Andersonville: Pulitzer Prize Winner by MacKinlay Kantor (English) Paperback Boo

Description: Andersonville by MacKinlay Kantor "The greatest of our Civil War novels" (New York Times) reissued for a new generation As the United States prepares to commemorate the Civil Wars 150th anniversary, Plume reissues the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel widely regarded as the most powerful ever written about our nations bloodiest conflict. MacKinlay Kantors Andersonville tells the story of the notorious Confederate Prisoner of War camp, where fifty thousand Union soldiers were held captive—and fourteen thousand died—under inhumane conditions. This new edition will be widely read and talked about by Civil War buffs and readers of gripping historical fiction. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography MACKINLAY KANTOR (1904-1977) was the distinguished author of more than thirty books and numerous screenplays. Review "The greatest of our Civil War novels." —The New York Times"No one who reads it will ever forget." —Christian Science Monitor"A heartfelt novel...written with truth and power." —Atlantic Monthly"The best Civil War novel I have ever read, without question." —Bruce Catton, Pulitzer Prize-winning historian, Chicago Tribune"Will give Civil War buffs their greatest hour since Gone With the Wind." —Time"A great book, perhaps the greatest of all Civil War novels." —Chicago Sun-Times Review Quote "The greatest of our Civil War novels." - The New York Times "No one who reads it will ever forget." - Christian Science Monitor "A heartfelt novel...written with truth and power." - Atlantic Monthly "The best Civil War novel I have ever read, without question." -Bruce Catton, Pultizer Prize-winning historian, Chicago Tribune "Will give Civil War buffs their greatest hour since Gone With the Wind ." - Time "A great book, perhaps the greatest of all Civil War novels." - Chicago Sun-Times Excerpt from Book I Sometimes there was a compulsion which drew Ira Claffey from his plantation and sent him to walk the forest. It came upon him at eight oclock on this morning of October twenty-third; he responded, he yielded, he climbed over the snake fence at the boundary of his sweet potato field and went away among the pines. Ira Claffey had employed no overseer since the first year of the war, and had risen early this morning to direct his hands in the potato patch. Nowadays there were only seven and one-half hands on the place, house and field, out of a total Negro population of twelve souls; the other four were an infant at the breast and three capering children of shirt-tail size. Jem and Coffee he ordered to the digging, and made certain that they were thorough in turning up the harvest and yet gentle in lifting the potatoes. Nothing annoyed Ira Claffey like storing a good thirty-five bushels in a single mound and then losing half of them through speedy decay. In such a manner, he thought, have some of our best elements and institutions perished. One bruise, one carelessness, and rot begins. Decay is a secret but hastening act in darkness; then one opens up the pine bark and pine straw--or shall we say, the Senate?--and observes a visible wastage and smell, a wet and horrid mouldering of the potatoes. Or shall we say, of the men? In pursuit of his own husbandry on this day, Ira carried a budding knife in his belt. While musing in bed the night before, he had been touched with ambition: he would bud a George the Fourth peach upon a Duanes Purple plum. Veronica was not yet asleep, but reading her Bible by candlelight beside him. He told her about it. But, Ira, does not the Duanes Purple ripen too soon? Arent those the trees just on the other side of the magnolias? No, no, my dear. Those are Princes Yellow Gage. The Duanes Purple matures in keeping with the George Fourths. Id warrant you about the second week of July. Say about the tenth. I should love to see that skin. Such a fine red cheek on the George Fourths, and maybe dotted with that lilac bloom and yellow specks-- But she was not hearing him, she was weeping. He turned to watch her; he sighed, he put out one big hand and touched the thick gray-yellow braid which weighted on her white-frilled shoulder. It was either Moses or Sutherland whom she considered now. Dully he wondered which one. She said, on receiving the communication of his thought, though he had said nothing-- She spoke Suthys name. Oh, said Ira. I said nothing to make you think-- The Princes Yellow Gage. He fancied them so. When they were still green hed hide them in the little waist he wore. Manys the time I gave him a belting-- She sobbed a while longer, and he stared into the gloom beyond the bed curtains, and did his best to forget Suthy. Suthy was the eldest. Sixteenth Georgia. It was away up at the North, at a place no one had ever heard of before, a place called Gettysburg. In recent awareness of bereavement had lain the germ of retreat and restlessness, perhaps; but sometimes Ira spirited himself off into the woods when he was fleeing from no sadness or perplexity. He had gone like that since he could first remember. Oh, pines were taller forty-five years ago . . . when he was only three feet tall, the easy nodding grace of their foliage was reared out of all proportion, thirty times his stature. And forests were wilder, forty-five years ago, over in Liberty County, and he went armed with a wooden gun which old Jehu had carved and painted as a Christmas gift for him. It had a real lock, a real fl∫ it snapped and the sparks flew. Ira Claffey slew brigades of redcoats with this weapon; he went as commander of a force of small blacks; he was their general. Hi, thems British, Mastah Iry. Where? Yonder in them simmons! Take them on the flank. Hi, what you say we do, Mastah? He wasnt quite sure what he wanted them to do. Something about the flank. His Uncle Sutherland talked about a flank attack in some wild distant spot known as the Carolinas. . . . Of course this was later on, perhaps only forty years ago, when Ira Claffey was ten. . . . Charge those redcoats! They advanced upon the persimmon brake in full cry and leaping; and once there came terror when a doe soared out of the thicket directly in their faces, and all the little darkies scattered like quail, and Ira came near to legging it after them. In similar shades he had been Francis Marion, and surely his own boys had scuttled here in identical pursuits. It was a good place to be, treading alone on the clay-paved path curving its way to the closest branch of Sweetwater Creek. God walked ahead and behind and with him, near, powerful, silent . . . words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer. He had budded the peach upon the plum as he wished to do, though he feared that it was a trifle too late in the season for success. He budded each of the two selected trees five times, and then went back to the potato field. Coffee and Jem were doing well enough, but they were plaguèd slow; Ira had been emphatic about the tenderness he required of them, and they handled the big sulphur-colored Brimstones as if they were eggs. Well, he thought, I shant speed them on this. Better forty bushels well-dug and well-stored than eighty bushels bumped and scratched and ready to spoil as soon as theyre covered. Keep on with it until I return, and mind about no bruising. I shall look up some pine straw--where its thickest and easy to scoop--and well fetch the cart after the nooning. Yassah. Frost had not yet killed the vines. Some planters always waited for a killing frost before they dug, but Ira was certain that the crop kept better if dug immediately before the frost struck. He was newly come into his fifty-first year; the natal day had been observed on October sixth. Black Naomi chuckled mysteriously in the kitchen; there had been much talk about, Mistess, can I please speak with you a minute alone ? He had to pretend that he was blind and deaf, and owned no suspicion that delicate and hard-to-come-by substances were being lavished in his honor. The fragrant Lady Baltimore cake appeared in time, borne by Ira Claffeys daughter because she would not trust the wenches with this treasure. There they sat, the three surviving Claffeys left at home, sipping their roast-grain coffee and speaking words in praise of the cake, and now Ira had lived for half a century . . . fifty years stuffed with woe and work and dreams and peril. He sought to dwell in recollection only on the benefits accruing. With Veronica and Lucy he tried to keep his imaginings away from far-off roads where horses and men were in tragic operation. The best Ive tasted since the Mexican War. Poppy, you always say that. About everything. Come, come, Lucy. Do I indeed? You do, agreed his wife, and gave him her wan smile above the home-dipped candles. Yes, sir, chimed in Lucy. Its always the best and the worst and the biggest and all such things, but always dated from that old war. After this night, said Ira, I presume that I should date everything from my fiftieth birthday? Poppy, love, you dont look even on the outskirts of fifty. Scarcely a shred of gray in your hair. Well, my dear, I dont have much hair left to me. Thats no certain indication of encroaching age. Is it, Mother? Take Colonel Tollis. I declare, he cant be aged over thirty-one or two, and yet hes got less hair than-- Lucy. Do you consider it ladylike, to discuss baldness so--so intimately? Well, I declare-- So it had go≠ they uttered their little jests and remonstrances; they had their affection; the stringy candles sank and died in chipped gilt candelabra, and in the end Ira Claffey sat alone in his library and treated himself to port. He had tasted no port since the previous winter (there was so little of it left now) and he made a silent gesture and toasted each of his sons in turn as they stared from ambrotype frames beside him. His hand went down and rubbed along his right leg; it caressed his shabby fawn-colored pantaloons above the knotted hole which for years he had bandaged afresh each day. Id be with you, fifty or no fifty, he tried to tell his sons, reaching to them across uncharted distances and dimensions. Id be among the muskets if it hadnt been for Monterey. I wonder who that Mexican was! I wonder if he is living still--sorrowing as I am sorrowing, going through repeated and sometimes doleful mimicry. Still able to love, however? Not so frequently? But still able, and most eager at times. The wine affected Ira Claffey because he drank so little of it in this time of strife and paucity. He thought of Veronica and the fever which came over him sometimes in darkness, the drawing up of her nightdress, the muffled hysteria of their encounter, the shame which she always admitted afterward because she had been taught that carnal enjoyment was lewd and Ira could never persuade her otherwise. He thought of the mistress he had had in Milledgeville when he was in the Legislature, he thought of pretty strumpets hed known in the brief time when he was a soldier, he thought of the first brown girl he ever lay with at seventeen or thereabouts in age. How do you countenance such goings-on? You, professedly a religious man-- I suppose each of us must be guilty of certain sins. Wed be less than human if we werent blemished a bit. And I strive earnestly not to envy, not to grow little snips Details ISBN0147515378 Author MacKinlay Kantor Short Title ANDERSONVILLE Pages 768 Language English ISBN-10 0147515378 ISBN-13 9780147515377 Media Book Format Paperback Year 2016 Edition 60th Publication Date 2016-09-06 Imprint Plume Place of Publication New York, NY Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2016-09-06 NZ Release Date 2016-09-06 US Release Date 2016-09-06 UK Release Date 2016-09-06 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Replaces 9780452269569 DEWEY FIC Audience General Subtitle Pulitzer Prize Winner We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:137996441;

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