Chadwick Liberty Bazaar

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-906582-67-8
Verlag: Aurora Metro Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 312 Seiten

BEST INDIE BOOK - KIRKUS REVIEWS - STARRED REVIEW
A rollicking tale of one black woman's mission to stop an English plan to aid the Confederates in the American Civil War.
Liverpool, 1863: Newly arrived in England, Trinity, an escaped American slave girl, is taken in by wealthy liberals who are campaigning to abolish slavery.
At the same time, Jubal, a battle-weary Confederate officer, arrives in Liverpool to raise funds for the opposing side. 
When Trinity discovers a conspiracy to help the slave-owners and the Confederates to win the war - who will believe her - and who can she really trust?
Reviews
'A thrilling account of intrigue, deception, violence and forbidden love.' James M McPherson, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Battle Cry of Freedom
'Vivid description, elegant sentences, diligent research, the highly readable Liberty Bazaar has it all, proving that David Chadwick is the real deal, a serious writer with a serious talent.' Nicholas Royle, author of First Novel and Regicide
'Liberty Bazaar is a joy to read. It plunges us straight into the nefarious doings of the American Civil War, through the distinctive voices of its two protagonists, Trinity Giddings and Jubal de Brooke. David Chadwick's sense of place and time is extraordinary, and he throws an entertaining slant on a complex and fascinating period of history. The writing is lyrical, lavishly detailed and witty, too. This is an immersive, powerful historical novel - one impossible to put down.' Sherry Ashworth, author of Good Recipes and Bad Women and Mental
'Shades of Charles Dickens' work ... this offbeat, refreshingly absorbing Civil War novel features impeccable research ... Along with the two well-drawn narrators, the novel boasts several wonderful secondary characters.' Kirkus Reviews, Blue Starred review
'Chadwick's prose paints his shuffling urban milieu with a nose for detail, inhaling the rich tang of docklands crowds, the sweeping egalitarianism of street life forming a tragic backbone for the limitations of the rich. What really stands out, however, is the twin narrative, muddying the heroic waters yet acknowledging their existence in a time of violent opposition. It amounts to a revealing look at vested interests, and the fact that Britain has more blood on its hands than it would care to admit.' Joshua Potts, The Skinny
'Tells of Liverpool's secret role in a conflict that still divides the US ... brings the teeming streets of Empire-era Liverpool to vivid life.' Liverpool Echo
'First-class storytelling. An addictive novel with love and gun smoke and a tremendous feel for its time and its settings, lived out by characters of real passion and true human complexity.' Paul Du Noyer, founder of MOJO magazine and author of Liverpool: Wondrous Place
'The sights and smells of dockside Liverpool come alive in ways reminiscent of Dickens. So, too, do class conflicts tinged, as they frequently were, by issues of race.' Richard Blackett, Professor of History at Vanderbilt University, Nashville
'Those who want to know why the Confederate flag came down in Charleston in 2015 should read David Chadwick's book.' Andrew Lees, author of Liverpool: The Hurricane Port
'A historical drama with nail-biting moments. I couldn't put it down.' Larry Neild, Liverpool Radio City Talk
'David Chadwick's prose is brilliant in Liberty Bazaar. He pens a story about a familiar time in history, but gives the reader a different and fresh perspective. Most Civil War novels are set on the battleground or on the plantation. Adding a bizarre twist to a well-known event, Chadwick highlights the plaguing effects of battle and slavery on the southern plantations by placing the narrative in Liverpool, England. Written in first-person, each chapter portrays a sequence of events. However the personal perspective changes from chapter to chapter. This technique allows the narrative to be read like a journal or a diary... Chadwick writes eloquent descriptions by using illustrious metaphors and profound analogies. I especially liked the comparison of feminine attire with medieval armor. Liberty Bazaar is a wonderfully written story.' Cheryl E. Rodriguez, Readers' Favorite
 
About the Author
David Chadwick is an experienced journalist and has run his own journalism and public relations consultancy since 2001. Previously, he was a PR manager at global accountancy firm KPMG, and before that, a UK government press officer. He has held a number of senior editorial positions on daily newspapers across the UK and his freelance work has appeared in national titles from the Guardian to the Daily Mirror. Born and raised in Greater Manchester, David took a bachelor's degree in history and politics at Queen Mary, University of London, and a master's in creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. David has co-written a non-fiction book about the Battle of the Atlantic, and jointly edited two short story collections. He has a life-long interest in maritime history and is a keen sailor. He lives with his family in Greater Manchester.
 

Autoren/Hrsg.

Chadwick, David

Leseproben

1 EXPERIENCES IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE GIRL BY TRINITY GIDDINGS Society Hill, South Carolina, September 1863 Slipping out of the Big House before first fowl crow, I found a gap in the peach orchard fence and went east. My plan, such as it was, meant finding the landing stage at Society Hill then hiding on a steamboat to take me down the Great Pee Dee River to Georgetown on the coast. From there I’d take my chances: the railroad north, or a ship to Havana. I was young – twenty-four that June gone – and paid no mind to what I would do with my freedom. Long time ago. But I recall the moment of that decision so clearly. Two occurrences colliding: my mother’s death but twelve hours gone; and the stripes applied not much earlier by my owner’s wife, Mistress Honoria Giddings. My beating had been light – no unsightly scars to drive down my value on the auction block – and without witness, though this was less about my dignity than hers. The whipping was Missy Honoria’s way of telling me privately to quit tempting her husband. No matter that he was the wrong-doer and I the victim. See, this was South Carolina. This state, more than any, lived out the small print in the Declaration of Independence that said: Nigger want justice, he don’t get it here. Same afternoon I got beat, the Lord took my mother. She passed away quietly on the straw mattress where she’d lain these two months gone. Physician said she hadn’t suffered greatly and I believed him. Last of my family done gone. It was like this: my father died sometime past in an accident repairing the big cotton gin. Brother Benjamin lately drowned in the river. Everybody said this was by tragic accident, but we all knew otherwise. No other living relatives, least not that I knew of. Missy Honoria and my owner, Master Zebulon Giddings, perceived these things all too well. After my mother’s burial they would watch close, suspecting I’d run. No family – what’s to lose? But they wouldn’t watch me before my mother’s burial. Now, tonight, was my brief and only opportunity. Anger and regret aplenty bundled in my head. Guilt, too. Girl leaves her mother unburied, she’s got a powerful price to pay. But right now, no room for sentiment, no time for tears. It seemed so simple – until those patrollers stepped out from behind a big old tree. With their lanterns shining in my face, the confidence that spurred me to quit the plantation began to wilt. “Where you going in such haste, girl, before sunrise?” In the cone of yellow radiance, the older patroller’s pinched and stubble-shaded face, smelled of whiskey when he breathed. “My mama took down poorly, sir, and the Massa sent me out for the doctor.” I could speak properly, even in those days – or at least reasonably well – but pretended a slouchy rural accent for these patrollers. They looked like poor whites, people with a special dislike for black folk with any hint of schooling so I took care to give them no excuse to turn nasty. Not that they needed one. There was a sly glint in the second patroller’s eye. He was much younger than his companion – young enough to fight with the Rebels against the Yankees. So why was he here? My belly agitated. Were they deserters? Robbers? “Where you from, girl?” “Giddings’ plantation, sir. Small piece on from Society Hill.” “Let’s see your pass.” Fumbling in my dress, I found the note, apparently from my master, that I’d written a few hours earlier, giving permission to go to Society Hill for the physician. Younger patroller placed his lantern on the ground and took the pass from me using the same hand, and I realised he’d lost an arm. Then, as he leaned into the lamplight, I saw the flesh on one side of his face was missing, from an eyeless socket to the shattered jawbone. This boy done finished fighting, I could tell that much. They studied on my counterfeit pass a long while, tilting the notepaper this way and that. Perhaps they couldn’t read so well; perhaps they suspected me. At last they seemed to grow tired of their inspection and let me on my way. I walked quickly for a spell to get away from those patrollers, then stopped and sat by the roadside, head in hands, quivering. Not three miles from the plantation and already thinking about turning tail. If I hurried, I’d be back in the Big House before Missy Honoria awoke. Yet this was my one chance for freedom. I made myself consider the consequences of failure: Massa Zebulon’s unwelcome attention; the burrowing fear that sooner or later he would wear me down. All the while, Missy Honoria, already suspicious, would continue to chastise me. I had another motive. My previous owner and benefactress, Missy Antonia Giddings done schooled me in arts and sciences, excited my mind with rich tangs of knowledge. But my education was hotchpotch, half-done. I spied bright rays in the dark, but nothing to join the one to the next. Missy Antonia had a mind to free me, but took poorly and died before she could make things legal. So I passed into the ownership of her son, Zebulon. He stopped my lessons and started chasing me. Kinder if I’d learned nothing at all. See, this unfinished schooling meant I belonged nowhere: not the scullery, nor the library. Only by escaping could I finish what Missy Antonia begun. Fortified by these notions, I pressed on, reaching Society Hill without further hindrance soon after sun-up. A big paddle steamer named Stonewall Jackson was moored to the landing stage. Outside the warehouse, four rib-thin mules hitched to a wagon, but no sign of the teamster. Small piece downstream, I saw a ferry converted into a Confederate gunboat. Two rebel soldiers in ragged butternut blouses sat in the shade, sipping from tin mugs. Prospects better than I could have hoped for. Finding a private spot among some willow trees, I took off my linsey-woolsey dress. Missy Honoria insisted all her house girls wear garments of this coarse wool and linen twill, which I regarded as a symbol of servitude. Soft chains, maybe; chains nonetheless and removing them was powerful uplifting. Next, I pulled on the mariner’s costume I’d put together using various garments from the Big House – woollen shirt, sturdy trousers, short blue coat and straw hat with enough of a brim to disguise the upper part of my face. Adopting my hastily practised sailor’s gait, I set off toward the landing stage. Greasy black weaves of smoke were rising up from the twin stacks of the paddleboat. Clearly, the captain was making steam and, please Lord, would be casting off very soon. Front of the boat was stacked with cotton bales that almost came up to the wheelhouse – any higher and the captain couldn’t see where he was going. There was another stack of bales at the back and two wooden gangplanks ran from each end of the boat to the landing stage. I headed for the one at the rear – less going on there. I reached the junction of the gangplank and the landing stage when two sounds sent my heart into a crazy scamper: bloodhounds baying; and shrill piping of the boat’s whistle. Massa Zebulon coming; steamboat going east. Next few minutes would see me gone from the plantation one way or the other. If this child couldn’t escape on the steamer, I’d jump in that river and drown myself for sure. Mind made up. Swear to God. Quick glance around. Some men up front uncoiling mooring ropes, no one at the back. Three figures high in the wheelhouse, looking forward. Placing one foot on the wooden laths of the gangplank, I started forward, slowly, quietly. Already the sun was melting the tar seams between the timbers. Bare feet fizzed with pain and I had to ward myself against rushing: noise or sudden movement certain to get me caught. Half way there. Giddy with tension. Few seconds more, I’d be across. “You, there!” The shout froze me. “Yes – you!” Dizzily, I looked down at the band of water between boat and shore, scummy-brown and choked with trash: half-sunk whiskey bottle, boxwood fragments, rotted coal-sack. Dead rat too, floating on his back. Not a pleasant place to drown. If there was such a place. I looked up to the deck above. Captain leaning over the rail making angry gestures with his arms. “Where’s that damned river pilot?” Pause. Somewhere, bloodhounds yowling. Somewhere, my unburied mother. Another voice shouted back to the captain: “I seed him in the store, sir, not ten minutes gone. Reeked of rum.” Now I realised this conversation had nothing to do with me. “Fetch him this very instant, Corporal, before he gets even drunker.” The captain was clearly furious with this errant river pilot. “We can’t move without him.” Needing no more encouragement, I stepped the few remaining paces onto the deck of the Stonewall Jackson and quickly made my way to the stacked cotton bales at the back. Each bale was perhaps five feet long by three feet deep and bound in a coarse jute jacket that was fastened by a half-dozen hemp belts. Using the gaps between the bales for hand and foot holds, I began to climb. At last, sweating and panting, I found myself sitting atop a big flat cushion of cotton some twenty feet above the deck. Behind me was a sheer drop from the back of...