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Overview
In his first-ever collection, the award-winning author of the Billy Boyle World War II mysteries presents an eclectic mix of new and previously published mystery stories rife with historical detail and riveting wartime storytelling.
“The Horse Chestnut Tree” explores betrayal and murder during the American Revolution. In the speculative work “Glass,” an atomic supercollider and the breakdown of the time-space continuum change the lives of two cousins devoured by greed. “Vengeance Weapon,” a historical thriller about an enslaved Jewish laborer working at the Dora concentration camp, looks at how far someone will go to get revenge. And for his Billy Boyle fans, Benn delivers “Irish Tommy,” a police procedural set in 1944 Boston featuring Billy’s father and uncle.
Full of terror, action, amusement, and bliss, The Refusal Camp is a must-have collection from a crime fiction veteran at the height of his career.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781641295673 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Soho Press, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 02/13/2024 |
| Pages: | 264 |
| Sales rank: | 675,484 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.52(w) x 8.23(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
An excerpt from “The Horse Chestnut Tree”
I rejoice in the Sabbath. Not for the words of the English preacher or for the hardwood bench in the rear of their Sunday god’s church. Not out of eagerness to hear the sermon about the offspring of their deity who came back from the dead, or the holy ghost with a tongue of fire. Rather, to talk with my own brethren. Slaves, like me and Maame. The English in their finery do as well, since they worship gossip as much as they do their three strange gods.
We arrive in a cart with the other servants, behind the carriage of our master. It is news of the war I seek most. The war of independence these English of the colonies are fighting with the English from across the sea. They talk of freedom, and I wonder if it will extend to Africans. Likely not.
I make my way to speak with Cato. It is the name his master gave him, of course. The English enjoy giving us names from the ancients, but Maame has given me my own name, neither African nor Roman.
“Freegift, come here,” a voice demands. Frederick Perkins, a proud lad of seventeen and known to all, dismounts from his horse and hands me the reins. “Be a good fellow and take Apollo for a drink. It’s a warm day, and he’s been ridden hard.”
“But the service will begin soon,” I say, even as I take the reins. The pond is not far, but it will take all the free time I have, and I cherish the moments of freedom I am granted. Frederick and I played when we were young, but as he is two years older, that childhood time was brief. I grew into my labor and he into his proper place in the society of Connecticut landowners on the banks of the Quinebaug River. Still, I hope he may grant me this favor.
“Then you must make haste,” Frederick says, giving me a hard shove. This is strange, even for the haughty lad he is. “Did you not hear me, Freegift?”
“I did,” I say, and turn to lead Apollo to water, having little choice.
“Hands off my horse, damn you!” Frederick bellows, and I am perplexed by this sudden change. But not as much as when he throws me to the ground and begins to pummel me.
Now, I am the younger, but I spend my days felling trees for my master, who is a cooper. Every barrel, bucket, and cask found along this stretch of river has been made by him, many from hardwoods hauled from the forest by my hands.
I am strong. Very strong. But I dare not strike back. Slaves who do so have been known to be sold to plantations in the far South, where more brutality than a New England slave may ever see greets each new day. I listen as Frederick’s companions gather around and cheer him on, laughing even as their worship bell calls to them.
“Make no trouble over this, Freegift,” Frederick whispers as he roughly hauls me up, grasping my waistcoat and tearing the seams. “Or I may buy you for myself.”
Another shove and they are gone, red-faced shouts replaced by humble heads bowed in piety as they take the steps into the church. Mr. Stoddard, my master, looks to me but says nothing to the boys. He is not cruel, other than believing in the ownership of human beings outright. But he will not go against his own kind. These English, or Americans, as they now fancy themselves, value position, appearance, and status above all. Mr. Stoddard and Frederick’s family have the great honor of sitting in the front pews as they listen to the droning preacher speak of hell and the hereafter. In those pews, all expect heaven as their due.
I dust myself off, wondering if the rip in my waistcoat can be repaired by Maame, who is able with the needle. The waistcoat is a cast-off from Mr. Stoddard, who wishes his slaves and servants to reflect well upon his house. I see a button has been torn off as well, and hope no one takes notice, for only I will be to blame.
As my hands brush the garment, I feel my clasp knife gone from my pocket.
Can Frederick be so petty as to remember the day when he wanted that knife, newly given to me by Mr. Stoddard? I was eight years old and denied it to him. He had asked his father to make me give it up and was rewarded with a swat. Can that have rankled all these years? I mount the steps into the church where Maame waits. She smiles, weakly, patting my arm. Her eyes glisten with tears, which she blinks away. We hide our sadness as well as our rage, since our masters wish us happy with our lot, a lie we strive to tell.
I settle into the rearmost pew and watch Frederick Perkins and his family take their seats. His parents have died, and as the oldest of six brothers and sisters, he is now head of the family. An older cousin joins them, a fellow named Samuel Sawyer, who purchased a prime tract of farmland from Frederick’s father shortly before he passed. It was the talk of the town when the elder Perkins lost the money from that sale to some sort of speculation, which I do not understand. Then he died, and Frederick fell into a constant state of bitterness, which I do well understand.
But why assault me today?
I have said I am strong, true enough. But there is another matter I recall now, and it was a time Frederick’s father lectured him on learning his letters. Mr. Stoddard had once caught me looking through his books. At that age, it was an atlas with pictures and maps that drew me in. He never said not to touch his books, but I expected a whipping anyway when he caught me. Instead, he marveled at my interest and taught me how to sound out letters. He claimed to do so only so I might help with his bookkeeping one day, but I think he liked the idea of someone sharing his interests, even if only a slave.
What I mean to say is that I know myself to be smart. I took to reading and taught myself about the world. I have read the English Bible entire and came away little impressed. The Odyssey—a story of a son’s search for his father—still thrills. As do the few plays of Shakespeare owned by my master. I study The Merchant of Venice over and over, always cheering on Shylock, who is used so badly.
The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard, Shylock says, his words raging in my silent soul.
I think upon the last time Frederick and I played as boys. His father had come to visit Mr. Stoddard and chided his son, Frederick, about finding the written word so hard to understand. Frederick stumbled over a simple passage his father made him read and ran from the room in tears.
Could that be why he rained punches on me and stole my clasp knife? Retribution for that embarrassment? At least now his warning made sense. If I should protest, he will make trouble. A slave has trouble enough without seeking more. So, I work at staying alert and try to forget my loss. The sermon is about eternity, and how we should follow god to ensure we spend it in his heaven.
As we leave, I manage a few moments with Cato. He is of the Akan people, as am I. We step aside, and I address him by his secret name. Okomfo. And he by mine. Kwasi. It is what we do, as taught by my mother and his grandmother, who tell us tales of our people, so that we may remember our ancestors, even here among the English and their wars, so far from Akan.
Frederick mounts Apollo and rides close to us, so we must step aside. Apollo is a fine beast, a chestnut mare with a bridle and straps decorated with brass ornaments, all inscribed with a fine engraved P for Perkins. I admire the horse more than the rider, who does not spare me a look, even as he nearly knocks me over. A warning.
I do not tell Maame of the loss of the knife. It is enough that she saw my humiliation. Later, after Sunday supper with the family—for we all dine together, seated in order of importance, with Mr. Stoddard at the head of the table and slaves at the foot, with servants and his daughters between us—Maame presses me about the encounter. But I do not want to talk about it and aim to distract her with the question she always refuses to answer.
“Who is my father, Maame?”
“Freegift, someday I will tell you. But this is not the day.” What she always says.
“English, isn’t he?” I ask. As I always do. Maame has the rich, dark skin of our people. My skin is lighter, a shade of brown like the crust of fresh-baked bread.
“What does it matter?” Maame says, standing over me as she twists the locks of my hair into the long mpese style of the Akan people. Another way to remember who we are.
Maybe she is right. Whoever my father is, he does not know my ancestors, and they may think little of him. So I sleep.
My rest ends when I awake before dawn and cannot fall back asleep, troubled by the encounter with Frederick. I toss on my pallet until the first light of the coming day cracks the horizon. I rise and walk quietly past Maame’s bed so as not to disturb her. She too has a hard day ahead, cooking and cleaning for the household. With each season, the work wears on her more, and I worry. But worrying accomplishes little, so I dress, donning the leather waistcoat made for working with wood and sharp blades. I take a sack from the kitchen, fill it with johnnycakes, a jug of ale, and take my leave before any are awake.
From the workshop I take my axe and hatchet, then begin the trek to where I labored Saturday. It is a stand of chestnut trees, densely grained, a fine hardwood for making staves, which in turn are used to build casks, barrels, hogsheads, and all manner of things to store food and drink.
A skill I have, other than swinging an axe and reading the Bard, is to find the best trees for Mr. Stoddard’s craft. The one that awaits me was felled two days ago in a thunderous crash and split smaller trees in its grand descent. I’d started to trim the branches when the light faded, and it became too dangerous to send sharpened metal biting into wood. Today, I will finish that task, section the trunk, and prepare it to be hauled out by draft horses.
It is hard work, the labor of blisters, cuts, and aching bones. But I do it well, and there is something to that. In an hour I am close to the spot. The stand sits near a river that divides Mr. Stoddard’s land from the parcel belonging to Mr. Perkins. Or that of Frederick and his cousin, Samuel, I should say. For although Frederick is only seventeen, he is the oldest boy and inherited his father’s lands, those remaining after Samuel’s purchase.
I take the path to an outcropping of rock, which gives me a view of the fallen tree and the valley below. Horse chestnuts like well-drained, fertile soil, and the streams feeding the river beyond mark this spot as friendly terrain for them. The sun is up and reddens the sky as it warms the rock where I sit. I eat a johnnycake and slake my thirst with ale.
Footsteps echo from below. I wonder who is walking on Mr. Stoddard’s land so early in the day. Not a visitor, since there are no paths other than those made by deer. No route to his house from any neighbor’s land.
“Come, Samuel,” a voice says. It is familiar. Jonathan, one of Frederick’s younger brothers. Then Frederick himself appears, by the top of the fallen tree.
“We’ll teach the African bastard a lesson,” he says. At these words I gather my sack and tools, retreating from sight behind a jagged rock where I hide my gear. Samuel protests, and I bring myself closer, using the rocks to cover my approach. If they aim at mischief with me, it would be best to know what they plan and what grudge they hold that brings them here. As I move, I dislodge a small stone, and it clatters away, sounding like an avalanche.
But the three of them do not hear, and I decide I am close enough. And scared, I do admit.
“Why do you need me to defend your family’s honor?” Samuel says.
“To witness,” Frederick says. “He used uncouth language concerning our sister Abagail, did he not, Jonathan?”
“Aye, and that’s an insult to us all, Samuel—the whole family. When he arrives, you ask Freegift what he said and you’ll see,” Jonathan tells him.
Strange, since I have not talked with nor mentioned that girl for years.
“Come, let’s hide ourselves,” Frederick says, beckoning Samuel closer to the trunk of the tree, near the branches I’d trimmed. “He works early in the day. We won’t have to wait long. I heard the tree fall the day before the Sabbath and spied him from across the river. He’ll be here soon. We’ll give him a thrashing and then take ourselves home for a fine breakfast.”
I cringe at the thought of three fellows beating me, and pull back, fearful they may find me as they watch for my approach. Fright clutches my gut, and I plan my escape, wishing I had never crawled closer. I hear talk of hiding places, and Frederick tells Samuel to burrow under the wilting leaves of the thick branches still waiting to be trimmed. An excellent spot, they all decide, upon closer inspection.
Then, amidst deciding who is to go first, Jonathan grabs Samuel from behind and slams him against the bare trunk. I hear the grunting shock as air is dispelled from Samuel’s lungs, the startled disbelief that fails to form into words as Frederick throws him over the trunk, pulls his cousin’s head back by his hair, and wields a knife.
He hesitates long enough for Samuel to cry out, “No!” and for me to recognize the glinting blade of my own clasp knife.
He draws it across Samuel’s throat, and I cannot bear to think what will happen. In an instant, my mind tells me it is a trick they are playing on Samuel, or on me, because this cannot be real.
This cannot be happening.
There is a terrible gurgling as Frederick and Jonathan step back, stumbling away from the horrible deed and the effusion of blood. Samuel turns, clutching his neck, which streams crimson red. He falls, blood gushing through his fingers, as the two brothers gape openmouthed at their handiwork.
This cannot be real.