Book spotlight and excerpt: Pilot Who Knows the Waters by N.L. Holmes

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Hani must secretly obtain a Hittite bridegroom for Queen Meryet-amen, but Ay and the faction behind Prince Tut-ankh-aten are opposed--to the point of violence. Does the death of an artisan have anything to do with Ay’s determination to see his grandson on the throne? Then, another death brings Egypt to the brink of war… Hani’s diplomatic skills will be pushed to the limit in this final book in The Lord Hani Mysteries.

 

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Excerpt

After a cautious look around from the doorway, Hani took his leave and made his way inconspicuously to his tent, his thoughts whirring like the wings of a flock of starlings taking off.

Strangely, the most horrific image that haunted him from the day of the accident was that of the dead lion bristling with vengeful spears, his majestic head looking not murderous but reproachful, his massive paws helpless. The pelt had been too massacred to bother saving for a trophy, although Menna had reclaimed the arrow in the lion’s breast as a grisly souvenir.

Hani found it hard to breathe at the tragic waste of lives in a matter of moments. But perhaps the death of the prince had been a good thing after all, better than the success of Hani’s mission would have been. Thank you, mighty one, he addressed the beast silently. Because you wanted to live, you may have saved the Two Lands from a terrible fate.

Hani sat down on his camp bed, his forearms on his thighs, and pondered events. Despite every appearance of an accident, it was altogether possible that Lord Ay had found a way to stop the queen’s marriage in the most absolute manner. In fact, that would explain why Hani’s caravan had suffered no attacks en route to Hattusha—their opponents had preferred to wait until the stakes were higher. Yet that meant that someone in Hani’s party had colluded with Ay, kept him informed of the negotiations, and seen to it that an opportunity had arisen when the assassination of the bridegroom might have the look of a mischance. Perhaps they’d even suggested the hunt. It occurred to Hani that the prince had to have been shot well before the lion—he was lying on his back by that time and presented no target. If he was pierced, let’s say, in the instant the lion took him to the ground, we wouldn’t even have noticed in the terror of the moment, with everyone yelling and watching the animal. It clearly didn’t kill him right away because he was still struggling. But then Hani realized the youth’s movements might have been merely convulsive. Hani rose to his feet and, his hands behind his back, began to pace reflectively from one side of the tent to the other.

Was there, in fact, a plot to kill Prince Zannanza before he ever reached Kemet? Did someone spy on members of the Hittite delegation or milk them of information that resulted in this tragedy? Hani found it hard to imagine that anyone among his men—handpicked for loyalty to the queen’s project—was such a hardened enemy of the marriage between Hatti and the Two Lands. He tried to think back to the days they had spent in the capital. Whose behavior was suspect? Someone in my staff or among the soldiers had to have been seen in conversation with a son of Kheta Land. We were always together. No illicit contact could have gone unnoticed.

In spite of himself, Hani remembered Maya’s suspicions—Mery-ra had been engaged in some sort of mysterious visits to a private house in the company of a Hittite royal scribe and had taken pains to keep Maya away. That was unlike him. For him, the more family around, the better. Mery-ra had been seen with the scribe in the street, still, it seemed, hoping not to be witnessed. Then he had left early. Hani visualized the bland, jowly face of Hattusha-ziti’s secretary. That inoffensive-looking man, a villain? A spymaster? He pushed the idea out of his mind. What interest could Father have had in seeing this mission fail? Unless he, like Hani, had begun to realize the danger the alliance with Kheta posed for the Two Lands and had decided to take things into his own hands. No, that’s ridiculous. Father is far too straightforward and honest. He would surely have intimated such scruples to me.

But then… A lump rose in Hani’s throat. Father was apparently a spy in Kheta all those years ago. Is it possible he’s actually renewed his old contacts and let himself be drawn into somebody’s grudge? Is he working for Ay?

The thought left him chilled. Hani would have to confront Mery-ra with it when he next saw his father—assuming, of course, he, Hani, made it home alive.

The likelier possibility—the one he seized upon—was that one of the soldiers who had been billeted in the Upper City with the horses and pack animals had been working against the marriage on the sly. Hani would have to talk to Menna and Pa-ra-mes-su. If the escort had been investigated, as Hani had been told, surely all the men had dossiers. One of the officers would know.

But why does it even matter? he asked himself hopelessly. The damage is done. Shuppiluliuma won’t listen to stories of defectors in our ranks. He’ll take the whole horrible accident as malice on the part of Queen Meryet-aten. Some scheme to make a fool of him and his kingdom. An act of war.

  

 N.L. Holmes

N.L. Holmes is the pen name of a professional archaeologist who received her doctorate from Bryn Mawr College. She has excavated in Greece and in Israel, and taught ancient history and humanities at the university level for many years. She has always had a passion for books, and in childhood, she and her cousin (also a writer today) used to write stories for fun. Today, she and her husband live in France with their chickens and cats, where she weaves, plays the violin, gardens, and dances.

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Book spotlight and excerpt: The Captain’s Woman by Holly Bush

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Meet the Thompsons of Locust Street, an unconventional family taking Philadelphia high society by storm…

1870 ~ Muireall Thompson has taken her duties seriously since her parents died on the family’s crossing from Scotland to America in 1854. As the eldest sibling, their death made her responsible for her family and left little time for a life of her own. But now her brothers and sisters are adults; even the youngest is nearly ready to face the world on his own. What will she do when she is alone, other than care for an elderly aunt and volunteer at the Sisters of Charity orphanage? Has the chance for a husband and children of her own passed her by?

Widower Anthony Marcus, formerly a captain in the Union Army, is a man scraping the bottom of his dignity and hanging on to his honor by the barest thread. Reduced to doing odd jobs to keep a roof over his dear daughter Ann’s head, he often leaves her with the Sisters of Charity while he is out seeking steady work with a decent salary that will allow him to move from their single-room living quarters.

After an initial meeting that finds Muireall and Anthony at odds, a tentative friendship forms as they bond over their mutual affection for Ann. As friendship leads to passion, can a wealthy spinster and a poor soldier overcome their differences in station to forge a future together? Just as Muireall finds the courage to reach for her own happiness, Anthony’s past rises up between them and an old enemy reemerges to bring the Thompson family down once and for all. Will the divide between them be insurmountable, or can they put aside pride and doubt for a love worth fighting for?

 

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EXCERPT

Payden carried Ann upstairs after playing several games of checkers with her, the two of them stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Muireall had read aloud to her from a book of fairy tales earlier in the evening and was impressed with her ability as she read along, though the child claimed she was not enrolled at a school, even the small one associated with St. Vincent’s church, the orphanage’s sponsor.

Muireall followed behind them up the steps, thinking about the cold Mr. Marcus must have faced on his walk home. It was surely not good for his injury or whatever caused him to use a cane.

“Put her in Elspeth’s old room,” she said as her youngest brother glanced at her. She’d already come up to the room, checked the fire, and run the bedwarmer between the sheets. She’d even found a small flannel nightgown at the bottom of one of the dresser drawers. Muireall had held it up, thinking she could cut off much of the bottom and re-hem the ruffled edge to fit the child but had dropped her hands instead. Ann Marcus would not be staying over again. The thought made her inexorably sad. She would have liked to have children, but it was far too late now.

She looked at the nightgown in her hand again. But perhaps a heavy chemise or petticoat could be made of it to guard against the winter winds. It could be stitched in the morning in little time.

The child’s eyes fluttered open, and she kissed Payden’s cheek. “Thank you for carrying me up, Mr. Thompson. I am so awfully tired.”

Payden sat her on the edge of the bed. “Just Payden,” he said.

Muireall knelt down and unhooked the long row of buttons on the girl’s shoes. She began to pull her dress and petticoat over her head, but the child resisted.

“I sleep in my dress, Miss Thompson. It is warmer that way.”

Muireall smiled. “Well, for tonight I have a nice, warm nightgown for you to wear.”

“Oh,” the child said, looking at the gown Muireall held. “It is very pretty.”

Muireall helped her change clothes, wiped her face with a warm towel, and brushed her long, thick hair. Ann could barely hold her head up as Muireall braided it. She tucked her into the bed, sat down beside her and laid her palm on the child’s cheek.

“It is so lovely and warm in this bed,” Ann said, gazing up at her. “Will you sit here until I fall asleep?”

“Of course I will.” Muireall bent down and kissed her forehead, closing her eyes to the sudden lurch in her heart.

Ann was asleep in moments, but Muireall stayed for ten minutes or more, making sure she slept soundly. She finally stood, picking up the discarded dress, petticoat, stockings, and shoes and quietly closing the door.

Muireall sat beside Ann while she ate her bowl of oatmeal and several slices of thick bacon the next morning.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. McClintok. This was delicious, especially with sugar and cinnamon on top!” She giggled and turned to Muireall. “May I take this last slice of bacon with me for later?”

“I’ve got a bag packed for you and your father’s luncheon,” Mrs. McClintok said.

“Oh,” she said and blushed. “Papa may not eat any of it, but I thank you anyway.”

“A stubborn one is your Papa?” the housekeeper said with a smile.

Ann frowned. “Not stubborn, but . . . well, maybe a bit stubborn. But still the best Papa in the world!”

“I’m sure he is, little one,” Mrs. McClintok said.

“Come along now, Ann,” Muireall said as she stood. “I hear my brother’s carriage out front.”

Muireall helped her with her coat, which Mrs. McClintok had brushed the night before, and wrapped a scarf around her neck.

“This matches my coat!” She smiled. But the smile soon faded. “Papa says we should not accept charity of things that some poorer soul could use more than us.”

“I make five of those a month in the winter for the sisters to hand out. They can do with four this month. Wrap it around your neck, child,” Aunt Murdoch said from the door of the sitting room.

“It is so soft!”

“Of course it is. Miss Thompson’s sister owns a store that sells Scottish yarn and fabric. The best wools you’ll ever find. She gives me as much yarn as I can knit, so don’t let your Papa make a fuss. Tell him Aunt Murdoch insists. And anyway, I’m making you matching mittens, so you must keep the scarf.”

“Oh! That would be so nice!”

Mrs. McClintok hurried down the hall carrying a large canvas bag. “Here is something for your noon meal. It is heavy. Let Miss Thompson carry it for you.”

Ann and Muireall hurried to the waiting carriage, where James’s gruff coachman, Bauer, held open the door. He was an ex-boxer, too old to fight and down on his luck with an ailing son to care for, who’d taken to standing outside the Thompson Gymnasium and Athletic Studio. It had been built with Elspeth’s husband’s Pendergast money and was very successful because of James’s management and the Thompson name, synonymous with his championship boxing.

James had put the out-of-work boxer to work as his coachman, and he’d proven to be fiercely loyal, willing to battle anyone who threatened James, but more importantly anyone who threatened James’s wife or sisters. Muireall thought he looked wildly out of place in his expensive dark gray uniform and cape, as his nose laid nearly flat against his face, a patch covered his missing left eye, and his face showed his typical gruff countenance.

“How is your son, Mr. Bauer?” she asked as he held the door of the carriage and took the canvas bag from her hands.

“Doing a mite better since Dr. Watson come to see him, ma’am.”

“That’s very good, Mr. Bauer. I am so very glad to hear it. I’ve got several pairs of pants and a few shirts that no longer fit my youngest brother that I think may suit your son. I’ll make sure they are sent to you.”

“That’s right kind of you, ma’am. Let me help this little child,” he said and lifted Ann off her feet and into the carriage. “You’re light as a feather, miss.”

Ann smiled up at the man. “Oh no. My Papa said I weigh seven stone, but I don’t believe him.”

Bauer huffed a laugh. “Did he now? You tell him that Mr. Bauer, James Thompson’s coachman, begs to differ.”

Ann giggled. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

Muireall realized this child had a real gift for bringing joy to her fellow man. She was guileless and seemingly unafraid even of a man such as Mr. Bauer, who did look intimidating and rough. But there he was smiling at her as he turned his hat in his hand. Muireall put her own foot on the carriage step, and he turned quickly to help her inside. She saw him check the door latch and walk around the back of the carriage, hollering up at the young man riding there to keep his eyes looking about for any trouble. He walked around to the other side, checked that door, and then she felt the carriage dip as he climbed up.

 Holly Bush

Holly Bush writes historical romance set in the U.S.in the late 1800’s, in Victorian England, and an occasional Women’s Fiction title. Her books are described as emotional, with heartfelt, sexy romance. She makes her home with her husband in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.  Connect with Holly at www.hollybushbooks.com and on Twitter @hollybushbooks and on Facebook at Holly Bush.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: THE YANKS ARE STARVING: A Novel of the Bonus Army by Glen Craney

 

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Two armies. One flag. No honor.The most shocking day in American history.

Former political journalist Glen Craney brings to life the little-known story of the Bonus March of 1932, which culminates in a bloody clash between homeless World War I veterans and U.S. Army regulars on the streets of Washington, D.C.

Mired in the Great Depression and on the brink of revolution, the nation holds its collective breath as a rail-riding hobo named Walter Waters leads 40,000 destitute men and their families to the steps of the U.S. Capitol on a desperate quest for economic justice.

This timely epic evokes the historical novels of Jeff Sharra as it sweeps across three decades following eight Americans who survive the fighting in France and come together fourteen years later to determine the fate of a country threatened by communism and fascism.

From the Boxer Rebellion in China to the Plain of West Point, from the persecution of conscientious objectors to the horrors of the Marne, from the Hoovervilles of the heartland to the pitiful Anacostia encampment, here is an unforgettable portrayal of the political intrigue and government betrayal that ignited the only violent conflict between two American armies.

Awards:

Foreword Magazine Book-of-the-Year Finalist
Chaucer Award Book-of-the-Year Finalist
indieBRAG Medallion Honoree

Praise for The Yanks are Starving:

"[A] wonderful source of historical fact wrapped in a compelling novel." -- Historical Novel Society Reviews

"[A] vivid picture of not only men being deprived of their veterans' rights, but of their human rights as well.…Craney performs a valuable service by chronicling it in this admirable book." — Military Writers Society of America

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EXCERPT

The lieutenant sighed at the vast and varied lunacies produced by the human race. He told the other recruits, “Commander Waters here is going tell us how he fought in the Great War of His Imagination.” Then, he asked the man, “Who’d you square off against? Hannibal or Napoleon?”

Waters didn’t wait to blink. “Mac.”
 
One of the recruits yelled out, “General McClellan?”
 
Waters spun on the lippy Okie. “There’s only one Mac, da-da-damn it! And you know who he is!”
 
Motioning the recruits to silence, the lieutenant shammed an interest. “You fought MacArthur. You fight for the Germans, did you, Herr Dubya-Dubya?”
 
The veteran’s eyes filmed over, and he turned a woebegone gaze toward the railroad tracks in the distance. “Nah, I led the best American army that ever took the field. Worst thing about this c-c-country is it ain’t got no memory for the important things that happen to it.”
 
Baffled by the cryptic lament, the lieutenant glanced across the field and saw several drill squads looking over to see what all the commotion was about. He decided he’d better cut this little charade short before word started spreading downwind that he had lost control of his station. “Listen, Mr. Waters, or whoever you are. I’m going to have to order you to run along now. Or I’ll have to call the mental hospital in town and—”
 
“I’ll prove it.”
 
The lieutenant, now really annoyed, set his hands on his hips. “You’re going to prove to me that you fought General Douglas MacArthur with an American army? How exactly do you plan to do that?”
 
Waters puffed out his sunken consumptive chest to display two threaded military ribbons pinned to his breast pocket. “If I demonstrate my bona fides on the matter, will you let me t-t-take the oath?”
 
His first plan having backfired, the lieutenant reluctantly decided that letting the man blather his two cents’ worth was probably the only way to get rid of him now. “You got five minutes before lunch call. Make it fast.”
 
The other recruits moaned, forced to stay out in the cold even longer now.
 
The sniggering ensign piled more logs onto the fire in the oil drum.
 
Waters commandeered the chair behind the desk and placed it in front of the fire. Flicking away the butt of his last Lucky Strike coffin nail, he sat down and reached into his pocket for a plug of tobacco. He stuffed the chaw into his cheek and, satisfied at last with his preparations, waved the recruits forward. “Come on closer, maggots. I ain’t g-g-gonna strip the gears in my throat educating your ignorance.”
 
As the grousing recruits stepped in around him, Waters began singing the tune that had always helped calm the hitch in his words, an old big-band number by that top-hatted medicine man of jazz, Ted Lewis:
 
“There’s a new day coming,
As sure as you’re born,
A new day coming,
Start tootin’ your horn,
The cobbler’ll shoe, the baker’ll bake,
When the brewer brews, folks,
We’ll all get a break.
There’s a new day coming,
Coming soon.”

Glen Craney

Glen Craney is an author, screenwriter, journalist, and lawyer. A graduate of Indiana University Law School and Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, he is the recipient of the Nicholl Fellowship Prize from the Academy of Motion Pictures and the Chaucer and Laramie First-Place Awards for historical fiction. He is also a four-time indieBRAG Medallion winner, a Military Writers Society of America Gold Medalist, a four-time Foreword Magazine Book-of-the-Year Award Finalist, and an Historical Novel Society Reviews Editor's Choice honoree. He lives in Malibu and has served as the president of the Southern California Chapter of the HNS.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: The Fortune Keeper by Deborah Swift

 

Count your nights by stars, not shadows ~ Italian Proverb

Winter in Renaissance Venice

Mia Caiozzi is determined to discover her destiny by studying the science of astronomy. But her stepmother Giulia forbids her to engage in this occupation, fearing it will lead her into danger. The ideas of Galileo are banned by the Inquisition, so Mia must study in secret.

Giulia's real name is Giulia Tofana, renowned for her poison Aqua Tofana, and she is in hiding from the Duke de Verdi's family who are intent on revenge for the death of their brother. Giulia insists Mia should live quietly out of public view. If not, it could threaten them all. But Mia doesn't understand this, and rebels against Giulia, determined to go her own way.

When the two secret lives collide, it has far-reaching and fatal consequences that will change Mia's life forever.

Set amongst opulent palazzos and shimmering canals, The Fortune Keeper is the third novel of adventure and romance based on the life and legend of Giulia Tofana, the famous poisoner.

'Her characters are so real they linger in the mind long after the book is back on the shelf' - Historical Novel Society.

This is the third in a series, but it can stand alone as it features a new protagonist. 

Trigger warnings:

Murder and violence in keeping with the era.

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EXCERPT

Venice 1643

The day after meeting Brother Mario, Imbroglio arrived early at his bolt-hole – a second set of lodgings in the German quarter. The snow had stopped, but the pale winter sun was out and the place stank. It was above the night-soil collector, who took the human refuse by boat and dumped it at sea, out of the reach of men’s noses and away from the tidal flow into Venice. Though these lodgings lacked luxury, and were devilish damp, this place afforded him the privacy he wanted. On the top floor, with a sturdy door and a good firm mortise lock.

He had a semblance of luxury at the Palazzo Dario, but here the stink would certainly put off all but the brave-hearted. Imbroglio tried not to inhale. With luck and a following wind he’d be gone by summer. Thank God, he thought, because it would be unbearable here then. He thrust the shutter open to get some air, but banged it shut again as the stench increased.

Here, he was only Antonio Imbroglio, a poor pilgrim visiting San Marco. A crucifix was displayed prominently on the wall, for the sole benefit of the daily woman Signora Cicerone.

He peered out through the striated light of the shuttered window.

A few muffled-up street urchins were hanging on the corner hoping for work on the canal. They’d ignored him as he passed, as not rich enough to bother pestering. He enjoyed the switch of personalities – that one day he could be the count’s advisor, Signor Moretti, nobleman and Doctor of Law, parading in his fur-lined cloak, and another day, Antonio Imbroglio, the man who looked like a beggar.

Now to check the contents of his trunk, a nondescript looking cask covered in scuffed leather, of the type a poor traveller might use. All the accoutrements of his assassin’s trade were here. He heaved open the domed lid and brought out the contents one by one.

Picklocks, gloves, razor and whetstone, a pistol with a walnut handle, his good duelling sword.

He paused. Beneath lay the souvenirs of those he’d killed. Time was, he could draw out each object – each precious gold watch, each diamond-fobbed seal, each ’broidered kerchief – and remember the face.

Now there were so many it was a mere heap of scrim-shaw.

He ran a thumb softly over the edge of the razor. It would need to be sharpened. He’d vowed not to use the damn thing here in Venice; it was there only for emergency. But things had gone wrong, so now he’d have to re-think.

Curse Count D’Ambrosi. He shouldn’t have taken him on at cards. He should have realized the best gamblers in Europe were here in Venice at the Ridotto, and the stakes high. To his humiliation, Count d’Ambrosi had beat him playing Gillet and emptied him out. It looked bad, especially if he wanted a stake in the observatory – the biggest waste of money in Venice.

He began to sharpen the razor, thinking he’d be better off to sharpen his skills at cards. Meanwhile, thank God for Brother Mario and his pound of gold lira.

This time would definitely be the last, he swore to himself, because now, thanks to that measly monk, he was onto something. Tomorrow, he’d find out if Agnese di Napoli, formerly Agnese de Verdi, could shed any light on the whereabouts of Giulia Tofana and her Aqua Tofana. The thought of it quickened his pulse.

He liked to make people talk— before they were consigned to a place where they would never speak again. And imminent death was a marvellous incentive to loosen the tongue.

The rasp of the whetstone grew rhythmic in the quiet of the room.

 Deborah Swift

Deborah Swift is a USA TODAY bestselling author who is passionate about the past. Deborah used to be a costume designer for the BBC before becoming a writer. Now she lives in an old English school house in a village full of 17th Century houses near the glorious Lake District. She divides her time between writing and teaching. After taking a Masters Degree in Creative Writing, she enjoys mentoring aspiring novelists and has an award-winning historical fiction blog at her website www.deborahswift.com

Deborah loves to write about how extraordinary events in history have transformed the lives of ordinary people and how the events of the past can live on in her books and still resonate today.

Recent books include The Poison Keeper, about the Renaissance poisoner Giulia Tofana, which was a winner of the Wishing Shelf Readers Award, and a Coffee Pot Book Club Gold Medal, and The Cipher Room set in WW2 and due for publication by Harper Collins next Spring.

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Book Spotlight and Excerpt: 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.

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 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…

 

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.

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