Lorenzo's Secret Mission (3 page)

Jail! I was in jail! I had never been in trouble with the law before. And my crime? Defending Eugenie from a band of bullies. Angry at the world for the unfairness of my arrest, I sank to the moldy straw on the dirt floor and buried my hands in my hair. I could imagine Papá looking down from heaven and shaking his head in disappointment. How was I going to get to Virginia now?

“Howdy, son!” The voice boomed from an enormous bulk in the corner. “Whatcha name?”

“Lorenzo.”

“They call me Red. ‘Cause of this.”

In the thin light filtering through a narrow window, I could barely see the man gesture to his hair.

Fear darted up my spine when the man unfolded
himself. At five-foot-six, I was big for my age. Even so, my cellmate towered over me. His beard, dirty and uncombed, reached to his waist. He smelled like bear grease. Like the giant who had come to my rescue, he wore buckskin and moccasins.

The heavy wooden door opened and two men, pushed from behind, stumbled inside. My new cellmates turned out to be the men who had helped me fight Saber-Scar and his gang. The door clanged shut again.

“Cap'n Gibson!” Red exclaimed. “Whatcha doing here?”

The tallest man grinned at him. “Bit of a misunderstanding with the local authorities.” He turned toward me and thrust out his hand. “I'm Captain Gibson.”

I shook his hand and introduced myself. Was this
the
Gibson Eugenie had referred to and was Red one of his “Lambs”? If so, a lamb was the last thing Red resembled.

“What are you a captain of?” I asked, hoping Gibson commanded a ship bound for Virginia.

“A militia company. This gentleman,” he said, “is my second-in-command, Lieutenant William Linn.”

Gibson's lieutenant offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” His sandy-colored hair and pale gray-green eyes reminded me of Papá's.

Gibson slid down beside me and leaned his head against the rough stone wall while William Linn lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged across from us.

“You lead a charmed life, son,” Gibson said.

“I'm in jail, Captain,” I pointed out.

“Not for long. As soon as Colonel De Gálvez hears what you did, he'll let you go.”

I offered him a doubtful look.

“I bet you a Spanish pillar dollar he'll turn you loose before nightfall.”

“I'll take that bet,” I said, even though I didn't have a Spanish pillar dollar to my name.

“That girl you rescued,” Gibson said with a victorious grin, “is Eugenie Dubreton, the Widow De Saint Maxent's personal maid. And since Colonel De Gálvez is courting the widow …” He swirled his hand as if to say, “You figure it out.”

“Oh.”

Gibson laughed. “‘Oh,' indeed. I'll bet you could fall in an outhouse and come up smelling like roses.”

“I doubt that.”

“If it's any consolation,” Gibson said, raising his voice so the people in the next cell could hear, “the Lobsterbacks are in jail, too.”

“Lobsterbacks!” an English voice cried out. He hurled vicious insults at us.

Gibson banged his fist on the wall. “Curb your tongue. There are gentlemen in this cell.”

I assumed Gibson called them Lobsterbacks because most British soldiers wore scarlet coats. “Why do they call you Yankee Doodles?”

Gibson's mouth pulled into a tight line. “It's a scornful song the British sing to make fun of us. It's about an ignorant American who goes to town and makes a fool of himself. We are nothing to the British. A source of tax revenue. Stupid peasants they treat like stepchildren. When the British regulars fired on our minutemen at Lexington-Concord, they fired on British citizens.”

I had never thought of it quite that way.

Saber-Scar's words echoed in my ears. “Thinks he's our equal.” I had spoken to them in English. By my accent, they knew I was a British subject, a fellow citizen. And it hadn't mattered at all.

“Show Lorenzo your back,” Gibson said to Red.

Without question, Red pulled the shirt over his head. He twisted toward the light.

Nausea gripped me when I saw his back, seamed and ridged with scars from his neck to his waistline. Scarcely
any of his original skin remained.

“Red deserted from the British navy after they flogged him.” Gibson's expression held a deep sadness. “The British will hang him if they ever catch him.”

“I'm an American,” Red said. “Ain't gonna be no man's slave.”

My mouth went dry. I didn't blame him for deserting. Nor did I care what Red might or might not have done. No one deserved to be beaten so viciously.

Gibson smiled thinly. “You fought like a gator out there. Next time I'm in a fight, I want you on my side.”

The key scraped in the lock and the door swung open. In one bound, the four of us—Red, Gibson, Linn, and I— leaped to our feet.

Lieutenant Calderón, the man that arrested us, stepped inside. He was tall and slender, not nearly as muscular as I, about nineteen or twenty years old. Square-jawed, with large brown eyes, he was pale, like most Spanish bluebloods. A long, straight nose dominated his face.

Behind him stood a round-faced man who looked important in a blue jacket heavy with gold braiding. He wore a white waistcoat and white knee breeches tucked into black knee boots. His sharp, black eyes slid from Red, to Gibson, to Linn, but remained the longest on me. His scowl deepened. “You. Step forward.”

Feeling like a criminal, I did as ordered. I ran a nervous hand through my mud-caked hair. “Yes, sir?”

Lieutenant Calderón took a menacing step toward me. “This gentleman is Colonel De Gálvez, captain general of Louisiana, you dolt! You will bow and address him as ‘Your Excellency.'”

I blinked up at the colonel. Was this the man my father doctored five years ago? I saw no flicker of recognition in his eyes. I bowed low. “Your Excellency.”

“Were you in a brawl with guards from the British embassy?” the colonel demanded.

I grimaced. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Forevermore!” Colonel De Gálvez's eyes bored a hole in me. “You thought you could take on three soldiers all by yourself?”

Gibson spoke up. “He was defending Eugenie's honor.”

“Yes. I know. She told me.”

“Yes, sir.” Gibson continued on. “Fighting all three of them himself when we chanced upon him.”

That wasn't exactly how it happened. Saber-Scar had my arms pinned when Gibson and Linn came along, but I thought it best not to contradict Gibson.

“I can't thank you enough, gentlemen,” Colonel De Gálvez said in a suddenly choked voice. “You are free to go.”

Gibson whispered over my shoulder, “You owe me a Spanish pillar dollar.”

His remark brought a smile to my face. My smile widened to see Lieutenant Calderón slap his gloves against his thighs in exasperation over our release. He wheeled around and stalked away.

Gibson and Linn made a motion to go, but Red didn't move a muscle.

“You, too, Red,” Colonel De Gálvez said.

Red hurried out with William Linn.

Colonel De Gálvez signaled for me and Gibson to remain. His gaze met mine. “Eugenie told me your name is Lorenzo Bannister. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“What is your father's name?”

“Jack Bannister, Your Excellency.”

The colonel hunched down to eye level with me. “
Dr.
Bannister?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Lorenzo,” Colonel De Gálvez said in a surprised voice. “I didn't recognize you. You've grown. Eugenie said you were trying to get on a ship going to Virginia.” His expression grew stern. “Does your father know you're running away to sea?”

“No, sir, he doesn't. I mean …” My gaze fell. “My father is dead.”

Colonel De Gálvez drew a ragged breath. “I held Jack in high esteem. I am grieved to learn of his passing.”

My throat tightened. I was proud to hear a man of Colonel De Gálvez's stature praise my father.

“How does a gentleman's son come to be in … such a state?” He seemed at a loss for words to describe my condition.

“My father was taking me to my grandfather in Virginia, but we had to stop in San Antonio when he became too ill to travel on. He's buried there.” At that point, my voice cracked. I swallowed hard and pressed my lips together.

For months, Papá couldn't work. With no money coming in and expenses for his medical care mounting, we soon spent our savings. Whenever I could, I worked on a friend's cattle ranch to earn extra money.

Colonel De Gálvez laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Lorenzo. When did Jack pass away?”

“Two weeks ago. I set out for Virginia after his funeral.”

“Through Indian territory?” Gibson asked in an awefilled tone. “Was anyone with you?”

“No, sir.”

Gibson's face reflected a sudden, deep interest. “You were all alone? What did you eat?”

“Squirrel, rabbit, dove. I shot whatever I could find and broiled it over the fire. Each night I slept beneath the stars, and each morning I started out before dawn. I made good time until my mare stepped in a hole and broke her leg about a hundred miles outside San Antonio. The rest of the trip was on foot.”

“Forevermore.” Admiration tinged Colonel De Gálvez's voice. “First Cabeza de Vaca walked across Texas, and now you.”

Captain Gibson looked equally impressed. “In the summer, no less.”

The colonel gently squeezed my shoulder. “If it weren't for your father, I wouldn't be alive today. I owe him a debt of gratitude I have never sufficiently repaid. Seeing you to Virginia gives me the chance to do that. However, I cannot in good conscience send you by ship. During wartime, travel on the high seas is dangerous. British warships are all along the Atlantic coast. I know of a better way to get you to Virginia.” In the long pause that followed, his gaze drifted to Gibson, who bobbed his head in slow, silent agreement.

“Let's retire to my office and discuss this,” the colonel suggested.

We headed upstairs to the jail's top floor.

A few minutes later, Colonel De Gálvez settled into a plush armchair behind a giant mahogany desk and waved me into a slatted chair across from it. “He's all yours, Captain.”

Gibson, standing to his right with hands knotted behind him, studied me through narrowed eyes. “Have you ever been on a flatboat?”

“No, sir. What's a flatboat?”

“Well,” Gibson began, “it's a boat with a flat bottom that moves goods up and down the Mississippi.”

I now recalled seeing a rectangular-shaped cargo boat arrive at the dock just before I met Eugenie. So that was a flatboat.

“Was your father training you to become a physician?”

“Yes, sir. I was his apprentice.”

“What is licorice good for?”

“Diarrhea, among other things.”

Gibson grunted. “And St. John's Wort?”

“It's for aches and pains in arms, legs, and hips. Depression, too.”

“
Tu ne cede malis sed
…” Gibson cocked an eyebrow and whirled his hand at me as if to say “finish it.”

“...
contra audentior ito
.” The Latin quotation came from Virgil's
Aeneid
and stated, “Yield not to misfortunes, but advance all the more boldly against them.” I eyed Captain Gibson suspiciously. He was testing me. Speaking the classic languages marked a well-educated man.

“Can you swim?”

The question jolted me. “What?” Realizing how rude that sounded, I quickly added the word “sir.”

“Can you swim?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel De Gálvez and Gibson again exchanged glances.

Head bent, deep in thought, Gibson paced back and forth in front of me. “A medic who can swim.” He stopped long enough to help himself to a cigar from an elegant wooden box on the colonel's desk.

“Have a cigar, Captain,” the colonel said dryly.

Gibson grinned and lit it off an oil lamp. He pivoted toward me and his grin vanished. “What do you know about the war against King George?”

I didn't immediately answer. Captain Gibson's questions appeared illogical at best.

“In San Antonio, we heard the colonists won the Battle of Lexington and Concord but lost a little later at Bunker Hill. We heard about the Boston Tea Party, too.”

How Papá and I had laughed when we learned angry colonists, dressed like Mohican Indians, had smeared their faces with gunpowder and dumped a shipload of British tea in the harbor to protest high taxes. Beaver and Eleanor were the names of the ships.

“The colonies signed a declaration of independence on the fourth of July,” Gibson said. “The war has turned into a full-fledged revolution. If you were to take sides, would you favor the British or the colonists?”

By now, a stormy darkness had settled on New Orleans. Raindrops lashed the window panes. The oil lamp sent shadows leaping around the room.

I focused on them while I pondered my answer. “My mother was Mexican, but my father was a Virginian. In fact, he knew some of the rebels.”

Gibson frowned at the glowing tip of his cigar. “You sidestepped the question. Which side do you favor? British or American?”

I remembered Papá shaking his head after reading Mr. Jefferson's most recent letter. “Tom is going to get himself hanged for treason,” Papá had muttered. He was silent for a long time after that, his eyes unfocused as if lost in thought.

Gibson's dark blue eyes glinted in the lamplight. “You are not alone in your confusion. Many of the colonists have not yet declared their loyalties. In some cases, it has caused ruptures within families. My fatherin-law is a British sympathizer. When I joined the Continental Army, he called me a traitor to King George.” Gibson smiled bitterly. “As well as other names not repeatable. The wounds between us may never heal.”