American Gangsters Footnotes: Stephanie St Clair; the Black lady gangster

 Gang leaders of the Prohibition era are ususally seen as being White males, mostly Sicilian; which is perhaps why Stephanie St. Clair, the Black female gangster of Harlem, has been largely forgotten. But in her time she was able to rank with some of the most notorious organised crime leaders of New York.

  Details of Stephanie St. Clair's early life are obscure: she seems to have been born in 1897 in Guadaloupe, a French-speaking island in the West Indies, and to have come to Harlem, the Black district of Manhatten, around 1911. She first became noticed in the Prohibition era after the First World War, when organised crime flourished throughout New York and other cities.

 The "Numbers" racket, a kind of illegal lottery, was especially popular in the New York Black community. But even when honestly conducted it was a very dangerous game, involving collecting and distributing money under constant threat from thieves, while the immense profits to be made inevitably attracted both of the men of violence and the deeply corrupt New York police. 

By the late 1920s, St. Clair had acquired sufficient money and power to set up her own "policy shop": that is, her own Numbers operation, and emerged as a major force in Harlem. She used Ellsworth "Bumpy" Johnson as her enforcer and right-hand man, and they built up a team that was prepared to take on any challengers on their home turf. She was described as "arrogant, educated, sophisticated, with a fiery temper", and she was also completely without fear; but she knew that more than the threat of violence was needed. She understood the importance of "image", so she always appeared in public dressed in the height of elegance, with expensive furs and jewellery, as she paraded with her bodyguards round the streets of Harlem. She was nicknamed "Madam Stephanie" or even "Queen Stephanie". She also used local newspapers to boost her role as a spokesperson for the Black community, denouncing police corruption and racism. When in 1929 she was arrested, she complained about the unfairness of the proceedings, saying that she had always been careful to pay off the police!

After the ending of Prohibition in 1933, the gangsters looked around for alternative sources of income, and St.Clair's success in Harlem, making around a quarter of a million dollars a year, attracted the attention of Dutch Schultz. "The beer baron of the Bronx", as he was styled, was exceptionally violent even by New York crime standards, and headed a much-feared gang of Jewish gunmen. Schultz had his own Numbers racket, and now tried to muscle in on St. Clair's territory. Soon all-out war erupted on the streets of Harlem, with shootings and firebombings in which over 40 people were killed. Stephanie St. Clair stood her ground. "What kind of man would desert a lady in a fight?" she challenged her friends. She spread the slogan "Buy Black!" in the Harlem press and launched attacks on White-owned stores that traded with Schultz. The war only ended when the leaders of the New York crime combine (Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Lepke Buchalter and others) decided that Schultz was a dangerous loose cannon who must be eliminated. In October 1935 Schultz and his gang were gunned down in a Newark restaurant by two Jewish hitmen. As Schultz lay dying in hospital, St. Clair sent him a telegram reading, "As you sow, so shall you reap." But soon after this, St. Clair handed her operation over to Bumpy Johnson and retired from the rackets.

The rest of her life was less successful. She had a disastrous marriage with Eugene Brown, a flamboyant but unreliable Black activist who called himself "Sufi Abdul Hamid" and was nicknamed "the Black Hitler" for his violent antisemitic rants. After three years of marriage, St. Clair was so enraged by his infidelities that she shot and wounded him, for which she was convicted and imprisoned. 

After the war she lived in obscurity, and was thought to be seriously short of money. She was reunited with Bumpy Johnson, who lived with her until his death in 1968, and she herself died next year, aged 72. So, as with most leading gangsters, Stephanie St. Clair's career at the top was brief, but, unlike most of them, she died peacefully of old age at home. 

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Footnote: Most of these details are taken from "The world of Stephanie St. Clair", by Shirley Stewart.

The aged Black madwoman in the film "Come back, Charleston Blue" is loosely based on Stephanie St. Clair after the  Second World War

Security, and how to get past it

Tight security is a very serious matter nowadays, guards are everywhere, and sporting events, which are my chief interest, can be hard to penetrate. Nevertheless, I have had a few successes, mostly dating from the time when I followed gymnastics events.

The key to walking past security guards is an air of self-confidence, as if you had every right to be there. You might give the guards a friendly nod, as if you had already met them. Wearing a lanyard round your neck always helps, especially if it bears your photograph. I have a useful one that simply says, "Volunteer", and could mean anything. If the lanyard has no revelance to the situation in question, turn it back to front so that it displays the blank side. I remember an ingenious lady at a gymnastics tournament in France, who found that the official lanyard hung from a multicoloured piece of string. She bought an identical piece of string and stuck the ends of it down inside her blouse. She was never challenged to display it. At another tournament, a Belgian friend had a sort of tabard which admitted him to the press photographers' area. He lent it to me for the events that didn't interest him.

I once met a young RAF man who discovered that a pass at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall bore a passing resemblance to an Embassy cigarette packet. He proceeded to employ this to get past several checkpoints at the Ministry, and then said to the officer in charge, "I've got this far on an Embassy packet. What are you going to do about it?" He cannot have been popular. 

The choice of clothing is important (also, see later). It is best to dress respectably, conservatively, if in doubt. A blazer with an official-looking badge would serve well. An old colleague of mine possessed an M.C.C. tie with the distictive stripes, which he had bought in a jumble sale. To my mind, he did not not make sufficient use of the opportunities it offered.

Rather than wait to be challenged by a guard, ask him for help. If you happen to know the name of some official who will be there, ask where to find him. It would help if you carry a bundle of  bundle of papers and look harrassed. As an alternative strategy, I once gained admission the the teams' hotel by asking to see a journalist who was staying there, and whom I hoped would remember me; which he did.   

But never argue with security guards. If challenged, apologise: say that you've never been there before and don't know your way around. At my time of life, I can plead old age and incompetence - or, for that matter, incontinence: begging the need to find a toilet sometimes works. I once gained early admission to the old Wembley Pool when several eminent press photographers had been turned away, by pleading the urgent need for a lavatory.

My father, who was a civil engineer, reckoned he could gain admission anywhere that building work or repairs were taking place if he carried a rolled-up blueprint. These days, wearing a high-viz jacket would probably work, especially if also wearing a safety helmet. A schoolfriend who became an accountant suggested that announcing, "I'm from Peat Marwick and I've come to audit the VAT." would admit him anywhere. Indeed, he said, early in his career he and another young accountant had spent an enire morning examining the books of a company in Birmingham before it dawned on them that they'd come to the wrong firm!

So, bluff you way in! You've nothing to lose, and it may work!  

Cricket: a day with the women cricketers at Edgbaston

Saturday April 11th marked the start of the Women's Metro One-Day Cup, with a match between Warwickshire and Surrey. Since I have been interested in the women's game ever since my (entirely unqualified, but most enjoyable) stint as master i/c girls' cricket at Wellington College, I decided to venture down to Edgbaston to see the day's play. There was hardly anyone else about, probably linked with the fact that it was Grand National day. 

It was always likely to be a hgh-scoring match, because there was a very short boundary square with the wicket, where building work was under way behind a low fence. A considerable number of balls were lost there during the course of the match. And it proved to be a real runfest, with over 700 runs scored and with 18 wickets falling during the day!

The visitors batted first, and soon found themselves in a tricky position at 95 for 4, with two of their England stars, Sophia Dunkley and Alice Capsey, both out; but at this point Danni Wyatt-Hodge, who had been held back to number 6, entered and proceeded to smash 124 off just 80 balls, including 8 sixes. She shared in a century partnership with Alice Davidson-Richards, and then another big stand with Jemima Spence, a teenage kid whom I didn't know but who looked very good scoring a half-century. The innings ended at 389 for 9. Since Danni Wyatt-Hodge has long been one of my great sporting heroines, I was thrilled to be there watching her.

When Warwickshire batted, Tilly Corteen-Coleman opened the bowling with slow left-arm spinners, and did very well, taking 3 wickets for 43 runs in ten overs. The home team never looked like winning, but an aggressive 90 late in the day from Em Arlott enabled them to reach the respectable score of 337 for 9

I was told I could sit wherever I liked, so I found myself a seat beside the steps where the teams came out onto the field, behind mid-off.  I listened to the teams chatting, and was able to congratulate Alice Davidson-Richards and Danni-Wyatt-Hodge on their performances. But I probably shouldn't have been there, because when I attempted to return after the mid-match break, a security guard shooed me away! 

Having arrived early, I enjoyed the bonus of watching the teams warm up. I was particularly interested in seeing Sophia Dunkley and Danni Wyatt-Hodge receiving one-to-one batting practice:-.

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"Some half-volleys, and then some waist-high full tosses!" BANG! BANG! BANG!: the crisp noise, so evocative of an English summer, of a cricket bat cleanly smiting a ball: a sound I have greatly missed over the last few years. After the session was over, the coach working with Danni, but clearly one of the Warwickshire staff, asked her, "Just don't score any runs today, okay?", a request that she completely ignored!

My final piece of good luck was that it was a bright spring day without a drop of rain, whereas elsewhere in the West Midlands there were gale-force winds and storms of hail!

Who could wish for more on a day out?

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From the Surrey website:-

Danni Wyatt-Hodge on the attack

Tilly Corteen-Coleman bowling. I cannot fault this action

Stories: Robin Hood's last fight

The year: 1330. The place: a building near Nottingham castle 

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Humphrey de Bohun watched as the young king and his friends examined the fellow that Sir William Eland had brought before them. He was an old man, but his upright stance and firm tread indicated he had once been strong and lithe. He wore the clothes of a prosperous peasant or craftsman, but there was no fear in his eyes. Without effort, he fell on his knees before the king, and his gaze was respectful but steady.

  "Is this the man you mentioned?" Edward asked. "What is his name, and how can he help us?"

"Yes, sire. His name is Robin, and he is known to many here in Nottingham as Robin Hood. He was a notorious outlaw for many years".

"An outlaw? Then why have you brought him to us?"

The kneeling figure stirred. "It is true, sire", he replied, speaking Norman French, though strangely pronounced, "But I had been most falsely accused, and unjustly denied a hearing. I spent many years in hiding, until I was pardoned by your grace's illustrious father, who was lately treasonously overthrown and murdered by the traitor Roger Mortimer."

Edward and the young nobles who were with him turned to Eland, who nodded in confirmation. "This Robin came to me and told me his story, and so I brought him here".

"But how can he help us?"

The man they called Robin Hood answered, "There are tunnels under Nottingham castle, leading to an entrance within the walls. I know the way well; but Mortimer and his friends may not. I can lead you through them, and catch the traitor by surprise." 

The lords looked at each other, then Lord Clinton ventured to say, "But why should we trust this fellow? We're told he was an outlaw. What if he's leading us into a trap?" Humphrey de Bohun had much the same thought, but said nothing.

Robin Hood answered, "Sire, I act from love of your father, who pardoned me. He was the only king who cared for the common people of England. This is my revenge, for his sake, on the traitor Mortimer. I shall lead you into the castle, and if I betray you, then kill me!"   

Lord Montacute now spoke: words he had long been pondering. "Sire, it is now three years since Roger Mortimer overthrew and murdered your father, since when you have been king in no more than name. Mortimer even dared execute your uncle, the Earl of Kent, without consulting you. Now Mortimer is in the castle above us, and is at this moment holding in his arms your mother, Queen Isabella, whom some call the she-wolf of France. They say she is with child by him. We must act now! Mortimer has spies everywhere. I have little doubt that by tomorrow he will be told of our meeting here, and then we are all as good as dead."

There was a pause, then Edward suddenly made up his mind. "I do not wish to have a bastard half-brother. You are right; we must act this very night. Robin, we shall trust you, for we have no choice. My friends; are you with me on this?"

They all nodded.

"Very well then. We set out tonight. By tomorrow, I shall rule as king, or we shall all perish. But, my friends, my mother is not to be harmed in any way, and let us seize Mortimer for trial as a traitor rather than kill him. Now arm yourselves!" 

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There were eight of them, carrying swords and axes, who walked through the moonlit streets and alleys of Nottingham that night. Two carried torches. At Robin Hood's advice, they wore no armour and were shod with their softest shoes for silent movement in the castle. No-one was stirring. They knew the danger, but the thrill of the hunt was on them.

Robin led them to a spot on the rockface below the castle, where he pulled aside a mass of brambles to reveal the low opening to a cave. Inside it was wholly dark, and those who had no torches clung to the coats of those who did. Their slippers were soon soaked with water on the rough wet floor. After what seemed an eternity, Robin halted before an ancient door, which he very slowly pushed open. It creaked, but there was silence on the other side, They passed through and found themselves in what seemed to be an old kitchen, long since abandoned. At the far end, a stairway led upwards. Robin signalled to them to stand motionless and silent, and faint noises were heard from the level above, where there was the flickering glimmer of torchlight. He drew a dagger from his belt and crept up the stairs on his own. He was gone for some time, but having come so far, what could the king and his friends do but trust him now? 

After what seemed an age, Robin returned. "The room above us is now empty", he reported, "There was a solitary guard, but he will no longer trouble us. I ventured further, and there I saw a dozen armed men asleep on the straw."

"That will be the main guardroom", said Sir William Eland,  "We must pass through it to reach the bedchamber. What now?"

"It is too late to retreat," Edward announced. "Let us press on and trust in God to help us, for our cause is just."

In the upper room there was a body slumped on the floor, the victim, no doubt, of Robin's dagger. The young king walked past it without a glance. Then, seeing now the value of wearing only soft slippers, they tiptoed past the sleeping men and out through the doorway at the end, but then suddenly a rasping whisper called "Who are you, and what do you want?" By the light of the torches they beheld an armoured serjeant, sword in hand, barring their way, his grizzled face suspicious and hostile.

Edward came forward. "I am your king!" he announced. "Will you serve me?"

There was a long, agonising pause while the serjeant considered whether to rouse his guards; then suddenly he lowered his sword and fell on one knee before the young king. Edward touched him on the head. "I shall remember your loyalty. Now, do not let anyone follow us until we have dealt with the traitor Mortimer." 

Led by Eland they ascended more stairs until they came to a locked door. "Come out, Mortimer!" they called. There was no reply from within. Humphrey de Bohun was the first to step forward, and at a nod from the young king, swung his axe agaist the door. After several more blows it splintered and they rushed in.

There on a bed lay Isabella, the widow of King Edward II. The woman who was called the "she-wolf of France", now had fear in her eyes and her arms protectively clasped the man beside her. Roger Mortimer, the mighty Earl of March and for the last three years the real ruler of England, was clad only in his shirt. He was a strong, heavy man, but his black hair was streaked with grey. He made no move to defend himself or to defy his foes, but rose from the bed and allowed himself to be led away, as if he had accepted his fate, which was to suffer a trairor's death. As they left the room, Isabella cried out, "My son, spare gentle Mortimer!" 

As they passed out through the guardroom they found that the serjeant had roused his soldiers to stand in file on either side, and he himself saluted royal party. The men who had been hired to defend Mortimer did not now move a muscle to save him.

King Edward looked around for Robin Hood, to thank and reward him, but he was nowhere to be seen. His task fulfilled, the old outlaw had vanished.  

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Historical note: In 1327, King Edward II of England was overthrown by his wife, Isabella, the daughter of King Phillipe IV of France, and her lover, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. Isabella was nicknamed "the she-wolf of France". The former king was, according to rumours, then grusesomely murdered in Berkeley castle. The new king, Edward III, was only 15 at the time, and Isabella and Mortimer ruled England for the next three years until young Edward and his friends were able to seize Mortimer at Nottingham castle and execute him as a traitor.

There is more about Isabella and her family at an earlier post: 

https://petergshilstonsblog.blogspot.com/2026/01/history-king-philippe-iv-of-france.html

  

Annunciation

 March 25th marks the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Archangel Gabriel appears to the Virgin Mary. (If Jesus was born on December 25th, then he should have been conceived on March 25th. Although the Bible does not provide us with any dates, it seems appropriate that the Holy Child should have been conceived at the spring equinox and born at the winter solstice).

This event has always been a popular subject with artists, but here is a most unusual one by Lorenzo Lotto. The cat has seen the Archangel, and, not suprisingly, is scared out of its wits! 

Musings: Virginia Woolf as a cricketer

Virginia Woolf demonstrates the forward defensive shot, in a hitherto unexplored aspect of her personality. The bat is admirably straight, but a harsh critic would draw attention to the large gap between bat and left leg, leaving her vulnerable to being bowled "through the gate". Do I sense possibilities for postgraduate research investigating the influence of cricket upon her prose style? Who will be the first to write a Ph.D. dissertation on the subject?

England: The ghost in St Mary's, Shrewsbury

 I discovered a ghost in the church of St Mary the Virgin in Shrewsbury! In the Trinity Chapel there is the 14th century tomb of Sir Simon de Leyburn. 

This part of the church was once a much smaller chantry chapel, where priests were paid to pray and celebrate masses help his soul through Purgatory. What I tell parties of schoolchildren is that there is a ghost of someone, probably a nun, still praying! She can sometimes be persuaded to manifest herself if a screen is placed at the correct angle beside the tomb:-

She looks a very friendly ghost!

   When I ask the school parties if they'd like to see the ghost, and also hear about the headless skeleton once excavated nearby, they are always very keen, but on one occasion the teacher-in-charge said, "I think it's time we went for lunch!"

  It's surprising how many adult tourists also want to see the ghost!

How to write a novel: advice from John Steinbeck and others

  John Steinbeck once gave this advice to would-be novelists. It can hardly be bettered, but I would like to add a few thoughts from other writers, and from my own experience. 

Steinbeck's early points are vitally important. You must write something every day, without fail; even if you know it's rubbish. If you stop, there's no reason why you should ever start again.

    I was once given the following excellent advice: You don't have to start with chapter one: start by writing the scene that you think you can do best.

   Raymond Chandler once gave this advice to thriller-writers: If you think things are going a bit slow, have two armed men force their way through the door. You can work out later why they're there!

   Steinbeck's fifth point is important. You may find that a scene you particularly like does not fit easily into the overall story. Should you abandon it? It's an awkward decision. Tolkien said, with regard to "The Lord of the Rings", "I always thought talking trees would come into it somewhere."

   Some advice from me. The easiest people to describe are people you know. It is, of course, perfectly possible to give one of your characters the physical appearance of an aquaintance, but an entirely different personality. When describing scenery or buildings: these also may be based on places you know. You should be able to see them in your mind's eye, but there's no necessity to describe them in detail. 

   If your story involves a picarseque hero, who meets a variety of different people in different situations, his adventures are more credible if he's young, good-looking and friendly, but also rather naive and over-trusting, thereby often getting himself into trouble.

   Incidentally, do not be surprised if your characters appear to develop minds of their own, and start to behave in an unexpected fahion. This often happens!

Steinbeck's last point, about the need to read dialogue out loud, is very important. It also applies to poetry; but I'll discuss writing poetry on another occasion.

Finally: a note of encouragement. If you do manage to write and publish a novel, all your friends and neighbours will be amazed and full of congratulations. I speak from personal experience!

History: King Philippe IV of France; a turning-point in French history

King Philippe IV was one of the most energetic mediaeval kings of France, but also one of the most controversial, and, in terms of his impact on the history of his country, could be considered one of the most disastrous.

   He came to the throne in 1285 whilst still a teenager, succeeding his rather insignificant father, who had been completely overshadowed by his own illustrious father, the famous Louis IX, Saint Louis, the mighty crusader, and the only French monarch ever to be canonised. But Philippe IV was an entirely different character, whose reign would be dominated by a series of violent and sensational events.

  Philippe's main problem was that he was eternally short of money, which led to some of the most crucial events of his reign. In 1296 he levied a tax on the French clergy, leading to a confrontation with the Pope, Boniface VIII, a scholarly but domineering and aggressive personality. In 1303 Boniface issued the decree "Unam sanctum", which specified that unconditional submission to the papacy was absolutely necessary for salvation, and prepared to excommunicate Philippe himself. This could not be tolerated, and that September a French force led by Philippe's leading minister Guillaume de Nogaret arested Benedict at his home in Anagni outside Rome. Popular protests soon freed the Pope, but Boniface did not recover from the ordeal and died soon afterwards. (The great poet Dante detested Boniface, and in his "Inferno", written at the time, condemned him to hellfire)

  The next Pope Benedict XI, was dead within a year, following which a Frenchman, Bertrand de Got, was elected Pope as Clement V. But he never set foot in Rome, eventually settling in Avignon, and at no stage showed himself strong enough to stand up to King Philippe. For most of the century, all the Popes were Frenchmen, living in Avignon rather than Rome.

  King Phippe's financial worries continued. In 1306 he suddenly turned against the Jewish community, seizing their wealth and expelling them all from France. But his next step was to prove enormously controversial.

  The Templar Knights were a vastly wealthy Order, but seemed to lack any clear function after the final loss of the Holy Land to the Moslems. In 1307, in a sudden coup, all the Templars in France were arrested and accused of a variety of offences ranging from sodomy to devil-worship, and their riches seized. Interrogation under violent torture organised by Nogaret soon produced a series of confessions, including from Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master of the Order. Many of the kings of Europe were quick to follow Philiipe's example. Edward II of England was initially doubtful about the confessions, but was told that was because he wasn't torturing them enough! Pope Clement must also have had his doubts, but made not the slightest effort to save the Templars. 

  In March 1314 Jacques de Molay and another leading Templar, Geoffrey de Charnay, were put on display in Paris to make a full public confession of their crimes; but, doubtless to Philippe's surprise, they revoked their earlier confessions and proclaimed that all the charges were false and the Templar Knights entirely innocent. This also could not be tolerated, and so a few days later the two Templars were burnt at the stake in the centre of Paris. It was said that, from the flames, Jacques de Molay cursed King Philippe, prophesying that the King, the Pope and Nogaret would all die within the year, and that Philippe's line would soon come to an end.

  But before that could happen, the French court was shaken by a most appalling scandal. King Philippe had three married sons; Louis, Philippe and Charles; and now two of his daughters-in-law were convicted of adultery! (The third, Philippe's wife, was found guilty only of assisting them). The girls were sentenced to life imprisonment, and their lovers, two young squires, were hideously executed. 

People must have wondered whether the curse of the Templars was already operating, and this suspicion could only have grown when Nogaret, Pope Clement and finally King Philippe himself all died before the year was out. The King was only 46 years old. And now things got far worse.    

    Ever since the beginning of the monarchy under the Capetian family. three centuries earlier, the throne of France had always passed seamlessly from father to eldest son, and this dynastic stability had enabled the kings to centralise the government and increase royal prestige, check the power of the great nobles and defend the country against invaders. King Phillipe would have expected this to continue, since he left three grownup sons. But as it happened, Louis, Philippe and Charles each reigned briefly in turn and all died by 1328, without any of them managing to produce a surviving male heir, though there were daughters. So what should be done? 

   The great nobles of France assembled to find a solution. Lawyers conveniently discovered an ancient tradition that they called the "Salic Law", dating from the Dark Ages, that no woman could succeed to a crown. Therefore it was decided to pass the kingship to a cousin, the Count of Valois, who now succeeded as Philippe VI, thereby founding the Valois dynasty.

But Philippe IV had also had a daughter, Isabella, who had been used as a diplomatic tool to help patch up a prolonged dispute with King Edward I of England by marrying Isabella to his son and heir, who succeeded as Edward II in 1307. But this Edward proved to be useless as a king (most famously being defeated by the Scots at Bannockburn in 1314), and also appeared to be bisexual; allowing great wealth and power to fall into the hands of handsome favoutites. In 1327 he was overthrown by Queen Isabella, "the she-wolf of France" and her lover, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, and, according to legend, was shortly afterwards gruesomely murdered in Berkeley castle. The two of them then ruled England until, three years later, Isabella's young son, now Edward III, managed to capture and execute Mortimer (but he seems to have forgiven his mother, who lived peacefully until her death in 1358).

                        (Here Queen Isabella is visiting her brother, King Charles IV of France)

Once he had established himself, Edward III went on the offfensive. He denounced the Salic Law as nonsense, arguing that, as the only grandson of Philippe IV, the throne of France should be his. Thus began the "Hundred Years' War" which reduced France to utter ruination. Was this indeed the curse of the Templars in operation? 

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The French writer Maurice Druon wrote a very entertaining series of historical novels about all this: "Les Rois Maudites", translated as "The Accursed Kings". The first, about Philippe IV, is called "The Iron King". Recommended!

Stories: Going back

    Although it was many years since he had been there, he could see clearly in his mind’s eye the little seaside town that he and his wife used to visit: the broad sweep of the beach, where the tide always seemed to be out (he had never had a decent swim there), the unpretentious hotel where they always stayed, the shops, and their favourite café. Now he was alone, but he was going there again.

   He remembered the villages they had driven through on the way; the crossroads where, more than once, they had taken the wrong turning; the railway station on the outskirts of the town. And at last he arrived.

   He was delighted to see that it was all just as he remembered. The tide, of course, was out, but there were the rocks on the left-hand end of the beach, and at the far end, the trees where they used to go for walks. The café was still in the same place, and so was the curio shop. He was delighted to discover that the small bookshop, which has been closed on their last visit, had now reopened. That would provide something to keep him occupied while he waited for his wife: she had not arrived yet, but he was sure that, if he waited long enough, she would come. 

Happy Christmas!

 

.This is a  6th-century mosaic of the Three Kings, from the basilica of St. Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna. Note that already the men whom St Matthew's gospel only calls "wise men from the east" have already acquired names, but that the notion (seen in many later nativity scenes) that one was a European, one a Syrian and one an African still lay in the future.

History: Problems of dating

 Many of us will remember the debate from 25 years ago as to whether the millennium should begin on January 1st 2000 or 2001; opinion being overwhelmingly in favour of the former. This debate was ultimately dependent on the work of a 6th century monk called Dionysius Exiguus - or, as we would call him in English, Little Dennis.

  The Bible is notoriously short of dates, and Little Dennis was commanded by the Pope to calculate the date of the birth of Jesus. Using Roman sources, Dennis estimated that the Nativity occurred near the end of the year 753 years after the foundation of Rome, and that Year One should thus begin on January 1st a few days later. There was, therefore, no Year Zero. From his calculations we derive what used to be called dates A.D. and B.C. and  what are now, presumably for reasons of political correctness, labelled as C.E. and B.C.E.

 (Incidentally, there is absolutely nothing in the Bible to tell us at what time of the year Jesus was born, but it always seemed appropriate the the Holy Child should be born at the winter solstice, having been conceived at the spring equinox - the Feast of the Annunciation, on March 25th, when the archangel Gabriel appeared to the virgin Mary. This was when the new year started in England until the calendar was reformed in the 18th century, and it is still when the financial year starts - March 25th, plus 11 days added for reasons we won't go into here - and also the astrological year, which starts with Aries the Ram in mid-March)

(Again incidentally: it has always surprised me that the church went to these lengths to calculate a date for the Nativity, but has never been interested in establishing a date for the Crucifixion. It shouldn't have been too difficult for Paul, or Luke, or some other early follower of Jesus, to estimate a date - the 18th years of the Emperor Tiberius, perhaps? - but they were not historians in the sense that the term is understood now.) 

Having established a date for the Nativity, later scholars used the Old Testament to count backwards in order to calculate a date for the creation of the world. The most famous estimate was by Archbishop Ussher in late 17th century Britain, who calculated that the world was created exactly 4,000 years before the Nativity (Incidentally, he decided that the Creation started on October 23rd: I'm not sure why). But not everyone agreed with this: the Russian Orthodox church, for instance, dated the creation more than 1,000 years earlier.

Unfortunately, as centuries passed and knowledge of Roman history increased, it was realised that Little Dennis had go his sums slightly wrong. This was hardly his fault, until Julius Caesar reformed it after his victory in the civil war, the Roman calendar was a dreadful mess, with far too few days in a year of just 10 months. Caesar instituted a new calendar, with a year of 365 1/4 days, starting on January 1st, introducing leap years and inserting two extra months: July & August (which is why September, October, November and December, which by their names should obviously be the 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th months, are actually the 9th, 10th, 11th and 12th)

Dennis's mistake remains visible today, in the story of the Three Kings in St Matthew's gospel. The problem is that they meet King Herod; and in the corrected Roman dating. Herod died in 4 BC. How to reconcile this? it couldn't be done! So Archbishop Ussher's only solution was to date the creation, not at 4,000 BC but at 4,004 BC: a date still believed by American fundamentalists to this day!   

Cricket: Amanjot Kaur's catch helps win the world cup for India!

 A defining image of the recent women's ODI cricket world cup final between India and South Africa was the juggling catch that Amanjot Kaur took to dismiss Laura Wolvaardt, the South African captain. This was a crucial moment in ensuring a win for India, making them world champions for the first time, and on home soil!

In the earlier semifinal, Amanjot had joined the star batter Jemimah Rodrigues to see India home in a thrilling run-chase against Australia, and scored the winning runs herself!

There is a charming background history to this. Amanjot came from a poor family who couldn't afford to buy her a cricket bat, so her father, who was a carpenter, made her one himself! Furthermore, he had to face down the disapproval of his more traditionally-minded neighbours, who thought his little girl shouldn't be playing cricket with boys. But now he can feel that all his efforts were justified, as his little girl has become a national treasure and he has been featured as a hero on Indian media, pictured with tears of joy in his eyes. Isn't that a  heartwarming story?

Postscript: The victorious Indian women were richly rewarded by their state governments. I have no idea exactly what the "11 lakhs of rupees" paid to each of them is worth, but it sounds like a vast amout of money, especially for a poor carpenter's family!

History: Musings on patriots and patriotism

Doctor Johnson in his famous Dictionary, written in the mid-18th century, defined the word "Patriot" as follows:-

  "Patriot: One whose ruling passion is love of his country. It is sometimes used for a factious disturber of the government".

   Johnson's biographer James Boswell also records Johnson as saying, "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel". How did all this come about?

The words "Patriot" and "Patriotism" are derived from the Latin "Patria": the fatherland. I cannot find any use of these words in British political discussion before the early 18th century, when they arise from the nature of Parliamentary politics. After the "Glorious Revolution" of 1688-9, Parliament met every year, there were frequent general elections, and it soon became apparent that no government could survive unless it commanded a majority in the House of Commons. Politicians competed for votes there, and the vitally important issues at stake (war and peace, taxation, the succession to the throne, religious toleration) meant that rival political parties soon developed there, and have continued ever since.  

  At the same time, however, older notions persisted. The government was still the King's government, in fact as well as in constitutional theory, for monarchs were still personally supportive of their ministers; and how could you be in organised opposition to the King's government without automatically opening yourself to accusations of treason? The concept grew up of "His Majesty's loyal opposition": that a political party could oppose the measures enacted by a government without being hostile to the Crown or the constitution. Probably the last openly disloyal opposition were the Jacobites, who wished to overthrow the Hanoverian dynasty and replace it with the exiled Stuarts, and rose in rebellion in 1715 and 1745; but in the 1790s opposition politicians were accused by government propagandists of being republican supporters of the French Revolution. Even without these extremes, it was widely considered that opganised opposition to the government (as distinct from criticism of individual measures) was contitutionally dubious.

  In this context, it was essential for any opposition to be more "patriotic" than the government: to claim that the government was leading the country towards disaster, and was probably also guilty of corruption whereas the opposition leaders could offer better and more honest policies. (To a great extent, this still applies!) In the 1730s, the ministry of Sir Robert Walople was faced with severe criticism from a group of young policians, William Pitt and his friends, whom he scornfully dubbed the "Boy patriots". This is the first use of the term that I have been able to find. 

 Later, in the 1760s, the early governments of George III were subjected to widespread allegations of corruption and unconstitutional behaviour. Once again, it was the opposition who claimed to be the true patriots. Doctor Johnson, a Tory who had been given a govenment pension and an honorary degree from Oxford by the new regime, reacted with scorn to these attacks; hence his double-edged definition.  

   One wonders what he would have made of current disputes: especially the widespread use of the Union Jack and the St. George's Cross by those hostile to the ministers!   

My novel!

My historical novel, set in mid-18th century England, has been published on Amazon Kindle! Have a look at it and tell me what you think!

The turnpike: a discarded scene from my historical novel

 When it was time for me to leave, Sir Anthony suggested that I travel home by the new turnpike road, and detailed a servant to guide me on my way. Alfred Redman was the youth’s name, and it suited him well, for his hair was indeed of a fiery shade. He rode a pony alongside my horse. We fell into conversation, which quickly showed that he was worldly-wise, never at a loss for words and entirely fearless in his manner. He would never have suited a master who expected silence and deference from servants, but as it was, his chaffing passed the time pleasantly.

  Before long he was able to tell me that we were approaching the start of the new turnpike. But before the tollbooth came into view, there came on the breeze a smell of burning and the noise of shouting and huzzah-ing from many throats. Alf quickly pulled my horse and his pony under the shadow of some trees as a man, covered in dirt and bleeding from a head wound, came running for his life down the road. He dived into the bushes and disappeared from sight, and not a moment too soon, for his pursuers now appeared round the corner. Instead of searching for him, they saw us, and advanced in our direction.   “What’s your name, and what are you doing here?” one of them asked.

      They were the most extraordinary bunch. Though they were obviously men, they were all dressed as women, apart from the boots protruding beneath the long skirts, and many had their faces blackened. They were armed with sticks, though two carried axes and one a blunderbuss of antiquated pattern, and were clearly in no mood to be trifled with. They could see from my clothing and my horse that I was a gentleman and they regarded me with considerable suspicion.

  I was wondering whether to answer them quietly and politely, giving them my name and explaining that I was a stranger in the district and desirous only of returning to my home near Brereton, or whether I should defy them, stress my status as a Member of Parliament and threaten them with the law. I could explain that I was in favour of turnpikes, and had voted for more than one Turnpike Bill during my brief time in the House. The roads north and west from Brereton, towards the Dee and the Mersey, were notoriously bad, and in winter impassable to wheeled vehicles of any kind, and I could argue that trade and commerce could never flourish until this was remedied. However, these men in women’s dress did not look susceptible to reasoned argument of this kind, and some of them fingered their weapons in a threatening manner.

  While I hesitated, young Alf took control of the situation.

   “Let me handle this, sir!” he whispered, and proceeded to embark on a most ridiculous farrago of lies and nonsense, explaining that I was the unfortunate brother of a tenant farmer, who chose to dress like a gentleman (he implied that I might be somewhat feeble-minded), but was quite harmless and hated all turnpikes and enclosures, and that his master had ordered him to show me the way home, fearing that I might get lost, and that if they asked politely I would not fail to pay them. He then whispered to me, “Just keep smiling, sir, and pay them the toll”.

   They held a brief consultation before the one with the blunderbuss, who appeared to be their leader, and a man of some intelligence and education, addressed me with the accompaniment of much ludicrous bowing and deference, which caused laughter from his followers “Then sir, my lord, you may proceed, for we have no quarrel with you. But first, let us show to you our determination to achieve justice for our cause!”

   Round the corner we came to the entry to the turnpike. The gate had been chopped to pieces and was now burning on a bonfire, and beside it the newly-built toll-keeper’s cottage had had all its windows smashed. A painted board, which carried the sums to be paid for using the turnpike, was also burning. I guessed that the man I had seen fleeing away had been the toll-keeper, who could have counted himself fortunate to have escaped with his life.

   “Now you have seen what we have done”, the spokesman told me, speaking in the manner of an inferior actor. “Know that we are Mother Goose’s Maidens, and that we fight for rights and justice for all Englishmen against tyranny. For how can it be just that that we should be charged tolls to travel upon this road, which our forefathers used for uncounted ages? So we have destroyed the tollgate, and the road is again free for all to use. And now, sir, my lord, you may go and tell the world what you have seen: but before you go, you might wish that we should drink your honour’s health?”

   Keeping my face fixed in a grin of idiocy, I gave him a few shillings. They then gave me a cheer, and I was allowed to pass on my way. I reflected that it was fortunate that my name had not been revealed.

   After we had left the turnpike, Redman left me to return to Sir Anthony’s house. But in parting, he informed me that, should I ever be in need of a servant who, he assured me, could turn his hand to any task with the utmost efficiency, then he, should he happen to be freed from the household of Sir Anthony Pardington, would be happy to place himself at my service.

   The rest of my journey home continued without incident. I would continue to support the building of more turnpikes, but reflected that I had not fully considered their effect on the local people.

.......................................................................................................................

My novel, entitled "The shadow of the past, by Peter G. Shilston", is available on Amazon Kindle

Stories: The other bag

 Harry stepped off the train onto the busy platform. He was wearing a blue waterproof, although it was a cloudless day, and he carried a green sports bag. He asked where he could find someone at the station who dealt with general security and similar matters. He was shown into the inspector’s office.

   “I’ve got a problem”, he announced, “Or rather, two problems. Firstly, I’m afraid I got on the wrong train, so I don’t have the right ticket. I should have left the train earlier, but it was very crowded and I was tired, and I’m not familiar with this route. So I’d be most grateful if you could help me get a ticket to return back home so I can start again.”

   He produced the ticket. The inspector looked at it and reassured Harry that this would not cause any difficulty.

  “But the other’s rather more complicated”. Hary continued, “You see, this isn’t my bag, and I don’t know what to do with it. My bag looks just the same, it's the same make, but it doesn’t have this little padlock on the zip. Also, mine wasn’t as heavy. I left my bag on the rack at the end of the carriage, and I picked this one up when we reached the station, thinking it was mine. I don’t know what had happened: I didn’t see any bag like mine. Perhaps someone else took my bag by mistake at an earlier stop, and left their own: I don’t know. But what should I do now?”

    He  asked if his bag had contained anything valuable.

  “Oh, just clothes and shoes and a few bits and pieces: nothing of any importance. But it’s the annoyance, and it makes me feel such a fool, picking up the wrong bag. I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Can you help?”

  The inspector suggested Harry should provide his name and address, so he could be contacted if his own bag was handed in somewhere.  Harry told him, as he had been instructed, “I’m James Harklid; that’s H-a-r-k-l-i-d, and I live at 14, Merrial Street, Reading…” he found he had forgotten the postcode he was supposed to have memorised, but he remembered that Reading began with RG-something, so he made the rest up and added an improvised mobile phone number and email address. He was much relieved when the inspector noted them down without question.

   Harry then asked, “Look, do you mind if I nip off to the loo? I’ll be back in a minute!” He was directed to a public toilet further along the platform.

   Once in the cubicle, Harry pulled from his pocket a tightly rolled bag, into which he stowed his waterproof, then he produced a black baseball cap which he placed on his head. Confident that he would not be recognised, he left the station by handing in a legitimate train ticket to that town, and without much difficulty identified the car that was ready to take him away. He gave it a wide berth and walked on.

  He was greatly relieved to have made his escape, and although it was no longer any concern of his, he mused vaguely on what might be found in the bag he had contrived to leave. Certainly it was heavy, and felt like it held a number of different large objects. Would it eventually be claimed, and by whom? Or would it remain for weeks, perhaps months, before people decided to open it? And then they might get the surprise of their lives ….. those who survived.  

 

…………………………………………………

 

Alternative ending

 

   Harry took his seat in the getaway car and explained his actions.

   “I sensed right from the start that the operation had somehow been compromised. That’s why I bought the two different tickets – and of course I was careful to buy them on different days, and paid with cash, not a card. I was certain I was being watched on the train, and I recognised two men at the barrier, waiting to intercept me. But after I changed clothes, they didn’t spot me when I left; and anyway I didn’t have the bag. Oh, and I think the inspector might perhaps be one of ours; you’d better check with higher up. Anyway, I’ve got the goods this far, so it’s up to you and higher up what to do now.”

   He felt greatly relieved, and silently swore never again not to be involved in such a perilous transaction. It never occurred to him that his companions might view his actions in a more critical light.

    

Musings: English and American heroes

  George Orwell once said that the traditional British hero was Jack the giant-killer: the little man fighting against heavy odds. This reflects the fact that for most of our history we were a small country facing a much bigger one: until well into the 19th century the population of France was several times that of Britain, and the French army massively greater. In the first half of the 20th century, the immensely powerful enemy was Germany, to be succeeded after 1945 by the Soviet Union.  By contrast, the traditional American hero is Superman, who crushes all opponents with little effort, and this reflects the position of the United States as a superpower. There is, however, an interesting contrast in James Bond: in the novels, he is invariably on his own, and triumphs over a powerful foe solely by his own courage and endurance, whereas in the films he is supported by ingenious technology. There is also an unpleasant sado-masochistic element in the books, Bond being savagely beaten-up or tortured in every one; and this is (perhaps understandably) absent in the films, where Bond always appears to take his troubles extremely lightly. We can in general postulate that in the British tradition the hero triumphs over a bully, whereas in America the bully is himself the triumphant hero; and James Bond transitions from being a typical British hero to something more ambiguous.   

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