Lorenzo's Secret Mission (15 page)

“Sir, my father was a fine man who did what he thought best.”

“Is that so?” My grandfather stared at me, long and cold.

“Yes. He was an excellent physician …”

“Who served as lapdog for the Spanish army and mingled with the scum of the earth.”

A red rage surged through me. I jumped to my feet. “My father saved many lives. Some of the bravest men
I've ever known were Spanish soldiers.”

I also was thinking of my Lambs. They were not scum, but uneducated and uncultured men who had put their lives at jeopardy for American freedom. I bit my tongue, angry that I had to let his remarks go unchallenged, but I couldn't respond without giving away important information to a Tory.

My grandfather waved his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I don't mean to speak ill of the dead. Sit down. I only have your best interests at heart.”

I eased back into my chair.

He drummed his index finger on the desk. “I know of a planter from Alexandria looking for a private secretary. I'm sure he would give you the position if I recommended you.”

“Sir … I have a position.” I thought fast. How much could I tell him without giving away too much? “In New Orleans I worked as a scribe for an import-export firm. I have a position there.” And Eugenie. Thinking about her brought a smile to my face.

Fingering my father's letter, he nodded, as if deep in thought. He rose and walked to the portrait of King George, a hinged picture that hid a wall safe. He spun the tumblers, opened the safe, and placed my father's letter inside.

How I wanted that letter. My father's last letter. My grandfather meant to keep it. Maybe it had great sentimental value to him.

“Well, boy,” my grandfather said, turning, “you may stay the night, as I do not wish to turn you out into the dark. Mind you, I expect you to be on your way by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

I was as anxious to leave as he was to be rid of me. How could this awful person have raised a kind and wonderful man like my father?

“Let's go see that your horse is properly bedded for the night, and then we'll share supper.”

It was full dark by the time we stepped out the back door. Lantern in hand, my grandfather led me toward a small brick building where the lawn met the woods. “Let's stop here, shall we? I'll have Cook prepare you a good breakfast to start your trip right.” He unlocked the door and gestured for me to enter first. “Go unhook a ham.”

No sooner had I stepped inside than something heavy crashed down on my head.

The dirt floor rushed toward me, and darkness enveloped me.

It could have been five minutes or several hours later when I came to. My head throbbed. I pushed up from the ground, cold and hard beneath me, and stood unsteadily. My head brushed against something dangling from the ceiling. The smell of cured meat filled the air.

My grandfather had locked me in the smokehouse!

Sweat dampened my forehead. When I reached into my jacket pocket for a handkerchief, I realized I was no longer in my new suit of clothes. I ran my hands over my shirt and pants and found myself in a scratchy linen shirt and cotton trousers, the kind of clothes slaves wore.

“Oh, no!” I groaned. The rawhide pouch that hung around my neck on a rawhide string was gone as well. My grandfather had taken that too. It contained two hundred dollars, my entire salary as medic. Calderón and I had visited the Continental Congress in Philadelphia on the way so I could cash in the chit William had given me.

Feeling my way around in the dark, I found the door. My excitement melted into disappointment to discover the absence of a door knob.

There was no way out.

Black despair filled me. The walls closed in. Then suddenly, a key turned in the lock.

“The boy's in here,” my grandfather said.

I shaded my eyes from the lantern light and saw my grandfather enter with a British naval officer on his heels.

Two armed redcoats, one with a musket, the other
with a billy club, stationed themselves by the door, effectively blocking the only exit.

Oh, God. No. My grandfather was selling me to a press gang. To make matters worse, I recognized one of them.

Saber-Scar leered down at me, the same way he had on the street in New Orleans. He knew me at once. A look of deep satisfaction spread across his face.

I recalled Saber-Scar's promise the day we met.
I'll get you if it's the last thing I do
. And now he had.

“Head down,” he ordered. He stiffened and gripped his musket a little tighter when I did not immediately obey. “Now!”

I had no choice but to lower my head.

The officer orbited me and looked me over from head to toe as if I were a horse at an auction. He squeezed my arm muscles.

“He's a good boy,” my grandfather said. “As docile as a lamb.”

“Hmmpf!” Saber-Scar exclaimed. “I knew him when I lived in New Orleans. He's a troublemaker. In and out of jail constantly for brawling.”

I wanted to protest this lie, but was in no position to do so.

The British officer lifted my chin with his riding crop and peered at me. “We shall see. Take off your shirt.”

I forced down the panic rising inside me. In one motion, I pulled my shirt over my head.

“His back is clean,” my grandfather said in a relieffilled voice. “He's never been flogged. As I said, docile as a lamb. The boy's been living in New Spain. Speaks Spanish like a native. If the Spanish enter the war,” my grandfather said, an anxious quiver in his tone, “he could prove useful.”

The British officer grunted in agreement.

“If you had done your job,” my grandfather said to Saber-Scar, “I could have avoided the embarrassment of
having him show up on my doorstep. I'm not paying you a damned farthing. Just get him out of my sight.”

The British officer gave me an evil smile. “I'll make good use of him. He should serve me well.”

Involuntary servitude on board a British ship! Panic mixed with anger set in. If I tried to desert, I would be flogged. If they found General Washington's letter … God in heaven! What had my grandfather done with it? Had he given it to the British?

“Put your shirt back on,” the British officer ordered.

Before I could do so, Saber-Scar said, “Wait.”

I froze.

“Look at this, sir.”

The British officer stroked the scar on my back with his riding crop. His lips curled at the edge. “Shot in the back. Running away, were you?”

Saber-Scar's sharp intake of breath told me he had made the connection. An evil smile grew. “It was you,” he said with sudden understanding. “You were at the fort. You must have overheard our plans. That's how the flatboat flotilla was able to evade us at every turn. How droll! We've been after you for a long time.” Saber-Scar laughed out loud. “Sir! It would appear we have captured a rebel spy.”

My heart sank. I knew what happened to spies. They were hanged.

We traveled for half an hour on horseback with the British officer in front and the two Redcoats close behind. Slowed by darkness, we picked our way down a narrow dirt road through a pine-scented forest.

Why had my grandfather done this? Why did he write Papá telling him to come home if he hadn't wanted us back? I searched for an answer, but found none.

A plan. I needed a plan. With two guns behind me, escape was out of the question.

In my mind's eye, I saw Eugenie, gorgeous in her green ball gown. A warming thought. Something to hold on to. She loved me. She expected me to return to New Orleans some day. I had to survive this.

Something whizzed through the air past my ear. Ahead of me, a tomahawk buried itself in the officer's head.

Indians!

I bent low over my horse's neck for protection and swiveled around in time to see Saber-Scar slump and fall from his horse. Another tomahawk had found its mark.

My mount skittered to the side. Fearing he would bolt and throw me, I gripped the reins tighter. My knees dug into the saddle as I tried desperately to stay on. “Easy now,” I coaxed.

An instant later, a sharp crack rang out, and Saber-Scar's companion fell dead.

My horse reared and pawed the air. I toppled off and felt myself sailing backwards. My arms flailed the air. I hit the ground with a bone-jolting thud. All the breath
rushed out of me. For a split second, I thought I was dead, but the pain exploding through me meant I still lived.

Footsteps whooshed in the dry leaves that carpeted the forest. I spotted a half-dozen figures in the shadows.

Get up!
my mind screamed.
Get up!
A survival instinct gave me the energy to stand. Groaning with pain, I darted toward the woods edging the road, racing blindly toward the lush undergrowth. Footsteps sounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Several huge Indians bolted from the moon-cast shadows. They shouted and waved their arms frantically overhead. My heart hammered so loudly, I couldn't hear what they shouted. I crashed into the underbrush, my hands stretched in front of me to fight the vines and branches flogging my face.

In a burst of speed, the biggest Indian broke away from the others. He came closer and closer, then grabbed a handful of my shirt. I struggled to get away, but tripped on a tree root and fell face down. The giant landed on top of me.

At any moment I expected to feel a hatchet at my scalp line ripping the skin from my skull.

“Stay still, Gator. It's me.”

Gator? Only one person called me that.

“Major Gibson?” I whispered in dismay.

“Are you hurt, son?”

“Son? I thought I was a gator. Does that mean I've moved up in the animal kingdom? Or down?”

“If you still have a sense of humor,” he said as he gently rolled me over, “you can't be too badly hurt.” His hands deftly searched for broken bones.

“I'm not hurt at all,” I bragged, although every muscle ached and I felt bruised all over.

Gibson helped me to my feet.

Moonlight shone on six faces painted with red berry juice. The “Indians” broke into a grin, relief etched on their faces.

I stared at Gibson, William Linn, Calderón, Red, and two other Lambs. Bare-chested, wearing breechcloths, leggings, and moccasins, they had smeared their hair with bear grease and streaked their faces with war paint. All in all, they made passable Indians.

Calderón wrapped me in a silent bear hug.

I couldn't tell for sure in the dark, but I think he was crying.

“This one's alive,” Red called out a minute later as he pulled the tomahawk from Saber-Scar.

Two Lambs dragged the corpses into the woods to let nature's predators dispose of their bodies.

Meanwhile, Gibson and William rounded up the Britons' horses and erased all evidence of the attack.

“Take him to camp,” Gibson said. “He's valuable.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Red said.

Emotions tumbled through me as I watched them bind Saber-Scar's hands with rawhide and heft him onto a horse. Never before had I harbored so much hatred for a fellow human being. I wished him dead. But alive, Saber-Scar would buy the freedom of an American soldier held by the British. Dead, he was useless.

I watched Red and the Lambs ride away with Saber-Scar. “Thanks for rescuing me.” I looked from William Linn to Gibson to Calderón. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

Calderón shrugged. “After the cold reception you received from Judge Bannister, it was obvious. General Washington told me to have my guard up.”

“He did?”

“He feared you would be in great jeopardy,” William said. “Armand Bannister is suspected of being a Tory.”

I nodded. “He is.”

“Red somehow got wind that you might be headed
for trouble.” Gibson scowled at Calderón, suggesting a secret alliance between him and Red. “When he passed the word to the other Lambs, there was no way to stop them. It was either shoot them all for desertion or select a squad to rescue you.”

I looked up at a bright moon inching across the sky. My chest constricted to think the Lambs had come to my aid.

Gibson touched my shoulder. “Let's get out of here. We need to get you on your way to New Orleans.”

“No. I'm going back to my grandfather's house.”

“What?” Gibson asked.

“He has my father's letter and my other possessions.” I couldn't bear to think of my grandfather keeping Papá's medical bag and my raccoon-skin haversack that contained Papá's correspondence and Eugenie's letters. And I relished the idea of confronting my grandfather.

Calderón shook his head. “No. I won't permit this. It is too dangerous.”

William shook his head, too. “No, Lorenzo. He's right. You can't.”

“I'm going to get my father's letter, even if I have to go alone. Besides, we have to go back. General Washington's letter to Colonel De Gálvez was in my saddlebags. We need to get it before my grandfather hands it over to the British.”