Lorenzo's Secret Mission (9 page)

I measured my powder and poured it into the priming pan and down the barrel. I took the ramrod from its groove under the gun barrel and rammed a bullet to the bottom. With the ramrod back in place, I threw the stock to my shoulder.

Calderón watched me with keen interest. He lifted his brows and shot William a significant look.

“I have a Spanish pillar dollar burning a hole in my pocket,” William said. “It tells me you will miss.”

“I have a dollar that says I won't.” I took slow, deliberate aim.

Flint struck the pan, igniting the gunpowder. A second later … crack! The bullet hit the paper dead center.

William whistled between his teeth and glanced at Calderón.

I examined the gold coin William flipped in my direction and slipped it into my pocket.

“Good shooting,” William said, scratching his blond hair.

“It's no harder than hitting a squirrel in a tree,” I said.

“‘Course, that sure took long enough. Out in the woods, do you say ‘Hold it there, Mr. Bear. Don't you move while I draw a bead on you, if you please. This may take a few minutes!'”

“You didn't say you wanted speed
and
accuracy. That's different.” I was already reloading.

At the bark of my musket, men had come at a run from all directions. Spanish soldiers and Lambs gathered around us.

William cocked a brow. “Gibson's Lambs can fire three shots a minute and hit dead center each time.”

“I can, too.”

“Three shots a minute?”

“For the right amount of money.”

“A dollar for every shot you fire in a minute.”

“Double that amount each time I hit what's left of the paper.”

William agreed.

I knew something he did not. A musketeer in the King's Rifles taught me to shoot when I was so small I had to steady the musket on a tree stump.

Calderón pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Three shots in one minute, starting … now!”

Knowing every eye was fixed upon me, I concentrated on the target and put their watchful eyes out of my mind. I fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded, and fired a third time, all in the allotted time.

William stared at the target in disbelief.

A shout went up from the Lambs.

“Congratulations,” Calderón said in an amazed voice. His eyes held newfound respect. “I didn't know you could shoot like that.”

“How do you think I made it all the way across Texas? By sheer luck?”

“No. I believe God looks after fools.” A grin spread across his face, lessening the insult considerably. Calderón had a strange sense of humor.

“Well, gentlemen,” William said, laughing. “I've learned my lesson. No more gambling with Lorenzo. He'll eat you alive, just like a gator.” He fished into his pocket, extracted six Spanish pillar dollars, and poured them into my upturned palm.

I found their chink quite satisfying, but the murmured admiration of the Lambs was even more satisfying.

Two days before Christmas, the courier returned from New Orleans. He stood by the flagpole and called out the names of those lucky enough to have received mail. He called my name twice.

Holding my breath, I accepted the letters. One was from Colonel De Gálvez. The other from Eugenie.

Colonel De Gálvez's could wait.

December 13, 1776, New Orleans

Dearest Lorenzo:

What joy to receive your letter. I hope mine finds you well. I miss you and your sweet smile. I wish you were here.

Gibson is on his way home. Colonel De Gálvez released him two weeks after you left and put him on an American trading vessel bound for Philadelphia.

The ship brought news of the war, all of it bad. The British landed in New York City and nearly captured General Washington. A twenty-one-year-old schoolmaster named Nathan Hale, a spy for the general, was hanged by the British. His last words were “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

Governor Unzaga will soon retire. He wants Colonel De Gálvez to take over his position as
governor of Louisiana. The salary is generous and will give Colonel De Gálvez enough money to start a family. He has written to King Carlos for permission to marry the Widow De Saint Maxent. It is the perfect match. News has seeped out somehow, and the people of New Orleans are delighted. They have always loved Colonel De Gálvez because he speaks French fluently. Taking a French wife only endears him to them more.

Take care, Lorenzo. I am proud that you serve the Americans' cause of liberty. Write me soon.

With all my love,

Eugenie

I savored Eugenie's last words. She loved me. She worried about me. She was proud of me. As I sharpened a quill with a penknife, I looked around for something interesting to write about.

The Lambs were engaged in various activities. One man changed the flint on his musket while another mended his greatcoat. In civilian life, these men were blacksmiths, farmers, coopers, tailors, tavernkeepers, and millers who had never traveled more than twenty miles from their homes.

I recalled Benjamin Franklin's words when he signed the Declaration of Independence.
We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall hang separately.

From the British point of view, anyone who helped the American rebels was a traitor. Like Nathan Hale, I would hang with them if captured.

Christmas Eve, 1776
Fort Arkansas

My dearest Eugenie,

Happy Christmas. How I wish I were in New Orleans with you.

We are all well here and anxious to be on our way. Once a week a scout goes upriver to see if the Ohio is passable yet. As soon as

I had barely put pen to paper when Private Valdés, Cornflower's husband, bolted into the room. Wild-eyed with desperation, he headed straight toward me, seized me by the upper arms, and pulled me from my chair.

“She's having pains. The baby!”

My worst nightmare was coming true. Treating the Lambs for various and sundry ailments was one thing. Bringing a new life into the world was another. I stared at him in sheer terror.

Calderón eyed me curiously, as if he knew I was less than enthusiastic about my impending medical duties.

With a casual air, although my heart beat furiously, I retrieved Papá's medical bag from the room Calderón and I shared and followed Cornflower's husband to a one-room cabin along the fort's south wall.

Calderón, with nothing better to do, trailed behind me like a pup following its master.

Just as we entered, Cornflower let out a shriek and grabbed hold of the mantel with one hand and her belly with the other. Private Valdés froze in place. Calderón retreated one step. By the look on his face, he regretted tagging along and was about to bolt.

When Private Valdés came out of his daze, he rushed to her and touched his fingertips to her sweat-soaked cheek. For almost a minute, she stood there, mashing her lips together, her face twisted in pain. Then she relaxed and exhaled deeply. Solemn-faced, she greeted me in Choctaw.

I returned the greeting. Remembering Papá's routine when we visited patients, I went to the tin basin, rolled up my sleeves, and scrubbed my hands with lye soap and water. The rough, strong-smelling soap made my skin tingle.

Calderón followed my lead and dried his hands on a towel. He looked back at Private Valdés and Cornflower. “Do you want me to leave when you examine her?” he whispered in my ear.

“Examine her?” I squeaked. That was the last thing I wanted to do. “No. I might need your assistance.” And besides, I craved Calderón's moral support.

“Have you ever delivered a baby before?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

I leaned close to Calderón so my patient wouldn't hear. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” he repeated in dismay.

“I once saw a calf being born,” I admitted. “How different can this be?”

Calderón opened his mouth, but shut it again, apparently not knowing how to answer that.

“Do you know how to do this?” I asked hopefully.

“One of the ladies-in-waiting at the Royal Palace went into labor while I was on duty. I think they timed her contractions.”

A feeling of impending doom settled over me. We were two blind men stumbling in the dark.

I strolled over to my patient and smiled. “When did the pain begin?”

“An hour ago.”

Nodding, I took her wrist to take her pulse. From previous conversations with her, I knew her first two babies were born dead.

My little stillborn brother flashed into mind. At the time, I was too young to remember what he looked like or to recall his funeral. All Papá ever said was that he came three months premature and never had a chance at life. I had only vague recollections of my mother dying a little later from complications.

Please God, please God, please God!
I inwardly chanted.
Let the baby be all right. No complications.

Cornflower's husband stood off to the side, wringing his hands, absolutely useless. Color drained from his face. He swayed like a sapling before a strong wind. A nervous father-to-be about to faint was the last thing I wanted on my hands, and, besides, I was nervous enough for both of us.

A contraction made Cornflower cry out in pain.

Her husband turned even whiter. Now I understood why fathers were never allowed at the delivery. Pacing back and forth in the hall where they could do no harm was their proper place.

An old memory came to mind. Papá once told me of a midwife who used ground-up rattlesnake's rattle to ease childbirth pains. Maybe it worked and maybe it didn't. At this point, I'd try just about anything.

“Valdés, I need a rattlesnake's rattle. Ask around and see if anyone has one.”

He stood rooted for a moment, as if unsure he'd heard correctly, then dashed out. It was a fool's errand, but at least it would keep him occupied and out of the way.

Calderón cast me a questioning look. “What do you need that for?”

“Mostly it gets him out of my hair.”

Calderón grinned and shook his head.

In preparation for this day, I had searched my medical books for information about childbirth. Dr. Jones's text only dealt with wounds and soldiers' ailments.
Gerald's Herbal
proved equally useless. I'd found the treatment for snake bite, the removal of warts, the cure for sunburn, but not a word about babies. Apparently, delivering babies was considered “woman's work.”

With Calderón's help, Cornflower eased onto the woven mat that served as her bed. The language barrier did not seem to matter. Somehow they communicated. He sat beside her, wiped her forehead with a cool cloth, and spoke words of consolation in Spanish. She answered in Choctaw.

I understood them both. Since our arrival at Fort Arkansas seven weeks ago, I had absorbed a lot of Choctaw from Cornflower, the fort's cook, and the laundress.

The contractions came closer and closer together.

“How long for the baby to come?” she asked, the trust in me glowing on her face.

My courage returned. “Any time now.” Feeling a blush grow, I did the one thing I'd dreaded the most. I took a fortifying breath and lifted Cornflower's skirt. I had avoided examining her private parts as long as I could.

To take my mind off what I was doing, I recalled the story Captain Cruz told me of Private Valdés and Cornflower's secret courtship. The lovers had eloped three years earlier, soon after they had met, and had taken refuge in the fort. Her father was somewhat less than pleased. At first, Captain Cruz feared the Choctaws would attack and take Cornflower back. He relaxed when her father, the chief, sent a brave to the fort with a message. The chief disowned her, said she had disgraced
herself and her tribe, and could never return.

What a depressing story, I thought. And so many of its elements reminded me of what little I knew about my parents' courtship. I hoped the chief, unlike my grandfather, would put the past behind him once he had a grandchild and not hold a grudge.

My examination finished, I gave Cornflower a big smile. “It looks like we're going to have a baby soon.” I sounded much more confident than I felt.

Her body grew rigid again, then went limp. A low groan of pain escaped her lips. Her hand tightened around Calderón's. He said nothing, although Cornflower squeezed so tight, his fingers blanched.

I felt my eyes bulge as I watched the baby emerge.

Cornflower was amazing. No yelling. No cursing. If I had been her, I'd have been screaming my head off.

Suddenly, a tiny, grayish baby girl with a mass of black hair squirmed in my hands, her wails puncturing the sudden quiet. With scissors from Papá's medical bag, I snipped the umbilical cord and tied it off.

Everyone talks about how pretty babies are. They must not have been talking about newborns. I thought she looked like a skinned squirrel.

After a close examination to make sure she was breathing properly, I handed her to Calderón and gave him instructions to clean her in the wash basin while I tended to the new mother.

He blinked down at the baby, talked to her in a hushed tone, and plodded away. After swaddling her in a cotton blanket, he laid her in her mother's arms. From that point on, Calderón and I weren't much use, except to clean up the mess.

Then came my second shock of the day. I never realized how much blood childbirth produced. It soaked my arms, the woven mat, everything within a three-foot radius. If I had been a woman, then and there I would have vowed never to have a baby. My stomach churned
as I cleaned. Having done all we could, I slumped against the wall.

Throughout it all, Calderón showed a presence of mind I didn't think him capable of. He didn't seem to mind the gore.

At that instant, Cornflower's husband burst into the room waving a rattlesnake rattle. “Here it is!” He stopped. His eyes grew as large as Spanish doubloons. Ignoring me and Calderón, he hurried to his wife.