The Butcher's Daughter by Mark M. McMillin Book Tour and Giveaway :)
The Butcher's Daughter
by
Mark
M. McMillin
Genre:
Historical Nautical Romantic Adventure
In
an age ruled by iron men, in a world of new discovery and Spanish
gold, a young Irishwoman named Mary rises from the ashes of her
broken childhood with ships and men-at-arms under her command. She
and her loyal crew prowl the Caribbean and prosper in the New World
for a time until the ugly past Mary has fled from in the old one
finds her.
Across
the great ocean to the east, war is coming. The King of Spain is
assembling the most powerful armada the world has ever seen - an
enormous beast - to invade England and depose the Protestant “heretic
queen.” To have any chance against the wealth and might of Spain,
England will need every warship, she will need every able captain. To
this purpose, Queen Elizabeth spares Mary from the headman’s axe
for past sins in exchange for her loyalty, her ships and men.
Based
on true historical events, this is a tale about war, adventure, love
and betrayal. This is a story about vengeance, this is a tale of
heartbreak…
“…
a
pleasurable and action-packed read … a delicious spin to the
otherwise tired clichés of male captains … the joy of the open
seas - as well as the danger churning below - pulses throughout this
rip-roaring, hearty tale of the high seas.” - Kirkus Reviews
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I
stopped along the narrow path for a moment to catch my breath after
the long and strenuous climb. I could see my ship peacefully riding
anchor in the cove below. Phantom was a five hundred ton,
French-built nao, ships renowned for their strength and speed. She
was both square and lateen-rigged and carried eighteen great guns
cast from solid bronze - a mix of falconets and sakers mounted on
rolling carriages stood neatly against her bulwarks like soldiers on
parade. And fixed to iron pedestals mounted along her rails were
another thirty swivels for close-quarter fighting. Sitting next to
Phantom was Dowlin’s larger ship, a fine, Dutch-built man-o-war
displacing six hundred tons or better, not as swift as a nao but she
was well-armed and built for rugged war. The sight of the stubby
noses of her guns protruding through the open gunports - a mix of
periers, sakers and falconets, twenty-four great guns in all - sent a
tingle up my spine. She too carried a goodly number of swivels. What
a handsome sight both ships made together!
The
man-o-war had been Dowlin’s flagship. Now Dowlin’s flagship was
my flagship. Under Dowlin, men knew her as Medusa’s Head. And just
to make certain that any who laid eyes on her knew exactly what ship
she was, a hideous replica of the witch’s head, with deadly snakes
for hair and sharp fangs for teeth, adorned her high prow. No sailor
roaming across the open sea could ever gaze upon that carved
monstrosity without freezing in their tracks. As I resumed my climb
up the cliff, I decided I would rechristen Dowlin’s ship. I would
rename her Falling Star after the shooting star I had seen streaking
outside my father’s butcher’s shop at the very moment my father’s
assailants had pried my legs apart and deflowered me. And then I’d
pitch the witch’s grotesque likeness into the sea.
After
we reached the summit of the cliff the land flattened out before us
and we could see the Irish Sea in all directions for miles.
Visibility was excellent. There was not a single sail in sight. The
island was little more than a desolate pile of rock and sand covered
over in wild grass and patches of scrub brush. The only inhabitants
we saw were small lizards scurrying about and seabirds, birds of many
kinds and colors. Countless numbers of birds squawked and chirped at
each other all across the island. Armed
with shovels and pick-axes, my new recruits led the way under a
bright and sizzling sun. They were clearly fidgety and reluctant to
press on, fearing I suppose that they were marching to their own
graves. I gave them no reason to think otherwise. We marched in
single file towards the southern tip of the island until we came upon
a cluster of boulders surrounded by a thicket of scraggly thorn
bushes. “This
is the place?” I asked the lead man after he stopped and surveyed
the area around us. I addressed this man first because I had seen the
deference the others had given him. He had also been the first to
tell Gilley where we could find Dowlin’s treasure. He
hesitated before answering me. I gave him a hard look and then took a
moment to consider his men. “Did you, or did you not all swear your
allegiance to me?” “We
did, Mum,” the lead man answered. “What
is your name?” I asked. “Flannigan,
Mum, Joseph Flannigan from Kinsale in County Cork.” “Well,
Master Joseph Flannigan from Kinsale in County Cork, I did not come
all this way, I did not go to all this trouble, just so I could kill
you. I don’t need to kill you. And besides, I don’t murder
unarmed men.” Flannigan
lowered his head. “Beg pardon, Mum, but Dowlin was unarmed.” “Ah,
a fair point you make there Master Flannigan,” I said. “Touché.
But you are mistaken. I didn’t murder Dowlin. I executed him.” I
turned to address Flannigan’s men. “I know Master Gilley
explained things to you the other night and explained them to you
clearly. Killing or harming innocent or helpless men, women or
children is strictly forbidden. It is a violation of our Ten Rules.
Now it is hot and this island is no paradise. Let us to business
shall we? You can help me recover Dowlin’s plunder - and take your
rightful share - or I can leave you all here to live on birds’ eggs
until some fishing trawler happens upon you. But I will not kill
you.” Flannigan
shook his head. “Even if what you say is true Lady Mary, we are
still all dead men. Dowlin has two brothers, the Twins. They know us
and they will find us and kill us all for helping you.” Hunter
took a step towards Flannigan and rested his hand on Flannigan’s
shoulder. “Lad, you and your mates are most likely dead men already
even if you don’t help us. Once you reach home, Dowlin’s brothers
will find and kill you all just because you didn’t die with
Dowlin.” Flannigan’s
men exchanged looks all around. Heads started bobbing up and down. Flannigan
clenched his teeth; he stared at me with eyes as cold as stone. “We
won’t be the only game the Twins will want to feast on, Madam.” I
answered Flannigan with a bold and cocky smile. “Aye, the Twins,
the Devil’s own offspring to be sure and far more dangerous than
Dowlin ever thought to be. They’re more dangerous because they’re
smart. The Twins and Dowlin were only half-brothers I hear, same
she-bitch mother but begotten from different seed.”
“You
know them then?” asked Flannigan. “Not
well. I saw them once tie a man down and slowly skin him alive. The
poor devil’s only crime was to prudently pitch some Dowlin cargo
overboard during a treacherous gale to save his ship and crew from
foundering.”
Flannigan
nodded. “Aye, I’ve seen some of their grizzly work up close.”
Then he baited me. “One brother is a big, ugly bastard, strong as
an ox. The other is a bit prettier, but just as big and no less
strong.” “Ah,
Master Flannigan, you wish to test me? I respect that. No, the Twins
are nearly exact copies of each other. One is challenged to tell them
apart even close-up. They’re both huge, a head taller than any man
I’ve ever laid eyes on. But one brother is a half hand taller than
the other and as for appearances, well, not my taste, but they are
hardly ugly.” “Apologies,
Mum. Right you are. I fear your man Hunter here is right too. The
Twins will come looking for us even if we refuse to help you. What
then?” “You
let me worry about that. First things first. Now, shall we dig?” Flannigan
pointed to a pitted, reddish brown rock in the middle of patch of
wild flowers that seemed somehow out of place. The rock, I soon
realized, was not indigenous to the island. I grabbed a shovel from
Flannigan’s hand and started scooping out the first shovelfuls of
dirt and sand myself.
Born in 1954 in Indiana, Mark McMillin has lived in a number of states throughout the U.S. as well as overseas. He attended Canisius College in Buffalo, New York, focusing his studies mostly on military history, and served as a cadet in Canisius's nationally recognized ROTC program. After graduating in 1976, Mark was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the United States Army and was stationed in Bad Kissingen, Germany where he served with the elite 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment.
In
1986, Mark received his J.D. degree from The John Marshall Law School
in Chicago, Illinois and began his legal career with a law firm in
White Plains, New York focusing his attention on general corporate
law. In 1994, Mark moved to Virginia and ventured out into hazardous
world of litigation where, in 1999, he won what was reported to be at
the time one of the largest and longest federal criminal trials in
Virginia's history. Mark thereafter moved to Georgia where he resumed
his general corporate practice and served as general counsel for
several companies, including a $1B publicly-traded airline.
Mark
has been a life-long student of military history. And he has always
had a passion for reading and love for writing and wanted to someday
write his own book. But write a book about what? Mark had no desire
to write about some subject that 100 authors before him had already
delved into. And then, almost by accident, this fascinating, little
known story of Captain Luke Ryan fell into his lap. It was an
opportunity was too good to pass on and so Mark began the long and
tedious journey of researching, writing and rewriting. The twelve
year project ended in 2011 with Gather the Shadowmen (The Lords of
the Ocean), Prince of the Atlantic and Napoleon's Gold.
Mark
currently lives in the Southeastern part of the United States.
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