Lorenzo's Secret Mission (5 page)

She must be tired, I said to myself. She's been dancing all night.

The complete gentleman, Captain Gibson brought her back. Following etiquette scrupulously, he thanked us and returned to his seat.

Less than thirty minutes later, the bells of the parish church chimed midnight. As if on cue, Colonel De Gálvez and six musketed infantrymen marched into the ambassador's ballroom. As they entered, the music faded and the dancers, rumbling with discontent, splintered to let the soldiers through.

Colonel De Gálvez and his entourage tramped over to Captain Gibson and formed a semicircle around him.

“George Gibson,” Colonel De Gálvez said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “you are under arrest.”

Everyone gasped, except the British ambassador who smiled smugly at the turn of events.

Captain Gibson took a sip of champagne and regarded Colonel De Gálvez through narrowed eyes. “The devil I am. As an officer in the Continental Army, I deserve …”

“You are a rebel,” the British ambassador interjected, “and a traitor to your country. You deserve to hang.”

At a nod from Colonel De Gálvez, soldiers grabbed Gibson by the arms and hauled him from his chair.

Gibson's eyes were large and bright with anger. “What is the meaning of this? Colonel De Gálvez, I thought the Spanish were neutral.”

“Search him,” De Gálvez ordered.

Two soldiers rifled through Gibson's pockets. They extracted several leather pocketbooks, the kind men used to carry money and traveling documents. Colonel De Gálvez flourished the stolen items overhead. Mouth agape, Gibson froze. In unison, he and I darted a look at Eugenie. She must have planted the stolen items on Gibson during their dance. But why? At least now I knew she'd carried that oversized purse to conceal the wallets she had stolen.

“Take this ‘American' nobody away,” Colonel De Gálvez ordered with a scornful flick of the wrist.

Horrified, I watched soldiers usher Captain Gibson from the ballroom at bayonet point.

My head spun with confusion. I rose unsteadily and
took a step toward Colonel De Gálvez, but stopped short. His large, black eyes held a hard, flinty look I'd never seen before.

Eugenie tugged on my sleeve. “
Mon cher
, Colonel De Gálvez has just cause to arrest Gibson. Trust me.”

How could I? This made no sense. I fell into an empty chair along the far wall. The world had come crashing down around me. What was I to do now? Was I ever going to get to Virginia?

Interest in Gibson's arrest and speculation about what it meant soon waned and the dancing resumed.

Eugenie slipped her hand in mine. “Come.”

“Eugenie!” I protested, my mind unable to absorb all that had just happened. “I do not wish to dance.”

“Come,” she insisted.

Instead of leading me to the dance floor, she guided me toward the back door. She glanced nervously over her shoulder and appeared relieved no one noticed our imminent departure.

Halfway down the exterior staircase, a chill went through me, for in the street below stood Calderón, pistol in hand. Instead of his usual impeccable uniform, he wore a black full-sleeve shirt, black trousers, and knee boots. His hair hung in stringy, wet locks on both sides of his mud-smudged face.

Eugenie urged me down the stairs, toward him.

Calderón smiled at her and tipped his hat, then scowled the way he always did when he saw me. “By Colonel De Gálvez's command, you are to come with me.”

“Where to?”

“I am not at liberty to say!” he replied curtly.

“Trust us,” Eugenie said. “He is only following orders. We are to take you to Colonel De Gálvez. That's all I can tell you.”

I didn't like the sound of that, but I knew a soldier's honor was as sacred as a woman's virtue. If Calderón was acting on orders, nothing I could say or do would
convince him to release me. My spirits sank a little lower.

With Eugenie in the lead, me in the center, and Calderón at my back, we moved silently through the city streets. Instead of heading for the jail, where I expected to join Captain Gibson, they took me in the opposite direction, northward, toward the swamps.

My mind searched frantically for answers. Where were we going? Why the secrecy? Why couldn't they tell me something, anything?

In spite of her ball gown, Eugenie bunched her skirt in her hands and set a brisk pace through the shadowy streets, toward the upper portion of New Orleans. Once in a while, she glanced over her shoulder. Leaving the city, she charged down a twisting path carved out by wild animals, through tangled undergrowth, unbothered by briars and vines that flogged our faces. She seemed to know every tree root, stump, and rock along the way.

When we halted under cypresses festooned with curtains of gray Spanish moss, Calderón squatted and yanked me down beside him to the damp, spongy ground. He cocked his head, as if listening for something. The sound of pursuers? A signal? Eugenie tucked her mud-splattered gown around her. Crickets and frogs chorused together in the dark. I slapped at a mosquito buzzing by my ear.

“Stay still,” Calderón growled.

“Eugenie,” I whispered, ignoring him, “what …?”

Calderón silenced me with a fierce “Shut up.”

Wisps of cloud swirled over a golden sliver of moon. Little breezes played from one tree to another. The swamp smelled of decaying vegetation and wet peat moss. An owl hooted. Calderón cupped his hand to his mouth and hooted twice.

“Who-o-o! Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” came the swift reply. A signal.

Calderón and Eugenie smiled at each other and jumped up at the same time. We scrambled down a steep
riverbank, slipping and sliding in a hail of loose rocks and dirt. Below us, moonlight danced off the Mississippi. And bobbing in the ripples …

My God. I stopped suddenly, and Calderón plowed into me.

Flatboats!

“Halt and be recognized!” A sentinel swung toward us, his musket leveled.

By instinct, we raised our hands.

“We are people of peace,” Calderón said in a voice that showed no fear.

The sentinel stepped aside and peered anxiously into the dark forest for signs we'd been followed.

Three flatboats were tied to trees lining the riverbank. Two canoes rode beside them. Buckskinned men in coonskin caps scurried about in the dark, toting crates and barrels and gunny sacks while musketed men stood guard on shore.

Each flatboat looked like a floating house about fifty feet long, rectangular, and with a cabin in the center. At the bow was a small-caliber cannon that could swivel in any direction.

Calderón walked up to Colonel De Gálvez, who stood with his back to us. “Your Excellency. Mr. Bannister is here.”

Colonel De Gálvez turned and grinned. “Good work, Lieutenant.” He bestowed a fatherly kiss on Eugenie's forehead. “Congratulations. You did it.”

She angled her head to the right. “Did you have any doubts?”

Colonel De Gálvez laughed. “I'd rather not answer that question.”

A man waved frantically to me from the cabin's curved roof and clambered down a six-rung ladder. In
one swift motion, he swung himself over the side and leaped to shore.

It was Lieutenant William Linn, Gibson's second-incommand. As usual, he wore a puffy-sleeved shirt and homespun trousers held up by suspenders.

I turned to Colonel De Gálvez in confusion. “I don't understand. Why did you arrest Captain Gibson? Isn't he going with us?”

Colonel De Gálvez put his hands on my shoulders. “Lorenzo, I apologize for the deception. To keep the British ambassador in the dark, no one, except myself, Eugenie, and Lt. Calderón knew our plans.”

“Not even Captain Gibson?”

“He knew he would be arrested,” Eugenie said, “but he didn't know when or on what charges.”

“No one knew the details of the plan,” Colonel De Gálvez said. “That way everyone would react naturally when it happened. Gibson will remain in my jail until the flatboats are safely away. When the time is right, I shall put Gibson on the next ship heading north—without the British ambassador's knowledge.”

Frowning at Eugenie, I said, “You planted those pocketbooks on him while you were dancing.”

“Indeed I did,
mon petit chou
.”

I had been watching closely and missed it. But then, I'd been keeping an eye on Eugenie's dancing partners for misconduct. Not her.

Colonel De Gálvez drew me and Calderón away from the others. “Lt. Calderón is the special envoy sent by King Carlos to make certain the supplies reach the Americans. I have assigned him the additional duty of escorting you on a particular service. I wish you to deliver a letter.”

He handed me a sealed envelope. “Give this to His Excellency, General George Washington, commander in chief of the Continental Army.”

My eyes rounded and my heart skipped a beat. “I am
honored, Colonel.” Oddly, it bore no address. I looked at the colonel questioningly.

“The letter is written in disappearing ink for reasons of security,” the colonel said. “Lieutenant Calderón knows the formula to make the ink reappear. The two of you must deliver the letter together. General Washington does not speak Spanish. I do not speak English, nor does Lieutenant Calderón. You will translate the letter for the general. Lieutenant Calderón will see you to the general's camp.”

“By your leave, Your Excellency,” Calderón said, solemn-faced, “I shall show Mr. Bannister to his quarters.” He led me toward the largest flatboat.

We scrambled across a narrow board that served as a gangplank and jumped to the rough cypress planking. The flatboat listed under our added weight.

In the cabin, Calderón lit a lantern hanging from a peg. The cabin resembled a little house with a small shuttered window on each wall, two comfortable bunks, a fireplace, table and chairs.

I inhaled sharply. All my worldly treasures were there, and more to boot. Papá's medical bag, my musket, my haversack. Lined up on a shelf along the wall were little alabaster jars of unguents, pigments, and creams. Peruvian bark, calomel, opium, all expensive drugs. When I opened my father's medical bag, I found everything as he had left it. Forceps for extracting bullets, scalpels, bandages, tourniquets, sponges, amputating instruments. A small shelf held a medical library.
Gerald's Herbal
and
Plain Concise Practical Remarks on the Treatment of Wounds and Fractures
by Dr. John Jones. On the fly page, Colonel De Gálvez had written in an elegant hand, “May God watch over you. I pray these books prove an enlightening, but unnecessary addition to your journey.”

I slipped the colonel's letter to General Washington between the pages of
Gerald's Herbal
and eased the book shut, careful not to let any of the letter show.

I undressed and hung my party clothes on pegs around the walls. “See here, Lieutenant,” I said as I pulled a deerskin hunting shirt over my head, “we're about the same age. Calling me ‘Mr. Bannister' seems foolish.”

“On the contrary. It is the height of wisdom.”

“What do you mean?” I pulled up leather breeches.

He looked at me as if he had greatly underestimated my ignorance. “Considering your age, the men need to call you ‘Mister' as a reminder to show you the proper respect. Furthermore, it's the proper address for the medical officer on a ship. This is an important mission. It must succeed. The consequences, should I fail, are enormous. If we are discovered, Spain will be dragged into the war prematurely. We are not yet ready to take on Britain. The rebels need supplies, and without them, they will lose the war.”

“Yes. I understand all that.”

“Failure also means my military career is over. From Colonel De Gálvez's mouth to the king's ear.”

“You must be joking.”

Giving me an amazed stare, he said, “Colonel De Gálvez comes from the most influential family in Spain. Did you truly not know that? His uncle is José De Gálvez, minister of the Indies, second only to the king. If we are attacked at any time during our trip, do me a favor and take cover. I have to deliver you in a whole skin.”

“Alive, I presume?”

“That would be the best for both of us,” Calderón said grimly. “If the British capture us and find that letter to General Washington,” he said, nodding toward
Gerald's Herbal
, “you and I will hang as spies.”

Calderón and I returned ashore and hurried toward Colonel De Gálvez and Eugenie, who were still waiting patiently.

The colonel's eyes were sad. “I am sorry to see you go, Lorenzo.” He pulled me to him in a Spanish-style embrace, then pushed back. “No one place is better than another. If your heart is right, you can be happy anywhere.”

“I hope everything works out with your grandfather,” Eugenie said. “If it doesn't, you can always come back here.”

My hand found hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Some day I'll return to New Orleans.”

She returned my squeeze.

“When you reach Fort Pitt,” the colonel said, “Lt. Linn will give you a chit to present to the Continental Congress. It will entitle you to twenty-five dollars a month for your services as medic.”

“Twenty-five dollars?” It was more than I earned as a scribe, and it was twice a second lieutenant's salary. I didn't know what to say. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Don't thank me. The Continental Congress thought this mission so important they gave Gibson and Linn a generous letter of credit that authorizes them to obtain money or necessities for them and their men. You are one of those necessities. If you will excuse me,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He darted an understanding look at Eugenie and drifted away.

“So you're going,” she said. Tears filled her eyes.