~ Vestal Vixen ~

by

Shirley K. Wolford

Time: August, 1865

(Four months after the end of the War Between the States)

Lucy Russell almost hit the roof of the stagecoach for the thousandth or maybe the millionth time. Her body, tossed about like a cockleshell in a raging ocean, ached from riding in the dirty, crowded stagecoach. She should have ridden a horse alongside it, as the accompanying group of horsemen did, but the War Between the States ended last April and she had to learn to behave like a lady again. Especially now that she was on her way to the most glamorous place in North America, the royal court in Mexico City. Still, she didn’t have to like being confined to the “ladylike” role again, did she?

Gazing out the mud-streaked window she was jammed against, she saw a jumble of buildings up ahead. She turned her head, leaning close to the ear of the man next to her. She hoped he’d hear her above the noise of the rocking, swaying coach, “This has to be Galveston, Major.” Then added, in a prayer-like whisper to herself, “I surely do hope so!”

Her escort, ex-Major Rudd Kirby, Confederate States Army, scrunched between her and an itinerant drummer, stretched toward the window. He looked out and nodded. “You’re right. We’ll be there in no time now.”

“I’d still rather have ridden a horse.” Lucy pointed to their mounted escorts, six men in a mishmash of different clothing. To her eye, practiced from four years of war, they all rode like cavalry. But on which side? And did she really want to know?

The coach hit another deep pothole, and she almost used a word which she knew would shock the major. “At least you can guide a horse around the potholes.”

“Not always,” Rudd said ruefully. “Especially if you’re in a hurry. The Yanks were holed up behind a pretty good barricade once and we were trying to move ’em out. When the order came to charge, we took off like the Devil himself was pushing us. My horse missteped into a pothole, and we both somersaulted right into the Yankee lines.”

“Good heavens! You did? What happened?”

Rudd shrugged. “The Yanks were so surprised they didn’t even shoot. One of my friends galloped in and picked me up. Horse was a goner, though. The bluebellies kindly put her out of her misery.” His voice trailed off in a sigh and he stared ahead.

Above her the reins were tightened, and the coach slowed, then stopped in front of a two-story hotel. Lucy felt the vibrations in her body relax, but it took a while before the irritating rumble and creak of the coach died down, replaced by the snorting and blowing of the team.

Then it was strangely quiet. Lucy swallowed to clear her ears. The very last battle of the war had been fought here in Galveston and the Yankees, victorious everywhere else, had lost badly. They’d evacuated Galveston, and her information was that they hadn’t yet come back in force. If they had, and if they knew who she was and what her mission was, she’d be stopped. Not only stopped, but quite possibly, hanged. The Yankees weren’t above hanging a woman. Lucy shuddered, recalling the woman who was hanged as one of the conspirators in Lincoln’s assassination.

The driver and his point man clambered down. More slowly, Sally Buckingham, Lucy’s former slave and very good friend, climbed off the roof of the coach. Sally wore a simple black dress and a close-fitting turban, both of which were thick with dust. Her café au lait complexion was streaked with dirt, and parallel mud streaks ran down her cheeks where the wind had caused her eyes to tear.

Lucy leaned from the coach window. “Are you okay, Sally?”

Sally shrugged.

Things were as they were, and free or slave, her place was with the driver. Lucy didn’t like it, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it; she couldn’t change Southron customs.

The driver took off his hat, opened the coach door and bowed to Lucy. “Here we are, ma’am. I hope you enjoyed the trip.

“It was fine. Thank you.” Lucy gathered her dark green skirts in one hand and slid to the edge of the seat. She poked her black boot-clad foot onto the stool the driver placed in front of the door and struggled to get out without showing any more of her leg than her ankle. Pretending there are no legs under my skirts isn’t easy, she thought ruefully. Now peace is here, I guess we go back to all the old ways!

Rudd was fussing about her as though he, too, thought she was fragile. I’ll get used to that again, too, I suppose.

The three men who’d sat opposite her through the long trip from San Antonio were showing impatience. Lucy hurried onto the footstool and let the coachman help her onto the wooden walkway. She climbed the two steps to the hotel, trailed by Rudd and Sally.

The lobby, a dusty room redolent of sweat, tobacco fumes and stale air, boasted a dilapidated couch and three tweedy looking chairs arranged around the clerk’s desk. It wasn’t much, Lucy saw with dismay.

Rudd took off his slouch hat, wiped his forehead and went over to register. General Shelby had wired ahead to ask the hotel to reserve some rooms.

~ * ~

Lucy and Sally finally settled into a room on the ground floor, which looked like all the other hotel rooms they’d been in since General Grant destroyed Wycliffe--a bed, a dresser, a table, and a cheval glass. But the furniture was some better than the lobby had led Lucy to believe, and the thick mattress looked inviting.

Lucy kicked off her boots, threw her bonnet onto the bed, and shook out her russet hair. Then she padded over to the window to look out over the Gulf.

As she did, a young man came along the boardwalk in front of the window. Deep-set azure blue eyes met hers. There was something familiar about him. He swept off his black slouch hat and a lock of straight brown hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back impatiently and bowed. He was tall, slender and well dressed in civilian clothes, but had a military bearing.

Her pulse quickened, and her mouth went dry. She knew she’d met him somewhere; maybe he’d been in one of the military units she’d worked with.

How could she have forgotten a man so good-looking? Eyes so blue they put the sky to shame, gazed at her from under jutting thick brown brows. A strong beak of a nose protruded over a chin that brooked no nonsense. But he had a wide appealing smile that Lucy answered almost inadvertently; she hadn’t meant to smile back.

Lucy and the stranger looked at each other for a long moment, then he replaced his hat, and continued striding on down the street, leaving Lucy with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Why does he look so familiar? Where have I seen him before?

She watched him as he neared the water, only then seeing the naked masts of a ship riding her anchor half a mile into the Gulf. “There’s a ship out there, Sally. Do you suppose she’s the one going to Vera Cruz?”

Sally followed her gaze out the window. “The major’ll find out soon enough.”

Lucy nodded. Rudd was the perfect escort; General Shelby had chosen well. She hoped it was their ship and that they would leave soon. She had a job to do for the General and the Confederacy and the sooner she started it, the better.

~ * ~

Adam Reynolds continued on down the street to his rendezvous with Britt Clendenning. He was curious about the girl he’d just bowed to. She was more beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen, and, as a naval officer, he’d seen a lot of women in a lot of ports. That russet hair streaming down her back was like a sun-streaked creek. He could still feel the impact of her emerald green eyes looking out from under arched brows. Her smile was to dream about. It had pierced right through him as though they had met before--eons before. He sighed. He would like to have stopped and spoken to her, but he was still on active duty and had no time to dally.

Britt had just come from San Antonio, riding shotgun with the stagecoach. He’d been checking on the possibility that there might still be Rebels to impede the march of Union troops into Texas.

After Lee surrendered, the other Confederate armies, one after the other, had given up, too. But there was a strong rumor that Joe Shelby, in San Antonio commanding a unit called the Iron Brigade, might cause trouble.

Adam hoped not. Four years of war had decimated an entire generation. And even Shelby must know, that if an entire Confederate army, fresh and strong four years ago, couldn’t wreck the Union, a thousand men, worn out from those same four years, certainly couldn’t. He shook his head at the thought; you just couldn’t figure other people’s minds.

And he couldn’t get those emerald eyes out of his mind. If only he had more time!