Book Title: Trilogy consisting of:
Whirligig (Book #1)
The Copper Road (Book #2)
Tigers in Blue (Book #3)
Series: Shire’s Union
Author: Richard Buxton
Publication Date:
WG = 22/3/2017
TCR = 26/7/2020
TIB = 8/12/2023
Publisher: Ocoee Publishing
Page Length:
WG = 479
TCR = 421
TIB = 424
Genre: Historical Fiction
Whirligig (Book #1)
The Copper Road (Book #2)
Tigers in Blue (Book #3)
by Richard Buxton
Shire leaves his home and his life in Victorian England for the sake of a childhood promise, a promise that pulls him into the bleeding heart of the American Civil War. Lost in the bloody battlefields of the West, he discovers a second home for his loyalty.
Clara believes she has escaped from a predictable future of obligation and privilege, but her new life in the Appalachian Hills of Tennessee is decaying around her. In the mansion of Comrie, long hidden secrets are being slowly exhumed by a war that creeps ever closer.
The Shire’s Union trilogy is at once an outsider’s odyssey through the battle for Tennessee, a touching story of impossible love, and a portrait of America at war with itself. Self-interest and conflict, betrayal and passion, all fuse into a fateful climax.
Written by award winning author Richard Buxton, the Shire’s Union trilogy begins with Whirligig, is continued in The Copper Road, and concludes with Tigers in Blue.
Read an excerpt from Tigers in Blue
Giles County, Tennessee – November 1864
Their train stopped again. The three of them disembarked and walked beyond the engine. It had pulled up a handful of crossties before a fire-blackened and wounded trestle bridge that spanned a deep and wide ravine. There must have been three hundred men or more working on the repairs. They swarmed over the bridge, a busy blue infestation, some out along the incomplete top span, others either end of a crane carried on a flatbed railcar, many more perilously among the posts and cross-struts. Men struggled to shout instructions over a chorus of hammer and saw. Way down in the ravine and across a swift creek stood a clump of engineer officers. One held a sheet of paper so big he looked in danger of being lifted into the air. Others pointed and gestured up at the bridge. As Shire watched, a steam winch puffed into action on the crane-car and a thick trestle rose and swayed up from below like a miracle, before being claimed by many hands and dragged into the great puzzle of wood. Despite their industry, the nearer half of the bridge was missing the top forty feet.
The engine driver came and stood beside them, wiping sooty hands on a dirty rag. Rice, greasy hair pushed back off his forehead, asked, ‘If you knew the bridge was broke, why did you set out? We’ll be stuck for days.’
The driver took his time surveying the works. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re welcome to climb down and up the other side, but any trains that happen along from Nashville will only queue up to go south. Watch a while.’ He turned to walk back to his engine. ‘These people will have us over before nightfall.’
With nothing to do but wait, Shire and Tuck left Rice at the engine and worked their way along the top of the ravine to a spot where they could watch the repair. The ground fell steeply away before them. Predictably, Tuck dropped his pack, took up his fiddle and sat. He hadn’t said a word today. A stiff breeze struck up under a gray sky. At least they had the car to retreat to if it came on to rain. Shire got out his dog-eared map of Tennessee and Kentucky and unfolded it carefully so as not to bring on further dishevelment. He found Pulaski and traced the rail line to Nashville via Columbia. Short of Franklin he found Spring Hill. They would pass right by. Clara had been full of dubious enthusiasm for her move when he’d left her. What would have changed since? He wouldn’t need the train to stop again to be certain how he felt. That question had always been for her, though he wondered if she’d answered it quietly to herself a long time ago.
He folded his map away and got busy with a fire. In the army it paid to eat when the opportunity presented itself. ‘I’ll cook your pork. We ate mine yesterday,’ he said. They often shared rations. That way if one of them got a runt portion the hardship was shared too.
There was no response from Tuck. Sometimes it was like living with an elderly relative whose mind had been misplaced. In his own time, Tuck bowed into a slow waltz, utterly at odds with the exertions of the bridge builders. Evidently, it carried on the wind into the ravine and on to those high on the bridge, as not a few faces turned their way. There was a moment’s lull in the hammering before it stuttered up again. Two men on the flatbed end of the crane-car moved elegantly into closed hold and took a turn or two before their corporal beat them apart with his hat. Shire smiled but saw Tuck was too far inside his tune to take it in.
Once he had the fire going, he dug in Tuck’s pack for the salt belly-pork they’d been doled out back in Athens. It was a mess in there. An apple long past saving, percussion caps loose that should have been in a box, a lone dollar bill left to its own devices. The string hadn’t been tied properly on the pork paper. The exposed meat had picked up a covering of cotton threads and other miniature detritus. Shire reasoned it would cook off in his small skillet. Tuck’s ration was more than ample, so he cut off two-thirds and put it to cook slowly, not too close to the heat so that the fat would stay aboard. He wrapped the remains with care and was finding a safe corner back in Tuck’s pack when he happened on something round and hard. He drew out an enamel doorknob.
He recognized it. Tuck kept it as a grim reminder of his parents who were burned alive in their farmhouse, Tuck’s home. The enamel was scorched on one side, a smooth, mute witness to their murders. He’d been about to look for some wild onion or anything that might flavor the meat, but instead he took the doorknob and went to sit next to Tuck.
He didn’t expect to be acknowledged, but the lack irked Shire all the same. The waltz looped around and around. Shire could have sworn some of the hammering was striking out one, two, three… one, two, three. ‘I think you’re slowing down their industry,’ he said.
Tuck played on. Shire felt a bubble of anger pop inside.
WG: https://books2read.com/u/3GP7AO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/whirligig-richard-buxton/1130891070
TCR: https://books2read.com/u/b5JRvR
TIB: https://books2read.com/u/mVnXaA
Trilogy Amazon Buy Links:
US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08CDXDZDB
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08CDXDZDB
Richard lives with his family in the South Downs, Sussex, England. He completed an MA in Creative Writing at Chichester University in 2014. He has an abiding relationship with America, having studied at Syracuse University, New York State, in the late eighties. He travels extensively for research, especially in Tennessee, Georgia and Ohio, and is rarely happier than when setting off from a motel to spend the day wandering a battlefield or imagining the past close beside the churning wheel of a paddle steamer.
Richard’s short stories have won the Exeter Story Prize, the Bedford International Writing Competition and the Nivalis Short Story Award. His first novel, Whirligig (2017) was shortlisted for the Rubery International Book Award. It was followed by The Copper Road (2020) and the Shire’s Union trilogy was completed by Tigers in Blue (2023). To learn more about Richard’s writing visit www.richardbuxton.net.
Website: https://www.richardbuxton.net/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RichardBuxton65
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ShiresUnion
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/richardbuxton63
Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/richard-buxton
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/author/B06XV3FYQF/about
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16673953.Richard_Buxton
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