The first thing I learned since then is that it takes me some 3,300 hours, or the better part of two years, to research and write a 300-page book. This means that the first person my budding story has to interest is me. The second is NIP’s acquisition editor, once Tom Cutler and now Gary Thompson.
A second lesson learned is that I must establish very early in this long process that the story is, in fact, not fiction. I spent three months researching one report (or incident), the disappearance of the lightship Cross Rip (LV-6) off her station in Nantucket Sound with all hands on board during the paralyzing freeze-up of 1918, which turned out not to be true. The Cross Rip’s septuagenarian first mate, Henry Joy, purportedly left his ship—caught that February in pack ice and shoved past the Nantucket Light out to sea—and walked ashore seven miles (seven!) over the floes to ask Keeper William Grieder for permission to abandon ship. Permission denied, Joy headed nobly and numbly back to his ship; neither he, others of the crew (the Cross Rip’s captain was on leave ashore), nor their ship were ever seen again.
A great story: the era of lightships was a fascinating one; the infamous 1918 freeze-up amounted to a one-year ice age across the American Midwest and New England; shipwrecks and mysterious disappearances are always interesting, and better yet, old man Joy’s (he was my age today) dangerous trek across the ice gave the story an emotional focal point. But the first mate’s trial seems to have been wholly made up by newspapermen on the Cape looking to lend the Cross Rip’s mysterious disappearance some special interest. No government investigations or anything anywhere else substantiated it.
Another lesson has to do with sources. Unlike political speeches, written history needs facts—events that really happened—at its core. Not only facts, interpretation and speculation are fine in their place, but more than imagination or pure conjecture is required. Sources, both primary and secondary, provide this essential foundation.
Not long ago I thought about writing a book on the American Protective League, a self-described "vast, silent volunteer army" whose quarter-million civilians nosed freely about the United States on a mission to unearth draft dodgers of the Great War. Its eager operatives hoped and believed they would expose the German Kaiser’s spies and sympathizers who, they felt, were surely concealed among millions of disloyal German- and Austrian-Americans in the country.
Primary research materials, in the archives of the Departments of Justice and the Treasury among others, are rich. Secondary sources on the APL are also good, among them many period newspapers and much periodical reporting that provides special insights. Several books, including Emerson Hough’s The Web, a Revelation of Patriotism (Chicago: the Riley & Lee Company, 1919), the APL’s "authorized history," Prof. Joan Jensen’s The Price of Vigilance (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1968), and recently (perhaps too recently) Bill Mills’ The League (New York: Skyhorse Publishing, 2013) are available, too.
The history of the APL is interesting in its own right, but that history becomes fascinating when viewed as the distant roots of American anxiety today about homeland security and the xenophobia that together lie at the core of the 2016 presidential campaign. I hope to have time to describe this story someday.
Embassy to the Eastern Courts, America’s Secret First Pivot Toward Asia 1832‒37, my most recent NIP book, is the true story of two bold and curious diplomatic missions sent around the world by President Andrew Jackson. These missions represented America’s first attempts at regularizing trade with colorful empires in Araby and Asia. It’s the story, as well, of a once-tiny, two-ship squadron that during the next century grew into history’s most powerful fleet. Happily, the adventures I describe—exhausting months afloat followed by exotic port calls, crews swept by epidemic disease, a shipwrecked crew tormented by pirates, frustrating negotiations (some successful, some not) between proud people, and more—are all true, as fully documented in excellent sources at the National Archives, the Library of Congress, on the Web, and in libraries abroad.
The Tennessee, subject of an upcoming Naval Institute Press book by Andrew Jampoler, is shown here soon after commissioning in her "Great White Fleet" paint scheme. (Naval History and Heritage Command)
With Embassy behind me (but I hope in front of you), my next NIP book will relate the story of the handsome armored cruiser USS Tennessee (ACR-10) and her fascinating mission to Europe in 1914‒15 during the first months of World War I. Back home, in May 1916, the Tennessee was rechristened Memphis, freeing the state’s name for a planned new battleship. At anchor in shallow water off Santo Domingo during the balmy afternoon of August 29, 1916, the Memphis failed to get steam up in time to escape a series of huge waves that pushed her ashore, destroying the ship. Nearly 250 of her crew were killed or injured in the disaster. The origin of those waves is a mystery still.
To learn more about Andrew Jampoler and his forthcoming book talks, check his website. Jampoler’s January speaking engagements, which are open to the public, follow.