The Deserter blog tour is through The Coffee Pot Club with an exclusive excerpt. Share, comment, follow Sarandipity’s.
Book Title and Author Name:
The Deserter – a Tale of the Foreign Legion
Wayne Turmel
Blurb:
Algeria 1908.
Gil Vincente is a Boer War veteran, broken and adrift on the rough streets of Marseille. Desperate, he seeks discipline and renewed purpose in the unforgiving ranks of the French Foreign Legion. At first, he finds it, but not for long. When a treacherous soldier frames him for murder, it forces the new legionnaire to run for his life.
Now Gil must fight to clear his name while pursuing the real killer through the rugged Atlas Mountains. With the Legion on his heels and time running out, will he find justice or be forever branded a coward and deserter?
Praise for The Deserter:
“The Deserter evokes classic blood-and-sand adventures like Under Two Flags and Beau Geste. With meticulous research and compelling characters, Turmel has brought the desert saga back to thrilling life.”
~ Frank Thompson, author, The Compleat Beau Geste
“A two-fisted historical adventure that weaves visceral action, rugged landscapes, and raw emotional depth into a haunting tale of honor, betrayal, and the elusive hope of redemption.”
~ David Buzan, bestselling author of In the Lair of Legends
Buy Links:
Universal Ebook Buy Link: to follow February 17th!
Amazon US paperback link: https://amzn.to/4adkL5S
Amazon UK paperback link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deserter-Tale-Foreign-Legion/dp/0982037783/
This title will be available on #KindleUnlimited.
Excerpt 1:
From Chapter 1:
Setup: the beginning of the story. Gil is adrift on the violent streets of Marseille in January 1908
January in Marseille was warmer than back in England but still too bloody cold to be standing in shirtsleeves waiting for sunrise. The hulking form of Fort St. Jean blocked out the moonlight, and the thick darkness swallowed even the shadows.
The big man stomped his feet, slapped and rubbed his arms to get warm. Then he ran his tongue over his top lip. For the first time in years, all he felt was smooth skin. The mustache that was such a part of him was gone, as was most of the thick blond hair that earned him the nickname Gilbert le Lion.
This lion was being hunted and needed to stay alert for a few more hours if it wanted its freedom. A clean shirt, some underwear, and his good shaving razor were all he carried in a canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder. A second razor, the sharper one, hid tucked into his boot. For the hundredth time, Gil checked that the money was still in his pocket. It was.
For now.
The sound of footsteps shuffling from the narrow alley drove him against the wall. A figure emerged and looked around. The well-dressed man was smaller than Gil, but most Frenchmen were. He wore a thick coat with a sweater underneath, a wool beret and carried a walking stick. Anyone would think he was a merchant or a lawyer, out too late and easy pickings for street thugs. Gil knew better.
Alert to his surroundings, the man knew someone was there; he just wasn’t sure who it was. He gave a simple, cautious nod and continued scanning the street. Gil smiled. Vincente didn’t recognize him. With luck, nobody else would either.
“A guy could freeze his arse off waiting for you,” Gil whispered in French. After all this time, he spoke the language well, but there was no hiding the North of England in his accent.
“Mon Dieu, I thought you were—” The older man froze, then took two tentative steps forward. “What in Christ’s name did you do to yourself?” Vincente waved a finger at Gil’s hairless face.
The Englishman took his friend’s elbow and pulled him into a doorway. “I don’t have much time, but I needed to see you.”
“Has Colette seen this? She’s not going to like it.”
“She doesn’t know. And she won’t, because I’m leaving. This morning. That’s why I needed to see you.”
Gil shuddered and let out a breath, visible in the chilly night air. The older man instinctively offered his coat. The Englishman shook him off. “I’m fine. The sun’ll be up soon.”
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
Gil ignored the question. “How much do you owe The Belgian?”
Vincente sighed. “Too much. What is it now, a hundred thousand? Not enough to kill me for too much to let it slide. He threatens. I ask for more time. It’s a game.”
Gil reached into his pocket and grabbed a wad of crumpled bills the size of his fist, wrapped in a rubber band. “A game you can’t win. Get him off your back. My gift to you. For, well, for everything.” He shoved it towards his friend.
Vincente recoiled. “What’s that? Jesus, boy, where did that come from?”
Gil shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
Ignoring the protest, Gil grabbed his friend’s wrist and placed the money in his palm, closing the fingers over it. “I’m done. For good. Just paying my debts.”
The sky was becoming lighter over the Mediterranean. Four thirty maybe? He needed to stay invisible until eight thirty at most. Four long hours.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Vincente said.
“I owe you pretty much everything. Now we’re square, and you can tell the Belgian to embrasse ton cul. With my compliments.”
Somewhere on the next street, a door slammed, and a cat yowled as Marseille awoke. The city dawned grumpy and mean. “Where are you going?” Vincente asked.
“Away. From Marseille, from all this. I can’t live like this anymore.”
Vincente studied the younger man’s face for far too long. Finally, he looked down and saw the bloodstains on the tail of Gil’s shirt. “You’re hurt.”
Gil tucked the shirt in, hiding most of the blood. “It’s not mine.”
“Then whose?” Vincente stopped. His face and voice turned to stone. “The card game in La Barasse? That was you?” He turned away and checked for eavesdroppers down the alley. “Do they know?”
Gil held his palms up, pleading for him to be quiet. “By now? Probably. Likely. After today, it won’t matter.”
Vincente’s eyes were watery. “What’s that mean after today? You’re not going to, you know. You promised never to do that again.”
Gil remembered that last half-hearted attempt, and his thumb traced the scar on his left wrist unconsciously. Like everything he’d done since arriving in Marseille, the act was more messy than effective and laid a heavy burden on the few people who cared. Colette nursed him; Vincente gave him a place to recover and a job. No, he wouldn’t do that to them again.
But he desperately needed to leave. Marseille. The petty hustles. The ever-present threat of childish, pointless violence. He needed order back in his life. Couldn’t survive without it another day. There was still one place—and only one — he’d find it.
If he could make it to sunrise. The morning could not come fast enough.
While Gil was lost in thought, Vincente unwrapped the money and expertly thumbed through it. “Paying him back with his own money. You’ve got balls, I’ll say that.” He held two bills between his fingers and held them out. “There’s too much. At least keep some for yourself.”
“Give it to Collette.” The name stuck in his throat.
The older man tried shoving the hundred-franc notes into Gil’s hand, but it was balled into an impenetrable fist. “You’ll need it.”
“Not where I’m going.”
Vincente tried to look into his eyes. “And where’s that, pray tell?”
Gil motioned with his head to the Fort behind them. In the coming dawn, guards were visible, pacing on the parapet and in front of the giant wooden gate.
His friend squinted, confused. Then his eyes grew wide. “Bullshit.”
Gil shrugged.
“It would be faster just to kill yourself.”
“I need to do this.”
“I don’t get it,” Vincente said, his voice full of fatherly concern.
“I know, mate.”
The early-morning sounds and sights of the city filled the air. Water lapped against the boats at their moorings. Horses clip-clopped on stones, dragging squeaky carts. Gas lamps appeared in upper windows.
“Can I at least buy you breakfast?”
Gil smiled. “Probably the last decent meal I’m going to have for a long time. Sure. But somewhere dark.”
Vincente slapped his fingers against the bloodstains on the big man’s shirt. “You’ll need a fresh shirt. Can’t show up like that. Even they won’t ignore something like that.”
“Feed me first, then you can nag me.”
Author Bio:
Wayne Turmel is a Canadian ex-pat now living and writing in Las Vegas. He’s the author of seven novels, the latest is The Deserter – a Tale of the Foreign Legion. His short stories have earned critical acclaim, including nominations for the prestigious Pushcart Prize.
Turmel’s longer works delve into the rich tapestries of history and the thrilling depths of urban fantasy, inviting readers into meticulously crafted worlds. At times humorous, sometimes dark but always with a careful eye for dialogue and detail.
He lives with his wife, The Duchess, and Mad Max, most manly of poodles.
Author Links:
Website: www.WayneTurmel.com
Twitter / X: https://x.com/WTurmel
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wayne.turmel
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/turmel.wayne/
Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/authorwayneturmel.bsky.social
Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/wayne-turmel
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Wayne-Turmel/author/B00J5PGNWU
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14980039.Wayne_Turmel
Thank you so much for hosting Wayne Turmel, with an intriguing excerpt from his thrilling historical adventure, The Deserter.
Take care,
Cathie xo
The Coffee Pot Book Club