Lorenzo's Secret Mission (16 page)

If he hasn't already
, I silently added.

A collective groan went up.

Gibson looked at William with resignation. “I didn't have anything better to do tonight. What about you?”

Gibson, William Linn, Calderón, and I left our horses tied to a tree at the edge of the plantation and stole toward the mansion. We tested several windows until we found one unlatched. For the second time in twentyfour hours, I entered my grandfather's house, but this time, like a thief in the night.

No one said a word as we padded down the hallway with our pistols drawn and primed. We eased open door after door until we found my grandfather asleep on a canopy bed.

It surprised me that no servants slept in the “big house” to wait on him should he need something in the middle of the night.

Gibson put a pistol to my grandfather's head while I clamped my hand over his mouth and Calderón pinned his arms.

“Don't move,” I warned. By this time William had lit a candle. “I came back for my possessions,” I told my grandfather.

Eyes filled with terror peered up at me.

“Don't make a sound.” I eased my hand from his mouth. “Get up.”

He did.

“First,” I said, “I want my father's medical bag and other things.”

His mouth twitched with disgust. “They're in the pantry downstairs. Take them and go. I don't care a fig about them.” He acted brave, but there was fear in his eyes.

Gibson sent Calderón to fetch them.

Calderón lit a second candle, cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from a draft, and left.

We led my grandfather downstairs to the study and the safe containing my father's letter.

“Open the safe,” I ordered.

“No.”

“Open it,” I snarled. “All I want is the letter.”

“I destroyed it.”

“You lie. I saw you put it in the safe.” I pointed toward King George's portrait. “Open it.” I gave him a spiteful push forward.

“No.”

“Let him be, Lorenzo,” Gibson said. He rubbed his fingers together, put his ear to the safe, and spun the dial, listening carefully for the tumblers to fall into place. “Not much of a safe, Your Honor. Hope you don't keep important documents in here.” He opened the door.

“By all that's holy,” Calderón softly exclaimed in dismay. He had returned from the pantry with my possessions in time to witness Gibson's safe-breaking talents in action.

Gibson grinned. “The fruits of a misspent youth.”

“This is all I found,” Calderón said, indicating my father's medical bag and my rawhide pouch.

Where were my saddlebags and Washington's letter?

I reached inside the safe. A grin stretched across my face when I pulled out Papá's letter.

“Take the damn thing!” my grandfather said, his tone defiant. “If you take me to court, you will only embarrass yourself. Why do you think I didn't destroy it? Because I knew I could use it against you if need be.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“I received your father's letter saying he was coming home. I looked forward to seeing him beg me to reinstate him in the will. And I would have. All he had to do was disavow that woman and you.”

“
That woman
,” I said sarcastically, “was my mother.”

“That woman,” my grandfather said, echoing my tone, “was a trollop who bewitched Jack.”

I took a menacing step toward my grandfather, but Gibson stepped in the way.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Gibson said in a calm voice.

I had to know what the letter contained, so I opened it on the spot and tilted it toward the candlelight.

Father, a letter from me after all these years must surprise you. I wouldn't have written you now, except that I find myself with no way out. I am dying of consumption. By the time you read this, I shall be dead. My dying wish is that you make Lorenzo your legal heir.

I have trained my son to be a physician. He wishes to become a soldier. I have always believed a man should follow his heart wherever it leads him. That's why I took Mariana and Lorenzo to Mexico.

Father, I beg that you grant a dying man his final wish. The time has come to put our differences behind us. I ask that you accept Lorenzo as your flesh and blood. His mother and I were legally married in New Spain. I further ask that you give him his rightful inheritance.

Jack

“I will never acknowledge a half-breed bastard as my grandson,” my grandfather snarled.

I stared at the words “legally married in New Spain.” They leaped off the page. I read and reread them. I was born in Virginia before my parents moved to New Spain. That meant I was born before they had married.

The signature was the only part of the letter in my father's handwriting. Papá had dictated the letter to a monk in San Antonio one night while I slept. Now I knew why.

And I recalled what Papá said just before he died: “I was right to take you and your mother from Virginia.”

He had taken us to a land where my mother and I would blend in, where no one would know he and my mother had married after I was born, where I wouldn't have to live with the stigma of illegitimacy.

I felt like all the blood had rushed out of me. The room began to spin. And then I recalled my grandfather's note: “Come home, Jack, and we will work out the differences between us.” It wasn't a note suggesting forgiveness. My father had misinterpreted the message. In a sudden flash, I now knew that my grandfather wished for Papá to return so he could grovel. My grandfather's note hadn't mentioned me at all. No wonder he sold me to a press gang. I was an embarrassment and a threat to his property.

“So now you know the truth about your parents,” my grandfather growled.

Somehow I managed to say, “That doesn't change the fact that I am your grandson and always will be.”

“You are an accident of birth. Your mother had no business mixing her blood with ours. I rue the day Jack met her.”

Nothing else he said registered. On unsteady legs, I headed toward the door and found my way outside.

A cold wind slapped me in the face when I reached the back porch. It brought me back to the present. After a moment, I realized someone had joined me. I glanced to my left.

Calderón bit his lower lip; his gaze focused on the starry sky. “I know exactly how you feel, Lorenzo. It stings at first, but you'll get over it. You're the same man you were yesterday. You just know something about
yourself and your parents you didn't know before.”

“You don't understand,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“I understand too well. Remember asking me if I was related to King Carlos?” Calderón smiled bitterly. “He's my father.”

Shock ran through me. When I twisted toward him, I found Calderón's jaw clenched, his head bowed.

“My mother was the king's mistress. I served as page in the Royal Palace until the queen noticed the indecent resemblance between me and her husband. There was an attempt on my life. That's why the king sent me to New Orleans.”

A noise behind us drew our attention.

Gibson and Linn ran toward us carrying my possessions. “Gentlemen,” Gibson said, “I suggest we get out of here on the double. William and I tied Judge Bannister up and left him gagged in the library. One of his slaves will find him tomorrow and release him. He'll probably fabricate a story about a robbery.”

I knew what Gibson was thinking. My grandfather had worked hard to keep me a secret. He would never say that his illegitimate half-breed grandson had come back for a showdown. Pistols at the ready, we dashed away toward the edge of the plantation. Just as we passed the stable, a figure holding a lantern stepped out of the dark.

On instinct we raised our pistols and thumbed back the hammers.

“Lord have mercy! Don't shoot. It's just me. Cincinnatus.” He looked straight at me. “I gotta talk to you.”

We lowered our weapons.

Glancing about nervously, he motioned us into a multi-stalled stable. Horses, disturbed by our presence, snorted at us and shifted nervously.

“William,” Gibson whispered, “keep a lookout at that door.” He pointed to the far end of the stable. “Calderón, go to the other exit.”

William Linn and Calderón dutifully obeyed.

Cincinnatus led us into an empty stall and hung the lantern on a peg. “You're Jack's son, aren't you?” he said to me in muted tones.

“Yes.” I offered my hand, which he took. “I'm glad to meet you finally. Papá talked about you often.”

My remark brought a smile to his face. “I knew you was his boy. You don't look much like him, ‘cept for the straight hair, but you walk like him, talk like him. You got your mama's face.” The elderly black man glanced over his shoulder. “Ain't safe for you here. We gotta get you outta Virginia. The sooner, the better.”

“The man's right,” Gibson whispered.

“I was afraid Judge Bannister had killed you,” Cincinnatus went on. “I saw you go in the big house. Next thing I know, he comes to the stable and tells me to get his carriage ready. Then he drives off with your horse
tied to the back of the carriage. He comes back a little later, but your horse is gone. He was up to something. Yes, siree. That's why I hid your things soon as I unsaddled your horse.”

I straightened. “You have my letters?”

The air crackled with excitement. Now I knew who had General Washington's letter as well.

He led us to a large wooden tack box. “Put everything in here.” Stooping over, he opened the lid and pushed aside brushes, curry combs, and horse accessories of all kinds. At the very bottom rested my saddlebags and raccoonskin haversack with Papá's correspondence and Eugenie's love letters.

I unbuckled the saddlebags, took out
Gerald ‘s Herbal
, opened it, and breathed a long sigh of relief to see General Washington's letter. “Thank you.” I looked deep into his watery, black eyes. “Did you know Papá's gone?”

“I figured so when I saw you arrive alone. When did he pass away?”

“Last August.”

Cincinnatus pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head. “Jack was like my own boy. He taught me how to read. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“He was about eight years old at the time. Wasn't supposed to, but he did anyway. It was our secret. And that was the summer he promised, ‘I'll see you free, Cincinnatus. One way or the other.'”

A light went on inside my head. “So that explains it. The day before Papá passed away, he was delirious and mumbled something about not keeping his promise to you.” I choked back a sob. Now Papá could never make good on the promise. But I could. I thought about the money in my saddlebags. “I'll buy your freedom.”

Cincinnatus offered me a bitter smile. “The judge won't sell. Your daddy tried that, but Judge Bannister wouldn't allow it. Jack did what he could. I don't fault him none. I'm just glad he got away from here.” His face grew even sadder. “I was there the day he argued with Judge Bannister. What his father did was wrong. Dead wrong.”

I gave him a sympathetic nod. “Papá never talked much about that. It always choked him up.”

“It was a terrible fight,” Cincinnatus said. “Whole plantation heard it. Judge Bannister and Jack argued about you and your mama. The judge said he would sell you and your mama unless Jack joined the king's navy. Jack was going to do it, too, but I talked him out of it. I knew you couldn't trust the judge as far as you could throw him. Jack and me decided there was only one thing to do—escape to New Spain where you and your mama could live free.”

I stared at Cincinnatus. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, my God,” Gibson said in slow understanding. He turned his wide-eyed gaze toward me. “Oh, my God,” he repeated. “Lorenzo … Your mother was a slave.”

Head spinning, knees wobbling, I could only stare at him in confusion.

“Jack met your mother the day a Mexican gentleman visited the plantation on business,” Cincinnatus said. “He brought his daughter, Mariana. He had fathered her off one of his slaves.”

Rubbing the nape of his neck, Gibson muttered an oath in French. He tilted his head back and frowned in concentration. “If Lorenzo's mother was a mulatto, that would make him a quadroon.”

“Quadroon?” I asked. “What's that?”

“Someone who is a quarter black,” Gibson answered. “Legally, you're a slave.”

“What?” I cried, still not understanding. “I'm no man's slave.”

“You belong to your grandfather,” Cincinnatus said. “The Mexican had money trouble. He sold Mariana to Judge Bannister.”

“But my father was free,” I protested.

“Lorenzo,” Gibson said, placing his hand on my shoulder, “if your mother was a slave, it makes no difference if your father was free or not. By coming upriver, you've put yourself in slavery. If I had known this, I'd never have allowed you to endanger yourself. I'm sorry. I never once suspected.”

Cincinnatus straightened. “If you never suspected …” He pivoted toward me. “You been passing for white. You're light enough. You keep on doing it.”

I looked at Cincinnatus aghast. My mind was still reeling. “What? No!”

“You listen to me,” Cincinnatus snapped. “Do it! Ain't nothing wrong with being black. I ain't saying that. I don't want to be white, but I sure wish I had the
privileges
of being white.”

“Lorenzo, you wouldn't be doing anything you haven't already done,” Gibson gently pointed out. “For years. Your father raised you in a land where you and your mother would blend in. He trained you to be a physician. He never intended to tell you what he had done or why he did it. Even on his death bed, when he knew time was short, he remained silent to protect you.”