Lorenzo's Secret Mission (13 page)

As we approached, we heard the sound of feet running from all directions. Through the double wood door of the log fort. From further up the riverbank. Out of the nearby woods. Stomping, shifting, anxious feet that could hardly wait for us to dock.

I blinked, unable to believe my eyes.

On the shore, in his usual buckskin, moccasins, and coonskin cap, stood Captain Gibson, his arms folded
across his chest.

“What took you so long?” he yelled to William. “I could have walked it faster than this.”

“Look, Captain,” William began.

“Captain?” Gibson interrupted. “Curb your tongue, sir! It's now Major Gibson.”

We stepped ashore amid grinning faces, a hail of questions, introductions, and congratulatory slaps on the back.

We had delivered much-needed gunpowder and medicine safely. It felt good to be heroes.

Gibson took William's hand and pumped it. “Congratulations, Captain Linn.” He emphasized the word “captain.”

William blinked at him a minute before he broke into a grin. “Captain? I've been promoted to captain?”

Playfully, Gibson slugged him on the upper arm.

“Captain William Linn,” William muttered. “Captain William Linn,” he repeated, as if he couldn't get used to the sound of it.

Gibson smiled down at me. “Good to see you again, Gator. You've grown.”

“What are you doing here, sir?”

“Waiting for you. After the flatboats left, Colonel De Gálvez released me from jail. I took a ship with a thousand pounds of powder by sea to Philadelphia while you headed upriver with the remaining nine thousand pounds. One way or the other, supplies would reach General Washington. In Philadelphia, I learned the Ohio was frozen. Knowing you wouldn't arrive until spring, I took leave, visited my family, then came here to wait for you.”

Leaving the Lambs to unload with the soldiers' help, William, Calderón, and I received Lieutenant Colonel Marlborough's welcome and praise for a job well done. He escorted us past barracks and into officer quarters.

The aroma of venison stew and fresh-baked bread wafted toward us. My mouth watered. I hadn't tasted
fresh-baked bread since Fort Arkansas.

By the time we set foot in Lieutenant Colonel Marlborough's cabin, the old black woman I had seen by the riverbank was setting the table. She wore a floorlength calico dress and a bright red turban around her head.

I held pewter bowls while she ladled a delicioussmelling stew into them from a giant kettle hanging over the fire. I couldn't help but notice her skin was only slightly darker than mine.

“This is the best meal I've had in a long time!” I remarked.

Lieutenant Colonel Marlborough sat at the table and waited to be served. He pushed light blond hair from his ghostly pale face. “I'm blest to have Aunt Mary as my servant.”

Servant? She was a slave, pure and simple. But no one used the word “slave” because it wasn't considered polite. No matter which word you used, she wasn't free.

Why was I free and she wasn't?

“Aunt Mary has been with me since I was a boy,” Lieutenant Colonel Marlborough went on. “She's like one of the family.”

I glanced at Aunt Mary. Her sad expression reminded me of the look I'd once seen on a badger caught in a trap.

How Papá hated slavery. I recalled him saying, “It isn't right for one person to own another.” And another time, he told me about Cincinnatus. My grandfather bought him several years before Papá's birth. When Papá came back from medical school in Scotland, he wanted to buy Cincinnatus and give him his freedom papers, but my grandfather refused to sell. “Cincinnatus was like a second father to me,” Papá had once told me.

Between mouthfuls of stew, Lieutenant Colonel Marlborough asked about our trip. We answered all his questions and supplied him with information for future flatboat flotillas.

In return, he shared the latest war news.
Washington's ragged soldiers had soundly defeated the British at Trenton and Princeton on January 3, 1777. Our first victories had changed the course of the war. Once word traveled to the Continental Army that we had brought Spanish supplies upstream under the noses of the British, morale would shoot up even more.

“Scouts have spotted British soldiers in the woods on the north shore,” Gibson said as he sopped up the last of his stew with a chunk of bread. “One of them,” he said, looking straight at me, “is your old friend Saber-Scar.”

I frowned. “I wouldn't call him a friend.”

Gibson chewed thoughtfully. “He and his fellow Redcoats are waiting for the flatboats to pass by. For that reason, we will unload the supplies here and transport them to Fort Pitt later.”

“In that case, tomorrow I send my soldiers back to New Orleans,” Calderón put in. “Lorenzo and I head to General Washington's headquarters.”

Without further ado, Gibson unrolled a map and used candlesticks to hold down its curling corners. His fingers traced our route to Philadelphia. “General Washington is here. Daily, he expects the British to land at Philadelphia.”

The remark threw a pall over the room.

The next day at dawn, Calderón's soldiers shoved off and headed down the Ohio. It would take them three weeks to drift with the current to New Orleans. It had taken us eight months to row upstream.

I packed my saddlebags and collected a $200 chit from William for my services as surgeon. Calderón and I prepared to leave on two horses he had purchased from the lieutenant colonel.

Sadness welled inside me when I shook everyone's hand and said goodbye. I would probably never see Gibson's Lambs again. Until this instant, I hadn't realized how attached I had become to them. I waved, but didn't say another word because I was afraid I would cry if I did.

On May 9, 1777, Calderón and I rode on horseback through the thick Pennsylvania forest outside Philadelphia in search of General Washington's camp. I listened to a woodpecker's rat-a-tat, a squirrel's bark, a raven's shrill cry. But the most annoying sound of all was Calderón's deep-toned voice drilling me on etiquette.

“When we reach the general's camp,” he said, “watch what I do and repeat it. Address General Washington as Your Excellency. Keep a full pace from him and make no suspicious moves, or his bodyguards will have your head on a platter. Don't sit in the general's presence. If he invites you to join him, keep your feet firm and even. Don't cross your legs. Don't …”

“May I breathe?”

“If you must, do so quietly and in a gentlemanly fashion. Don't spit, cough, sneeze, sigh, yawn, blow your nose, gnaw your nails, or scratch in his presence.”

“God in heaven! What sort of clod do you think I am?”

“The same goes for belching and wiping your nose on your jacket sleeve,” he droned on.

“My father was a gentleman,” I snarled, reining in my horse. “He taught me manners.”

Calderón drew in his horse and twisted toward me. “And I served as page in King Carlos's royal household,” he snarled back, “so I know how important etiquette is to a man of General Washington's rank. Try to act like a gentleman, and whatever you do, don't embarrass me.”

Hot with anger, I urged my horse on, leaving
Calderón behind.

By the time he caught up, we had reached a clearing with large, fenced fields filled with newly sprouted crops of wheat, rye, barley, oats, buckwheat, corn, and potatoes.

I wondered what General Washington would look like. Papá had talked about him. A colonel in the Virginia militia, the Continental Congress had chosen him to lead the British colonists in revolt against their king, George the Third. Washington owned a big plantation named Mount Vernon, Papá said, with two hundred slaves. I couldn't understand how a man could fight for freedom, but own another human being.

Calderón and I followed a dusty road wide enough for an ox cart. In the distance, a church steeple peeped over the treetops. Houses of stone or brick loomed into view. We spotted an inn sign swinging in the breeze and stopped to eat lunch. Food and lodging were easy to find now as wayside inns became more and more frequent.

Calderón and I ate in silence at a common table with other guests and kept our search for General Washington to ourselves. You couldn't look at a person and tell a rebel from a Tory.

Afterwards, Calderón and I mounted up and turned our horses east. Shortly, we began to see missing rails from fences stolen by soldiers for firewood, boot prints, hoof-churned mud, smoke from campfires, all telltale signs of an army.

Without warning, a heavyset, mustachioed soldier stepped out of the woods and grabbed our bridles. “Halt and be recognized,” he demanded. He wore a three-cornered hat and the blue-and-buff uniform of the Continental Army. Behind him stood a young rebel holding his musket at the ready. The second man wore green trimmed in gray and a black felt hat. They hardly looked like they belonged to the same army. Then I remembered William saying each colony had outfitted its troops in
different colors.

Calderón drew himself up to his full height and said, “I am Don Héctor Calderón of His Most …”

The young rebel cut him off. “Sounds like a Hessian to me.”

“He's a Spaniard,” I quickly jumped in, hoping my Virginia accent would put them at ease. The last thing I wanted was to be mistaken for the German mercenaries King George had hired to fight the rebels. “This gentleman is my escort. My name is Lorenzo Bannister, and I have business with His Excellency, General Washington.”

Ten miles back, Calderón had insisted upon changing from his traveling clothes into a dress uniform in anticipation of finding the rebels. I still wore buckskin, a round felt hat, and moccasins, in the false belief we were days from Washington's camp. Now I wished I'd changed, too.

The first man peered at Calderón, spat on the ground, and shifted his gaze to me. “What are you? An Indian?”

My straight black hair and dark skin coupled with a Virginia accent seemed to confuse them. Before I could explain, a large-featured, dignified man rode up, accompanied by two mounted men. He sat very straight on a big white horse. His strong hands held the reins loosely. A cape draped his broad-shoulders and hid most of his uniform.

The two sentries snapped to attention.

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?”

“Strangers, General.”

I couldn't help but stare. Could this be General Washington? A shiver of excitement ran through me.

Fierce determination shone from his strong, proud face, but his eyes betrayed a great weariness.

Calderón swept the hat from his head and bowed. “Colonel De Gálvez, the captain general of Louisiana, sent us.”

At the name “De Gálvez,” the general's eyes sparked.

“Your hat, Lorenzo,” Calderón whispered.

I yanked it from my head and held it over my chest. “An honor to meet you, Your Excellency.”

“Gentlemen, welcome,” he said with a grave nod. “I've been expecting you.”

“You have?” The words popped out before I knew what I was saying.

Calderón shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and glared in my direction. It looked like he wanted to muzzle me.

“Major Gibson is a dear friend,” the general said, looking straight at me. “I have known him and his family for years. When he came back from New Orleans, he advised me that a young man would bring a letter from Colonel De Gálvez.” General Washington turned his horse.

We understood we were to follow him to camp.

My insides quivered, but if Calderón was impressed to sit beside so great a man, he hid it well.

We stopped at a large tent, and the general swung down from his horse. Upon his approach, the sentry on guard lifted the flap so the general could go inside. At six feet or so, he had to stoop to enter.

In spite of my excitement, I had the presence of mind to unbuckle my saddlebag and slip out
Gerald's Herbal
. The action made Washington's bodyguards tense, until they saw I was armed with only a book.

Calderón and I went inside with two bodyguards on our heels. One positioned himself at the back of the tent, while the second man lit a lantern hanging from a peg. He stayed close to the general, as close as a shadow.

I marveled at the general's tent. It held a small mussed cot, several wooden chairs arranged in a semicircle, a cluttered writing table, a large trunk. He obviously could be packed and ready to leave in a matter of moments. All in all, the scene reminded me of my room when I traveled with Papá. Medical emergencies often called us away.

General Washington sank into a chair and indicated with a wave of the hand that he wished us to join him.

“Your Excellency,” Calderón began when we were seated, “we have the honor to present Colonel De Gálvez's letter.”

Recognizing my cue, I drew the letter from
Gerald's Herbal,
where it had safely traveled from New Orleans to Virginia, and handed it to the general.

He looked amused by its hiding place. “Mrs. Washington frequently refers to
Gerald's Herbal
.” He slid a finger under the seal and looked from me to Calderón questioningly. “I assume one of you gentlemen has the formula.”

As if on cue, Calderón slipped a vial from his jacket pocket, removed the stopper, and poured a solution over the page. Ink magically appeared.

Careful not to let the solution soil his clothes, the general held the letter far from him and re-examined it. “I have no Spanish. I presume the colonel instructed one of you to translate.”

“That would be me, Your Excellency.” I took the letter General Washington passed to me and began to read it aloud. “‘September 21, 1776. New Orleans. To His Excellency …'”

“Go to the meat of the matter, son.”

I wanted to look at Calderón and say, “See! He's not as stiff as you think. He called me ‘son.'” But I restrained myself and read on.