Lorenzo's Secret Mission (10 page)

“Well, this certainly broke the monotony,” Calderón remarked as he helped me repack my father's medical bag. “At least now you have something interesting to write Eugenie.”

We said goodbye to the newly enlarged Valdés family and stepped into the inky night. Fresh snow blanketed the parade ground.

“I've never seen anything like that in my life.” Calderón's voice quivered with excitement. “The way you handled yourself back there … I envy you. What a fascinating career you'll have.”

I walked with my head bowed. Part of me was proud of my role in helping a new life into the world. Another part of me was more convinced than ever that I wasn't cut out to be a doctor. Several times I had nearly thrown up. I could still taste bile in my throat.

On and on Calderón prattled as we crossed the parade ground until I could bear it no more.

“It was an easy birth. All right? I didn't do anything spectacular. If there had been complications …”

“But there weren't any.”

“But there could have been.”

A chill wind rippled across the parade ground.

Calderón pushed open the door to our quarters. “You delivered that baby like you'd been doing it all your life.” He stoked the dying embers and stretched his hands toward the warmth. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘Doc.'” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at
me. “What do you have to do to attend medical school?”

I turned my back on him to avoid the subject. His question dredged up an uncomfortable memory. Papá always hoped I'd come to my senses, abandon my plans to become a soldier, and attend medical school in Scotland.

“Why does everyone assume I want to be a physician?” I said in a less-than-gracious tone.

Calderón seized me by the elbow and forced me around. “What is wrong with you? I asked a simple question and I expect an answer.”

“I don't want to go to medical school, so just drop it,” I warned, pulling away from him.

“You don't?” Calderón's voice conveyed surprise and disappointment. “Why not?”

“Because it's pointless. My father was a physician, but that didn't keep him from dying of consumption. He was a slow, deliberate man who never rushed a diagnosis or took chances with his patients. But he lost the two most important patients in the world. My mother and my little brother died in childbirth.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know that.” Calderón gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “A physician can't save everyone. Life is full of risks. You have to be satisfied with the ones you
can
save.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then Calderón asked, “If you don't become a physician, what will you do?”

“I want to be a soldier.”

“By all the saints! Why?”

“Because … just because!” In my heart, I knew why, but I could not put it in words. It had to do with duty, honor, freedom from foreign tyranny.

“Well,” Calderón began in a conciliatory tone, “you could become an army doctor.”

“And spend my life amputating limbs and digging out bullets?”

“And saving lives. See here, Lorenzo. You get to
choose between two careers. I envy you. If I could have chosen a career, it wouldn't have been the military.”

I stared at him in disbelief. Calderón, the perfect officer in his ever-pristine uniform, the natural leader respected by all, didn't want to be a soldier?

He picked up a poker and jabbed at the fire, his eyes locked on the flames. “Last Christmas I was a page in the palace. I had good food, wonderful companionship, a comfortable place to sleep. Then, the next thing I knew, the king put me on a ship bound for New Orleans. In a heartbeat I went from the Royal Palace to this.” Calderón waved his hand in a dramatic gesture, indicating our perpetually cold, dirt-floored cabin.

Thunderstruck, I turned toward him. “Did you do something to offend the king?”

“Quite the contrary. He has always taken an extraordinary interest in my future. The king believed I had a Godgiven talent for the army and gave me a commission. But I'm not so sure …” Calderón's face grew plum-colored. His gaze fastened on the toes of his boots. “Recently, I've been watching what you do and thinking … well … that medicine might be an interesting field.”

So that was it. In a flash, I realized what a self-centered dolt I'd been. Calderón's question about medical school had been for himself, not me.

“To answer your earlier question,” I said, “before you attend medical school, you become a doctor's assistant and learn all you can. You live in the doctor's home and take care of his every need. You roll pills and mix powders, gather roots and herbs, prepare bandages. In your spare time, you read in the doctor's library and learn the theories of medicine. The real training comes by accompanying the doctor on visits to patients. There, you learn the symptoms of disease and treatment. Of course, you don't have to attend medical school to set up a practice. Just look at me. I have some forty-three patients and no diploma. An apprentice does pretty much what you did
back there with Cornflower. Watch and learn and be ready to do the physician's bidding.”

He continued to study the fire. “So … have you ever considered taking on an assistant?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

Calderón swiveled toward me, his look expectant.

“Do you know what you're getting into? As a physician, you're called to a patient's bedside at all hours of the day and night. You'll never get rich. Patients often paid Papá in chickens, piglets, or eggs.”

“Well, at least I wouldn't go hungry.”

One thing about Calderón: he always found a bright spot in every situation.

“Oh, what the devil,” I said as I thrust out my hand to seal the deal. “You'll have plenty of time to change your mind.”

Calderón broke into an embarrassed grin and shook my hand. “Thanks, Lorenzo.”

“I'm not sure I've done you a favor.”

“You have. This is my first Christmas away from home. You and Cornflower made it a memorable one. Some day, I'll tell my grandchildren about delivering an Indian baby. I might even mention you were present.”

Saying that, he retired for the night, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Last Christmas, Papá and I had visited Mexico City for the holidays. On my first Christmas without Papá I had delivered a baby and acquired a medical apprentice. Where would I be next Christmas? In Virginia with my grandfather? Or in Scotland, studying medicine at the University of Edinburgh, my father's alma mater?

I found neither possibility particularly cheering.

“Close the door, Lorenzo,” William said. He ran his hand over his face and indicated with his chin that Calderón and I were to sit across the table from him. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.” He flexed his jaw and studied the latest message from New Orleans. “Colonel De Gálvez just learned the British ambassador has sent a party of men to stop us.”

“That would explain the Indian attack,” Calderón said, “and the Redcoats we saw.”

“But that was three months ago,” I pointed out. “Would they wait so long to attack again?”

“Yes,” William said, “if they have good reason to wait. Maybe they're setting a trap upriver. Maybe they're waiting for us to leave Fort Arkansas to avoid an international incident. As long as we stay on the left bank of the Mississippi, we are in Spanish territory.”

“Or maybe they're waiting for reinforcements,” Calderón suggested glumly.

Complete silence settled over the room.

“There's a British fort on the Mississippi just before we reach the Ohio River,” Calderón said. “If I were the British, I'd gather my forces and launch an attack as we pass by.”

“So would I.” William scratched his beardless chin. “I need to know what the British plan to do. Someone must scout ahead and report back about their troop strength.”

“I'll do it,” I said.

I didn't miss the look William and Calderón exchanged across the table. They clearly expected me to volunteer.

William's gaze fixed on me. “Do you know what you're getting into? You're a civilian with this expedition, under no obligation …”

“Maybe not, but I'm the only one who can do this. Neither of you two can slip through the forest undetected. Your yellow hair,” I said to William, “will give you away.” I turned to Calderón. “The same goes for your brown hair. I can pass for an Indian.” To emphasize my point, I wound a wisp of straight black hair around my finger. “Besides, I'm running low on opium and other drugs I can't get from the woods. Only I know which drugs I need.”

“How well do you speak Choctaw?” William asked.

“Well enough to slip in and out of the fort,” I replied, glad Cornflower had taught me the basics of Choctaw.

The rest of the day, we worked out a plan. By midafternoon, I looked like a Choctaw brave in leggings, breechcloth, and moccasins. My black hair hung in two braids, Indian fashion. With a buffalo cape around my shoulders and a gunny sack hidden beneath it, I headed for the pier.

The Lambs and the Spanish soldiers at the fort trailed after me, having gotten wind something was afoot.

Red ran a hand through his waist-long auburn beard and spoke the question that must have been on everyone's tongue. “Where you going dressed like that?”

I forced a smile. “Upriver to do a little scouting.”

“Alone?” he asked, his disapproval evident.

William answered for me. “Alone.”

“But, sir,” Red began, “someone should go with him to make sure …” He trailed off when William's nostrils flared and his cheeks reddened with anger.

In the unnerving silence that followed, the Lambs exchanged scowls and gave William nasty looks. Apparently,
they wanted to protest their commanding officer's decision, but knew they couldn't.

With that, I climbed into a canoe and took paddle in hand while Red untied its rope.

William wore a distressful look while Calderón mumbled something. Probably a prayer.

At first, I paddled with sure, strong strokes, but two hours of fighting the current rubbed my palms raw. I developed a keen appreciation for the Lambs' hard work rowing us upstream.

On the way upriver, I had plenty of time to think. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But I had to get opium and other drugs, and for that, I had to enter the fort. When Colonel De Gálvez and Captain Gibson stocked the flatboats with medical supplies, they apparently hadn't counted on the delay at Fort Arkansas.

By my third hour of paddling, a fort flying the British flag loomed into view on the right bank. Soon, the biting smell of wood smoke rode the breeze. English voices floated toward me. The closer I got, the stronger the smells and sounds grew. I breathed in a pungent aroma. Tonight the British would dine on venison stew. Normally, my mouth would water at the smell. Today, fear stole my appetite.

The fort's double gates stood wide open, guarded by two bored-looking sentries.

It was late afternoon by the time I tied my canoe to a tree. I hid in the underbrush. In the deepening twilight, I observed the fort and the Redcoats' daily routine. The fort swarmed with activity. Soldiers fetched water from the river, chopped wood, groomed horses.

The original plan that Calderón, William and I had worked out was simple. Study the fort, find a weak spot, and scale the wall. Now I saw that was unnecessary.

For an hour, I watched Indians come and go through the fort's front gate. So many entered, I lost count of them all. It looked like a gathering of many tribes.

Shortly before dark, a bugle called, announcing that the gate would close for the night. Everyone outside the fort hurried inside. The time had come. A sudden dryness settled in my throat.

Entering the fort proved surprisingly easy. When a band of five Indians approached, I fell in behind them. The sentries seemed not to notice me. Even so, my pulse raced and my breathing quickened as I stepped inside the enemy fort.

A shiver coursed through me when the double gate slammed shut and a heavy wooden crossbar thudded into place, locking me in for the night.

Two rings of Indians sat around a roaring fire on the dusty parade ground.

Trying to look inconspicuous, I joined them and sat cross-legged on the outside row, hunched over, my buffalo robe drawn tight across my shoulders. For a long while, I watched everything and counted the Redcoats as William had suggested. So far, I had seen one officer, one sergeant, two corporals, and six privates. Like any frontier fort, the compound consisted of barracks, officers' quarters, stables, kitchen, and a wooden building with a tin roof.

What size force did we face? How many men were out of sight in the barracks? Or in the kitchen at supper?

Several Indians filled their bowls from the cauldron where stew bubbled and seethed, then returned to the circle.

The air shimmered in the firelight. Flickering sparks spiraled into the darkening sky and lit a six-foot-tall Redcoat leaning against the barracks door.

My blood chilled the instant I saw the jagged wound on his cheek. Saber-Scar. Here. Not more than thirty feet away, watching the Indians. His gaze swept over them and landed briefly on me.

My skin grew clammy with sweat and fear. What if he recognized me?

His eyes moved away to the man on my right. Looking disgusted, Saber-Scar turned and disappeared inside the barracks.

I blew out a sigh of relief and resumed my study of the compound. The building roofed with protective tin must be the supply room where gunpowder and ammunition were stored. If I could slip in there undetected …

A hand clamped down on my shoulder and jerked me from my thoughts. I froze.

“Little brother,” a deep voice said, “who sent you?”