Lorenzo's Secret Mission (4 page)

“I saw the scars on Red's back,” I said, “and the way Saber-Scar and his friends treated me. I think the United Colonies should rebel.”

Gibson gave me a satisfied smile. “We are now the United States of America.” He took my hand in a long, firm grasp. “Welcome aboard, son.”

Colonel De Gálvez leaned forward, his hands steepled before him. “I want your word of honor as a gentleman that none of what you now hear will leave this room.”

“You have it, Your Excellency.”

After a thoughtful moment, he said, “The dogs of war have been unleashed. Spain, like France, has not yet taken sides. It is inevitable that both will oppose the British for their own reasons. The French are still stinging from their defeat in the French and Indian War. Do you know why New Orleans is now a Spanish city?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“The French built it, but fourteen years ago, at the end of the French and Indian War, they secretly gave it to us to keep it out of English hands. The King of Spain is encouraging the Americans to rebel. However, until he declares war on Britain, any help he gives them must be kept secret. Captain Gibson and his men are here on a mission to take supplies to Washington and his rebels.”

I straightened. “What kind of supplies?”

“Quinine to combat smallpox. Sulphur, saltpeter, flints, lead, gunpowder, muskets, cloth, and other stores.”

“Cloth?”

Colonel De Gálvez smiled at my look of incredulity. “Few of Washington's soldiers have proper uniforms. The trading firm of Gardoqui and Sons in Spain forwarded military stores to Havana, Cuba. They arrived last night and were warehoused. Gibson's Lambs will take them up the Mississippi by flatboat.”

I stared at him in admiration and amazement. The Spanish were secretly funneling war supplies upriver to General Washington. So that was what I had chanced upon last night. They weren't pirates at all.

“The flatboats are the last leg of the journey,” he went on. “And the most dangerous. The flotilla needs a medic. You need to get to your grandfather in Virginia. This will be mutually beneficial. Are you interested?”

I leaped from my chair. “Am I, sir! Sure am! Sign me on. When do we leave?”

A month later, on September 22, 1776, I found myself no closer to Virginia than the day I arrived. Secrecy cloaked the flatboat operation. Colonel De Gálvez advised me to be patient, but offered no further information, except that it would leave at a minute's notice.

I kept everything packed and stacked in the corner of my room. To pass the time and earn money for the trip, I worked as a scribe for an export-import house, filling out invoices, checking incoming cargoes against their bills of lading, and serving as translator between English-speaking crews and Spanish customs officials.

At the colonel's insistence, I occupied his spare bedroom. Even so, I rarely saw him. Colonel De Gálvez came home only to sleep, change clothes, or grab a quick meal. When military duty didn't consume his time, the thirtyyear-old bachelor courted the Widow De Saint Maxent.

Lieutenant Calderón proved amazingly cooperative. After my release, he handed over Papá's medical bag, my haversack, my musket, and other possessions lost my first night in New Orleans. For my part, I was grateful he had kept them for me and overjoyed to find Papá's letter to my grandfather with the seal unbroken.

Waiting for Gibson's flatboat flotilla to set out wore my patience thin, but it also had its positive side. Every night after work I headed to the Widow de Saint Maxent's house to visit Eugenie. Sometimes we played cards. Sometimes we strolled through town and talked. Other times, we attended a dance. New Orleans loved parties.
Every night someone hosted a ball.

Tonight, Eugenie and I were on our way to the British ambassador's house. It was a British holiday, the King's Coronation Day. I'd bought the fanciest clothes I'd ever owned, just for the ball. In black satin knee breeches with golden buckles, white silk stockings and shirt, an embroidered waistcoat, and double-breasted jacket covered with large gilt buttons, I felt like a gentleman from head to toe.

At the stroke of seven, we entered the British ambassador's ballroom. I bowed while Eugenie curtseyed to the ambassador, a gray, thin-faced man who greeted her warmly.

“How beautiful you look tonight,” he told her.

In a floor-length sea-green gown that showed off her fair skin and luminous green eyes, she was the prettiest girl in the room. Pearl-encrusted combs held her reddish-gold hair in a twist. Her skirts rustled like wind through tree branches. On her arm she carried a large, white-beaded drawstring purse.

“Milord,” she said, “may I present Mr. Bannister.”

For one heart-stopping moment, I thought he would refuse to admit me because of my fight with Saber-Scar and his other embassy guards, but he acknowledged me with a quick nod, as if I were no more significant than the insects buzzing around sconces bolted to the wall. He directed all his attention to Eugenie. “You must save me a dance.”

“It would be an honor, Milord,” she replied.

At Eugenie's suggestion, we headed to a dark corner at the back of the room and settled onto a sofa across from fifteen-foot-high doors framed by crimson drapes. To our left, a row of chairs marched toward the entryway.

She leaned toward me and spoke in French, then lifted an eyebrow as if she expected an answer.

“I don't speak French. Remember?”

“
Dommage, mon petit chou,
” she clucked.

I squinted at her. “What does that mean?”

She wagged her finger. “It means you must learn French.”

“For you, Eugenie, I would learn a thousand languages.” Embarrassment exploded through me. I avoided her eyes. Why had I said such a silly thing?

“That is very sweet.” She stretched toward me and gave me a peck on the cheek.

My temperature climbed. I took her warm, soft hand and gently kissed it.

“I will miss you when you go to Virginia,” she said.

“I'll miss you, too.”

The Spanish had imposed their laws and their money on New Orleans, but little else. The city refused to give up its French customs, language, and traditions. I could understand why. French was a beautiful language, as beautiful as its women.

I suddenly recalled something Papá had said on our trip from Saltillo to San Antonio. He had just received a letter from my grandfather in Virginia, and we were on our way back east so the two of them could patch up their differences.

“Julia's a nice girl,” Papá remarked in an offhand manner as he tied his horse to a mesquite tree. “You can write her when we get to Virginia. I'm sure she'll be glad to hear from you.”

I pulled my hat brim a little lower to hide my embarrassment. When did Papá figure out I liked Julia?

Papá had a sly look about him, but said not a word more. He went to his saddlebag and drew out our lunch of hardtack and
carne seca
, the dried meat Indians called
charqui
.

The Texas sun beat down insufferably hot, making me appreciate the mesquite's shade.

“Your mother was about Julia's age when we married.”

Another supposedly offhand remark.

Papá took a bite of the
charqui
and chewed for several seconds. “She was seventeen years old.”

I had always been curious about my mother, who had died from complications in childbirth when my little brother was stillborn. Certain things I knew from simple logic. Papá was tall and blond with large gray-green eyes, but my hair and eyes were as black as black could be. My light copper skin suggested my mother was dark. The only feature I inherited from Papá was his coarse, straight hair.

“How did you and Mamá meet?”

His eyes took on a faraway look, as if he could see all the way to his childhood home in Virginia. “One day, a Mexican gentleman visited my father's plantation on business. Something to do with buying tobacco. I returned from fox hunting in time to watch him and your future mother alight from their carriage. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. The moment I saw her, I knew I was in love.”

I leaned forward, deeply interested. “It was love at first sight?”

Papá gave me a cockeyed grin. “When Bannister men fall in love, they fall hard. They say Cupid shoots you with an arrow. ‘Tisn't so. He throws a piece of hardtack at you and knocks you senseless.”

“I'm never going to fall in love,” I bragged. Just in time, I dodged a piece of hardtack Papá threw at me.

“Famous last words, son. Famous last words.”

Now, as I gazed at Eugenie, my heart lurched, and I felt like I'd been hit in the head with a piece of hardtack. It saddened me to think of leaving Eugenie, but I was anxious for the flatboat trip to begin so I could deliver my father's letter.

Eugenie gestured toward the ambassador's receiving line. “Look who's here.”

Captain Gibson had just walked into the room. I stared at him in shock. An American rebel at the British ambassador's ball. There would be fireworks tonight.

The ambassador paled with surprise, then flushed with anger. He and Gibson exchanged stares, like two strange dogs sizing each other up. Although I sat too far away to catch a word of their conversation, I could read Gibson's smug expression as he thrust an invitation under the ambassador's nose. How did Gibson come by an invitation? He obviously wasn't on the guest list. After a short discussion punctuated by angry hand gestures, the ambassador admitted him in order to avoid a disturbance.

For the first time since we'd met, I saw Gibson in something other than buckskin and moccasins. He moved with an aristocratic bearing, as if long accustomed to his silk shirt, embroidered waistcoat, satin knee breeches, and matching jacket.

I stared in amazement and whispered to Eugenie, “I've never seen Captain Gibson look so … so … “

“Elegant? His grandmother was the daughter of a French count. She married a Pennsylvania miller.”

Gibson worked his way around the room, speaking to every single person. Faces brightened at his approach. Eventually, he came toward us, a cigar in one hand and a champagne glass in the other.

I stood, as I always did in the presence of my seniors, but Eugenie remained seated, as was the custom.

“Good to see you again, Gator. You've come up in the world.”

He grinned as he rubbed my lapel between his fingers.
Next, he bent over Eugenie's hand. “Such loveliness can only leave a trail of broken hearts. Mine, among them.” Saying that, Gibson straightened and winked at her.

“Why, Captain Gibson. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were flirting with me.”

He grinned. “Me? Flirt? My mother did not bear a foolish son. I've seen Gator fight. I know better than to flirt with his girl.”

A little later, the ambassador approached and escorted Eugenie onto the dance floor. He ignored me, as before, but looked at Gibson with evident distaste.

Gibson, in a typical display of good humor, smiled and saluted him with his cigar.

When they were out of earshot, I asked, “When do we leave, sir?”

“Excellent question. I've been wondering that myself. I wish to be home by Christmas. I have a newborn son I've never seen.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Colonel De Gálvez assures me it won't be long now.”

“If we don't leave soon, the Ohio will be frozen over, and we won't reach Fort Pitt until spring.”

“Patience isn't your strong suit, Gator.” Captain Gibson squashed out his cigar in a ceramic bowl. “Mine neither. Washington's soldiers are dying from smallpox. How many will perish before we return? The medicine does no good gathering dust in Colonel De Gálvez's warehouse. General Washington needs that quinine desperately. He can't afford to lose any more troops. He's running dangerously low on gunpowder, and bullets as well. Some of his soldiers don't even have muskets. Some are barefoot!”

“Aren't the British ambassador and his spies growing suspicious?”

“Yes. Daily it becomes harder and harder to explain why I and my so-called fur traders haven't returned to Pennsylvania.”

“Then why are you here, flaunting your presence? I mean, the ambassador's ball was the last place I expected you to be.”

“Last place I expected to be, as well. The colonel has a plan. All I know is he told Eugenie to visit the British ambassador and steal an invitation …”

“What?” I felt blood drain from my face.

“Dear boy, didn't you know she's a reformed thief?”

My heart hammered. No one had told me that. I somehow managed to shake my head.

“Soon after Colonel De Gálvez came to Louisiana, he arrested Eugenie for thievery. When he learned she had lost her entire family to yellow fever several months earlier and had been living on the streets, he decided to help her rather than punish her. The colonel believes we should give our heart to God and our hand to man. He found her a position as the Widow De Saint Maxent's personal maid.”

I watched Eugenie on the dance floor. What a miserable life she must have led, living in tatters, foraging through trash, sleeping on the streets. I recalled how scared and alone I felt after Papá died.

The hours crept by. Man after man asked Eugenie to dance. She never refused, but she always complained about the heat in the ballroom upon her return and dipped into her drawstring purse for a handkerchief to delicately mop her forehead and bosom.

At eleven-thirty on the dot, I watched Captain Gibson navigate around clusters of guests. When he was three feet away, he bowed low to Eugenie, then me. “May I have your permission to dance with Miss Dubreton?”

I wanted to refuse so Eugenie and I could continue our conversation, but knew I could not. My eyes never left them as they glided around the room to a quick violin melody. Toward the end of the piece, Eugenie missed
a step and stumbled into him. Red-faced, she clung to Gibson's dark blue jacket a moment, patted his chest, and smoothed his lapels.