Four months before the Civil War in 1861, Angel Woolsack pisses blood off a rooftop in New Orleans, roaring at a mob of secessionists celebrating the withdrawal of Louisiana from the Union states. Not bad for a preacher of Baptist stock, hell-bound by his Bible, guns and past. And so begins his ‘gospel’, recounting the brutal opening years of the nineteenth century, when righteousness and vengeance would bring independence, and men were once brothers – not by blood but love, and war.

In 1803 Napoleon sold Louisiana to the Americans after wrestling it back from the Spanish. Lines were drawn and the southern states were riddled with gunpowder and political shootouts. Upon this stage Kent Wascom paints us The Blood of Heaven, telling the story of the Kemper brothers, real men in a novel awash with historical figures narrated through the fictive lens of Angel Woolsack. This is the stuff legends are made of.

Emerging from a purgatorial childhood, chewing hot coals and baited to hell by his father, Angel has the gift of the Word. Knowing faith is cursed, he embraces it, disowns his past and joins the Kemper brothers in their quest to rid the continent of monarchy and Europe. Depending on what side of history you are on, these filibusters will be sure-fire heroes or villains. Thankfully, in this tale of nation-making, blindness of faith and the disease of slavery, Wascom leaves it for us to decide.

Sheens of Cormac McCarthy are certainly wet on his sleeve. Readers of other recent shots at the cowboy gothic, such as The Son by Philipp Meyer and The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt, will revel in the epic violence and poetics. Relish this rich tapestry of American independence; its fierceness rings like a blast of biblical proportions.

Luke May is a freelance reviewer.