Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Guest Blog- Scattered Seeds by Julie Doherty




Thanks to Roxanne for allowing me a little space to ramble on her blog today.

Recently, I volunteered to help my homeschooled niece and nephew with their history lessons.  The conversation with my sister went something like this:

Sister: “Dude, I know you’re busy, but I am so far behind . . .”

Me (doing a fangirl hand flutter and fighting the urge to race around my yard):  “History? Are you [expletive] kidding me? I would love to!”

I met them at Grandma’s house, where the little darlings dragged their workbooks to the table like condemned murderers heading for the gallows. I guess history just isn’t their thing.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“Some guy named Braddock,” my niece replied.

The name kicked my heart into a gallop. I sat a full inch taller. “General Edward Braddock?”

“Yeah,” my nephew replied, his chin resting on his hands. “I think that’s his name.”

I wanted to squeal like a Beatles groupie, then throw myself on the floor and roll around like a dog on something stinky. “You’re studying the French and Indian War? Breeches and muskets and tricorns, oh my!”

*crickets*

Nothing fires me up quite like the French and Indian War period. I suppose finding my 18th century ancestors living in Pennsylvania, past the official British boundary, had something to do with that. Like so many “Scotch-Irish,” their origins have been lost to time. To know them means researching the world in which they lived. I did, and I fell in love with our resolute forefathers.

There are few novels set to the backdrop of the French and Indian War.  I suppose it’s not a time period many writers consider, though I’m not sure why. The provincial records are rife with drama and intrigue. Plots abound in those yellowing documents!

The Mel Gibson movie based upon Cooper’s THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS remains a favorite for many. So, why are there so few novels set in America before the Revolution? Is it because public schools barely touch on America’s earliest beginnings? Is it possible young readers don’t even know there was a war before the Revolution?

A million years ago, when I was in school, we covered the War for Independence and both World Wars. I have no recollection of studying anything concerning Braddock, Fort Duquesne, Forbes Road, the Iroquois Confederacy, or George Washington before he lost his teeth.

As a writer, I should probably choose more popular settings, but darn it, I really love frontier America. SCATTERED SEEDS is set in 1755 Ireland/Pennsylvania. My current work-in-progress (sitting at around 30,000 words) is set in 1756 Pennsylvania. 

I worry that my love of this time period will be my undoing. I fret that readers won’t give my books a chance because they are not set in grand ballrooms, great halls, or kings’ courts.

Time will tell, I guess. 

As for my niece and nephew, I don’t know if my teaching “stuck,” but I do know my niece (who can’t quite spell my name) thinks I’m an important person in Pennsylvania, and that’s just too damn cute not to share. 


Scattered Seeds
Julie Doherty

Genre: Historical fiction, elements of romance

Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing

Date of Publication: April 27, 2016

ISBN: 1-68291-050-4
ASIN: B01E056H1Q

Number of pages: 339
Word Count: 100,000

Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde

Book Description:

In 18th century Ireland, drought forces Edward and Henry McConnell to assume false names and escape to America with the one valuable thing they still own–their ancestor’s gold torc.

Edward must leave love behind. Henry finds it in the foul belly of The Charming Hannah, only to lose it when an elusive trader purchases his sweetheart’s indenture.

With nothing but their broken hearts, a lame ox, and a torc they cannot sell without invoking a centuries-old curse, they head for the backcountry, where all hope rests upon getting their seed in the ground. Under constant threat of Indian attack, they endure crushing toil and hardship. By summer, they have wheat for their reward, and unexpected news of Henry’s lost love. They emerge from the wilderness and follow her trail to Philadelphia, unaware her cruel new master awaits them there, his heart set on obtaining the priceless torc they protect.






CHAPTER 1

County Donegal, Ireland
1755

Henry stood next to his father surveying their largest field. He longed to say that the seeds might yet sprout, that there was still time to yield a return, but the undeniable truth lay right before them: drought had come to Ireland. Their investment in imported flaxseed was lost.

“A hundred days, Henry.” Father’s face bore the pained expression of a man whose hope was as withered as his crops. “A hundred days was all we needed, all that stood between us and prosperity.” He kicked a clod of dirt, and it turned to dust. “It’s all gone, gone along wi’ the horse that harrowed the ground.”

A lump rose in Henry’s throat. He ached for his father, and he missed their horse. Paddy was a fine animal purchased ten years ago after a bumper crop of rye, when Edward McConnell’s luck was good and Henry’s only chore was to stay out of his mother’s hair. Elizabeth McConnell moldered in the ground now, and Paddy plowed another man’s fields.

“We will pray, Father. God will help us.”

“God?” Father kneaded his forehead with calloused fingers. “God’s groping in our pockets right along wi’ your Uncle Sorley. Praying did nae pay our tithes or the hearth tax, did it?”

Surely he didn’t mean that. Everyone knew Edward McConnell to be a godly man.

“We’ll get more seed, Father. It’ll grow next year.” He squared his shoulders and tried to look confident.

“Will nae do us any good. Your Uncle Sorley plans to decrease our tillage in favor of pasture.”

“Wi’ no cut in rent, I’ll wager, and early payment again this year.”

Father spat on the parched ground. “He stopped by yesterday looking for it. Said he’ll call in after services on the Sabbath.” He ground his teeth together. “I’d gi’ anything to see the look on his face when he finds our empty hoose.”

Henry’s chest tightened. Were they moving again? He rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the rolling patchwork of fields to the northeast, where their last home rose above a copse of ash, and where his mother’s daffodils still swayed in the Ulster wind. Four years ago, the cattle plague put them out of that house and into the windowless shack they now shared with Phoebe, their only remaining sow. The hut contained a hearth, a curse necessitating the payment of tax despite the fact that it never contained a fire.

With no peat left and no horse to haul more from the bog, the McConnells relied on a moth-eaten blanket and Phoebe’s body heat for warmth.

They had room to fall; many Catholics lived in the open, bleeding cattle and boiling the gore with sorrel for sustenance. Perhaps his father intended to join them.

“Are we moving again?” he asked.

Father slipped two fingers under his brown tie wig and rubbed his temple, something he often did when puzzled.

Henry followed his gaze to the ruins of Burt Castle, which sat atop a knoll, just above Uncle Sorley’s grand plantation house.

“Nine years we’ve suffered bad luck, Henry. E’er since I buried . . .”

Buried what? Maw? She died five years ago, not nine.

Father sunk his head into his hands, muffling his speech. “I . . . I guess it’s time to . . .”

Henry stepped into the hard, hot field, directly in front of his father. “Father, what in the name of heaven is it?”

Father tilted back his head and whispered to the sky, “Forgive me, Elizabeth.” He looked at Henry. “I buried something. Your maw insisted on it, said it was pagan and she did nae want it in her hoose. I did as she asked. A woman can talk ye into cutting off your own hand, Henry, remember that if ye can.”

Henry nodded, not comprehending, wondering what pagan thing lay buried. He’d never heard it mentioned before, and he was a skilled eavesdropper. “What was it? What did ye bury?”

Father inhaled deeply, removed the worn tricorn from his head, and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll tell ye the whole tale, but first, we have to dig it up. We canny do that until after dark.” He turned without warning and headed for home.

Henry followed him, volleying questions against his back.

Father said nothing until they reached their hut. There, he stormed past Phoebe, flung open the door, and nodded toward a worm-ravaged chest sitting next to a heap of rushes that served as their bed.

“Gather up our claithes and shoes. Use my good cloak for a sack. Bring the dried nettles.” He grabbed the peat spade, the only tool left from his once abundant array of implements, and used it to prop open the door.

“Why bring the nettles?” Henry hated the bitter leaves. “There are more nettles than rocks in Ulster.”

When his father offered no reply, he lobbed another question, desperate for clues as to their destination. “Will ye not wear your good cloak, if we are traveling far?”

“My auld cloak will draw less attention.”

So, they were going to some populous place where good cloaks were bad.

Henry spread the cloak across the dirt floor, careful to avoid Phoebe’s manure. The cloak was long out of fashion, but still a quality garment that Edward McConnell could not afford to replace. He threw their scant belongings into the middle of it, brought the cloak’s corners together, then tied them together to form a sack. Excepting Phoebe and the clothes they wore, the sack contained everything worth saving.

He sat on the rickety chest to watch his father pace.

When Burt Castle became a silhouette against an amber horizon, Father donned his hat and cloak and ducked outside.

Henry followed him to the stone wall separating their field from Uncle Archibald’s.

Father began to tumble a section of wall.

With his perplexity and fear mounting, Henry assisted until there was enough of a breach to push Phoebe through the wall.

She trotted away, grunting and wagging her curly tail, while he helped restack the stones to prevent her from returning.

He could no longer hold his tongue.

“What are we doing? Why are we putting Phoebe in Uncle Archibald and Aunt Martha’s field? Are we going somewhere? Where are we going? Why are we taking nettles?”

In his frustration, he grabbed his father’s arm.

Father whirled around and gave Henry’s shoulders a fierce shake. “Get hold of yoursel’, lad, or I’ll cloot ye upside the noggin. No more questions. Just do as ye’re told.”

Henry stared at his father, who had never once laid a hand on him, nor threatened to.

“I’m sorry, lad. Go on in the hoose and get the bundle.”

When Henry returned with their belongings, his father was holding the peat spade.

“Get a good look around ye, son. It’s the last time ye’ll clap eyes on your hame.”

About the Author:

Julie Doherty expected to follow in her artist-father’s footsteps, but words, not oils, became her medium. Her novels have been called “romance with teeth” and “a sublime mix of history and suspense.”

Her marriage to a Glasgow-born Irishman means frequent visits to the Celtic countries, where she studies the culture that liberally flavors her stories. When not writing, she enjoys cooking over an open fire at her cabin, gardening, and hiking the ridges and valleys of rural Pennsylvania, where she lives just a short distance from the farm carved out of the wilderness by her 18th century “Scotch-Irish” ancestors.

She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Pennsylvania Romance Writers, Perry County Council of the Arts, and Clan Donald USA.








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1 comment:

Julie Doherty said...

Roxanne, thanks for the blog space. Much appreciated.