The Two Sieges

22 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by Ollamh in Heroes, J.R.R. Tolkien, Military History

Tags

Agincourt, Aragorn, English Longbowmen, Faramir, French Knights, Gondor, Grond, Hoth, Jan Sobieski, Lithuania, Minas Tirith, Mumakil, Nazgul, Orcs, Ottoman, Peter Jackson, Poland, Rammas Echor, Rohan, Rohirrim, Siege Towers, Stone Throwers, The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien, Vienna, Winged Hussars

Welcome, as always, dear readers!

In this posting, we’re going to make another suggestion about a model for something in Tolkien’s work.

If you read us regularly, you know that our favorite part of P. Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings is anything to do with the Rohirrim. When we rewatch favorite scenes, the charge against the Orcs outside Minas Tirith is always first on our list (and high on our general list of cavalry charges—more on those in a future posting).

First, we see that massive Orc army marching up to the walls. (In the book, this is more dramatic: the Orcs blow two holes in the Rammas Echor, outflank the defenders, and drive them into retreat, which is where Faramir is badly wounded by an arrow.)

Then they begin to attack with stone-throwers,

siege towers,

and, eventually a giant, flame-filled battering ram.

Things look increasingly desperate for Gondor as the Orcs press their attack, led by the Chief Nazgul.

And that’s when the Rohirrim appear.

And move to strike the Orcs from behind.

When the Orcs realize what’s happening, they try to stop the attack with bows.

This immediately reminded us of the 1415 battle in which English longbowmen and their clever use defeated an army of brave French knights, Agincourt.

Unlike Agincourt, however, arrows didn’t stop the Rohirrim, who sweep through the enemy—but are brought up short by the sight of a row of mumakil—giant war elephants—bearing down on them.

Seeing this scenario made us think of another attack by huge, lumbering things in a galaxy long ago and far away—

The film goes on from there, including an attack by a ghost army, instead of by the actual forces brought from southern Gondor by Aragorn, but we want to back up a bit to the actual siege and another one which bears a strong resemblance to it.

For centuries, the Ottoman Turks had been expanding their dominions.

They had first reached Vienna in 1529,

but had given up the siege. Now, however, in 1683, they were back.

Their attacks against a dwindling number of defenders in a crumbling town

had brought them to the edge of conquest when an army of reenforcements, including cavalry from the army of the combined state of Lithuania/Poland, had appeared. Some of the cavalry were the famous Polish winged hussars.

Just as the Rohirrim are led by their king, Theoden, so are the Poles led by their king Jan Sobieski—

The reenforcements, Poles in the lead, rush upon the Turks and drive them back through their camps and out of the siege entirely.

So similar, isn’t it? No giant war elephants, ghost armies, or Nazgul, but the basic elements of siege, relieving army with cavalry led by a king attacking an unprepared enemy, and chasing off the besiegers, is nearly identical.

Tolkien was an extremely well-read man, with a strong interest in history. Was the siege and relief of Vienna somewhere in the back of his mind when he began to plan the siege of Minas Tirith?

Thanks for reading!

MTCIDC

Shall We Gather at the River?

08 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by Ollamh in J.R.R. Tolkien, Maps, Military History, Narrative Methods

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Alexander, Anduin, Burnside, Cair Andros, Celeborn, Confederate, D-Day, Denethor, Douro, Faramir, Fredericksburg, French, Gandalf, Hydaspes, Inchon, Indiana Jones, Isola Tiberina, King Poros, Lee, Minas Tirith, Mordor, Napoleonic, Nazgul, Pelennor, Pontoon, Porto, Quebec, Rappahannock, Roechling, Sauron, Soult, The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien, Union, Wellington, West Osgiliath, Zouaves

Dear Readers,

Welcome, as always. In this posting, we thought we’d do a kind of follow-up to our “What Happened to the Rammas Echor” piece by looking at the Mordorian assault on West Osgiliath, which leads up to it. (Yes, we know—bassackwards, right? We can only claim as Indiana Jones does, that “I’m making this up as I go along.”)

We can begin with a map and a description by a participant.

Here’s the Anduin, the major obstacle for Sauron’s forces to cross at a point in easy striking distance of Minas Tirith.

Here’s Denethor’s intelligent assessment of the defensive situation:

“…And the Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the River. That he cannot do, in force to assail the City, either north of Cair Andros because of the marshes, or southwards towards Lebennin because of the breadth of the River, that needs many boats. It is at Osgiliath that he will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage.” LotR 816

Although there have been very creative attempts to map or depict Cair Andros, for all of its importance in the defense of Gondor, we aren’t given much detail. Its name means “Ship of Long Foam” , called so because of its shape and its action in breaking up the flow of the Anduin. This brought to our minds the Isola Tiberina on the Tiber in Rome,

which so reminded the Romans of a ship that—well, this 1770s engraving makes their next step obvious—

Cair Andros was fortified and had a garrison, although Denethor refuses to reinforce it, saying “Cair Andros is manned, and no more can be sent so far.” LOtR 816

We also know that the enemy will capture it during their two-proned general assault (Gandalf says to Denethor: “Fugitives from Cair Andros have reached us. The isle has fallen.” LotR 819)

To the south, somewhere between forty and fifty miles, lies Osgiliath.

Identified by Denethor as the other major crossing point, it was once a prosperous city, but now lies in ruins, with its bridges destroyed (Celeborn to Aragorn: “And are not the bridges of Osgiliath broken down and all the landings held now by the Enemy?” LotR 367).

The problem, then, for the Enemy is how to cross a river against opposition, a classic problem for generals since there were generals.

We think, for example, of Alexander at the Hydaspes River in 326BC, defended by King “Poros” (actually Porushattama—Greeks were determined to tame everything—including other cultures’ proper names).

(and we couldn’t resist this second image—Alexander in the center of his pikemen—in what looks like 25-28mm)

As you can see from the map, Alexander crossed upstream, having distracted the king with a demonstration (military for “feint/decoy”).

This was through open country, however. In the case of Osgiliath

the Enemy would have to cross the river in the face of opposition within a town. Here, we thought of several possibilities: Wellington’s crossing of the river Douro against French resistance in 1809, for example. Here was not only the river, but its steep banks, as well.

(The pontoon bridge was set up after the attack.)

There were no bridges and the French had collected all of the available boats and had either destroyed them or were holding them on the north side of the river. As Porto (the name means what you think it does) was the center of the fortified wine trade (yes , “Pass the port, Wriothsley, will you?”), the major vessel on the river was this—

Wellington was always a clever and flexible commander and had to be when confronted by the able Marshal Soult across the river. Much of Wellington’s success came from his use of local sources: Portuguese who hated their French occupiers and supplied some of Wellington’s men with a rowboat and crew. On the north side were four wine boats, soon filled with British soldiers—

and the surprised, but always brave and sturdy, French soldiers were eventually pushed back north, out of the town.

As you can see, this was really a frontal assault, but, because of their former preparations and their sense of the geography, the French had been lulled into thinking that they were prepared.

A second battle with a river crossing against a defended town which occurred to us was from the US Civil War, Fredericksburg, fought in mid-December, 1862.

Here, as this extremely useful panorama shows, this was actually a two-step battle: first the Union troops had to cross the Rappahannock River, then they had to drive the Confederate Army from their positions on high ground beyond.

The town of Fredericksburg itself was lightly held: mostly close to the river and relatively few in numbers.

The main Confederate positions were spread a bit thinly for their numbers (not much in the way of reserves, had there been a breakthrough—Lee had had a similar problem at Antietam), but paid close attention to the ground, including taking advantage of a sunken road with a stone wall at its edge as a makeshift trench.

To cross the river itself meant a two-stage process: first, to gain the opposite bank and set up a perimeter; second, to build several pontoon bridges to allow for the rapid deployment of troops and artillery.

19^th-century armies commonly traveled with pontoons—boats built specifically to be used as the basis for floating bridges—

They were dragged along on wagons wherever and whenever armies went—

and, with the addition of planks and anchors and ropes, created complete roadways across bodies of water.

The first stage was difficult,

but using pontoons for assault boats

the Union troops managed to secure a foothold on the opposite bank. When bridges went up, stage one had been successful. But, when the Confederates had withdrawn from the town (which they had never intended to occupy in force), there was still that second stage.

Great courage, but thrown away against resolute Confederate defenders,

as you can see in this splendid painting by Carl Roechling, one of our favorite 19^th-c. German military-historical painters of the attack of the 114^th Pennsylvania (uniformed like French Zouaves, those most admired of French soldiers during this period).

You can see the kinds of difficulties, then, for the Enemy in their attack on the west bank of the Anduin. How do they succeed? A messenger from Faramir, commanding the defense of West Osgiliath, describes the assault:

“The plan has been well laid. It is now seen that in secret they have long been building floats and barges in great number in East Osgiliath. They swarmed across like beetles.” LotR 817.

Here is the initial attack in Jackson’s film version—

When these craft land, they open at the bow and, of course, we immediately thought of D-Day and Pacific island battles and the Inchon landing, and Higgins Boats (LCVPs)

Along with their advanced use of explosives in the attack on the Pelennor to come, these are very sophisticated creatures, especially when one thinks about the landing craft of earlier centuries—the boats designed for the British attack on Quebec in 1759

Or the sort of thing you see during the Napoleonic era—

These are for amphibious landings. Mostly, when it comes to the era of pontoons, it appears that, when it came to rivers, soldiers simply used them

The “beetles” mentioned by Faramir’s messenger swarm over the men of Gondor, so heavily outnumbered that, as Faramir says, “Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange. For he can afford to lose a host better than we to lose a company.” LotR 816. And then there is their other weapon, the Chief Nazgul.

“But it is the Black Captain that defeats us. Few will stand and abide even the rumor of his coming. His own folk quail at him, and they would slay themselves at his bidding.” As Faramir’s messenger adds. LotR 817.

Gandalf goes out to face him

and we wonder if other commanders—Alexander, Wellington, the Union general Burnside, for example–when faced with the problem of a defended crossing, would wish to have him on their side—or the Black Captain?

As always, thanks for reading.

MTCIDC

Where Did It Go– And Why?

17 Wednesday Jun 2015

Posted by Ollamh in J.R.R. Tolkien, Military History, Military History of Middle-earth

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Arbeia, Boromir, Cavalry, Denethor, England, Faramir, Film, Gondor, Hadrian's Wall, Helm's Deep, Iliad, Minas Tirith, Offa's Dyke, Osgiliath, Pelennor, Peter Jackson, Rammas Echor, Script, The Great Wall, The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien, Wansdyke

Dear Readers,

Welcome, as always!

In this post, we want to consider the Rammas Echor, which, in the original, had holes blown in it by the invading army of Sauron, but was demolished completely by the script writers for Peter Jackson’s LOTR.

We first meet it when Gandalf and Pippin, in their rapid journey to Minas Tirith, are briefly stopped at what appears to be a sally port in it (rather than a major gate, as Shadowfax is said to have “passed through a narrow gate in the wall” 749). Gandalf briefly trades remarks with an officer named Ingold (who appears briefly later in the story to report that the northern section has fallen, 821) before he and Pippin continue their journey.

It is described thus:

“Gandalf passed now into the wide land beyond the Rammas Echor. So the men of Gondor called the out-wall that they had built with great labour, after Ithilien fell under the shadow of their Enemy. For ten leagues [about 30 miles in the English system—about 48 km in the metric] or more it ran from the mountains’ feet and so back again, enclosing in its fence the fields of the Pelennor: fair and fertile townlands on the long slopes and terraces falling to the deep levels of the Anduin. At its furthest point from the Great Gate of the City, north-eastward, the wall was four leagues [12 miles—about 19 km] distant, and there from a frowning bank it overlooked the long flats beside the river, and men had made it high and strong; for at that point, upon a walled causeway, the road came in from the fords and bridges of Osgiliath and passed through a guarded gate between embattled towers… “ 750.

With so much of Tolkien, one can find illustrations from the usual artists—the Hildebrandts, Howe, Nasmith, and Lee—but for this particular—and important—architectural feature, we haven’t discovered—so far—a single illustration.

It’s made of stone and has evidently not been well-maintained: “Many tall men heavily cloaked stood beside him [Shadowfax], and behind them in the mist loomed a wall of stone. Partly ruinous it seemed, but already before the night was passed the sound of hurried labour clould be heard: beat of hammers, clink of trowels, and the creak of wheels.” 748 And, as mentioned above, it has gates, but, beyond that, what does it look like?

England has a long history of long walls. There are the surviving earthen walls and ditches of the Dark Ages or early medieval Offa’s Dyke

and Wansdyke

and, of course, the well-known 2^nd –century AD work, Hadrian’s Wall, with its surviving stone work and its elaborate series of mile castles, gates, and supporting forts and camps.

We might also cast further afield and in time. In Book 7 of the Iliad, the Greeks dig a ditch, fill it with sharpened stakes, and build a stone wall behind it to protect their ships from Trojan attack.

[We can’t find an image of that, but here’s a picture of one of our favorite features of today’s Truva/Hisalik, just to remind you of a later feature of the Trojan War—along with a still from the 2004 Brad Pitt film, known to those of us who love Homer for its rather casual attitude towards the traditional story.]

And how can we fail to mention the Great Wall of China?

For us, Hadrian’s Wall might do, with its stretch of stonework across the entire width of England (73 miles, 117.5 kilometres).

It even has the requisite main gate, which will be defended by Faramir.

This is actually from the Roman fort of Arbeia, South Shields—a great site—but it gives you an idea of what something a little grander—after all, it connected the Pelennor with Osgiliath—might look like.

That event, however, is in The Lord of the Rings, where Faramir maintains his reputation as a brave and far-sighted commander, as Beregond says to Pippin:

“But things may change when Faramir returns. He is bold, more bold than many deem; for in these days men are slow to believe that a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song, as he is, and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field.” 766

In the film, it is quite a different matter. There is no Rammas Echor and Faramir, in contrast, is badly wounded in a cavalry charge against the walls of Osgiliath while his father, Denethor, has a rather messy and all-too-symbolic lunch.

What has happened here? First, no intelligent—maybe even foolish—commander would attack a stone wall with cavalry, and we know that Faramir is, indeed, intelligent. Second, what has happened to the Rammas, where Faramir actually had been just before he fell, commanding the rearguard?

First, we would suggest that the script writers took their cue from the final scene between father and son, in which Faramir, already told by his father that his father had preferred his elder son, Boromir, volunteers to direct the defense of Osgiliath:

“But at length Faramir said: ‘I do not oppose your wil, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it.’

‘I do so,’ said Denethor.

“Then farewell!’ said Faramir. ‘But if I should return, think better of me!’

‘That depends upon the manner of your return,’ said Denethor.

Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east. ‘Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said. ‘You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!’” 816-817

To them, this might have indicated that Faramir—who had clearly been Gandalf’s pupil, as his father has said:

“See, you have spoken skillfully, as ever; but I, have I not seen your eyes fixed on Mithrandir, seeking whether you said well or too much? He has long had your heart in his keeping.” 812

does not listen to his tutor and deliberately sets out to get himself killed. In the text, however, Faramir is actually acting responsibly, fighting in the rearguard of the retreating detachment driven from the Rammas:

“Even as the Nazgul had swerved aside from the onset of the White Rider, there came flying a deadly dart, and Faramir, as he held at bay a mounted champion of Harad, had fallen to the earth.” 821

(And we might add that Prince Imrahil, who brings the wounded Faramir back, says, “Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds…” 821, which, of course, could easily be understood to be ironic and is perhaps meant to be so on the part of Imrahil, considering Fararmir’s last words to his father and Denethor’s reply.)

Thus, we see Faramir’s wounding completely changed, but what about the wall he had been defending?

When one reads through the various chat sights, there was once a considerable amount of discussion about the Rammas Echor, but all was speculation, it seems, as we were unable to find anything said by the writers themselves. In the text, instead of concentrating on the main gate, Sauron’s engineers detonate explosions to each side and the troops then pour through the breaches to take the defenders in flank. This could be seen as a repetition of a similar earlier event at Helm’s Deep, in which Saruman’s forces blew a hole in the defenses.

As well, we think that, for the director, the big visual attraction was the attack on Minas Tirith. This means that it could simply have been a matter of where to spend time—and/or possibly money—and so the Rammas was sacrificed. If the decision had already been made to change—we will say misinterpret– the story of Faramir, simplifying it drastically and shifting the focus (just think of that dripping mouth!), then the choice to discard this defense would have been an easy one.

So, suppose you were script writer or director, what would you have done, dear readers?

Thanks, as always, for reading (and, we hope, speculating).

MTCIDC

Powerplay

12 Friday Jun 2015

Posted by Ollamh in J.R.R. Tolkien, Military History, Military History of Middle-earth, Villains

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Barad-Dur, Beer Hall Putsch, Black Country, Charlie Chaplin, Christopher Lee, Edwin Butler Bayliss, Ents, Fangorn, Franco, Frodo, Gandalf, Grima, Hitler, Isengard, Maiar, Merry, Middle-earth, Mordor, Mosley, Mussolini, O'Duffy, Orcs, Orthanc, Pippin, Rohan, Saruman, Sauron, Spode, The Great Dictator, The Lord of the Rings, The Shire, Theoden, Tolkien, Treebeard, Valar

Welcome, as always, dear readers!

We’ve discussed the nearly-invisible Sauron in an earlier posting, but now we’d like to think out loud about the all-too-visible Saruman. And, as we’ve just heard that we’ve lost our own Saruman, Christopher Lee, we would like to dedicate it to his memory.

Pippin and Merry have been filling Fangorn in about all of their adventures up to the moment when he found them in his forest.

Saruman, in particular, has caught his attention, being his neighbor and, it seems, an increasingly distant one—

“There was a time when he was always walking about my woods. He was polite in those days, always asking my leave (at least when he met me); and always eager to listen. I told him many things that he would never have found out by himself; but he never repaid me in like kind. I cannot remember that he ever told me anything. And he got more and more like that; his face, as I remember it—became like windows in a stone wall: windows with shutters inside.” 473

At that moment, everything comes together for the Ent.

“I think that I now understand what he is up to. He is plotting to become a Power.” 473

And not a friendly power, as Gandalf, during his last visit to Isengard, has learned to his dismay, having heard Saruman alternately wheedle and threaten him. Saruman’s initial words, however, were not about himself, but about someone else, to the east:

“A new Power is rising. Against it the old allies and policies will not avail us at all. There is no hope left in Elves or dying Numenor. This then is one choice before you, before us. We may join with that Power.” 259

So far, this must sound like the Sauron party line—and Saruman is actually described “as if he were making a speech long rehearsed”, (259), the tone of which Gandalf recognized immediately, replying:

“I have heard speeches of this kind before, but only in the mouths of emissaries sent from Morder to deceive the ignorant.” 259

If we pause for a moment and consider the era in which this was written, we might catch a glimpse of something from the history of our world in this, something from the period beginning in 1922 and extending at least through 1945, when Tolkien was beginning to write The Lord of the Rings.

JRRT always denied that his work was allegorical, although, sophisticated man that he was, he was well aware that the world around him would impinge upon his consciousness. Thus, when we see numerous sinister figures rising in power in our world, it would be difficult to imagine that they might not, even if only very distantly, exert some small influence on his work.

The lesser figures include Franco, in Spain,

Eoin O’Duffy in Ireland,

Sir Oswald Mosley in England, (mocked as “the amateur dictator “ by P.G.Wodehouse in the persona of Sir Roderick Spode—brilliantly played by John Turner in the 1990s Wodehouse “Jeeves and Wooster” television series)

and the most menacing of all, Mussolini and Hitler.

Mussolini had begun his rise to power just after World War One, achieving his position of Il Duce in 1922,

while Hitler, after a false start in 1923, in emulation of Mussolini,

finally reached the ultimate position of authority in 1933.

Although Hitler was a relative late-comer in comparison with Mussolini, it seems that Mussolini looked up to Hitler, even taking German lessons (although there is no mention of Hitler reciprocating) so that they could talk more easily (and, doubtless, securely).

Thus, it might be possible to see Saruman, in his position as lesser of two evils, looking up to and wanting to imitate Sauron, the greater of two evils, as Mussolini attempting to emulate Hitler. (And this odd partnership is sharply satirized in Charley Chaplin’s The Great Dictator, 1940.)

So, as Sauron has the Barad-dur,

so Saruman has Orthanc.

As Sauron has Orcs

so Saruman has Orcs.

Worst of all, just as Sauron has the vast wasteland of Mordor

Saruman takes the once-green and beautiful Isengard

and turns it into a mini-Mordor.

All of this is swept away by Fangorn and his fellow Ents, of course,

and it appears that Saruman will remain within the tower, but we know that he slips away, taking the former counselor of Theoden, Grima, with him.

Or, at least, that’s what Tolkien intended. Unfortunately, the makers of The Lord of the Rings films simply dropped this theme here, with the deaths both of Saruman and Grima on Orthanc. We say unfortunately because, although we have portrayed Saruman as a wanna-be Sauron (even to the point of thinking that he might gain control of the Ring), which is certainly one of his roles, his is a greater role as he was once a greater figure. He is the eldest of the Maiar in Middle Earth, those spirits whom Tolkien once described as “near equivalent in the mode of these tales of Angels, guardian Angels”, LTR 159. That he can be corrupted by Sauron (as Sauron himself had been corrupted by Morgoth), shows just how great Sauron’s power (and the lure of the Ring) really is. As well, in his fall, we see that that corruption, like Sauron’s, is complete. Offered the chance to return to the good, he spurns it and slips away—but not out of the story, and it’s here that we feel that the writers of the films missed a great opportunity.

In what might, at first, seem like an act of petty revenge, Saruman goes to the Shire, that green and so-far-safe land far west of all of evil of Middle Earth,.

and industrializes it. After all, Fangorn has said of Saruman that “He has a mind of metal and wheels; and he does not care for growing things, except as far as they serve him for the moment.” 473

So, just as at Isengard, trees must go, if only to feed his industrial plans. When we think of Saruman’s ultimate vision for the Shire, we imagine that it would look like the work of Edwin Butler Bayliss (1874-1950) who painted the industrial landscapes of England’s West Midlands, the “Black Country”, an area Tolkien himself thought of as his home region.

The end comes quickly, however, when the Hobbits return and we see, in “The Scouring of the Shire”, on the one hand, the new maturity of Merry and Pippin, and, on the other, the deep humanity of Frodo.

And Saruman would have been allowed to go free again—but there is an irony here in what happens. He had sought to overturn Theoden and Rohan through having subverted Grima and, instead, he himself is killed by that very agent—

and we have wondered about that. If Saruman is of the same substance as the Valar, merely inhabiting a human body, can he, in fact, be killed, any more than Sauron? We assume that Sauron, who had poured so much of his spiritual power into the Ring, would be seriously weakened by its loss, enough so that his empire collapses on him. In Saruman’s case, the end is less dramatic, but at the same time, poignant:

“To the dismay of those that stood by, about the body of Saruman a grey mist gathered, and rising slowly to a great height like smoke from a fire, as a pale shrouded figure it loomed over the Hill. For a moment it wavered, looking to the West; but out of the West came a cold wind, and it bent away, and with a sigh dissolved into nothing.” 1020

Although the withered remains are then described, they seem unnecessary. That was only the borrowed flesh. The tragedy lies in that wavering look, the bending away, the sigh. In the final chapter, “The Grey Havens”, we see Gandalf departing towards that very West which was denied to Saruman and here we see, as well, what it was that the spirit of Saruman had lost: the reward of being allowed, at last, to return home, to go back towards Valinor. Instead, the Valar have rejected one of their own and, though his spirit may not have been destroyed, something seems to have left him forever.

By leaving the final chapters out of the film, then, the script writers lost the chance not only to show us Merry and Pippin, at the end of their long adventure, grown into figures to rival the Old Took, both in deeds and in stature. As well, they denied us the potential contrast with the end of such figures as Hitler—a suicide—and Mussolini—executed by his own people, and that of Saruman the White, murdered by his own follower and, at the end, nothing but sadness and grey smoke.

Thanks, as always, for reading. And thank you, Christopher Lee, for acting.

MTCIDC

Where From the Rohirrim?

10 Wednesday Jun 2015

Posted by Ollamh in Heroes, J.R.R. Tolkien, Military History, Military History of Middle-earth, Narrative Methods, The Rohirrim

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Amazons, Anglo-Saxon, Bayeux Tapestry, Burial mounds, Cavalry, Charge of the Light Brigade, descendants, Edoras, Eotheod, Horse people, Indo-European, Kurgan, language, Middle-earth, Normans, Rohan, Rohirric, Rohirrim, Scythians, The Lord of the Rings, The Mark, Tolkien, Tom Shippey

Dear Readers, welcome!

In this post, we want to think out loud a bit about the Rohirrim.

Everyone knows where their language is from, as Tolkien says in a letter to “one Mr. Rang”:

“…’Anglo-Saxon’…is the sole field in which to look for the origins and meaning of words and names belonging to the speech of the Mark.” LT 381

And yet they are horse people (their own name for themselves, in fact, is Eotheod, “horse people”), which the Angles and Saxons who went to make up the Anglo-Saxons, were not. Tolkien was well aware of this difference, saying in Appendix F of The Lord of the Rings:

“…this linguistic procedure does not imply that the Rohirrim closely resembled the ancient English otherwise, in culture or art, in weapons or modes of warfare, except in a general way due to their circumstances…” L1136

Tom Shippey, in The Road to Middle Earth, suggests that

“The Rohirrim are nothing if not cavalry. By contrast the Anglo-Saxons’ reluctance to have anything militarily to do with horses is notorious…How then can Anglo-Saxons and Rohirrim ever, culturally, be equated? A part of the answer is that the Rohirrim are not to be equated with the Anglo-Saxons of history, but with those of poetry, or legend.” (112)

Or, could there have been other models?

Tolkien may have been suggesting one when, in a letter to Rhona Beare of 14 October, 1958:

“The Rohirrim were not ‘mediaeval’ in our sense. The styles of the Bayeux Taptestry (made in England) fit them well enough, if one remembers that the kind of tennis-nets [the] soldiers seem to have on are only a clumsy conventional sign for chain-mail of small rings.” Ltr 280-281.

The Bayeux Tapestry depicts both Normans and their allies, on the one hand, and the Anglo-Saxons, on the other, but Tolkien doesn’t appear to distinguish between them. The Normans themselves are mounted, the Anglo-Saxons on foot, as was their custom (they did use horses to move rapidly from place to place, as in the race north to Stamford Bridge and then back south to face the Normans).

Here, to the left, we see those mounted Normans and, to the right, the Anglo-Saxons behind their shield wall. The “tennis-nets” are clearly visible and would actually have looked like this:

In this further illustration, by the way, it’s easy to see the consequences of having the shield wall crumble: men on horseback can have a significant advantage when their opponents lose cohesion.

This, however, is only their look . What about those horses and an entire culture based around them?

For a clue, we look to another element in the culture of the Rohirrim, the use of burial mounds. Here they are at Edoras.

(We can’t resist, by the way, saying that our absolute favorite part of the Jackson movies is anything to do with the Rohirrim—to us, absolutely inspired and we see the depiction of the charge of the Rohirrim against the army besieging Minas Tirith as being right up there with the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava in 1854 and the charge of the Australian Light Horse at Beersheba in 1917–

One might say, in reply, that there are Anglo-Saxon mounds—like the famous Sutton Hoo ship burial.

But that leaves us where we started, in the land of foot soldiers.

So, let’s go farther afield, to the north of the Black Sea.

Here, we see the so-called “Kurgan Culture”, with its burial mounds

[This, by the way, is not to be confused with The Kurgan from the first Highlander movie

The Kurgan]

These were a people who:

are believed by many linguists (and some archeologists) to be the direct ancestors of the Indo-Europeans who gradually invaded Asia Minor and western Europe (including, eventually, the Anglo-Saxons) as well as moving east, to India and beyond
buried their dead (at least what appear to be the high status ones) in mounds
were a horse culture

And, in fact, were seemingly the forerunners of the Scythians, a later well-known Indo-European horse people

And the Scythians, in turn, may have been the model for those mythical horse folk, the Amazons.

In the 19^th century, when the idea of Indo-Europeans began to circulate, there was a preference for a northern European origin (a theory no longer held), but the idea of an eastern home was also circulating and we would suggest that Tolkien would have known about this, as well as, from his early classical training, Scythians and Amazons, their actual and mythical descendants.

Imagine, then, that what we see in the Rohirrim is, in fact, an interesting mixture of people sprung from an earlier people (as Tolkien tells us, the Rohirrim were descended from the Edain of the First Age—see LOTR, Appendix F 1129), both in our world and in Middle Earth, who based their culture upon horses, and bury their dead in mounds, combined with people who may also bury their dead in mounds, who speak a version of Anglo-Saxon and who dress like the Normans and Anglo-Saxons of the 11^thcentury AD.

What do you think, dear readers?

Thanks for reading, as always.

MTCIDC

Sites and Vision

25 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by Ollamh in J.R.R. Tolkien, Military History, Military History of Middle-earth, Narrative Methods

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Battle of Loos, John Garth, Morannon, Shell Holes, The Great War, Tolkien, World War I

Dear Readers,

Although we said in our last that we were going to pursue further the subject of that post, recently, we’ve been readers of John Garth’s Tolkien and the Great War (2003—he has a new book we’re about to order– Tolkien at Exeter College. If this interests you, you should also check out his impressive website at http://www.johngarth.co.uk) and, thinking about JRRT’s time in the trenches brought us to the Morannon:

“Upon the west of Mordor marched the gloomy range of Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow, and upon the north the broke peaks and barren ridges of Ered Lithui, grey as ash. But as these ranges approached one another, being indeed parts of one great wall about the mournful plains of Lithlad and of Gorgoroth, and the bitter inland sea of Nurnen amidmost, they swung out long arms northward; and between these arms there was a deep defile. This was Cirith Gorgor, the Haunted Pass, the entrance to the land of the Enemy. High cliffs lowered upon either side, and thrust forward from its mouth were two sheer hills, black-boned and bare. Upon them stood the Teeth of Mordor, two towers strong and tall…Stony-faced they were, with dark window-holes staring north and east and west, and each window was full of sleepless eyes.”

Although JRRT didn’t come to the Western Front until after the battle of Loos in September-October, 1915, that description reminded us of this:

This is the so-called “Tower Bridge” (actually the top structure of mine elevators), the most striking landmark of the long-drawn-out struggle by the British to push the Germans back from their defensive line. It was common for British soldiers to name local French and Belgian features after things from home. Hence, this

reminded them of this:

The battlefield, however, also has more features similar to JRRT’s description of this bleak and ashy world in the artificial tailings (refuse heaps) from the coal mines which dotted the region.

And, in the midst of this are Sam, Frodo, and Gollum:

“…lay now peering over the edge of a rocky hollow beneath the outstretched shadow of the northernmost buttress of Ephel Duath.”

The area between British and German lines were pockmarked with holes blown in the earth by artillery shells,

sometimes thousands of them, and soldiers advancing would use them as temporary shelters.

which could then be used as the basis of new trench systems.

And, between those trench systems, was the area called “No Man’s Land “, in which whole villages and even forests could disappear into nothing but cellar holes and stumps:

which look rather like the devastation described at the crossroads

“Presently, not far ahead, looming up like a black wall, they saw a belt of trees. As they drew nearer they became aware that these were of vast size, very ancient it seemed, and still towering high, though their tops were gaunt and broken, as if tempest and lightning-blast had swept across them, but had failed to kill them or to shake their fathomless roots.”

JRRT strenuously objected to the idea that he was literally converting his thoughts and feelings and experiences in the two World Wars into Middle Earth prose, but he did say something about what he had seen:

“Personally I do not think that either war (and of course not the atomic bomb) had any influence upon either the plot or the manner of its unfolding. Perhaps in landscape. The Dead Marshes and the approaches to the Morannon owe something to Northern France after the Battle of the Somme…”

How could an intelligent, observant young man could live among such scenes and absorb them without finding some use for them—perhaps even as a kind of exorcism of the horrors he would rather not remember?

As ever, thanks for reading!

MTCIDC

Pyle of Pirates

06 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by Ollamh in Artists and Illustrators, Military History, Research, Writing as Collaborators

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Bunker Hill, Howard Pyle, Illustrating History, Jack Sparrow, Pirates

Dear Readers,

Welcome!

In recent posts, we’ve talked about the wonderful Russian fairy/folktale illustrators of the late 19th, early 20th centuries. We thought it might be fun, as we work on the sequel to Across the Doubtful Sea (Empire of the Isles) while editing The Good King’s Daughter for our second series, to continue the conversation by looking at other illustrators, beginning with two Americans, teacher and pupil Howard Pyle and N.C. Wyeth.

We begin, however, with a familiar contemporary image:

We think it goes without saying who this is, don’t you? He’s a wonderful actor, but, for someone who’s supposed to be dressed as a mid-18th-century sailor, he owes more to Howard Pyle, who, as has been pointed out more than once before, has exerted a strong influence upon Hollywood’s view of such people, than to actual 18th-century sailor’s dress.

Pirates were, in fact, sailors with, shall we say, non-mercantile goals. They were workmen and wore very practical workmen’s clothes, like those in the following 18th-century illustrations.

(This is, in fact, a contemporary illustration of the casting adrift of the notorious Captain Bligh, a British naval officer, although you see him only in his shirtsleeves here, rather than in his blue officer’s coat. His men, however, did not wear uniforms at this period, and, as you can see, would have looked like any other sailor.)

Okay, it might be argued, he’s “Captain” Jack Sparrow–what about officers? Here’s a Hogarth painting of a more-or-less mid-century civilian captain.

As the illustration shows, he simply wears ordinary clothing– no uniform.

Now, here are a few Pyle pictures.

Typical Pyle touches: the bandanas and the huge sashes, not to be seen in period illustrations.

One might argue that Pyle lacked readily-available visual sources: someone in the 1890s certainly didn’t have Google Images. It has been said, that, like Detaille in France, Pyle collected period uniforms, etc., and sometimes dressed up students in them, but, one has only to look at his illustration of Bunker Hill, to make you wonder what he actually collected.

There are numerous errors here, from the cut of the coats, to the lace on the breast, to the packs and that’s only the beginning. The study of the history of uniforms was, of course, only in its infancy in this period and even serious military artists, like H.A. Ogden, could go very wrong.

And yet, there are also Pyle illustrations like these, in which he seems to have gotten things– at least, non-piratical things–right.

In these, you see a depiction of 18th century sailors which looks much more like those in actual period illustrations.

So what was Pyle up to? Let’s look at a much more modern depiction of Bunker Hill, by the American military artist, H. Charles McBarron.

McBarron was a member of the Company of Military Historians and Collectors. He was well-known not only as a skilled artist, but as a thorough researcher, and the owner of an extensive collection of militaria of the past. What you see in this picture (minus the graphic depiction of violence) would have been as accurate a depiction of the event as anyone might imagine.

Suppose, however, you were attempting to picture this event in dramatic terms from the British side. You would want long lines of red-coated, determined men, marching steadily uphill through their own casualties, as in Pyle’s illustration.

Imagine, then, that even if you had much more visual information about pirates than Pyle may have had, but you wanted people to see pirates painted broadly and dramatically, what better than flowing headscarves, and big, blood-red sashes?

And this is why people in the past–and we in the present– love Pyle. Strict accuracy certainly has its place, but we’re perfectly willing to let it walk the plank in favor of romantic strokes and bold depictions.

And, as always, we ask you readers, what do you think?

Next, Pyle’s pupil, N.C. Wyeth.

Thanks for reading,

MTCIDC,

Terra (Increasingly) Cognita

30 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by Ollamh in Imaginary History, Military History, Narrative Methods, Terra Australis

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Adventure, Book, Exploration, History, Research, Terra Australis, Writing

Dear Readers,

Welcome, as always. Now that Across the Doubtful Sea is out in print on Amazon, we’ve turned our attention towards two projects:

the “prequel”, Empire of the Isles
editing and publishing the complete draft of the first book in a new series, Grey Goose and Gander, which is set in an imaginary medieval Russia. (Yes—it’s a distance from an alternate 18^th-century Pacific, but we love Russian literature, both poetry and novels, and we especially love Russian fairy tales and that outstanding illustrator, Ivan Bilibin.) More on that series in future blogs!

Among the main characters in Empire is Lucien de St. Valerien, the father of Antoine, from our first book and we follow his adventures in two periods: as a senior cadet 30 years or so before Across and then as a captain, 10 years before. The latter will lead right into Across and explain various things only hinted at in that volume in the series.

As his adventures take place in our imaginary Pacific (called “The Calm Sea”) and on our imaginary Terra Australis, we’ve been busy researching and inventing more geography. In doing so, we’re aware that we are violating a dictum which JRRT once set down about creating and mapping:

“If you’re going to have a complicated story you must work to a map; otherwise you’ll never make a map of it afterwards.”

That we are doing so clearly shows the larky beginnings of this project as well as our desire to allow the Muse to take the story (and the storytellers) where she will.

Although we follow this ideal of inspiration, we would also agree with the Victorian English novelist, Anthony Trollope, who said of inspiration:

“To me it would not be more absurd if the shoemaker were to wait for inspiration, or the tallow-chandler for the divine moment of melting.” (A particularly apropos statement for a man with the goal of writing 10,000 words a day!)

In our case, however, we are using our research as a substitute Muse. And what particularly strikes us at the moment is the interesting clash of world views of early geographers on the subject of Terra Australis.

As we’ve mentioned before, Terra Australis, as a concept, dates back at least to Aristotle in the 4^th century BC and the concept of the need for a balance of continents. If there’s a big one on the north side of the earth (call it Terra Borealis), it would be necessary, for the equilibrium of the earth to have a second one on the south side (Terra Australis).

The next step in the thinking, however, can diverge. There are those who imagined that such a place would resemble the continent on the northern side, having as many peoples and cultures. (This idea appears to be associated with Crates of Mallus, who lived in the 2^nd century BC.) In our imaginary world, this is the standard belief, just as it was in the real pre-Captain Cook 18^th century Europe. (The idea was contested, however, as it is in our books.)

In our research, however, we’ve also happened upon a second view. This was popularized by a 5^th-century AD scholar named Macrobius, who wrote a commentary on the last-century BC Roman author, Cicero’s, “Dream of Scipio”, itself the last part of Cicero’s longer philosophical work, De Re Publica.

Cicero begins with the theory of more than one inhabited continent, but then shifts to describe an earth divided into five climate zones (reading from top to bottom: cold (and so uninhabitable), temperate, torrid (uninhabitable), temperate, and cold once more. This zonal view if followed by Macrobius and a number of the maps which appear in the earliest surviving manuscripts (which date from the period before 1100 AD) shows this very clearly.

What impressed us about this idea was how it mixed what we know to be true in the real world—uninhabitable poles (as some of the maps say, terra nobis incognita frigida—“a frozen land unknown to us”)

with temperate regions. It then added, however, a central belt simply too hot for human existence. (Was this derived from early reports of the Sahara?).

We’re still researching and creating, but our Terra Australis combines the two world views: we have a habitable southern continent, but one which is gradually falling under the control of a god—Atutlaluk—whose power is gradually turning Terra Australis into terra frigida—although it is gradually turning from incognita “unknown” to cognita “known” to us—and will be to you, in our next Across book, Empire of the Isles.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

MTCIDC

For a detailed and very interesting article on Macrobius and maps, see Alfred Hiatt, “The Map of Macrobius before 1100” available as a download at http://dx.org/10.1080/03085690701300626.

Frigates

16 Tuesday Dec 2014

Posted by Ollamh in Heroes, Military History, Research

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Adventure, Exploration, French Navy, Frigate, History, Napoleonic, Research, Royal Navy, Sea, Warship, Writing

Dear Readers,

Welcome, as ever.

In this post, we want to add a bit more about the ship used by our European protagonists and antagonists, in the Doubtful Sea series, the frigate.

For a brief but convenient history of the vessel, see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frigate, but, in short, as you can see, a frigate is a three-masted warship.

Unlike the bigger ships, those used in the large-scale fleet actions

like HMS Victory

or its French counterparts

their armament was much lighter, ranging in number of guns from the upper twenties to the low forties. Here, for example, is a French forty-gun ship.

And a comparable English one.

These ships were designed to be fast and maneuverable, acting as scouts for fleets of the bigger ships, but also as warships on their own, in blockades and in actions against enemy ships of about their own class.

After the American Revolution, the United States Navy began with six of these frigates, including the USS Constitution.

(For a useful article on these, see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Original_six_Frigates_of_the _United_States_Navy. On these ships and others, see Mark Lardas, American Light and Medium Frigates, 1794-1836 and American Heavy Frigates, 1794-1826, For US frigates from their inception through the War of 1812, see Henry E. Gruppe, The Frigates.)

First in fighting the Barbary pirates off the North African coast and then against the British Royal Navy in the War of 1812, these ships and their captains and crews earned the new navy a reputation for seamanship, gunnery, and their sound design and construction.

(For the US Navy in the wars against the Barbary pirates, see Gregory Fremont-Barnes, The Wars of the Barbary Pirates, Richard Zacks, The Pirate Coast, Mark Lardas, Decatur’s Bold and Daring Act, and Frederick C. Leiner, The End of Barbary Terror. A recent popular history of the US Navy in the War of 1812 on the high seas is Stephen Budiansky, Perilous Fight.)

As far as we know, there is only one of the larger ships which survives: HMS Victory, in Portsmouth harbor, on the south coast of England.

There is one original US frigate, the USS Constitution, which is located in Boston harbor. It is still in commission, being the oldest ship in the US Navy. See the website: www.history.mil/ussconstitution/index.html for further information.

In the UK, there are two frigates, HMS Trincomalee,

which may be visited at Hartlepool. See the website at: www.hms-trincomalee.co.uk.

And HMS Unicorn, its sister-ship. The Unicorn is unusual in that, unlike the Trincomalee, is has not been restored as an active warship. Instead, it has been brought back to its state when it was out of commission and stored (said to be “in ordinary” in naval language) to be used as a store ship—or even a prison ship, like these, in Portsmouth harbor.

Here’s the Unicorn—

You can find out more about it at its website: www.frigateunicorn.org

There is one more frigate, one we have mentioned briefly in an earlier post. It is not an original, but a very impressive reproduction, the French frigate L’Hermione.

For an English-language website on this very impressive ship, see: www.hermione2015.com.

We hope that you’ve enjoyed this post. Within the next week or so, we expect to have the first novel in our series, Across the Doubtful Sea published on Amazon/Kindle. If you find our posts interesting, we hope that you find our novel even more so!

As always, thanks for reading.

MTCIDC

Villainous Vessels

02 Tuesday Dec 2014

Posted by Ollamh in Imaginary History, Military History, Villains

≈ 1 Comment

Dear Readers,

Welcome!

In this post, we want to add something to our former one about the Atuk, the mysterious villains who inhabit the center of Terra Australis.

The name Atuk amavi’o, in the language of their enemies, the Matan’a’e amavi’o, means “people of the cold” and, although their interior and warmer-weather dress may echo Ottoman/Persian clothes, their winter look reflects their icy outer world. Their warships also suit that world.

We had originally imagined them as looking like real galleys from the history of our world, the sort used by the Ottoman and their Venetian, Spanish, and other European enemies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

These are long, graceful vessels, powered by oars for battle and in-shore maneuvering, but by large, triangular sails—called “lateen sails”—for longer distances.

Originally, these were built like ancient classical warships, with bronze rams on their prows.

Increasingly, with the development of gunpowder, the Ottoman and their enemies turned to shipboard artillery. This was commonly mounted on the forecastle (the front) of their ships, to fight their battles.

In the world we’ve created, however, the Atuk have not made the shift to cannon. In contrast to classical warships, though, they don’t employ the old ramming attack.

In fact, although the basic structure and outline of their ships may be based upon Mediterranean galleys, we have made a significant change. Oars and sails are there, but these have been combined with something from the world of ice. Imagine ships—galleys—made from the frozen sea itself.

As for their armament, well, dear readers, that’s for you to discover in Across the Doubtful Sea, when it appears on Amazon/Kindle in early December.

Thanks for reading.

MTCIDC

doubtfulsea

~ adventure fantasy

Category Archives: Military History

The Two Sieges

Shall We Gather at the River?

Where Did It Go– And Why?

Powerplay

Where From the Rohirrim?

Sites and Vision

Pyle of Pirates

Terra (Increasingly) Cognita

Frigates

Villainous Vessels