The cover of this book is not the only thing wrong with it. And if you believe you'll learn anything new or worthwhile with regard to history, you might wish to reconsider. The first clue, other than the cover, is the fact that the author has yet to churn out the second volume of this riveting series. This one received only four reviews, from friends and family.
To begin, the author writes as if he had a stack of Osprey uniform books in front of him, and describes in painful, florid detail what everyone is wearing. He is particularly fond of varicolored plumes in bicorn hats, Hungarian boots (?) and tight pants. Nothing wrong with description, of course, but when it repeats on almost every other page, it becomes tiresome.
This author also wants to dazzle the reader with his research, although it is largely confined to the memoirs and secondary sources most of us grew out of ages ago. Easy enough to recognize, even if there are no attributes in the Kindle version. As a result, great blocks of text descend—many of us know these as "info dumps"—and contribute little if anything useful. At best, they confirm what readers already know; at worst, these info dump slow the plot to the consistency of molasses in January. The same applies to the unfortunate and highly irritating habit of dispensing information through the amazingly awful "As you know, Bob" type of dialogue where two people tell each other things ad nauseam they already know. This book has scores of unintentional amusing examples.
Since the book features French folks, readers apparently need to be reminded of this fact. A lot. By using French words and phrases interspersed with English, so any given soldier's speech is a hilariously inept mélange of Frenglish. This tendency carries over to the portions that feature Murad Bey and various other Mamluks, who one and all shout "Allah Akbur" at the drop of a scimitar. When some of them aren't bowing and scraping to the French, referring to every soldier as "effendi." Just to heighten the enjoyment, the rules of italicizing foreign words are applied with the same finesse—and logic—as tossing pasta against the wall to see what sticks.
There is also the issue of anachronisms, bane of far too many writers. So while we see the occasional French cursing, italicized or not, depending upon a whim, we see, often on the same page and in several cases in the same paragraph, blatant 20th century Americanisms. Sacre bleu!
Oh, there is the obligatory sex. In this case, by about the third chapter the intrepid hero has hooked up with a Maltese woman, and then there are the obligatory female stowaways, and encounters with dark-skinned Mamluk beauties. Some of it is actually funny. Most of it is boring.
But don't let my opinion dissuade anyone from reading this gem. Of course, if you are a fan of Griff Hosker's potboilers, you'll just love this one.
Sorry for the length, but I do reviews on Amazon and Goodreads.
