2011, ISBN: 9780007317530

edizione con copertina rigida

Arrow. Very Good. 5.12 x 1 x 7.81 inches. Paperback. 2007. 416 pages. <br>Antiqua, 1817, and every harbour and estuary is fi lled with ghostly ships, the famous and the legendary no… Altro …

Arrow. Very Good. 5.12 x 1 x 7.81 inches. Paperback. 2007. 416 pages. <br>Antiqua, 1817, and every harbour and estuary is fi lled with ghostly ships, the famous and the legendary now redunda nt in the aftermath of war. In this uneasy peace, Adam Bolitho is fortunate to be offered the seventy-four gun Athena, and as flag captain to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune once more follows his destiny to the Caribbean. But in these haunted waters where Ric hard Bolitho and his 'band of brothers' once fought a familiar en emy, the quarry is now a renegade foe who flies no colours and of fers no quarter, and whose traffic in human life is sanctioned by flawed treaties and men of influence. And here, when Athena's gu ns speak, a day of terrible retribution will dawn for the innocen t and the damned. From the Paperback edition. Editorial Reviews Review One of our foremost writers of naval fiction -- Sunday T imes From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Douglas Reema n (Alexander Kent) did convoy duty in the British navy in the Atl antic, the Arctic and the North Sea. He has written over thirty n ovels under his own name and 26 books featuring Richard Bolitho u nder the Pseudonym Alexander Kent. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 New Horizon Eight bells had chimed out from the forecastle and the lower deck was cleared while the ship moved steadily, purposefull y some would say, toward the widening span of land, which seemed to reach out on either bow. The moment every sailor carried in hi s thoughts. The landfall. This landfall. Home. The sails, alrea dy reduced to topsails and jibs, were hardly filling, the tough c anvas still shedding moisture like rain from the final, overnight approach. Hills and cliffs, at first in shadow and then openin g up to the watery sunshine. Landmarks, familiar to some of the o lder hands, the names of others called down by the masthead looko uts while the land gained shape and colour, dark green in some pl aces, but the brown of winter still clinging elsewhere. For it wa s early March, 1817, and the air was as keen as a knife. Eight days out of Gibraltar, a fair passage when set against the advers e winds which had challenged every mile as they had skirted the B ay of Biscay, up and around the well-remembered names of Ushant a nd Brest, the enemy coast for so long. It was still hard to belie ve that those days had changed. As had the life of every man aboa rd this graceful, slow-moving frigate, His Britannic Majesty's sh ip Unrivalled of forty-six guns, and a complement of two hundred and fifty sailors and Royal Marines. Or so it had been when the y had left this same port of Plymouth. Now there was a sense of c ontained excitement, and uncertainty. There were boys who had bec ome men while the ship had been away. They would find a different life waiting upon their return. And the older ones, like Joshua Cristie, the sailing master, and Stranace the gunner, would be th inking of the many ships which had been paid off, hulked, or even sold to those same enemies from the past. For this was all the y had. They knew no other life. The long masthead pendant lifte d and held in a sudden flurry of wind. Partridge, the burly boats wain, as rotund as his namesake, called, 'Lee braces there! Stand by, lads!' But even he, whose thick voice had contested the heav iest gales and crashing broadsides, seemed unwilling to break the silence. There were now only shipboard noises, the creak of sp ars and rigging, the occasional thud of the tiller head, their co nstant companions over the months, the years since Unrivalled's k eel had first tasted salt water; that, too, right here in Plymout h. And nobody alive this day would be more aware of the challen ge which might now be confronting him. Captain Adam Bolitho sto od by the quarterdeck rail and watched the land edging out in a s low and final embrace. Buildings, even a church, were taking shap e, and he saw a fishing lugger on a converging tack, a man climbi ng into the rigging to wave as the frigate's shadow passed over h im. How many hundreds of times had he stood in this place? As man y hours as he had walked the deck, or been called from his cot fo r some emergency or other. Like the last time in Biscay, when a seaman had been lost overboard. It was nothing new. A familiar f ace, a cry in the night, then oblivion. Perhaps he, too, had been thinking of going home. Or leaving the ship. It only took a seco nd; a ship had no forgiveness for carelessness or that one treach erous lapse of attention. He shook himself and gripped the scab bard of the old sword beneath his coat, something else he did wit hout noticing it. He glanced along his command, the neat batterie s of eighteen-pounders, each muzzle exactly in line with the gang way above it. The decks clean and uncluttered, each unwanted piec e of cordage flaked down, while sheets and braces were loosened i n readiness. The scars of that last savage battle at Algiers, a l ifetime ago or so it felt sometimes, had been carefully repaired, painted or tarred, hidden except to the eye of the true sailor. A block squeaked and without turning his head he knew that the signals party had hoisted Unrivalled's number. Not that many peop le would need telling. It was only then that you remembered. Ro ger Cousens had been the signals midshipman. Keen, caring, likeab le. Another missing face. He felt the northwesterly wind on his c heek, like a cold hand. A voice said quietly, 'Guardboat, sir.' No excitement. More like two men exchanging a casual remark in a country lane. Adam Bolitho took a telescope from another midsh ipman, his eyes passing over familiar figures and groups which we re like part of himself. The helmsmen, three in case of any last second's trick by the wind or tide; the master, one hand on a cha rt but his eyes on the land. A squad of marines paraded, ready if needed to support the afterguard at the mizzen braces. The first lieutenant; a boatswain's mate; and two marine drummer boys who seemed to have grown since they had last seen Plymouth. He stea died the glass and saw the guardboat, oars tossed, quite motionle ss at this distance. His jaw tightened. It was what his uncle had called marking the chart for us. It was time. Not too soon, and never too late. He said, 'Hands wear ship, Mr Galbraith!' H e could almost feel the first lieutenant's eyes. Surprise? Accept ance? The danger was past. Formality had taken over. 'Lee brace s there! Hands wear ship!' 'Tops'l sheets!' Seamen strained bac k on braces and halliards. A boatswain's mate pushed two extra ha nds to add their strength as Unrivalled continued toward her allo tted anchorage. 'Helm a-lee!' The slightest hesitation, and the big double wheel began to swing over, helmsmen moving like a sin gle body. Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes as the sunlight lanced b etween the shrouds and flapping canvas, as the ship, his ship, tu rned steadily into the wind. He saw his coxswain watching acros s the busy deck, waiting to call away the gig, ready for the unex pected. 'Let go!' The great anchor dropped from the cathead, spray bursting up and over the beautiful figurehead. After all the miles, the pain and the triumph, for better or worse, Unrival led had come home. Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith looked aloft to m ake certain that the excitement of returning to England had not a llowed slackness to mar the sail drill. Each sail was neatly fu rled, the masthead pendant curling in the offshore wind, the ensi gn streaming above the taffrail, bright against the land, hoisted to replace a well-worn and ragged one before the dawn had broken . Marine sentries were posted to prevent unlawful visitors, trade rs, even some of the local whores, coming aboard when they realiz ed that Unrivalled's company had had little to spend their pay on over the past months. And there was talk of slave bounty, and pr ize money, too. He watched the guardboat approaching, an office r standing in the sternsheets shading his eyes. Their first conta ct with authority since leaving the Rock. Unrivalled would probab ly be invaded now by riggers and carpenters, some of whom might h ave helped to build her more than two years ago. He shivered ag ain. But it was not the bite of the March wind. He had seen the ranks of laid-up ships, large and small, as Unrivalled had tacke d slowly toward the anchorage. Proud ships, famous names. Some ha d already been here when they had last left Plymouth for the Medi terranean and Algiers, eight months ago. Who would be next? H e confronted it, as a senior officer might examine a subordinate' s chances. His record was good. He had taken part in every action at Algiers and before. Captain Bolitho had already recommended h im for a command of his own, had put it in writing to the Flag Of ficer here in Plymouth before they had sailed. Suppose there was nothing? He might remain first lieutenant for yet another commiss ion, until he was passed over altogether. He dismissed it angri ly. He had a ship, and a fine one, more than many could claim. He walked to the entry port and touched his hat as the officer of the guard clambered aboard. The visitor glanced around the upp er deck and said, 'Heard all about it, your part at Algiers! Lord Exmouth was full of praise in the Gazette!' He handed Galbraith a thick, sealed envelope. 'For the captain.' He inclined his head toward the shore. 'From the admiral.' He looked over at some of the bustling seamen, disappointed perhaps that there were no woun ded on view, no shot holes in the freshly painted black and white hull. 'Another boat is coming out to collect the despatches, and any mail you have to go.' He reached for the guard ropes and a dded with a grin, 'Welcome home, by the way!' Galbraith saw him over the side, and the oars were thrashing at the water almost b efore he had taken his seat. Galbraith made his way aft, duckin g without thought beneath the overhanging poop. Past the wardro om, empty but for a messman; every one else would be on deck, sha ring it. The marine at the cabin door stamped his foot and bawl ed, 'First lieutenant, sir!' It was something you never got use d to, he thought. Every Royal Marine seemed to act as if he were on a parade ground, and not within the close confines of a ship. The screen door opened and young Napier, the captain's servant, in his best blue coat, stood before him. Galbraith took it all in at a glance. The great cabin which he had come to know so wel l, where they had talked, and shared their thoughts as much as an y captain and first lieutenant could; and it was rare in many cas es he had known. Times of anxiety and doubt. And of pride. Some clothing was scattered across the stern bench, the captain's pat ched and faded seagoing gear, while his best frock coat hung sway ing from the skylight. Bolitho glanced at Galbraith and smiled. 'Is my gig called away?' Then, half turned, 'Here, David, help m e with this sleeve - a few more minutes won't matter. The admiral will know we are anchored.' Galbraith hesitated, and held out the envelope. 'This is from the admiral, sir.' Bolitho took it and turned it over in sun-browned hands. 'The ink is scarce dry , Leigh.' But the smile had gone, and the cabin could have been e mpty as he picked up a knife and slit it open. Feet pounded ove rhead and blocks squealed as the boatswain's party made ready to hoist out the gig. The required formality of a ship's return from active service. Galbraith heard none of it, watching the captain 's fingers curl around the envelope, its broken seal shining like blood from a sharpshooter's musket. He said, 'Is something wrong , sir?' Adam Bolitho turned sharply, his face hidden in shadow. 'I just told you . . .' He checked himself with obvious effort, as Galbraith had seen many times when they had been coming to kno w one another. 'Forgive me.' He looked at Napier. 'Never mind a bout the sleeve. They can take me as they find me.' He touched th e boy's shoulder. 'And rest that leg. Remember what the surgeon t old you.' Napier shook his head, but said nothing. 'The ship will be moved. Repairs and general overhaul . . . as you were dou btless expecting.' He reached out as if to touch the white-painte d timber, but dropped his hand to his side. 'She can certainly do with it, after the battering she took at Algiers.' As if he were speaking to the ship and nobody else. He brushed against the h anging coat and added, 'Tomorrow you will receive orders from the flag captain. We can discuss it when I return aboard.' He star ed at the envelope still crumpled in his hand. He must think clea rly. Empty his mind, as he had forced himself to do when everythi ng had seemed finished. Lost. Two people he had come to know so w ell since he had taken command of Unrivalled, just over two years ago here in Plymouth: he had been her first captain. Galbraith, strong, reliable, concerned. And the boy David Napier who had alm ost died, the great, jagged splinter jutting from his leg like so me obscene weapon. He had been so brave, then and again later und er the surgeon's knife when the wound had become poisoned. Perhap s like himself at that age . . . His hands felt as though they were shaking, and the clamour in his mind seemed loud enough to f ill the cabin. When he spoke, his voice was very calm. 'I am lo sing Unrivalled. I am being relieved of command.' So quietly sa id, while that same voice within screamed, It can't be true! Not this ship! Not yet! Galbraith took a pace toward him, the stron g features laid bare with disbelief and then anger, feeling the h urt like his own. 'It must be wrong, sir. Some fool of a clerk at the Admiralty!' He spread his hands. 'After everything you've done? Even the officer of the guard was full of it, all about Lor d Exmouth's praise for Unrivalled in the Gazette!' Adam reached for his coat but Napier was already holding it, troubled, but st ill unable to understand what it would mean. Somehow it helped to steady him. 'Stay with me, David. There are things I must do.' He recalled suddenly what Napier had said when Rear-Admiral Thoma s Herrick had asked him if he took care of his captain. We take c are of each other. So simply said, yet in this impossible, reelin g daze it was something to cling to. Little enough. He said, 'T ell the others, Leigh. I'll speak to, Arrow, 2007, 3, Delacorte Books for Young Readers. Good. 5.94 x 1.25 x 8.48 inches. Hardcover. 2011. 368 pages. Ex-library.<br>An ALA Amelia Bloomer Selection An ALA- YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Book Born in an Andean villa ge in Ecuador, Virginia lives with her large family in a small, e arthen-walled dwelling. In her village of indígenas, it is not un common to work in the fields all day, even as a child, or to be c alled a longa tonta--stupid Indian--by members of the ruling clas s of mestizos, or Spanish descendants. When seven-year-old Virgin ia is taken from her village to be a servant to a mestizo couple, she has no idea what the future holds. In this poignant novel ba sed on a true story, acclaimed author Laura Resau has collaborate d with María Virginia Farinango to recount one girl's unforgettab le journey to self-discovery. Virginia's story will speak to anyo ne who has ever struggled to find his or her place in the world. It will make you laugh and cry, and ultimately, it will fill you with hope. Editorial Reviews From Booklist *Starred Review* In a desperately poor Andean village in Ecuador, 7-year-old Virginia is sold off by her ind?gena (Indian) parents as a servant to an academic, mestizo family. In her new home, the wife beats her, th e husband gropes her, and she is insulted as a longa tonta (stupi d Indian). Still, she teaches herself to read and write and begin s to perform science experiments in secret. Then, when she is 12, she finally gets a chance to return to her parents: But does she want to? And do they want her? Virginia does travel back to her ind?gena family, but there is not the expected sweet reunion. Ash amed of her illiterate parents and bitter that they gave her away , Virginia is uncomfortable in the family?s mud-walled shack, whe re she cannot speak the language and hates the hard work. Could s he go back to being enslaved in the mestizo family?s clean ?priso n?? Rooted in Farinango?s true story, the honest, first-person, p resent-tense narrative is occasionally detailed and repetitive, b ut it dramatizes the classic search for home with rare complexity and no sentimentality or easy resolutions. Virginia?s conflicts with her birth parents and her employers are heartbreaking, even as she finds a way to attend school and shape a more hopeful futu re. A moving, lyrical novel that will particularly resonate with teens caught between cultures. Grades 8-12. --Hazel Rochman Revi ew Starred Review, Booklist, February 15, 2011: A moving, lyrica l novel that will particularly resonate with teens caught between cultures. Starred Review, Publishers Weekly, May 9, 2011: The a uthors' candid narrative richly depicts Virginia's passage from a childhood filled with demoralization to a young woman who sees h er life through new eyes. Starred Review, School Library Journal , June 2011: This is a poignant coming-of-age novel that will exp ose readers to the exploitation of girls around the world whose f amilies grow up in poverty. About the Author Laura Resau lived in the Mixtec region of Oaxaca, Mexico, for two years as an Engli sh teacher and anthropologist. She now lives with her husband, he r dog, and her son Bran in Colorado, where she teaches cultural a nthropology and ESL (English as a Second Language). She is also t he author of What the Moon Saw and Red Glass. María Virginia Far inango has acted in a television movie, had her own radio show, p erformed traditional dance, run an Andean craft business, and tra veled throughout Asia, Europe, and North America. She is studying psychology and has recently started a small holistic day spa in Otavalo, Ecuador, where she lives with her husband and their youn g son. For more about María Virginia, please visit lauraresau.com /virginia. About the Author Laura Resau lived in the Mixtec regi on of Oaxaca, Mexico, for two years as an English teacher and ant hropologist. She now lives with her husband, her dog, and her son Bran in Colorado, where she teaches cultural anthropology and ES L (English as a Second Language). She is also the author of What the Moon Saw and Red Glass. María Virginia Farinango has acted i n a television movie, had her own radio show, performed tradition al dance, run an Andean craft business, and traveled throughout A sia, Europe, and North America. She is studying psychology and ha s recently started a small holistic day spa in Otavalo, Ecuador, where she lives with her husband and their young son. For more ab out María Virginia, please visit lauraresau.com/virginia. Excerp t. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Bef ore dawn, I wake up to the sound of creatures scurrying inside th e wall near my head. Mice and rats and dogs have burrowed these t unnels through the dried clay, searching for food scraps. I'm alw ays searching for food scraps too. Right now my belly's already r umbling, and it's hours till breakfast. The house is dark as a c ave except for bits of blue light coming through the holes in the earthen walls. My gaze fixes on a new trail of golden honey oozi ng from a crack, just within arm's reach. Bees live in there, bla ck bees that sting terribly, but make the best honey in the world . I poke my hand in the crack and scoop out the sticky sweetness and lick it from my finger. It's gritty but good. Our guinea pig s are hungry now too, squeaking and dancing around in their corne r, waiting for alfalfa. I can see every corner of our house from my sleeping place on the floor. Mamita and Papito are snoring und er their wool blanket on a bed frame made of scrap wood. My broth er and sister are curled up next to me--Hermelinda on the end and Manuelito wedged in the middle--and the fleas and bedbugs and li ce are crawling wherever they please. My spot against the wall is cozy, the perfect place for licking honey in secret. Soon Mamit a will awaken, standing up and stretching in her white blouse tha t hangs midway down her thighs. Then, yawning, she'll wrap a long dark anaco around her waist, golden beads around her neck, and r ed beads around her wrists. Then she'll open the door and a recta ngle of misty morning light will shine into our house's musty dar kness. Then she'll light the cooking fire and we'll all slurp ste amy potato soup around the fire pit. If she catches me with hone y dripping from my fingers, her face will twist into a frown. Whe n people tell her, Your little Virginia is vivisima! Mamita snort s, Humph, she's clever for stealing food, that's about all. It's true, I do use my wits to fill my belly with fresh cheese or war m rolls. Or to get something I really want, like a pet goat or a pair of shoes. But there's more. I have dreams. Dreams bigger tha n the mountaintops that poke at the clouds. In the pasture, I alw ays climb my favorite tree and shout to the sheep, I'm traveling far from here! and my tree turns into a truck and I ride off to a place where I can eat rice and meat and watermelon every day. I n the half-light of dawn, I plunge my hand deeper into the darkne ss inside the wall, searching for honey, dreaming, as always, of golden treasures. After breakfast, I'm in the valley pasturing s heep under a sky the dull gray of cow intestines, when Hermelinda appears on the hill. I squint up at her. The mountains loom behi nd her, peaks lost in heavy clouds. She waves her little arms at me, the wind whipping her hair in all directions. Virginia! she c ries in her squeaky toddler voice. There are mishus at the house. Mamita says to come right away! Mishus are what we call the mes tizos. It's a mean word, in the same way that their names for us- -longos, or dirty Indians--are mean. With my golden goat, Cheetah , at my side, I climb toward home, urging the straggling sheep al ong with my stick. Feeling suddenly sick, I call out, Hermelinda, which mishus? Alfonso and his wife and two others. I stop in m y tracks. Alfonso owns the land my family farms. Lately, he and h is wife, Mariana, have made a point of talking to me whenever the y visit the fields, asking me questions, eyeing me up and down, t hen murmuring to each other as they walk off. Alfonso is the one who took my cousins Zoyla and Gregoria away from their parents tw o years ago. Zoyla and Gregoria and I used to play market togethe r while we pastured the animals. And then, one day, when they wer e near my age now--about seven--they left with the mishus. We ne ver heard from them again. I head up the path, pushing against t he crazy wind, kicking at rocks and smacking trees with my stick as I walk. Past the corn and potato fields, my house comes into v iew, looking small and weak against the mountains towering behind it. I can make out the forms of the mishus sitting on the dirt p atio with my parents. My muscles are tensing, the way they do whe n I see dogs in the distance and I'm not quite sure if they're ni ce or mean. I'm grateful Cheetah is at my side. Even though she' s only a goat, she loves me more than anything in the world. And she'll do anything to protect me. Once, when a vicious dog tried to attack, Cheetah hurled herself in front of me and rose to her hind feet. Maah maaah! she bellowed in its face, slashing the air with her front hooves. The dog had never seen such a brazen goat , and it backed away, bewildered. It's good to have someone love you so fiercely. Even if that someone is a goat. I rest my hand on her honey brown head and rub her ears, walking slowly, my hear t thumping. As I lead the sheep into their pens, I watch the patc h of weeds in front of our house where Alfonso sits beside his wi fe with her ridiculous, huge bun, along with a thin mestizo man. A fat mestiza woman with short hair and a polka-dot dress sits a little off to the side. I take a deep breath, then head toward th em, brandishing my stick like a machete. The closer I walk, the h otter my face gets, as though my blood has caught fire. Mamita i s watching the mishus politely as Papito chats with them, his fac e unusually friendly. As I come closer, Mamita looks up at me and frowns. Her glare orders me to stop swinging my stick and behave . But I look straight ahead, ignoring them all, and, still swing ing my stick, stomp straight into the house. ., Delacorte Books for Young Readers, 2011, 2.5, HarperTrue, 2009-08-20. Paperback. Good. 2.5888 cent in x 19.5939 cent in x 12.7919 cent in., HarperTrue, 2009-08-20, 2.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780007317530

Paperback, Gebraucht, guter Zustand, All orders are dispatched within 1 working day from our UK warehouse. Established in 2004, we are dedicated to recycling unwanted books on behalf of a… Altro …

Paperback, Gebraucht, guter Zustand, All orders are dispatched within 1 working day from our UK warehouse. Established in 2004, we are dedicated to recycling unwanted books on behalf of a number of UK charities who benefit from added revenue through the sale of their books plus huge savings in waste disposal. No quibble refund if not completely satisfied. , [PU: HarperTrue]<

2009, ISBN: 9780007317530

HarperTrue, 2009-08-20. Paperback. Good. Book is in good condition. All pages are unmarked and intact., HarperTrue, 2009-08-20, 2.5

2009, ISBN: 9780007317530

HarperTrue, Paperback, 272 Seiten, Publiziert: 2009-08-20T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Book, Verkaufsrang: 1556209, Subjects, Books, HarperTrue, 2009