Nelson (By Force of Arms), the author of two nautical series, offers an exciting stand-alone naval warfare adventure. This time his hero is an officer in the battered and ill-equipped Confederate Navy during the American Civil War. Shortly after the fall of Fort Sumter in 1861, Lt. Samuel Bowater resigns his commission in the U.S. Navy, torn between his pledge of loyalty to the Union and his loyalty to his home state, South Carolina. Aided by his family's influence and his previous military experience, he joins the fledgling Confederate Navy, where he is assigned to be captain of an old steam-powered tugboat converted into a gunboat. Like all of Nelson's captains, Bowater is bright, brave, resourceful and disciplined. His crew, however, is a motley collection of landsmen and sailors, men who fall under the influence of the enigmatic chief engineer, Hieronymus Taylor, the violin-playing dictator of the engine room. With the old gunboat and an unpredictable crew, Bowater is at quite a disadvantage in his battles with the powerful Union navy, especially during the spectacular battle for Roanoke Island. Meanwhile, a Mississippi plantation owner, Robley Paine, loses his three sons at the first battle of Bull Run, and he devises a crazy scheme to protect the river frontage of his property. Bowater, Taylor and the crew team up with Paine in a futile defense of New Orleans. This solid story is filled with Civil War and naval history, focusing on steam-powered warships and ironclads and on the courage of men who sailed into shot and shell for a hopeless cause. Nelson also adds suspense, romance and a bit of mystery, leaving plenty of room for the obvious sequel. (Apr.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Glory in the Name: A Novel of the Confederate Navy
Narrated by Bradford Hastings
James L. NelsonUnabridged — 18 hours, 30 minutes
Glory in the Name: A Novel of the Confederate Navy
Narrated by Bradford Hastings
James L. NelsonUnabridged — 18 hours, 30 minutes
Overview
April 12, 1861. With one jerk of a lanyard, one shell arching into the sky, years of tension exploded into civil war. And for those men who did not know in which direction their loyalty called them, it was a time for decisions. Such a one was Lieutenant Samuel Bowater, an officer of the United States Navy, a native of Charleston, South Carolina.
Hard pressed to abandon the oath he swore to the United States, but unable to fight against his home state, Bowater accepts a commission in the nascent Confederate navy, where captains who once strode the quarterdecks of the world's most powerful ships are now assuming command of paddle wheelers and towboats. Taking charge of the armed tugboat Cape Fear, and then the ironclad Yazoo River, Bowater and his men go toe to toe with the powerful Union navy, standing up boldly in the face of the overwhelming force and resources of the North.
From Norfolk to Hampton Roads, from Roanoke Island to the wild nighttime battle on the river below New Orleans, Glory in the Name tells the dramatic story of the Confederate States Navy, and the brave men who carried forward against overwhelming odds the waterborne fight for Southern independence.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940175679299 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 10/11/2022 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
Glory in the Name
A Novel of the Confederate NavyBy James L. Nelson
William Morrow
ISBN: 0060199695Chapter One
... [A]t twenty-five minutes past four o'clock A.M., the circle of batteries with which the grim fortress of Fort Sumter is beleaguered opened fire.-Report of the Charleston PressOil on canvas, in his signature fine brushstroke, Samuel Bowater painted the opening shot of the War for Southern Independence.
He stood on a small, grassy rise at White Point Gardens at the very tip of Charleston, where the Cooper and Ashley rivers met. From there he looked out over the dark water of Charleston Harbor, six miles to the open ocean and the weak gray band of light in the east.
It was a cool morning, early April, and the damp found its way through his frock coat and the white linen shirt he wore under it. Civilian clothing, not nearly as warm as the uniform he was used to. A cloak coat was draped over his shoulders. He pulled it snug, rubbed his arms together, hunched his shoulders as he waited for the light to come up. The air smelled heavily of salt marsh and the smoke from early-morning fires wafting from chimneys. What sounds there were were muted and distant-birds and crickets, the lap of waves, the creaking of ships at the wharves.
Charleston was holding its breath. It had been for some time, since Anderson left Fort Moultrie for Sumter, and it could not continue to do so much longer.
In front of him, still lost in the predawn dark, the twenty-by-twenty-four-inch canvas on which he had been working for the past five mornings.
Samuel stared out past the black humps of land which were just becoming visible in the morning light, out toward the sea, where the growing dawn was beginning to bleach out the stars and the night sky.
He wanted to be ready for that moment when night yielded to dawn, when the daylight asserted itself and the tenor of everything changed. It was a moment he had witnessed a thousand times at sea, and now he wanted to re-create it on the canvas.
And then, right in front of him and four miles off, a sharp muzzle flash of red and orange, and lifting up from that flash, a long, hair-thin arc of light where the burning fuse of the shell tracked against the dark sky. Samuel Bowater swallowed, closed his eyes as the familiar flat pow of the distant artillery caught up with him.
It was followed immediately by another, and then the twin explosion of the shells.
So it shall be war ...
It was a resolution, at least. For months Bowater had been knocked about by the crosscurrent of speculation and rumor; the likelihood of peace, then the near certainty of war, then back again. Now, with the single jerk of a cannon's lanyard, the question was decided.
Morris Island, he thought. The shot had come from Morris Island. Stevens's Iron Battery.
Samuel Bowater, thirty-three years of age, lieutenant, United States Navy, on extended leave, had been kicking around his hometown of Charleston for months with little to do. He had come to know the harbor defenses well.
It would be days before he learned that the honor of firing that first shot had been offered to Congressman Roger Pryor of Virginia. That Pryor, understanding as Bowater did the enormity of the act, could not bring himself to pull the lanyard.
It would be a long four years before he read that the man who did finally discharge that shot, Edmund Ruffin, put a gun to his head rather than suffer the unbearable burden of a lost cause.
But that was in the future.
Samuel opened his eyes.
From all around Charleston Harbor, from Fort Moultrie and Stevens's Iron Battery, the Floating Battery, and the Dahlgren Battery, the Enfilade Battery and Major Trapier's Battery and Fort Johnson, the guns opened up on the sixty-eight Union troops huddled in Fort Sumter. The dark harbor was ringed with flashes of light, the bombardment so insistent that in some places it looked as if the shore had taken fire, and the bright trails crisscrossed the sky.
It was an awesome sight, beautiful and terrible at the same time. But in his mind Samuel Bowater saw only that first flash, that first arch of light.
The sky was growing rapidly brighter, and Samuel picked up his thinnest brush. He angled his paint kit toward the east, found the tube of cadmium yellow, squeezed a pea-sized drop on his palette. He stood back, but it was not yet light enough for him to see the canvas. He picked up the easel, turned it so the gray dawn light fell on the painting.
He took one last look at the harbor, the flames from the guns' muzzles, the streaks through the air like a hundred falling stars, and now the bright flash and deep rumble of shells that found Fort Sumter and exploded against its twelve-foot-thick walls.
Samuel turned back to the canvas. He dabbed the brush in the yellow paint, sighed, touched the sharp pointed bristles to the canvas right at Morris Island, and made a little slash of light, up and off to the left.
He squeezed yellow ocher onto the palette, augmented the yellow on the canvas, and then added red, blending the colors until he had the subtle multihues of a muzzle flash, as he himself had seen it that morning and so many times before.
He stood back, dabbed the cadmium yellow again, took a deep breath. One stroke to paint the trail of the shell's fuse, but it had to be perfect. He moved his hand over the canvas, the brush less than an inch from the surface, practicing the trajectory.
The dull sounds of the ceaseless bombardment surrounded him like a soft gray blanket of noise. And below that sound he heard another-cheering, shouting from the rooftops and along the harbor walls and from the ships tied up to their docks-but like the gunfire he was hardly aware of it. He was no longer in that scene, he was completely in his canvas ...
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Glory in the Name by James L. Nelson
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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