Posts Tagged ‘historical novels’

One book reviewer described our historical adventure INTO THE AMERICAS (A novel based on a true story)  as being “like a motion picture in words.” Understandable given it’s set in the Pacific Northwest, which must surely be one of the most picturesque places on earth. 

Nootka Sound, Vancouver Island…where this true-life story is set.

 

Into the Americas is a tale of two vastly different cultures – indigenous North American and European civilization – colliding head on. It is also a Romeo and Juliet story set in the wilderness.

The storyline:

It’s 1802. Nineteen year-old English blacksmith John Jewitt is one of only two survivors after his crewmates clash with the fierce Mowachaht tribe in the Pacific Northwest.

John Jewitt…years later.

A life of slavery awaits John and his fellow survivor, a belligerent American sailmaker, in a village ruled by the iron fist of Maquina, the all-powerful chief. Desperate to taste freedom again, they make several doomed escape attempts over mountains and sea. Only their value to the tribe and John’s relationship with Maquina prevents their captors from killing them.

Mowachaht chief Maquina.

As the seasons pass, John ‘goes Indian’ after falling in love with Eu-stochee, a beautiful maiden. This further alienates him from his fellow captive whose defiance leads to violent consequences. In the bloodshed that follows, John discovers another side to himself – a side he never knew existed and a side he detests. His desire to be reunited with the family and friends he left behind returns even stronger than before.

Nootka village where Jewitt was held captive.

The stakes rise when John learns Eu-stochee is pregnant. When a final opportunity to escape arises, he must choose between returning to civilization or staying with Eu-stochee and their newborn son.

Nootka Sound…as it was in the days of the trading ships.

Nootka Sound…in more recent times.

Strait of Georgia, Vancouver Island….a potential escape route for Jewitt.

An older Jewitt…after his escape.

 

Into the Americas (A novel based on a true story)

Into the Americas  is available exclusively via Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Into-Americas-novel-based-story-ebook/dp/B00YJKM51E/

 

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Entries are open now for Goodreads members to win a FREE copy of the (US$24.99) paperback edition of our epic historical adventure White Spirit (A novel based on a true story).

 

White Spirit (A novel based on a true story)

By the authors of Into the Americas.

 

Based on the remarkable true story of Irish convict John Graham, White Spirit  is an epic historical adventure set in 19th Century Australia.

 

GIVEAWAY link: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh…

AMAZON listing: https://www.amazon.com/White-Spirit-n…

WHITE SPIRIT on Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3… 

 

Other novels by Lance & James Morcan:

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Coming soon! SILENT FEAR (A novel inspired by true crimes)

Silent Fear

 

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Our top rating historical adventure WHITE SPIRIT (A novel based on a true story)  has been released as a paperback – available via Amazon, major book distributors and your local library.

 

White Spirit (A novel based on a true story)

Now available as a paperback and ebook.

 

Meanwhile, the Kindle ebook version of White Spirit  continues to attract critical acclaim as these 5-star reviews attest:

“The best way to describe this novel is disturbing, brutal, honest, and unputdownable. It is real, very, very real with fascinating characters at the helm. Very highly recommended! Both men and women will enjoy the story.” –Great Historical Reviews

“Compelling, thought-provoking…a great read!” –Sheri A. Wilkinson

“This was such a captivating story, and it made for a few very enjoyable days of reading. I would definitely recommend it.” –Amazon Australia Top 50 reviewer Todd Simpson

This is Lance and James Morcan’s best work to date. It is up there with Colleen McCullough’s Thorn Birds.” –Author Yvonne Crowe

“One of the best novels I have ever read it kept me enthralled from start to finish I couldn’t put it down “a real fecking page turner” which will have you rooting for the Irishman John Graham.” –Amazon Customer

 

To view the paperback version of White Spirit  go to: https://www.amazon.com/White-Spirit-novel-based-story/dp/0473372266/

 

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Great Historicals

Author and Top 500 Amazon Canada reviewer Mirella Patzer, of Great Historicals’ Historical Fiction Book Reviews, has this to say about our new release novel WHITE SPIRIT:

Lance and James Morcan love to write books about aboriginal peoples of the world. Their novels always intrigue me with their blend of historical fact and fiction. White Spirit is my favorite of all their novels so far.

It is a brutal, no-holds-barred retelling of the true story of Australia’s notorious Moreton Bay Penal and the one prisoner who successfully escaped and eluded capture for decades – a man named Graham.
The story takes from the harsh conditions of the penal settlement to the brutality of the aboriginals and their daily lives. The book is very long – about the length of a trilogy – but I can see why it is important for the tale to be told in one book as opposed to three. The best way to describe this novel is disturbing, brutal, honest, and unputdownable. It is real, very, very real with fascinating characters at the helm. Very highly recommended! Both men and women will enjoy the story.
The entire review can be seen at the Great Historicals blog site at:  http://greathistoricals.blogspot.co.nz/

White Spirit (A novel based on a true story)

 

WHITE SPIRIT (A novel based on a true story)  is exclusive to Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/White-Spirit-novel-based-story-ebook/dp/B01LWIRH9J/

 

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By the mid-1800’s, Fiji has become a melting pot of cannibals, warring native tribes, sailors, traders, prostitutes, escaped convicts and all manner of foreign undesirables. It’s in this hostile environment an innocent young Englishwoman and a worldly American adventurer find themselves in FIJI: A NOVEL (The World Duology, #2).

 

Fiji: A Novel (The World Duology Book 2)

 

Prologue

A Fijian maiden stooped to pick up a shell as she walked along a white sand beach at Momi Bay, on the western side of Fiji’s main island of Viti Levu. Sina had a natural island beauty. Lithe and graceful, her dark skin glistened in the tropical sun. She wore a traditional grass skirt and shawl made from tapa, or bark cloth.

The beach was bordered by a grove of coconut trees and the turquoise waters of the bay. Tropical birds filled the sky—among them Kingfishers that dived into the sea, competing for fish.

At one end of the beach, a distinctive headland protruded out into the Pacific. It accommodated a village whose entrance was marked by defensive fortifications in the form of bamboo palisades. The village was home to the Qopa, the region’s predominant mataqali, or clan.

Out in the bay, Qopa fishermen speared fish and cast nets from their canoes. Beyond them, foaming surf marked the reef that ringed much of Viti Levu. The constant sound of waves crashing against the reef was like the boom of distant thunder.

Several miles beyond the reef, a ship sailed by, her sails billowing as she was pushed along ahead of a light southerly. Sina and the other villagers paid scant attention to the vessel: they’d become used to the comings and goings of the white man’s ships.

The maiden noticed the shadows were lengthening. It was time to think about returning to the village. She smiled as squealing village children playing at the water’s edge splashed one another, white teeth sparkling against their black skin. Like all Fijian children, they seemed to wear permanent smiles.

Sina stopped to pick up another shell, dropping it into a woven flax bag hanging from her shoulder. Humming a traditional lullaby to herself, she was unaware a tall, muscular warrior was watching her impassively from the shadows of the coconut grove. Standing motionless, the sinister warrior held a musket in one hand. Only his coal-black eyes moved—his heavily tattooed, battle-scarred face adding to his air of silent menace.

This was Rambuka, also known as the Outcast, the charismatic leader of a tribe of cannibals feared by villagers up and down the coast. Rambuka’s eyes subconsciously widened as he studied Sina. He liked what he saw. Finally, he moved, gliding soundlessly among the palm trees like a spirit as he stalked his prey.

Still singing, Sina bent down to study an unusual shell. A sudden movement to her left caught her eye and she looked up to see Rambuka rushing toward her, musket in hand. She recognized him immediately. Screaming, she turned to flee, but had barely taken a step before her assailant was onto her, dragging her back to the trees. Startled by her screams, the children ran toward the village, shouting.

Terrified, Sina lashed out and twisted around, trying to bite her attacker. Rambuka slapped her hard, momentarily stunning her. Everything started spinning and Sina felt as if she might faint. Effortlessly hoisting her over his shoulder, the Outcast began running inland.

Behind them, Qopa warriors came running from the nearby village, alerted by the children’s screams. Most carried clubs or spears, while some had tomahawks they’d acquired from white traders. Nearly all were tattooed about the arms, legs and torso. The warriors were led by Joeli, son of the village ratu, or chief.

A big, powerful man, Joeli’s proud bearing and intelligent eyes were clues to his royal bloodlines. Bone earrings hung from his ears and a huge, intricately-carved, whale bone club dangled from a cord around his waist, a dozen human teeth inlaid around its head testament to how many men he’d killed in battle. Most striking, however, was his massive hairstyle. Nearly two feet high and even wider across, it was dyed blue with yellow stripes through it. Earlier treatment with burnt lime juice would ensure it remained stiffened in place for a few more days at least.

Some of Joeli’s warriors wore equally flamboyant hairstyles—many dyed a bright color and some even multi-colored; several sported hairstyles of a geometric shape while the orange-dyed hair atop one proud warrior was all of six feet in circumference. Such weird and wonderful styles could be seen on men throughout Fiji and were worn as a symbol of masculinity and social standing.

The frightened children all talked at once and pointed down the beach. Joeli led his warriors to the spot the children had indicated and there two sets of tracks were immediately visible in the sand. He turned, grim-faced, to his warriors. “It could only be the Outcast,” he decreed.

A fine-looking young warrior with a distinctive birthmark on his forehead and a zany, geometric hairstyle asked, “Who has he taken?” This was Waisale, a close friend of Joeli’s.

Joeli looked down, avoiding his friend’s eyes. He suspected that Rambuka had abducted Sina, but didn’t want to say as much until it was confirmed. It was common knowledge Waisale and Sina were lovers.

A sense of foreboding suddenly came over Waisale as he studied the footprints that Rambuka and his captive had left behind. “Sina!” he murmured. Without another word, Waisale sprinted into the coconut grove, following the tracks into the dense rainforest beyond. The others ran hard on his heels.

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Dusk was approaching and Sina was near exhaustion when the Outcast finally stopped running, allowing her to briefly rest and drink from a shallow stream. Their flight had taken them into the forest-covered hills above Momi Bay.

Scratches and bruises covered Sina’s face and body, and she winced as she splashed water over her face. Aware of Rambuka’s reputation and knowing what fate awaited her, she looked frantically around, her mind racing, desperate to find a way out of her predicament.

Rambuka grabbed her by the arm. Sina shrank back, expecting to be raped. Instead, she was dragged into the water. Her heart sank as the Outcast began pulling her along upstream, leaving no tracks for anyone to follow. The realization was setting in that Rambuka wasn’t merely intending to rape her—he was abducting her. Her skin crawled at the thought.

A quarter of a mile behind, Joeli and his warriors followed their quarries’ tracks. With night approaching, they knew they were running out of time. Waisale led the chase, desperate to save Sina. However, as Rambuka had intended, the tracks ended at the stream. In the fading light, Waisale ran up and down the bank, frustrated at the dearth of signs to follow.

Joeli shook his head. “The Outcast is taking her to the Land of Red Rain,” he said simply. His tone suggested the dye was cast; there was no saving Sina now. Joeli and the others reluctantly turned and began retracing their steps back to the village.

Waisale stayed behind, looking east toward the highlands of the interior. He knew the land Joeli had referred to lay beyond those same highlands. Exactly where the outcasts were hiding wasn’t known. They moved around constantly, using various hideouts. Many a raiding party had set out from Momi Bay to try to find their enemies in the past, but the land was rugged and the outcasts hid their tracks well.

Pain and anger rose up like bile in Waisale’s throat. He vowed he’d go to the Land of Red Rain and rescue Sina.

 

Product Details

 

FIJI: A NOVEL (The World Duology, #2)  is exclusive to Amazon and is available as a paperback and Kindle ebook: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0057YCZM0/

 

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Authors’ note:

Much of this novel was directly inspired by the diary entries of young English seaman John Jewitt during his time aboard the brig The Boston and also during his sojourn at Nootka Sound, on North America’s western seaboard, from 1802 to 1805.

 

Into the Americas (A novel based on a true story)

A novel based on a true story.

 

“Many paddles, one canoe” –First Nations saying

 

Prologue

In the skies above North America’s west coast, amongst the clouds, a bald eagle glided in lazy circles. With her magnificent white head and tail feathers, and her six-foot wingspan, she was the queen of her domain as she made use of the thermals that rose from the unseen terrain below.

The clouds parted to reveal a village – one of many populated by the indigenous people of the remote Northwest Pacific region. Nootka village was bordered by rugged, forest-covered hills which rose up out of the sea. Comprised of twenty or so large, wooden lodges, it was home to the Mowachaht tribe, one of the twenty-five Nuu-chah-nulth indigenous groups that occupied the region’s craggy coastline. A two-masted schooner lay at anchor offshore, safe for the moment in an inlet with the unlikely name of Friendly Cove.

Distance was no problem for the eagle whose sharp eyesight could distinguish any object from another, even if those objects were little bigger than a pinhead. Right now, her eyes were focused on a Chinook salmon swimming between the schooner and shore. The eagle flattened her wings and dove head first, extending her wings moments before she struck the water. Talons extended and now in a shallow dive, the eagle grasped the salmon and, with a few mighty beats of her wings, rose sluggishly skyward with her catch.

The eagle’s labored flight took her directly over the village. If any of the villagers had been waiting for her, with bow or musket primed, they’d have shot her down easily for she was as yet barely higher than the colorful totem poles that lined the shore. Fortunately for her, eagles were sacred to these people and so they ruled the skies with impunity.

A trade was going down with a dozen crewmen from the schooner. Unkempt and ill disciplined, the crewmen were typical of the freebooters who visited these shores in increasing numbers. They carried with them an assortment of weapons and were clearly no strangers to violence.

Armed Mowachaht warriors, ever-mindful of bad experiences they’d had with other European traders, kept a wary eye on the visitors. Most were armed with muskets, some carried blunderbusses and a few bore traditional weapons, including clubs, spears and tomahawks.

The traders had come to exchange muskets for sea-otter pelts. Much sought-after, the beautiful pelts fetched a princely sum in the civilized world – especially in London and in Macau, China. Consequently, Nootka village and the sound named after it was an increasingly popular port of call for traders intent on filling their ships’ holds with the bounty of the New World.

Most of Nootka’s fifteen hundred residents were present to observe the trade, which was being conducted on a sandy beach in front of the village. Trading, especially with visiting Europeans, was a highlight of their short, hard lives. More so after the long winter months – as was the case on this pleasant spring day.

Among the Mowachahts, the common or untitled people wore sealskin and coarse cedar bark clothing, which afforded protection from the constant rain in these parts. The chiefs and men and women of high ranking wore animal skins and colorful capes or, in rare cases, the pelt of the sea-otter.

Headmen invariably wore the striking black sea otter pelt. It extended to the knees and was fastened around the waist by a wide band of colorful, woven cedar bark. The warriors wore square-cut, yellow mantles with holes cut for the arms – similar to those worn by the commoners except theirs were dyed red and were more basic.

Absent from the trading activities were the Mowachahts’ slaves. Acquired in raids on neighboring tribes, the slaves were readily identifiable as such as they collected firewood and performed other menial tasks in and around the village. Though they spoke the same Wakashan language as their Mowachaht masters, their appearance was quite different: each bore the physical characteristics of his or her tribe. Some were lighter skinned, others darker; some were tall and slender, others short and stocky; some male slaves were bald or wore their hair short, others wore their hair in long ringlets; most wore raggedy sealskin clothing while some were near-naked. Their number included almost as many females as males – the former more often than not serving as sex slaves as well as manual workers.

Above the beach, the Mowachahts’ lodges extended to the tree line. They were a sprawling collection of wooden dwellings, the remnants of a Spanish trading outpost vacated some years earlier. Smoke from cooking fires curled up into the sky from strategically placed openings in the lodges’ roofs.

The totem poles – some even taller than the surrounding fir trees – towered over the lodges.

On the beach, there was an air of tension as the schooner’s master, Captain Alvin Walsh, an abrasive New Yorker with a well deserved reputation for dishonest trades, bargained with a group of headmen. Foremost among the latter was Maquina, chief of the Mowachahts. Tall, bronze and muscular, the middle-aged Maquina cut an impressive figure in his ceremonial cloak. Feathers protruded from his long, black hair, which he wore as a bun on top of his head. Like all the headmen, white down covered his head and shoulders, conveying the impression of falling snow.

Captain Walsh’s steely gaze was fixed on the bundles of pelts that lay at his feet while Maquina’s hawk-like eyes were fixed on a dozen new muskets stacked end-to-end in an open casket. The casket lay on top of five identical unopened caskets.

Hard-nosed bartering had begun soon after the traders had stepped ashore earlier in the day and, to both parties, it seemed a successful trade was no closer. Tempers were becoming frayed.

Maquina pointed at the caskets and, in broken English, said, “Maquina say…five pelts…one musket.”

Walsh shook his head. “One musket…ten pelts.” He appeared ready to depart, a shrewd strategy he’d fine-tuned years earlier when trading watered-down whisky to the East Coast tribes.

The chief quickly nodded to his opposite, indicating they had a deal. Walsh gestured to his men who immediately began scooping up bundles of pelts.

Maquina intervened. “Try musket first,” he said.

Walsh cursed under his breath as he motioned to his men to hold off for the moment. He then selected a musket from the open casket and handed it to Maquina. The shrewd chief ignored the offering and selected another musket. He expertly primed it and fired it into the air. The shot echoed throughout Nootka Sound. Still suspicious, Maquina broke open another casket. He tested a second musket with the same result. Satisfied, he made the faintest of hand gestures to his warriors who immediately uplifted the caskets and carried them away.

A relieved Walsh motioned to his men to resume gathering up the pelts. Under Maquina’s penetrating gaze, the captain appeared tense and he exhorted his men to hurry.

There was good reason for Maquina’s suspicion. The Mowachahts – like all members of the wider Nuu-chah-nulth community – had been short-changed, and worse, by European traders. As the number of visiting trading vessels increased, so too had the number of unsavory incidents. The indiscriminate shooting of villagers by drunk or disgruntled traders was becoming almost commonplace and the rape and mistreatment of women even more so.

And so it was with some malevolence that Maquina and his people observed these latest traders as they ferried their trade items back to the waiting ship.

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Early next morning, Maquina led a six-strong hunting party into the hills behind Nootka village. His five companions included Peshwar, a forbidding headman whose reputation as a fearsome warrior rivalled that of the chief and extended far beyond the borders of the Mowachahts’ territory. All six hunters carried shiny, new muskets acquired in the previous day’s trade, and they were keen to put them to good use.

Ahead of them, in dense forest, an elk grazed. Something spooked him. He wasn’t sure what – a scent or a sound perhaps – and he took off.

Soon after, Maquina spotted the elk’s tracks and knelt down to study them. He then led his fellow hunters deeper into the trees at a fast trot.

Elsewhere in the forest, the same elk burst into a clearing, disturbing a twelve-strong war party of Haachaht warriors, traditional enemies of the Mowachahts. They carried bows, tomahawks and other traditional weapons, and wore the grotesque wolf’s brow mask associated with their tribe.

The Haachahts’ chief, Callicum, a stocky man who wore a large nose-ring, stared into the surrounding trees. He flashed a hand signal at his warriors and they quickly dispersed. Now hidden from sight, they could hear the Mowachaht hunters moving through the undergrowth in pursuit of the elk.

Reaching the forest clearing, the Mowachahts stopped to study their quarry’s tracks. Maquina’s eyes were drawn to an eagle circling high above. He stared at the bird for a few seconds before returning his gaze to the trees. Sensing danger, he primed his musket. His fellow hunters followed suite.

A Haachaht bowman stepped out from behind a tree and aimed an arrow directly at Maquina. The bowman held his bow horizontal, in the manner of the indigenous people of the west coast. Maquina dropped to one knee and swung his musket up just as the bowman loosed his arrow. The arrow lodged in the throat of a tall Mowachaht standing directly behind Maquina. Mortally wounded, the warrior collapsed, choking on his own blood. Maquina killed the bowman with one well placed shot.

Haachaht war cries rang out as Callicum led his warriors out from the trees. Another arrow found its mark, killing a young Mowachaht. Reduced to four, the remaining Mowachahts fought like men possessed.

Two Haachahts closed in on Peshwar. He aimed his musket at the nearest of the two. A hollow click signalled it had malfunctioned. Cursing, Peshwar threw his musket aside and drew his tomahawk. “Peshak!” he swore as he grappled with his enemies. With two mighty swings of his tomahawk, the two Haachahts lay dead at his feet, their heads almost severed from their bodies.

As the fight escalated, a short Mowachaht aimed his musket at a burly Haachaht who rushed him, club in hand. His musket also misfired and he was clubbed to the ground. The Haachaht finished him off before he was felled by a musket shot.

Nearby, Maquina found himself fighting alongside Peshwar. “The muskets are faulty!” Maquina shouted.

Peshwar nodded. “The White-Faces have deceived us!”

The chief found himself face-to-face with Callicum who charged him with a tomahawk in each hand. Maquina raised his musket and pulled the trigger. This time his weapon misfired. Before he could reload, the Haachaht chief was onto him. Maquina was forced to back-peddle and use his musket to block his attacker’s blows. Peshwar came to his aid, wounding Callicum with his own tomahawk.

Seeing their chief in trouble, the other Haachahts seemed unsure what to do next.

Maquina and Peshwar took advantage of their enemies’ indecision and fled, dragging with them the other surviving hunter.

As they made good their escape, Maquina was consumed by the anger he felt toward the European traders. Yet again his people had fallen foul of the traders’ unscrupulous ways. On this occasion, faulty muskets had contributed to the deaths of three of his finest warriors.

 

INTO THE AMERICAS (A novel based on a true story)  is available as a paperback and Kindle ebook exclusively via Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Into-Americas-novel-based-story-ebook/dp/B00YJKM51E/

 

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In our new release historical adventure novel White Spirit, convicts who escape from the notorious Moreton Bay penal settlement, on Australia’s east coast, risk death in the form of hunger, thirst, heat-stroke, snake-bite or sheer exhaustion. If by some chance they survive all that, they must elude Barega, an Aboriginal tracker employed by the British Army.

We introduce Barega early in the novel. He’s a tracker without peer – and he’s a born killer if ever there was.

Here’s an excerpt from White Spirit:

A wiry Aboriginal tracker ran fast through the undergrowth, following tracks only he could see. He carried a spear in one hand and a nulla nulla, or club, in the other. Wearing only a loincloth, he covered the ground with effortless ease, his bare feet hardly touching the sun-baked earth.

This was Barega, one of the last surviving members of the mysterious Joondaburri, a tribe whose menfolk were renowned up and down Australia’s east coast for their superior tracking abilities. In the language of his people, his name meant the Wind, which was appropriate for he ran like the wind. To the British soldiers who employed him, he was simply known as the Tracker.

Although only average height, Barega’s legs were out of proportion in that they were unusually long in relation to his torso – a fact that gave him a distinct advantage in his chosen occupation. Few men, black or white, could match him for speed in a cross-country foot race, and, like others of his tribe, he could run all day long, seemingly without tiring or succumbing to the relentless heat.

The tracks he followed were those of three convicts who had escaped custody earlier that morning. They were heading west, away from the coast and away from Moreton Bay – the site of Britain’s newest penal colony and home to two hundred or so convicts and soldiers. The route was leading deeper into the tropical rainforest that hugged this part of the coast. It became progressively steeper as the hills gave way to mountains.

Barega was accompanied by three soldiers who followed him on horseback. He glanced back at them from time to time to ensure they remained in contact. Though their horses were doing most of the work, it was clear to him the men were having a hard time of it in the heat. They stopped every so often to drink from their water bottles.

Leading the way was Lieutenant Desmond Hogan, a dashing Englishman who was a career soldier through and through. Hogan’s ambition to succeed in his chosen career was hinted at by his senior ranking, which was an achievement in itself for one so young. He was only twenty-six. His rapid rise up the ranks had undoubtedly been influenced by the fact that his father and his father’s father had both been high ranking army officers, and he was candid enough to acknowledge that, but that didn’t change the fact he was a man of some ability whose promotion had largely been based on merit.

Hogan caught Barega’s eye. “How close, Tracker?” he asked.

Pulling up, the tracker pointed at the sun, which at that moment was to the northeast, and then he pointed dead north. “Soon, Mister,” he said by way of explanation, though no explanation was necessary.

The young lieutenant had used Barega so often he could readily understand the other’s hand signals. On this occasion, the tracker had indicated they’d catch up to their quarry by mid-day when the sun would be where he’d indicated – dead north. By Hogan’s reckoning, that would be in an hour’s time give or take. He glanced around at his two men. “Another hour should do it,” he said.

 

WHITE SPIRIT (A novel based on a true story)  is exclusive to Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/White-Spirit-novel-based-story-ebook/dp/B01LWIRH9J/

 

White Spirit (A novel based on a true story)

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