Thursday, 13 October 2022

✧ Book Excerpt ✧ JULIA PRIMA by Alison Morton #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @alison_morton @cathiedunn

 



JULIA PRIMA
By Alison Morton

“You should have trusted me. You should have given me a choice.”

AD 370, Roman frontier province of Noricum. Neither wholly married nor wholly divorced, Julia Bacausa is trapped in the power struggle between the Christian church and her pagan ruler father. 

Tribune Lucius Apulius’s career is blighted by his determination to stay faithful to the Roman gods in a Christian empire. Stripped of his command in Britannia, he’s demoted to the backwater of Noricum – and encounters Julia.

Unwittingly, he takes her for a whore. When confronted by who she is, he is overcome with remorse and fear. Despite this disaster, Julia and Lucius are drawn to one another by an irresistible attraction.

But their intensifying bond is broken when Lucius is banished to Rome. Distraught, Julia gambles everything to join him. But a vengeful presence from the past overshadows her perilous journey. Following her heart’s desire brings danger she could never have envisaged…


✧ Excerpt ✧

A week later, Father and I received an invitation from Lucius Apulius to be his guests at his unit’s games. I wasn’t at all sure we should go. When Lucius found out the truth about how I was only half divorced – and some busybody would delight in telling him all the details – he might distance himself. He wouldn’t care about the Christian annulment, but without it, even if we married purely under Roman law, I could imagine the damage we would inflict on Father’s position. 
To Hades with them all. I wrote back accepting Lucius’s invitation.
The old amphitheatre up on the hill had closed over fifty years ago for gladiatorial games. Constantine had been persuaded that the altars and reliefs dedicated to Nemesis and the sacred nature of the games were too pagan. More importantly, Rome had stopped payment for its upkeep and refurbishment. Father sent a mason there to make essential repairs now and again. Nevertheless, weeds grew at the base of the balteus, the balustrade running round the edge. 
The entrance to porta libitinensis, the death door where the dead animals, criminals and gladiators had been dispatched, was now blocked up at the end. I’d walked round there once and ventured a few steps inside the arch, shivering in the chill of the old stone and brickwork moist and green with mould. Several somethings had flapped wings slowly and loudly and the noise bounced from one wall to the next. I was convinced Libitina, the goddess of death, corpses and funerals was still present. I’d hurried out back into the sunshine.
Today, Lucius Apulius greeted us and accompanied us to seats at the other end, the porta sanavivaria through which gladiators and animals used to enter ready for battle. If they were lucky enough to survive the content, they’d exited through the same doorway. At least these days I wasn’t relegated to the back as my ancestresses had been. Whatever the changes going on now compared to the golden days of Rome hundreds of years ago, there were sometimes advantages to living in modern times.
Lucius’s slave wore a sullen expression and stood to one side with an armful of additional cushions as we settled. 
‘Take no notice of Ascus – he’s always this cheerful.’ But he beckoned to the slave who then dropped his load into the stone seats. Lucius instructed him to find himself a perch at the back, then took my hand and guided me to my seat. His grip was sure, but not intimate, but I still felt flustered. Then I glanced along the curve of the front row and spotted my ex-husband with his uncle.
‘Please don’t be concerned,’ Lucius said. ‘Opsius felt as senior officer he was obliged to invite Bishop Eligius and, of course, the nephew, but I made sure we’d be sitting apart from them as far away as we could.’
‘I just ignore him when I can,’ my father said gruffly. ‘Best way. I’m surprised he accepted, though.’
‘So was Opsius, sir. But as you can see, there’s a fair crowd here.’ He swung his arm round to indicate the hundreds of spectators.
‘Well, I suppose the politician in Eligius wouldn’t miss a chance to show that he’s omnipresent like their god. We don’t get many free public events these days, young man, so people are taking advantage of it. So are the pie hawkers.’ He raised an eyebrow at the men walking up and down the steps at the ends of the rows and sporting trays of oily pastries and shouting out the virtues of their delicacies. ‘In truth, we haven’t seen troops here in any numbers for decades, so it’s a novelty.’ He snorted. ‘No doubt there’ll be a few Alamanni spies taking notice of any tactics.’
‘I’ve told my men to look out for any suspicious characters, sir.’
‘The Alamanni don’t look that different from us these days, Lucius,’ Father replied. ‘We underestimate them at our peril.’
Apulius shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable at that thought and turned to talk to me. 
‘If you look carefully, you can still see Nemesis’s sanctuary at the eastern apex,’ he said, pointing to the crumbling altar and faded reliefs. ‘Closed now, of course.’
‘The old gods are important to you, aren’t they, Lucius?’ I searched his face.
‘I couldn’t be a Roman without them.’
‘But what does it mean to be Roman now?’ I gestured at the men warming up with practice fights below in the sand, at the audience in a mixture of cloaks and ornate robes in the front rows, then at those sitting further back on the curved benches, a good proportion of them tribespeople in native dress and with long hair.
Lucius shrugged.
‘We’re living in times of transition,’ he said. ‘Even Roman troops wear breeches and consist of mixed native levies including a sprinkling of Goths.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘But the Noricans in my unit are tough and loyal-hearted.’ He glanced up at the hills beyond the amphitheatre. ‘Maybe it’s the pure air that makes them so strong and all the clambering up and down mountains,’ he said chuckling, then became solemn. ‘It’s a good country, one where any man would be content to settle. I certainly would.’ He gave me such a warm look that I had to turn away. At that moment, I was certain that he was serious about wanting to stay and live with me here as my husband. I wished with all my heart and soul it could be so. But it was impossible. I blinked back a tear.

✧ Purchase Link ✧

Alison Morton 


Alison Morton writes award-winning thrillers featuring tough but compassionate heroines. Her nine-book Roma Nova series is set in an imaginary European country where a remnant of the ancient Roman Empire has survived into the 21st century and is ruled by women who face conspiracy, revolution and heartache but with a sharp line in dialogue. 

She blends her fascination for Ancient Rome with six years’ military service and a life of reading crime, historical and thriller fiction. On the way, she collected a BA in modern languages and an MA in history.  

Alison now lives in Poitou in France, the home of Mélisende, the heroine of her latest two contemporary thrillers, Double Identity and Double Pursuit. Oh, and she’s writing the next Roma Nova story.

Social media links:

Tour Schedule





Thursday, 6 October 2022

✧ Book Excerpt ✧ Fortunate Son by Thomas Tibor #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @thomastibor57 @maryanneyarde @cathiedunn




Fortunate Son
By Thomas Tibor

A powerful, evocative novel that transports the reader to a tense period in America, Fortunate Son is set on a southern college campus during the turbulent spring of 1970. Reed Lawson, an ROTC cadet, struggles with the absence of his father, a Navy pilot who has been Missing in Action in Vietnam for three years.
While volunteering at a drug crisis center, Reed sets out to win the heart of a feminist co-worker who is grappling with a painful past, and to rescue a troubled teenage girl from self-destruction. In the process, he is forced to confront trauma’s tragic consequences and the fragile, tangled web of human connections.

Trigger warnings:
One aspect of this story dramatizes instances of self-harm and makes references to suicide.

✧ Excerpt ✧

“Sorry I’m late,” Reed said as Annabel jumped into the Mustang. “How was your weekend?”

“Forget my weekend. Why’d you have to blab about me? Now they think I’m a wacko!”

“I’m sure they don’t. You’re dealing with heavy stuff right now and need some help, that’s all.”

“Forget that shit. Mom dragged me to a doctor last year. He laid some crap on me about having an anxiety disorder. Gave me a bunch of Librium, which just made me sick.”

Flipping down the sun visor, she inspected the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Dammit, forgot the concealer—I’ll look like a corpse all day.”

Reed tried to change the subject. “By the way, have you written any poetry lately?”

“Fuck no. Gonna burn all my notebooks.”

“What! You can’t do that.”

“Who says? Not like anyone’s gonna read that garbage anyway.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t just get rid of creative stuff like that. Besides, it’s really good.”

“Says only you.”

“I don’t get it. I thought you wanted to go to college and become a writer.”
“Another stupid pipe dream.”

Clearly, nothing else he could say was going to make a difference.

—

That same day—Monday, May 4—Ohio National Guard troops were summoned to restore order at Kent State University. In the confrontation with protesters that ensued, Guardsmen opened fire, killing two students and two bystanders. Nine others were wounded. News of the Kent State killings quickly spread nationwide.

In the crowded TV room, Reed and Adam fixated on the evening broadcast—Guardsmen firing, students screaming. And a photo of a young woman pleading for help, kneeling next to a guy lying on the pavement, his head in a puddle of blood.

Adam raised his voice above the angry clamor. “I guess American citizens are now no safer than the Vietnamese we’re killing.”

—

The next morning after drill, Reed stood in the ROTC parking lot and spread the newspaper across the Mustang’s hood. According to the front-page article, the Guardsmen had lobbed tear gas at protesters in attempts to break up the rally. Some protesters threw the smoking canisters—along with stones—back at the Guardsmen, who retreated, except for twenty-eight, who suddenly turned and fired into the unarmed crowd. Over sixty rounds in thirteen seconds.

As he finished the article, students slowed and leaned out of passing cars to jeer.

“Fuck you, ROTC!”

“Fascist pig!”

Reed stiffened but didn’t bother to respond, then walked into class.

Captain Harwood joined the class that day to discuss the killings. He began by reading excerpts from articles: “According to the Ohio National Guard, the Guardsmen had been forced to shoot after a sniper opened fire against the troops from a nearby rooftop. Others claimed there was no sniper fire . . . the brigadier general commanding the troops admitted students had not been warned that soldiers might fire live rounds . . . a Guardsman always has the option to fire if his life is in danger.”

The captain scanned the room. “So, what do you all think?”

“Seems to me, sir,” a cadet responded, “it was self-defense.”

Reed raised his hand. “Sir, why couldn’t they have just fired warning shots?”

Harwood was about to speak when he was interrupted by shouting from protesters outside: “Down with ROTC!” “ROTC off campus!” “Burn it down!”

He pressed on. “Once weapons are loaded, Guardsmen have a license to fire. These guys were inexperienced, afraid, and poorly trained.”

As another cadet raised his hand, bricks crashed against the classroom windows, cracking a few panes.

Reed dove to the floor and crouched under his desk. Son of a bitch! 

More bricks, glass breaking, and chanting continued until Harwood was able to shepherd the cadets into the hallway amid pounding on the front door.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Campus police soon arrived to clear the front lawn and sidewalk, cordon off the area, and direct the cadets outside.

Reed escaped to his Mustang. It was all too freaking crazy. He drove across the lot, but protesters blocked the exit. Gunning his engine, he envisioned knocking the assholes down like bowling pins. Moments later, the police cleared his path and motioned him through.

Back at the dorm, he ripped off his uniform and rummaged for a clean pair of Levi’s. Adam sat at his desk, furiously scribbling notes.

“Don’t you have class?”

“Walked out,” Adam said.

“Why?”

“Because of what my fascist teacher wrote on the blackboard: Lesson for the Week—He who stands in front of soldiers with rifles should not throw stones.”

“Harsh.”

“Screw it. I’m not going back.”

“Wait a minute. What about finals next week?”

Adam shoved his notebook aside and stepped toward the door. “Who gives a shit? It’s like that saying, To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men. At some point in life, you gotta take a stand.”

—

In Political Philosophy class, Reed’s professor was drowned out by shouting from the hallway. “Strike, strike, strike!” 

Several students burst into the classroom.

“They murdered four people!” a girl cried. “How can you sit there like nothing’s going on? Strike!”

“Get lost. We’re trying to study!” a guy yelled.

“They were students, just like you and me!”

As Reed tried to focus, more protesters interrupted the class. Several kids got up and walked out.

The professor stopped writing on the blackboard. “All right, who else wants to leave? If you do, please do so now.”

Should he stay or go? Of course, the killing of the students at Kent State was horrible. Jeffrey Miller wasn’t an activist, just a concerned kid. Sandy Scheuer had been walking to speech therapy class, paying no attention to the surrounding chaos. Allison Krause had put a flower in a Guardsman’s rifle on Sunday. On Monday, she was dead. William Schroeder, age twenty, was in ROTC. Just like me.

Adam’s quote echoed in his head: To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men. Yet what was a strike actually supposed to accomplish?

Reed surrendered to inertia and stayed in class.

Afterward, he drove to the 7-Eleven, yet found no respite from the mayhem. When he walked out, a tearful woman about his mother’s age, wearing a peasant dress, leaned against the Mustang holding a sign: 48,700 Dead Soldiers. Four Dead Students. America—What Are We Doing to Our Children?

Back on campus, a guy shoved a leaflet into his hand: Strike to End the War. Strike to Take Power. Strike to Smash Corporations. Strike to Set Yourself Free!

Reed crumpled and tossed it. Strike for whose power? Smash which corporations? Set yourself free from what exactly?

At Annabel’s high school, tensions ran nearly as high. Kids had commandeered the sidewalk. White-helmeted police officers lined the curb, clenching batons and shielding protesters from passing cars.

“Can you believe it?” Annabel said. “One minute you’re waving some sign, the next minute you’re dead.”

On the way to Jordan’s, traffic was stalled by hundreds of protesters spilling across the road in front of the university’s administration building. When Reed tried to make a U-turn, the police signaled him toward a side street.

Annabel poked her head out the window. “Come on. Let’s park and see what’s going on.”
They walked to the administration building, where a school official stood blocking the front door, trying to calm the crowd.

“I appeal to everyone to use reason. A mob has no reason. Let’s not create a situation that invites the very same violence we all deplore!”

His words were met with a mix of approval and derision.

The next speaker, no older than the students, wore a military fatigue jacket despite the heat and introduced himself as a member of Veterans for Peace. “I experienced enough violence, blood, and death at Khe Sanh for a lifetime. I vowed, never again!”

At the mention of Khe Sanh, Reed glanced at Annabel. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Must be thinking about her father.

The vet continued, “Now that killing is happening here, the time for complacency is over! I’m not a leftist. I’m not a communist. I’m a patriot. I love America.” He concluded by reading from a petition: “We believe in life, not death, love not hate, peace not war. Join us and demand that President Nixon stop this war now!”

Annabel turned away. “I gotta get the hell out of here.”

She remained stone-faced and silent until Reed dropped her off at Jordan’s.

Too agitated to study, Reed parked at the dorm and walked into the student union. On TV, a reporter was asking a middle-aged woman from Kent, Ohio, about the dead students.

“They’re traitors!” she hissed. “They deserve everything they got!”

The news program cut to the streets of Manhattan, where helmeted construction workers hoisting American flags fought antiwar protesters with fists and lead pipes. At least twenty people had been hospitalized. In Seattle, members of a vigilante group ironically called HELP—Help Eliminate Lawless Protest—had also attacked demonstrators.

Reed had had enough and left. Maybe Olivia’s warning of a nation sliding toward another civil war wasn’t off base after all.

—

When Reed arrived for the free clinic that night, he discovered it had been canceled due to the protests. On the porch, Jordan, Olivia, Meg, and other volunteers were donning red-and-black armbands emblazoned with the number 644,000. Reed now understood it referred to the total estimated casualties so far—soldiers and civilians, both Americans and Vietnamese.

He watched uneasily as Meg distributed white candles. A candlelight vigil march had been planned to honor the Kent State deaths.

Olivia beckoned them to leave, but Jordan lingered and said to Reed, “Are you coming with us?”

He was relieved by her tone—gentle, not accusing. “I don’t know.”

“You realize what’s at stake, don’t you? You can’t stay on the sidelines. Not anymore.”

“Maybe not. But if you’re right and the war is immoral, that means my dad must be a criminal.”

He expected her to argue, but she remained sympathetic. “It’s not for me to judge your father. I’m sure he’s suffering horribly, but what’s happening now all over the country is bigger than one person. Much bigger.”

Reed hesitated, thinking about an argument between Sandy and Mom last fall. Dad had been MIA for two years, but Mom had refused to participate in any protests.

“What if your father really is alive and in prison?” she’d asked. “What if the North Vietnamese saw a newspaper article quoting me as criticizing the government? What if they showed your father a picture of me protesting? It would completely destroy his morale.”

Down the street, Olivia and the others were joining protesters gathering on University Avenue—students and locals, all carrying flickering candles.

What to do? His mother was right, but Jordan was too. He felt his father’s presence—watching, judging—as if they were tethered by a nine-thousand-mile cord. Yet Reed heard no voice in his head, no command, no advice. Nothing…

✧ Purchase Link ✧
#KindleUnlimited

Thomas Tibor

A veteran writer and video producer, Thomas Tibor has helped develop training courses focusing on mental health topics. In an earlier life, he worked as a counselor in the psychiatric ward of two big-city hospitals. He grew up in Florida and now lives in Northern Virginia. Fortunate Son is his first novel.

Social Media Links:
Website ✧ Twitter ✧ LinkedIn • Amazon Author Page ✧ Goodreads ✧ Instagram -  thomastibor2 

Tour Schedule









Monday, 3 October 2022

✧ Book in the Spotlight ✧ Brushstrokes from the Past (Soli Hansen Mysteries) by Heidi Eljarbo #solihansenmysteries #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub @HeidiEljarbo @cathiedunn

 



Brushstrokes from the Past
Soli Hansen Mysteries
Heidi Eljarbo

Publication Date: 20 September 2022
Publisher: self-published
Page Length: 260 pages
Genre: Historical fiction – dual timeline, a bit of mystery and sweet romance

WWII and the mid-seventeenth century are entwined in this fourth dual timeline novel about Nazi art theft, bravery, friendship, and romance.

April 1945. Art historian Soli Hansen and her friend Heddy arrive at an excavation site only to find Soli’s old archeology professor deeply engrossed in an extraordinary find in a marsh. The remains of a man have lain undisturbed for three centuries, but there’s more to this discovery…

As Soli tries to understand who the baroque man was and discovers what he carried in a sealed wooden tube, problems arise. A leak reveals the finds to the notorious Lieutenant Colonel Heinz Walter, and soon, both Nazi elite and the Gestapo are after the treasure.

When Heddy and the professor disappear along with the artwork, Soli and her resistance group must find them before it’s too late.

1641. In Amsterdam, French musketeer Claude Beaulieu has had his portrait done by his close friend and artist Rembrandt van Rijn. When a band of thieves steal the precious painting, Claude and his wife Annarosa Ruber pick up their swords and a few belongings and go after the culprits.

Set in Norway during the tumultuous last days of the second world war, as well as the peak of the glorious baroque art period, these two stories are a must for readers who love historical fiction with adventure, suspense, and true love that conquers all.

Perfect for fans of Kate Morton, Lucinda Riley, Kathleen McGurl, Rhys Bowen, and Katherine Neville.


Purchase Link:

Amazon

#KindleUnlimited


Heidi Eljarbo


Heidi Eljarbo is the bestselling author of historical fiction and mysteries filled with courageous and good characters that are easy to love and others you don't want to go near.

Heidi grew up in a home filled with books and artwork and she never truly imagined she would do anything other than write and paint. She studied art, languages, and history, all of which have come in handy when working as an author, magazine journalist, and painter.

After living in Canada, six US states, Japan, Switzerland, and Austria, Heidi now calls Norway home. She and her husband have a total of nine children, thirteen grandchildren—so far—in addition to a bouncy Wheaten Terrier.

Their favorite retreat is a mountain cabin, where they hike in the summertime and ski the vast, white terrain during winter.

Heidi’s favorites are family, God’s beautiful nature, and the word whimsical.

Social Media Links:

Website ✧ Twitter ✧ Facebook ✧ LinkedIn ✧ Instagram ✧ Instagram author page ✧ Pinterest ✧ Book Bub ✧ Amazon Author Page ✧ Goodreads 


Tour Schedule






Tuesday, 13 September 2022

✧ Book in the Spotlight ✧ The Muse of Freedom (a Cévenoles Sagas novel) by Jules Larimore #historicalfiction #BlogTours #TheCoffeePotBookClub @jules_larimore @cathiedunn

 


The Muse of Freedom 
a Cévenoles Sagas novel 
By Jules Larimore


Publication date: September 13, 2022
Publisher: Mystic Lore Books
Page Length: 454 
Genre: Historical Fiction / Renaissance Fiction / Sagas

First in the series from The Cévenoles Sagas is THE MUSE OF FREEDOM.

“Brilliantly told, a story that will stick with you long after you've turned the last page . . . fresh and compelling, as relevant now as it was then.”
~ Janet Wertman, award-winning author of The Seymour Saga trilogy

A French Huguenot apothecary’s legacy of secrets, a mystic healer’s inspiration, a fateful decision.

In the mysterious Cévennes mountains of Languedoc, France, 1695, Jehan BonDurant, a young nobleman forcibly held in a Dominican prieuré as a child, comes of age only to inherit a near-derelict estate and his Huguenot family’s dangerous legacy of secrets. While he cherishes his newfound freedom apprenticing as an apothecary, his outrage mounts over religious persecutions led by King Louis XIV’s Intendant Basville, who is sent to enforce the King’s will for “One King, One Law, One Faith”. 

The ensuing divisions among families and friends and the gradual revelation of his own circumstances lead Jehan to question his spiritual choices. A journey deep into the heart of the Cévennes in search of guidance, unfolds in a way he least expects when he enters the enchanting Gorges du Tarn. There he discovers his muse, Amelia Auvrey, a free-spirited, mystic holy woman who reveals ancient healing practices and spiritual mysteries.

Together they quest for peace and spiritual freedom by aiding the persecuted until the Intendant’s spy reports their activities and the King’s dragoons are sent out after them. To retain their freedom, they must choose to live in hiding in a remote wilderness, join a festering uprising against the persecutions, or flee their cherished homeland with thousands of other refugees in search of hope.

Inspired by the true story of Jean Pierre Bondurant dit Cougoussac, distilled and blended with Cévenole magic lore, this is an inspiring coming of age story and family saga of courage, tenacity, and the power of love in a country rife with divisions under the control of an authoritarian king obsessed with power. 

Fans of Poldark, Magic Lessons, The Lost Apothecary, and The Huguenot Chronicles will find thematic elements from those stories melded into this thrilling and obscure slice of French history.

Purchase Link:
 Amazon 



Jules Larimore writes emotive, literary-leaning historical fiction to inspire positive change for the oppressed and refugees, and to encourage an intimate relationship with the natural environment.

Influenced by a background in freelance travel writing, Jules uses captivating historical settings as characters. Then distills and blends them with a dose of magic, myth, and romance to bring to life hopeful human stories. A previous career in marketing offered an outlet for creative writing used to romance brands with mystery, excitement, and remoteness from everyday life.

With a Bachelor of Arts from Indiana University, Jules has studied medieval history, ancient Greek culture, anthropology, folklore, narrative composition, and architectural design, and has trained under writing geniuses Libbie Hawker/Olivia Hawker and Roz Morris. While investigating the ancestor who inspired The Muse of Freedom, Jules researched late 17th century Languedoc customs, politics, and spiritual traditions specific to the little known Cévennes mountains of south-central France, culminating in a rich repository to feed future novels about the Cévenol people and culture.

Jules lives primarily in Ojai, California, with time spent around the U.S. and in various countries in Europe gathering more treasures in a continued search for authenticity.

Website ✧ Twitter ✧ Facebook ✧ Instagram ✧ Pinterest ✧ Book Bub ✧ Amazon Author Page ✧ Goodreads ✧ YouTube 






Monday, 5 September 2022

✧ Book excerpt ✧ The Eisenhower Chronicles by M. B. Zucker #HistoricalBiography #WWII @MBZuckerBooks @MichaelZucker1 @maryanneyarde

 


The Eisenhower Chronicles
By M. B. Zucker

In 1938 he was a lieutenant colonel stationed in the Philippines; by 1945 the world

proclaimed him its savior. From leading the forces of liberal democracy against history’s most evil tyrant to the presidency, Dwight D. Eisenhower fought for and kept the peace during the most dangerous era in history.

The Eisenhower Chronicles dramatizes Ike’s life, portraying his epic journey from unknown soldier to global hero as only a novel could. He is shown working with icons such as FDR, Winston Churchill, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and confronting challenges like D-Day, the Little Rock Crisis, and Sputnik.

Eisenhower’s legacy is grounded in defending the world from fascism, communism, and nuclear weapons. This novel shows how he accomplished it all and takes readers into his mind and soul, grounding the history in the man who made it.

Advance Praise:

“An ambitious novel that illuminates the complexity of one of the great figures of the twentieth century. Ike's homespun manner concealed a remarkably skilled, at times Machiavellian, leader who guided the nation through perilous times. M.B. Zucker brings us inside Eisenhower's world as he wrestles with a series of decisions affecting the survival of free government and the fate of humanity. This is a fun, fast-paced, informative read that captures the man and his times. Highly recommended.”

- Stephen F. Knott, Professor of National Security at the Naval War College and author of Washington and Hamilton: The Alliance that Forged America

“A most important aspect of M. B. Zucker's The Eisenhower Chronicles is that it dispels at least two myths about Ike's presidency: that it was but an appendage to his illustrious military career; and, that Eisenhower was more prone to react to events rather than shape them. In a lively and innovative style, Zucker shows his readers how Ike managed the Cold War during its most dangerous period and helped make his country a more fair and just society at home. A must read for anyone interested in mid-20th century America.”

-Alvin S. Felzenberg, presidential historian and author of The Leaders We Deserved and a Few We Didn't

“Zucker's achievement is monumental. In a fast-paced narrative, he captures Dwight D. Eisenhower with mastery and precision-his thoughts, emotions, decisions, and actions. The smooth prose and rich detail put the reader right there with Ike at every step of his military career and presidency, with an accurate and compelling rendering. This is historical fiction at its best.”

-Yanek Mieczkowski, presidential historian and author of Eisenhower's Sputnik Moment: The Race for Space and World Prestige

“This is a vast and minutely detailed account of Eisenhower as both supreme Warlord and President of the United States at a time of truly massive transformation.It is magisterial in its informed account and sweeping in its scope. It is a panoramic study, intensively researched, of Eisenhower as both a private person and a world figure.... Five stars and highly recommended.”

- The Historical Fiction Company Editorial Reviews

Excerpt

The Little Rock crisis becomes the biggest domestic crisis of Ike's presidency. Like in national security, Ike tries to resolve it diplomatically before using force by meeting with Governor Faubus. This story is told in the first person. 

My advisors arrived at my painting room in our Newport White House. I put down my paintbrush and turned to them. Leading the pack was Chief of Staff Sherman Adams. A former New Hampshire Governor, Adams possessed a no-nonsense attitude that I appreciated. This did not endear him to politicians, who found him rude and accused him of being a Rasputin-like figure. They must not have seen Adams at social gatherings, where his singing was often the life of the party.

Next was Attorney General Herbert Brownell, my principal advisor on legal issues and civil rights. This dated to even before I became President, as he led efforts by the Eastern Establishment Republicans to draft me to run in 1952. Lastly was their escort, Sergeant John Moaney, my Negro valet to whom I referred earlier. John was my closest companion, other than Mamie. He followed me everywhere; through World War II to the presidency. He even came with me to NATO, even though it meant separation from his recent wife.

I turned to Adams first.

“Where’s Jim Hagerty and General Morgan?”

“On their way.”

Next, I turned to Brownell.

“Any updates?”

“Little Rock’s school board asked a federal judge if they should undo their order to the Negro students to avoid Central High while the situation continued. The judge said that the integration must continue.”

That was good. We can never appease extremists.

“Who’s the judge?” Adams asked.

“Ronald Davies. He’s on the District Court for the Eastern District of Arkansas,” Brownell answered.

“Is he one of ours?”

“Yes,” I interjected. “Can Davies rule on Faubus’ actions?”

“Yes,” Brownell replied, “even if Faubus made no effort to carry out the federal court order, which he hasn’t.”

I furrowed my brow and crossed my arms.

“To do nothing would set a precedent that governors and states can choose which federal court orders to follow. I don’t see how we can let that stand.”

“I agree, Mr. President. That’s why my team and I at DOJ developed a contingency plan for this as soon as Brown came down.”

“Which is?”

“We’ve already launched an investigation of whether Faubus sought to trigger violence by deploying the Guard.”

“Who’s involved in the investigation?” Adams asked.

“The FBI and the marshals’ offices that Davies has at his disposal.”

“Has the investigation found anything important?” I asked.

“The main discovery was to confirm that there were no agitators in Little Rock, which Faubus claimed he was protecting against. This mess is entirely his doing. That means he risks being held in contempt of federal court and that we can withhold federal funds from the Arkansas National Guard.”

“What about using federal troops?”

“We hold that option to enforce the District Court’s order.”

“What if Faubus rejects our claim about the agitators and says he has a duty to ‘prevent violence’ by using the Guard?” Adams asked.

“We could counter by saying the federal government has a duty to protect children, who he’s endangering.”

“And if he denies that?”

“Then the federal government will have to stand firm and use federal troops.”

“Which is exactly what I hope to avoid, if at all possible,” I interjected again. “Faubus is almost here, and we need to discuss the plan for this meeting.” I had their attention. “We need to anticipate that Faubus is going to ask for a delay in withdrawing the Guard. I’ll ask you, Herbert, about that idea, and you have to say in confidence that that would be illegal. He might get mad at you, but I’ll still look like an honest broker, which we’ll need if we’re going to resolve this situation diplomatically.”

“This is a terrible idea, Mr. President!” Brownell exclaimed. “Faubus has soiled himself and is undeserving of meeting the President of the United States!”

I sighed as Brownell’s face turned red. I had heard this argument before and had overruled it the first time. Adams spoke.

“Faubus knows he’s made a mistake and is looking for a way out.”

“Or he’s trying to make President Eisenhower look weak, which he is succeeding at. The President already comes off as weak on civil rights issues because he refuses to use the Bully Pulpit. This will be a domestic equivalent of the Munich Agreement!”

“I want to exhaust all of our diplomatic options before resorting to force,” I countered. “Especially if it means sending young boys against a mob. In the South. As a Republican.”

“We have to give Faubus an out to make a retreat without losing face,” Adams concurred.

“I’ve made my opposition clear,” Brownell said as he constrained his temper.

Brooks Hays, a Democratic Congressman from Little Rock’s district, brokered the meeting between Faubus and myself. I had given Hays the specific telegram that Faubus sent me to request the meeting. Faubus agreed to use it. He arrived at the Newport White House by helicopter. Adams and Hagerty, my Press Secretary, greeted him in front of reporters. They led him to me.

Faubus and I were alone. I did my best to not glare at him, this man who threatened our Constitution and the rights of millions for his own political gain. He appeared to constrain his nerves. He must have known he was over his head. Faubus spoke first after we sat down.

“I served under General Patton in the Second World War. Third Army. He was a great man.”

“He certainly was an effective subordinate. On the Western Front.”

Faubus squirmed as I shot down his attempt to establish a connection. I cut to the chase.

“I hope you know, Governor, that you’re going to have to undo the situation that exists in Little Rock. States can’t defy the Supreme Court.”

He snorted.

“What, are you trying to do this quickly so you can get back to your golf?”

“No,” I muttered, with tension in my voice, “I’m trying to give you a way out.”

“Me! There are ugly plans afoot in Arkansas against me. Now what I require from you, Mr. President, is a ten-day break. A time for breathing that will let temperatures a chance to cool off, to give emotions a chance to subside. I also need the assistance of federal marshals to restore order.”

“I don’t intend to grant a governor who is defying a federal court order control of federal marshals. What you need to do is leave the National Guard in place but to change their orders to escort the Negro students into the school instead of keeping them out. If you do that, the DOJ will recommend that Judge Davies not find you in contempt of federal court.”

“I can’t stand for the federal government and the North to step all over the Southern way of life. And I fail to see how it benefits you, Mr. President, to antagonize the South.”

“I hold to one purpose in this situation, Governor. There must be respect for the Constitution—that means the Supreme Court’s interpretation of the Constitution—or there will be chaos.”

“The Constitution belongs to all of us, not nine unelected—”

“We wouldn’t have a coherent legal system if every individual could interpret the Constitution their own way. Now, the federal government has jurisdiction over this issue and it’s my duty to enforce the Supreme Court’s ruling. That means a state will lose if it defies the federal government in this situation and, frankly, no one will benefit from a trial of strength between a President and a governor. I don’t want to see any governor humiliated.”

“I’ve come too far to do what you ask of me, Mr. President. Backing down now would cost me reelection.”

“To be blunt, Governor, you created this situation. It’s on you to resolve it and to put the good of your state and the country ahead of your own career.”

“Easy to say when it’s not your career,” Faubus muttered as he leaned back in his chair and then leaned forward again. “Am I right in understanding that you have a portrait of Robert E. Lee in the Oval Office?”

“Among others, yes.”

“I see myself as acting in Lee’s tradition. Loyalty to the state over the federal government. Surely you can see—”

“The legality and acceptability of nullification may have been questionable before the Civil War, but Appomattox settled it for all time.”

Faubus’ face sank at my interrupting him. It was clear we were getting nowhere, as I predicted. Time for Plan B.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested. Faubus nodded and followed me. We entered an outer office. Waiting for us were Brownell, Adams, General Morgan, and Brooks Hays. Ann Whitman, my personal secretary, sat outside the room.

Faubus’ eyes darted between us, aware he was surrounded. Six chairs were placed in a circle. I led the group to the chairs and told Faubus to sit next to me.

“I feel like a choirboy,” Faubus joked. I briefly summarized the private meeting I’d had with Faubus to the others and Faubus’ request for a delay. I then turned to Brownell.

“Herb, can’t you go down there to Little Rock and ask Judge Davies to postpone the implementation of this order for a few days, ten days, or three weeks? Whatever time it might be decided is best to try to solve the problem?”

Brownell shook his head, as planned.

“No, that’s impossible. It isn’t legally possible.” He eyed Faubus. “The governor may not agree with the Supreme Court’s decision, but he must obey it.”

Faubus was silent and frowning, studying my reactions, aware that this was scripted. He finally spoke, primarily to me.

“I am preserving peace and good order with the National Guard.”

“The order was outrageous, Governor,” I shot back.

“I had no choice! Your Attorney General sent the FBI and federal marshals to Little Rock to arrest me!”

“That was based on a request from Judge Davies!” Brownell exclaimed.

Faubus turned to me in exasperation.

“Do you see the type of people you have in your administration?”

“I support Mr. Brownell and am determined to uphold the Constitution against mob rule,” I said, making my stance plain. The room settled into an awkward silence until I retrieved a letter from my pocket. “This is from a gentleman, a businessman, I believe, who offered me free advice. He recommended that I remove every Southern officer from command within the Army because they are going to stage a revolution over this Little Rock situation. So, I ask you, Governor, how far do you plan to go in opposing the federal government?”

Faubus squirmed back in his seat again. His eyes darted to and fro.

“I hope you know, Mr. President, that I am a loyal citizen and that I recognize federal supremacy.”

A sudden smile overtook me. He folded!

“Remember, Governor, I don’t believe you should necessarily withdraw the Guard when you return home. Just change their orders to support integration rather than oppose it. That will resolve this situation without you losing face.”

“I appreciate that,” Faubus responded.

I turned to Hagerty.

“Please explain how constructive this meeting was to the press, Jim.”

I heard Mrs. Whitman scoff from the other room and couldn’t help but notice how bothered Brownell looked. They lacked my optimism that the breakthrough was genuine. It would turn out they had reason to do so.


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M. B. Zucker

M. B. Zucker has been interested in storytelling for as long as he can remember. He discovered his love of history at fifteen and studied Dwight Eisenhower for over ten years. Mr. Zucker earned his B.A. at Occidental College and his J.D. at Case Western Reserve University School of Law. He lives in Virginia with his wife.

 

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Thursday, 4 August 2022

✧ Book Spotlight ✧ The Du Lac Chronicles (Book 1 of The Du Lac Chronicles) by Mary Anne Yarde #HistoricalFiction #HistoricalFantasy #BlogTour @maryanneyarde




The Du Lac Chronicles
(Book 1 of The Du Lac Chronicles)
By Mary Anne Yarde

A generation after Arthur Pendragon ruled, Briton lies fragmented into warring kingdoms and principalities.

Eighteen-year-old Alden du Lac ruled the tiny kingdom of Cerniw. Now he half-hangs from a wooden pole, his back lashed into a mass of bloody welts exposed to the cold of a cruel winter night. He’s to be executed come daybreak—should he survive that long.

When Alden notices the shadowy figure approaching, he assumes death has come to end his pain. Instead, the daughter of his enemy, Cerdic of Wessex, frees and hides him, her motives unclear.

Annis has loved Alden since his ill-fated marriage to her Saxon cousin—a marriage that ended in blood and guilt—and she would give anything to protect him. Annis’s rescue of Alden traps them between a brutal Saxon king and Alden’s remaining allies. Meanwhile, unknown forces are carefully manipulating the ruins of Arthur’s legacy.

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Mary Anne Yarde

Mary Anne Yarde is a multi-award winning and bestselling author of Historical Fiction, as well as an award-winning blogger. She studied History at Cardiff University and went on to study Equine Science at Warwickshire College.

Mary Anne is a passionate advocate for quality Historical Fiction and founded The Coffee Pot Book Club in 2015 and became a professional Editorial Reviewer in 2016.

Mary Anne's award-winning series, The Du Lac Chronicles, is set a generation after the fall of King Arthur. The Du Lac Chronicles takes you on a journey through Dark Age Britain and Brittany, where you will meet new friends and terrifying foes. Based on legends and historical fact, The Du Lac Chronicles is a series not to be missed

Born in Bath, England, Mary Anne grew up in the southwest of England, surrounded and influenced by centuries of history and mythology. Glastonbury—the fabled Isle of Avalon—was a mere fifteen-minute drive from her home, and tales of King Arthur and his knights were part of her childhood.

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✧ Book Review ✧ The Midnight Carousel (A Forest Falls Frolic) by Hanna Park

    Belle Stanhope had plans. Good plans. Practical plans. None of them involved Hudson Carver. The florist with the crooked smile had becom...