Monday, November 14, 2011

"After Waterloo" Excerpt!

The fight at Hougoumont


            So, today I hit 26528 words. Since winning NaNo involves completing 50k words, I'm over halfway done with more than half of the month left! In honor of that, please enjoy an excerpt from the novel! (Please note that it's unedited, and parts are most obviously flawed. I offer it to show you a glimpse into the creatice process.)


             Aiden Rowe, an Irish exile fighting for France at the Battle of Waterloo, repels British enemies along the walls of Hougoumont, finally repaying them for the murder of his parents years before:

             I ducked again as yet another musket ball clipped the makeshift parapet. A infantryman next to me shoved me lower, swearing something about staff officers under his breath. Minutes before, he'd tackled me, saving me from a sharpshooter's deadly ball, so I didn't chastise him now.

            "Bloody English," I said.
            He grunted. "Whatever else they are, they're bloody good, and you'd best remember that sir. You can't stick your head around without asking for it to be shot off. Please be careful."

            I smiled at the irony; officers were the ones supposed to mother their men. He seemed a nice fellow though, so I offered my hand. The other shook it, but his eyes kept shifting away from Hougomont's walls into the trees surrounding our newfound bastion. We'd captured the farmhouse but at a twofold terrible cost. First, we'd lost numerous men in the assault. Wellington, it turned out, had shifted the Coldstream Guards to defend the building. These men, crack troops every one of them, had fought and clawed against every attempt to dislodge them. By sheer willpower, and the aid of a couple of light artillery pieces, the gates to the farm had been bashed down.

            We'd lost our share, but it was the British that suffered the most. I looked around. Blood coated the steps leading into the farm's courtyard, and bodies, some wounded and writhing, waited below. Of course, they were both French and English, but once our men had smashed their way through the defenses, no quarter was given. The effects of bloodbath that ensued lay about me now.

            I'd gotten mixed up in the mess when the Emperor sent me to check on the progress of his brother. Even as I rode through the fields of death once more, Jerome Bonaparte was being carted away, his arm broken and bleeding from an errant shot. I'd reached the farm only just ahead of a renewed English assault to retake the farm. Violet and I had ducked inside, and my mare stamped around in the courtyard below; every hand was needed to defend the parapet. While my place was at the Emperor's side, to risk escape now was certain death. The English were swarming outside like sleighed lovers, and I'd do Napoleon no service if I was killed along the path back towards his vantage point.

            Besides, the blood of my parents cried out for revenge.

            Thanks to the new friend at my side, I'd been spared death. A little overeager, I'd raised my head above the courtyard's walls for only an instant. It had been enough to make me a target, and a quick shove was all that saved me from eternity.

            "Here they come!" cried another voice down the wall. There was no more time for thought. Out of the blissful cover of trees surrounding the farm, men dashed, running pell-mell towards us.

            A great roar of "Vive L'Empereur!" shook the very walls of Hougoumont before countless muskets split the air. For my part, I hoisted my own weapon, again raising myself above the wall. A burly sergeant, his arms clutching a makeshift ladder, was barreling forward like some enraged bull.

            I, his matador, put him down.

            Unfortunately for his comrades, his weight sagged forward, and the ladder was dropped. The thick man stumbled into the mud, blood dripping from his chest like falling tears, and the ladder fell beneath him. The other men, who'd helped shoulder the load moments before, were brought to a standstill. Their stillness brought their own ruin, as Frenchmen picked off these easy targets, cluttering the ground with their bodies.

            "Well done sir!" My newfound friend clapped me on the back, a grim grin flowing along his face. "Those bastards won't be rising anytime-"

            I had turned to look at him while he spoke, but the poor devil never finished. Midsentence, his face disintegrated into a scarlet wash, his head snapping backwards with an audible jerk. Lifeless, the man tumbled backwards and fell, his arms splayed, outstretched like a forgotten martyr. Although I could not help, I watched him plunge towards that sodden ground. Even as I stared, he disappeared into the mass of bodies that already lay within, never again to rise.

            Duty, as always, prevented horror. If men were allowed to actually think, to philosophize during battle, there would few enough victories. Without pausing to mourn the man's death, I dropped powder into my musket, rammed the ball home, finished the loading process, and heaved the weapon upwards once more.

            By now, the English had begun to climb the walls; others carried roughhewn ladders as well. Still more men battered at the farm's gate, their cries filling the air. Frenchmen had gone to meet them, and humanity was abandoned in the vicious hand to hand struggle. From my vantage point, I saw more than one man from either side sheath a bayonet before dropping to the soil.

            "Help! Help me!" screamed a voice to my right. I snapped my eyes about, searching for the cry. I found it with a boy, his face too young, too pure for war. Doubtless, he'd only just been called up, a new batch of the Marie-Louises, the term for the boy soldiers which had filled the ranks since Russia. This poor lad had, like those at the gate, been wounded by the sharp steel of British bayonet. The offending enemy was clawing his way onto the parapet, his legs supported by one of the rickety ladders.

            In his fury to gain purchase on the wall, the Englishman was dragging the wounded, terrified boy back. The lad was about to flung over the wall to be replaced by the enemy. Without thinking, I raised my weapon and danced a finger along the trigger. The recoil shook my arm, but the results were instant. The Englishman bellowed a cry of enraged pain before he disappeared back over the wall, collapsing downwards and dragging the ladder with him. Miraculously, he didn't managed to pull the wounded boy as well.

            Instead, the lad collapsed, bleeding, onto the parapet. My heart racing, I sprinted over to him. Although my foot slipped through something, blood or grime I wasn't sure, I arrived without calamity. Even in the midst of battle, I knelt, my hands grabbing his shoulders.

            He stared at me, his eyes flickering back and forth, his blood staining my coat. "Am I..." he gasped. I wouldn't answer him. Of course he was dying. In the midst of combat, I only held him. A boy, with no place on the battlefield, a boy hardly younger than myself lay in my arms. That was the only comfort I could offer, and when he did slip through that gate, disappearing into the eternity, all I could do was lay him down and shut his lightless eyes.

            This was glory; this was conquest: the bleeding out of a child soldier.

            Around me, men fought like animals over the parapet, and more than one soldier was flung from the heights into the melee below. My fingers moved on their own as I reloaded and shot yet another redcoat. Although I hated them for what they stood for, for what they'd done to my family, they were still men, and the swelling of their eyes at the moment of death was almost too much to bear.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

New Napoleonic Fiction

For those of you who've missed out, I've been seriously working on my creative fiction recently. My first novel, The Faith, was finished this October. Now, I've started up again! I'm writing it for NaNoWriMo, a challenge that pits an author against himself in order to complete 50,000 words in the month of November.

Here's a bit more on that from my author blog, http://michaelseleey.blogspot.com/ .

One of Death's Hussars leaves for the Waterloo Campaign

What might have happened had history taken a slightly different turn in June 1815? What might Europe have been had Napoleon's Empire not fallen at Waterloo?

You're in luck! We're going to find out...

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month challenges authors to write 50k words within the months of November. Caffeine, limited sleep, and epic fun accompany the month-long marathon. To accomplish the goal and "win," a writer needs to write roughly 1700 words a day, every day for the entire month. I've heard it can be difficult, but I logged 48k words in September, so I think I'm up for it again.

For my November novel (or half-novel really, as it'll likely be about 100k words long and finished in December or early January), I will be examining how Napoleon's 1815 Waterloo campaign might have been different and how L'Empereur might have reacted afterwards.

For more on NaNoWriMo look at http://www.nanowrimo.org

For more on my writing in NaNoWriMo - http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/michael_seeley

The title is tentative, the process is new, but the writing has started! We're off an going on our second novel: an alternative history that sees Waterloo won and Ireland free from British oppression a century early.



After Waterloo:
A Novel
by Michael Seeley

Blucher is crushed. Wellington is no more. Napoleon is back.

A redirected order changes the course of the Waterloo campaign and the entirety of history. Caught in the madness is Captain Aiden Rowe, an Irishman and patriot who fled his homeland after the murder of his parents. Now, with France's enemies retreating, he will return home.

But he won't be going alone. Along with a boon companion, Killian O'Meara, Rowe will bring the armies of France and the cries of freedom to an oppressed isle yearning for justice.

Can Ireland escape the bondage of England? Will the Emperor Napoleon get the peace he longs for? How will Row and O'Meara keep their humanity in the carnage that arises after Waterloo is won?

See my profile at http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/michael_seeley for writing stats and more information on NaNoWriMo!

La France - a Return to the Blog!

The Tomb of Napoleon

Dear Friends,
   Let me first apologize. It's been several months since I've actually posted anything on this blog, and even longer since a post has reflected Napoleonic history. I can claim many reasons (a return to school, the writing and completion of a novel, preparations for marriage), but the facts remain.

   Well, I'm back!

   Importantly, this summer, I traveled to Norway and had my entire world view and perspectives shifted. Also, I was blessed to spend a few days in France, visiting the places I have adored since childhood. The following post, taken from my blog about Norway, talks about my days in Paris. Please enjoy and look for more to come on Napoleon Sightings soon!


            This past weekend saw the completion of a goal I have held since childhood: the visit to the most powerful of cities, Paris, France. Truly, it was one of the best weekends of my life. As I mentioned, the city and its allure has fascinated me from boyhood. First, I became wonderfully obsessed with Joan of Arc. A powerful heroine, the Maid of Orleans saved her country from the oppressive occupation of meddling England and then died at the torturing hands of betrayal - all before turning 18. Joan of Arc's history has filled my head, and I longed to see her idyllic homeland, but another figure fueled my desire to see La France as well.

Joan of Arc
During my sophomore year of high school, I was tasked to conduct research on a topic that fascinated us. I had seen a book sitting amid a dusty shelf in the classroom. It was about Napoleon, and although I had heard of him and his accomplishments, the particulars of that history were still unknown to me. Thus, I decided to research the man and his government to see if he was the decried authoritarian that many claimed. Rather, I found that he was, at worst, a democratic dictator whose interests were for French success rather than personal empowerment. The research led me to J. David Markham, the President of the International Napoleonic Society. This scholar, one of the most famous in the field, took the time for an interview and then donated a book to our school library and sent a wonderful handwritten note to me. Not surprisingly, I caught his passion for Napoleonic History and have been extensively studying that era for over half a decade now. Additionally, I had taken a year of college French in that hope that I might one day see the city and land of my dreams.

So, Paris has many layers of significance to me. As such, I was incredibly excited to plan a trip to the city, on Bastille Day no less!
The Eiffel Tower at Night

For four days, we had bliss. Together, the four of us toured the city and attempted to see everything. I cried at the tomb of Napoleon and museum of the French Army. We stared in wonder at the works of the Louvre. We ate Tiramisu in the rain of a windy night. I gazed around the city's horizon on top of the Arc de Triomphe. We walked under the Eiffel Tower at night. We drank wine and ate cheese on the banks of the Seine River. I attended mass in Notre Dame. We looked through the towering stained glass windows of Sainte Chapelle Cathedral. I practiced my French and could even understand much of the written French placards at museums. We wandered in absolute wonder at the majesty and wasteful opulence of Versailles. We strolled through the gardens of the Tuileries palace.
The Glorious Stained Glass Windows of Sainte Chapelle

The trip was an absolute joy to me. I am sure that I will return, but the wonder of France was a fitting and wonderful break to my studies in Oslo. In addition, I took many pictures, which can be seen on my Facebook account here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150377147704966.435976.616864965&saved#!/media/set/?set=a.10150377103639966.435948.616864965

Vive L'Empereur!