Melissa James

For debut historical fiction authors, several periods are perilous minefields because of well-known individuals and complex, multilayered social, political, economic, and religious aspects of daily life. These periods include the Wars of the Roses, the Tudors, Jane Austen’s Regency, and the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars. They are popular, and readers who favor them are knowledgeable to a high degree. It is therefore easy for an unwitting writer to enter one of these minefields and believe, on the strength of some basic research, to be up to the task.

That is not the case here. This debut historical novel fails in the factual accuracy and fictional plausibility categories, and does so in an unfortunately spectacular manner. It may be true that the author did indeed read over 25 research books—she has claimed as many as 40—viewed a dozen DVDs, and visited universities and the northern coast of France, but I found little evidence of what she called “deep research.” This novel is riddled with factual mistakes large, medium, and small, and the fictional component is equally improbable on virtually every level. While I was reading, I highlighted 53 specific instances of what I call Bad History, some of them whoppers, some smaller errors. A person who understands proper research methods and is truly familiar with this historical period would never make them.

This is a story about British spies attempting to prevent a French invasion of England between 1802 and 1803, while the Treaty of Amiens was in effect, and includes convoluted—and usually muddled—subplots with inadequate introduction or resolution. This alleged invasion, which the author refers to as “hidden history,” is thwarted by the novel’s two heroic spies, Duncan and Lisbeth, when, despite all manner of improbable odds, they blow up part of First Consul Bonaparte’s “secret invasion fleet” at Boulogne-sur-Mer. According to the novel, this French fleet was secret because the Treaty of Amiens restricted the number of ships the French were allowed to have, and to build. This “fact” is repeated over and over, and embellished to include such gems as having one of the many characters point out that Bonaparte was having a few ships built in each harbor to circumvent this “restriction,” while another claims the treaty also limits the number of infantry the French are allowed, and the number of soldiers manning forts along the northern French coast. In a “secret” meeting with Duncan in London, the emigré Archbishop Narbonne , “You suspect Bonaparte has more infantry—and far more warships—than the Treaty of Amiens allows.” Even William Pitt, former prime minister, is made to echo the fantasy: “Seems they’ve [the French] only built the agreed-upon number of warships.” Folks, the Treaty of Amiens contains exactly 20 articles, some with sub-paragraphs, and not a single one of them in any manner discusses, mentions, or alludes to a restriction on ships or soldiers. Not. One. The treaty is readily available, in English, everywhere, including Wikipedia, so I have no idea where this phantom provision originated. It is wrong, in any event. Despite this, the author continues to insist that her version of history is the right one: “And when the Treaty of Amiens ended with war declared May 18, 1803, France took an official count of ships ready for war, and there were almost 1500 by early July 1803 - almost 1,000 more than the Treaty allowed for.” Stuff and nonsense.

An unfortunate corollary to this incorrect version of the treaty is what the author refers to throughout the novel as “the European Tribunal.” This alleged tribunal makes an even more risible appearance than the treaty: “George III made formal protest to the European Tribunal over” Bonaparte’s refusal to evacuate Malta; “The European Tribunal inspectors have only been invited to the Mediterranean ports;” “They [the British spies] must be turned in to the European Tribunal;” and my favorite because it is so awful, “I will not hesitate to implicate you with the European Tribunal in anything you do,” said Bonaparte to his former minister of police, Joseph Fouché. There are at least a dozen more examples of this errant nonsense, but these suffice, I think. There is a quote in one of the books the author says she relied on for her “facts” which says with regard to the attempt to avoid war in the early months of 1803 that “George III’s message to Parliament…removed the veil that had covered the Negotiation, and took it to the Tribunal of Europe.” People familiar with diplomacy in general and this historical period in particular know that the Tribunal of Europe refers to the heads of state, and their opinion—or judgment—on a particular matter. It is not a juridical entity, it is not a court like the World Court in The Hague, and it most certainly does not have a contingent of “inspectors” who run around checking on compliance with a non-existent treaty provision rather like the UN inspectors looking for WMDs.

The complete failure to understand a simple treaty—or even read it properly—and the concomitant misunderstanding of a diplomatic term of the times negates the major premise of this book—that there was a secret fleet and a secret invasion and both had to be thwarted. The facts that most of us get is that First Consul Bonaparte wanted—needed—the treaty to last as long as possible to give him time to build up his fleets, and he built them in plain sight, just as he increased the numbers of troops stationed along the Channel coasts. “There was no let up [sic] in the construction of flat bottomed boats at every available port along the north coast of France; these were intended to be used as landing craft for [Bonaparte’s] proposed invasion of England,” wrote the author of the same book which Our Author has so badly misinterpreted. Despite the facts found easily by a cursory Google or three, she insisted that “Napoleon [!] attempted to invade England no less than 11 times.” Actually, he’d said it was not feasible in 1798, and went off to Egypt. In 1801 he planned another invasion but scrapped it, and intended another at no specific date, but only “in the unlikely event of exceptionally advantageous strategic and meteorological conditions coinciding….” Apparently the author missed this quote from one of her “deep research” books.

I should point out that having Napoleon Bonaparte as a character in one’s novel is risky business, as fraught with danger as featuring Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn or Mr. Darcy. The author had better know her stuff, because readers can spot errors and mischaracterizations at fifty paces. This novel reveals to a painful degree that First Consul Bonaparte is as foreign to the author as the Dalai Lama. Bonaparte was first consul during this period; he was referred to as “Bonaparte,” and never, ever “Napoleon.” He did not use that name until 14 May 1804, when the Senatus Consultum proclaimed him Emperor of the French. Referring to him as Napoleon is therefore as incorrect as calling Prinny the Prince Regent before 1811. Bonaparte was addressed in conversation as Citoyen Premier Consul, and in all official documents. He was not addressed as “my lord,” “my lord Bonaparte,” “my lord consul,” or any other similar English nonsense. The author claimed, however, that “Napoleon was called ‘my lord’ in correspondence from the time he became First Consul in 1801 - I have seen it in Paris archives.” No. He was not called Napoleon at this time, he became first consul on 10 November 1799, and only English documents in French archives occasionally used such a term—there’s your three strikes [mistakes] in one sentence. My point in raising this issue is that someone writing dialogue between two persons speaking French would use the proper form of address used in that language: “Citizen Consul, Citizen Fouché has been located and brought here,” is what Bonaparte’s secretary would say, and not “My lord consul, Monsieur Fouché has been located….” By the same token, we should never see a sentence like “The Lady Josephine is his mother.” The most outlandish example of not understanding proper dialogue occurs between Captain Johnstone, who was a real British officer, and Bonaparte at the Tuileries. For whatever reason, Johnstone speaks as a parody of a naval officer: “Very glad I am to be here, m’lord—signal honor and all that,” and “An’ how would ye be doin’ that, m’lord, seein’ as how you’re leader of France?” The problem here, naturally, is that Johnstone is speaking French, because Bonaparte doesn’t speak English and faux naval-speak does not translate. And every character, whether Lord Whitworth, Lord Cornwallis, the crazy Lord Camelford, Pitt the Younger, the Duchess of Gordon, Duncan, Lisbeth, or Mark the obnoxious Cockney lad, refer to Bonaparte as “Boney.” I get the traditional John Bull view of the Corsican Ogre, but there is a limit to the class of people who would not only allegedly use that term but also refer to the French as Frogs. Cornwallis, par exemple, did neither.

There are a number of references to armies and places where Bonaparte was –or wasn’t—during his career before and during the events in this book. They are all wrong. We see “Napoleon’s Grande Armeé” mentioned throughout, allegedly referring to the troops along the northern coast of France. These troops, which first appeared there in 1798, were part of L’Armée d’Angleterre, then L’Armée d’Observation, and finally, L’Armée des Côtes de l’Ocean at the time of the novel. The Grande Armée was not created until August 1805. At some point Lisbeth asks Duncan if “1798 wasn’t enough humiliation for Napoleon?” Apparently Duncan is as dumb as she is, because he agrees. This alleged humiliation was the second invasion of Ireland led by General Jean Humbert in August 1798. Bonaparte had nothing to do with it—he was in Egypt at the time. The Duchess of Gordon’s daughter said her “Mama had been an avid admirer of Napoleon [!] since the Red Sea was said to have parted for him in ’97.” I can only infer that this is meant to be a reference to the Syrian expedition, but that began in February 1799; General Bonaparte was in Lombardy in 1797.

As long as we’re on the subject of military matters, we see Bonaparte on his way to Boulogne incognito, having sent his “opulent coach,” his military trumpeters, and his Swiss Guards back to Saint-Cloud. Of course, Bonaparte’s escorts were the Consular Guards—imagine that!—and never the Swiss Guards, who went out with a bang with Louis XVI. He and his escorts were armed with “Brown Bess rifles,” since Bonaparte “had practiced [with rifles] since his teen years.” No. Just no. Although the author claimed that “Brown Bess rifles were named in newspapers as early as 1771,” once again she fails to understand. The Brown Besses were muskets, not rifles, a difference folks trying to write about the late 18th and early 19th century should know. More important, no Frenchman would call one a Brown Bess, a peculiarly English and American colonial term for what was a Charleville musket, manufactured in France. No such thing as “sticky bombs,” either, which were strictly WWII era weapons. Along the coast at Ambleteuse is a large stone fort, referred to here as “Fort Vauban.” Except it is called Fort Mahon, and was built by the Marquis de Vauban in the 17th century. Again, there are many more examples of butchered French history, but these are enough to demonstrate a deplorable pattern.

The author was enchanted to discover Robert Fulton’s role—she said at some point that Fulton’s submersible was part of this “hidden history” that her novel would reveal. Actually, Fulton and his Nautilus were featured in Abel Gance’s 1960 movie, Austerlitz, and no less than seven historical novels, one as recent as last year. So nothing hidden about it, either the submersible, or the planned invasion. What is new is the fact that Our Heroine, Lisbeth, is expected to learn how to use it, for some rather far-fetched reasons having little to do with actual history. Suffice it to say that the climax of this story is seeing Lisbeth and Duncan, both of them wounded and worse for wear, naturally, manage to cause some 20 French ships to sink off Boulogne-sur-Mer, then cross the channel, from Boulogne to the Romney Marshes and Dungeness, largely submerged, for a distance of nearly 30 nautical miles. As a friend who really knows about such things said, they would have been caught in the suction caused by the first French ship to go down, and sunk right along with it. So much for plucky, wounded heroines doing the impossible.

We also have a nice grab bag of general inaccuracies attached to bits that don’t do much for an already overburdened plot. Most of them are of the “As you know, Bob” method of dumping information on the reader. Not a good idea when the information is correct; worse when it’s just wrong. Thus we get side trips into alleged activities by 16th century Huguenots at Rouen and Dreaux, Bonaparte’s alleged fondness for “high-born blondes as bed warmers,” all sorts of misrepresentations of the assassination attempt on the rue Nicaise, the incredibly muddled role of the Jacobins in the Consulate, and Marshal Ney’s “invasion” of Switzerland and his “fight to get into the Swiss banks.” That last bit is wrong on every level. The characters—all of them!—continuously impart information to each other that they already know, and it is just silly to read, never mind the historical bloopers.

The mistakes were not limited to the French side of the channel. Not at all. We have Lord Grenville and William Windham on equal social footing as cousins, when their relationship was far more distant than that, and neither would claim the connection. Lord Camelford, while not always compos mentis, was not the head of the Pitt family, as the second Earl Chatham would point out. John Russell, the sixth Duke of Bedford, would never ever approach Georgiana Gordon at the Tuileries and say anything as fatuous—and socially impermissible as “…I know we haven’t yet been introduced…” and in the next sentence, tell her “Please call me John.” Folks, the French did not behave thus during the Conulate, and the English aristocracy abroad never would do so. I am amazed at the little scene in London when Alec Stewart, one of the many forgettable characters who try to spy on the French—or Frogs—is visiting Lord Grenville and has nothing proper in which to dress for dinner. So he gives a valet one hundred pounds for knee breeches, a waistcoat, and a “cutaway coat.” As a friend of mine remarked, “What was this stuff made of—spun diamonds?” Proper evening clothes were not available ready-made to be worn the day they were purchased, and a hundred pounds was a fair year’s wages for many folks at the time. One should be mindful of how people obtained clothing and of the value of money back in the day, or else look distinctly foolish.

And now for the bane of many an author’s existence: anachronisms. This novel is riddled with them: randy, US, 1847; Military Intelligence, 1909, with regards to Britain; fish or cut line, US, mid-19th century; pillow talk, US 1939; on mission, WWII; butter boat, late 19th century, Normandy; patience isn’t Alain’s strong suit, 1885; barkeep, US, 1865; hotfoot, US, late 19th century; a ridiculous sized house for two people, late 20th century concept; the best doctors in Harley Street, mid-Victorian era; what’s her issue?, US, 1930; cut the beef-witted knight act! US, 2009; play the pity card, 1886; my life and choices are my own, late 20th century sentiment; shenanigans, US, 1855; madder than a hornet, US, 1840; security overkill, US 1965; ax to grind, US, 1815; submersible technology, 1902; hell for leather, US, 1889. This should give you an idea. There are many more, but I’m tired of typing.

The most subjective portion of any review are the characters and the plot. Most all the reviewers here liked the characters and plot some or a great deal. That is as it should be. However, I thought the plot demonstrated that the author had no idea about the history she was trying to bring alive in a quasi-fictional form, and it got away from her early on. When one’s basic premise is flawed, as it is here, nothing works well. As a whole, I found too many plot elements to be poorly developed and quite frankly historically implausible. I disliked yet another clichéd feisty heroine who turned out to be a dead ringer for a Mary Sue in all respects: the one woman who would save Britain, save 100,000 lives, save [fill in the blank], with whom all men would instantly fall in love, feel protective of, and then want to marry; the feisty rebel daughter—now there’s a never-before used idea!—who is really fragile beyond belief, but grits her pretty little teeth and soldiers on. Duncan as the stalwart, tortured duty-bound hero was as trite as Lisbeth, and the backstory of his ancestry too convoluted for words. Same for Lisbeth and Alain, which never got a decent, plausible explanation. All the characters were either cardboard or victims of overkill. For example, The Bad Guys are loaded with Bad Character Traits to a positively ludicrous level, Alain in particular. The Good Guys all have Flaws, but they manage to overcome these with luck and fortitude. Sorry, but for me, there were far too many trite “romance” clichés from start to finish.

Apparently there is a sequel underway, not surprisingly given the abrupt ending of this novel. I sincerely hope the sequel will have far fewer errors, clichés, and anachronisms. We’ll see, won’t we?… (mehr)