September Sky (American Journey Book 1) (10 page)

Chuck got a glimpse of some of those ladies and other residents of the city when the train pulled into Union Station a few minutes later. Dozens of people lined the long platform, including belles, businessmen, and boys in knickers.

Chuck also saw more than a few sailors and men who looked like they had just come from the docks. He had expected as much. Galveston was a center of maritime activity and a seaport of the first order. No city in the world, in fact, shipped more cotton.

When the train came to a complete stop, Chuck grabbed his bag, followed Justin out of the car to the crowded platform, and beheld a flurry of human activity. Porters unloaded boxes and bags while visitors and passengers scurried about in a dozen directions.

Chuck took it all in for a moment and then led his son into the four-story redbrick station. He looked for a map of the city and finally found one tacked to a bulletin board. When he examined it closely, he saw that finding his way around Galveston was going to be an adventure. Many of the roads, including the first dozen or so avenues, had two names.

He pulled out a slip of paper bearing the name of a hotel a train passenger in Houston had recommended and led Justin through the depot's doors to one of the busiest streets in the city. Whether one called it the Strand or Avenue B, it was the road that led to the Bayside Hotel and the kind of rest Chuck Townsend had sought for days.

Chuck glanced at the slip and then looked down both sides of the street.

"What are you doing, Dad?" Justin asked with a hint of amusement.

"I'm trying to get my bearings."

"Are you looking for the Bayside?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"I know where it is," Justin said. "It's six blocks away."

"How did you figure that out?"

Justin beamed.

"I just looked at the signs on our new ride."

"Our what?" Chuck asked.

"That."

Justin pointed to a horse-drawn wagon. The sign on the side bore the name, address, and three-digit phone number of the Bayside Hotel. The sign on the back read: JUST SIX BLOCKS FROM UNION STATION.

Chuck laughed.

"I guess I left my keen powers of observation in San Francisco."

He put his hand on Justin's shoulder.

"Six blocks in a buggy sounds good to me," Chuck said. "Let's go for a ride."

CHAPTER 14: JUSTIN

Justin was as tired as his father, but he wanted no part of a nap – or at least not one that kept him inside a hotel room for most of a sunny spring day. So at eleven thirty he gave Chuck a nudge and convinced him to go on a walk around town in search of adventure.

They found it at the intersection of Twenty-Fifth Street and Broadway, where several thousand people gathered to dedicate the Texas Heroes Monument, a bronze statue of the goddess Victory that stood atop four granite columns. Created by Italian American sculptor Louis Amateis, the monument commemorated the Battle of San Jacinto, where soldiers under General Sam Houston defeated the Mexican army in 1836.

Justin stepped on a bench, surveyed his surroundings, and smiled. The crowd looked like a convention of extras from
The Music Man.
He stepped down and looked at Chuck.

"Pretty impressive, huh? It's hard to believe all these people came out to see the dedication of a statue. I haven't seen this many people at a Lakers game."

Chuck laughed.

"Neither have I."

"I don't get it though," Justin said. "I mean the statue's nice and all, but it's not
that
nice. Don't these people ever go to the beach?"

Justin started to make another observation but stopped when he caught a hot glare from an Army veteran a few feet away. The uniformed officer, who looked old enough to be Sam Houston himself, apparently didn't care for the young visitor's irreverence.

"Let's step over here," Chuck said as he pointed to a bare patch of grass nearby. He put an arm on Justin's shoulder and guided him to the semi-private spot.

"What's the matter?" Justin asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

Chuck pulled his son close and spoke in a low voice.

"You didn't say anything wrong," Chuck said. "You asked an honest question, one that would have made perfect sense in 2016 or in any other state. But this isn't any other state. This is Texas. Wars and warriors are touchy topics down here. I'll bet half the men over fifty-five in this crowd fought in the Civil War – for the
wrong
side. You should choose your words carefully when speaking to them – or even around them."

Justin nodded.

"OK."

Justin couldn't take issue with the advice. He would have to choose his words carefully when speaking to anyone. He wasn't on a movie set filled with modern-day actors. He was in a turn-of-the-last-century community with turn-of-the-last-century views, knowledge, and prejudices. For a time traveler in such a setting, caution would always be advised.

He glanced again at the old soldier to check for lingering stares. When he didn't see any, he shifted his attention to a group of dignitaries that had gathered around a podium near the base of the monument. Governor Joseph D. Sayers had just begun his address.

Justin listened to the speech for several minutes and then turned toward a woman who said "Get your hands off me!" in a clear but muted voice. He saw her step away from a dapper man at her side.

Justin watched the college-age woman as she glared at her companion and then at him. Even from twenty feet he could see that her anger had not abated.

"It looks like the governor's going to blather for a while," Chuck said. He looked at his son. "Do you want to leave?"

"No. Not yet," Justin said. "I want to stay a little longer."

"All right."

When Chuck returned his eyes to the governor, Justin returned his to the angry woman. In the process, he noticed a few things he hadn't picked up the first time.

For starters, the woman wore her hair differently than most of her peers. She let her long, wavy black locks fall to her waist. Most other women piled their hair high, opting for the bouffant, pompadour, and chignon styles of the Gibson girl.

She also wore a white "pouter pigeon" blouse, a pink trumpet skirt, and a straw boater hat. Unlike the women around her, who favored gaudy dresses and elaborate headwear, she was unpretentious. With a pleasing face and expressive eyes, she was also strikingly beautiful.

As a college student in Southern California, Justin Townsend had seen attractive women every day. He had seen them at school, at parties, and everywhere else. Until Caitlin Bennett walked out on him, he had even seen them at his breakfast table.

None of the girls he had known in high school and college, however, measured up to this one. Miss Get Your Hands Off Me was not just beautiful but naturally so. Justin let his mind wander until his increasingly observant father brought him back to Earth.

"What are you doing?" Chuck asked.

"I'm just people watching."

"People watching or girl watching?"

Justin felt the blood rush to his face.

"You noticed?"

"I'm a reporter, remember? I notice everything but advertisements for hotels."

Justin smiled.

"I guess you do."

"I can't blame you for looking around," Chuck said. "There are a lot of lovely ladies in this crowd, including one who doesn't appear happy to be here."

"She does look kind of ticked," Justin said. "I wonder why she's mad at him."

"Who knows? Maybe he criticized her cooking."

Justin turned again to his right and saw that the dapper man, who appeared to be in his mid- to late thirties, had drifted off. He spoke to another man a few feet away, leaving his raven-haired beauty to sulk alone.

Justin then looked at the woman herself and kept looking until she met his gaze. Sadness and despair had replaced the anger in her eyes. When he offered an empathetic smile, she frowned, turned around, and walked away. A moment later, she was gone.

The collegian shifted his eyes to the podium, where the governor waxed poetic about the nine hundred men who had secured Texas' independence. He admired how Sayers was able to hold the attention of the huge crowd without the benefit of a microphone, but he found himself unable to get into the speech. All he could think about was the girl.

"I see your distraction has left the premises," Chuck said. "Are you ready to go now?"

Justin nodded.

"Yeah. I've had enough of crowds and speeches for one day."

"Are you ready for some lunch?"

"I was ready an hour ago," Justin said.

"Good," Chuck said. "Let's get some of that glorious Gulf seafood I read about on the train, preferably at a restaurant that's away from the ruckus. We have a lot to talk about."

"Such as?"

"Such as how we're going to keep Wyatt Fitzpatrick from a hangman's noose."

"Do you have any ideas?" Justin asked.

"I do. The first thing we have to do is learn more about our infamous relative."

"How do we do that? We can't exactly knock on his door."

"We won't have to – at least not yet," Chuck said.

"I don't understand."

"Then let me explain. Mr. Fitzpatrick is a co-owner of one of the biggest passenger shipping lines on the Gulf coast. He's been a fixture in the industry for years."

"So?" Justin asked.

"So there's a library near our hotel that probably has a file on this guy."

"We're going to a library?"

"We are. We're going to the Texas Maritime Library when it opens Monday morning. If we're lucky, we'll have our subject's life story by dinner."

CHAPTER 15: CHUCK

Monday, April 23, 1900

Charles Townsend liked libraries. Though he relied on search engines and databases as much as any reporter, he preferred to gather information the old-fashioned way – by browsing the stacks at the brick-and-mortar institutions that many considered obsolete.

He knew he would find something on Wyatt Fitzpatrick at the Texas Maritime Library and a lot more on his passenger line. What he didn't expect to find at nine o'clock on a Monday morning was a librarian who looked a lot like his ex-wife.

The woman wrote on a manila envelope as she stood behind a long reception desk. She lifted her head and smiled when Chuck and Justin approached.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she said. "Can I help you?"

"That depends," Chuck said. "Are you familiar with all of the collections here?"

"I am."

"Then we've come to the right person. We're gathering information for a book and would like it if someone gave us a tour of the place."

"I'd be delighted to show you around," the librarian said. "I just need a moment to put this in the mail."

"We'll wait."

When the woman left to mail the envelope, Chuck looked around the lobby and saw that it was lightly occupied. On one side of the room, a sailor examined an oil painting that covered much of a wall. On the other, two elderly men in chairs went through the day's papers. A second librarian processed books at the far end of the desk.

Chuck returned his eyes to the painting, which portrayed a schooner in a storm. It was an impressive work, one that no doubt cost the library a fortune. He imagined being a crewman on the imperiled sailing ship when a pleasant voice interrupted his daydream.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the first librarian said. "The postman usually makes his rounds about this time of day."

"No worries," Chuck said.

The librarian cocked her head and stared at Chuck as if he had said something strange – which, of course, he had. When an appropriate response apparently failed to come to her, she offered a warm smile and a slender hand.

"I'm Charlotte Emerson, director of the library."

"I'm Charles Townsend," Chuck said.

Chuck laughed to himself as he shook her hand. He couldn't remember the last time he had used his christened name in an introduction. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he had met someone like the woman in front of him.

Though her light brown hair was a few shades darker than Megan's, she had the same creamy skin, high cheekbones, and kind blue eyes. Were it not for her crisp white blouse and long gray skirt, Chuck might have mistaken her for the woman he had loved and married.

Chuck let the pleasant thought linger in his mind until he suddenly became conscious of his obligation to introduce his son. He started to speak when Justin beat him to the punch by stepping forward and extending a hand.

"I'm Justin Townsend."

Charlotte shook Justin's hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Charlotte said. She stepped back and looked at each of her visitors. "I haven't heard your accents before. Where are you from?"

"We're from California," Chuck said.

"I thought that might be the case. I must say I'm envious. I've always wanted to see your wonderful state, but I've never had the opportunity."

"I'm sure that will change."

Charlotte smiled sweetly.

"I hope so. I love visiting interesting places," Charlotte said with a lilt that was a lovely fusion of Midwest and Southwest. "In any case, I'm sure you didn't come all the way from California to hear me talk about travel. What can I show you that will help with your research?"

"That's hard to say, since we don't know what you have," Chuck said.

"Let me ask a different question then. What are you planning to write about?"

Chuck took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Even though he had rehearsed the lie many times, he wanted to get it right. He might have to remember details later.

"I'm planning to write a book about shipping and Galveston's leading role in that industry. I'm particularly interested in the passenger lines that serve the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. I learned on the train ride here that one of the more successful companies is based in this town and is owned by a family named Fitzpatrick."

Chuck saw a head turn when he uttered "Fitzpatrick." The second librarian pushed her work to the side and walked to the other end of the desk to join the party of three.