thing for this week.  I think I've found the perfect retirement job for Sarge.  NCOIC of the Castle Guard at the Royal Palace in Prague Czech Republic. 

 


More to follow.  Too much happening on the boat to sit in my room and tell stories.  Those are for RTB.  Gotta run, I hear Beer, and/or Wine calling my name!

Peace out y'all!


Sunday, November 17, 2024

Night of Horrors

Screen Capture
Graham of Masongill grimaced as he tried to eat the thin soup before him. His mouth ached from the arrow he had taken earlier in the day. But his belly rumbled and he needed to build his strength back up.

The pursuit had ended not long after sunset, it seemed that the Yorkists were content to encamp on the field of their victory, among the bodies of the slain and those not quite dead. From where he sat he could occasionally glimpse their campfires. The snow had stopped and the night was growing ever colder.

He wondered what the morrow might bring.


"I have sinned, Father." Thomas muttered to the priest standing over him.

"You slew the enemies of your liege lord, young Thomas. There is no sin in that."

Thomas looked up at the man, "The Bible says - thou shalt not kill. I have killed this day, Father, and I reveled in it."

Thomas shuddered at the memory, at first he had been timid and terrified at the brutality around him. Then that wounded man had mocked him, something inside had snapped. He had cut that man down, then many another as they tried to flee the battlefield. Only the waters of the Beck had stopped his murderous spree.

"King David himself killed Goliath, on the field of battle. How is that so different from your actions this day, my son?"

Thomas shook his head, then bowed to the wisdom of the priest. "I ask forgiveness, Father."

"And you shall have it boy, when Edward sits upon the throne." With that, the priest walked away into the night.

Thomas heard Rufus clear his throat and then spit. "Priests," he said the word with contempt.

"How can you say that, Rufus? Have you no concern for your immortal soul?"

Rufus nodded in the direction the priest had gone, "I do, far more than that man. Did you know that he has lands greater than those of our Lord Norfolk?"

Thomas stood, he felt a confidence that he hadn't experienced before, "Rumors, Rufus. Rumors spread by those jealous of the Church's power."

"That may be boy, but that's a matter well above our station. For now ..."

Rufus stopped as the sergeant stepped into the light from the campfire, "You two, come with me. The killing ain't over yet."


Thirty to forty disarmed men huddled together, not far from the corpse-choked bank of the Cock Beck. From their livery, one could tell that they followed Henry, not Edward.

"Captives, Your Highness?"

"Fools who have surrendered, Warwick. Casting themselves upon my tender mercies. And stop referring to me that way, until the Archbishop himself places the crown upon my head, I am merely the Duke of York. Conduct yourself accordingly." Edward hadn't meant to bark at the man, but he desperately needed sleep. He wasn't himself.

"Certainly, Your Grace. What shall we do with these men?"

"Have them dig a pit, I'm sure you can figure out the rest on your own."

Edward spurred his horse and rode off with his retainers. He would find some place warm to spend the night, he would deal with the retreating Lancastrian army in the morning. What was left of them anyway.


Rufus and Thomas watched as the men dug a deep pit, Rufus wondered at its purpose. Thomas, now more bloody minded, thought he knew what it was for.

"Alright you lot, climb out, line up there, along the edge."

The prisoners looked at each other, some expected what was to come, a few still harbored illusions of survival.

"Your Grace, I am worth more to you alive, than dead, I demand ..."

Warwick's sword flashed in the firelight, the man's throat was opened and he reached up to try and stem the bleeding with his hands. He fell into the pit as he staggered, trying to stay alive.

The sergeant took that as a sign to begin, he bellowed, "Cut 'em down lads, leave no one standing!"

Hammers and axes rose and fell, many of the captives were dead long before the final blow was landed. Thomas' hammer landed time and again on the heads of the men who seemed to have little thought of fighting back. Arms were raised in a defensive posture, only to be shattered.

Rufus waded into the mob with his billhook, stabbing, thrusting, he was moaning low in his throat as he did so. The killing lust was upon him.

In a few short moments it was over. A steaming pile of dead bodies lay on the edge of the pit, some within it. Warwick had watched, a sick feeling in his stomach, the enemy would hear of this and they would remember. What had they done this day? But he swallowed his worries and barked out an order.

"Strip them of anything useful, then throw them in the pit. Cover them up when you're done. It's the devil's work we do this day lads, hide your crimes below the soil. Forget them if you can."

Warwick rode off.

The men all stood silently, looking at the bodies, looking at each other.

Then the sergeant said, "Get to it lads, these buggers ain't going to bury themselves."

The Battle of Towton was at an end.




Saturday, November 16, 2024

The Bridge of Bodies

The Bloody Meadow
Source¹
Sir Edric Acaster could barely lift his arms, yet he stood with his mates as another wave of Yorkists plunged down the slope.

"Jesus, Sir Edric, there are more than I can count, will they not let us run in peace?"

"Mind your tongue, Graham. Best not take His name in vain when it seems we stand on the brink of eternity!" Sir Edric managed to bring his shield up in time to parry a billhook being thrust at his face. His war hammer ended the threat when he swung it into the side of his attacker's head.

Blood and shattered bone splashed over Sir Edric as he took a step back, they were nearly up to their knees in the freezing water of the Beck already. Some men were crossing over the dead bodies of their comrades just behind him, but he and his squire, Graham of Masongill, were determined to stand and buy time for the remainder of Henry's army.

Sir Edric's blood ran cold as he saw a group of archers take up position just up the slope as the Yorkist footmen drew back to give the bowmen a clear shot at the men struggling along the banks of the surging river.

"Shield, Graham!"

He heard his squire gasp as an arrow hit him full in the face. It had been a glancing blow, not a killing wound, but painful enough as the arrow went through his mouth and out of his right cheek.

Tears were streaming from Graham's eyes as he fell to his knees, "Ah God ..."

"Your blasphemy does you no credit, Graham. Hold still!"

Covering them with his own shield, Sir Edric knelt and took the arrow in his fist, he snapped it in two, which caused Graham's eyes to stream even more. As he yanked the shaft from the mouth of his friend, he yelled at him, "Spit lad, or you'll drown in your own blood!"

On his knees, Graham tried to clear the blood from his mouth, he ran his tongue around, he'd lost a couple of teeth as well. Shaking his head, he saw his shield on the ground, surprisingly he still held his axe in his right hand.

"Up Graham, up! If we must die this day, let us die together!"


Rufus was moving to his right, thinking to go up the hill in that direction then perhaps come down on the retreating enemy from there. As he did so, he heard his name being called out. In no immediate danger, he turned.

"Thomas? Where have ye been laddie?"

Thomas looked a sight, blood and vomit stained his tabard, he was carrying an axe, rather than the billhook he had brought with him to the field, and his eyes were lifeless as if he had seen things which no man should have to see.

"Ah Rufus, we're missing the slaughter, come now, let us not hang back."

Thomas strode past Rufus, heading down towards the Beck where the struggle seemed to be winding down.

Rufus followed his friend, wondering what had gotten into the lad.


Thomas just wanted to kill and keep killing. A wounded Lancastrian had mocked the young foot soldier as he had knelt on the field and cried hot tears at the devastation all around him.

The man had been staggering in the direction of the retreat, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side, nearly severed by a sword blow.

"What's the matter, laddie? Never seen a battle before? Go home and back to your mother's teat, you don't belong on this field with the men!"

Thomas had looked at the man in shock. He was moving off, Thomas looked for his billhook, the shaft had been shattered. Seeing an axe he picked it up.

Getting to his feet, he had run after the man, "Turn and fight you bastard, I will show you who is a man!"

The man had turned and said, "Alright boy, I'll fight ..."

His eyes had grown very wide when he beheld the look on Thomas' face and seen the axe in its downwards arc towards his head. He tried, in vain, to parry the axe with the hammer he held in his right hand.

After the man had crumpled to the ground, head split like a melon, Thomas had wrenched the axe from the man's ruined head and continued down the hill. He would show these bastards who was a man.

He saw his friend Rufus, after a brief word, he continued down to the slaughter.


Sir Edric stumbled over a corpse as he and Graham tried to hold off the Yorkists. At least the blood lust of the enemy footmen had blocked the archers from loosing their shafts at them again. Both men had multiple arrows embedded in their shields.

Graham looked a sight, his mouth still oozed blood and the wound on his cheek still bled but the cold was causing that to slow down. A number of Yorkists had turned away from the sight of him, thinking him to be some walking corpse.

His right arm ached and he was beginning to have trouble raising it to strike a blow, he could still parry, but the water was nearly to his hips now. He slipped on a dead man under the water and nearly fell.

He had almost regained his feet when the point of a Yorkist billhook drove into his throat. He fell, his lifeless corpse adding yet another piece to the bloody bridge across the Cock Beck.

The Battle of Towton
John Quartley
Source
Graham saw the man he'd known since childhood fall. His war axe avenged Sir Edric, he swung it into the face of the man who had killed his mentor and friend.

Graham yanked on the axe, another Yorkist was pushing forward through the cluster of struggling men, he was puzzled, why was the axe not coming out. Amazingly, the man he had struck was holding the shaft of the axe with both hands, his mouth moving but no words issuing from his ruined face. But the hate that glittered in his eyes would stay with Graham for the rest of his life.

He barely brought his shield up in time to parry the sword the man to his front was trying to wield in the mob. But the blow was slow and ill-timed, moving forward, Graham drove the edge of his shield up and under the man's chin.

The man gasped as a torrent of blood flowed down from his throat and onto Graham's left hand. His grip on the shield was failing, so Graham let it go. Backing up, he felt not the bottom of the Beck, but the chest of a corpse.

He backed a few more steps, it seemed the Yorkists were content to let him go, their reluctance to cross the bridge of the dead was obvious. Graham didn't care, he was still alive.

He turned and fled into the gathering night, he was quickly lost in the gloom and the falling snow.

His battle was over.



¹ Do check out this source, the lady gives tours of English battlefields, is a reenactor herself, and has a number of great photos!

Friday, November 15, 2024

Blood on the Snow

Source
Fauconberg's archers came running back up the hill, the men-at-arms opened their ranks to let them through. The Lancastrians were on the move, no doubt goaded by the showers of arrows which had left many of them dead in the snow.

Fortunately, for the Yorkists, the field wasn't wide enough for the Lancastrians to deploy their full numbers. For the followers of Henry VI¹ were in a murderous mood.

"'Ere they come, Billy!"

Billy Monkton glanced at his best mate, not wanting to take his eyes off the mass of men scrambling up the snowy slope to his front, "Eyes to yer front, Bertram of Sutton, lest ye let some Lancastrian dog spill yer guts this day!"

Monkton had a sure grip on his billhook, leveling it at the oncoming mass of the enemy. The man closest to him was wielding an axe and was holding it up over his head, ready to bring it down on Monkton's head. He was bellowing his war cry as he came at Monkton. A thrust from Monkton's billhook into the man's belly made the man drop his axe and fall to the ground, writhing in agony.

The press of bodies coming up the hill would normally have been enough to press the Yorkist line back from sheer weight of numbers. But the ground was slick with snow and in spots was being churned to mud by the hundreds of men locked in close combat.

Monkton heard shouts to his rear, the men on horseback were being ordered to dismount and reinforce the line. Their numbers, and the churned up ground, brought the Lancastrians to a stop, their momentum exhausted, the two sides began to hack and thrust at each other, trying to gain advantage, but generally only making the footing more difficult as more bodies dropped, adding their blood to the morass.


"Sire!"

Edward turned, annoyed at first, though he had been proclaimed King earlier in the month, he said he would not call himself King until he had been properly anointed, still, if it improved morale, he'd grin and bear it.

"What news, Warwick?"

"Sire, horsemen are issuing from the Castle Hill Wood! Henry's men! We are flanked!"

"Hold here, My Lord, I will reinforce the flank!"

Edward led the men he had held as a reserve to the left, as he rode off he bellowed back at Warwick, "Send a man to find Norfolk, our cause is lost without him!"


"In the Name of the Lord, Rufus, are we to march forever into this thrice-cursed storm?"

Rufus shook his head, the lad's energy was flagging, as was that of many of the men. "We march until his Grace, the Duke of Norfolk, says we halt. Or until we join the battle, can ye not hear it in the distance?"

Thomas stopped talking and listened, what he heard was the heavy breathing of the men around him, the sloshing of their footsteps in the churned up mud, but there, there was something else, almost a low muttering.

"What is that other sound, Rufus? It's not close, but it isn't far either."

Rufus took a deep breath, he noticed that the men in the column in front of them were turning to their left, almost as if deploying into a fighting line. "It's the sound of battle lad, the sound thousands of men make while they're bleeding and dying for their King. And behold laddie, now you can see it!"

As they crested the rise to their front, Thomas saw it, thousands of men locked in battle, arms rising and falling as they hacked and bludgeoned each other. The snow was still falling, but as the wind continued to gust, the mob of men would become visible, then fade behind a wall of snow.

Thomas couldn't help but notice that the armies seemed to be smoking, a cloud of mist and fog seeming to billow up from the struggling masses. As he breathed, he realized that he was seeing the condensation from their breath on the air. He had never seen a battle before, and it was beautiful and ghastly all at once.


"Sire! His Grace the Duke of Norfolk has gained the field!"

Edward heard the welcome news as he stood in his stirrups and brought his war hammer down on the head of a mounted spearman who had lost his weapon and was struggling to draw his sword.

The King was tall and well-built, his surcoat was spattered with blood, some of it his own as an enemy spear had grazed his cheek. His attacker had fallen, skull crushed by Edward's own hand.

The horsemen to his front were looking nervously to their left, they sensed incipient panic in their ranks as Norfolk's force slammed in to the Lancastrian left flank. They had seemed to arise from the wood and billowing snow like avenging demons, Norfolk's men were bone-tired but had pitched in with renewed vigor when they beheld the enemy flank, exposed and naked.

With a roar, the Yorkists had driven their attack into the Lancastrians led by the Earl of Northumberland. A cry had gone up as one of Norfolk's men-at-arms yelled out that Northumberland had fallen, slain in the initial onslaught.

Northumberland's men seemed to think so too as they began to edge away from their attackers.

"They're breaking, Thomas, pitch into the bastards!"


Northumberland's men were rapidly falling into disarray. The word had spread like wildfire through the ranks that their lord was killed, hacked down by a Yorkist with a poleaxe. With the death of their leader, the fight had gone out of many of the men when word reached them that Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland was dead.

Norfolk's men came on, hacking, stabbing, and hammering their hated foe. Men who cried for "quarter" were cut down where they cried out, many on their knees, begging for mercy. The long cold night march had driven all thoughts of mercy from Norfolk's host. They were tired, miserable, and sought to punish those they felt were responsible.


Thomas was about to slam the point of his billhook into a man to his front, but as he advanced, the man threw down his arms and cried, "Quarter! Spare me, good man, I have a wife and children!"

The man dropped to his knees and raised his hands, as if in prayer.

Thomas hesitated, as he looked at the man kneeling in front of him the man just to his rear stepped forward and slammed the hammer face of his poleaxe down on the kneeling man's head. Though the man was still wearing a helmet, the hammer head slamming down was enough to fracture the man's skull and kill him. His helmet had cracked from the force of the blow.

The man who had killed the kneeling man bellowed in Thomas' ear, "You heard the orders you silly bastard, no quarter. Kill them all!"

Rufus was out of sight, all around the young soldier were the dead and the dying, the smell of blood and voided bowels was overwhelming. Thomas fell to his knees and began to sob, uncontrollably.


Rufus raised his billhook, the blade and handle slick with the blood of the men he had slain, and bellowed at the sky, "THE DAY IS OURS! SEE THE BASTARDS FLY!"

He looked about, the Lancastrians were indeed starting to run, throwing down weapons and even stripping off their armor to get away faster, anything which could be discarded was thrown down.

Rufus broke off from cheering when his sergeant appeared, "Keep pressing them, Rufus, kill them all, kill them for our King, kill them and end this f**king war."

Before continuing, Rufus looked back, Thomas was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the lad yet lived. Time enough for that after the battle, for now, there were enemies to be killed.

"FOR THE KING!" he screamed and pressed forward, hacking down a man trying to discard his blood-stained surcoat. The man gasped as the blade entered his lower back. Rufus put his boot on the man, kicking him off the blade, then pressing forward and showing his point into another man's face who had turned to beg for mercy.

Rufus felt nothing.


The fleeing host came up short, before them was the valley of the Cock Beck, no longer a small winding stream, the rains and snows of the past few days had swollen the Beck into a raging torrent, in spots it was nearly a lake.

The men in front had stopped, those behind, fleeing their pursuers did not. The first of those reaching the Beck were pushed in. Many tried to wade the raging waters but were swept away. Far too many were pressed down into the bed of the river and died with their faces in the mud, those behind them trodding on their corpses.

The rout was total and the pursuit was relentless. The waters of the Cock Beck didn't care, it swallowed its victims and then took more as the defeated host pressed on.

As the sun began to set, the Lancastrian host died.²





¹ Henry VI, was the King of England at the time, supported by the Lancastrians. His opponent, Edward Duke of York, soon to be, and recognized by his followers already, as the "true" King of England, Edward IV. It's hard keeping track of these fellows without a scorecard. Chase the links for the full story. The quick (not too bad) Wikipedia version is here.
² Another good account of the Battle of Towton can be read here.

Thursday, November 14, 2024

Not Feeling Very Creative Today ...

Source
Sorry.

The new series of Vignettes has not proven to be very popular. Now I don't do this for the hits a post may (or may not) generate, but in order to motivate me to write, I expect the stuff to be read.

That doesn't seem to be the case at the moment. So ...


Thanksgiving approaches and The Missus Herself and Your Humble Scribe will be heading north to celebrate with my Mom and my kid brother. As Mom is now 94 and not very mobile, my brother made the decision to move in with her. A good call as he's retired already and she needs to have someone around.

On the downside, Mom no longer has a spare room for us to camp out in. So we're going to hotel it for the first time ever. On the upside, my nephew manages a hotel. So ...

Going up for a couple of days, it'll be nice, not sure how many holidays Mom has left. So it makes sense to go there.

While it would be nice to go hang with the grandsons in Maryland, they're at an age where the grandparents are still fun to hang out with, I feel a familial obligation to head north.

We'll be spending Christmas in Maryland though, that much I'm sure of.

With me being retired by then, it'll be nice not having to worry about rushing back home to get a couple of "relaxation" days before going back to work.

Because that ain't happening next year.

Uh uh.

I'll try and get creative later.

We'll see.