Men of Men (Ballantyne Book 2)

Men of Men (Ballantyne Book 2)

Wilbur Smith

Language: English

Pages: 720


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Men of Men by Wilbur Smith

It was called The Devil's Own: a steep scar in the African earth, around which men toiled with picks, shovels, and dreams of the milky treasures that would become prized, polished diamonds. In this demonic race, native tribesmen became miners. Sometimes they became thieves. And then they became rebels.

Zouga Ballantyne, an African-born Englishman, sees the Devil's Own mine as his ticket to the North: a realm of waterfalls and fertile plains, teeming wildlife, and seeded fields of gold. But what happens in the diamond mines of the fledgling Boer Free State sets the course for Ballantyne and a cast of comrades, enemies, and lovers--and for the continent itself.

From the visions of imperialists to the fury between a father and a son, from the lengths a man will go for a woman and a woman for her convictions, a tragic clash of generations and civilizations was shaking 19th-century Africa, where some warriors fought for their gods--and others for the men who came before them...

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chest. ‘Shotgun?’ Zouga asked tersely. ‘No, thank God,’ Mungo said. ‘Pistol.’ ‘You are lucky,’ Zouga grunted. ‘Naaiman’s usual style is a sawed-off shotgun. He would have blown you in half.’ ‘You know him – Naaiman?’ ‘He’s a police trap.’ ‘Police,’ Mungo whispered. ‘Oh God.’ ‘Yes,’ Zouga nodded. ‘You are in trouble.’ ‘I didn’t know.’ ‘Does it really matter?’ Zouga asked. ‘You planned an I.D.B. switch, and you knew you might have to kill a man.’ ‘Don’t preach to me, Zouga.’ ‘All right.’

that Robyn recognized instantly. It was the look of mortal illness. The other eye was covered by a black piratical patch. There was something dreadfully familiar about the big aquiline nose and the wide mouth – yet it was only when he smiled that old mocking yet somehow tender smile that she had never forgotten that Robyn reeled backwards, one hand flying to her mouth too late to stop her cry. She caught for support at one of the mopani poles that held the roof. ‘Mama, are you all right?’ But

which they had retreated the previous evening. The wagons were still standing abandoned beside the rude track; the tents made pale geometrical oblongs of solid canvas against the dark wet scrub. Once again, Wilson halted the patrol, and Clinton walked the grey forward. ‘Tell them we do not wish to fight,’ Wilson ordered. ‘There is nobody here.’ ‘Try anyway,’ Wilson urged. ‘If the wagons are deserted, then we will ride on until we catch up with the king.’ Clinton rode forward, shouting as he

away brusquely. ‘See if there is a rope in the Bastaard’s saddle bags, something to tie him, a knee halter, anything.’ There was a coil of braided rawhide rope on the pommel of the grey mare’s saddle. Jan Cheroot hurried back with it and then paused in the door of the derelict shanty. ‘I know him.’ He stared at Hendrick Naaiman’s bloody snoring face. ‘I think I know him, but you made such a mess of him.’ ‘Tie him,’ Zouga whispered, and drank from the water bottle. Then he unwound the silk

men exclaimed in alarm for the stallion had a bare twenty strides to build up momentum for the jump, yet he flew at it with his pink nostrils flaring and the serpentine veins beneath the burnished skin of his cheeks swelling with the pumping of the great heart. Louise’s thick black braids were flung out tautly behind her head by the power of the stallion’s acceleration, and then she lifted him into the jump with her knees and her hands. For an instant of time the horse and the tiny figure upon

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