Leon Uris Read Online Free PDF

New Zealand ever fell off the earth, Christchurch would be first to go. It was born dull and stayed that way without curiosity or anger, just a transplanted English garden in perpetual whispers and prayer. This was the Motherland once removed, the old royal and loyal outpost of empire. It was eleven o’clock and Christchurch drowsed. Christchurch always drowsed.
    RumRunner trotted on through to the Lyttleton Harbour, where an oasis of levity from the outside world had filtered through the Christian ramparts.
    Wally Ferguson’s Sheepmen and Miners’ Exchange was the lone sanctuary from all that goodness. Wally’s operation centered around the sheep and cattle pens by the docks. There was a bunkhouse hotel, warehouse, auction barn, and the most active pub on the South Island.
    Wally’s greatest asset was an ability to size up men: good, bad, truthful, liar, fighter, coward…that one will fold up in one season…that one will make a go of it…that one’s a right yahoo.
    In the beginning, when Mildred and Liam had been evicted from Bert Hargrove’s station, Wally had made an astute judgment and took the young and frightened couple in. What to buy, when to buy, how to buy, good land, bad land, safe ships, diseased ships, market up, market down, good ram, bad ram—all of this was shared with Liam Larkin, more so because he hated Bert Hargrove, but mostly because he knew a winning team when he saw one.
    That kid, Rory Larkin, became a kind of alter ego, winning at the fairs, almost good enough to play rugby with the All-Blacks, and a fighter of devastating proportions.
    Rory could hold his feelings in like his da, Liam. The lad was always much of a loner except for the girls who couldn’t keep their hands off him and their legs crossed.
    Likewise, there were many differences between father and son, but the greatest of these was Liam’s ability to stuff in his rage, no matter what.
    Rory was able to contain himself for only so long, and when he erupted it could be monumental and he could be dangerous.
    RumRunner stopped at the corral gate. Rory whistled. Old Glenn the stableman limped over from the bunkhouse and let them in. The journey ended, the whiskey hit with a delayed punch. Rory needed a hand to dismount and he leaned against the fence, blurry.
    “My, my,” the old man said, “get your ass to the bunkhouse, I’ll sack you down as soon as I take care of your horse.”
    The intensity of pain was stronger than the effects of mere alcohol. Rory came together in a fuzzy sort of way. “I’m not after sleeping yet,” he said. “Night’s young and I’m wasting good drinking time.”
    “You’ve got enough in you to keep the House of Lords drunk for a month.”
    “Glenn, just take care of my fucking horse.”
    “All right, but mind your manners. There’s a foursome of thugs down from the copper mine just dying to get into a piss-up. And see Wally before you go into the bar. He thought you might be coming down.”
    Rory heaved in a sigh to prove he was absolutely sober, thanked RumRunner, and started across the corral.
    “Rory. We’ve heard about Conor Larkin. I’m sorry, man.”
    Rory stopped for a moment and surveyed a landscape of pens bulging with sheep and three ships at dockside. The bar would be full. A tinderbox.
    Rory knocked and entered Wally Ferguson’s office, slumped into the chair, and hung his head. The feel of Wally’s two strong hands tightening hard on his shoulders helped so much.
    “Glenn says they know about it here already. How did they get the news so quick?”
    “I think your ma must have held the cable for a couple of days. I called her and told her it was in the newspaper today. Some of the republican journalists in Dublin must have put it on the wires before it could be censored.”
    Rory lifted his head to see a newspaper on the desk. He closed his eyes and bit his lip.
    “You’ll have to read it to me.”
    “‘It is confirmed that the Ulster Volunteer Army arsenal and