The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) (39 page)

Author’s Note

All of my work is fiction, and it is set within the historical backgrounds of the 18
th
and 19
th
Centuries. Although some of my secondary characters really lived, my main characters are always fictitious, as well as their accomplishments and experiences.

Seldom do I feel the need to explain the events of my novels. My readers are generally well-versed in history, so there is little need for clarification, but in
The Grand Masquerade
, I feel compelled to share what I learned about the New Madrid earthquake of 1811-12.

I have lived most of my life in the Midwest and always thought earthquakes in the U.S. were restricted to the states bordering the San Andreas Fault. When I was researching life on the Mississippi in the 19
th
Century, I was floored to learn there had been several major earthquakes centering in Arkansas and Missouri called the New Madrid Earthquakes.

These were no minor tremors. The New Madrid earthquakes of 1811-12 rank as some of the largest quakes ever recorded in North America. It is said the range of shocks were two to three times as large as the 1964 Alaska earthquake and ten times as large as the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. People reported tremors from the New Madrid quakes as far away as Montreal, Boston and Washington D.C.

Since there were few major Native American or European settlements on the Mississippi at that time, there was little residential and commercial damage, but today it would be another story. I have downsized the magnitude of the fictitious earthquake that Sydnee, Fletcher and the children experienced in
The Grand Masquerade
in 1843. Nevertheless, it would be terrifying indeed to be on a riverboat during such a natural disaster. If an earthquake that size hit the Midwest today, the devastation would be enormous. It would only be matched by the shock and surprise of residents of the area. I certainly hope we never experience it.

Please look for my other novels on Amazon.com:
Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry, The Pride of the King,
and
The Sword of the Banshee, and Vagabond Wind.

And don’t forget to visit my website at
www.amandahughesauthor.com

My mailing list at
http://www.amandahughesauthor.com/contactmailing-list.html

Amanda Hughes

About the Author and Excerpt from
Vagabond Wind
(Book Five of The Bold Women Series)

All her life Amanda Hughes has been a “Walter Mitty”, spending more time in heroic daydreams than the real world. At last she found an outlet writing adventures about audacious women in the 18
th
and 19
th
Century. All of her novels are stand-alone works.

The Bold Women Series:

Book 1 Beyond the Cliffs of Kerry
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004V12JIK

Book 2 The Pride of the King
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056QJOVE

Book 3 The Sword of the Banshee
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B0NR9E

Book 4 The Grand Masquerade
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OABX19M

       Book 5 Vagabond Wind
http://amzn.to/1FYApKv

Amanda is a graduate of the University of Minnesota, and when she isn’t off tilting windmills, she lives and writes in St. Paul, Minnesota. Please visit her
www.amandahughesauthor.com
and sign up for the mailing list
http://www.amandahughesauthor.com/contactmailing-list.html

Vagabond Wind

Chapter 1

Western Virginia

June, 1853

Chester McCabe needed to bed a woman.  The squat drayman stepped outside the tavern with a scowl on his face, and looked up. The dark mountains which vaulted up on every side of Bridgeman, Virginia were barely visible now. The sun had set, and the run-down buildings of town were thrown into the shadows.

Laughter rolled out from the tavern behind him, but he ignored it. Instead McCabe tore off some chew and watched an old man light torches along Main Street. The town was no more than two drinking establishments, a mercantile, and a few ramshackle buildings.

Main Street was deserted tonight, and McCabe was disappointed. He wished someone would rile him up and give him an excuse to fight. He was feeling surly, and he knew pummeling someone would help him feel better.

Chester McCabe was a short, but powerfully built man in his middle years with thick black hair covering every part of his stocky body. It even pushed out of the top of his shirt. His favorite pastime was drinking and showing whores who was boss. He believed that they liked it rough, and he was more than willing to oblige them.

Two men joined him. One was a gangly youth with greasy, blond hair who went by the name of Whitey Hoskins. The other was a fat drayman with a tobacco-stained beard named George Roscoe.

Whitey asked Chester excitedly, “Ya gonna join up?”

McCabe didn’t answer. Joining the army, any man’s army, disgusted him. He was not about to take orders from those pretty boy officers.

“I can’t wait to whoop those Injuns,” Whitey continued with a toothless grin. “I’m gonna sign up.”

“You stupid little shit,” McCabe snarled. “You’ll see how much fun it is when your guts are spilling out all over your boots.”

“Speakin’ of boots,” George Roscoe slurred. “At least we got new boots on our feet and money in our pockets. We damn sure earned it bringin’ that load of goods over them mountains. That was hell.”

“Well, I was hopin’ fer more than just whiskey tonight as reward,” Chester growled. He had been counting on bedding the whore, Lavinia Culvert when he got to town, but she had run off with a gambler two weeks earlier. She was the only hooker the town had to offer.

“Well looky there,” exclaimed Roscoe with a chuckle and a nod toward the street.

A young country girl, about fifteen years of age, came around the corner. She was dressed in homespun clothing, and although it was a warm night, she had a shawl draped modestly over her shoulders. Her smooth, black hair was tied up in a knot, and she carried a basket. 

“That there may be the reward we all deserve,” Whitey said. “Right, Chester?”

“Shut up,” McCabe mumbled as he reached into his pants, scratching himself. He smiled slowly and walked down the steps after her.

“She’s asking for it alright,” said Roscoe, falling in step behind McCabe. “Out alone after dark.”

After tossing back several gulps from a flask, Whitey ran after them. McCabe swung his arm forward, signaling for Whitey to go on ahead.

The youth stuffed the flask into his pocket and ran up to stop the girl. “Look at the sweet thing,” he said, jumping in front of her and walking backwards.

She looked up, startled and when he saw her face, Whitey called back to the men, “Whoee! Y’all gotta see this boys. Purty as a picture.”

The girl had dark eyes, smooth olive skin and high cheekbones.

“You part Cherokee, sugar?”

The girl did not answer and stepped around him.

“Now just a minute,” Whitey said indignantly and grabbed her elbow. “I’s just bein’ neighborly.”

She tried to free her arm, but Whitey would not let go. When the other two caught up and blocked her way, she dropped her eyes to the ground, standing rigid as a statue.

“Looks more like part nigger to me. Look at those lips,” said George.

McCabe ran his eyes slowly up and down her body and said to her, “White, nigger, Injun, a girl your age shouldn’t be out alone. Now we’re going to walk you home, lil darlin’. ”

He looked over his shoulder, took her elbow and pushed her toward the alley. Wagne and Whitey scanned the street then stepped into the shadows after McCabe. The girl squirmed and pleaded, “No, don’t. Please, let me go!” but the three whisked her so quickly into the darkness she had no chance to resist.

The alley smelled of rotting garbage, stale beer and excrement. Rats scattered when they stepped in back of an outhouse. McCabe clapped his hand over the girl’s mouth and swung her around, pinning her to a slimy wall. Her eyes were like saucers, and she struggled violently, trying to scream.

McCabe told Whitey and Roscoe to come and hold her arms. When they took hold of her, McCabe removed his hand from her mouth and slapped her across the face. “Now you keep your goddamn mouth shut. I want you to enjoy this.”

She looked at him with blood trickling down her lip.

As McCabe started to unbutton his pants, Whitey began to rub his groin against the girl’s leg and George started to pull her blouse out of her skirt. Her hair tumbled down around her face as she shook her head from side to side. McCabe stepped forward with his pants around his ankles and clamped a hand to her throat.  With his other hand, he began to pull up her skirt.

The next moment someone whooped, and the alley erupted into chaos. Men on horseback stampeded up, carrying rifles and clubs. There were five riders, who all had dark skin, and they were dressed in vests with bright sashes on their waists. They jerked up on the reins causing the horses to rear up, stomp and snort.

Roscoe reached for his revolver, but one of the riders burst forward and slammed him in the head with a club, dropping him to the ground. Whitey began to run, but another rider, a middle-aged man, swung a heavy chain into his face, smashing his nose and jaw. The boy tumbled back onto the ground, unconscious and bleeding.

As McCabe struggled to pull his pants up, the girl reached in back of her skirt, yanked a knife from her belt and plunged the blade deeply into his belly. In shock and horror, he looked into her eyes, and she smiled a crooked smile. With the calm indifference of an assassin, she pulled the blade out, wiped it on her skirt, and with her foot sent him tumbling backward onto the ground.

The riders dismounted, searching the pockets of Whitey and Roscoe. They found cash, weapons and tobacco, quickly putting the valuables into bags while one of the group stood guard at the entrance of the alley.

Although he was bleeding profusely, McCabe was still alive. He was too afraid to struggle when they took his belongings, so he continued to lay in the dirt, holding his belly and panting.

Through a haze of weakness and delirium, he watched the gypsies finish their raid. A handsome dark-skinned youth with a red sash called to the girl, and she looked up as she was pulling boots from George Roscoe’s feet. McCabe could not believe it was the same girl. Although she still had the smooth beauty of youth on her face, her demeanor was changed. Even in the fog of delirium he could see that she was a shrewd and highly jaded young woman.

The girl ran and launched herself into her lover’s arms, and the young man caught her, lifting her off the ground with a kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist, threw her head back and laughed, tossing her dark head of hair.

“You did it again my Romani beauty,” the boy said, and he kissed her lustily.

Chester McCabe slid into oblivion just as the gypsy band mounted their horses and charged out of Bridgeman, Virginia.

Vagabond Wind on Amazon
http://amzn.to/1FYApKv