Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Stay with the Wagons


Good morning, dear readers! You may remember recent guest, David Fitz-Gerald. He joins me again today with a lovely excerpt from his novel, Stay with the Wagons.

Welcome, David!

~ Samantha

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Stay with the Wagons

Guest Post by David Fitz-Gerald

It’s so exciting to be on tour, supporting Stay with the Wagons, Book Three in the series Ghost Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. This installment features some of my favorite scenes and locations, including Independence Rock, Devil’s Gate, and the White Mountain Petroglyphs, in what is now Wyoming.

In August 2022, as I was working on my manuscript, I traveled to Fort Bridger. Before my characters visited the famous mountain man’s trading post, Dorcas Moon’s teenaged daughter went missing, disappearing into the wilderness.

For those of you who have read A Grave Every Mile and Lighten the Load, you know that this troubled teen disappears far too often. In Stay with the Wagons, she borrows a horse without permission and rides off alone in the middle of the night without a word to anyone.

It is as if a mystical power draws her to a sacred place where she meets Chief Washakie, his pregnant wife, and a blind seer. The sandstone hill features a cave, ancient carvings, and a large rock known as The Birthing Stone. Many of the petroglyphs depict animals within animals. Some portray the birthing process. This holy place is an ancient monument to womanhood and childbirth.

The day I visited, it was sunny and warm. I was glad to get there early before it got too hot outside. There wasn’t anyone else there and I was grateful for the solitude. Wyoming is known for being windy, but that morning was calmer than usual. It was so quiet and desolate, that time didn’t seem to matter.

It was a great day to contemplate the miracle of life and the balance between the past, present, and future. I didn’t want to leave, but as I drove away, I couldn’t wait to send my beloved characters on their own journey to this spiritual place.

Perhaps you know the feeling. Have you visited a place wrapped in a similar mystical allure? A place where the past and present merged and spoke directly to you?


Here’s an excerpt from June 28, 1850:

Our guides have let us sleep late this morning. When the trumpet sounds at dawn, I glance about and see that Rose is already up and gone. She often rises before Reveille, but I become concerned when Rose fails to materialize as the boys and I prepare for our morning departure.

After harnessing the oxen, I can no longer wait patiently for my daughter to appear. I hate asking for help, but when it comes to a child’s safety, one cannot be too proud. Our guides are finishing their breakfast at the wagon master’s camp when I sound the alarm. It’s rare to find Boss Wheel, Agapito, Arikta, and Dembi Koofai all in camp at the same time. I exclaim, “Rose is missing!”

I can’t bear to look at Boss Wheel. The gruff ramrod has made his feelings about Rose crystal clear. Agapito tells the scouts to fetch the horses as the wagon master cusses in French. Then, ever so briefly, Agapito places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

Dembi Koofai returns at a fast trot, with Arikta right behind him. The Shoshone says, “Rio is missing.” He says more with his hands than with the words he speaks. “I track.”

Agapito fills in the missing details, though I know enough of the hand talk to understand that Dembi Koofai thinks Rose is riding Rio. There are no other tracks, so whatever has happened, kidnapping and horse thievery are not suspected. It appears that Rose has ridden off on the assistant wagon master’s horse alone and on purpose.

Agapito tells Dembi Koofai and Arikta to follow the missing horse’s trail, but Boss Wheel interrupts him. “The wagons will continue. I’ll ride point, Arikta will ride drag, and you stay with the wagon. Dembi Koofai can go alone.”

I say, “I’m going with him.” Agapito’s brow furrows and he shakes his head slowly. He looks concerned but I can’t worry about that now.

Boss Wheel scowls at me. “I don’t recommend it. This is Shoshone country.” His scowl deepens into a sneer. “Dembi Koofai can move faster on his own without having to look out for you. He knows the country, and he is our best tracker.” Boss Wheel turns his back to me and tells his scout, “We will camp on the Big Sandy tonight and the Green River the next two nights.”

I don’t care what Boss Wheel says. I’m going with Dembi Koofai. I turn my back and run toward camp. After a few quick words with Stillman and the children, I saddle Blizzard, fill a canteen, and toss biscuits in my saddlebags. Andrew looks confused, Christopher appears jealous, and Dahlia Jane seems like she wants to cry. I try to reassure them. “Don’t worry, children, we’ll find your sister.”

Dahlia Jane says, “What if something happens to you, Mama?” The child bursts into tears, and I can’t imagine what tragedy she imagines. There isn’t time for more, so I hug her quickly and promise her that there is no need to worry. I can feel my face twitching as I say words to the child that I can’t possibly be sure of myself.

Dembi Koofai has a lead on me, but Blizzard catches up quickly. He rides along at a fast trot, eyes following a dusty trail that is so clear, even I could follow it.

I ask, “How do you know it’s Rio and Rose’s trail.”

“Ever’ horse is differen’. They don’ go fas’.”

“How old are the tracks?” If Rose rode off in the last hour or so, we should find her fast.

“Don’ know.” The mysterious scout doesn’t offer suspicions, voice concerns, or express worry. I imagine tracking takes concentration, so I fall back a little and let the man do his work.

Soon after, Dembi Koofai turns back to me and says, “They go fas’.” He turns back and follows the straight trail in a southeastern direction. I watch the constellations of spots strewn across his horse’s speckled haunches as the Shoshone rides at a spirited, mile-eating trot.

We maintain a steady pace without stopping to rest. My throat is parched, and I need a drink, but I appreciate the scout’s diligence. My daughter’s life could depend on finding her quickly. There is no time to stop. We shall tend to our thirst later.

After hours on the flat trail, we reach an area of rocky hills, and beyond them lies a ridge of mountains. Dembi Koofai doesn’t appear to be watching the ground as much. Instead, he looks toward the mountains in the distance as if hoping to see movement on the horizon. It’s been hours since he has spoken. Finally, he turns to me, points, and says, “I know where she goin’.”

Rose doesn’t ride horses that often, and I can’t remember her ever riding bareback. I don’t know why she would think she could take a horse that doesn’t belong to us. We’ve been trailing her all day. She must have ridden off in the middle of the night, or we would have caught up to her hours ago. What’s gotten into that child now?

An hour later, the Shoshone says, “Almos’ there.”

The distant gray mountains seem to have changed color now that we’re in them. An impressive rise of yellow and brown sandstone stands tall above us as we ride toward it. A trickle of smoke leads from somewhere on the other side of the prominence. Before we circle around the bluff, Dembi Koofai says, “We are not alone. Don’ worry.” He makes the sign for friends and then the sign for family. I can’t fathom how he could know. Perhaps he has seen more tracks or other evidence.

We continue at a slow walk. A couple of minutes later, the solemn scout coughs quietly at first and then louder. I’ve never heard the man make such a sound before. The horses take a couple more steps, and I see Rose seated beside a fire with a small group of Indians: two middle-aged men, a younger woman heavy with child, and a couple of children. I gasp at the sight of my missing daughter, surprised to see her sitting with strangers, and relieved that she appears unharmed.

I glance to the left and see Rio, the horse that Rose borrowed without permission, standing at rest in the shade of a steep rock wall. I squint and see crude pictures scratched into the brown sandstone. They are a curiosity. If only there were time to look at them.

In front of me, Dembi Koofai slides from Coffeepot’s back and approaches the fire. I also dismount.

The men rise, and Dembi Koofai greets the taller man. Instead of shaking hands, the men clasp each other’s forearms near the bend of their elbows. The shorter man has a hunched back and scary-looking, white eyes. After exchanging a few words with Dembi Koofai, the short man sits across from Rose and stares into her face.

I step toward Dembi Koofai and the taller man, and peek at Rose, who doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. She sits cross-legged and silently stares into the strange man’s haunting gaze.

Dembi Koofai turns halfway toward me, not turning his back toward the taller man. “This man Chief Washakie. Ver’ good friend.” Then Dembi Koofai walks backward toward the horses and crouches in the shade beside his Appaloosa.

I don’t know how to greet this man. Should I offer my hand or try to grasp his arm as Dembi Koofai did? Not knowing what else to do, I curtsy and admonish myself. Chief Washakie looks at my legs. He must have seen Larkin’s trousers. Then, he looks at my bosom, smiles, and looks into my eyes. By now, I should be accustomed to the way men’s eyes linger when they look at my chest. I know better than to wait for the scout to introduce me, especially given the fact that he has stepped away from Chief Washakie. My tongue trips as I try to speak, and I eventually spit my name into the air. The warm, friendly smile on the Chief’s round cheeks puts me at ease.

Washakie reaches his hand toward me like a southern gentleman. I extend my hand, and he takes it into his. He bows softly toward me, his straight black hair cascading over his shoulders.

“It is nice to meet you, Dorcas. Is this child your daughter? You must be very proud.”

I glance at Rose, who doesn’t seem to be listening to me and the chief. “Yes, Chief. Her name is Rose Moon. I’m so relieved that we found her. I was very worried.”

He looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “You need not worry about this one.” He sweeps an arm toward Rose as if casting a spell of invincibility upon her. “The ancient ones watch over her. But a mother always worries about her children.” He turns toward the woman who stands a short distance away and speaks to me. “Would you like to meet my wife?”

I’m distracted by the Indian’s words. What ancient ones? How could they watch over Rose? Sometimes it seems like the whole world is going mad. I say, “Yes, Chief. It would be an honor, your Highness.” I don’t know how to talk to an Indian chief, and I hope I’m doing so correctly.

“Please call me Washakie. Should I call you Mrs. Moon?”

“Thank you, Washakie. That is most kind. You may call me Dorcas.”

Washakie beckons the Indian woman with his hand, and she steps toward us. “This is Crimson Dawn, and these are our youngest children.”

I extend my hand. Forgetting to be ladylike, I realize that my grip is too firm. I relax my hand, and Crimson Dawn bows her head toward me as she brings her hand back to her side. I’m surprised when she says, “You are like the woman who left her handprints in stone.” She points at a nearby rock.

Washakie extends an arm toward the rock and suggests we take a closer look. “This is the Birthing Stone. Crimson Dawn hopes to have the baby here, but the little one doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.”

I can’t believe I’m in the presence of an Indian chief, let alone talking with him about childbirth. He seems to be at ease. I think of Boss Wheel and Captain Meadows, who are nothing like this man. Perhaps being away from the responsibility of leadership causes Washakie to be relaxed. The coming birth of a child doesn’t seem to unnerve him either. I wonder how many children he has fathered, and then I try to estimate his age.

As if reading my mind, the man looks at me and says, “You are trying to guess my age. The truth is, only the Great Spirit knows for sure. I was orphaned young, but I’ve seen at least forty winters. What about you, Dorcas?”

“A lady never reveals her true age.” I grin. “But I am happy to confide in you, Washakie. I am thirty-four.”

The chief leads us from the Birthing Stone to the wall that shades the horses. I think of the names, initials, and years carved into Independence Rock and other places along the dusty roadway we have traveled. The ancient drawings on these remote mountains make me think differently about leaving something for future people to wonder about.

One illustration features a long horse carrying a stick figure with an impressive array of feathers flowing down his back. The oversized spear with a point half as large as the rider seems to have an oval aura surrounding it. I try to imagine the warrior or hunter preserving his likeness in stone, patiently scratching away at the soft rock for hours. I think of Bacon and try to imagine an ancient Indian, eons ago, preserving a single moment in stone.

The wall features many pictures of buffalo. Some are more intricate than others and require an active imagination to see. Many images look like feet. From their shape, I don’t think they represent people. They look more like bear footprints to me.

The most curious images I see are of one animal drawn inside another. I look back at the Birthing Stone, standing in the bright afternoon sun a short distance away. Then, I look at an etching that appears to show an animal giving birth. I gasp at the next symbol I see. At the risk of sounding vulgar, the only way I can think to describe it is to say it looks like an unmentionable lady part. Despite the depiction of a hunter with a huge spear, this sacred landmark seems like a place dedicated to womanhood.

Next, Washakie leads us into the shade. He says, “This is a sacred place of life, fertility, and rebirth.” I wonder what he means by rebirth. Does he refer to a spiritual reawakening of some sort? There is a feeling of optimism that overwhelms me.

I look at the wise chief and say, “This is a very special place.”

“Would you spend the night as our guests, Dorcas?”

I look away for a moment. It took us so long to get here, there’s no chance of returning to The Oregon Trail tonight. I look back and say, “Thank you, Washakie. We’d be much obliged.”

When we return to the small fire, Crimson Dawn hands me a bowl of stew. Washakie’s friend sits like a statue and continues looking into Rose’s face, and she stares back with that same vacant expression that always scares me. I don’t know what to say about my daughter’s strange behavior. I want to jostle her and force her to acknowledge my presence, but experience has taught me not to disturb her during such moments. Instead, I say to Washakie. “Sometimes, my daughter seems asleep and awake at the same time.”

Washakie looks at me knowingly. He says, “Do not worry, Dorcas. I understand.” I scratch my chin as he speaks, and look at Rose. I wish I could say that I understand.

As I slowly chew the thick stew, Washakie tells me that his friend is known as Sees Through Clouds. I ask if the man is blind, and Washakie says his vision comes and goes. “Like many who lose their vision, Sees Through Clouds can see things that others cannot. His medicine is very strong.”

After a moment passes, I decide to ask a question. I understand why Washakie and his wife have come to this place. I’m surprised that another woman hasn’t come along to help Crimson Dawn during her confinement. But, I don’t understand the presence of the medicine man. Afraid of offending, I whisper to the chief, “Why is Sees Through Clouds here?”

Washakie seems to be surprised by my question. “Spirit people are always drawn to sacred places. You know that, Dorcas.”

I gulp, wanting to inquire further but unable to speak the words: Do I?

***

After a delicious meal and great conversation with the chief and his pleasant wife, I’m weary and ready to retire. Everyone is quiet, and I’m expecting Washakie to suggest that everyone go to bed.

Dembi Koofai sits beside me but slightly away from the fire. He’s been quiet as usual. Sometimes, I turn my head and glance at him just to see if he’s still here.

Since we arrived, Rose’s vacant fog lifted sufficiently to tend to basic biological necessities. I tried to speak to her when I led her away, but she neither acknowledged my presence nor indicated she knew I was speaking. When she ate, she chewed like she was matching the slow rhythm of native drums. The most unnerving thing to witness as her mother is the strange countenance of the man, Sees Through Clouds, who seems to be out of his head as much as she is. Over the past several months, Rose’s strange ways have become more and more concerning. Though I hate to admit it, I may have to accept that Rose will never be her old self again.

When Dembi Koofai suddenly bounds forward, chattering in his native language, I wince. He holds a scorpion in his hand. Over and over again, the rickety spider unfurls its curly tail and strikes his hand. Dembi Koofai giggles and laughs like someone is tickling him. The mysterious scout with the mystical countenance seems like a different person as he rejoices in being stung repeatedly by the devilish creature. When the scorpion’s energy wanes, Dembi Koofai holds the spider over his naked chest. The arachnid lashes out with its claws and grabs hold of Dembi Koofai’s skin, tightly clamping its tiny pincers into the Shoshone’s naked flesh.

The young man, who always looks like he wants to disappear, smiles proudly, thrusts his chest forward, boastfully and looks down at the insect that clings to him like an adornment. I’ve never witnessed anything like what just happened, and can’t stop looking at the young man’s chest. The scorpion looks like it clings to life as it clutches Dembi Koofai. Perhaps it perished after latching on. The scout speaks to Washakie. “I’ll stand watch.”

Our host says, “Wake me when you are tired.”

When Dembi Koofai is gone, I tell Washakie that the scout regards the scorpion as his spirit creature. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget moments like this. My chest heaves with exhilaration. I’ve been told that scorpions aren’t lethal this far north, but something about watching the scout’s brave display seemed dangerous. A year ago, I never imagined that I’d be camping in a sacred location with scorpions and an Indian chief.

Washakie says, “Scorpions are masculine symbols of youthfulness, potency, and vigor. Their presence here, at this monument to womanhood, represents balance.”


Venture deep into the uncharted wilderness and crest the continental divide.

Stay with the Wagons is the enthralling third chapter in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Dorcas Moon has discarded her mourning dress and yearns for freedom and independence amidst the vast frontier. But a perilous world and a commanding wagon master keep her tethered. Ultimately, it's a brutal bout of fever and ague that confine her to camp.

Relentless disasters and beguiling challenges unfold in this installment. A young man is crushed beneath a wagon wheel. Dorcas' son breaks an arm, a grizzly bear attacks the wagon train, and the looming threat of attacking outlaws whips the emigrants into a worried frenzy. How many must perish before they reach the end of the trail?

As chaos reigns, her troubled daughter, Rose, disappears once again, leading Dorcas on a perilous quest. Tracking Rose to a sacred site, they encounter a blind seer and a legendary leader, Chief Washakie. Rose's enchantment with Native American adornments sparks Dorcas' concern about an unexpected suitor and raises worries about Rose's age.

Stay with the Wagons is bursting with action, adventure, and survival. It is a story of resilience and empowerment on the Oregon Trail.

Claim your copy now and re-immerse yourself in a tale of high-stakes survival, unexpected alliances, and the indomitable spirit of Dorcas Moon.



David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.

Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.

Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.



Sunday, March 17, 2024

Ruth deForest Lamb and the FDA's Chamber of Horrors

Good morning, dear readers. I have such a great guest for you today! Lucy Santos has extensively researched the history of cosmetics and some of the dangerous products people have used in the quest for beauty. If you were touched by the story of the radium girls in Luminous, you won't want to miss this story of a woman who was working at the US Food & Drug Administration (FDA) to protect consumers from dangerous, unregulated products - like cosmetics infused with radium. I confess that I had not previously heard of Ruth deForest Lamb, so I appreciate Lucy sharing her story with us as part of the Women's History Month celebration.

Welcome, Lucy!

~ Samantha

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Ruth deForest Lamb and the FDA's Chamber of Horrors

Guest Post by Lucy Santos

I am a beauty historian specialising in the ways in which cosmetics intersect with science and technology. A lot of my work is around the toxicity of ingredients – I even wrote a book which examined (amongst other aspects of the elements uses) the ways in which radium was used in cosmetics. 

And because of this fascination I do a lot of research into the various ingredients, beauty companies, places you can buy these products and deep dives into the ways they were marketed. 

When Samantha kindly asked me to do a post for Women’s History Month I knew there was only one person I wanted to write about – so let me introduce you to Ruth deForest Lamb.



Born in 1896 in Hallstead, Pennsylvania Ruth graduated from Vassar College and was one of the first women working in advertising – which, in the years after the First World War was an emerging industry. A bit off topic but if you haven’t read Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L Sayer I highly recommend it for a flavour of what it was like to work in advertising during this period. 

By 1933 Ruth was working for the U.S Food and Drug Administration as their first Chief Educational Officer and one of her initial huge projects was to put together a display for the 1933 Century of Progress International Exposition, held in Chicago during 1933 and 1934.

The FDA’s contribution to this massive exhibition was an exhibit of 100 products that they considered ‘dangerous, deceptive or worthless’ but had no legal authority to ban. The products encompassed dodgy medications, foods with unlabelled substitutions and cosmetics with dangerous ingredients. 

This was actually a huge problem at the time because, despite some progress via the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act, the US consumer was largely unprotected and the FDA largely powerless to change the situation. Even worst cosmetics were not covered by the regulations at all. 

This name, shame and educate campaign was carried out across seventeen display boards illustrated with ‘large, vivid pictures coupled with spare, terse prose’ – detailing the problems and the effects of these unregulated products. So Othine, a cream made with ammoniated mercury which promised to lighten the skin was highlighted as was dinitrophenol, a chemical that was sold as a weight loss tool but could cause fatal blood disorders. 



But two of the most shocking products were produced by the companies – Lash-Lure Laboratories, Inc of LA and Koremlu Inc of New York. Lash Lure was a synthetic aniline dye (a component of coal tar) that was designed for dying eyelashes and eyebrows. Koremlu was a hair removal product made from the toxic element Thallium.

Both of these products were widely available in beauty salons and Koremlu was even sold in the biggest department stores in New York City. 

They had been popular products until their users started to fall ill, and it was these victims that were featured heavily in Ruth deForest Lamb’s ‘Chamber of Horrors’ exhibit in Chicago. The stories of the suffering caused by these products were particularly gruelling – especially that of Mrs Brown, a woman who had been persuaded into dying her eyelashes by a beautician and ended up with her ‘laughing blue eyes’ being ‘blinded forever.’



Koremlu’s panel exposed Kora B Lublin, a beauty salon owner, who had begun manufacturing her hair removal cream after reading an article about how thallium acetate prevented the regrowth of hair. Ignoring the warning about the dangerous nature of the ingredient (which is a poison) Lublin had her assistants make up jars of product by hand with no controls in place to even achieve a standard dose.

When users began to fall ill with thallium poisoning it was at an inconsistent rate as some batches of the cream were more dangerous than others. Hospitals throughout the US began seeing patients presenting with symptoms including paralysation of lower limbs, nausea, blindness and loosening of their hair on other parts of the body that hadn’t been treated. 

It were these types of products that the FDA were powerless to stop and deForest Lamb in particular felt the injustice of a law with so many loopholes and the frustration of working for a toothless regulatory organisation. By drawing attention to specific products at such a prominent event as a World’s Fair, deForest Lamb’s intention was to expose the companies that made them and, ultimately to change the laws surrounding their manufacture and sale. 

After the exposition finally finished on 12 November 1933 the exhibition was packed up and returned to Washington D.C where it went on display at the Department of Agriculture. Again deForest Lamb made sure that the spotlight remained on the horrors they were exposing and there was another flurry of publicity when the First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt visited it. Time magazine reported on her reaction when presented with photographs of the women blinded by Lash-Lure: ‘I cannot bear to look at them.’



A few years later deForest Lamb went on a leave of absence from the FDA and turned the exhibition into a book, The American Chamber of Horrors. Whilst this used all the material from the exhibit as well as other sources from the FDA’s archives she stated that she wanted to write the book as a private citizen rather than an employee as it would make the argument more powerful. 

Not only did she make the case for the strengthening of a law that left Government officials with ‘no real power’ to prevent tragedies caused by products currently on the market but she dedicated the book to the other organisations that were fighting for change. In effect she was advocating for a new type of consumerism – one where users were not just passive victims and officials were given the power of real regulation. 

It took a few more years but deForest Lamb’s advocacy and awareness raising helped to ensure the passing of the Food, Drug and Cosmetic Act (FDCA) of 1938. And whilst this wasn’t by any means perfect it was the first time that cosmetics had been regulated at a federal level and gave much more protection to consumers.

Under this law Lash-Lure was taken off the market as well as action taken against other, non toxic but misleading products. For example the FDA ordered Elizabeth Arden to change the name of their ‘Skin Food’ to ‘Skin Cream’ because the ingredients were not nutrients and the company had been advertising that they would ‘furnish nourishment to the skin.’

There was, however, no need to take Koremlu off the market – consumer action had already done that when users started to sue Cora Lublin. By the time she removed Koremlu from sale in 1932 she been sued for $2.5 million and closed her beauty salon shortly after.

Ruth deForest Lamb left the FDA in 1942 and died in 1978.

Connect with Lucy Santos

Specialising in the late 19th and early 20th century Lucy Jane Santos is a freelance historian examining the crossroads of health, leisure and beauty with science and technology.

Lucy has appeared as a contributor on TV and radio, and her historical research has been featured by History Today, BBC History Revealed, Jezebel, LitHub, New York Post, Vogue, and on the BBC2 documentary, Makeup: A Glamorous History. Her most recent project is as Creative Consultant for the documentary Obsessed With Light a film that tells the story of the performance artist Loïe Fuller.

Lucy’s debut book was Half Lives: The Unlikely History of Radium (Icon: 2020, Pegasus: 2021). Half Lives was shortlisted for the BSHS Hughes Prize in 2021. Her next book, which is a history of the element uranium, will be published in 2024.

Connect with Lucy through her website, substack, or Instagram.



COVER REVEAL! The cover for Lucy's newest book has just been revealed, so you are among the first to see the new cover art for Chain Reactions: A Hopeful History of Uranium

Tracing uranium's past—and how it intersects with our understanding of other radioactive elements—Chain Reactions aims to enlighten readers and refresh our attitudes about the atomic world.



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We're having a fantastic celebration of Women's History Month! 

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Friday, March 15, 2024

Friendships in the Early Republic: Lafayette and Eleanor Custis Lewis

I hope everyone is enjoying Women's History Month! Today, another wonderful guest joins me with a glimpse of a friendship you might not have heard too much about. I love these bits of history that give us a peek into the personal lives of historical figures and help them feel "real" to us. If you enjoy learning about Lafayette, you'll want to pick up a copy of Elizabeth Reese's new book, Marquis de Lafayette Returns for more stories of his American travels and relationships.

Welcome, Elizabeth!

~ Samantha

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Friendships in the Early Republic: Lafayette and Eleanor Custis Lewis

Guest Post by Elizabeth Reese


Throughout his tour of America in 1824-1825, the Marquis de Lafayette’s visits with important men were thoroughly documented. Newspaper accounts, correspondence, and private journals list Lafayette’s name alongside those of the most powerful men in the country. Less has been said about Lafayette’s friendships with women during his trip. Women not only played a major role in Lafayette’s tour by organizing social gatherings and welcome ceremonies, but Lafayette’s convivial personality earned him the friendships of many women throughout his life.

Although George Washington had died in December 1799, Lafayette remained close with the first president’s extended family. The Custis children, Martha Washington’s grandchildren from her first marriage, were an almost constant presence in Washington social circles during Lafayette’s National Tour. Although Eliza Custis Law, Martha “Patty” Custis Peter, Eleanor “Nelly” Custis Lewis, and George Washington Parke Custis were not the heirs to Washington’s estate, they were seen as the heirs to his legacy and responsible for the preservation of his memory.

In 1784, Lafayette had previously spent two weeks with Washington and his extended family, where he had the opportunity to get to know the young Custis children. When Lafayette sent his son to live at Mount Vernon during the terror of the French Revolution, the friendship between the families was extended into the next generation. Lafayette and the Custises continued to write to each other after Washington died, and during Frenchman’s visit in the Washington, D.C. region, he spent the majority of his spare time with them.

All four children frequently welcomed Lafayette as a guest in their respective homes and attended gatherings with him, but the relationship between Lafayette and Nelly was one of particular fondness. Nelly Custis Lewis had been raised at Mount Vernon and was said to be the favorite of her grandparents. She moved with the Washingtons to New York and Philadelphia during the presidency and married George Washington’s nephew, Lawrence Lewis in 1799. As George and Martha had no biological children of their own, the marriage of Lawrence and Nelly joined the Custis and Washington families together.


Nelly was among the crowd of 50,000 citizens waiting to greet Lafayette when he arrived in New York in August 1824. The two had an emotional reunion before spending time together in the city, dining and enjoying theater. Nelly relished in Lafayette’s affection, viewing him as an extension of the step-grandfather she had loved. In October 1824, Nelly was likely present when Lafayette visited Mount Vernon to pay his respects to the deceased Washington.

It was not until December 1824 that Nelly would have the honor of hosting Lafayette at her home, Woodlawn, and she was thrilled to have the opportunity to have the Guest of the Nation all to herself. Throughout the tour, Lafayette had spent much time with his friend Frances Wright, a free-thinking feminist writer who was vocal on issues of abolition. Nelly, who viewed Wright as a sort of social nemesis, did not look to the friendship with much kindness. Perhaps she was intimidated by Wright’s views, which were far more progressive than the social structure of the Virginia plantation class Nelly was raised in. Regardless, Lafayette’s visit to Woodlawn on the cusp of the Christmastide season was a pleasant one for Nelly and her family. Nelly wrote to her friend Elizabeth Bordley Gibson of her joy in having the opportunity to have Lafayette under her roof, stating: “I felt as if my own great adopted Father was in my house.” After the four days came to a close, Nelly presented Lafayette and his son with several parting gifts including relics of Washington, Martha Washington’s recipe for lip balm, and several poems.

In September 1825, as Lafayette boarded the steamboat which would carry him down the Potomac to the Brandywine, the frigate that would take him back to France, Nelly was noted as being by his side to see him off. Alongside elected officials and other important men, Lafayette and Nelly bade their final farewells to each other.

The time Lafayette spent with Nelly during his tour was a physical reminder of her relationship with Washington. As Lafayette’s boat sailed into the horizon, the finality of his visit sunk in; Washington was gone, Lafayette was heading back to France, and the Americans like Nelly were left to chart the course of the nation on their own.


Read Marquis de Lafayette Returns


Walk in the footsteps of the Marquis de Lafayette as he makes a final trip through the young United States. Against the backdrop of a tumultuous election, a beloved hero of the American Revolution returned to America for the first time in forty years. From August 1824 to September 1825, the Marquis de Lafayette traveled throughout the United States, welcomed by thousands of admirers at each stop along the way. Although the tour brought him to each state in the Union, the majority of his time was spent in Washington, D.C., Virginia, and Maryland. Public historian Elizabeth Reese traces Lafayette's route throughout the National Capital Region, highlighting the locations and people the famous General held closest to his heart.

Available on Amazon


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Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Women of the Wars of the Roses

 


I know my readers will be thrilled with today's Women's History Month guest! Judith Arnopp joins us with a fantastic post about women of the Wars of the Roses, including Elizabeth of York, who is near and dear to my heart. Judith has written prolifically about this era, so check out her published works!

~ Samantha

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Women of the Wars of the Roses

Guest Post by Judith Arnopp

For the last four years I have been writing a trilogy from the perspective of Henry VIII, but my first love is giving a voice to medieval and Tudor women. I have written fifteen novels that trace events through the eyes of women and give voice to those who have been unheard for centuries. When you consider that females make up half the population, their experiences should be allowed to impact on the traditional record. In the past, they have been written off as inconsequential, but I’d dare you to tell that to Margaret Beaufort.

Margaret stands shoulder to shoulder with the most influential men of her time. Like her or not, her actions impacted on the world and they still do. Had Margaret not fought to restore her son, Henry VII’s rights and enabled him to take the crown of England, we’d have had no Henry VIII, no restoration, no Church of England. Hurrah, I hear some of you cry but whatever your religious persuasion, nobody can claim that Margaret made no difference.

I studied Margaret in depth for years while I wrote The Beaufort Chronicle, a trilogy tracing her life from the nursery to the grave, and I found nothing to account for the negative manner in which she is viewed today. She was pious, determined, charitable, kind and deeply mourned on her passing. Today however, largely due to negative portrayals on television and fiction, she is despised by many. In these enlightened days female strength is usually applauded, but in Margaret’s case, it seems not. 


Margaret is often blamed for the disappearance of the princes from the Tower, but there is nothing in the record to prove it; there are plenty of other candidates who could be held equally as culpable. Unauthorised entry to the Tower was just not possible; whatever the fate of the boys, it must have been carried out with either the knowledge of the king or the Constable of the Tower. 

When the war of the roses began, Margaret was a small insignificant child, yet she emerged as the ultimate victor – it never ceases to amaze me that this fact is uncelebrated. Perhaps it isn’t due to her gender at all, perhaps it is an age thing. Her portrait shows an old nun-like figure; she is praying, her hands clasped, her expression pious – she does not provide material for a romantic heroine and so she is defamed instead. We should not overlook the fact that as the victor in the conflict, Margaret had some control over contemporary public opinion, but even the records from overseas reveal nothing of detriment.

There are parallels between Margaret Beaufort and the historical figure I am currently working on, Marguerite of Anjou. The contemporary record holds plenty of negative criticism of her. Like Margaret Beaufort, she too fought for the rights of her son, but Marguerite emerged a failure from the struggles. When York assumed control of King Henry VI and ultimately took the throne, Marguerite, a dispossessed queen, did not retire genteelly from the battle – instead she fought tooth and nail for the sake of her son – like a ‘she-wolf’ according to Shakespeare. But I have to ask myself if I would not do the same for my sons. 

Her surviving letters are evidence that she did indeed fulfil her duties as queen, supporting her household, responding to requests for help, managing her estates, arranging diplomatic marriages and supporting religious houses. In 1448 she was active in founding Queens’ College, Cambridge. Yet even from the early days she was criticised for failing to provide an heir (no mention that the fault might not lie with her) yet once she gave birth to a strong son, York spread propaganda that the king was not the father.

Attrocities have been laid at Marguerite’s door, atrocities that were not ordered or carried out by Marguerite personally but committed by the men under her control. Since she was not even present, the most she can be accused of is losing control of her army. We hear much about the beheading and subsequent mock crowning of Richard of York and his son Edmund before their heads were raised on the city of York’s Micklegate bar, or Lancaster’s pillaging and looting of towns, yet the many offences York committed are often overlooked. 

The war of the roses was a military mess, with crimes and carnage on both sides and it is impossible to choose which side was justified. We still tend to view the war as a man’s game, but women were involved. Marguerite of Anjou, Cecily Neville, Anne Beauchamp, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Elizabeth Woodville, Margaret Beauchamp, Margaret Beaufort, Anne and Isabel Neville, Elizabeth of York; they didn’t sit at home knitting while their husbands fought a bloody war. They may not have wielded a sword, but they were there, intriguing, negotiating, brokering peace deals, protecting their sons, guarding their property and in some cases leading armies. I never take sides in the war of the roses, but I enjoy the spectacle and I have learned that if the men fighting these battles were lions, then the women were tigers.


Connect with Judith

Award winning historical fiction author, Judith Arnopp, holds a Batchelor’s degree in English/Creative writing and a Masters in Medieval Studies. She lives on the coast of West Wales where she writes both fiction and non-fiction. She is best known for her novels set in the Medieval and Tudor period, focussing on the perspective of historical women and more recently from the perspective of Henry VIII himself.

Judith is also a founder member of a re-enactment group called The Fyne Companye of Cambria which is when she began to experiment with sewing historical garments. She now makes clothes and accessories both for the group and others. She is not a professionally trained sewer but through trial, error and determination has learned how to make authentic looking, if not strictly historically accurate clothing. Her non-fiction book about Tudor clothing How to Dress Like a Tudor was published by Pen and Sword in 2023.

Connect with Judith on her website or blog, and find her books here!

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Friday, March 8, 2024

Catharine Littlefield Greene: A Revolutionary Life


As my dear readers know, women of the American Revolution era have a big place in my heart, so I am pleased to have Salina Baker join us on the blog today with some brilliant insight into the life of Catharine Littlefield Greene, wife of General Nathanael Greene. Like Martha Washington, Abigail Adams, and countless others, Catharine saw her life and her marriage transformed by war.

Welcome, Salina! Thanks for celebrating Women's History Month with us!

~ Samantha

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Catharine Littlefield Greene: A Revolutionary Life

Guest Post by Salina Baker

Catharine Littlefield Greene was a product of the feminine sphere of women during the colonial period. Marriage was considered a critical event in the life of the early American woman. It raised her status socially but it also moved her from dependency on her family to dependency on her husband. When she married Nathanael Greene, a former Quaker and iron forage owner with a limp, asthma, a smallpox scar on his right eye and who hailed from a fairly well-to-do family, she believed that she would be settling down to a life of domestic tranquility. But as we shall see, things were different for Caty. An American Revolution was on the horizon and her husband’s direct and important influence in that revolution changed her domestic circumstances.

Convivial and beautiful with few women friends, poorly trained in domestic skills, and without her own home to settle down in, Caty found her own path that often led to history’s criticisms of her that may have been based in jealousies, misunderstandings, and Caty’s own struggle to be a part of the social whirl that accompanied the officers’ corps during the Revolutionary War. Caty Greene, unlike many of her colonial sisters, was not freed by the American Revolution. Only a personal tragedy could free a woman who defied the narrow perception of acceptable behavior.

Note: Caty burned all her letters to Nathanael therefore their relationship was interpreted through Nathanael’s letters and responses to her.

Catharine Littlefield Greene (Miller) circa 1809 artist unknown. Caty was mortified when she saw this painting of her.


May 1761, six-year-old Caty Littlefield watched her mother’s burial on Block Island off the coast of Rhode Island, an isolated place where her ancestors had lived since the 1660’s free from Massachusetts dogma, formal social rules, a hurried sense of time, and organized religion and schooling. Two years later, Caty was taken in by her namesake, her mother’s sister Catharine Ray Greene, a dark-haired violet-eyed beauty who Caty resembled. Aunt Catharine had once had a relationship with Benjamin Franklin who wanted more than the platonic handholding she was willing to offer. Now, she was married to William Greene, Jr. a Rhode Island politician who was distantly related to Nathanael Greene.

General Nathanael Greene. Painted by Charles Willson Peale 1783


Nathanael was a frequent visitor to the house in East Greenwich. Lacking a formal education as she did, the Caty he met there was comfortable in the society of men and her “power of fascination was absolutely irresistible.”  She was born on February 17, 1755, thirteen years younger than her future husband. Nathanael and Caty wed on July 20, 1774. They settled into Spell Hall his home in Coventry, Rhode Island, but those early days of tranquility were short lived.

Spell Hall, the Greene family homestead in Coventry, Rhode Island today.



The events in Massachusetts on April 19, 1775 when the British fired on civilians in Lexington and Concord changed all that. Nathanael, a private in the Kentish Guards a Rhode Island militia company, left to attend the siege of Boston. His militia company was sent home initially. Rhode Island then formed the Army of Observation. Nathanael had previously been denied officer status due to his limp that “was a blemish to the company.” Suddenly, the man the Kentish Guards considered to be a blemish incapable of cutting a physically shining figure was a brigadier general. He went home and showed Caty his commission. He and his men were sent to Roxbury, Massachusetts where they settled in with the Provincial Army.

General George Washington arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts on July 2, 1775. The Continental Congress had appointed him commander-in-chief of the newly formed Continental Army of which the Provincial Army became a part. Washington saw in Nathanael Greene a man who loved his country, cared about his troops, was a strict disciplinarian, and an active soldier. Within the year, Nathanael was a major general in the Continental Army.  Caty was suddenly thrust into the role of a major general’s wife.

A whimsical drawing of Nathanael and Catharine Greene. Artist unknown.



She was determined to spend time with her husband at camp no matter where that was. Pregnant with their first child a son they named George Washington Greene, she initially traveled to Nathanael’s headquarters west of Boston in 1775. When she returned to Coventry, her lack of domestic skills, fear for Nathanael’s safety and pregnancy led to personal anxieties. She squabbled with her female in-laws who lived in her household in Coventry and those living in Nathanael’s childhood home in Potowomut.

Caty visited her husband at his headquarters as often as possible, with or without her children. As a general’s wife, she was naturally made the center of attention. She became close friends with Martha Washington and Lucy Knox. Her vivacious behavior elicited a spontaneous response from admiring gentlemen. She listened with genuine interest to stories told by men like General Israel Putnam. Young aides became smitten with her looks and playfulness, and Nathanael was delighted by their admiration. Even General Washington asked that she come to camp for her convivial nature brightened the hardest of winters. During an officers’ party in February 1780 at the Morristown, New Jersey encampment, Caty danced with General Washington for three hours straight without sitting down. Nathanael commented that they had “a pretty little frisk.”



In late spring 1776, whispers about Caty’s behavior circulated among her family members. In the winter of 1777, although they were very much in love, jealousies and insecurities surfaced between Caty and Nathanael. His admiration for Lady Stirling and Kitty, General Lord Alexander Stirling’s wife and daughter, and his reminder to watch her spelling when writing to the scholarly Lucy Knox lured Caty’s doubts about how much Nathanael loved her. His subsequent letters were an oxymoron of adoration or designed to make her jealous especially after he heard about the many parties Caty attended in Rhode Island:

“In the neighborhood of my quarters there are several sweet pretty Quaker girls. If the spirit should move and love invite who can be accountable for the consequences?” 

Yet many times he soothed her fears:

“Let me ask you soberly whether you estimate yourself below either of these ladies. You will answer me no, if you speak as you think. I declare upon my sacred honor I think they possess far less accomplishments than you, and as much as I respect them as friends, I should never be with them in a more intimate connection. I will venture to say there is no mortal more happy in a wife than myself.” 

Leaving her children with in-laws, Caty arrived in Valley Forge in 1778 where she met men like the Marquis de Lafayette, Baron von Steuben, and Alexander Hamilton while her jealousy simmered over the Stirling ladies. It was here she met General Anthony Wayne. An incurable ladies man, his wife never came to camp. Caty was stimulated by the company of this charming man. The whispered gossip began yet Nathanael remained unconcerned.

General Anthony Wayne


By the summer of 1780, she was back in Coventry. Nathanael’s new post was uncertain. Then, he was sent off to command the Southern Army to replace the disgraced General Horatio Gates. The Greene’s had no cash; only land in Rhode Island. While Nathanael bore the horrors of the Southern Campaign, forbidding Caty to join him, she was enjoying the social life in Newport among French soldiers.

After the British surrender in Yorktown, Virginia in October 1781, she traveled to South Carolina to join Nathanael at his headquarters near Charleston. She witnessed the devastation Nathanael had warned her of. After a twenty-three month separation, she found her husband much changed and worn down from the war and debt. Only land grants for his service in the Southern campaign stood between their family and utter financial ruin—Mulberry Grove plantation and holdings on Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia. Anthony Wayne was granted the plantation adjacent to Mulberry Grove.

In 1785, Caty gave birth to their sixth child, Catharine. The infant died of whooping cough. Caty lay despondent for weeks. Nathanael hired a tutor for the children, a twenty-one year old graduate of Yale, Phineas Miller. The family moved to Mulberry Grove in November. Caty was pregnant again. Tragically in April 1786, she fell and gave birth to a premature daughter who died soon after.

By then, the Mulberry Grove plantation was thriving. The Greenes had a promising new start which came to an abrupt end on June 19, 1786, when Nathanael died of sunstroke at age 43. Caty soon learned the worst. Her husband died before he had made the barest beginning toward paying off the huge debts he owed to his creditors after borrowing money to equip his Southern Army. She would have to make a claim of indemnity to the government for reimbursement.

She poured her heart out to Jeremiah Wadsworth, one of Nathanael’s business partners and a man she had been attracted to for years. Wadsworth was married and had past indiscretions. Jealousy ignited between Miller and Wadsworth for Caty’s affections and Wadsworth’s support in settling her estate in Congress began to wane.

Jeremiah Wadsworth and his son Daniel. Painted by John Trumbull 1784.


In 1791, she stood before Congress with her indemnity claim that Alexander Hamilton had helped her prepare. Anthony Wayne held a seat in Congress and fought furiously for her settlement. On April 27, she was awarded $47,000 and for the first time since the war, her family was solvent. Soon after, Wayne disappeared from her life. He went west to join the military there. He died of complications from gout on December 15, 1796 during a return trip to Pennsylvania from a military post in Detroit.

By this time, Caty and Phineas Miller had drawn up a legal agreement concerning their relationship and prospective marriage. All five of her children were living at Mulberry Grove, but her oldest child, George, drowned in 1793 soon after coming home from France where he was attending school. In his late teens, George’s body was found on the banks of the Savannah River near Mulberry Grove. His body was taken down the river to the colonial cemetery in Savannah and was placed in the vault beside that of his father’s.

Enter Eli Whitney, a graduate of Yale who came south to accept a teaching position. Caty invited Eli to live in her home so he could read law and work on his new cotton gin invention. Phineas and Eli formed a business partnership with Caty as a silent backer to finance Whitney’s cotton gin invention.  However, the venture needed more capital than Caty could provide. Caty and Phineas invested in a land scheme—the Yazoo Company. The company collapsed and Caty once again faced poverty. She married Phineas later that year much to Eli’s chagrin for he was in love with her.

Eli Whitney


In 1800, Mulberry Grove was sold and the family moved to Cumberland Island at Dungeness where Nathanael, fourteen years before, had begun construction of his family’s future home. The island yielded everything the family needed to survive. Three years later at age thirty-nine, the gentle and faithful Phineas died of blood poisoning after pricking his finger on a thorn.

Caty was faced with selling Phineas’ part of the Miller estate which was tied up in his company with Whitney. There were also the settlements against her estate for legal fees, loans, etc. For a time, she sold live oaks to a lumber company in an effort to salvage the cotton gin company.

Eli Whitney returned to his home in New Haven, Connecticut yet he was tormented by his love for Caty. She was now past childbearing age and he wanted a family. She wrote him letters, cajoling him to come to her side, offering her sentiments on his health and his aloofness. She made a failed attempt at matching him with her youngest daughter, Louisa. On a trip to New York to endeavor to settle her final legal affairs with Nathanael’s and Phineas’ estates, she begged him to visit her. When he came at last, she recognized the final hopelessness of her dream of marriage with this man she badgered, pitied, worried over, and loved with all her heart. She often asked him to come back to Georgia to visit her, but he never returned.

On July 5, 1814, Caty wrote her last letter to Eli Whitney:

“We have a party of eighteen to eat Turtle with us tomorrow. I wish you were the nineteenth. Our fruit begins to flow in upon us—to partake of which I long for you… ”

She had grown and found as Nathanael once suggested, that self-pity made a sad companion. In the last week of August, Caty was struck with a fever. The same week the capital city of Washington lay in ruins, burned by the British. Caty never knew. She died on September 2, 1814.

Greene-Miller Cemetery on Cumberland Island at Dungeness


Despite history’s proverbial finger pointing about what she may have done during her marriage to Nathanael, Caty was a women whose strengths and weaknesses allowed her to face the consequences of war and meet them head on the rest of her life.

Resources:

Stegeman, John F. and Janet A. Caty A Biography of Catharine Littlefield Greene Athens, Georgia University of Georgia Press, 1977. Print.

Carbone, Gerald M. Nathanael Greene A Biography of the American Revolution, 2008. Print.

Thayer, Theodore. Nathanael Greene Strategist Of The American Revolution New York: Twayne Publishers, 1960. Print.

https://www.eliwhitney.org/7/museum/about-eli-whitney/inventor




Read more about Caty in Salina's novel, The Line of Splendor!


Connect with Salina Baker on her website to learn more about her writing and read more fascinating articles about the American Revolution!



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