"Wisconsin author John Durand's new book takes readers back to 18th century England and Australia"    
                       by Dave Wood  [November 23, 2004]
   At their worst, historical novels contain shoddy historical research and lots of bodice-ripping and lines like, "A hogshead of your finest claret, Wench!"
   At their best, historical novels blend meticulous research with a well-told story that may or may not include bodice-ripping. When you’ve finished one, you rest in the satisfaction of having learned something as well as having been entertained. In my experience, practitioners of historical writing of this ilk are rare indeed.
   One such practitioner is Wisconsin author John Durand. Last year, he wrote The Taos Massacres, a novel based on an actual rebellion that took place in 19th century New Mexico.
   In his second novel, Durand goes back even further back and away to 18th century England and Australia to give us The Odyssey of Mary B (Puzzlebox Press, Box 765, Elkhorn, WI 53121, $16.95).
   In his introduction author Durand explains that he was inspired to write the new book many years ago after reading Robert’s Hughes’ The Fatal Shore, about how Australia got started as a penal colony.
   Mary B is a poor English girl who is mistakenly charged with theft and sent to Australia, where she has a series of adventures, returns to England to tell her story. Along the way she meets such characters as James Boswell, and of course, men who have evil designs on her. This book is packed with data about the 18th century, including a floor plan of Newgate Prison! Durand also helps the serious reader by including footnotes, which indicate sources and further reading. I haven’t seen much of that since I read Wieland by Charles Brockden Brown, one of America’s first novelists.
   Durand is also steeped in British literature from the period, indicated when he has a character quote an obscure poem by dramatist Oliver Goldsmith as he considers the various opportunities for sin with female prisoners:

When lovely women stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom – is to die.