Gary Ross: 2/1/09

Synopsis

Set during the Napoleonic War, The Ross Family Chronicles is filled with explosive action, unparalleled anxiety, tragedy, and mayhem. A series of unforeseen, catastrophic events forever alters the simple lives of Tom and Maggie Ross, a Highland family from Nigg, Ross-shire, Scotland. Rape, an unwanted pregnancy, and mental instability plague Maggie after she is left to fend for herself without Tom, who is fighting in the war on the continent. Meanwhile, Tom and his best friend, Red MacKenzie, are confronted with a desperate will to survive, not only in the bloody war, but also in a battle of wits against two psychopath soldiers from a rival regiment who are on a mission to kill them. Circumstances cause both Tom and Maggie to commit acts which create unforgivable secrets - secrets they will take to their graves. Will their family survive? A novel laced with love, hate, war, murder, and above all, betrayal, The Ross Family Chronicles is difficult to put down once the first page is turned.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

H-E-L-P! What is the "Holy Grail" of Coffee?

I'm a coffee-aholic . . . I like a rich, dark, and bold tasting coffee with a full body aroma. One that makes me close my eyes and savour the succulent flavour. I like my coffee strong . . . strong enough that the spoon will almost stand-up by itself. Costa Rican grown coffee is great, but so is Starbucks' French and Italian Roasts . . . and what about Godiva varieties? Then there's Tim Horton's . . . is there anything more Canadian?

The above coffees are satisfying but, are they the best? Is there a true "Holy Grail" of coffee out there waiting to be found?

Gary

Prologue and Chapter One

THE ROSS FAMILY CHRONICLES -
HIGHLAND BETRAYAL

PROLOGUE
............................................. 1 .......................................

ANOTHER BOLT OF JAGGED LIGHTENING slashed the ebony sky, its normal blinding flash reduced to a grey blur in the driving rain. Waves the size of a two-storey building tossed the Liberty, a three-masted merchant ship, unmercifully back and forth at will.

"Damn you! Damn you! Turrrnnn! Turrrnnn!"

The bow of the ship stubbornly balked as he applied his full weight to the left side of the wheel. Just as the big wave was about to catch her half-broadsides, she gave in and eased to port sending her straight into the wall of water.

With a thundering crash the wave smashed into the bow and shattered into a huge hand of glistening foam fingers that hurtled menacingly down the deck.

He had no time to react. In an instant, Captain William Brydon’s feet were taken from beneath him, and he was swept across the deck toward the jaws of the angry, icy sea. Had it not been for the rope tied about his waist and secured to the base of the helm, he would have been thrown overboard.

Beneath him, in the foul-smelling hold, now worsened by fresh vomit, eighty-six Scottish highlanders, including wives and children, wailed and prayed as they clutched each other in the cramped space where no more than fifty should have been.

Tom Ross, an ex-Lieutenant of the 3rd Ross-shire Volunteers and a veteran of Wellington’s grand victory over Napoleon at Waterloo, comforted his nervous wife, Maggie.

"Don’t be frightened, luv – it’ll blow over shortly – it’ll blow over." He hoped he sounded convincing as he stroked her hair.

Shortly before the storm had struck, they had each eaten a crust of bread and Maggie had nursed her baby, Alexandrina. They had sipped some water, then settled down as best they could into their makeshift plank bunks that were crammed in four tiers along the bulkheads of the ship’s hold. The berth was hardly large enough for two adults let alone the numbers now occupying them.

Maggie, clutching the baby to her chest, lay nearest the bulkhead with her back to Tom, while Malcolm, their two-year-old son, sandwiched himself into the remaining space between them.

Up to the moment when the big wave struck, the voyage had been relatively uneventful. Everyone seemed to have grown accustomed or deaf to the steady din of light chatter, babies crying, and adults hacking and coughing. It was no different this particular evening.

The baby and Malcolm had dozed off and Tom sensed that Maggie was succumbing to the rhythmic creaking, groaning, and soothing motion of the big ship as it slid between the waves.

Not far from him in the hold was his cousin, Bill "Red" MacKenzie, and his family. They had grown up together on Nigg Hill and had later fought side by side against Napoleon. Both had received war injuries, and each shared a bond of friendship parallelling that of their marriage vows.

Tom’s thoughts, for the moment, were far from Red and were focussed on the safety and security of his family.

He cursed beneath his breath at the cramped and uncomfortable quarters. He was a tall man at about six-feet with a gaunt, wiry frame of some one hundred and seventy pounds. No matter how much he tried, it was impossible for him to straighten out in the five and a half foot long bunk.

His knees throbbed and his back ached.

Beneath them, doubled up, was one of the two heavy grey woolen blankets Maggie had weaved. The other covered them. Before long, he forgot his aches and pains and let his mind drift back, as it usually did late at night, to the war and the events that precipitated the voyage.

............................................. 2 .....................................

In May 1803, England declared war on France. France, under Napoleon Bonaparte, possessed the most powerful and well-trained army in Europe. But England, as it had been for centuries, was master of the seas.

Napoleon’s ambition, like that of Caesar’s centuries before, was boundless. He visioned himself as the supreme ruler of the civilized world, which included the British Isles. To this end, he began building a fleet of ships destined to be the best in the world. A fleet that would deliver his mighty army to the shores of Britain.

Nature and good fortune, as they sometimes do, combined in 1805 to save the day for England. With Napoleon’s armada assembled for an invasion launch, concurrent freak, severe storms wrecked his ships before they were able to set sail. It was enough to momentarily cause him to forget his invasion plans and turn his attentions to Eastern Europe.

William Pitt, England’s Prime Minister, and King George III knew they had narrowly averted a disaster. As a consequence, they began weaving a series of accords with European allies aimed at crushing Napoleon. In the fall of 1813, after his disastrous Russian campaign, the allies finally defeated him, and in April 1814, he was exiled to the Island of Elba, following the restoration of the monarchy. With the task completed and European stability seemingly restored, Wellington’s Spanish army, now battle weary, was brought home and disassembled.

Napoleon, however, was far from finished. In November 1814, he returned to Paris. Threatened by his destabilizing presence, the allies began mobilizing their armies in anticipation of another major confrontation. But England now had a problem. Many of Wellington’s seasoned veterans had left the army, or had been reassigned to the colonies. As a result, there was a critical shortage of readily available fighting men.

Parliamentarians in London argued briefly, then agreed unanimously, that units from their most troublesome territories, Scotland and Ireland, should quickly be conscripted and used as the spearhead for Wellington’s new continental army.

"Why should we waste our precious English blood when we can send the riffraff from Ireland and Scotland in first to soften things up?" Sir Anthony James sneered to a colleague as they strolled down the steps of the Parliament Buildings.

During the first week of November 1814, upon direction from King George III, the sheriff from Inverness sent his men throughout the highlands posting notices on church doors and other public buildings. The notice informed locals that all able bodied men, fifteen-years and older, were being ordered into the army. Each clan was to form its own regiment, and be ready to start training by the middle of November.

CHAPTER ONE
............................................ 1 .......................................

THE CLANGING SOUND OF THE NIGG CHURCH BELL could be heard in the distance, signalling the call to Sunday worship.

Tom and Maggie had been up for several hours. Married for nearly two years, they had one son, Malcolm, who would be a year old next month.
Tom worked a small ten-acre croft of land next to his father’s and paid an annual tithe, as did the others on Nigg Hill, to the Duchess of Easter Ross. They were, for all intents and purposes, penniless slaves of the aristocracy.

On the corner of the croft, Tom and Maggie had built a small thatched-roof clay-floor cottage, which had two rooms divided by a wall made from saplings. The smaller was used as a bedroom while the larger served as a kitchen and living room. To the left of the entrance was a stone hearth. Against the wall opposite it was a small wooden table and two chairs.

While Maggie hurried about getting herself and the baby ready for church, Tom sat quietly at the table reading the Bible. He cast a striking image that was neither homely nor overly handsome. Offsetting his mischievous-looking steel-blue eyes were heavy, dark eyebrows and prominent cheekbones. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back and tied in a tight ponytail. Even tempered and wise beyond his twenty-one years, he favoured winning his battles with wit, but would not, when his options were exhausted, back away from a good fight.

He could read and write basic English thanks to the good graces of the old vicar, Josh MacLeod, who had taken a fancy to him as a youngster. But learning had not been without its downside. Etched deep in his memory were the beatings he’d received from his father, Old Donald, whenever he’d returned home after his lessons with the vicar.

"What’s the matter with you, lad? There’s work to be done around here and yer off wastin’ time with that silly nonsense!" His words burned as he spat them at the frightened, crying seven-year-old.

Tom, from early on, was terrified of his often drunken father and developed an unhealthy hatred of him.

Maggie stood by the door cradling the baby in her arms. "C’mon, Tom. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry." Her voice was soft like that of a bird.

She was a petite woman, just a shade over five-feet in height and around one hundred and ten pounds. In contrast to her small frame, however, she possessed a feisty temperament when provoked. Her waist-length rust-coloured hair was braided and tied in a bun, which was now neatly framed at the back of her head by her off-white Sunday bonnet. Her oval-shaped face was highlighted with green eyes, a small, slightly turned up nose and full lips. Her natural beauty was the envy of every woman on Nigg Hill, and reflected good breeding.

Tom latched the wooden door behind him as the three of them set off down the serpentine cart path to the church about a half-mile below. A brisk, cool breeze slapped them in the face. It was the first Sunday of November, and would become a pivotal day in their young lives.

From their croft, located a short distance from the North Sutor, they could see across Cromarty Firth to the sister crag on the other side, the South Sutor. The small fishing villages of Cromarty, on the south, and Nigg, on the north, faced each other, and guarded the mile-wide entrance to Nigg Bay.

Patches of lavender-coloured heather cut a striking contrast to the various shades of green, brown, and yellow that seemed to have been splashed by an artist’s brush across the rolling hills. Combined with the rich blue sky and the melodic tunes of the willow warblers and green finches, the whole was breathtaking to the point of resembling what God must have meant paradise to be. It was a paradise stained, however, by the medieval feudal system that locked the highlanders to the land, and to the all too often callous whims of the landlords.

......................................... 2 ........................................

"Hurry Tom, we mustn’t be late!"

Maggie knew her father would be disappointed if they weren’t seated before the sermon began.

By the time they reached the church, they had become part of a stream of friends and neighbours coming together for their weekly spiritual uplift.

They entered through the gate near the small stone-walled cemetery that surrounded the little sixteenth century church. At the door, the portly grey-haired vicar, dressed in a flowing black robe, greeted his parishioners.

"Morning, Tom – morning daughter. How’s our little angel doing?" He smiled lovingly as he bent down and picked Malcolm up in his arms and gave him a hug.

A strained look on his face betrayed his otherwise cheery demeanour.

"He’s doing fine, Father – just fine," Maggie said. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. She loved the kind old man who had raised her by himself. Her mother, Alexandrina, God rest her soul, had died delivering her.

The last of the families finally filed in. The vicar checked to see if anyone was still on the road, then entered, and gently closed the heavy arched door behind him. He sighed, as if dreading what was about to take place, then shuffled slowly toward his position at the pulpit.

He had an unpleasant message to deliver this morning and had been up for several hours preparing. Sending their men off to fight England’s war and leaving the old men, women, and children to tend to the crofts would not rest well with the locals, he knew, but the consequences would be far worse if they failed to comply.

"Once again, good morning, dear people," he began, "before I start my sermon, I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you the latest news concerning England’s and, of course, our war with the demon, Napoleon Bonaparte." He paused to let his introduction sink in.

"This is not simply a war against our old enemy, France, but is a Christian crusade against the Devil himself!"

His listeners sat rigidly still. Their weathered faces reflected curiosity and concern. His voice grew in intensity as he continued.

"If left unchecked, the evil will soon spread to England and then to here, and we’ll all be swept to the fires of hell! God have mercy on our souls should that happen!"

He softened his voice.

"My children, God has fashioned a plan to save us. He has called upon King George to lead us in a grand crusade. He is asking us to temporarily lay aside our ploughs and pitchforks and to take up arms against this terrible evil one." He stopped to catch his breath and to let his message sink in.

Inwardly, his knotted stomach churned sharply sending a coppery taste up his throat. He hoped the inner turmoil didn’t show on his face. His next delivery was going to cause a lot of pain for the parishioners and particularly, for Maggie. He took a deep breath and delivered the crux of his sermon.

"Next Monday, following our Sunday service, all fit men, fifteen-years and older, are to go to Ross Castle where you’ll be brought together with other brethren to form a clan regiment. By the good graces of our Earl, you’ll be given a regimental uniform and weapons." He could hear murmurs beginning to fill the small room.

"Those of you who are blind, lame, disabled, mentally feeble, or over fifty need not go. However, I must warn you that God will know the truth, and so will the sheriff! You risk the fires of hell if you turn cowardly!" The murmuring abated.

During the lull that followed, he leafed through his big Bible and focussed on the Scriptures.

"In Ezekiel, Chapter 38, verse nine, God speaks of the evil one and the deeds he will commit against mankind:

Thou shall ascend and come like a storm, thou shall be like a cloud to cover the land, thou, and all thy bands, and many people with thee . . .

In this verse, my dear people, God is describing Bonaparte and his army sweeping the land like locusts! In Ezekiel, Chapter 39, verse three, God tells of his fight with the Devil’s disciple:

And I will smite thy bow out of thy left hand, and will cause thine arrows to fall out of thy right hand . . .

God cannot win the battle over Satan without us. We must do our part to ensure victory. We must become part of His army!" He banged his fist on the podium.

"In Ezekiel, Chapter 39, verse 20, God promises that those who do, will be greatly rewarded after the war is over:

Thus ye shall be filled at my table with horses and chariots, with mighty men, and with all men of war, saith the Lord God.

This is the word of the Lord. Let us give Him thanks and praise," the vicar said as he finished his sermon.

The congregation, in unison, followed with a loud "Amen!"

At that precise moment, Josh MacLeod felt as low as he had ever been and, if the truth were to be known, hated himself. He would live just long enough to rue his enthusiasm on that fine November morning.

Josh MacLeod was not alone in his feelings. Like himself, many of the other clergymen throughout Ross-shire and the highlands had delivered a similar sermon that Sunday morning, and most had difficulty eating their Sunday dinners that evening.

But the vicar’s task was over and done with and the onus was now on the parishioners to respond. Like the other clergy, he needn’t have worried.

The highlanders had been hooked. Pride, fear, and naivety drew them like hungry termites to fresh wood. Pride of their reputation as ferocious fighters. Fear of Almighty God and community pressure. Naive as an innocent child concerning the word of those in authority. Each, on its own, was enough to bring most men forward. Many were driven, however, by a good dose of them all.

Of the roughly three-hundred men on Nigg Hill, well over two-hundred made the nearly twenty-mile trek to the castle. Almost 50 percent of them were Rosses while the remainder consisted largely of MacKenzies, Munroes, MacKays, and MacLeods with the odd MacDonald, Fraser, Sutherland, and Campbell thrown in for good measure.

........................................... 3 ........................................

The week flew by, and Sunday evening came too quickly for many of the highland families.

The night air was crisp as Tom climbed the path to his father's croft. Although he didn't want to be away from Maggie for long, he decided, in order to keep peace, he'd better spend a half hour or so with his parents, Old Donald and Isabella. Soon, he was inside their cottage warming himself in front of the crackling fire.

He sat on a bench, his arm draped over the shoulder of his twelve-year-old brother Sandy, absorbing the welcome heat from the hearth. Isabella, Old Donald and Hugh, his older twenty-seven-year brother, sat at the table.

Roughly the same build as Tom, Hugh would not be heading for the castle in the morning. A blacksmith by trade, he had been kicked by a cantankerous Clydesdale horse when he was thirteen-years-old leaving his left leg shattered in three places. Doctor Angus MacDonald, a half-assed veterinarian, had, through beads of sweat and swigs of whiskey, set the leg. Unfortunately for Hugh, Angus hadn’t quite matched the bones up correctly, and he was left with a permanent, painful limp.

Old Donald’s body, at age fifty-five, resembled that of a seventy-year-old. Booze and crippling work had taken its toll on him. His snow-white bushy beard and long hair framed a weathered, leathery complexion with deep-set, faded blue eyes. Like his two older sons, he was a tall man. When sober, he was pleasant enough, but when encouraged with homemade barley whiskey, which was more often than not, he turned into a regular Jekyll and Hyde.

His meanness was often taken out on Isabella or the kids, depending on whoever provoked or was near him at the time.

"Your land’ll be tended to Tom – I’ll see to it," Old Donald promised as he lit his clay pipe.

After a half-hour or so of strained idle chatter Tom rose, shook hands with everyone, and headed back to his cottage. Sandy walked with him to the edge of the path. He adored and idolized his big brother.

"I’m going to miss you, Tom," he whispered softly as he tried to fight back the tears welling in his eyes.

"I’ll miss you, too, lad. Take good care of yourself and watch out for the old man," he replied. He paused a moment. "Sandy, will you do me a big favour, lad?"

"Anything, Tom, anything."

"Will you keep an eye on Maggie for me while I’m gone? Make sure she’s got enough wood in and help her if she needs anything."

"You can count on me, Tom. Just don’t get hurt – Please?"

"Don’t worry, lad – I won’t get injured. I’m too quick for that Devil Bonaparte!" He winked at Sandy.

Tom ruffled Sandy’s hair, hugged him tightly, then left.

As he made his way back to Maggie a knot formed in his stomach as he rethought Old Donald’s words about looking after his land while he was away. A scowl swept over his face as he remembered the many times he and Hugh had hidden in their bedroom, terrified, while Donald had beaten his mother. Once, it had been over something as silly and simple as the tea being too hot.

He still hated him, nothing would change that, and knew he wasn’t to be trusted when drinking.

Not long after returning home, he and Maggie, wrapped in a swirl of emotions, retired for the night. Concerned about her being alone, he tried to convince her to move back with her father but she refused.

"It’s our home Tom, I won’t give it up while you’re gone! I’ll not have any of that! Who knows what the Duchess will do if her spies find land and buildings unattended! No Tom, I’ll do my share." She paused for a moment, then resumed in a softer, more subdued tone.

"I’m going to miss you, Tom – I can’t bear the thought of being without you," she whispered into his ear. Tears began to trickle down her flushed cheeks.

He held her tightly to him and stroked her shimmering red hair. She had set her mind on staying, and he knew it was futile to argue about it anymore.

"Ah, Maggie, my luv – I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Know that while we’re apart, a piece of me will always be in your hands – my heart." He kissed her gently on the lips.

They made passionate love and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

It seemed as if they had just dozed off when the crowing of the rooster began as he heralded in the new day.

After eating a hearty breakfast of porridge, boiled eggs, and brown bread, they parted for what would be the longest ten months of their young lives.

CHAPTER TWO
............................................ 1 .......................................

TINY CAMPBELL AND SAM McKAY were from the Black Isle, the tip of which was the South Sutor across the Firth from Nigg. They were a couple of no-good outlaws who had left Cromarty several years ago. Born to croftsmen who worked land on the Isle not far from Cromarty, the two of them had been nothing but trouble from the time they had entered their teens.

Tiny was a hulk of a man. At nearly six and a half feet tall and well over two-hundred and fifty pounds, he was, by far, the largest built man on the Isle. Sam, in contrast, was a foot shorter and resembled a pencil. But size was their only difference. Both were hard-core killers. Many larger men had taken Sam for granted, and many had paid the price. He was sinewy and pound-for-pound one of the toughest and meanest men in the region.

Although the sheriff had been unable to connect them directly to the murders of old Sadie and Angus MacPherson in the village a few years back, all evidence seemed to point in their direction.
Shortly thereafter, they left the community shrouded in a veil of suspicion, and the petty crime that had plagued the area for some time evaporated into thin air.

After leaving the Isle, the two of them drifted to Glasgow where they found work at the dockyard. It was a rough area where the law was what you made of it, and both had early on established themselves as rugged highlanders not to be fooled with.

To be continued . . . See How Do I Get the Book

Gary Ross

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Wednesday, February 4, 2009

H-E-L-P! What is the "Holy Grail" of Coffee?

Prologue and Chapter One

Gary Ross

The Author

Subscribe To

Cover

How do I get the book?

FEEDJIT Live Traffic Feed

Stats Counter

About My Book

Synopsis

Blog Archive

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

H-E-L-P! What is the "Holy Grail" of Coffee?

Prologue and Chapter One