This week
on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming best-selling author DavidGaughran, whose debut historical, A STORM HITS VALPARAISO, is set in South
America during the 1800's. It's an epic story of the quest for freedom in
colonial Argentina. Join us Sunday, when David will be here to talk
about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:
A Storm Hits Valparaíso is an epic, 400-page historical adventure with a huge cast of characters whose stories gradually interweave, including: two brothers torn apart by love; a slave running for his life, a disgraced British sailor seeking redemption in a foreign land; an Indian trapped in the death mines of Potosí; and a Spanish general who deserts the army to raise the flag of rebellion against Madrid.
An Excerpt from A
Storm Hits Valparaíso
Catalina
Flores de la Peña’s tongue got her in more trouble than any other part of her
body, even though there were far more likely candidates. However, as soon as
anyone brought these to her attention, they realized why most men preferred to
admire her from the dusty corners of her father’s tavern, rather than approach
her directly. So legendary was her temper that the mayor ordered her father to
keep her upstairs when dignitaries came to visit the tavern, fearing a repeat
of the night she broke the magistrate’s nose.
When she was confined to her room, customers
tended not to linger; there was no one to hasten the hours between the first pisco
and the fall of night. Watching her glide between tables—flirting with one man,
berating another, eyes flashing one moment, soft and kind the next—was one of
the more pleasant ways to avoid thinking about the weather on Valparaíso’s long
winter nights.
Her father—Don Flores—was a stern man and no one
was quite sure of his first name. One customer swore his uncle grew up with Don
Flores in Pucon, and that he was called Ignacio. Another insisted his brother
once loitered outside the confessional and heard old Father Guido refer to Don
Flores as Ricardo. Catalina’s father never let on, happy to give the men
something to talk about other than his daughter. And anyway, the majority of
his patrons were content simply calling him Don Flores, the honorific
reflecting the distance he kept from them.
Don Flores’ low opinion of his fellow man
resulted from years of seeing them at their worst, for he slept when he wasn’t
working and he worked when he wasn’t sleeping. His daughter was spared this
judgment. He showered her with all the love and affection he withheld from the
rest of society. When Catalina was old enough, he insisted she work at the bar
so that she would form the same useful opinion of humanity that protected and
comforted him in equal measure.
* * *
Catalina
could feel his eyes—watching her. She tried to ignore him, but every time she
looked, there he was. Most men had the decency to look away when she caught
them, but this Spanish puerco just went on staring, with the faintest
hint of a sneer at the corner of his lips.
Something about him kept her on edge. She tried
to put him out of her mind; she had troubles enough tonight. The crew of the Esmeralda
had descended on Valparaíso with no good in mind. Their ship had docked,
needing repairs, and they were taking advantage of several days of unexpected
shore leave before continuing on to Lima. It had been a long voyage from Spain.
The sailors hadn’t seen port during the journey across the Atlantic, down the
barren coast of Patagonia, past the frozen wastelands of Tierra del Fuego, and
around Cape Horn into the Pacific. The Chilean rebels had no ships worthy of
the name, and their forces had withdrawn on sight of the frigate; their one
paltry cannon was no match for the Esmeralda’s forty-two guns. The
Spaniards had secured the waterfront in under an hour, encountering no
resistance. Sentries were posted at each street corner, and the sailors who
escaped guard duty were determined to make the most of this opportunity.
Toward midnight, the bawdy crowd began to clear,
following the musicians down the street, looking for whores and gambling
tables. An hour later, only one table was left: Spanish sailors, drunk, shouting
insults. Except for him; he just watched. She tried to shake it off, hoping
they would be gone soon. Instead, they called for another drink.
“Very well, señores,” said Don Flores, as
he poured the pisco, “one more, then we close.”
Catalina placed the drinks on the table,
grateful the night was nearly over, already thinking of bed. As she turned to
leave, the puerco grabbed her arm. “I hope you are not going to throw us
out on the street just yet. It’s still early.”
Catalina glared at him. “Let go of me, puerco,
or you’ll be out now.”
He pulled her down onto his lap, grabbing her
breast. “Chica, the night’s only beginning—” He stopped short, her cold
metal blade pressed against his throat. The bar fell silent—a silence quickly
shattered by his companions jumping up from their chairs, upending the table in
their haste. Catalina pulled the puerco’s head back, exposing his sweaty
neck. One of the sailors edged closer. The tip of her dagger nicked the puerco’s
skin, drawing a small bead of blood.
“Stand back lads,” he cautioned.
Catalina turned to his companions. “You two,
leave.”
They paused. The puerco gave a slight
nod, the knife still firmly at his neck. Eyes on Catalina, his companions
staggered backward to the door and stepped outside. Her father hurried to her
side and eased the knife from her fingers. With his other hand, he twisted the puerco’s
arm up behind his back and marched him after his companions.
“You tell that bitch this isn’t finished.” The puerco
struggled. “I’ll be back for her.”
Don Flores threw him out the door, bolting it
shut. He sighed then looked at his daughter. “Go to bed mi hija. It has
been a long night. Tomorrow we can clean.”
Catalina nodded and went upstairs.
The next morning, the air thick with stale sweat
and tobacco, Catalina drummed her fingers on the bar as she surveyed the
damage. This day isn’t going to improve in a hurry, she thought. Last
night’s crowd had been rough. Aside from dirty glasses and plates, she had
smashed bottles and broken chairs to contend with. At least her regulars knew
the rules—and occasionally respected them—but those animals, they had no
respect for anything. She cursed as a glass slipped from her hand and
shattered. A groan came from the doorway outside. Pedro, she thought, a
smile sailing through the storm of her face.
Every night, Pedro Villar fell asleep in the
doorway of the bar with a flower in his hand, intending to profess his love to
Catalina. Every night, his courage would falter, leaving him slumped outside,
cursing his cowardice and mourning his solitude. Every morning, Catalina sent
him home to his mother—a stern woman who put a raw egg in his coffee as
punishment for his nightly excesses.
Catalina opened the door and shooed Pedro away
with the broom, unmindful of the heart she broke a little more each day.
“Pedro Villar?” Her father appeared as she was
re-locking the door.
Catalina laughed. “Who else?”
“He has too much interest in you for my liking.”
“That drunk would chase a burro in a
dress.”
Her father grunted. “Catalina, put down that
broom. I want to talk to you.”
“What is it, Papa?”
“I’m sending you to Santiago for a few days, to
your aunt. I don’t want any argument. It’s not safe for you here.”
“But Papa, we can’t let—”
“Sergeant Eduardo came by last night, after you
went to bed. He is worried about these sailors. They are hot-headed and foolish
enough to do something stupid.” Don Flores took a bottle of pisco from
the shelf, cleaning the label with his thumb before pouring himself a healthy
measure. “He can’t protect us. His hands are tied. None of his men can enter
Valparaíso while there is a Spanish warship in the bay.” He emptied the
contents with one gulp. “He feels it would be best if you visited some
relatives until the Spaniards leave town.”
“But this is my home.”
“I have made my decision, Catalina. Just for a
few days, until these sailors leave.” He raised his hands, as if to brook any
further discussion.
“Papa—”
“That’s enough!”
Catalina continued cleaning in silence. There
was no point arguing; her father’s mind was made up. She had no siblings to
share the burden of her father’s protectiveness, no mother to soften his
resolve; she was going to Santiago.
--
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