Lorenzo's Secret Mission (14 page)

“My king and master, as a friend of the liberties of America, requests that you respect his desire for strict secrecy. He further wishes to become the greatest and most generous ally of the United States. To that end, he informs you that it has come to his attention that the British monarch is attempting to purchase mercenaries from the Russian czar.”

“This is important information,” General Washington said, straightening. “It confirms a suspicion someone recently shared with me. I shall inform the Continental
Congress at once. What else does Colonel De Gálvez write?”

I continued to read. “If, as I suspect, my king intends to send further supplies and messages to you, we will have need of a courier. If this reaches you, then we have found a worthy young man to serve as courier …'” My voice trailed away and my eyes jerked up from the paper. I was glad I was sitting, for my knees had suddenly gone weak.

The general smiled. “Please continue.”

I swallowed hard and did as ordered. “‘… as courier between us. We may safely rely on his firmness and fidelity. He accompanied Captain Gibson's company in the capacity of medic. I am sure he may yet render us a more worthy service. He speaks both Spanish and English and is a man of sterling character.” Inside, I swelled with pride to think the colonel considered me a man. “I ask Your Excellency to give Mr. Bannister every assistance, as he is on his way to Virginia to meet his grandfather, Judge Bannister of Albemarle County.'” I paused to take a breath and looked up.

Odd. Suddenly, the general was frowning at me.

“Armand Bannister is your grandfather?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

His countenance darkened. “I know your grandfather. I know him well.” It sounded like the general regretted that.

I explained about my father's death and his final wish that I deliver a letter to my grandfather, whom I had never met.

“I see,” the general said, stroking his lower lip. His expression softened. “Read on.”

“‘I respectfully urge Your Excellency to offer Mr. Bannister a commission at the rank of captain. It is my honor to be your humble servant, Colonel Bernardo De Gálvez, Captain General of Louisiana.'”

“How old are you, Mr. Bannister?”

For a brief moment, I considered lying. No sooner had the idea entered my mind than I dismissed it. A man of honor did not lie.

“Fifteen,” I said despondently. “I don't turn sixteen until July.”

“Fifteen,” he said with a sigh.

Calderón, silent for so long, spoke up. “Mr. Bannister has wisdom beyond his years. I suggest you offer him a commission right away. He is a sharpshooter and an excellent woodsman. He would make an excellent soldier as well.”

High praise from Calderón. A rare commodity indeed. I stared at him in amazement.

One side of the general's mouth pulled up in amusement at Calderón's passionate defense. “Unfortunately, I cannot enlist anyone until age sixteen, even on Colonel De Gálvez's recommendation.” The general swung his gaze from me to Calderón. “Or on your recommendation, either.”

Calderón blushed and lowered his eyes, no doubt thinking he had spoken out of turn. A lieutenant, giving a general unsolicited advice.

“However,” General Washington went on, “I do need an agent in New Orleans who speaks Spanish and English. The flatboat flotilla you served aboard will be the first of many that will send supplies upriver from our Spanish friends.”

Excitement pumped through me at the thought of more flatboat trips.

The general gestured toward me. “I wish you to take a letter to Governor De Gálvez.”

“
Governor
De Gálvez?” I asked.

Calderón and I exchanged looks of surprise. So Colonel De Gálvez had replaced Governor Unzaga. What a feather in his cap.

A smile grew on my face as I assumed my place at the writing table. I was happy for the man who treated me
like his son.

“Use this ink,” the general said, pushing a glass bottle toward me. He cleared his throat. “Please accept my sincere thanks for your efforts on our behalf. A fortnight ago, the supplies safely reached Fort Pitt just before it came under British attack. Without those supplies, the fort no doubt would have been lost.”

“Your Excellency, forgive my interruption,” I said. “Were any of my Lambs wounded in the attack?”

General Washington pivoted toward me. “
Your
Lambs?”

My ears burned with embarrassment, but the general merely gave me an indulgent smile.

“I understand the attachment that forms when men serve together. No men were killed in action.” He resumed his dictation. “I send my sincere gratitude …”

General Washington continued on, and I continued to write. As the ink dried, it disappeared. It turned out that he wanted to buy food for the Continental Army from Colonel De Gálvez.

Once the letter was finished, I eased it into
Gerald's Herbal
.

“I would be honored if you gentlemen joined me for coffee.”

“The honor would be ours, indeed, Your Excellency,” Calderón said.

The bodyguard stationed at the back of the tent left without a word, as if he had heard a silent order. Moments later he returned with a fresh pot of brewed coffee and four clay mugs.

“I would serve you gentlemen tea,” the general remarked with a smile, “but nowadays, it's unpatriotic.”

We all laughed.

A few minutes later, over coffee, Calderón and I told him about our flatboat adventure.

I took a sip of coffee and regarded the general over the lip of my cup. Either he was immensely interested in Calderón's narration of the Indian attack or he was struggling to decipher Calderón's English.

A sudden thought entered my head. What if Papá could see me now? It struck me that he would be proud that General Washington had selected his son as his personal envoy to the Spanish.

The day I'd dreaded for so long finally arrived. Today, May 21, 1777, I would meet my grandfather.

At dusk Calderón and I reached the edge of my grandfather's plantation. Newly planted fields of Virginia tobacco, the finest in the world, stretched out before us.

Slaves dripping sweat hoed a field in the failing light. To my left I spied a man with a back scarred like Red's. I reined in my horse and shivered.

“What is wrong with you?” Calderón demanded.

I didn't answer. I merely shrugged.

Calderón and I continued on, my soul burdened by the sight. Papá said slavery was the main reason he left Virginia. I knew it was the custom of the day, but seeing it with my own eyes, on my grandfather's land, sickened me.

A huge black man, bent beneath a load of wood, lumbered across the dirt road fifteen paces ahead of us. My gaze locked on an R branded on his cheek, then fell to his bare feet. Three toes on one foot had been whacked away. R must stand for runaway. The sight chilled me to the core.

Five minutes later, Calderón and I drew up in front of a three-story, gray stone building surrounded by lush flower gardens and neatly trimmed hedges. We dismounted.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I drew Papá's letter from my haversack.

An elderly house servant in blue-and-white livery descended the front steps, greeted us with a low bow, and attended to our horses.

“Good evening, my good man,” I said. “I have a letter for Judge Bannister. May I speak to him?”

A tall, rawboned man rose from a rocking chair on the front porch. He stepped toward the white wooden railing and glared down at me. “What do you want?”

I knew who he was even before he identified himself. He looked so much like Papá. I hadn't expected that. The same fair complexion, straight blond hair, and gray-green eyes. I guessed him to be about seventy years old.

“Sir,” I began in my most gracious tone, “I am here on a private matter. I'm Lorenzo.”

My grandfather drew a huge breath, and his hand flew to his chest. He took a step back. All color drained from his face. “Lorenzo?” he whispered. “So you came, after all. Cincinnatus!” he yelled to the slave at the foot of the steps. “I am not to be disturbed.”

I pivoted around. So Cincinnatus was alive. How I wanted to talk to him. No doubt he was filled to the brim with stories about my father. But I could do that later. For the moment, I had other business.

Calderón and I climbed the steps, he in his dress uniform, I in a suit of clothes I had bought in Philadelphia after we had left General Washington's camp.

When my grandfather and I were within arm's reach, we stood unmoving, staring at each other.

Calderón looked from my grandfather, to me, and back again. His gentle smile faded into a frown of confusion, as if he had expected us to fall into each other's arms and put on a grand display of emotion. The awkwardness of the moment stretched.

“Let's go inside,” my grandfather suggested.

Calderón started toward the front door. My grandfather stepped in front of him, arms folded across his chest, his expression sharp. “Not you, boy. You stay outside.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Calderón's face turned cardinal red.

“Lieutenant Calderón is an esteemed friend,” I said as I watched a vein pulse on my grandfather's forehead.

Calderón had insisted upon accompanying me to Virginia, even though his orders from Colonel De Gálvez said only to see me to General Washington's camp. His feeble excuse was that he'd never been to Virginia and wanted to see it. I suspected he had a good reason to delay his return to military duty in New Orleans, but I couldn't imagine what that might be.

Calderón directed a fierce scowl at my grandfather, the kind of scowl he had given me when we first had met. “I am in Mr. Bannister's employ. He hired me as his bodyguard to escort him to Virginia.”

“Ah,” my grandfather said, as if Calderón's statement made everything clear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I studied Calderón. Never did I imagine him to be such an accomplished liar, and I wondered why he embroidered the truth.

“Come inside and I'll pay you,” my grandfather said, unblocking the door.

“Mr. Bannister paid me already.”

Another lie.

I stepped toward Calderón to give him a typical farewell hug. He took a quick step backwards. I didn't know what to do or say. Had I somehow angered him? Embarrassed him? I thought we were friends, and friends always said goodbye with a hug.

“Goodbye, Mr. Bannister,” Calderón said, giving me a deep bow. “I am glad to serve you.” He slipped back into Spanish. “Do not tell your grandfather what I am saying. Something is not right here. Keep your guard up.”

“Yes,” I replied in English for my grandfather's benefit. “I will gladly send your commander a letter commending your services.”

“Thank you.” Calderón turned toward my grandfather and gave him a grandiose bow. “Goodbye, sir. It has
been a great pleasure to meet you.”

After nine months with Calderón, I knew him well. I also knew when he wasn't being himself. Whatever game he was playing, he was playing to the hilt.

Another goodbye. It both saddened and worried me to watch him walk away.

As I followed my grandfather inside, I noticed he had a slight limp and a nodule on his ear, two signs of gout.

A giant staircase rose from the entry foyer to the second floor. Oil paintings of richly dressed people lined the walls. One portrait showed a highly decorated British naval officer, his full lips pursed like a pampered child. My gaze fixed on it.

“That is my father,” my grandfather said. “He was an admiral in the Royal Navy. He died in battle during Queen Anne's reign, when I was two years old.”

A moment of illumination struck me. That would mean my great-grandfather died at the beginning of the century, during the War of Spanish Succession. Had he died fighting the Spanish? Did that account for my grandfather's dislike of Spaniards?

In the library, I lowered myself into a chair facing a large desk. A portrait of the British monarch, King George, hung in a place of honor behind it.

My blood pumped a little faster. My grandfather was a Tory, a British sympathizer. Had General Washington known that? Was that why he scowled when I mentioned my grandfather's name?

Feeling ill at ease, I gazed about the room. How should I start a conversation? What did I call him? Grandfather? Judge Bannister? Sir?

Maps of the British Isles, Europe, and Virginia lined the walls. A round window overlooked the grounds and offered a view of a garden just coming into bloom. Sunset fell on the Blue Ridge Mountains, making a warm picture in the distance. But an icy air hung inside the room.

My grandfather laced his hands together in a prayerful
stance and leaned toward me. “You are Jack's responsibility. Where is he?”

I swallowed hard. “Papá passed away nine months ago from consumption.” I waited for a reaction. A tear. A look of surprise. Or regret. After a long pause, I said, “He wrote you, sir, from Saltillo, Mexico, when we started our journey to Virginia.”

“He said nothing about being ill, only that he was coming back.”

I handed him Papá's letter. “On his deathbed, he asked me to deliver this.”

During the long silence that followed, he unsealed it, read it, and refolded it. He forced a smile. “Your father asks me to use my considerable influence to find you a position. I presume you read and write.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your father refused to serve His Britannic Majesty.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with great deliberation. “You can continue the Bannister tradition of service to the crown. I have friends in the Royal Navy. All I have to do is contact a certain individual I know.”

“No, sir,” I said with a firm shake of the head. “I have other plans …”

“The Royal Navy enjoys great prestige. Bannisters have always been navy men. Except for your father.” He blew out a huge sigh that suggested Papá had disappointed him greatly. “This is your opportunity to correct his egregious error.”