Book Title: The Middle Generation: A Novel of John Quincy Adams
and the Monroe Doctrine
Author: M. B. Zucker
Publication Date: November 7, 2023
Publisher: Historium
Press
Page Length: 432
Genre: Historical Fiction /
Biographical Fiction
Twitter Handle: @MichaelZucker1 @cathiedunn
Instagram Handle: @m.b.zucker.author @thecoffeepotbookclub
The Middle Generation: A Novel of John Quincy Adams and the Monroe Doctrine
by M. B.
Zucker
The
classical era of American history began with the Revolution and ended with emancipation.
Between these bookends lies the absorbing yet overshadowed epic of a new nation
spearheading liberty’s cause in a world skeptical of freedom arriving at all,
much less in slaver’s garb. M. B. Zucker takes readers back to that adolescent
country in the care of an enigmatic guide, John Quincy Adams, heir to one
president by blood and another, Washington, by ideology. Adams is the missing
link between the founders and Abraham Lincoln, and is nigh unanimously regarded
as America’s foremost Secretary of State. Through Adams’ eyes, readers
will experience one of history’s greatest and most forgotten crises: his
showdown with Europe over South American independence, the conflict which
prefigured the Monroe Doctrine.
With his
signature dialogue and his close study of Adams’ 51 volume diary, M. B.
Zucker’s The Middle Generation is a political thriller and character
piece that surpasses his achievement in The Eisenhower Chronicles and
ascends to the cinematic heights of the historical epics of David Lean and
Steven Spielberg. It is an unforgettable portrait and a leap forward for one of
our rising historical fiction novelists.
Buy Links:
Universal
Link: https://geni.us/fNbEE
Amazon
US: https://www.amazon.com/Middle-Generation-Quincy-Monroe-Doctrine-ebook/dp/B0CKY9DKW3
Amazon
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Middle-Generation-Quincy-Monroe-Doctrine-ebook/dp/B0CKY9DKW3
Amazon
Can: https://www.amazon.ca/Middle-Generation-Quincy-Monroe-Doctrine-ebook/dp/B0CKY9DKW3
Amazon
Aus: https://www.amazon.com.au/Middle-Generation-Quincy-Monroe-Doctrine-ebook/dp/B0CKY9DKW3
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-middle-generation
Barnes
& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-middle-generation-m-b-zucker/1144180428?ean=9781962465076
The title will be available in several Barnes and Noble stores in the DC / Northern Virginia area.
Author Bio:
M. B. Zucker has been interested
in storytelling for as long as he can remember. He devoted himself to
historical fiction at fifteen and earned his B.A. at Occidental College and his
J.D. at Case Western Reserve University School of Law. He lives in Virginia
with his family. He is the author of three other novels. Among his honors is
the Best Fictional Biography Award at the 2023 BookFest.
Author Links:
Website: www.mbzucker.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/michaelzucker1
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100061516155957
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/michaelbzucker/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/m.b.zucker.author/
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/M.-B.-Zucker/author/B09JM74HMF
EXCERPT:
My
eyes, still irritated, were now heavy as I arrived home and I prayed Mrs. Adams
had had one of her good days. We’d rented a house at C and 4 ½ Street. A modest
home but our family fit well enough. The neighborhood was uninspired, even by
Washington standards, the indiscernible buildings standing in file rows like
minutemen awaiting approaching redcoats. Its worst feature was a
jail-turned-slave pen a mere block away.
I
entered the home and saw that the dining room fireplace embers were abating.
George, my eldest, slept nearby. John and Charles, my younger sons, attended
Boston Public Latin School and lived with the Welshes, our friends. Two
chambers—the dining room and kitchen—were at the front while a cluster of
minute bedrooms inhabited the rear. The dining room had a table with six
chairs, a cluttered bookcase, and portraits of Cicero and George and Martha
Washington.
I
approached my son and saw a French study book opened so I couldn’t read the
title and painted metal toy soldiers organized for battle. I kneeled and shook
his shoulder until his eyes opened.
“Were
you studying or playing?”
He
groaned. “I was studying and took a break.”
“You
don’t have time for games if you’re to enter Harvard as a sophomore.”
“I
know, Father,” he said meekly.
“I
will make our name proud,” I said in French. In English: “Translate for me.” He
failed, barely trying, and I paced about. “Don’t you want to make something of
yourself? To get somewhere—anywhere—in the world? To earn my admiration rather
than be a burden?” He wept. I stood over him so my words carried greater force.
“Control yourself. Be distinguishable from the placenta once attached to you.”
He
begged between gasps: “Stop, Father.”
I
froze, stressed from my day. I chose to be kinder. “What battle were you
reenacting?”
A
moment. “General Washington’s victory at Saratoga.”
“Washington
wasn’t at Saratoga. It was Gates. You can’t even waste time properly.”
He
hugged his legs.
“Work
for another hour before retiring for the day. Read scripture before bed. It’s
medicine for the soul. We are all, son, unwilling to confess our own faults,
even to ourselves. Our consciences either disguise them under false and
delusive colors or seek out excuses and apologies to reconcile them to our
minds.”
He
nodded and I entered the kitchen. A claustrophobic space made worse by
protruding counters, stuffed shelves, and a round three-legged table at one
end. A pot of stew waited for me. I was too drowsy for hunger.
Ellen
and Antoine released their grip on one another. Ellen was our cook and Antoine
was a young Belgian man I’d hired as my servant. They were the best-looking
pair in the family, though that said little.
“I
take it Mary’s asleep?” I asked, referring to my wife’s nine-year-old niece
living with us.
“Yes,
Mr. Adams,” Ellen said.
“And
Lucy?” My wife’s servant.
Ellen
hesitated. “She’s in bed.”
“Did
Mrs. Adams yell at her again?” More hesitation. “Be honest.”
“Yes,
Mr. Adams. Mrs. Adams had another episode.” My head drooped. “She fainted and
we put her in your bedroom. She might be awake now.”
I
lacked room to express my frustration and so squeezed my fists. “I needed her
to have a good day.”
“I’m
sorry, sir.”
I
turned to leave and paused. “You may restore your embrace.”
Our
bedroom was pitch black. Curtains resembling a sorcerer’s cape altered it into
a lightless mausoleum. Misaligned portraits of our sons and a pamphlet about
repairing buggy wheels cluttered a night table while the closet door remained
ajar from when I left that morning. Mrs.
Adams
opened her eyes. Paradise Lost, her favorite book, sat beside her face. Her
hair grayer and her body plumper than when we wed. Self-induced stress was a
greater culprit than age.
“You
fainted?” I asked. She nodded. “Do you need laudanum?”
“No,”
she whispered.
“Do
you know the source?”
Louder
now: “I again instructed Lucy—”
“Do
you want her to quit?”
A
sigh. “I don’t care.”
“What
do you care about?”
“You
know the answer. I can’t stop thinking about Baby Louisa.”
My
spine used to stiffen at such remarks. No longer. “It was five years ago.”
“As
if that matters.” Her posture rose. “She—she was everything. And you, in your
heartlessness, you don’t even—”
“Of
course I do. I loved our daughter more than anything. But we cannot live within
mourning. We still have children to attend to. Lives which must go on. We
cannot afford, nor should we want, to be consumed by a single tragedy. We must
accept it as a dark chapter and—”
“Do
not lecture me. You haven’t the right.”
“A
right derived from what?”
“Look
at how you treat those dearest to me. Like Baby Louisa. Like Father.”
I
shook my head. “Your father was in the wrong. He brought it upon himself.”
“You
merely had to pay off—”
“I
was not about to allow his creditors to blackmail me, Louisa. To blackmail our
family.”
Screaming
now. “Instead you allowed for his humiliation. He had to flee London for
America, a country whose revolution he supported—”
Joined
her screaming. “Do you know the insult to my virtue—”
She
scoffed. “Your virtue?”
“Yes,
my virtue. It’s my most valuable possession. My life’s foundation. As if I had
the money to pay off his creditors when I’m supporting our family on a
government salary.”
“He
died a broken man. A man who’d been—”
“He
lied to us, Louisa. To you.”
A
lower octave. “He was the only one who cared. Who ever cared.”
“People
care for you.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Really?”
“Of
course. And our family.”
“They
don’t respect me.”
“That
doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
“It’s
a prerequisite.” She turned to the curtain. “I ask so little from life and I
get even less.”
“Self-indulgence
is pathetic.”
“I
just want a happy family. That’s all.”
“Life
isn’t meant to be happy.”
“Yes
it is. At least, that’s what I believe.”
“A
foolish belief. Everyone feels stress but adults put it aside and keep going.”
A
pause. “I should join our daughter beyond the grave.”
“Or
don’t listen to me. Whichever’s better.”
I
undressed in the mirror and became blue. My handsome days were behind me.
Balder and rounder. I mentioned my eye troubles and will inform you of my hands
later. I wished to hide from the world and never appear in public again. No one
should have to see this.
Some
quiet minutes. Then, “Let’s leave for Braintree the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?”
she asked.
“Getting
away from the city will clear your head. We’ll spend time with my family
instead of the vultures circling Washington.”
“Can
you afford to leave?”
“No,
but your health is more important. I’ll return before the upcoming
congressional session.”
“You’re
underestimating the time required to visit New England during winter.”
“Not
if we travel by steamship. I’ll tell Brent tomorrow that he must run the
Department for a few days. He’ll understand.”
“Daniel
is a considerate man.” A pause. “Can we visit John and Charles?”
“You
can. I won’t have time.”
“They
need their father.”
“They’ll
have to do without. For now.”
