Author Interview & Book Giveaway: David Gaughran on LIBERTY BOY

This week, we’re pleased to welcome author DAVID GAUGHRAN with his latest release,  LIBERTY BOY, set in Ireland.

One lucky visitor will get a digital copy of LIBERTY BOY – this giveaway is open internationally. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's author interview for a chance to win. The winner will be contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb…

Dublin has been on a knife-edge since the failed rebellion in July, and Jimmy O'Flaherty suspects a newcomer to The Liberties - Kitty Doyle - is mixed up in it. She accuses him of spying for the English, and he thinks she's a reckless troublemaker.

All Jimmy wants is to earn enough coin to buy passage to America. But when the English turn his trading patch into a gallows, Jimmy finds himself drawn into the very conflict he's spent his whole life avoiding.

**Q&A with David Gaughran**

Can you tell us a little about Liberty Boy? It's a little different to your previous books.

Liberty Boy is set in Dublin after yet another failed rebellion: the 1803 Rising. The story stars Jimmy O'Flaherty – a market trader who is trying to keep his head down, stay out of trouble, and save enough money to escape Ireland. In fact, most of the action centers around one place, Thomas Street in Dublin. My previous historical novels had a whole cast of characters and/or covered lengthy time periods, attempting some kind of epic scale, but this time around I really wanted to narrow the focus. I think the book takes place over just three weeks.

And what was going on in the background at this time? Why that specific period?

I decided to set something in my home country for a change and I was drawn to the lesser-known 1803 Rising. Everyone in Ireland knows the name of the leader, Robert Emmet, and how he was executed afterwards at such a young age. But I’d never heard that lots more men were hung in the three weeks leading up to that, almost one every day in the same spot. I was immediately intrigued about that and started imagining what life on the street would have been like with this gallows being erected right there in the city, in the middle of a busy street, looming over everyone as they went about their daily business.

It was a show of force by the British administration ruling the country at the time, and it must have been very intimidating. Thousands had been in arrested in the aftermath of the rebellion and justice back then was a different beast: those charged with treason had a perfunctory trial lasting a few hours and were executed the very next day. People wouldn't have been sure who was going to be next, or how long it would continue.

You said the 1803 Rising is "lesser-known," why is that?

Losing didn’t help! More seriously, the 1803 Rising never had a good reputation when I was learning history in school. We lost in 1916 too, but that set in motion a series of events that led to Irish independence a few years later. There were many other failed uprisings before, but most are generally viewed as decent efforts which failed because of bad luck, or English treachery, or a simple lack of firepower - but no deficit when it came to bravery. 1803 is generally considered in less charitable light: its leader was naive, or foolhardy, or it was poorly planned and a shambles in the execution too, or that his men were ill-disciplined or ran away, and so on. I was also intrigued by this, not least when I found out that wasn’t the real story.

Is it difficult to challenge preconceived views of history?

Sometimes you can have great success with that – Wolf Hall being a classic example. But I don’t know if that’s the case here. I’m skeptical anyone has strong enough opinions about 1803 for me to have to work so hard to overcome them, and that’s not really the approach I take anyway. A lot of history is contentious, especially Irish history. However, that doesn’t necessarily have to make your job as a novelist harder. It might sound like a high-grade cop out, but I was wondering how to handle all these different interpretations of what happened – particularly when it took us nearly two hundred years to figure it out – when I realized I could just have the characters argue about it!

How is that not a cop out?

Maybe it is, but look it at another way: there would have been a range of opinions on what the rebels were doing. Not everyone was a nationalist seeking independence, and even out of those that were, some were arguing that it wasn’t the right time to revolt. On top of all that, there would have been jealousies and little fiefdoms amongst the rebels themselves and I’m sure a few of the older hands resented such a young, relatively inexperienced, leader.

And there was great confusion about what happened anyway, one which has never been fully resolved even with the benefit of history and hindsight. At the time, many of the ordinary people of Dublin wouldn’t have trusted the official news sources, and would have relied more on word-of-mouth, itself inherently susceptible to gossip and rumor and exaggeration, as well as various personal agendas. Which is why I wanted to have a main character who is generally distrustful, and, while he is no fan of the English, he is ambivalent about the rebels and, especially, how they go about achieving their aims.

But he also has personal reasons for that stance… which ends up being forcefully challenged.

Buy your copy of LIBERTY BOY Now!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Gaughran is Irish and lives in Dublin, where it rains every day and conversation is a sport. He is the author of the historical adventures Liberty Boy, Mercenary, and A Storm Hits Valparaiso, as well as bunch of other stuff too. Visit DavidGaughran.com to find out more, and to sign up to his mailing list.

Learn more about David at:

His website: http://davidgaughran.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DavidGaughranWriter 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DavidGaughran

Excerpt Thursday: LIBERTY BOY by David Gaughran

This week, we’re pleased to welcome author DAVID GAUGHRAN with his latest release,  LIBERTY BOY, set in Ireland.

Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the story. One lucky visitor will get a digital copy of LIBERTY BOY – this giveaway is open internationally. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post or Sunday's author interview for a chance to win. The winner will be contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb…

Dublin has been on a knife-edge since the failed rebellion in July, and Jimmy O'Flaherty suspects a newcomer to The Liberties - Kitty Doyle - is mixed up in it. She accuses him of spying for the English, and he thinks she's a reckless troublemaker.

All Jimmy wants is to earn enough coin to buy passage to America. But when the English turn his trading patch into a gallows, Jimmy finds himself drawn into the very conflict he's spent his whole life avoiding.

**An excerpt from LIBERTY BOY**

“The poor people of Ireland are rising fast. You will shortly be as well off as the English who have meat and bread and ale, and so will you if you be quiet. But you will get nothing by rioting except starvation and the gallows.”—George Nugent Reynolds, Address to the Common People of Leitrim.

It was the kind of morning that made him wonder if God hated the Irish. Rain hoored down from the sky, helped on by a biting wind from the east, soaking those gathered in front of St. Catherine’s Church. The market traders would normally have been delighted to see such a crowd here on a Thursday morning, halfway down the long, wide stretch of Thomas Street. However, these people weren’t here to haggle or to barter but to howl and spit and rent the air with their screams.

They were here for a hanging.

Jimmy O’Flaherty stood apart from the throng, leaning against the exterior of McCann’s alehouse at the top of Dirty Lane, in full view of the spectacle that was about to unfold, gazing forlornly at the place where his stall should have been. The stage erected in its stead was bare, apart from the scaffold that loomed over an imposing wall of red-coated soldiers beneath. There must have been a hundred of them there, casting baleful glares at the assembled Dubliners from behind their guns and bayonets.

To Jimmy’s left, in the direction of his flat on the corner of Meath Street, a whole company of cavalrymen were ready to charge should there be a surge towards the scaffold when the prisoner arrived to meet his fate. Their faces were curiously blank. Jimmy decided they must be officers: men who relied on codes and regulations to trample common folk, rather than gauche personal animus. But the level of caution was no surprise; the Castle had much to contend with today.

The whole of Thomas Street had turned out and many more besides. Not just the United Irish crowd and their sympathizers either—Jimmy could see a vicar in amongst them, remonstrating with a mounted officer who had been liberally using a cudgel to beat clear a path for his charge. On the other side of the swarm was Paulie Grogan, a fellow trader who normally cursed the rebels to any who would listen, but he too was enraged by this very public execution.

It wasn’t that surprising, Jimmy supposed. In this part of Dublin, at least, Catholics and Protestants lived cheek-by-jowl. Dissenters too. It had been that way in The Liberties since the Huguenots arrived from France a hundred years before, fleeing persecution of their Calvinist ways. A few returned home after the Edict of Versailles, but most stayed. And those who did felt sympathy for their Catholic brothers as they suffered under the Penal Laws.

Wolf-whistles greeted a sergeant who climbed the stage, his lip curling slightly as he surveyed the scene, St. Catherine’s Church squatting behind him. He barked out an order, and his phalanx of men shifted left. A cabbage sailed through the air, landing just short of sergeant’s mud-spattered boots. Half a dozen soldiers pushed into the crowd, not caring who felt their bayonets, and hauled out a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Jimmy wondered how they’d spotted the diminutive cabbage-thrower in all that tumult, until he realized they likely didn’t care whether they had the right person. It was about keeping order. By any means necessary.

Weeks of reprisals and riots had followed the failed Rising at the end of July. It was clear that the Castle was hoping to flush out the rest of the traitors, turn Thomas Street on its head and turn neighbors into informants, but that only served to galvanize support for the cause. It was a lesson the English never learned, Da used to say. Rebels were far more popular after they swung at the end of a rope. Sure, Robert Emmet couldn’t get three hundred to turn up to his rebellion, and there were easily three thousand here this morning. There would be ten times that again by the time they finally got around to hanging the rebel leader himself, Jimmy figured.

He’d been apoplectic when he heard that the executions would take place here on Thomas Street. Business had only just begun returning to normal. Usually, hangings took place at Gallows Hill, near Kilmainham Gaol, beyond St. James’ Gate at the western edge of the city. The odd execution still took place up by Misery Hill at the Liffey-mouth, especially if it was a pirate—the corpse displayed for all docking vessels to see, vermin crawling over one another in a race to pick the bones clean. But Robert Emmet’s base had been here in The Liberties, and his doomed rebellion was launched from this very street. It was a brutal show of strength by the Crown, a reminder to the people who really ruled this city. And they would keep hanging until the jails were emptied of rebels.

Buy your copy of LIBERTY BOY Now!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Gaughran is Irish and lives in Dublin, where it rains every day and conversation is a sport. He is the author of the historical adventures Liberty Boy, Mercenary, and A Storm Hits Valparaiso, as well as bunch of other stuff too. Visit DavidGaughran.com to find out more, and to sign up to his mailing list.

Learn more about David at:

His website: http://davidgaughran.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DavidGaughranWriter 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DavidGaughran

Excerpt Thursday: LIBERTY BOY by David Gaughran

This week, we’re pleased to welcome author DAVID GAUGHRAN with his latest release,  LIBERTY BOY, set in Ireland.

Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the story. One lucky visitor will get a digital copy of LIBERTY BOY – this giveaway is open internationally. Be sure to leave your email address in the comments of today's post or Sunday's author interview for a chance to win. The winner will be contacted privately by email. Here's the blurb…

Dublin has been on a knife-edge since the failed rebellion in July, and Jimmy O'Flaherty suspects a newcomer to The Liberties - Kitty Doyle - is mixed up in it. She accuses him of spying for the English, and he thinks she's a reckless troublemaker.

All Jimmy wants is to earn enough coin to buy passage to America. But when the English turn his trading patch into a gallows, Jimmy finds himself drawn into the very conflict he's spent his whole life avoiding.

**An excerpt from LIBERTY BOY**

“The poor people of Ireland are rising fast. You will shortly be as well off as the English who have meat and bread and ale, and so will you if you be quiet. But you will get nothing by rioting except starvation and the gallows.”—George Nugent Reynolds, Address to the Common People of Leitrim.

It was the kind of morning that made him wonder if God hated the Irish. Rain hoored down from the sky, helped on by a biting wind from the east, soaking those gathered in front of St. Catherine’s Church. The market traders would normally have been delighted to see such a crowd here on a Thursday morning, halfway down the long, wide stretch of Thomas Street. However, these people weren’t here to haggle or to barter but to howl and spit and rent the air with their screams.

They were here for a hanging.

Jimmy O’Flaherty stood apart from the throng, leaning against the exterior of McCann’s alehouse at the top of Dirty Lane, in full view of the spectacle that was about to unfold, gazing forlornly at the place where his stall should have been. The stage erected in its stead was bare, apart from the scaffold that loomed over an imposing wall of red-coated soldiers beneath. There must have been a hundred of them there, casting baleful glares at the assembled Dubliners from behind their guns and bayonets.

To Jimmy’s left, in the direction of his flat on the corner of Meath Street, a whole company of cavalrymen were ready to charge should there be a surge towards the scaffold when the prisoner arrived to meet his fate. Their faces were curiously blank. Jimmy decided they must be officers: men who relied on codes and regulations to trample common folk, rather than gauche personal animus. But the level of caution was no surprise; the Castle had much to contend with today.

The whole of Thomas Street had turned out and many more besides. Not just the United Irish crowd and their sympathizers either—Jimmy could see a vicar in amongst them, remonstrating with a mounted officer who had been liberally using a cudgel to beat clear a path for his charge. On the other side of the swarm was Paulie Grogan, a fellow trader who normally cursed the rebels to any who would listen, but he too was enraged by this very public execution.

It wasn’t that surprising, Jimmy supposed. In this part of Dublin, at least, Catholics and Protestants lived cheek-by-jowl. Dissenters too. It had been that way in The Liberties since the Huguenots arrived from France a hundred years before, fleeing persecution of their Calvinist ways. A few returned home after the Edict of Versailles, but most stayed. And those who did felt sympathy for their Catholic brothers as they suffered under the Penal Laws.

Wolf-whistles greeted a sergeant who climbed the stage, his lip curling slightly as he surveyed the scene, St. Catherine’s Church squatting behind him. He barked out an order, and his phalanx of men shifted left. A cabbage sailed through the air, landing just short of sergeant’s mud-spattered boots. Half a dozen soldiers pushed into the crowd, not caring who felt their bayonets, and hauled out a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Jimmy wondered how they’d spotted the diminutive cabbage-thrower in all that tumult, until he realized they likely didn’t care whether they had the right person. It was about keeping order. By any means necessary.

Weeks of reprisals and riots had followed the failed Rising at the end of July. It was clear that the Castle was hoping to flush out the rest of the traitors, turn Thomas Street on its head and turn neighbors into informants, but that only served to galvanize support for the cause. It was a lesson the English never learned, Da used to say. Rebels were far more popular after they swung at the end of a rope. Sure, Robert Emmet couldn’t get three hundred to turn up to his rebellion, and there were easily three thousand here this morning. There would be ten times that again by the time they finally got around to hanging the rebel leader himself, Jimmy figured.

He’d been apoplectic when he heard that the executions would take place here on Thomas Street. Business had only just begun returning to normal. Usually, hangings took place at Gallows Hill, near Kilmainham Gaol, beyond St. James’ Gate at the western edge of the city. The odd execution still took place up by Misery Hill at the Liffey-mouth, especially if it was a pirate—the corpse displayed for all docking vessels to see, vermin crawling over one another in a race to pick the bones clean. But Robert Emmet’s base had been here in The Liberties, and his doomed rebellion was launched from this very street. It was a brutal show of strength by the Crown, a reminder to the people who really ruled this city. And they would keep hanging until the jails were emptied of rebels.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Gaughran is Irish and lives in Dublin, where it rains every day and conversation is a sport. He is the author of the historical adventures Liberty Boy, Mercenary, and A Storm Hits Valparaiso, as well as bunch of other stuff too. Visit DavidGaughran.com to find out more, and to sign up to his mailing list.

Learn more about David at:

His website: http://davidgaughran.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DavidGaughranWriter 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DavidGaughran

Guest Blog: David Gaughran, A Storm Hits Valparaiso

This week, we're welcoming best-selling author David Gaughran, 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.  David is here to talk about the book and give away a digital copy. Here's the blurb:

In 1810, José de San Martín deserts the Spanish Army and returns home to Buenos Aires to lead a bloody revolt against his former masters. Struggling with an increasing dependence on opiates, San Martín forms a secret army of thieves, mercenaries, slaves, and prostitutes to free Argentina from the Spanish Empire.

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.

Q&A with David Gaughran

We don’t see too many historical novels set in South America. What was the thinking there?

I’ve been fascinated with that part of the world since I was a child: all those stories of the Amazon, the Incas, and lost cities of gold. When I was a little older, I found 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez on my father’s bookshelf and the lyricism of those opening lines had a profound effect on me. I finally got an opportunity to travel to South America in 2005, after quitting a good job in Dublin with a plan to see the world and write a book. I spent nine months backpacking around the continent and came across a story from the independence wars which burrowed into my brain and wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace until I wrote it. I returned there in 2008 for another nine months – ostensibly for research, but really just to walk down those streets again and hear people yammering in Spanish while I drank wine and scribbled in a notebook.

What kind of reader will A Storm Hits Valparaiso appeal to?

Some historical fiction readers prefer certain time periods such as the Tudors, Ancient Rome, or the Civil War; I can understand that, they are rich with fascinating characters. However, some readers are more adventurous and are looking for something a little more unusual. I’m quite surprised how little historical fiction has been set in South America. There is so much material there for an author to work with. Researching this book never once felt like work. Some of the historical figures were like comic book characters: swashbuckling, larger than life, adventurous souls who continually cheat death with outrageous feats of derring-do while being impossibly romantic but always carrying a kernel of tragedy around in their hearts. I think there is something in the water there. A Storm Hits Valparaiso has an epic scope – there are seven main characters whose journeys commence in different parts of the world, all unfolding with the backdrop of a bloody, twelve year war aimed at extricating South America from the Spanish Empire. It’s a meaty novel – over 400 pages – but I like to keep things clipping along at a good pace, with the action switching from one exotic location to another as the reader tries to figure out how all these diverse strands will come together. I suppose it’s the kind of book I’ve always liked to read, and I draw heavily from my heroes: Gabriel García Márquez, Louis de Bernières, and Mario Vargas Llosa. It’s an adventure story, a love story, and a war story, and, while there are several historical figures in the novel, I was also keen to tell the story of the ordinary people who lived (and died) during these extraordinary times. And that was part of the attraction to me: shining a light on a period of history which is little known (in our part of the world).

It took you five-and-a-half years to write this book. What took you so long?

I started this book in 2006 and finished it in 2009, and there was a year in the middle when I walked away from it, thinking I was done. I had taken on an incredibly complex project, and, there were plenty of times it got the better of me. But I persisted, kept improving it, and eventually got it over the finish line. I spent the next 18 months sending it off to agents and publishers, and rewriting the novel over and over based on their feedback. Ultimately, I hit a brick wall. While they enjoyed the writing, they felt there wasn’t a big enough market for historical novels set in South America. I think that readers are a little more adventurous than that. If you talk to them, one of their primary complaints is that books are too similar, stick to existing tropes or formulas, or the same old settings. I think readers are crying out for something a little different.

So we won’t have to wait five-and-a-half years for the next one?

Definitely not! And I was writing other stuff in that time. I released several shorts and a non-fiction book. I’m really not that slow. I should have a follow-up later in the year. It’s not a sequel, but it will be set in Latin America at the start of the 20^th century. And there are more planned after that which should take us up to the present day. It’s not strictly a “series”, rather a collection of historical novels covering major incidents in modern South American history. The characters will be different but the voice and style should be quite similar. At the same time I will also be writing more shorts, some novellas, and working on South Americana.

Can you tell us a little more about South Americana?

It’s a new blog I started towards the end of last year which will gather together all the curious stories I picked up in two trips around the continent, little vignettes from history. There are a few articles up there already which will give readers an idea of what to expect – tales of shipwrecked emigrants, slave rebellions, romantic heroes, and historical mysteries. But mostly it’s an excuse for me to spend a lot of time thinking and talking about South America.

South Americana: SouthAmericana.com

Publishing Blog: Let's Get Digital

Thank you, David, and best of luck with A Storm Hits Valparaiso. Remember, please leave your comment to win a free copy of this exciting book. 

Excerpt Thursday: A Storm Hits Valparaiso by David Gaughran

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:

In 1810, José de San Martín deserts the Spanish Army and returns home to Buenos Aires to lead a bloody revolt against his former masters. Struggling with an increasing dependence on opiates, San Martín forms a secret army of thieves, mercenaries, slaves, and prostitutes to free Argentina from the Spanish Empire.

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.

--

South Americana: SouthAmericana.com

Publishing Blog: Let's Get Digital