Fire Bell in the Night

I bought this book out of curiosity. It was a reader's chioce in the Gather First Chapters competition. Could it possibly stand on its own merit as an entertaining and thought-provoking read? Could winning a popularity contest possibly correlate with quality, professional work? About 10 pages in, it's clear that Geoffrey is a real writer, with real ideas and real literary talent. The man writes masterfully. There's nothing fancy about it, he lets the story unfold at its own pace with solid writing chops. Beyond a compelling and easy-to-read story, I appreciate how he shows both sides of the issues behind the civil war that cost so many lives. If you like historical fiction, then this book belongs on your bookshelf. I consider myself a bit of a talent scout and I predict that Geoffrey has a long and successful career ahead of him. Well done, sir! Ken Coffman is the author of Steel Waters, Glen Wilson's Bad Medicine and five other novels.

What a pleasant surprise this novel turned out to be! It has most of the best elements of fine literature: a thoroughly engaging plot, excellent research, cleverly drawn characters with distinct goals, and a fish-out-of-water protagonist. Although the story focuses on the pre-Civil War South, there are a few passages that resonate with our modern society (not slavery, of course, but other issues). Also, the author slyly shows dual sides of the thorny issue of slavery and justice. The middle section, set mostly on the plantation, drags a bit and Sharp's arrival there requires a touch of willing suspension of disbelief, but no more than any similar novel. The finale, however, is both surprising and satisfying. Put this novel on your bookshelf beside E.L. Doctorow's The March.

Nothing is as it seems. Readers of Geoffrey Edward's debut novel, Fire Bell in the Night, would do well to remember that. Edwards uses the historical event of the Crisis of 1850 as the backdrop to this thriller, set during that fateful summer in Charleston, South Carolina. A white plantation owner and his family have been slaughtered in a slave uprising. A white farmer, Darcy Calhoun, is about to go on trial for harboring a runaway slave. As the temperatures rise in the June heat, so do the tempers and tensions of the slave-owning plantation owners and the frightened, angry townspeople. Adding to the heat are a series of unexplained fires, curfews for blacks, and a buildup of the militia. Into this simmering cauldron, in the author's words, a "pressure cooker", enters John Sharp, a 22-year-old reporter from New York, sent to cover the trial. John, and the reader, will be forever changed by what happens next. The story Edwards tells is complex, but his masterful story telling style never makes it complicated. Through the eyes of his lead character, Edwards presents all sides of the story to the reader, without judgment, respecting the reader's ability to discern the subtleties and dichotomies of the choices facing these people, and our nation at that volatile time. Edward's background as a history major, and his extensive research into the place and the era, provides a solid grounding of authenticity to this exciting, and gut-wrenching, novel. This is not a book to be rushed, but to be savored. Edwards has a gift for description. Strolling through Charleston with the lead character, or at a weekend plantation party, one is surrounded with the sights, and scents, and sounds of 1850 in this southern harbor town. In one brief paragraph, at the opening of Chapter 15, Edwards traces the effects along the path of a simple breeze with such elegance and grace that the reader will sigh with as much relief as if that breeze had cooled their own overheated cheeks. Edwards also has a gift for characterization. From the lead characters to the merest shopkeeper, each person is fully realized, three-dimensional, and has a unique voice. There is nothing easy about this novel. It is multi-layered, textural, and lush. The languid pace of the southern heat barely hides the relentless drumbeats of the impending march to secession, and war. The Fire Bell in the Night sounds not only a warning to the residents of Charleston, but to the nation. Edwards skillfully brings the story to a personal level, a level to which the reader can relate. Unexpected friendships blossom in the summer's heat, but so do violence, deceptions, and betrayals. This is, at its core, a simple story of men who are trying to do the right thing, men who are trying to bridge the chasms between them, and men whose every step can lead to unimaginable consequences. But the reader is reminded again, that for each of these men, nothing is as it seems.

I admit to feeling a flicker of terror when I first held Fire Bell in the Night in my hands. On March 21st, I wrote a glowing review of the novel's opening chapter in the Gather.com First Chapters Contest. In the months that followed, Geoffrey Edwards and I became friends. Despite being a finalist in the contest, I was very happy that Geoffrey won. I can attest to the fact that he is a good person and a fine gentleman, but what if the book was terrible? What kind of review could I write if I didn't like it? And then, I opened the book: "Someone tossed a pine log into the campfire. It hissed and popped, and sparks swirled in the updraft like fireflies. My Lord Ten men arose and moved wordlessly away, single file down the dirt path. Their black forms blended with the night. My Lord." I was, as on March 21st, pulled into the story of Fire Bell in the Night. What I had forgotten in my moment of fear -- Geoffrey Edwards is an amazing writer. Despite its success in the First Chapters' contest, one might think that the structure of Fire Bell in the Night would not lend itself to such a competition. The Prologue and Chapter One (essentially an introduction to the plot) don't introduce the reader to the novel's main character, John Sharp. However, not only are the first two sections well-written and interesting, they are brilliantly used to elevate the reader to a position of superior knowledge from that of the characters in the novel. This technique creates for the reader a feeling of comfort, empowerment. No matter how little one may know of the antebellum south, Charleston, or the details leading to the Civil War, the reader never feels lectured. That's not to say that Edwards doesn't educate. He effortlessly describes the vital details of the period in ways that are both fascinating and entertaining. We follow young reporter, John Sharp, as he covers a story about a white southerner on trial for aiding a runaway slave. A guilty verdict would result in a sentence of death. As if that were not tension enough, the novel takes place just a decade prior to the Civil War, the bloodiest era of our nation's history. As the novel progresses, one senses that with increasing rapidity, matches are being struck on a powder keg. On his first major assignment away from the familiarity of New York City, John attracts an array of interesting characters which Edwards describes with efficient details. The characters stand out as real people, and we feel after a short time, as though we know them. But can we trust them? Regardless, they effortlessly guide John through a story that is both timeless and unique. Containing masterful language, Fire Bell in the Night will entertain, intoxicate, infuriate, and enlighten. Ultimately it may challenge the reader's perception of an era that is often all too willingly and conveniently overlooked. For those of us who enjoy freedom and equality, slavery and its racial implications for our nation is

With his maiden work, Geoffrey S. Edwards is already a young master of the literary craft. In Fire Bell in the Night, the thirty-one-year-old author has shaped the raw materials of an historically-based tale into a stellar work of art. Sent in 1850 to Charleston, South Carolina, New York Tribune reporter John Sharp is tasked with following the trail of his freshly killed colleague in covering the trial of a slave-aiding defendant whose guilty verdict and hanging sentence are all but certain before the jury is even sworn in. The bigger story he probes, however, is the dissention about secession showing itself as a series of fires, each of which is punctuated by bongs from the town's church steeples in each evening's darkest hours. I will give you no more details about the plot, so as not to spoil the deftness of Edwards' weaving a great Southern tapestry. I will, however, share with you examples of what makes this author such a delight to enjoy. Fire Bell in the Night reads like a succulent piece of prime rib, perfectly hot and crusted on the outside, exquisitely rare and juicy on the inside, with a flavor so detailed with a variety of notes that you have to close your eyes with every bite in order to savor it appropriately. Edwards is superb in rendering his settings on the page. He deftly both allows and causes a reader to pause and enjoy people, place, and play of a scene. For example, early on he let's us see the loveliness of Charleston through what flows down the steps of the Charleson Hotel. "A flower fluttered to the pavement from above, followed by a gentle exclamation of regret. A white glove appeared against the black wrought iron of the balcony railing, and a young woman peeked over at the sidewalk below. She wore a white dress with an impossibly tiny waist and a full hooped skirt. A parasol framed her auburn hair. A gentleman looked down also. No one would have mistaken the man for a New Yorker unless he had a career on the stage, yet he appeared representative of his class in Charleston. Every element of his appearance spoke of flamboyance--a looser cut in his coat and pant legs, wide lapels, a flowing silk cravat, and a tall stovepipe hat perched atop his long, wavy hair. His comment made the girl laugh--a soft giggle quickly covered by the glove. They stood there for a moment looking down at the street, she casually turning the parasol with her fingers as he puffed on a thick cigar. The smoke hovered just above their heads, swirling and stagnating with no breeze to disturb it. Then the man offered his arm, and they turned to walk across the landing, moving so effortlessly that they could have been gliding on a sheet of ice, with no extraneous movement save the twirling of the parasol." One cannot read such a paragraph without finishing it with a deep sigh that says, "Holy Heaven, this man can write." And when you look at the six-foot-six, bald, goateed, linebacker who supposedly wrote it, you just have to ask yourself, "Where