Hi sent this to Amy as well, but the trousers Louis is wearing are Black Watch Tartan - here's the history bit - The Royal Highland Regiment called The Black Watch were successfully evacuated from Dunkirk. 😳
Remember your 40k guardsman that you commission me to draw?I forget, but what was his story? Is he apart of a Highlander type of regiment or something? I thought he's pretty cool!
Ah, this guy:
He is a soldier of the Morphean Highland Regiments of Foot, an Imperial Guard regiment I created because I saw that there was a distinct lack of Scots-based Imperial Guard regiments, both in the canon and fanon.
AU where Jamie and Claire in the 1940's. Claire is a nurse and Jamie is a Scottish solider. Both trying to fight their attraction since Claire's married, but can't help falling in love anyways.
April 3, 1945
I write to you now in the most deprivable of states: Soul torn and heart empty. Has it really been three years since our last touch? It feels as though lifetimes have passed since I last laid eyes upon you and held you in my arms. My arms ache to hold you once again, my heart longing to become full with the love I only ever experience when you are with me, and oh how my soul is in tatters awaiting to be reunited with it’s other half. To be whole once more is the wish I so desperately crave. My next leave has not been spoken of and I’m not sure when I will be able to reunite with you, or for that matter where I could meet. Security as it is, my location is not allowed to be discussed as I know neither is yours. Please, know this my darling, no matter where you are sent, you carry my heart and I will be there with you. This blasted war has done nothing but tear everything and everyone apart! If only we could put an end to this war. I fear that the end is no where in sight and it pains me to know I cannot aid you to ensure your safety. Day after day, each battle brings in more carnage than the next. I pray that you are and will remain safe throughout the rest of however long this hell lasts. Promise me you will come back to me. I don’t know what I would do if I could never hear your voice, see your smile, gaze into the depths of your eyes, or touch the soft strength of your body again.
I love you.
With one last longing gaze at the paper, now dotted from my tears, I closed my journal and held it close to my aching heart. Never will I be able to send this letter. Never will the man who holds my heart know of the pain and love he has most inadvertently caused. Hastily wiping the remaining tears from my face I lock my secrets in my footlocker. “Get a grip Beauchamp!” I berated myself. It has been three years since I had met the young, fiery Captain James Fraser. Three years… three long years of burning. Burning for a man I barely know, yet feel as though my soul has known him for as long as time itself. I often wonder what has become of Jamie during the battles and years since he was last in my care. A dark part of me already mourns him, as though he is already among the hundreds lost in this bloody godforsaken war. Deep down I know it not to be true, but it would be so much easier, yet harder, if it were the truth. I should not be longing for this man, nor should I even encourage my own musings of our reuniting. Oh! How my heart aches for our reuniting with every beat. How someone can overtake your very being in such little time as we had had and with such ferocity! One month was all that it took, one month for me to fall helplessly in love, and one month for me to be all too willing to throw my marital vows out the window. My husband, if he knew the musings that ceaselessly bombard my mind, I’m positive would lash out at the person who has stolen my affections. Frank was my first love. He has always been devoted, caring, and loving; the perfect husband. My heart has betrayed him and I cannot reconcile it no matter how hard I try. Trying to stop loving Jamie is like not breathing, painful and dizzying. Whereas loving Frank, was effortless and a sliver of my heart will always love him, but now it’s strained and trying to love him as I should, is like attempting to walk waist-deep through thick, clay filled mud. “Nurse Randall!” The sound of the young orderly snapped me out of my thoughts. “We need you to come to the trauma tent immediately. Another wave of bombing victims!” Sighing I cleared my mind and prepared to focus on the task I was needed for, “I’m on my way.”
The sight of the mangled young men I had attended to still etched across my eyelids: Blood everywhere, torn skin gaping from massive gashes, bones protruding from their encasement, limbs missing. One soldier in particular made me stop dead in my tracks. The top of his back flayed open from shrapnel and his hair in the light almost looked red. I couldn’t breathe. Gasping I turned and ran from the tent needing as much distance and fresh air as possible. Jamie. Instead of the yankee, blonde haired solider on the cot, I saw my Jamie. Not as he was in my minds eye from the last time I saw him, instead as when I first met him, laying face down, passed out from shock and blood loss in a cot on my section of the tent. His back ripped open in crisscrossing patterns from neck to waist and the blood oozing down his sides in steady red rivers. I didn’t know then that he would soon become a friend, and then a hopeful lover. It took myself, one surgeon, and two other nurses four hours to remove all of the shrapnel that had damaged his back while carefully cleansing the wounds and ebbing the flow of his blood. For two weeks I had watched over him while his cuts slowly healed, even with penicillin and ointment the deeper gashes became infected causing him to break out into a frightening fever. He would become conscious for a few minutes at time, just enough for us to get his name, unit and division: Captain James A.M.M. Fraser of the 46th Black Watch, the Royal Highland Regiment. I didn’t know why but it felt like it was my duty to sit with this soldier to make sure he was returned to full health. After my rounds I would sit by his side, tracing his features with my eyes and wondering about the man it belonged to. I’ll never forget the day I was caught admiring his form by none other than Jamie Fraser himself.
It had been two days since his fever had broken, and twelve hours since he last gained consciousness. “He’s going to make it,” I kept telling myself, “I’ll make sure of it.” I studied his face, smooth and relaxed with reddish golden hair curling across his forehead— he almost looked childlike while he slept on, raking my gaze over the gauze covered back to his rounded backside, a nice backside at th— “Are ye going to stare at my arse all night without giving your name or are ye going to introduce yourself?” A deep Scottish burr rumbled. Jumping in my chair and blushing I looked down sheepish at getting caught. “I dinna mean to startle you. It’s just when ye have an angel looking at ye, ye typically want to know their name and if it’s heaven ye’re in.” Looking at his face was the wrong thing to do, his eyes were smiling just as wide as his mouth, only endless pools of deep blue that you could easily get lost in. “Well I don’t know about angel, but my name is Claire Beauch—Randall and you’re currently in a British Army hospital tent in the northern part of France.” “Ah, so that’s why everything hurts. Not heaven, not hell… but close enough.” His tone relaying a little humor, from where I have no idea. Here this man is bloody and beaten and cracking a smile where some of us can hardly manage a lift from a corner of our mouths. “Have you been helping me long? I canna remember how I got here. One minute I was looking at my cousin Rupert, the next searing pain and darkness…” The anguished expression on his face would have made my knees give and buckle had I been standing. Reaching over I laid a hand on his arm in what I hoped would be a silent comfort. “I was here when they brought you in just over two weeks ago on February 15th. What we can tell from your injuries, you were in close proximity to a bomb when it went off. Shrapnel cutting open your back is what caused the pain you’re now experiencing. You gave us quite a scare there for a while.” “Shrapnel huh? And only my back flayed? I seem to have gotten off easy.” His smile faded quickly, “you didn’t have to remove a limb and I didn’t come in missing one, or something did I?” The scared expression that seemed so out of character for him made me bark out a laugh, “No. No limbs or -uh- appendages missing. You’ll have scarring but other than that we see no reason you won’t be back to your normal self in no time.” A sheepish and sleepy smile covered his features and a whispered “Good,” was said before he drifted back off into a deep slumber.
Smiling to myself I remembered how the rest of the time he was there went. Small talk conversations of trivial nonsense and some about the war developed into talks of our families, childhoods, likes and dislikes. He knew about Frank. He saw the ring on my left hand, gold glinting in the light from the lanterns in the tent. When he asked, I told him everything about my relationship with Frank; the ups the downs, how he would write every so many months and we hadn’t seen each other since the war started. Never again did he ask about Frank nor did I feel inclined to bring him up. Together we were plain Claire and Jamie, nothing more nothing less. I can’t say when my affections for him became more than minor friendly attraction to something more carnal and intense. Slowly building over the hours talking, days spent healing one another, weeks with small seemingly innocent touches followed by the reddening of skin in an embarrassed flush. We both were trying to hold back what we were developing. I was married. Taken. No longer able to freely give myself even when I had begun to desperately want to do so. Nearly a month since he had woken and four days since he gained the flexibility to twist without immense pain; A new line was drawn. One, that once it was drawn, would solidify and I would never be able to cross again…
He had healed enough and it was time he rejoined his unit the surgeon who was assigned to his case had told me that morning. My stomach felt as though a lead cannon ball had been dropped into it. The dread overtaking me was all consuming and terrifying. Would I ever see him again? Will this be the last full day I will see him alive? Does he love me as I have….Dear God help me, as I have started to love him? I couldn’t see anything as I walked slowly to the ward where he had been moved. The field camp a blur of cream, brown, and green. I hadn’t noticed I was at the tent where he was until the flap moved and my gentle-hearted and fierce Scot lifted my chin to look him in the eyes. “What’s wrong Sassenach? You look as though you’re walking to your death.” The tears stinging my eyes were not welcomed. I didn’t want to cry not now, not in front of him. Sniffling and trying to keep the tears from spilling over I said, “Doctor McTavish said it’s time for you to return to your regiment. He thinks y-y-you are healed enough t-t-to return to active duty.” What I couldn’t control was the quavering of my voice. My heart is tearing into shreds and he knew it. Pulling me into the comfort of his embrace he smoothed my hair with one hand while the other anchored me to him. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. If that’s what the doctor says then who am I to disobey orders? I’ll be needing you to do something for me while I’m gone ok?” Nodding my head against his chest he continued, “Look at me please Claire, for what I have to tell you I want to look you in the eye to do it.” Bracing myself for the worst I took a deep breath and looked into his ocean blue eyes. “I need you to take care of yourself. You’re out here in the thick of the battle tending to men who need your care, but who is taking care of you? For me, Sassenach, please take care of yourself. Take care of yourself and know that as long as you do, you’re also taking care of me.” “Jamie, what—“ “I love you Sassenach and if you’re safe and whole then I will be too.” Tears streamed more freely down my face as he spoke. He loves me, and I have to give him up. I love him and I have to give him up. Nothing I can do can change the fact he may be killed and nothing I can do can bring him back to me. Before I could say I loved him his lips were on mine, soft and yielding, yet powerful and strong. I never got to say goodbye. He had said he was sorry, kissed my forehead and left. I had stood by the opening of the tent for over ten minutes contemplating what I should do next. My heart was screaming at me to chase after him but my brain said leave him be and that’s what I did.
To this day I regret allowing him to leave without saying I love you “Claire.” Hearing my name whispered so soft it could be mistaken for the wind whistling through the tent flaps. A small smile on my lips imagining that it’s Jamie’s voice I hear calling out to me in the wind. “Claire!” This time my name was said with more force causing my head to turn instinctually. There standing less than a meter away was Jamie.
Outlander is back, so it seems only fitting to do a Scottish themed FRIDAY FASHION FACT! Nothing is more instantly associated with Scotland than a tartan kilt. There are a lot of myths surrounding the history of this national fashion, so lets set the fact straight.
In about the
8th Century BCE, the pre-Celtic Hallstatt culture of central Europe
created a simplistic check-patterned fabric. As the Celtic culture
developed, so did their tartans, and when they spread to Scotland, their
fabrics went with them. The earliest known tartan in Scotland was the
3rd century Falkirk Tartan, a simple gingham-like check pattern which is
still very common today, particularly in menswear. The pattern took
several more centuries to develop into what we now think of as tartan.
It wasn’t until the late 16th Century that the pattern became popular
Many people believe that this is when clan
tartans began. While this is incorrect, it is an understandable mistake.
Towns and villages would have a very limited number of fabric makers,
possibly just one, and these fabric makers would each create their own
distinct tartans. Since families tended to stay in the same area for
generation upon generation, they would wear the same few tartans. It was
more a matter of limited access to different tartans, instead of
“official” clan tartans. Additionally, tartans from the same region
tended to have the same color scheme, due to the natural dyes available
in those regions. Therefore, it was often possible to identify where a
person came from based on the colors of their tartan.
big turning point in the history of tartan was when Scotland and England
officially unified at the beginning of the 18th Century. There was some extremely bad blood between England and Scotland, to say the very least (which, evidenced by the recent
election, still remains to this day), but the tension was amplified by
the fact that Parliament had dethroned the Stuart House, and placed the
Hanover House as monarchs. The Jacobites, who supported the Stuarts,
rebelled repeatedly for decades in an attempt to restore the throne. The
Jacobites and their supporters proudly sported tartan. In an attempt to
squash their cause, the government instated the Dress Act of 1746,
which banned tartan completely, with the exception of the British
Highland Regiments’ uniforms. Eventually, for a variety of reasons, the
Jacobite Rebellions ended, and with the persuasion of the Highland
Society of London, the Dress Act was repealed in 1782.
big turning point for tartan was during the Romantic Era, beginning in
the 1820s. It was dubbed Romantic for a reason, as the poets, novelists,
and artists began romanticizing history. Sir Walter Scott wrote about
the Jacobites, and King George IV visited Scotland, then had his
portrait painted in full Highland Dress. Shortly before this time, in
1815, the Highland Society of London began to put together an official
registration of clan tartans- the start of official clan tartans. Tartan
officially became a craze when in 1848, Queen Victoria purchased
Balmoral Castle. Scottish fashion swept the nation, and the pattern
remains stylish to this day.
As for kilts, to put it very simply,
they began in the 16th Century as a large piece of fabric draped over
the shoulder. It was so long, that soon men began to wrap the long end
around their waist. This was known as a “belted plaid.” It was often in
tartan, but not always. Basically, the kilt was developed and perfected
from there. The pleats were added to make the garment more polished, and
less bulky. So sorry, Braveheart fans, but William Wallace never wore a kilt.
Want to learn more about the history of tartan and kilts? Check out these books:
Scottish National Dress and Tartan, by Stuart Reid
The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Tartan, by Iain Zaczek
a question about fashion history that you want answered in the next
FRIDAY FASHION FACT? Just click the ASK button at the top of the page!
“Thomas Keith (c. 1793 - 1815) was a Scottish soldier, captured in Egypt while fighting for the United Kingdom. As a prisoner of war, he converted to Islam and joined the Ottoman military. He died in 1815 as governor of Medina while fighting the rising power of the Wahhabis.
Born in Edinburgh, Keith enlisted in the 78th (Highlanders) Regiment of Foot on 4 August 1804. He went with the 2nd battalion of the regiment to join John Stuart in the British campaign to Sicily 1806. Soon after, Keith was sent as part of the Alexandria expedition of 1807.
After being captured at Al Hamed near Rosetta on 21 April 1807, Keith and a drummer in his regiment, William Thompson, were purchased by Ahmad Aga (nicknamed Ahmad Bonaparte). During the time the two Scots resolved to convert to Islam and change their names: Keith becoming Ibrahim Aga and Thompson Osman. Keith had a quarrel with one of Ahmad’s Mamluks, ironically a Sicilian. The Sicilian was killed in their duel and the Scot then sought the aid of the wife of Muhammad Ali Pasha, wali of Egypt. She sent Keith to the service of her son Tusun Pasha. In 1811, Keith joined Tusun’s expedition against the Wahhabis of Arabia. After a successful campaign, Keith was made acting governor of Medina in 1815 in Tusun’s absence. He was killed in a Wahhabi ambush later that year.
Thomas Keith is the subject of the novel Blood and Sand (1987) by Rosemary Sutcliff.” From Wikipedia
My friend is writing a book on the subject. Ill post when its done.
The Drums of the Fore and Aft, 1895 by Edward Matthew Hale - print.
The story, written by Rudyard Kipling, concerns an inexperienced Regular battalion on overseas service brigaded with a Highland Regiment and a Gurkha Regiment in Afghanistan. Unlike Kipling’s other tales, it concerns the disgrace of a battle almost lost rather than the glory of a battle won.
The main characters (the “Drums” of the title) are Jakin and Lew, a pair of delinquent drummer boys serving with the Regimental Band. Scrawny Jakin is an orphan, while fat-faced “Piggy” Lew is either a “line boy” (soldier’s son) or a volunteer. They are always getting written up for swearing, drinking, smoking, and fighting (the latter charge just as often against all comers as between themselves) and are disliked by the other drummers. Despite their reputations, they manage to get sent on campaign by personally fast-talking the colonel.
In Afghanistan, the unit has a terrible time adjusting to the climate and the rigors of campaign life. The men are also set on edge by the death of a private by sniper fire. On the day of the battle they take the center position between the Highlanders and the Ghurkhas. Their inexperience causes them to blunder and allows the enemy to close with them in hand-to-hand combat. They break and begin to retreat; the young officers of one company try to rally the men but are left behind to be slaughtered by the advancing Ghazi warriors.
The boys, fortified with drink, try to rally the regiment by playing the tune “British Grenadiers” and marching back and forth before the enemy. Shamed and encouraged by the boys’ bravery, they return to the attack. Before they can be reached, the boys are killed in the first volley of Afghan fire and are slain. The rallied and enraged troops rout the enemy and help win the battle, but are shunned by the rest of the Brigade for their earlier actions.
November 13, 1963: President Kennedy with his wife, Jacqueline, and their two children, watch from the balcony as the Black Watch Royal Highland Regiment perform on the White House lawn. The Kennedy’s invited 1,700 children, from childcare agencies, to see the program.
The Battle of Brier Creek, 1779, showing the 2nd Battalion 71st Highland Regiment ready to lead Britain to a decisive victory over Brigadier-General Ashe’s North Carolinians and Georgians. Art by Graham Turner.