Guest Post: Jennifer Cody Epstein's The Gods of Heavenly Punishment

Please welcome Jennifer Cody Epstein as part of her virtual tour while promoting her novel, The Gods of Heavenly Punishment.

On Fiction and Fashion

As a writer, I seem to be drawn to very dark themes. My first novel, The Painter from Shanghai, was about Chinese artist Pan Yuliang's journey from prostitution to Post Impressionism, and it included several very tough phases/scenes. My second novel, The Gods of Heavenly Punishment, is even darker--it studies the 1945 firebombing of Tokyo (100,000 Japanese civilians incinerated by American napalm-packed bombs in under four hours) from both sides of the conflict. It covers cruelty by Japanese soldiers to both their occupied peoples and their own kind, as well as infidelity and moral betrayal. Obviously, there are happy moments in both novels. They both feature redemption of the human spirit and the power of the human soul as key themes. And they both center around heroines who fight for the right to define—and ultimately succeed in defining--their own destinies.

The less-happy stuff that those heroines had to go through, though, was still pretty heavy; both to research, and to try to process onto paper. In fact, one question I often get from readers and interviewers is how I got myself through those few grim and dark scenes. It’s a fair question, I think. There were certainly moments (after, say, describing Tokyo’s eerie, smoking silence the morning after the attack) where I asked myself the same thing: How on earth am I going to get through this? Up until now, at least, I’ve given a fairly standard response: I grounded myself in the happy, healthy moments of my life. I went running with my dog, and watched old movies with my daughters, and drank good wine and ate good food with my husband and friends. I did a lot of yoga. I meditated. I got massages and acupuncture: all true. 

There is one thing I also did, though, about which I haven’t always been as forthcoming. And here it is: 

I shopped. 

It’s embarrassing, and yet I can’t in good conscience deny it: my writing fueled a surprising consumer habit. Every chapter or so---or after a particularly tough scene, or (sometimes) before a scene I knew would be difficult—I would allow myself to go on line and cruise around for up to an hour, filling e-carts to my heart’s delight. And it wasn’t with useful things like household linens or duct tape or toilet paper. I shopped for fashion—for really interesting, unique, of-the-moment clothes, shoes and accessories. I was never quite sure why I was doing it. But for some reason, foraging through cybermalls in search of the perfect cuff bracelet or pair of platforms got me through some of the bleakest writing stints of my life. What’s more, after a while I started to realize that simply learning about the newest jeans or the best dress deals or the most environmentally-friendly handbags wasn’t enough: as was the case with the “real” research I was doing about the Pacific War, I felt compelled to write about what I was discovering. And so, about three years ago—and about a hundred pages into my second novel—I launched a fashion blog. I did it anonymously, and kept it tongue-in-cheek and witty, with each post ending with a literary reference or featuring an interview with a fellow writer or designer. But the fact that I did it at all caused some people to shake their heads: why? Why would a supposedly smart, literary woman express an interest in—much less write about—something as frivolous as fashion? 

It’s a question I asked myself repeatedly as I wrote my columns (on asymmetrical hemlines and heelless high-heels and one-shouldered tops) between and around scenes about fire and death: Why am I interested in this stuff? Granted, I’d always liked clothes. One of my earliest memories is of getting a new pair of Mary Janes as a toddler and loving them so much that I wore them to bed. Growing up, though, I’d essentially embraced the shapeless, neutral-hued, flat-soled and largely-linen styles of New England, and wore them well into my early thirties. But when I came to New York, something in my fashion outlook changed. I think it related to the innovation I saw in the outfits I saw being strutted down city streets; the way so many people here put together their daily ensembles with such obvious thought and care. They looked—good. And it looked like fun. At some point, it even occurred to me that the putting-together of such statements was not unlike the putting-together of—well, statements. Or sentences. Like the ones I put together every day on my computer screen. In other words, it occurred to me that fashion was perhaps just another form of expression—one with its own lyricism and logic and balance. And what better place to study it than here in NYC—the second fashion capital of the world? 

And so I did: as I studied James Doolittle’s breathtakingly heroic mission to avenge Pearl Harbor, and pondered Curtis LeMay’s plans to level scores of Japanese cities, and the painstaking process of rebuilding a decimated Tokyo out of its own ashes, I also studied ….shoes. What was it about heels (which I hadn’t worn since high school) that made them worth the pain? And jewelry: how much jewelry was too much? Is Coco Chanel’s famous dictum (accessorize, then take one accessory off before you leave the house) really valid? And tonality: do shoes and bag always have to match? What about toenails and fingernails? Are black and navy ever acceptable together? The weird thing is that this bizarre balance somehow worked: I got through the toughest sections in my novel without feeling overwhelmingly crushed by the injustice of the world. My novel was published in mid-March. And—while I certainly didn’t buy everything I put in those cyber-carts, I still ended up with a decent closetfull of clothes I’m still enjoying. And I even learned to walk in 4” platforms. 

The other weird thing, though, is that once my sporadically-dark novel was done I seemed to lose the urge to write about the light stuff. I retired my blog last Spring, around the time I was finishing up the final drafts of The Gods of Heavenly Punishment. It seemed I’d simply run out of haute steam. In the months since, while I’ve still indulged in the occasional cybershop, I don’t find myself quite as mesmerized as I always did when I had more pressing things to research. Which, I suppose, is just further proof to me that the two elements—the dark stuff of my novels, the light stuff of my closet--were somehow part of the same mysterious process for me.

That’s not to say the fashion-blog bug won’t bite again. I’ve just started researching my third novel, which will also be set against a war, and hence is also likely to have some dark moments. And around the same time, I suddenly found myself obsessed with easy, breezy summer dresses. Nothing too flashy—just well-cut, light and made from something other than polyester. And maybe with a subtle high-low hem job to boot. In fact, over the course of writing this post I took a break to peruse Piperlime’s bi-yearly tag sale, and found a few interesting candidates. 

Coincidence? Perhaps. 

About the book

Publication Date: March 11, 2013
W.W. Norton & Company
Hardcover; 384p
ISBN-10: 039307157X

A lush, exquisitely rendered meditation on war, The Gods of Heavenly Punishment tells the story of several families, American and Japanese, their loves and infidelities, their dreams and losses, and how they are all connected by one of the most devastating acts of war in human history.

Fifteen-year-old Yoshi Kobayashi, child of Japan’s New Empire, daughter of an ardent expansionist and a mother with a haunting past, is on her way home on a March night when American bombers shower her city with napalm—an attack that leaves one hundred thousand dead within hours and half the city in ashen ruins. In the days that follow, Yoshi’s old life will blur beyond recognition, leading her to a new world marked by destruction and shaped by those considered the enemy: Cam, a downed bomber pilot taken prisoner by the Imperial Japanese Army; Anton, a gifted architect who helped modernize Tokyo’s prewar skyline but is now charged with destroying it; and Billy, an Occupation soldier who arrives in the blackened city with a dark secret of his own. Directly or indirectly, each will shape Yoshi’s journey as she seeks safety, love, and redemption.

Praise for The Gods of Heavenly Punishment

“…The book reveals itself to be as miraculously constructed as Frank Lloyd Wright's Imperial Hotel in Tokyo (which itself is a character). The Gods of Heavenly Punishment is a page-turner thanks to its high-stakes adventure, torrid love affairs and characters so real they seem to follow you around. And in the end, this gripping novel asks us not just to consider a lost chapter of a famous war but also to explore what it means to be lucky—and what it means to be loved. (Amy Shearn, O magazine)

"The Gods of Heavenly Punishment showcases war’s bitter ironies...as well as its romantic serendipities." (Megan O’Grady, Vogue)

"With stunning clarity, Epstein has re-created Tokyo both before and after the bombing in a novel that raises still-unanswered questions about the horrors of war, the cruelty associated with it and the lasting impression it can make on a person, a people or a place." (Shelf-Awareness.com)

“An epic novel about a young Japanese girl during World War II underscores the far-reaching impact that the decisions of others can have.” (Kirkus Reviews)

"Epstein’s second novel (after The Painter from Shanghai) is bursting with characters and locales. Yet painful, authentic (Epstein has lived and worked in Asia), and exquisite portraits emerge of the personal impact of national conflicts—and how sometimes those conflicts can be bridged by human connections." (Publishers Weekly)

“Sweeping….[A] harrowing novel of destruction and creation that will appeal to fans of historical fiction” (Library Journal—starred review)

About the Author

Jennifer Cody Epstein is the author of The Gods of Heavenly Punishment and the international bestseller The Painter from Shanghai. She has written for The Wall Street Journal, The Asian Wall Street Journal, Self, Mademoiselle and NBC, and has worked in Hong Kong, Japan and Bangkok, Thailand. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband, two daughters and especially needy Springer Spaniel. 

For more information, please visit www.jennifercodyepstein.com.

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(Giveaway) The Altarpiece (The Cross and The Crown Series, #1) by Sarah Kennedy

Knox Robinson Publishing, March 2013

The Altarpiece (The Cross and The Crown Series, #1) by Sarah Kennedy

It is 1535, and in the tumultuous years of King Henry VIII's break from Rome, the religious houses of England are being seized by force. Twenty-year-old Catherine Havens is a foundling and the adopted daughter of the prioress of the Priory of Mount Grace in a small Yorkshire village. Catherine, like her adoptive mother, has a gift for healing, and she is widely sought and admired for her knowledge.

Catherine’s hopes for a place at court have been dashed by the king’s divorce, and she has reluctantly taken the veil. In the remote North, the nuns enjoy the freedoms unavailable to other women. England is their home, but the times have changed, and now the few remaining nuns dread the arrival of the priory’s new owner, Robert Overton. When the priory’s costly altarpiece goes missing, Catherine and her friend Ann Smith find themselves under increased suspicion.

King Henry VIII’s soldiers have not had their fill of destruction, and when they return to Mount Grace to destroy the priory, Catherine must choose between the sacred calling of her past and the man who may represent her country’s future.

Why Margery Kempe? 

By Sarah Kennedy 

When I tell people that I am fascinated by the medieval mystic Margery Kempe, and that I have given a copy of her autobiography to my fictional nun, Catherine Havens, in my novel The Altarpiece, they often ask, “Why?” Why not her more subdued contemporary, Julian of Norwich, who assured us that “all manner of thing shall be well”?

Well, in Henry VIII’s England, all was not well, and Margery Kempe was, for me, the mystic for the Tudor era. The historical monastery at Mount Grace, which I used as the setting for my novel, actually did have a copy of the Book of Margery Kempe! My nun, Catherine, insists on the value of this early story of a self-determined mother, and it’s a good thing that people like Catherine existed, because we now recognize the Book of Margery Kempe as the one of the first autobiographies by an English woman. Margery’s life was actually recorded by monks, because Margery herself was apparently illiterate. It begins when Margery has had her first child and falls into what we would now call post-partum depression. A priest is called to hear her confession, and when he fails to pardon her, she falls into such a state that she must be tied to her own bed. Jesus appears to her, saying “Why hast thou forsaken me and I forsook never thee?” After this vision, Margery regains her wits.

Over the years, Margery starts several businesses (they all fail) and has fourteen children. She separates from her husband and goes on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. She’s robbed and abandoned by her maid while they’re in Rome. She meets up with an Irish hunchback named Richard, who kindly accompanies her home. Oh, and she’s dragged to York to be tried for heresy.

Pretty exciting, isn’t it? So why don’t more readers love brash, independent Margery? It’s the weeping bit. Margery developed “holy tears,” and while it may sound lovely, the condition was a constant annoyance to her neighbors. She also refers to Jesus as her “husband” and invites him into her bed for lovemaking. People tend to get very squirmy when they read these passages, and some are downright offended.

It’s important to remember, though, that in the Middle Ages and early Renaissance the notion of being a “bride of Christ” was a European metaphor for humanity’s relationship to the divine. All of humankind was seen either as a collective child to the parents of the Godhead or as the collective wife to Christ. This “feminized” humanity—even as it laid the path for the decreased power of wives after the Reformation, when the position of men in families was enhanced to fill the role vacated by priests.

In Margery Kempe’s time, Christ was commonly thought of as the husband of the church, and she takes this metaphor to its literal meaning. Margery may not be able to run a business, but she can be loved by God as passionately as any human being. And she maintains that her life is as worth recording as anyone’s, even down to the last days of her marriage, when she moves back in with her husband, now grown incontinent and feeble-minded, until his death. Margery Kempe was unashamed of compassion and of her ability to experience the divine physically.

This combination of compassion for others and confidence in her female self is what my nun Catherine values in Margery Kempe. Was Margery crazy? Maybe. But if she was, her “insanity” was caused by a holiness so intense that the banal world could not contain it.

  Author bio:
Sarah Kennedy is a professor of English at Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia and the author of seven books of poems. She holds a PhD in Renaissance Literature and an MFA in Creative Writing. Sarah has received grants from both the National Endowment for the Arts and the Virginia Commission for the Arts and is currently a contributing editor for Shenandoah. Sarah will publish a series of novels with Knox Robinson centering around the sixteenth century closure of the monasteries and convents of England by King Henry VIII. You may be able to meet her at some of the events she'll be attending this summer.

~~~~~~~~~~GIVEAWAY!~~~~~~~~~~

Open to HF-Connection followers in USA, the author's publicist is offering a giveaway of The Altarpiece to one lucky winner! Enter via the Rafflecopter form below. Please take note that there are TWO mandatory entries in order to be considered for the raffle.

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(Giveaway) The Unsinkable Herr Goering by Ian Cassidy

Cassowary Press; March 1st 2013

“Contrary to what the so-called history books tell you, Hermann Goering, Hitler's Deputy, Head of the Luftwaffe and second most powerful man in Nazi Germany, did not leave this world courtesy of a cyanide tablet secreted in the heel of his jackboot minutes before his appointment with the hangman. The truth is far more bizarre. THE UNSINKABLE HERR GOERING is a monumental debut novel by Ian Cassidy. It follows Goering, a man blindsided by hubris, on his attempted escape - from both Germany as well as from the Allies - and the inept men of mettle who put a stop to it. It is a hilariously depraved story of villainous villains, slightly less villainous heroes, bad behaviour (and even worse beer), and uncomfortable underwear. Not since A Confederacy of Dunces has a book brought to life such audaciously flawed characters. It gets so much wrong, yet so much right.”

Please welcome the author Ian Cassidy with the following piece about his book:

The name Herman Goering conjures up images of excess, gluttony, greed, red-faced spluttering rage, art theft and complicity in the most unspeakable atrocities. What is less well known is that he had an embarrassing secret.

The extensive research I did for my novel The Unsinkable Herr Goering, combined with a few educated guesses, a few more minor flights of fancy and even more leaps of imagination, led me to the shocking discovery that Herman Goering—Hitler’s deputy, Reich Marshal of Germany and Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe—was a transvestite.

Unearthing this previously overlooked, if largely irrelevant piece of information set me on the path to further remarkable discoveries. By the same methods of detailed research, informed guesswork, wild speculation and brazen fabrication, I discovered that the Herman Goering who gave evidence at Nuremberg, the man who came so close to outwitting Chief Justice Jackson and derailing the entire process was in fact an impostor, an actor substituted by the Allies. That is because the real Herman Goering was lying in a watery grave following a fateful meeting with a dodgy house painter from Birmingham and a fatal encounter with the Royal Navy off the coast of Gibraltar.

Herman Goering did not take his own life minutes before his appointment with Master Sergeant John Woods and no-one died in that cell. The impostor slipped quietly away to obscurity, and for the first time the extraordinary ‘real’ events leading up to Goering’s death are related in my novel.

The Unsinkable Herr Goering is a monumental historical comedy, and whilst I play fast and loose with some of the facts, others are presented with scrupulous accuracy. The details about Von Stauffenberg’s attempt on Hitler’s life are accurate as are the details about the city of Lichfield in the summer of 1944. As the home of the Staffordshire Regiment, Lichfield was a hive of military activity as the Staffords prepared to supplement the Parachute Regiment in linking up with U.S. and Polish forces for the ill-fated airborne assault on the Rhine bridges that culminated in disaster at Arnhem.

There’s some techie stuff in there too. I had to research what sort of light aircraft the head of the Luftwaffe may have flown, and all the technical details relating to that are accurate, including airspeed and range without re-fuelling. The same is true of the sports cars manufactured by Mercedes Benz at the time. I researched the development of the Autobahns, so that when my characters hurtle down the motorway, it was really there and the car was really capable of such speeds. But the research I enjoyed most was that concerning the Nazis predilection for looting major artworks, the parts of my novel concerning the Amber Room, the Sterzing Altar and the career of Hans Van Meegeren are accurate.

The Unsinkable Herr Goering isn't just a comedy. Goering, despite the comic potential in his vast bulk, his outrageous greed, flamboyant dress and penchant for gaudy military decorations, was an evil man and at times the novel reflects this. It has something for everyone—history, sex, travel and boozing, but above all plenty of laughs.

About Ian Cassidy:
Ian Cassidy was born in Staffordshire just as the 'swinging sixties' became the austere, strike-ridden seventies. He went to the Cathedral School in Lichfield, where he still lives. He studied law in London but hated being a barrister so he tried teaching law at a local university. Needless to say he hated that as well and so he tried his hand at string of jobs including painting and decorating, bookmaking, restoring antique furniture & paintings and stocktaking for a beer tap manufacturer.
He now teaches law privately and writes. For more details see www.iancassidy.co.uk

Follow the instructions on the Rafflecopter form below to enter for a copy of The Unsinkable Herr Goering by Ian Cassidy!



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Guest Post: Helen Bryan's 'The Sisterhood' | Women in the Aftermath of the Reconquista

The Sisterhood; April 2013

Please welcome author Helen Bryan:

It was not until I began a biography of Martha Washington, intending to look at the American Revolution from her perspective and that of other women of the time, that I had something of a Damascene moment about how wide the gaps in history are. Among accounts of battles, military strategy and the views of the Founding Fathers, I had to search long and hard to find information about women’s experiences. “The ladies, God bless ‘em” were mostly invisible. As ever. Too often, we have no idea of history’s impact on women because the record is silent. In this scenario writers of historical fiction become archaeologists, piecing together clues from their research, to reconstruct in fiction something of the reality of women’s lives in the past.

My latest book “The Sisterhood” is a woman’s eye view of Spain in the sixteenth century in the aftermath of the reconquista in 1492. This was a watershed in history, marking the defeat of the Moors who had ruled Spain for nearly seven hundred years by the Reyes Catholicos, Isabella and Ferdinand, who united Spain vowing to establish God’s kingdom on earth. The rise of Spain as a world power and the expansion of the Spanish empire overseas in the Americas followed, while Spain itself became a religious police state, instituting a policy of ethnic cleansing. Muslims and Jews, who had previously co- existed with Christians under the Moors were persecuted, forcibly converted, exiled, and killed. No one was safe from suspicion and denunciation as a heretic or secret Jew or Muslim, and the Inquisition had sweeping powers to investigate individuals, with the help of a network of informers and torture. It must have been terrifying.

And where did women fit into the picture? For women in the higher echelons of society with the necessary dowry, it was often as nuns. A cloistered existence of religious discipline, confinement and celibacy may appear an unnatural choice today, but then it offered intelligent women the possibility of intellectual pursuits, a chance to exercise financial control over the convent’s assets and make a real contribution to the general welfare. Convents ran hospitals, orphanages, school, and nuns enjoyed status in society. In addition, given the high mortality rates of women in childbirth, a nun might well outlive her married sisters. Whether women entered convents willingly or unwillingly, life there offered undeniable benefits, especially as a woman was unlikely to marry where she liked but as her male relatives dictated. Convents proliferated. And it was a visit to a Spanish convent dating from the reconquista that inspired “The Sisterhood.” The unusual feature of this convent was its orphanage for illegitimate daughters of the Spanish aristocracy. After growing up in the convent, the girls progressed from the orphanage to novitiate to the veil. To prepare them for their religious lives, their playthings were a bizarre selection of toys on display: nun dolls, a miniature convent, doll size altars and tiny altar fittings. The presence of these children whose cloistered fate had been fixed at birth, lingered in the old, low-ceilinged rooms with their smell of beeswax, incense and age. The atmosphere was irresistible for a writer.

Beginning with the fictional “What if…”, I first imagined a romance featuring a plucky orphan girl who ran away from the convent, made her way to Spanish America and found love. Once I began to research the necessary background to the story- the lives and orders of sixteenth century nuns, religious diaries of the time, accounts of Inquisition excesses, the Spanish conquest in America, the Incas, the story changed. One orphan girl became five, each in danger of persecution by the authorities. And to explain why the nuns gave them refuge, I drew on one of many early Christian legends, the three Marys of the New Testament who are said to have made their way to the coast of France, where their supposed relics are venerated to this day. I gave the nuns of “The Sisterhood” an equally ancient spiritual tradition dating back to Roman Spain, which explained their courage and determination to uphold humanitarian values at the risk of their lives. Suddenly there was a much bigger story to tell, connecting the past with the present. Staring me in the face was the fact that religious oppression given a political dimension in sixteenth century Spain had a resonance in modern times with the political tensions that exist between Muslims, Jews and Christians across the world. The sixteenth century orphan girls in fear of their lives have their counterparts in young women who are victims of human trafficking and abuse now.


The romantic theme I once imagined was the focus became woven throughout into the individual stories of different characters, stories forgotten until they are recovered and told centuries later by a young woman who makes the unexpected discovery that she herself is a link in a long chain of Sisterhood.

Book summary of The Sisterhood:

With THE SISTERHOOD, Bryan weaves two stories separated by centuries about the resilience of the female spirit. Set in Spain during the sixteenth century and present-day, Bryan tells the story of Los Golondrinas Convent—a place of refuge for women and girls during the Spanish Inquisition regardless of faith or sin, many of whom had desperate reasons to hide from the church and state authorities.


Each girl and woman’s story was recorded in the Convent’s chronicle to bear witness of the cruelty and inhumanity they suffered. The Chronicle helped bind the sisterhood across generations.


Centuries later, Menina Walker, a 19-year-old adopted daughter of a small-town American couple, finds her life in shambles. A despicable incident causes her to call off her wedding, and she finds herself alone and depressed. Her best friend arranges a trip to Spain for her to get away, and Menina takes with her the only links to her birth family: an ancient book and a medal from the convent from which her parents adopted her.

In the process of unlocking the stories of the Chronicle, she learns that nothing less than destiny brought her to the birthplace of her ancestors, and the power to find peace and love had been burning in her blood all along.

Helen Bryan is an American-born writer living in London for many years. Previous books include War Brides and Martha Washington: First Lady of Liberty.

{3 book giveaway!} Jack Absolute by C.C. Humphreys

Excerpt and Giveaway spotlight special!

Jack Absolute: A Novel A Sourcebooks reissue available May 7th 2013

Reimagined as the title character in C.C. Humphreys’ first novel in a three-book series set during the American Revolution Humphreys has long had a love affair with the character of Jack Absolute. The actor played the dashing leading man in a British tour of The Rivals early in his career, and decided to bring him from the stage to the page when he began writing novels. A bit about the book…

It’s 1777 when Captain Jack Absolute becomes a sensation throughout London. This news comes as a shock to the real Jack Absolute when he arrives in England after four months at sea. But there’s little time for outrage before he finds himself dueling for his life. Right when he thinks he’s finally won, he is forced to flee London by the quickest means possible, becoming a spy in the American Revolution. From the streets of London, to the pivotal battle of Saratoga, to a hunt for a double agent in Philadelphia, Jack Absolute marks the exhilarating beginning of an epic historical series and a character you won’t soon forget.

The following is an excerpt from Jack Absolute: A Novel by C.C. Humphreys

Chapter Three: The Duel
 (please forgive the formatting, not indicative of the finished novel)

My young friend will have redress for his injuries. As an officer of the King, are you not unable to refuse him? Jack stared across the dueling ground at the Count von Schlaben, the man’s words, spoken so softly the previous night, echoing in his head. That the German wanted him to fight and, presumably, die was clear. But why? Why? Because he was an officer of the King? He wasn’t. And yet…hadn’t Burgoyne made it known that Jack had already agreed to rejoin his regiment as the General’s Intelligence? Jack shook his head. The remains of the cognac he’d drunk the night before still muffled his reasoning while the cold was beginning to numb other parts. And he suddenly realized that such musing would clarify nothing. The reason might not matter anyway, as he could be dead very shortly. The best—the only—way to avoid that was to get this fight over with as soon as possible. There would be time enough for “why” later. Or not. Jack had been content to hang back with his thoughts and leave the formalities to others. But it was clear, by the increasing volume of the voices, that a resolution was far from being reached. Blowing his nose again, he went over. “Gentlemen, if we do not commence soon, I’ll freeze before I fight. What is the problem?” A babble arose. Sheridan’s voice, used to the demands of the theater, won through. “Jack, they wish to make it to the death. And to ensure such a result they wish to fight with these.” He gestured to a servant standing behind the squabblers. The man held two “hangers,” the cavalryman’s main weapon. The wounds this heavy, curved sword could deliver, in capable hands, were hideous. His opponent’s hands looked more than capable. “As a tribute to our branch of the army, sir. Do you not think it fitting?” Tarleton’s almost pretty face twisted with emotions he could barely suppress. He is a man for whom control is difficult, Jack thought. Something to remember in the fight ahead. “Fitting?” he said. “I have no desire to kill or be killed as a tribute to anything.” Before anyone could speak again, he added, “Furthermore, gentlemen, as the challenged party, I believe my Seconds have the right to decide. They act for me.” Sheridan stepped forward. “My friend is correct. And, as I have said, we choose small swords, since the light is poor for pistols. And the matter to be honorably settled at the sight of First Blood.” Muttering began at that through the gallery of spectators. People had come to see a death, not a wounding. “Never mind.” Tarleton stepped forward, his eyes holding Jack’s, his voice quavering, though there was no fear in it. “First Blood can be last blood too.” The promise hung in the air until Tarleton’s First-Second, the Ensign from the Coldstreams, spoke, his voice unpleasantly thin and nasal. “Your Seconds? An Irishman and…what is this fellow exactly? We know that the Absolute name has fallen low. Your father bays at the moon, does he not? But could you not get better than an Irish playwright and a savage who does not even comprehend our language?” The emphasis was contemptuous in the extreme. Jack felt Até stir beside him. The Mohawk had little concern for the etiquette of a duel. He’d stove this man’s head in and not think twice about it. Quickly, Jack said, “Do you refer to Até here? He does indeed speak English.” The Ensign turned to the semicircle of men who had gathered closer to listen. “My betrothed, Lady Augusta, keeps a parrot who can talk. Any animal can be taught tricks.” Guffaws rippled through the gathered gentlemen. “Shall I spill his brains onto the ground, Daganoweda?” Até had stepped back to give himself room to swing, his hand resting on the tomahawk at his waist. He’d spoken in Iroquois and Jack answered in the same. “I doubt you’d find any to spill, Até. Could not you quote him some of your infernal Hamlet instead?” The Mohawk’s gaze flicked to Jack. “Could not Lady Augusta’s parrot do as much?” Jack sighed, looked heavenward for a moment. He really needed to get his friend back across the ocean. So-called civilization was sapping his reserves of irony. Then, in that moment, Jack recognized the Ensign. Savingdon was his name, a Viscount, and Jack had been at Westminster School with the man’s elder and equally bovine brother. “Até here can trace his family back for seven generations and every ancestor royalty of the tribe. Wasn’t your grandfather, Savingdon, the coal merchant who bought his title?” It was true and all there knew it. The laughter made the Viscount’s already florid face flush a deeper red. He stepped forward, hand reaching for his sword. “You dog, Absolute! If my friend here doesn’t kill you, I will.” Tarleton said, “You will not get that chance.” A hubbub arose from the gallery. The President, a colonel of the Foot Guards, tried to lift his voice above it and restore calm. He failed. “Enough.” The word was spoken quietly. Yet the speaker’s command was such that there was an almost instant hush. “Is this how such matters are conducted in this realm? Are we here to talk or to fight?” Once more Jack looked at Tarleton’s Second-Second; into the gray eyes, so mild in that long face framed with white-blond hair. Once more he was puzzled. Everything else concerning this affair reminded him of episodes from his youth, the English gentleman and his prickly honor. But this man, this German, was out of place in such a scene. Before Jack could consider any further, Savingdon was braying, “Enough, indeed. Let us begin,” and Jack was being pulled away by his friends. “My lawyer, Phillpott’s of the Inner Temple, has all the details should anything befall me,” Jack said in answer to Sheridan’s entreaty. “There’s precious little left in the Absolute coffers; we’re mortgaged to the last button, hence the importance of my journey to the Indies. Enough to keep Sir James supplied with wine in his cell at Bedlam for a time. But it’s a pauper’s grave for me and nothing for you, I’m afraid, Até.” “Then may I suggest you win this fight so we can complete your business and I can return to my people, as befits my status, with rich gifts for all.” “Is that what concerns you?” Jack looked at his friend. “Your status? I might be dead in a moment. Have you nothing to say of that?” “I will say just two things, Daganoweda. Firstly, this man who talked of parrots will die moments after you do. Secondly, concerning your death, remember this.” He drew himself up to his full height, arms extended before him, as if he was about to speak in the meeting lodge of his tribe and, in sonorous Iroquoian, declaimed, “‘If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all.’” “Zounds,” Jack muttered, “Hamlet again! I wish I’d never introduced you to that bloody play.” “He is the Wise One. Wiser than you, Daganoweda. For when he was to die, he knew why. He had accepted it, like a warrior. Yet you still think you are to die for a woman. And I think you are wrong.” Jack had little time to consider his friend’s words. Tarleton had taken his position at one end of the rectangle of snow, tamped down by those who’d come early to enjoy the fight. He stood there, swishing his sword, still clad only in his linen shirt. “Your coat, Jack?” Sheridan already held his cloak. “No,” Jack sniffed. “I don’t mind being killed—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to catch a cold.” He stepped up to his mark. They saluted the President, their opponent’s Seconds, each other. Then their two swords rose, ends meeting with the faintest of chimes. It was like the toll of some faraway bell, a stirring of consciousness, and it instantly cleared the very last effects of cognac from Jack’s head. His plan was simple. He assumed, from their previous dealings, that his opponent would be mad in assault, contemptuous of defense, that he would fall like a storm upon Jack’s artfully casual resistance. Fire and fury was what was expected from youth; coolness and calm the prerogative of age and experience. Yet in the opening exchanges, the younger man refused to conform to Jack’s prejudice; was not tempted into an extended lunge, did not respond to the first of Jack’s feints when he left his weapon slightly out of true, in tierce. He parried and riposted and parried again in the least exerting of ways. Damn him, thought Jack, taking a breath, the bastard’s come to fence. Tarleton was obviously conscientious in his attendance at Master Angelo’s Academy in the Haymarket. Though Jack had himself been one of the Italian’s foremost pupils, it had been fifteen years since he’d last ascended those steep stairs—and the small sword required a subtlety of mind, a strength and nimbleness of wrist, and continual practice. The last thing he wanted was a fencing bout. The fighters separated, sword tips an inch apart, the preliminaries ended. Each had a sense of the other. Jack breathed, tried to focus on his plan. A glimpse of blood was all that was needed for honor to be satisfied, to enable him to walk away. If Tarleton would not be drawn into rashness, there were other ways to attain this end. A good scratch would do it. He just had to set about inflicting one. Yet as Jack considered, his opponent began on stratagems of his own. A dozen rapid passes, a flank temptingly exposed; Jack lured, over-lunging. His rear ankle bent instead of staying sole-flat to the ground, requiring an extra second to restore his balance; and in that small moment, Tarleton circular parried hard to the right. Jack’s thigh was stretched out, exposed, his weapon too extended for protection; and the spectators who knew their sword-work, waiting for the swift strike at thigh that would at least wound but could kill if the artery were pierced, caught their breath. The moment passed. Tarleton did not move; Jack regained his balance, dropped his point, and slashed. Since the small sword has no cutting edge, all knew that this was mere desperation on Jack’s part. They also knew that a chance for Tarleton to end the fight had not been taken; most realized, then, that for him, a glimpse of blood would not be enough. Recovering, Jack returned once more to guard. His breath plumed the air before him, dissipating before it could join with his opponent’s negligible exhalation. He was hot and now wished he had taken off his jacket. Yet to do so at this stage would be an acknowledgement he would not give his enemy. That last desperate slash had spent enough of his credit for coolness. “Agitated, Absolute?” Tarleton’s voice was calm, seemingly unaffected by the exercise. “You’re as red as you were when I caught you astride that whore last night.” Recognizing the goad to anger, disdaining it, Jack took a deeper breath and smiled. “You malign a lady, sir, whose only wrong is preferring a man to a boy. Though, if the story be true, her rejection of you was more to do with the, uh, length of your sword. Quill-trimmer was the term used, I believe.” He heard Sheridan mutter, “For God’s sake, Absolute.” Indeed, the jibe was barely worthy of the playing field at Westminster. Yet it seemed to have such a startling effect that it left Jack speculating it must indeed have been true. “My sword? You shall feel the length of my sword, you dog!” Jack had but a moment to marvel at the change in Tarleton’s color. Roaring, the youth disengaged his blade and hurled himself wide, thrusting for Jack’s right flank. Retiring a step, parrying with point down, Jack riposted to the man’s breast, under his arm. Stuck at the full length of his lunge, Tarleton went to parry hard…but encountered no blade there; for Jack had merely feinted, disengaged again and thrust to Tarleton’s left shoulder. The younger man was forced to pivot off his front foot to make the parry, his back leg spinning out and round. Jack followed, keeping his blade bound tight to his opponent’s, moving him around. He could have struck again but decided to savor this first little victory—and let Tarleton savor it too. Finally he stepped away. Oaths were uttered, in approval or condemnation depending on the support. Suddenly, a one-sided fight had become a contest. Tarleton, smarting from conceding even a point, immediately began another assault. Jack had only a heartbeat to congratulate himself on the success of his provocation before he was protecting himself from the result of it. A lunge in carte, one in seconde, the next in tierce. Jack contented himself with parrying and nothing more, but refusing to give any ground. This was forcing Tarleton to “thrust at the wall,” an academy exercise to make sure parries were true…and almost an insult to a good swordsman. For Jack had discovered that, once the river of Tarleton’s anger had flooded, it would not recover its banks with any rapidity. Another thrust came, another step to the right taken, parrying with point down. Jack’s weight was on his back foot and, still in his fury, Tarleton slashed diagonally up at Jack’s face. Yet Jack had seen the preparation for that, the slight withdrawal of steel that indicated it. He ducked low, back over his bent right leg. The slash had taken the younger man off-balance, and now Jack lunged, stretching from the crouch to his full length. Desperately, Tarleton threw himself to his right, his sword point down, just preventing Jack’s from puncturing him. Their hands were almost touching, their bodies close, and the youth tried to pummel his sword fist into Jack’s face. Withdrawing his blade and swinging his back leg away, Jack used his left hand to slap down the blow. They separated again. Two equal clouds of breath met and mingled in the frigid air. A voice called out, English, but with an Iroquois accent. “You can finish him now, Daganoweda. Your name says what you are and his says nothing.” “And what does that name mean, Até? I always meant to ask,” said Sheridan. “‘Inexhaustible.’” He turned to the Irishman and winked. “His first wife gave it to him.” Jack, meanwhile, simply breathed. He was not as inexhaustible as once he’d been. And his younger opponent would recover quicker. So he began to attack. He’d noticed that a patch of mud and grass had appeared beneath the snow, scraped up by their endeavors. All he had to do was draw Tarleton into an extended lunge… Yet it was he who was drawn. Instead of parrying, Tarleton avoided the blade with a volte, a leap and a thrust to the left side. Jack had to step hard right to parry it…and his foot landed square in the churned earth and melting snow. He slipped down to one knee, his sword arm halting his fall. With a grunt, Tarleton drew his weapon back and thrust down with a blow meant to puncture flesh and snap bone. With a part of his mind Jack watched the weapon come, aimed straight into his watching eye. With another he let the hand, still holding his sword that pressed into the snow, slip. So sure was Tarleton of his triumph that his blade didn’t waver, didn’t follow the slight movement of the head. So he was as surprised as Jack when the point met cloth, not flesh, and plunged through the collar of Jack’s jacket, the one he’d wished he was no longer wearing, ripping half of it away. The force of the blow pushed the torn shred of wool down, impaling it into the frozen ground. The weapon shivered with the blow, then snapped. “Hold, sir, hold,” cried the man acting as President. Tarleton would not be halted. Pulling back the half-sword, now with its jagged end, he made to thrust again. Yet his target had shifted, Jack had rolled onto his back. His own weapon, lifted from the snow, came round. The broken blade descended but Jack swiped it aside with the outside of his left hand. At the same time he jabbed up with his right. He didn’t have to jab far. Tarleton was falling. Jack’s point pierced his ear in its center, went through, and held it like a piece of meat prepared for an open fire. Blood, for the second time in twenty-four hours, spattered Jack. “First Blood…sir,” Jack said. A howl from Tarleton, a cry from the onlookers. And another sound, unheard till then—a horn, then another, a third from their proximity minutes only from the dueling ground. The combatants were pulled apart. The President came forward. “Fielding’s men. The Runners are come! Here’s First Blood drawn and honor satisfied, eh? Shake hands and let’s be gone. None of us wants to spend time in the Clink, do we, gentlemen?” “Come, Jack, to Drury Lane.” Sheridan’s face was flushed. “I’ll dress you as Harlequin in a pantomime and hide you onstage. And, by God, if you don’t put this into a new play, I will!” The horns were drawing closer, and the yelping of dogs was added to them. The hunt was on. At the far side of the trampled square of snow, Viscount Savingdon had withdrawn Jack’s sword and was trying to stem the blood flowing from Tarleton’s ear while Von Schlaben whispered urgently into the other. “No!” screamed Banastre Tarleton. Suddenly he leaped to his left, where his valet still held the weapons that had been rejected for the duel. Pulling one of the cavalry sabers from its sheath, he ran across the square toward Jack. Jack, shrugging into his cloak, turned at the scream, but not in time. The heavy blade was rising and, in that instant, both he and Tarleton knew that there would be no second miss, no collar to save him now. Something else did. Something that flew from the edge of the clearing and struck the shrieking man on his temple, just before the saber could begin its descent. Tarleton dropped to the ground as if he’d been shot. The sword sank into the snow beside him while, on his other side, another weapon fell as if from the sky. “God?” yelled Sheridan, looking up, as if searching for the source of such divine deliverance. “Até,” said Jack, and bent to pick up the tomahawk. “Good throw, brother.” The Mohawk thrust the weapon back into his belt and shrugged. “I do not understand all the rules of these contests. But as your Second, was I not meant to stop such a thing?” Savingdon had rushed to the fallen man. “Your savage has killed him!” he cried. “If my savage had meant to kill him, then he’d be dead.” Jack smiled. “Is that not right, Até? You struck him with the top of the weapon, not the cutting edge, eh?” For the first time, Até looked a little disconcerted. “Actually, brother, maybe it was just not such a good throw.” The horn blasts sounded again, much nearer now. Shouts too, seemingly from all sides. “Come, gentlemen,” said Sheridan, “time to make our exit.” The crowd had scattered swiftly, for anyone arrested at the scene of a duel could be prosecuted. The largest body, counting on the strength of their numbers, headed for the most direct route back to the road—which was, of course, the direction from which the constables were approaching. Others broke, in singles and pairs, in all directions. “This way,” called Sheridan. They burst through a screen of trees cresting a small bank. The snow had drifted here, rising to their thighs, making it hard going. To their left came an excited shout, a blast of horn. Looking there, Jack saw three men in gray greatcoats. Each was armed and one now unleashed two hounds. “To the right, lads,” Jack cried, and he began to straddle the snow, seeming to go where it was thickest. It was exhausting work but looking back, Jack saw his choice had been correct; for the dogs were finding the drifts too deep, leaping like porpoises in a white sea only to be swallowed and having to leap again. Their handlers were not faring any better. They had gained some advantage when they reached a drover’s path where the snow had been beaten down with hooves. Immediately, they began to run, stumbling at first, used as they were to the sensation of resistance. Soon, however, they picked up a good pace, though by the sounds of the yelps behind them, it would not be long before the dogs were moving swifter than they on the packed snow. Ahead, through the gloom and falling snow, they saw a light. A shepherd’s hut stood on the edge of the common there. “The Windsor Road, I think. Means our landau is round the other side, dammit.” Sheridan was breathing more heavily than the others, unused to this outdoor work. “It would have been secured by the Runners anyway.” Jack led them around the side of the hut. In its lee they paused for a moment, squatted down. Sheep in a pen regarded them incuriously. “If Windsor’s that way then so’s the river. We can lose the dogs in the reeds on the bank. Come on.” Jack rose, Até beside him. Sheridan struggled up but, red-faced, fell back. “No, me boys, this hare has run his last. I think I’ll converse with the owner of this fine establishment. Always useful to hear how the simple folk are talking these days. And when the Runners find me here, I can entertain them for a while.” Jack began to protest but Sheridan interrupted him. “Go and Godspeed. They will not incarcerate me long. We play my new comedy, The School for Scandal, for the King next week, and he will not like to be disappointed. Go!” Two swift handshakes, and Jack and Até turned, began to run. Behind them Sheridan called out, “Write me, dearest Jack, of your exploits, if you please. You always provide such thundering good plots!” Jack snorted. He knew how this plot had to end. They needed to buy—or steal—horses in Windsor and ride south. The Portsmouth road was not far. He had to beat the news of this action to the coast. With the right tide, he could be aship and on his way to Nevis ahead of any pursuit. They were a few hundred paces along the road when they heard the dogs again. Glancing back, they saw lanterns and shapes moving before the shepherd’s hut. Some lingered, but a significant body set off in immediate pursuit. They ran faster, looking to the left for a gap in the hedgerows, a path through the fields and down to the river. Behind them, the horns blew again, dogs bayed. And then another sound came under it all, a rolling, crunching noise, joined by the clear snap of a whip. Half-turning, Jack saw the huge shape of a coach and six, moving at speed through the pursuing pack. He was close enough to hear the curses heaped upon the coachman. The vehicle drew alongside, slowing slightly to match their stride. A blind went up. “Care for a ride, Jack?” John Burgoyne leaned in the window, a pipe in one hand, silver flask in the other. Jack didn’t hesitate. “Much obliged, General,” he said, swinging a foot up onto the running board. The door of the carriage opened and he threw himself inside while Até, a pace behind, scrambled up the rear of the coach to its roof. As he was joined, the coachman cracked his whip again and the six horses surged forward. “Strange…that you should just…happen by, sir,” Jack gasped. “Strange indeed. And fortuitous, it seems.” Burgoyne smiled at him. “Cognac?” “A moment…to catch my breath, sir…if you please.” He leaned out of the window, looked back. Darkness had enveloped the sight of pursuit. The sounds of horns, frustrated men, and yelping dogs retreated into the night. Jack sat back, then became aware of a presence beside him. He turned. “Ah, Miss Reardon. Please excuse the intrusion.” She smiled. “Mr. Absolute, how glad I am to see you again.” Then her smile vanished. “But you are wounded, sir! Quickly, may I help you? I have some knowledge of these matters.” “Wounded?” He glanced down. “Oh, the blood is not mine.” And he laughed. It suddenly felt rather good to do so, so he carried on for a little while, until Burgoyne, a broad grin on his own face, said, “So, did you kill your man, Jack?” “I did not, sir. I had hoped to avoid it. I merely pricked him.” Burgoyne shook his head. “You might come to regret that. This Tarleton has built up a brutish reputation. Scarce eighteen, and he has already dispatched three fellows. He’s not the sort to consider honor satisfied if he loses. And he keeps some strange company.” Jack now took the flask and drank. The cognac tasted even better than it had the previous night. “Are you referring to his Second, this German Count? I did wonder about him.” “And so you should.” Louisa added, “The General believes he is aiding the Rebels in my poor country.” “In what way?” “Have you heard of the Illuminati, Jack?” “I have not.” Burgoyne took the flask back, drank, then continued. “Of course, you’ve been away. And even if you’d been here, you might not have…you do not move within the Mystery, do you?” The General was referring to the Freemasons. Jack had always avoided the Brotherhood, even though it might have aided him in his business ventures. He felt there was more than enough secrecy in his life, enough obligation. But he knew Burgoyne to be high up in the order. “I do not, sir. Are these Illuminati a lodge then?” “Of a kind. A new one, formed in Munich only last year by a man called Adam Weishaupt. A professor of religious law, apparently, and many of his followers are of the same ilk. Lawyers!” Burgoyne gave the title a soldier’s contemptuous emphasis, drew on his pipe. “Yet these fellows have formed a secret society within a secret society. No one is quite sure what they want, though they have tried to infiltrate every lodge in the realm, succeeded with many. This Von Schlaben even approached me.” Burgoyne exhaled a gout of smoke toward the carriage window. “I now regret not leading the Count on a little to discover more. But a contact who did said this Weishaupt’s motives are shrouded in Jesuitical casuistry. He was educated by Jesuits, apparently, and rejected them later as not extreme enough, too tied to a Catholic orthodoxy. Thus my friend did not learn much; but he got the impression that these Illuminati seek, in all societies, disorder, disruption—” “Revolution?” “Indeed. To build an ‘illuminated’ new order out of the chaos of the old. With them in control, presumably.” Now that Jack’s heart had calmed, his mind was engaged. And there were questions here that puzzled him. “So why his interest in me? He seemed very set on my extinction.” As he asked the question, he recalled again part of their conversation at Drury Lane, Burgoyne’s parting words, and, remembering it, he had the beginnings of an answer. “Did you not let it be known, sir, that I had already accepted your offer to rouse the Iroquois for the King?” Burgoyne smiled. “I’m rather afraid I may have given out that impression.” “So if Von Schlaben understands the importance of the Iroquois to the British cause, he might perceive me as a serious threat to the Revolution? To the disorder he seeks?” “You know, Jack, I’m rather afraid he might.” Jack looked out of the window at the roadway speeding by. The fields were giving way to more houses. They were entering the outskirts of Windsor. Of course. There always had been more to it than a dispute over a pretty player. “Well, General, I think you have enmeshed me here.” It was said with a little heat but Burgoyne merely smiled still. “Alas, Jack, I fear you are right. How ever can I make amends?” “You are bound for Portsmouth?” He received a nod. “Then a ride there would quit your obligation. My boat, as yours, awaits. If you will but take me to the docks—” “And you will be arrested the moment you set foot upon them. My boy, you were called out in the most public setting possible. In accepting Tarleton’s challenge, you in turn challenged the Authorities…and they seem very serious about restricting a gentleman’s prerogative of honor. Examples must be made and you will make a fine one. Not too wealthy to cause a fuss but still well known. Your estates will be forfeit, your neck may well be stretched, you will at the least be thrown into the Clink and nothing can save you.” Burgoyne smiled again. “Well, almost nothing.” “‘Almost nothing,’” General?” Louisa leaned in. “Oh, do say there is something that can be done for the gallant Captain!” They seemed to be sharing a private joke. Jack, looking from one to the other, suddenly realized what it was. And that it was on him. “As usual, my dear, you have hit upon the very heart of it. If you were indeed ‘Captain’ Jack Absolute again, entrusted by a commander of one of His Majesty’s armies—odds life, I suppose someone very much like myself!—entrusted, as I say, with a mission vital to your country’s cause…why then, my boy, no civil power on earth could touch you.” Enmeshed indeed. There was no escaping from the snare. Instead of further anger, though, Jack could only tip back his head and laugh. “It really is a very good plot,” he said, looking at each in turn, “I must write Sheridan with it.” “You will have plenty of time on our voyage to America.” Louisa smiled, laying her hand on Jack’s arm, squeezing it gently. He looked from her fingers up into her steady green eyes and seemed suddenly to see in their pattern something of the land from which she came. It appeared he had no choice now but to return to that land, to North America, eleven years after he’d left it. Até, facing into the wind atop the carriage, would be delighted. And Jack, now that he had no other option, was strangely pleased too. His business in Nevis could, with very careful handling, wait a short while. And as for the Colonies, he had had another life there, other causes; it would be a homecoming, of sorts. Once more, to be Daganoweda, the “Inexhaustible” of the Mohawk. Once more to be a captain of the 16th Light Dragoons. Once more to be a secret agent of the Crown. Leaning back into the cushions of the carriage, Jack Absolute faced the inevitable with a smile. Até’s words on the dueling ground came back to him. The readiness is all. He took the flask again, raised it first to the lady and then to the General. Taking a long pull of the exquisite cognac, Jack realized that he was, indeed, ready.

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