Lorenzo's Secret Mission (8 page)

My hands on his chest, I forced him to lie back. “I believe you. You're not strong enough to get up yet, Calderón.”

“Don't you think it's time you called me by my first name?”

“Which is?”

“Héctor.”

“Héctor?” I nearly choked on the name. The image of a wizened old man leaped to mind, not a big-nosed lout.

“Do you find something amusing?” Calderón asked.

I didn't answer. Instead, I focused on changing his bandage. “Where on earth did you get a name like that?”

Calderón stiffened. “The king himself gave me that name.”

“Are you related to King Carlos?”

“Yes,” he answered in a subdued tone.

A tiny breath of moist air blew through the open window and brought a spicy smell from the forest.

“What was your father like?” Calderón asked.

My chest ached at the sudden question. I still missed Papá and didn't want to talk about him. “He was my father,” I said, lifting a shoulder.

“Where's your home?”

“San Antonio … I guess.”

“You guess? Were you born there?”

“No. I was born in Virginia.”

“And you grew up in San Antonio?”

“No. Papá and I traveled around a lot.”

“Where to?”

“Saltillo, Mexico City, Albuquerque, Havana.”

“Sounds like you two were running from the law.”

My eyes jerked up and held him. Was he making fun of me? Insulting Papá?

“My God, Lorenzo,” Calderón said with the hint of a smile. “It was a joke. A feeble one, but a joke nonetheless.”

Unknowingly, Calderón had touched a nerve. Sometimes I regretted our frequent moves. No sooner did I make friends than we pulled up stakes again. On the other hand, I had been lots of places, seen lots of things.

“Papá worked for the military hospital in Saltillo and often visited patients at frontier forts. His work required him to travel from fort to fort, and we never stayed more than a couple of months in one place.”

“So how did you end up in San Antonio?”

“Why all the questions?”

He shrugged. “Just a way to pass the time.”

“Papá was in Saltillo when he grew ill. He wrote my grandfather. I think he missed Virginia and longed to be buried in the land of his birth. Papá and my grandfather were estranged for years. My grandfather wrote back and agreed to let Papá return home. We were on our way to Virginia, but stopped in San Antonio, when Papá grew too weak to travel on. Papá is buried there.” Overcome with emotion, my voice cracked.

Calderón didn't say anything for a long time. “What did your father die of?” His tone was soft.

“Consumption.”

“What will you do in Virginia?”

“I'll stay with my grandfather until I'm old enough to
join the army.”

“So you're going to be a medic in the army.”

“No. I want to be a regular soldier.”

Calderón yawned.

“Am I boring you?”

“Sorry. I'm just tired.” Calderón's eyes focused on me. “Why did your father leave Virginia in the first place?”

“My grandfather didn't approve of his choice of wives. They argued. My grandfather ordered Papá off the plantation. Papá took me and my mother to New Spain when I was just a baby.”

“You're going to live with a total stranger?”

I nodded. “Everyone's a stranger until you meet them.” Embarrassed by all the intimate revelations, I walked outside. Late afternoon light struggled through the treetops. In an hour it would be full dark. I climbed to the roof and helped William draw in the fishing lines.

“Pull to shore,” he called out. “Time for supper.” As usual, a shout of “hallelujah” went up.

The catch of the day rested safely in a wooden box with holes bored in it. This box, sunk in the river and secured by a rope tied to the bow, kept the fish William and I caught alive and fresh.

That night, after a supper of fried trout and perch, the men rolled up in their blankets, turned their feet toward the fire, and were soon snoring.

I took a position as lookout where the sandy beach met the woods. Corporal García's death had left us shorthanded. All afternoon I had stayed busy to avoid thinking about Calderón's questions. Now, with nothing to do but scan the forest and think, my conversation with Calderón hounded me.

I would soon meet my grandfather, the man who had held a grudge against my father for fifteen years. I shivered at the thought.

Two weeks later, I dangled my legs over the flatboat roof and read a book for young military surgeons about camp hospitals.

On the deck below, Calderón, his arm in a sling, chatted with a Spanish corporal. Day by day, Calderón grew stronger, as did William. Full recuperation would take at least three months. Luckily, gangrene had not set in. I seriously doubted I could saw off a man's arm or leg if I had to.

The farther north we traveled, the colder it became. Every morning, a heavy frost dusted the ground.

A distant boom echoed across the water. Clouds of geese and ducks exploded skyward from an island a half mile upriver. Expecting to see signs of a gathering storm, I scanned the sky. Nothing. Not a single cloud.

Within seconds, another boom thundered, closer this time.

Calderón whooped like an Indian.

The man has gone mad, I thought as I watched him scramble around the boat.

“Return the salute!” he ordered.

Two Spanish soldiers dutifully fired the cannon over the port bow.

Calderón grinned up at me. “Look! Fort Arkansas.”

A half-mile away, barely visible in the morning mist rising off the river, a fort high on a hill loomed into view.

I suddenly understood Calderón's excitement. Fort Arkansas served as halfway point between New Orleans
and Spanish Illinois. For us, it was no more than an overnight stopping point to get fresh supplies, but for the first time in weeks we would see fresh faces. The idea of sleeping inside a fort instead of on shore under an armed guard thrilled me.

The fort was made of upright logs chiseled to a point at the top, no doubt to discourage Indians from scaling the walls. Four guard towers, two stories tall, cut with small square windows, stood at each corner. Spain's castles and lions flew from the flagpole in the center of the parade ground.

By the time we pulled the flatboats to shore, Spanish soldiers had rushed out the front gate to greet us, their faces beaming.

Equally glad to see them, we hopped onto dry land.

The Spanish captain, the highest-ranking officer present, threw military etiquette to the wind. “Welcome to Fort Arkansas! We saw you round the bend. We've been expecting you.” His voice shook with excitement. He locked Calderón in a Spanish-style embrace, despite his wound. They hugged and pounded each other's backs.

Calderón introduced me and William to Captain Cruz.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the captain said in impeccable English as he shook William's hand. He wrapped his arm around Calderón's shoulder. “This gentleman and I served together as pages at the Royal Palace when we were boys.”

“What news have you of the Ohio River?” William asked.

“Scouts report winter has already set in. The Ohio has frozen over. It is icebound from the Falls of the Ohio north.”

William's face sagged while several of the men grumbled.

“You will have to stay here until spring!” Captain Cruz exclaimed. “You will be our guests for the entire winter.” His light blue eyes glowed with delight.

Forced to accept Cruz's hospitality, William ordered the men to unload the flatboats and store the cargo inside the fort.

Weary and disheartened, we trudged uphill through mud so deep that it nearly pulled the moccasins from our feet. Back and forth, back and forth through the fort's heavy wooden door we went. It took more than an hour to empty the boat.

Captain Cruz directed us toward our new home, the largest cabin on the post. Along the way we passed a pregnant Choctaw woman watching us from her cabin door. Apparently one of the soldiers had taken an Indian wife. Judging by the size of her swollen belly, I estimated the baby was due in about two months.

I looked all around me. One captain, six soldiers, and an Indian in the family way. This was the entire post.

Wrapped in a buffalo robe, I huddled near the fire to shake off a winter cold. A checkerboard separated me and Calderón. I looked up at William, who stood by the fire, warming his hands.

“What did you say?”

“I said I'm sending a letter to Colonel De Gálvez to let him know our progress.”

“Or lack thereof,” Calderón muttered.

It was November 30, and we had been at the fort for nearly a month. Unfortunately, it didn't look like we would leave any time soon. This was a soldier's life. Wait. Wait. Wait.

“How are you getting a letter to New Orleans?” I asked.

“By courier. Every two weeks, a soldier delivers messages to the garrison in New Orleans. He's leaving in an hour.”

An hour. An hour to decide whether or not to write Eugenie. I remembered her goodbye kiss, but could I put any stock in it? Maybe she kissed me because she thought she'd never see me again.

I pulled my buffalo robe tighter, but it did little to block the freezing wind that whistled through chinks in the wall. It looked like the winter of 1776 would be a harsh one.

Calderón drummed his fingers on the checkerboard. “Are you going to move before the century is over?”

“Do either of you know what ‘
mon petit chou
' means?” I asked.

“It means ‘my little cabbage,'” William said.

“Oh.” Eugenie had called me a cabbage. And I thought she liked me!

William gave me a playful punch on the upper arm. “Lucky dog. ‘My little cabbage' is a term of endearment. The next time a girl calls you ‘
mon petit chou
,' say ‘
Je t'aime, ma belle
.'”

“What does that mean?”

“Trust me. Those are words she will want to hear. If there's someone in New Orleans you want to write,” William said, struggling to hold back a laugh, “you best get to writing.”

Calderón threw his hands up in despair when I forfeited the game and hurried away in search of paper, quill, and ink.

November 30, 1776, Fort Arkansas

Dear Eugenie:

We have stopped at an outpost in Spanish Louisiana halfway between New Orleans and the mouth of the Ohio River. The soldiers' mission here is to cultivate the friendship of the Indians so they won't trade with the English.

You wouldn't believe how much game is in the woods. Venison. Buffalo. Elk. A man could live in the wild forever and never go hungry. The men go hunting every day and kill enough meat to keep the fort well fed. In my spare time, I teach Lt. Calderón English. In return, he teaches me French.

I miss you. Je t'aime, ma belle.

Lorenzo

November gave way to December. I thought a soldier's life glamorous until I spent the winter at Fort Arkansas. We grew so bored, we would bet on anything. We put a glass of water on someone's head and counted how many steps he could take without spilling it. We bet on how
many days the courier would be gone. We even bet on which kind of bird would next land on the parade ground.

As a medic, I did little more than give out laxatives and liniments, clean and dress sores, and drain abscesses. Considering the way my stomach knotted when I treated patients, I seriously doubted medicine was my calling in life. And, frankly, the prospect that Cornflower would go into labor before we left scared me. I knew nothing about childbirth and had no desire to learn. Papá and I must have set a hundred broken bones, tended as many gunshot wounds, and doctored more ailments than I can recall, but we never once delivered a baby. When a soldier's wife had childbirth pangs, the married women who lived at the fort helped deliver the baby.

Unfortunately, Cornflower was the only woman at Fort Arkansas.

Every morning I made it a point to be on the parade ground where the garrison formed up. The bugler blew assembly, and soldiers gathered around the Spanish flag that snapped in the breeze. The sergeant called roll. At his barked order, the manual of arms began.

Excitement surged through me. I admired the military precision with which they drilled and envied them their blue jackets and white breeches. Despite the mundaneness of military life in wintertime, I longed to be a soldier.

When I turned around to head for breakfast, I found William and Calderón standing behind me, quietly watching me.

Just as we finished breakfast, William challenged me to a tomahawk-throwing contest.

“I knew you gentlemen were bored,” Calderón said, downing one last sip of coffee, “but I didn't know you'd resort to such measures.”

Moments later, we stood on the shooting range behind the barracks. Both William and I clutched tomahawks.

“Dead center in the cross beam,” I said, calling out my
target. I took aim, stepped back, and hurled the weapon at a wooden barricade peppered with bullet holes.

Thwack! The tomahawk quivered to a stop in the place I'd indicated.

Calderón's lower lip dropped in amazement.

I sauntered forward and pulled it out. “Beat that, William.”

“For the right amount of money,” he replied.

“A Spanish pillar dollar,” I suggested and stepped out of the way.

“You're on.” William took quick, casual aim and threw. The tomahawk embedded itself in the slash my tomahawk had made. William burst out laughing. “Looks like the winter I spent with the Indians wasn't wasted.”

I peered at the target. “I can beat you in a shooting match.”

“Oh, yeah?”

At that, William and I brought out our muskets.

Calderón strode toward the barricade and pinned a three-inch square of paper to a plank in the center of the barricade. “Your target, gentlemen.”