Smith - Call of the Raven - Ballantyne Series 0.5 (2020)

A thundering good read is virtually the only way of describing Wilbur Smiths books

IRISH TIMES

Wilbur Smith ... writes as forcefully as his tough characters act

EVENING STANDARD

Wilbur has arguably the best sense of place of any adventure writer since John Buchan

GUARDIAN

Wilbur Smith is one of those benchmarks against whom others are compared

THE TIMES

Best Historical Novelist I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August

STEPHEN KING

Action is the name of Wilbur Smiths game and he is the master

WASHINGTON POST

A master storyteller

THE SUNDAY TIMES

Smith will take you on an exciting, taut and thrilling journey you will never forget

SUN

No one does adventure quite like Smith

DAILY MIRROR

With Wilbur Smith the action is never further than the turn of a page

INDEPENDENT

When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st century H. Rider Haggard

VANITY FAIR

Contents

This book is for my wife, Nisojon, because my admiration for her and the unequivocal love she spreads keeps my heart and mind constantly beating.

Dear Reader,

Its been forty years since the publication of A Falcon Flies, the first novel in the bestselling Ballantyne Series, featuring a character that my fans both love and love to hate: Mungo St John.

Some might say that Mungo St John is the incarnate of evil itself: a slave trader who steals native Africans and sells them to plantation owners in the United States. But Mungo, charming, intelligent and irresistible to all around him both men and women shows compassion for his slaves and even demonstrates a hint of doubt about his place in this dark chapter of the history of mankind. His complex personality makes the beautiful and determined Robyn Ballantyne question her feelings for him and allow herself to see him as something other than a slaver. Like all good characters, Mungo is full of contradictions: he is both evil and heroic, a complex character who reflects the historical times he lived in.

Since launching my Facebook page I have been asked by many of my readers, When will the story of Mungo St John be continued? I went back and revisited A Falcon Flies and found myself drawn to this man again, who was both Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde. Where did he come from? What motivated him? Why is he the way he is in A Falcon Flies?

Call of the Raven is my answer to those questions. It is, without a doubt, the most interesting historical novel Ive worked on in some time as it made me question the history of slave trading and its impact on racism in our world. How does evil become acceptable in society? How is it appropriate for someone to hold another human being as their property?

I was fortunate to work with a co-author who was perfectly suited for the task of helping me explore 1840s New Orleans and Virginia. Corban Addison, a very accomplished novelist and a resident of Virginia himself, helped bring Mungos world to life.

We hope you will find Call of the Raven a fascinating exploration of the dying days of the slave trade. It feels like an important contribution to our understanding of a period in history which continues to throw long shadows into the darkest aspects of the human soul.

As ever,

Wilbur Smith

No man can put a chain around the ankle of his fellow man without at last finding the other end fastened around his own neck.

Frederick Douglass

THE BLACKHAWK

T he chamber was packed. Young men in evening dress squeezed ten-to-a-row on the benches; more stood around the edges of the room, bodies pressed together. The lamplit air hung heavy with sweat and alcohol and excitement, like a prize fight at a county fair.

But no blood would be spilled tonight. This was the Cambridge Union Society: the oldest debating club in the country and the proving ground for the nations future rulers. The only sparring would be verbal, the only wounds to pride. At least, those were the rules.

The front of the room was set up like a miniature parliament. The two sides faced each other from opposing benches, divided by the length of two swords. A young man named Fairchild, with sandy hair and fine features, was addressing the audience from the despatch box.

The motion before you tonight is: This house believes that slavery should be abolished from the face of the Earth. And, indeed, the case is so self-evident I feel I hardly need to argue it.

Nods of agreement; he was preaching to the converted. Abolitionist sentiment ran high among the Cambridge undergraduates.

I know in this house we are used to debating the fine points of law and politics. But this is not academic. The question of slavery speaks to a higher law. To keep innocent men and women in chains, to tear them from their homes and work them to death: this is a crime against God and all the laws of justice.

On the facing bench, most of the opposition speakers listened to his oration glumly. They knew they were on to a losing cause. One leaned forward and twisted his handkerchief through his hands. One stared at the speaker with such melancholy he looked as if he might burst into tears. Only the third seemed untroubled. He lounged back nonchalantly, his mouth set in a lazy smile, as if he alone was privy to some enormous joke.

If you have one ounce of humanity in you, I urge you to support the motion.

Fairchild sat down to sustained applause. The president waited for the noise to die away.

To close for the opposition, the chair calls on Mr Mungo St John.

The man who had been lounging on the front bench rose. No one applauded, but a new force seemed to charge the room. Up in the gallery, where a few well-bred young ladies were allowed to observe proceedings as long as they stayed silent, crinolines rustled and stays creaked as they leaned forward to see better.

You could not ignore him. He was twenty, but he loomed half a head taller than any other man in the chamber. His dark hair flowed over his collar in a long, thick mane; his tanned skin shone with a lustre that no wan English sun could have produced. His suit was cut to accentuate his figure: a slim waist that rose to broad, well-muscled shoulders more like a boxers than a Cambridge undergraduates.