I cannot let today pass unremarked.  To commemorate I want to share a verse I wrote some years back. I wish I could share the picture that inspired it but I do not have rights granted although I did give the artist rights to use my verse if he gave me credit. The picture showed a young woman of times past in a long blue dress. In her hand she held a black-edged letter at leaning against a chair at her side was a cavalry saber and draped over the chair a flag of fewer stars than the one we now salute. . It was beautiful and immeasurably sad. I have to remember the widows and orphans today too along with those who gave all. This verse is copyrighted but may be shared for patriotic purposes with credit to the author. Here is the verse:

The Price of Freedom                 

The price of freedom is always high.

In each generation, some must die.

In each generation, some must mourn,

thus is the price of freedom borne.

The letter ‑‑ Dear Madame, I do regret

to tell you that your beloved met

with his Maker, a fortnight past.

I saw, at least, that death came fast.

Here is his sword, the flag he held high‑‑

In each generation, some must die...

Even ere the letter, somehow she knew

though she wished and hoped it was not true.

The price of freedom is ever dear

Oh, but why must it strike so near?

Each generation the price must pay,

in their own time, in their own way.

The price of freedom is never paid

in full; the mortgage is ere conveyed

to each generation, or else they lose

the right, the privilege to live, to choose.

With Washington, some crossed the Delaware

Before the English knew they were there;

With Jackson, some marched to New Orleans

and looked upon some hellish scenes.

At Gettysburg, brother fought against brother,

fighting the forces that freedom would smother....

They followed Teddy up San Juan Hill,
the Maine remembering, with a will,
and on from there to the trenches of France
where soldiers found not war's romance
but death in blood, in mud, in cold...
forever theirs, to have and hold.

The price of freedom must still be paid

with constant vigilance, bullet and blade.

The price of freedom is never low,

for in each generation, some must go.

The war to end all wars did not;

how soon the lesson they forgot.

Once again, young men and old

went to fight for what can't be sold

but must be bought in blood and tears,

bought over and over, through the years;

aye, over and over, for it is no lie

that the price of freedom is always high.

In desert and jungle and cold north lands,

still straight and tall the soldier stands.

                        Holding aloft the red, white and blue,

paying the price there, for me and for you.

But the price of freedom we all must pay

in our own time and in our own way.

Author's Note:

  This verse was inspired by a painting by western artist Harold I. Hopkinson which portrayed a young woman with a letter in her hand and a cavalry saber on a chair at her side.  My father was in World War II, my husband in Korea, friends went to 'Nam and my son and son-in-law to Desert Storm.  Though I am not ashamed to be a patriot, sometimes I wonder, like the sixties song: when will they ever learn?  But as a historian, I fear human nature will never change enough to end it all.

                                            (c)     GMW, 1995

Looking ahead--Dark and Stormy

A Different Drummer has been out on the streets and in cyberspace for nearly two weeks now and I hope it is finding a warm reception and happy audience! Time will tell. Meanwhile, though, life goes on and of course writing is happening. Like the proverbial excrement of the hippie era LOL but I can hope a bit more pleasant in the result. No malodorous residue at least!.

My next release is going to be a twist on the traditional Gothic 'dark and stormy' tale many of us may have grown up with, be it the Bronte sisters, Daphne DuMaurier or others' work. In fact at least the working title for my tale is Dark and Stormy. That alludes not only t the atmosphere prevailing as the tale begins but some aspects of life in the manor house at which my first hero arrives to begin a new life for himself after some unfortunate happenings alter his circumstances. He finds even darker events have taken place with the new circle in which he finds himself and must learn new loyalties ultimately finding even love.

Yes, for instead of the traditional young gentlewoman impoverished by events beyond her control who must take employment or seek shelter outside of her familiar environment, I have a young man who finds himself on a remote estate where he becomes involved with some tragic and violent events! I am having a great time creating the atmosphere, characters and events here, borrowing inspiration from a wide range of sources--some of those old books I devoured years back, a tiny bit of tongue-in-cheek parody and even an episode of Castle, one of the few TV shows I follow fairly consistently.

No cover yet but that will come before a possible release date of about July. Anyway, here, totally unedited and still a bit rough is the opening scene of Dark and Stormy. In it you will meet Martin Fitzhugh, the impoverished young man and a mysterious dark horseman... So without further ado:

Martin FitzHugh leaned forward and peered through the coach's rain‑streaked isinglass window.  Even when a flash of lightning briefly lit the night, he could see nothing.  The rest of the time, so deep was the darkness he felt it to be solid.  But sound made up for any lack of vision.  The wind, shrieking as if in torment, ripped the remaining leaves from the trees and hurled them down where a pounding rain flattened them into the mud.  The great hooves of the four horses squelched and shlupped as they strained into the traces. The coach itself creaked and groaned as it twisted and lurched along.

Martin slumped back, bracing himself in a corner and praying the vehicle would not upset, while he tried to shut the storm out of his awareness.  For the tenth or perhaps fiftieth time, he questioned his sanity.  What had possessed him to accept a position at some remote Welsh hold?  It might as well be Darkest Africa for all the civilization he had seen the past two days while they followed a deteriorating road deep and yet deeper into the hill‑cut region.  Surely by now they were in an impenetrable wilderness.

Although he could barely understand the driver's thick accent, Martin thought he had said something like "Ve iz nearly there now, Sor," in answer to his timid question as to their whereabouts.  That had been hours ago, around sundown, before the storm struck. 

I believe my life is turning into a cliché. Martin gave a wry chuckle at the wild thought. Indeed it was a dark and stormy night, surely the darkest and most stormy he had ever experienced.  His waning faith that he would arrive safely at Ravensrawn declined to nothing.  If the coach was not struck by lightning or crushed beneath a falling tree, surely the horses would bolt causing it to careen from the road and sink into a bottomless swamp or go flying off a cliff.

Abruptly, the coach halted.  Martin only realized it once he noted no more jolts, tilts and sloshes.  The storm had scarcely abated, but the wind carried broken snatches of speech to him, though too little to make any sense of it.  Much as he dreaded to sink his new boots into the muck, he contemplated alighting, simply to find out what had happened.  Had the coach mired or broken some critical part?  Surely there would not be highwaymen out on such a night as this.

Before he could act upon the thought, the door against which he had been leaning fell open so quickly he almost tumbled out.  Black against black, a hulking figure loomed near and a pair of quick, strong hands seized him before he actually fell, and before he could resist.  He  muttered an oath of protest upon finding himself borne through space.  For a moment, wind and rain lashed him. Then, he felt himself settle upon hard thighs and the rounded pommel of a saddle, as an enormous oily‑textured cloak enveloped him, cutting off the wind, the wet and the cold.  A powerful arm gathered him close as the horse surged and wheeled away from the coach.

Martin found himself bundled so thoroughly he could barely find a crack to stick his nose through.  He inhaled the cool, damp air and willed himself not to give in to the fear which threatened to overwhelm him.  Had terrible suddenly turned to even worse?

However, even terror could not nullify his native curiosity.  Although he doubted his captor could hear him above the noise of the storm to which was added the sounds of the massive horse, driving through the night, he framed several anxious and indignant questions.  "Who are you?  Where are you taking me?  What do you think you’re doing, anyway?"

The answer came in a low‑pitched rumble of a voice, somewhere above him.  "I do not think I am doing anything, I’m merely doing it. What I am doing is taking you to Ravensrawn, bypassing a bridge washed out by this devil‑spawned storm.  As to who I am, ‘tis nothing you have need to know.  It would never do to have the urgently needed tutor for the young earl and his sister swept away to sea in a flood, so I came to fetch you thither.  My apologies if the conveyance does not suit.  I could arrange for no better at short notice."

"You know me then, who I am, I mean?" The revelation took Martin by surprise.  How could this faceless man recognize him in the pitch dark night?

When the rider laughed, the motion rocked him a little in those powerful arms.  "But then, how could there be so many young gentlemen traveling to Ravensrawn, when the road leads nowhere else, and by his Grace's coach at that?  Who else could you be but young Master Fitzhugh?"

"Aye.  There is that.  I must admit, I am he.  Now, you are one better than I, for you know who I am, but I do not know who you are."

"I am but your humble servant who needs must remain nameless.  The deed is of moment, not the doer.  Hang on now, for Nightwind must leap a gorge.  It's not so very wide nor deep, but if you stuggle, it might unbalance him."

"I'll be very still," Martin managed, turning his face inward against the warm, solid bulk of the man's body. Although he considered himself a courageous person, he shut his eyes tightly. There seemed to be nothing to which he could literally hang on though he felt around inside the bulky cloak.

One had to be mad to go around leaping unseen gorges in total darkness.  He could come to no other conclusion.  He was the prisoner of a giant of a mad man taking him who‑knew‑ where.  With a free hand, he gathered a handful of the stiff cloak, the only thing within reach.  Before he was quite ready, he felt the horse gather itself and spring.

For a moment, it felt like flying and then he heard a splashy thud and knew they were again on solid ground.  He could not forebear from a sigh of relief.  In a few more moments, he heard the hollow clatter of hooves upon wood, perhaps another bridge.  Then, through a gap in the cloak, he could see light ‑‑ smoky, sputtering torches thrust at intervals into metal brackets on a stone wall.

Moments later, Martin found himself standing on wet cobbles.  He swayed for a moment, relieved of the cloak and surprised to feel the rain had ceased and the wind no longer reached him.  He turned to thank his strange benefactor, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to find the dim lights did not penetrate the shadow of the rider’s hooded cape.  "Thank you, good sir, whoever you might be.  I do believe this is Ravensrawn and I have arrived safely due to your concern."

His benefactor replied to that appreciation with clipped, terse words.  "T'is of no moment.  I’d have been riding anyhow.  ‘Twas but a short distance out of my way.  Good morrow, Master Fitzhugh.  I must be off now."

"Stay," Martin called.  "At least tell me your name so I may inform my employer of the service you’ve done for both him and me."

"He'll know."  Those final words were flung back as the stranger wheeled the tall, dark horse and it leaped away into the gloom. Horse and rider seemed almost to vanish in front of Martin’s eyes, swallowed by the night.