Natchez Flame

Chapter 1 Galveston, Texas July 20, 1846 Lord in heaven, what have I gotten myself into this time? Priscilla Mae Wills stood at the rail of the steamship Orleans surveying the scattered wooden buildings, weathered and unpainted, and the unkempt, seedy-looking men who lined the dock of the strand. In the distance, the dirt streets of Galveston bustled with activity, wagons heavy with bales of cotton rumbling toward the wharf, men and animals clattering along in confusion. Puddles of mud still dotted the road from a recent summer rain. Though the rest of the passengers had already departed, Priscilla searched the long wooden dock for the hundredth time, hoping against hope that Barker Hennessey, the man sent to meet her, had discovered the Orlean's early arrival and might yet appear. You're a grown woman, Priscilla. You can do this on your own. But in all her twenty-four years she'd never traveled by herself, and even with her Aunt Madeline had never gone far from home. And she'd certainly never expected the newly formed state of Texas to be this untamed. Bedraggled and wind-chafed and tired clear to her bones, Priscilla scanned the dock in search of anyone who might be Barker Hennessey. Several brown-skinned Mexican men singing in Spanish strolled past, but no one that her fiancz could possibly have sent to meet her. Forcing a stiffness into her spine, she stepped off the wharf onto the wide dirt streets. A hot, muggy breeze whipped the dark brown skirts of her serviceable cotton day dress, and with every weary step the stiff white ruffle around the neck scratched the soft white skin beneath her chin. Strands of dark brown hair had come loose from the tight chignon hidden at the back of her bonnet and whipped tauntingly in the wind. Priscilla glanced up the street. The sign for the Galveston Hotel and Saloon gleamed red and white in the hot July sunshine beside another large painted sign advertising Samuel Levinson's Bath House. Barker Hennessey, the man her fiancz, Stuart Egan, had sent to escort her on the final leg of her journey, would look for her at the hotel once he discovered her ship had come in. And someone from the hotel could fetch the heavy steamer trunks that contained her trousseau: the finely crafted dresses she had carefully sewn over the past few weeks, as well as the doilies and linens and dainty embroidered tablecloths she had stitched and laid in her hope chest throughout the years. Determined to ignore the heat and the tightly laced stays of her steel-ribbed corset, Priscilla walked the bustling dirt streets. Weathered batten-board structures crouched beside a few sturdy establishments built of pinkish-white stone. The hotel was by far the best-looking building in town, she thought as she drew near. At least the paint wasn't peeling and the walk in front had been swept clean. It was a far cry from Cincinnati, with its sophisticated brownstones, elegant restaurants, and lavish opera houses. Still the thought of being inside, out of the blistering sunshine, made her quicken her pace. That's when she noticed the commotion out front. A crowd had gathered, grumbling among itself, then seemed to be backing away. "Look, Jacob--ain't that Barker Hennessey?" a slender man in a red-checkered shirt asked the small man beside him. The name registered immediately, and Priscilla glanced toward the big-boned man at the opposite end of the porch. "That's him, all right," Jacob said. "Barker's madder'n a wet hen 'cause he lost his poke to some gambler." Gambling, Priscilla thought, feeling sorry for the big strapping man in the black felt hat who stood in front of the swinging double doors to the saloon, the devil's own sport. But hearing his name, she also felt a wave of relief that she had found him so easily. "Excuse me, please." Nudging her way throughMartin, Kat is the author of 'Natchez Flame', published 1994 under ISBN 9780440208051 and ISBN 044020805X.