Hellbottom (The Shame & Glory Saga Book 4)
Tanned pages and age spots, however, this will not interfere with reading. Damaged cover. The cover of is slightly damaged for instance a torn or bent corner.
Seller Inventory CHL About this Item: Paperback. A readable copy of the book which may include some defects such as highlighting and notes. Cover and pages may be creased and show discolouration. Seller Inventory GOR Published by Pocket Books About this Item: Pocket Books, Name inside. Published by Pocket Book, New York Soft Cover.
This 4. Here is the Civil War at its most brutal, most violent. A shattering novel of raging passions. Seller Inventory md Published by Star : A paperback book. Orders shipped daily. From: Mr. Price Mansfield, United Kingdom. About this Item: Star : A paperback book. Please email us if you would like further information or if you would like us to send you a picture of the book. Thanks for looking! From: citynightsbooks Allston, MA, U. Pocket , first Pocket printing. A Civil War novel by the author of Slave.
African American Fiction
Published by London: W. About this Item: London: W. Small remainder saw-cut on bottom edge, spine crease, reading crease, a VG copy. Published by Star, British About this Item: Star, British, Solid copy with creases on spine and light wear on covers. Light felt pen mark on top edge of front cover. The book has been read, but is in excellent condition. Pages are intact and not marred by notes or highlighting. About this Item: Pocket Books , ISBN Small owners name on the first p age in, otherwise a Tight sound unmarked copy in very good condition. First edition. First Printing. Tight sound copy in very good condition with some spine creasing and some heavy creasing andlight staining to the first page in.
Published by Star Book, Star Book Vulture looked around. The broad river was to the north. Barges were moored at the wharf, and a small paddlewheeler. Black work gangs were shunting lumber, bales of cotton, and sacks of rice into low gray sheds. The two blacks who had gotten off the train with him were heading south, niggertown. East then, to find a livery stable. He started off.
The white man followed and his friends fell in with him. Vulture walked without hurry, but his steps were huge and ground-devouring. The white man did a kind of hop to keep pace. You heah me, nigger? You heah? Vulture passed small whitewashed houses, some with picket fences, all with gardens, more vegetables than flowers. There were open lots between them. What made Vulture stop and begin to turn slowly was not the voice, but the dull metallic clack of a gun being cocked.
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The white was standing half a dozen paces away, the shotgun to his shoulder, his face florid. There were tight, nervous smiles on the lips of his friends. I hear you, Vulture said. He had addressed people, and nearly all of them white, as sir nearly by reflex during the last several years. But that had merely been one of the trappings of civilization, of polite society. And those men had reciprocated. Ah heahs yuh, suh, Vulture said, and with that drawl he mocked himself more than anyone else. The white lowered his gun.
Good you got ears what can hear. Vulture turned and resumed walking. The whites followed. They felt victorious and festive now, and they were joking. Houses appeared more closely together, with only a few vacant lots, then became an unbroken line. Some were red brick, a few two stories tall.
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Vulture passed a school, from which white children were boisterously disgorging. Hurry up! Boys joined the white men from the station. Then he stiffened his legs, stretched out his arms, and walked with a rolling gait: Fee, fie, fo, fum! Ah smells the blood of a nigger-man! There were giggles and deeper laughter. He did not step up to the wooden sidewalk. There was something wrong in this town.
He was accustomed to gawks and sometimes harassment, but this was deeper. Even the eyes of passing whites who scorned the buffoons following him raked across him, lingered angrily. Trial, the man at the station had said. Obviously there was a black involved. Bad town to be in now. He avoided the sidewalk because he did not want to be forced to step aside or even down into the street again if he encountered a belligerent white. Mood like this, the gang behind him would kill him if he insisted on his rights.
Lightness giddied through him and for an instant he almost did take to the sidewalk, to force the issue and resolve it all in a few final, savage, glorious moments. Oblivion would be relief.
He saw Labe, his brother, arms stretched out, face raised to the sky, turning slowly as the bullets thudded into his body. Maybe Labe had been right. Of all of them, maybe Labe alone had truly found his manhood and his freedom. Vulture shook his head.
God, what it came to! He stopped, but there was no stable behind the store, so he went on. The street opened onto a good-sized square with a well-manicured greensward in the center, which was dry and winter-brown now. There were walkways winding among hedges and empty flowerbeds and beneath luxurious willows and magnolia trees. The houses around the square were large and boasted spacious and attractive lawns, testaments to uncountable hours of back-breaking gardening, large carriage houses, blocks at curbside from which to step up into surreys, and gay figurines of widely smiling Negroes extending arms whose hands grasped rings for tethering horses.
There were also a few churches, and across the square he saw several larger buildings, one with a domed top. There was some sort of commotion around it.
He crossed the street and entered the park. A black man in faded gray pants and shirt, barefoot, was on his hands and knees putting bulbs in a raked flowerbed beside the gravel walk. Afternoon, Vulture said.
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Can you tell me where I can rent a horse, friend? Vulture clenched his jaw. There was a flagpole in the center of the park, disproportionately tall and sturdy in comparison to the small Stars and Stripes snapping in the wind at its top, as if it bore the Union emblem by embarrassing accident.