Category Archives: War

Death of a Nation By Delinda McCann

This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York Island

Woody Guthrie

Our country is our home. We are rightfully proud of the many things we as a people have accomplished together. Our great experiment with a democratic representative form of government is something to be proud of. Our statements of equality among all people and our struggles to attain that ideal are worthy of praise.

Like any great experiment we need to be asking ourselves where are we in the process? Is the experiment over? Did we succeed or did we fail? We’ve had some glorious moments. Have we fallen short of the goal? Is there any way we can get the experiment back on track?

Note: I’m not touting any great success story here. We’ve become a nation perpetually at war, not as the world’s police force enforcing justice and defending freedom, but at war to support the profits of a few.

We are no longer either a democracy or a republic. We are an oligarchy, quickly sliding toward fascism. The United States of America has become the world’s greatest threat to peace and prosperity. Within our own country, we send men and women to fight in wars to protect the economic interest of the few. When those men and women return home broken in body, mind and spirit, we send them to live in the streets among the elderly, and disabled.

We made some progress in cleaning up air and waterways, but our drinking water has become compromised and except for the efforts of the poor, nothing is done to protect our drinking water.

We aren’t doing too well in many respects as a nation. Our economy is dedicated to the greed of a few, yet the poor get the blame for the conditions in this country. Racism is blatant and growing. The notion of caring for the sick, disabled and elderly, has almost disappeared from public policy.

War, bigotry, corruption and pollution all exist to enrich the oligarchy. Nobody is safe from the oligarchs in the US. Where will this lead. Can we as a people unite and turn our backs on the corrupt power elite? Are we too fragmented to do so?

What have we become and what is the moral answer to our dilemma? Some people are waiting for a hero to raise up out of the oligarch class and lead us to freedom. Heroes do not come from among the rich and powerful. Hoping for one of the oligarchs to solve our problems is futile.

From around the fringes of society, we hear people asking should we dissolve this union. Is dissolution the only moral option? By breaking into three to five smaller nations, we can dissipate resources in such a manner as to make it more challenging for the oligarchs to go to war.

Is it time for a constitutional amendment that expels certain states from the union because they refuse to live by the morally bankrupt standards embraced by more fearful regions? Should we dissolve into regions that have common issues and values and let other regions go their own way?

It is time to ask the questions and hold the discussions. With dissolution as the stick driving us forward can we unite for the common good? Maybe this country has reached the point where the common good cannot be served without a final amendment to the constitution stating that due to irreconcilable differences geopolitical regions with common interests may go their separate ways.

Delinda McCann is a mostly-retired social psychologist. During her professional career she worked with at risk youth and individuals with disabilities. Her research in the field of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome led her to become an advisor to several governments. To ease the stress created by working in the disabilities field, she took up gardening. Never one to do things in a small way, Delinda now runs a small farm and sells cut flowers. She writes general fiction based on her experience as a social psychologist. She has published five novels. She expresses her sense of humor in many of her short stories. She’s also published numerous professional articles on Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and Youth At-Risk. The professional articles are rather academic and dry, but Delinda pulls what she knows about human behavior, disabilities and youth into her fiction.

You may purchase her books at: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Delinda+McCann

You may view her flowers, gardens and personal blog at: http://delindalmccann.weebly.com/index.html

Those Scary Moments By Trish Jackson

 

elephant-426990_640

It has often been documented that one’s life passes before one in a near death situation, and then a bright light appears. But what about experiences that are not quite that close to death, but are pretty scary anyhow? We all have them. Here are some of mine.

My husband’s position as the group geophysicist for a large international mining group in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) often took him to remote and isolated regions. The ongoing war with communist-trained terrorists who crossed our borders, and raped, tortured and murdered the innocent had caused the company to implement a policy disallowing women and children from traveling with their husbands to out-of-the-way areas. We all know rules are made to be broken, and when David invited me to accompany him to Sengwa coal field, I conned a friend into taking care of our children for a few days.

Most of the company Land Rovers were landmine-protected—reinforced with thick steel plate underneath, but David chose to use the fancy Land Rover with the leather bucket seats and softer suspension—the one that wasn’t mine-protected. He wanted me to be more comfortable. I wasn’t. I sat as lightly as I could—if it’s possible to sit lightly—the entire journey of over 100 miles of dirt road.

Needless to say, I was more than a little relieved when we arrived at the Sengwa mine compound in one piece. The relief was short-lived. A military unit had commandeered the complex, and were digging trenches and laying sandbags. We were told they were expecting to be mortared that night. Turning around and going home on those roads at night was not an option.

My respect for soldiers everywhere grew exponentially. I was issued with a military rifle, and as I took a couple of practice shots, I thought, ‘Is this really happening? Am I going to have to spend the night in those trenches with mortars being fired at us tonight? What happens if they score a direct hit on the trench?’

As it turned out, the attack didn’t come. We spent a restless night inside the building listening to the radio communications, but come morning the danger had passed. The only incident reported was that the local chief had been killed by a land mine overnight, but thankfully, the villagers had not been attacked.

I was thrilled when our Land Rover wouldn’t start and we had to take one of the mine-protected vehicles for the return journey, which was uneventful until we rounded a bend and almost ran into a herd of elephants. The elephants in that area were known to be aggressive, and had picked up a few vehicles and thrown them around and trampled them. We moved way back, and waited for them to head off into the bush.

Back at home on a later date, I was riding my horse, Calypso, alone in a remote corner of a sizeable cattle ranch. I stopped to let him drink at a water trough, and as I glanced up into the thick brush facing me, I caught movement. The shadowy silhouette of someone lifting something to their shoulders, like they were aiming a rifle—at me. Terrorists were known to pass through our area, but they didn’t generally attack anyone there because the country’s borders were too far away for a quick retreat. I forced myself to act calm, although my heart hammered as I turned Calypso around and walked away. Knowing that someone is aiming a rifle at your back is terrifying, and it took all my will-power not to spur Calypso into a gallop. To this day I often wonder who it was in those bushes, and if I really was in danger.

I think we all find ourselves in a perilous situation at least once in our lives, and each and every one of us has a story to tell. The awesome thing about people is that everyone’s story is totally different, and I love hearing them. Maybe you could tell us yours in the comments section.

Editor’s Note: Comments are always appreciated. We like to know what interests our readers. You don’t have to be a member of the blog or even a writer, and you don’t need a website.

 

Trish Jackson believes that her real life adventures growing up in Africa sparked a love for adventure, and being a romantic at heart, she writes romantic suspense. Her latest novel, Virgo’s Vice is set to be released before the end of 2015. http://www.trishjackson.com

The turning point of World War 2 by Jon Magee

battle-of-britain-_3153784b

I could not fail to notice that in the week that this item is being published Britain will be remembering the 75th anniversary of the Battle of Britain. For us in Europe the war had begun in 1939, and the Battle of Britain was the turning point of the war as Adolf Hitler faced his first defeat.

As I reflect on this momentous time in history my own personal memories, whilst serving in the British Royal Air Force, go back to when I climbed onto the wing of the Spitfire and into the small cockpit. I was conscious not only of how small it was, but also of how difficult it was to see ahead. Its long straight nose, up tilted when the tail wheel was on the ground, would have made taxing difficult since it was not easy to see ahead. It would have been necessary to swing from side to side to look in front. The view at take-off would also have been restricted in the same way until travelling fast enough to lift the tail; only then would it be possible to see over the nose. To take the pilot’s seat and feel the thrill of sitting in one of the world’s most iconic cockpits was an experience beyond compare. However, for me it was not the real thing of facing the battle of the 2nd World War. It was thirty years later in 1975 as I served as a young airman attending to the maintenance of the aircraft on an RAF base in Wales. The vast majority of the aircraft there were Hunters, but this one solitary Spitfire gave me the opportunity of allowing my imagination to run freely, thinking of a bygone age. Trust me when I say that it was the most emotional, historical and exhilarating experience available in aviation.  The Merlin engine powered two of the greatest fighters of World War II, the Supermarine Spitfire and the North American P-51 Mustang, but for the average Brit, it was the Spitfire that would always be seen as the one most well remembered.  spitfire2 (1)

 Douglas Bader, is a name well remembered as one of the heroic pilots taking part in the Battle of Britain, and first flew a Super marine Spitfire in February, 1940. He wrote about it in his book, Fight for the Sky (1973).  He said that the Spitfire “had eight machine guns of .303 calibre each, mounted four in each wing. The guns were spaced one close to the fuselage, two mid-wings, one further out. The eight guns were normally synchronized to 250 yards. In other words the four in each wing were sighted so that the bullets from all eight converged at that distance, in front of the Spitfire. Experienced fighter pilots used to close the pattern to 200 yards. The successful pilots succeeded because they did not open fire until they were close to the target”.

spitfire2

The Second World War air campaign by the German Air Force occurred over several months in 1940. The UK suffered devastating aerial bombings as the Luftwaffe attempted to destroy Britain’s air defences. The RAF’s efforts prevented Hitler’s plans to invade Britain and were a crucial turning point in the war, marking Germany’s first major defeat. There were 348 British pilots that were killed during the campaign and they each need to be honoured, yet there were also numerous interesting tales that can be discovered happening on the ground, as a small nation with limited resources showed that it is still possible to face the might of a larger nation even when they seemed to be left on their own seeking to defend themselves and the principles of the needs of the future of democracy.

William Joyce, aka Lord Haw-Haw, was a notorious broadcaster of Nazi propaganda to the UK during World War II. His announcement ‘Germany calling, Germany calling’ was a familiar sound across the airwaves, introducing threats and misinformation that he broadcast from his Hamburg base. However, there was one occasion when the residents of the South of England knew without a shadow of doubt that Lord Haw Haw had made a tremendous mistake, as he announced that the Luftwaffe had completely destroyed Biggin Hill airodrome, though he would have felt confident he was making a true statement.  Among the various tricks used by the British at the time was focused on the nearby golf course where replica models of the Spitfire had been placed. As the bombers flew over they were sure that the golf course was the place they were on a mission for. The spitfires were clearly there for them to see, but they were merely false illusions not at the aerodrome but on the golf course.

the_blitz

My grandparents lived at Bigginhill in a home they affectionately called The White House. It was painted white and easily seen from the distance. My grandmother would often recall the days when they were notified that they were at risk, and needed to move house. The Luftwaffe was known to have been taking photos of the area, and there must be a reason for it. Gran was a determined character and saw no reason why she should leave home just because of a photographer. Eventually, in frustration the authorities agreed for her to stay, but on condition that they did not paint the house in any other colour nor change anything related to the external structure. Any change would have meant the Germans would have suspected that their plans had been found out. That spirit of standing firm was at the heart of the character of the people who faced the bombings regardless of the risk to their lives. It was noted that even the Royal family refused to move out of London, but stayed with the people, bringing to them comfort and encouragement.

There were those who would have wondered in later life how they managed to escape. Driving home one evening an air raid began and my parents could see the local people heading for the nearest air raid shelter. They knew what they ought to do, head for shelter, but something within them seemed to be saying “head for home, head for home”. They could not understand that inner feeling, but it was home they went for. The next morning they knew why home was best for them. The air raid shelter they should have gone for was completely destroyed. That would have been their last day if they had not followed the call for home.

Mum had volunteered to work with the London Ambulance service during this time. She was a mere 4 foot 10 inches in stature, and the commandeered removal Lorries that were used as makeshift ambulances were not the place for her, one might think. Being so small she must have scared the life out of others on the road who could not see the driver, but night after night the emergency services did their bit whilst the few in the air likewise did theirs. A small nation with limited resources, but everyone needed to do their bit in times of war and emergency even if it was a noncombatant role. In every age I guess it is still the same, it is only as everyone is prepared to work as a team putting in their everything that the whole of society can see the victory in life.

Author of “From Barren Rocks to Living Stones” & “Paradise Island, Heavenly Journey” http://about.me/Jonmagee.author.minister

Reflections on a certain crime by R.J. Ellory

a

Some while ago I was asked by the Wall Street Journal to write a piece concerning ‘unknown’ or forgotten literary classics.  Having recently spent a considerable amount of time in France, I decided to share my thoughts about several French writers, now widely available in English, who seemed yet to be unheard of by my English contemporaries, associates and friends.

Amongst the list of those I chose was Jean-Patrick Manchette, author of La Position de Tireur Couché (literally translates as ‘the position of the gunman lying down’, published in English as ‘The Prone Gunman’).  This book has now been adapted for film and is on general release as ‘The Gunman’ with Sean Penn and Javier Bardem.

Manchette said a very interesting thing about his genre, to the effect that the crime novel was the best way to hold up a mirror to the society within which we live.  That was the central theme of the piece I wrote for the Wall Street Journal, and seems to hold true as far as my own writing is concerned.  Dealing with the wider canvas of ethics, morals, justice, crime and punishment, the motivations and rationales of those who violate the laws of the land and all related subjects leads us – not only as writers, but also as interested individuals – into the subject of psychology, the mind, the very woof and warp of life itself.

And then the other night my wife and I watched a film called ‘The Imitation Game’ with Benedict Cumberbatch, itself a depiction of the life and work of Alan Turing, the man responsible for creating a machine that cracked the Enigma code.  The somewhat romanticized portrayal of life at Bletchley Park, the ‘emotional personalisation’ of the story that was facilitated by placing a brother of one of the research team on a ship that had to be ‘sacrificed’ so as to prevent any possibility of the Germans discovering that the code had been broken, did nothing to obscure the factual tragedy inherent in the tale.  Turing was a homosexual.  At the time, homosexuality was against the law.  Anyone engaging in homosexual activity could be charged with ‘gross indecency’.  Fifty years after the war the truth of Bletchley Park, Turing and the cracking of Enigma became public knowledge, at least those parts of it that the government permitted us to know, and Queen Elizabeth II granted Turing a royal pardon.  It was the then-Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, who stood up in parliament and announced that Turing had been ‘forgiven’.  Charles Dance, commenting in the film extras, said that the greatest irony of Turing’s pardon was that it was Turing who should have been forgiving us for the way in which he was treated, not the other way around.

After the film was over, my wife and discussed the moral and ethical ramifications of that specific situation.  Turing was a genius.  Turing built a machine with wires and valves and cogs that gave us the foundation for all things computer-related that we take for granted today.  It has been estimated that Turing’s machine and the cracking of Enigma shortened the war by two years and saved a further fourteen million lives.  Why couldn’t Churchill have stepped in when Turing was charged with ‘gross indecency’?  Why, after all that Turing had done, couldn’t someone ‘high up’ have bailed him out, saved the day, rescued him for the truly dreadful fate that awaited him?  But no.  No-one stepped in.  Turing was charged, tried, convicted, and not one person came forward to tell the world what this great man had done, how his ingenuity, resolve, courage and magnificent intellect had turned the tide of the war.  They couldn’t.  Such a thought was inconceivable.  Everything that Turing had ever accomplished was bound over and held confidential under the Official Secrets Act.  Had you looked up Turing’s war record, you would have found no record at all.  In effect, certainly for the duration of the war itself, Turing was a man who did not exist.

The judge at Turing’s trial gave Turing a choice: two years in jail or be subjected to horrific chemical castration to ‘curb his proclivities’.  Turing, wishing not to be divorced from his ever-ongoing work and research, chose the latter.  He reported in for a year, taking mandatory injections of Stilboestrol (synthetic oestrogen).  The treatment rendered Turing impotent.  On June 8, 1954, Turing was found dead.  His body had lain undiscovered for twenty-four hours.  Whether he committed suicide by eating a cyanide-soaked apple, or whether his death was caused by inadvertent inhalation of cyanide fumes from a machine he’d set up in his tiny room is still a matter of conjecture.  He was cremated, and his ashes were scattered at Woking Crematorium.  His life and work went unknown for decades, but now – notwithstanding the fact that we will never have a chance to ask for his forgiveness – at least what he achieved has been acknowledged and appropriately commended.

However, having spoken to many who have seen the film, there still lies the question: Why did no-one step in to save Turing?  Answer: Because he broke the law.  It was that simple.  The simple fact is that many tens of thousands of individuals gave everything of themselves in the Second World War.  Turing was a genius, no doubt about it, but he did what he was able to do to assist in the war effort.  Others, perhaps blessed with less intellect, nevertheless gave no less of themselves.  Ordinary men and women learned to fly aircraft and parachute into occupied territory; they underwent rigorous training and volunteered for missions deep in the heart of Nazi Germany; they ferried supplies across a U-Boat-riddled Atlantic to bring ammunition and supplies to Allied forces abroad; they boarded landing craft for the invasion in June of 1944, certain that they would never again see home.  And millions of them didn’t see home again, as we know all too well.  Just because someone did something truly extraordinary and heroic did it them give them license to break the law, to perpetrate a crime, to be unreservedly forgiven?  No, it did not.  Did Montgomery’s success in defeating Rommel then give him permission to rob banks and kill innocent civilians?  No, it did not.  The law was the law.  Turing broke the law, and he had to face the penalty.

The real truth is that the law was insane.  A law that punishes a man or woman for their sexual preferences or predilections, save where those preferences and predilections actually render physical, mental or emotional harm to another, is the true criminal here.  It was a ‘sign of the times’, much the same as children born out of wedlock caused not only the mothers, but also the infants to be shunned and despised. My wife, as a girl of eight or nine, told a schoolfriend’s mother that her own mother lived with a man to whom she was not married.  That schoolfriend’s mother barred her own daughter from ever speaking to my wife again.  That was in the early 1970s.

We have grown up in many ways.  As a society, we appear to be more tolerant, liberal, perhaps even forgiving, but as individuals it is a different story.  We all harbour our own personal discriminations, our preconceptions, our unfounded and judgmental attitudes, and they influence the way we speak to people, deal with people, handle people.  I was once asked what I believed to be the fundamental difference between a child and an adult.  It was an interesting question.  My answer, regardless of whether it was right or wrong, was simply that a child appeared to trust other people until they were a given a reason not to trust, whereas an adult appeared to instinctively mistrust until they were given a reason to trust.

The newspapers and television news would have us believe that society is dangerous, crazy, unpredictable, potentially hazardous in every imaginable way.  That is a lie.  The newspapers engender, foster and encourage our cynicism and mistrust.  It seems to be their primary purpose.  How many times have you yourself been involved in or witness to an act of murder, rape, kidnapping, even physical or mental abuse?  If at all, then you are in the tiny minority.  Such things happen of course, but they are far less frequent and prolific than the media would have us believe.

The true criminals here are racism, religious intolerance, misogyny, greed, corruption, vested interest, and all the other ills that plague this society.  Beneath all of these is ignorance, perhaps the greatest crime of all, and a society that permits a decline in educational standards, a society that regards ‘celebrity for celebrity’s sake’ as something of value, a society that promotes the ‘let’s all get something for nothing’ viewpoint that appears pandemic, certainly in the West, is a society not only in dire need of change, but also very possibly on the way out.

We are all human.  We are all ridiculous in our own special way.  That old saw, never successfully attributed to a specific author, regarding holding onto anger being much the same as taking poison and hoping the other person will die, has a relevant place here.  Let others be who they are and they may very well let you be who you are.  If everyone was themselves, truly, and we accepted that others were also different and had just as much right to exist as we did, then wouldn’t the world seem different?

I guess it would.

Try it.  You never know, you might just like the world a whole lot better, and find that world likes you just as much in return.

 

***

On numerous occasions people have tried to identify Roger’s work with a particular genre – crime, thriller, historical fiction – but this categorisation has been a relatively fruitless endeavour. Roger’s ethos is merely to work towards producing a good story, something that encapsulates elements of humanity and life without necessarily slotting into a predetermined pigeonhole. He attempts to produce an average of forty thousand words a month, and aims to get a first draft completed within three to four months. His wife thinks he is a workaholic, his son considers him slightly left-of-centre, but they put up with him regardless. His son has long since been aware of the fact that ‘dad’ buys stuff, and thus his idiosyncrasies should be tolerated.

http://www.amazon.com/R.J.-Ellory/e/B002IVGFJO

 

How a Serial Killer’s Family Helped Saved the Nation By T. R. Heinan

1-New Orleans 046

How a Serial Killer’s Family Helped Saved the Nation

By T. R. Heinan

This year marks the bicentennial of one of the most decisive battles in American military history, the Battle of New Orleans. The War of 1812 is sometimes called “the forgotten war” and it is not uncommon to hear that the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the war was actually over. In fact, while the Treaty of Ghent was signed on December 24, 1814 and the final British assault did not occur until January 8, 1815, the treaty specifically provided that fighting would continue until the treaty had been ratified and exchanged, something that did not occur until February.

The British hope was for the war to end with the British in possession of the City of New Orleans. This would allow them to control traffic on the Mississippi. The fledgling American nation had been humiliated by one military defeat after another throughout the war. Except for some ports in New England, the entire coastline was now successfully blockaded, and the Americans were defeated on the Great Lakes. The British plan to turn the States into a helpless island surrounded by His Majesty’s naval might only lacked control of the Mississippi River.

The White House had been burned, American ports of entry were targeted for destruction, and there was confidence in London that the commercial sector in the former colonies would soon demand an end to their experiment with independence. To accomplish this end, the Crown sent Sir Edmund Pakenham with an armada of fifty ships and a force of 11,000 soldiers, sailors, and marines to capture New Orleans.

President James Madison ordered General Andrew Jackson to the Crescent City.   Jackson did not arrived until December 1, 1814. He required an interpreter to help him communicate with the largely French speaking population as he hastily assembled a small opposition force consisting of French and Spanish Creoles, free men of color, slaves, German famers, frontiersmen, militia, regular soldiers and a significant company of pirates.

Witness to these events was thirty-nine year old Delphine Macarty Blanque, pregnant with her fourth child and married to her second husband, Jean Pierre Blanque. The Blanques lived near Conti on Royal Street, two doors down from where Brennan’s Restaurant now stands. Their townhouse was next to the Bank of Louisiana, of which Jean Blanque was a director. Their summers where spent at the Blanque Plantation located on the Mississippi near the Macarty Plantation owned by Delphine’s family. Jean did quite well as a merchant, banker and member of the Louisiana Legislature, but his best source of income was as a silent partner of the most notorious pirates of the Caribbean, Jean and Pierre Lafitte.

Since January 1, 1808 it had been illegal to import new slaves into the United States. The new law played right into the hands of Jean Blanque and the Lafitte brothers.   There was big money to be made in the smuggling of ‘black ivory.” By 1814, the United States government was after Jean Lafitte; his brother Pierre was already in jail, and Jean Blanque had been found guilty and fined for smuggling coffee. Louisiana Governor William Claiborne offered a $500 award for the capture of Jean Lafitte. The pirate responded by offering $1,500 for the capture of the governor.

The British, knowing that Lafitte had ships, canons and hundreds of trained men, approached the pirate, offering funds and the rank of captain if he would join them in their attack on the Americans. Lafitte asked for some time to think it over. After weighing his options, Lafitte dispatched letters to Jean Blanque, including one addressed to Governor Claiborne, revealing the British plans and offering to join the American forces. The letters were rushed to Delphine Macarty Blanque’s husband, arriving in less than 24 hours after a trip through the swamps that would normally take three days. Blanque, while insisting that he barely knew Lafitte, beseeched the Louisiana authorities to take advantage of the offer.

Claiborne assumed it was a trick, an attempt to free Jean’s brother Pierre from prison. He ordered an attack on the pirate’s headquarters. Jackson didn’t think he could accept the aid off an outlaw, but was furious that Claiborne had attacked the pirates, fearing that this would push them to accept the British offer. Blanque continued to plead with the legislature and New Orleans safety officials. In a matter of days Jackson realized how unprepared New Orleans still remained.   He had only two actual fighting ships on the river, both seriously undermanned. The pirates could help there. More importantly they had cannons, big powerful cannons, and men experienced at using them. After a meeting with Lafitte on Royal Street, Andrew Jackson decided to accept Lafitte’s offer.

During his reconnaissance, Jackson found the place he would make his stand. His headquarters, and the final battleground was to be the childhood home of Jean Blanque’s wife, Delphine Macarty Blanque. The Macarty Plantation, just a short distance downriver from New Orleans, still remained in the family and was still being operated by her cousin. Jackson dug in there and had Lafitte’s heavy ship guns brought onshore. When the British attack came it was fast and furious. Jackson’s headquarters at the Macarty plantation house was struck by cannon fire nearly 100 times in just ten minutes. Most of the British fire was aimed too high however, and the superiority of the American gunners, assisted by Lafitte’s pirates, surprised both sides.

The British suffered 2,459 casualties. American losses were remarkably few. Sir Edmund Pakenham was dead and his forces were forced to retreat.

The sudden and complete defeat of the invaders not only prevented British control of the Mississippi, it became a defining and unifying moment in American history, proving that the new nation had both the will and the ability to bring its people together in defense of their constitutional government and independence. The history, legends, and fame of Andrew Jackson and Jean Lafitte have become part of the American story.

The wife of Jean Blanque whose family plantation became Jackson’s battleground and whose husband brought Lafitte’s offer of assistance to the Americans is also remembered today, but not because of the events that took place while she was married to Blanque. She is remembered for what she did with her third husband, Dr. Louis Lalaurie.

Each year thousands of tourists go to visit her final home in New Orleans at 1140 Royal Street. A new generation has learned her name from Kathy Bates’ excellent, though historically inaccurate, portrayal of her on American Horror Story. She is remembered today for the torture and brutal murder of her slaves in the attic of New Orleans most “haunted house”. She is Madame Delphine Macarty Blanque Lalaurie.

 

T.R. Heinan is the author of L’immortalité: Madam Lalaurie and the Voodoo Queen, a reflection on justice and compassion set in the historical context of a popular 19th century New Orleans legend. http://www.amazon.com/LImmortalite-Madame-Lalaurie-Voodoo-Queen/dp/0615634710