#HistFicThursdays - Writing Battles

 By the very nature of the books I write, whether medieval, Jacobite, or regency, there are invariably battles to recount. A lot of historical fiction features wars of some kind because it's often in these times of trial and conflict that we can see the very best and the very worst of humanity.

Writing battles is a daunting prospect. After all, most of us writers have never been in a battle, and certainly not one which used the type of warfare with existed 200, 500, or 1000 years ago. Re-enactments and handling artefacts are great for getting an idea of the weight of weapons, the blindspots of armour, the power of a charge, but these events are full of people who have all gathered for the same purpose. This means (thankfully, I should add!) that there is not that driving fear and recklessness which must have been present in those forays. But this is where you as the writer come in. No one enters the field of combat without some reason for - or belief in - what they are doing.

Mass grave at Killiecrankie

And there are other things to consider, such as the terrain. Despite the time passed, many battlefields in Scotland have retained their landscape. The Culloden Battlefield, the last battle fought on British soil, is constantly under threat from development, but the powerful connection people have with this event has - thus far - allowed it to maintain its integrity. It is a haunting place, and one which you can't help to feel affected by, but it's also quite heavy on the commercialism. My sister lives very close to the battlefield and driving past at night is an experience!

But, for me, the site of the Battle of Killiecrankie is a truly amazing spectacle. You will never find it all in an hour, day, or even a week! I'm quite a fan of "that devil Dundee" and was pleased to have a chance to visit his grave in a quiet corner of the Atholl estate.  But it was equally thought-provoking to find (and this was a chance discovery!) the marshy mass-grave of the officers on a hillside above Aldclune. There are flags flying there, although only a handful of people will ever see them as they do, so far off the beaten track.

Killiecrankie is fascinating for another reason, too. The Jacobites won the battle but, with their leader killed, it was also cost them the war. How many emotions must have been flying around there?!

Bonnie Dundee's grave on the Atholl estate

Geography is the first thing to sort, next comes the battle plan.

Most historical battles are well documented, at least to a point. That's why we're able to know they happened! Study these carefully, they're often not exactly as clear-cut as they suggest. One of the greatest truisms of history is that it is written by the winners. There are no subjects which demand greater subjectivity than war, unless it is religion.

These plans, whether drawn on maps, written in books, or told in verse and songs, are your best chance at finding out what happened from an individual's point of view. Sometimes, it's obvious which side of the battle the bias rests on, other times it is a little bit trickier. But, bear in mind, unless you are writing a military historical fiction, most readers don't want to be bogged down in the battle so much as the action. Decide if your character is part of the battle, a sideward skirmish (yes, these happened quite a lot!), or on the periphery. Don't suppose that those who sit on the edge of battle, watching on and waiting for news, are any less a part of it - these are, after all, the ones who usually go on to write the accounts we rely on!

Here are a couple of battle scenes from my own writing. The first is from a WIP set in the Crimean War, and recounts a part of that dire event The Charge of the Light Brigade. The second is from Beneath Black Clouds and White, and is from the point of view of the wife of one of the officers...

Always the ranks closed inward, bottlenecking the cavalry before the enemy’s guns. Albert watched the Causeway Heights with a sense of great longing. He, along with the six hundred other people who rode alongside him, knew they should all be on the ridge. But instead, they were forced forward through the valley into the cavernous teeth of death. The firing of the guns had deadened his hearing and the mixture of blood and mud that splashed up at him, covering his horse, his uniform, and his face, made him feel overwhelmingly sick. He had watched countless men fall, one in particular haunted his short ride across the valley. It had been someone in Troop B, a young man who had been blown clean out the saddle by a shell, and it was his blood which matted Albert’s hair and smeared his face.

The ranks were closing in once more as the charge was sounded and Albert drew the sabre which rested by his side. When, at that moment, a shot was fired by the gun on the extreme south of the row before him, Sultan moved to avoid the shell. Caught off balance by his horse’s pre-emptive move, Albert felt himself slip in the saddle and he crashed to the ground, but not before Sultan had carried him just beyond the Russian guns. He had fallen close to the artillery and, as he rose shakily to his feet, it was to find the smoking fog of the last firing was still in the air. He put his hand before him to try and clear the air, but stepped quickly backwards as the second line of the Light Brigade stormed through the guns. The horses’ hooves sounded remote and distant, but they shook the ground so much he could barely stand up.

*****

Hosts of stars were becoming visible as the ranks of the British Army began to form within sight of the town walls. Captains Tenterchilt and Pottinger were both there with their companies and a third company under the command of Captain Forrester also presented there. The plan was a simple one. The tunnel beneath the walls of the town were to be packed, and indeed were currently being packed, full of gunpowder. The moment that the hornwork fell, these three companies were to lead the rest of the regiment into the city, and the siege would finally come to its end. This form of warfare had been in existence over hundreds of years and, whilst this meant that it was perfected by the attacking forces, it also meant that the French would be foolish not to expect such an end.

All the same, anxious cries filled the night as debris plummeted from the great height it had reached when the barrels were ignited. One individual who remained silent, though the raised hand to her face suggested she was far from calm, was Elizabeth Tenterchilt. She watched numbly as the stars were concealed behind the billows of dust that bulged into the air and she listened with a horrified sickness as piercing screams and commanding voices stabbed through the night. She tried to block them from her head, certain that if one should be her husband’s she should recognise it and she could not imagine what she should do if he failed to return.

“There are no sounds in the world like it,” Anne Pottinger announced as she walked to stand beside the other woman. Her face seemed pale in the starlight and her eyes sparkled despite the strong tone with which she spoke.

“It is awful,” Elizabeth whispered. “Truly terrible.”