Lorenzo's Secret Mission (6 page)

I nodded. My throat squeezed so tight, I couldn't answer. A month ago, I didn't even know she existed, and now I didn't want to leave her.

“All hands on board.” Calderón headed toward the head flatboat. “Platoon One to the oars.” He climbed a six-rung ladder to the cabin roof to man a long-handled oar secured in an oarlock.

Two Spanish soldiers with muskets at the ready stood at the bow amid huge barrels while other men set oars in the locks.

I lowered my face slowly and kissed Eugenie's lips. They tasted like strawberries. My temperature shot up ten degrees.

“Mr. Bannister!” Calderón called out in a faintly impatient voice. “If you please.”

“
Au revoir
, Eugenie.”

“
Au revoir
,
mon petit chou
.”

I climbed into the flatboat. Spanish soldiers loosened the ropes and gave the flatboats a hard shove. I waved to Eugenie and she waved back. The day I'd looked forward to for so long had finally arrived, but as I watched Eugenie grow smaller and smaller, I realized New Orleans was a city I could learn to love. Leaving her behind left me with a sense of loss.

The flatboats turned the first bend in the river and she disappeared from view.

Too excited to sleep, I sat on deck and watched the rowers—silent, serious, shirtless—work their oars. It took all their strength to move the flatboats upstream against a strong current. Veins in their necks stood out from the effort. The Spaniards and Americans manning the twenty oarlocks port and starboard had arms as thick as tree trunks. Gibson had chosen his men for their incredible strength, as had Colonel De Gálvez.

Although sails were hoisted, they hung as limp as the Spanish flag off our stern. A wall of trees along the riverbank prevented a breeze from catching in our sails and helping our boat upstream.

The men rowed with swift, strong strokes. They bent and pulled, bent and pulled. Cypress and orange trees slid past.

“Can't sleep?” a whispered voice asked. William Linn flopped down beside me on the rough planking. “Me neither.”

I heard an alligator snort in a bayou far away and hoped he would stay where he was.

In the dark, about three hundred yards ahead, lanterns swinging right and left sent light dancing over the water.

I moved forward for a closer look. “What are they doing?” I asked, pointing to the canoes.

“The Mississippi is always low this time of year. That means our lookouts must keep a sharp eye for sunken trees, sandbanks, shoals, islands. Normally, our scouts
call out steering directions so the pilots can navigate around them. But sound travels well across the water. We are under orders to make no loud or unnecessary noises.”

“Why must everyone be so quiet?”

“We slipped out of New Orleans without the British ambassador's knowledge. If he finds out we've left, he'll alert British forts along the way. I like my hair and I'd like to keep it.”

Confused by his statement, I twisted toward him.

“The British give the Indians guns and whiskey for Yankee scalps. Men, women, children. It doesn't matter to the British.” William shook his head. “Buying the scalps of fellow British citizens doesn't seem to bother them.”

I grimaced. What did a scalp look like? Was there dried blood on it? A sickening smell? What did it feel like to touch one?

William fingered a lock of his pale yellow hair. “The Indians are especially fond of unusual-colored hair.”

I thought about Eugenie's long, reddish-gold tresses.

“Shame Captain Gibson isn't here. He knows all about scalps. He speaks a dozen or so Indian dialects like a native.” William chuckled. “The Gibsons could charm the skin off a snake. Must be in their blood. Gibson's brother John was captured by the Indians. They killed his companions but an Indian woman rescued him Pocahontas-style. If I could bottle the Gibson charm, I'd sell it and become a rich man.”

I struggled to hold back a laugh.

Grinning, William raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “Captain Gibson is part French nobility. That's why he speaks French and Spanish and has those fancy airs. Now, my family doesn't have a drop of noble blood. My great-grandfather came here from Ireland as an indentured servant. My father is a blacksmith.”

A movement to my right caught my eye.

Calderón picked his way among the sleeping men on deck. He bent down, tapped them one by one on the arm, and jerked his thumb toward the oars.

Like spirits rising from the tomb, they got up and shuffled toward the side of the boat. The exhausted oarsmen they replaced stretched out at my feet and were soon fast asleep.

William laced his hands behind his head. “My father wants me to take up a profession, instead of tramping through the woods. Thinks I'll wander off on another trip with Dan'l Boone and get myself killed. When the war's over, I'm going to settle in Kentucky. Kentucky.” He said the name with great fondness. “Now there's the place to be. More game than you can shake a stick at. Buffalo, deer, turkey.”

Calderón looked my way and gave me a sympathetic smile that seemed to say, “That man will talk your ear off.”

We continued upstream in this manner for another hour. Other than William's lowered voice, the only sound was the stroking of the oars against the water and the grind of wood in the oarlocks.

A few hours later, Calderón raised his voice over the rush of water. “Strip your oars. Odd men first.”

Every other rower removed strips of cloth that had been wrapped around the oars to muffle the sound. That operation finished, I gathered the cloth and laid it out on deck to dry. Given the hot night air, it didn't take long. I folded them neatly into a pile and took them to the cabin.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I silently prayed, “let me never need them as bandages.”

“Ursula Major. Ursula Minor. Orion.” I lolled back on the cabin roof, looking up at the constellations. From my vantage point, I could see rowers on both sides of the boat. They had worked the oars night and day. Sweat ran off them in rivulets.

We were making good time. Twenty-four hours after leaving New Orleans, we were fifty miles north of the city.

Feeling as useless as wet gunpowder, I decided it was time to water the Lambs again.

At first I merely put the dipper to their lips so they could drink without breaking the rhythm of the oars. On a whim, I poured water over Corporal García's head to help him cool off. He shut his eyes tight and laughed, but never missed a stroke. “Thanks, Mr. Bannister. That felt good.”

“Watch out,” a man called out as I drew near. “Here comes John the Baptist.” He bent his head to accept the refreshing water.

“Hey, Baptizer,” Red called out. “My stomach is rubbing against my backbone. Can you fetch me some hardtack?”

“What's the point?” I shot back with a grin. “You'll just get hungry again.”

Laughter rippled up and down the side of the boat.

No sooner had I finished watering the Lambs than a new problem presented itself. We rowed straight into clouds of mosquitoes. They lit on arms and necks and backs and produced monstrous welts. Between slapping
at the insects and scratching bites, an idea sprang to mind. I slipped into the cabin and took a tin of cooking grease from the shelf. I added charcoal and soot from the fireplace to make an ointment that I offered the men. They dipped their hands into the tin and smeared gobs of grease all over them.

Calderón frowned at me and for a moment I thought he would reprimand me for misuse of cooking grease. Instead, a smile erased his scowl. “Thank you, Mister Bannister,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I admire a man with initiative and foresight.”

William wrinkled his nose in disgust at the strong, disagreeable odor, until he saw no one else but him scratching and slapping at mosquitoes.

Hours and hours went by. A wave of sleepiness rolled over me. I squeezed myself into a tight ball on the foredeck beside a canvas-covered box of muskets and shut my eyes. I dreamed I was back in San Antonio on that fatal evening, August 7, 1776.

Stiff from riding, I swung down from my horse and led her toward the stable, leaving my fellow ranch hands by the corral gate discussing how to spend their weekly earnings. As I unbuckled the cinch, I heard the hurried slap-slap of sandals on the sun-baked ground. I turned.

A monk from the mission trotted toward me, his brown robes snapping in the breeze. “Lorenzo! Come quick. Your father is dying.”

My insides turned to water. Resting my forehead against the leather saddle, I tried to absorb the words. For months I'd watched the slow progress of Papá's disease. I'd had time to prepare for Papá's death, but I couldn't accept it.

The monk's voice brought me out of my stupor. “I'll take care of your horse. Go to your father.”

I nodded and mumbled my thanks. Head spinning, I dashed from the stable, through the mission patio, into the tiled hallway. Tears blurred my vision. I paused in the doorway of our room and wiped my eyes. Gathering my courage, I focused on the labored rise and fall of Papá's chest. Wordless, the monk by Papá's bedside rose and left. Nothing had changed since I had checked on Papá at noon. His lunch rested on the night stand untouched. Our meager baggage remained piled in one corner, as if we were ready to take flight at a moment's notice.

To keep from pacing around in circles, I eased into a chair beside Papá's bed, took his pulse, and wiped his forehead with a cool cloth. Not knowing what else to do, I picked up a medical book. For the thousandth time, I flipped it open and read the description and treatment for consumption. I searched for something, anything, to help Papá. A new treatment. A promising drug. Day after day, night after night, Papá suffered. I would have done anything to save him, but consumption had no cure. A numbing sense of defeat settled over me.

The bugle called all mission soldiers to evening parade. I leaned forward in the cane-bottomed chair beside Papá's bed and took his pulse. It grew weaker by the hour. Papá was slipping away.

A sob welled up inside me, but I forced it down. He expected me to be brave. To hide my tears, I poured water into a tin basin and scrubbed caked-on dirt from my face. After a day of riding herd on longhorn cattle, I smelled of horse sweat and worse. I still wore mud-splattered chaps, dusty boots, and a flannel shirt.

I fished out five Spanish pillar dollars, my weekly salary as a ranch hand, and stared at the gold coins in my hand. Five Spanish pillar dollars. Our money had run out long ago. I hid the truth from Papá. He didn't know we were living on the monks' charity, although he probably suspected our financial situation was bleak.

God bless the ranch foreman who had suspected my financial situation and had given me a job. Plus, work took my mind off Papá's condition.

Through the open window, I watched fifty or so soldiers with muskets and bayonets muster on the central plaza of the mission. In my head, I went through the manual of arms with them. “Port arms! Shoulder arms! Right face! March!” How I longed to be a soldier guarding Spanish missions and forts in the Province of Texas and protecting settlers from marauding Indians.

Papá let out a long, ragged cough. I took his hand. His skin felt paper-thin. Pale, propped up by a half dozen pillows, he looked fragile. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “Lorenzo,” Papá said, his voice barely a whisper. “What is the fascination with muskets and bayonets?”

For as long as I could remember, Papá worked as a civilian doctor for the Spanish army. I grew up around the military. Maybe that explained the excitement that surged through me whenever I heard the bugle call or saw soldiers in colorful uniforms.

“Papá, why didn't you join the military?”

“I don't like to take orders. Your grandfather … “ He paused to take a breath. “ … wanted me to join the British navy. I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Is that why you all quarreled?”

Papá's gaze held mine. “No. It was because of your mother. He didn't want me to have a relationship with ‘a woman beneath my station,' as he put it.”

Papá put a blood-flecked handkerchief to his lips and coughed. For a long time, he hid his condition from me. Then one day, three months ago, he spit up blood and I realized he was dying of consumption.

“I was right to take you and your mother from Virginia.” He rested a moment. “My father has finally recognized that.”

My eyes roved to a note wedged between two candlesticks on the night stand. “Come home, Jack,” my
grandfather had written, “and we will work out the differences between us.”

Papá gestured toward a sealed envelope addressed to my grandfather. “I dictated a letter to a monk while you were gone. This letter is important, Lorenzo. Promise me you will deliver it.”

“Upon my word of honor …”