Lorenzo's Secret Mission (7 page)

The slap of a hand against the cabin wall jolted me awake.

“All hands up and at their oars,” Calderón ordered.

Men stumbled up from the rough floorboards where they had spent the night with no more room than a man in his coffin. They stretched. Yawned. Squinted against the morning glare. Scratched themselves. Relieved themselves over the boat edge.

I pretended to rub the sleep from my eyes, but in reality I was wiping away tears. My chest throbbed with pain whenever I thought about Papá. How I missed him. I looked up at flights of waterfowl slicing the morning fog. Pink clouds appeared over twisted cypress trees bordering the river. I bounded up and headed toward the narrow footwalk that ran the length of the boat on both sides. Staying busy always helped ease the pain.

“Where do you think you're going?” Calderón asked, stepping in front of me.

“I'm going to row.”

“You are our physician.”

“So? It's my turn …”

“No.”

“I've never taken a turn at the oars, and these men have been rowing …”

“Enough.” Calderón drew his finger across his neck in a quick slicing motion. “In the cabin, please.”

Reluctantly, I complied.

Calderón closed the door behind him and turned to face me. “First. Don't argue with me in front of the men. It's bad form. Second. I am in command here and you will obey me. Third. The physician on board always enjoys the prerogatives of officers, and no officer takes to the oars.”

“I don't like the idea of special privileges.”

“You are educated and hold privileges over your elders who are not.”

“I just wanted to help the men.”

Calderón held my gaze, his face expressionless. After a long moment, he picked up an amber-colored bottle, examined it, then gave me a sidelong look. He put the bottle back, squinted at another bottle, neatly labeled in black ink, then shot me a questioning look. “Your father taught you what all this is for?”

“Yes,” I said.

“The flotilla has sixteen Spaniards, fifteen Americans, but only one physician.”

“Do you really expect me to sit around and twiddle my thumbs while others work?”

Calderón slapped his hands to his sides in exasperation. “Yes! Because I want all your thumbs and fingers capable of surgery should my men fall wounded.”

I pulled my lips back in a tight line. “I get your point.”

“About time.” Calderón gestured toward the door, signaling I was dismissed.

I tried to think of an appropriate reply, but failed, so I whirled around and marched away, feeling like a child leaving the woodshed.

The Mississippi stretched a mile and a half from shore to shore. Waves slapped gently against the flatboat and helped calm me. Now and then a piece of driftwood thumped against the bow. Sunlight glittered on the looping ribbon of water ahead of us. At the corner of each flatboat stood guards combing the forest with nervous eyes.

Calderón was right. The men depended on my skill as a surgeon. I did not want to let them down.

A faint shape half-hidden behind the trees stood along the riverbank. I borrowed a telescope from one of the guardsmen, raised it, and saw a vague figure, about a half-mile away. “Lieutenant,” I said in a level voice. I jerked my head toward the bronze-colored man in a buckskin breechcloth, moccasins, and leggings.

Calderón scanned the shore with his own spyglass. “Choctaw,” he said.

The flatboat navigated around a turn in the river, and the Choctaw warrior was lost from view.

ZZZZ! Thud!

Something whistled past my ear and buried itself in the cabin wall. I dropped to the deck, as did everyone around me. I looked up to find an arrow in the cabin wall two inches from where I had stood.

More arrows whirred past and embedded themselves in the wall. Indians bolted from behind a curtain of trees and raced towards us, attacking us at the bend in the river, when the canoes and flatboats were closest to shore.

Alarm scurried down my spine. I saw a flash of scarlet. At least one British soldier, a tall man about the size of Saber-Scar, was with them.

“Musketeers! Starboard!” Calderón's voice rang with a note of command.

Soldiers lined the decks fore and aft and primed their muskets. Only four soldiers. Against how many Choctaws?

Calderón snatched up his weapon and joined them. “Ready! Aim! Fire!”

A withering volley of flame and smoke exploded across the water.

“Reload!”

His soldiers followed orders with drilled precision and waited for the smoke to clear.

“Keep rowing!” Calderón bellowed to the frightened oarsmen who had broken rhythm and were allowing the boat to drift. “Pull to port.”

I realized Calderón was snapping out orders in Spanish to men who spoke only English. I translated, but added, “Lt. Calderón is giving you cover with musket smoke.”

Twenty pairs of arms strained to turn the flatboat toward the left bank.

Little by little the gun smoke obscuring our view of the Choctaws cleared. Arrows whistled by, followed quickly by a salvo of gunfire. A flaming arrow buried itself in the roof. William dashed up the ladder, pulled out the arrow with a gasp of pain, and threw it into the Mississippi.

If a spark ignited the canvas-covered gunpowder, it would blow us beyond tomorrow. In one swift move, I grabbed a leather bucket filled with water, and doused the canvas.

“Lorenzo! Get inside!” Calderón grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and propelled me past the cannon two men were loading. He shoved me through the cabin door. “Stay here. Get ready.”

I opened Papá's medical bag and arranged his instruments on a clean cloth. Outside the cabin's eight-inchthick oak walls, I heard someone cry out in agony. Muskets popped.

Two men came in and deposited Corporal García on a bunk. I cut away his shirt. A gaping gunshot wound exposed his intestines. Nausea gripped me as I applied bandages in a futile attempt to save his life. I gave him a dose of opium for the pain and said a silent prayer. Within minutes I closed his eyes and covered him with a sheet.

Our cannon thundered, making the boat rock.

The door banged open. Calderón staggered in, his hand to his shoulder. I grabbed him before he collapsed and led him to an empty bunk. He took his hands away from the holes in his jacket. Dark red patches about three inches below the shoulder grew larger as I examined his wound. I placed bandages very gently inside Calderón's jacket over the blood in front and back. “That should hold the flow. Take it easy, Calderón. Keep your left arm tight across your chest.”

More cannon fire. I grabbed the edge of the bunk to steady myself.

Calderón's gaze fixed on the sheet-covered form on
the opposite bunk, then turned back to me with a questioning look.

“Corporal García's gone,” I said gently.

Calderón lowered his head. “He was a good soldier.”

I cut away Calderón's jacket and washed the wounds with water and a clean cloth. My stomach churned. The entrance wound was a small, neat circle just below the shoulder bone. The bullet had exited in a star-shaped explosion about the size of a Spanish pillar dollar.

Beyond the cabin walls, men shouted, Indians whooped, guns banged.

“You were lucky, Calderón. It didn't hit a bone. Went clean through the flesh.” He grimaced in pain when I rubbed ointment on his wound. “I know it hurts, but you're going to be fine.”

Placing a rolled blanket behind him, I made him comfortable and gave him a dose of opium to ease the pain.

The door flew open. Two men carried William Linn inside and placed him on the floor. An arrow protruded from his upper thigh.

As I bent over him to treat his wound, the shooting and yelling abruptly stopped. Either we had rowed out of range or everyone outside the cabin was dead.

September 29: Lt. Linn's hand is badly burned. His arrow wound has confined him to bed. I have taken over his duty of recording our progress in the log book. Lt. Calderón is resting comfortably. I pray his wound does not become infected. With both Lt. Linn and Lt. Calderón wounded, I am in charge of the flatboats. A bullet grazed Red in the head, but his wound is minor. We wrapped Corporal García's body in a sail, tied a cannon ball to his ankles, and buried him in a watery grave after praying over him. The fear of another Indian attack prevented us from pulling to shore and giving him a proper burial on land.

September 30: The men are in good spirits, though exhausted and on constant alert. The threat of more attacks hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. Calderón is running a high fever.

October 1: We are making good time. We can use the sails now, and have increased speed. Calderón's fever has broken.

October 2: The possibility that British spies in New Orleans learned of our escape worries me. I can only hope the attack three days ago was aimed at stealing our cargo, not stopping our mission.

October 3: Another 18 miles behind us.

October 6: Flatboat ran aground on a sandbar. Men pushed with oars as hard as they could until the boat swung free.

October 11: Saw two Natchez Indians on shore. They stared at us and we stared back. All quiet.

October 13: Passed Fort Rosalie, an abandoned French fort. From here on, the river becomes more treacherous. Navigating at night is now impossible. We pull to shore at dusk and make fast to trees along the bank. Anchors are useless because the soft mud on the river bottom is covered with submerged logs. Some of the men are so exhausted, they have to be carried ashore in blankets.

October 16: It is a long and difficult haul up the Mississippi. The muddiness of the river slows us, but that isn't the worst part. The river twists and turns like a snake. A distance of 100 miles measured in a straight line winds up being 180.

October 17: The farther north we travel, the clearer the Mississippi becomes. I keep ceramic crocks filled with strong, brown Mississippi water. When the water settles, a half-pint tumbler yields two inches of slime. In spite of this, the water is wholesome and tastes good. It is cool even on the hottest days. The rowers drink it down, sediment and all, and never suffer any bad effects.

October 18: Passed a British fort in broad daylight. They saw us, but did nothing. We can only speculate why.

William hobbled to my writing table and read over my shoulder. “Good job, Lorenzo.” He initialed the log with his uninjured hand. “I hate being wounded. I feel useless.”

I cleaned the quill and put away my writing utensils. “Why do you think the British didn't attack? Are they planning something?”

“Wish I knew. Maybe they saw the Spanish flag and decided not to attack a neutral vessel, or maybe they don't know where our cargo is headed. Most likely, they see flatboats with the Spanish flag going upriver to St. Louis every week or so.”

“St. Louis? Where's that?”

“Farther up the Mississippi, past the Ohio River, on the western bank. The French founded it, but the Spanish own it now.”

I stretched my arms over my head, glad another long day was drawing to a close.

Calderón lay in the bunk just as I had left him, snoring, twitching, and grunting like a man with a troubled conscience.

I served myself a mug of steaming coffee. Usually, I liked my coffee laced with cream and sugar, but nowadays I took it black because I needed to stay alert. With the only two officers on board wounded, my extra responsibilities kept me occupied until well into the night. If only Captain Gibson were here.

I pulled a chair close to Calderón and sat there for a few minutes while I built up the courage to lift his dressing. My chin on my fist, I tried to figure out a mystery. Calderón reminded me of someone. My gaze fell upon his profile, particularly his nose, and then it dawned on me.

“No,” I muttered. “It can't be.” I took a Spanish pillar dollar from my pocket and studied it a moment.

Calderón's profile bore astounding similarities to the king's.

Suddenly, it all fit together. Calderón was related to King Carlos—probably his nephew. Colonel De Gálvez once told me Calderón had powerful friends at court. Did he mean the king himself?

I tugged gently at Calderón's bandage. Dried blood and pus made it stick to his skin. It looked bad. It smelled even worse. A sour taste came to my mouth.

Calderón's eyes slowly opened and peered up at me. “Where are we now?”

“About a week away from Fort Arkansas. If we could go as straight as a bird could fly, we'd be at the mouth of the Ohio by now.” I cleaned his wound.

Calderón clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“This is nothing,” I said offhandedly. “I've seen worse.” I pointed to the scar over my left eyebrow that I had earned fighting Saber-Scar.

“That little scratch? I've got a rapier wound that puts it to shame.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and attempted to rise.