Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (10 page)

She stroked his cheek and smiled reassuringly. “You can't worry about what
might
happen.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed him, and headed up the gangway.

Her escort, the Martínez family, waited for her on deck. They were headed to Philadelphia to visit friends and relatives.

The first relay of vaqueros finished a two-hour shift and returned to camp, pulling Lorenzo from thoughts of Eugenie. A second group moved out.

Far away, a coyote yipped at the full moon. He was answered by a mournful cry from the next ridge. Lorenzo hoped it was a coyote and not the Apache woman sending a signal.

Molly swept leftover cornbread from the general's supper into a burlap sack and carried it to the clearing. She crumbled it and scattered it for the birds. Staying perfectly still, she waited.

Before long, cardinals, crows, and sparrows landed and pecked at the ground. A blue jay carried off a large piece.

Molly scanned the dark forest around them. She sure hoped there would be enough game to feed an army of ten thousand. That's how many she guessed were in camp.

“Sis,” a voice whispered. Her brother, Bill, eased up behind her to keep from scaring the birds. Instead of his usual buckskin, he wore a blue brocade coat, embroidered white waistcoat, knee-high black boots, and white breeches. Strangest of all was the white powdered wig beneath a three-cornered hat.

“You look like a Brit.”

“Very funny. Listen, Sis, I'm leaving for a little while.”

“Where are you going this time?”

“To Philadelphia. You mustn't tell anyone.”

She nodded, understanding the importance of keeping secrets during wartime.

“I'll be back in a week or so. Mrs. Washington said she'd look after you while I'm gone.”

“I heard you were going down river with some soldiers.”

His lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yes. After I get back from Philadelphia. How'd you know?”

“People talk. They say you're going to New Orleans.”

He squinted at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Why are you going there?”

“It's a secret.”

“Is it legal?”

“Completely.”

That was a relief. Before the war, Bill had smuggled French contraband into the English colonies. Once he
was almost hanged.

“Take care of Long Shot for me, all right?” Bill asked.

Long Shot was Bill's horse, a bay mare he had bought three years earlier.

“And stay out of trouble,” he added.

“I think you're the one about to get in trouble.”

Bill's sudden laughter sent the birds exploding into the sky. “You worry too much. I'll be fine.”

Molly threw her arms around Bill and hugged him tight. She walked with him to the main road.

A beautiful lady with flaming red hair and flawless, creamy skin sat in Dr. MacGregor's buggy. She wore a silk bonnet, a short black cape, and the fanciest dress Molly had ever seen. Made of dark green silk, it had a tight-fitting bodice and a full skirt.

“We must hurry,” the lady said to Bill. She sounded French, just like the Marquis de La Fayette.

Bill climbed in the buggy and sat beside her. What was he doing with a French woman? He had a steady girl. And why was he using the doctor's horse and buggy?

The lady flashed Molly a disarming smile. Her green eyes showed intelligence and kindness. Molly liked her at once.

“Stay out of trouble, Sis.”

“You already said that.”

Bill grinned. “It bears repeating.”

The buggy rattled away, trace chains chinking merrily, horse's breath misting in the cool air.

Molly noticed that her brother didn't introduce her to the French woman, and wondered if she might be General Washington's female spy, the mysterious 355. It was just a camp rumor, but Molly hoped it was true.

She felt a sudden wave of sadness. Bill was the only family she had. Every time he left, she wondered if she would ever see him again.

On September 8, 1777, six weeks after his escape from the prisoner-of-war camp, Dunstan stepped out on the balcony of the British embassy, a house rented from the East Indies Company. He traced the intricate filigree pattern on the wrought-iron rail and surveyed New Orleans and its crescent-shaped harbor.

The city, laid out in squares approximately sixty feet wide, was a patchwork of pale blue, apricot, and light green houses with arched doorways and red-tiled roofs. Wrought iron was everywhere—on balconies, lanterns, and door handles. Far in the distance, the dark brown Mississippi struggled toward the Gulf of Mexico.

Thomas stepped to his side and toweled away sweat.

Dunstan gazed down at him and felt a twinge of affection for the little Quaker who never complained. He placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “It will cool down to a bearable temperature by nightfall.”

Thomas looked skeptical.

Dunstan laughed. “A
doubting
Thomas, I see. New Orleans doesn't make a good impression now, but just wait. Once night falls, houses will be ablaze with light, and there will be parties everywhere.”

“‘Tis a beautiful city indeed.”

“And crucial to the war. Whoever controls New Orleans controls the Mississippi. Last year, a flatboat flotilla with nine thousand pounds of Spanish gunpowder slipped up the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers to Washington's rebels. The war would be over now if we had
stopped those flatboats. Washington's army was running out of supplies.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” An idea sprang to mind. The next rebel flat-boat flotilla would fail if British soldiers waited in ambush upriver. Dunstan made a mental note to talk to the ambassador about that.

Spanish soldiers in blue coats, white waistcoats, and white knee breeches tramped through the street.

Dunstan growled in frustration. “By all rights New Orleans should be British, not Spanish. Fifteen years ago, we defeated the French in war. To keep from turning the Louisiana Territory over to us, the King of France signed a secret treaty with the King of Spain in an underhanded deal. Some day soon New Orleans will be ours.”

“Thy pride at being British shines through.”

Dunstan frowned. He had never thought of himself as a patriot and felt no particular fondness for his homeland. Being born in Britain had been a mere accident of geography. For the right amount of money, any nation could convince him to turn his coat to their colors.

The street boiled with people. A short, fat man struggled to push a wheelbarrow across the cobblestones. In the shade of a magnolia, three children played jacks. Nearby, a whetstone squealed as an old man sharpened butcher knives in front of a small shop.

Dunstan pondered how he should now proceed with his investigation. The British ambassador and his spies had been less than helpful, adding nothing to what they had already reported to Major Hawthorne in letters. Dunstan had visited taverns along the waterfront and bought sailors drinks to loosen their tongues. He had skulked around New Orleans, keeping his eyes and ears open, but no one seemed to know anything about Lorenzo Bannister's trip to San Antonio.

An elderly black man in a straw hat crossed the street.

Dunstan leaned far over the rail to get a good look at him. “Cincinnatus?”

Thomas looked up questioningly. “What did thou say?”

“That's Cincinnatus, Lorenzo Bannister's slave!” He was smooth in his lie, and it achieved the desired effect.

Thomas's face showed disgust. “Bannister owns slaves?”

“Yes. He is pure evil. He'd cut your throat for two pence.” He laid a comforting arm around Thomas's shoulders. “No worries, lad. You're safe with me.” Dunstan turned his attention back to Cincinnatus. Why was the old slave on the streets of New Orleans instead of Judge Bannister's plantation in Virginia? A house servant like Cincinnatus was worth a lot of money. If he was a runaway, Lorenzo's grandfather would pay handsomely to get him back. It had to be more than coincidence that both Cincinnatus and Lorenzo Bannister were in New Orleans. “Let's go, Thomas.”

“Where?”

“Out.” He was purposefully vague, knowing Thomas would never approve of his plan to capture Cincinnatus and return him to the plantation. Quakers were against slavery.

Dunstan ran from the balcony into his bedroom, pausing long enough to pick up a pocket pistol.

Thomas scowled with disapproval. “Why hast thou need of that? Violence is never the way.”

Dunstan didn't argue, although he had been in a few tight spots where violence had been the only way out.

When Thomas wasn't looking, Dunstan slipped the pistol into his pocket.

They hurried downstairs and followed Cincinnatus from a safe distance, keeping his straw hat in view.

The man headed toward the main square at a purposeful gait, stopping long enough to buy a sack of fruit from a street vendor. He led them past the Ursuline convent,
the army barracks, and the parade ground.

“Cincinnatus! Wait up!” a voice called.

He swiveled.

Dunstan and Thomas flattened themselves against a wall.

A tall, lean Spanish officer in a blue uniform dashed toward him.

“Evening, Héctor,” Cincinnatus said. “How you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

“You ain't strong enough to be back on duty.”

The soldier grinned. “The colonel commands and I obey.”

“I'm gonna have me a few words with him ‘bout that! You're still weak from the fever.”

“True, but catching the fever kept me from being on a cattle drive I didn't want to be on.”

The words “cattle drive” grabbed Dunstan's attention. Héctor Calderón looked sickly pale, not at all like the man who had arrested him a year earlier during a fist fight with Lorenzo Bannister on the streets of New Orleans.

Side by side, Héctor and Cincinnatus strolled off. They made a sharp right down an alleyway that plunged between ten-foot-high walls and came out on a wide street. They crossed to a two-story house and climbed the front steps.

Dunstan stepped into the shade of a magnolia. He recognized the house. It belonged to Colonel Bernardo De Gálvez, governor of Louisiana.

Cincinnatus drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. He and Hector disappeared inside.

No guards, Dunstan thought. Colonel De Gálvez probably isn't at home.

“Don't move from this spot, Thomas.”

The boy gave a two-fingered salute.

Dunstan slipped around to the back of the colonel's house and tested the rear gate. Locked. There was nothing to do but scale the high brick wall. He stacked empty crates, making a rickety ladder, climbed to the top of the wall and peered over. Seeing no one in the courtyard, he dropped to the ground. He eased past the coach house and stable. Five wooden steps led to the back door. He paused on the top one and looked all about. Luckily, no one was watching. He quickly slipped inside.

A main hallway stretched from the front of the house to the back. Hector's three-cornered hat rested on a side table.

Dunstan took off his shoes and held them. In his stocking feet, he tiptoed along, careful not to make the floorboards creak. In the first room he passed, Dunstan paused. A long oak table surrounded by twelve high-backed chairs stood in the center of the enormous, high-ceilinged room. A sideboard held elegant glassware and china. Opposite it, a large Belgian tapestry covered the wall. The table was set for four.

Next came a parlor large enough to serve as a ballroom if the furniture were removed. The dining room and parlor were empty. Chewing on his lower lip, he wondered where Cincinnatus and Hector were and mulled over what to do next.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock interrupted the quiet.

The front door opened.

Dunstan slipped into the dining room and listened carefully.

“Wait here, Corporal,” Gálvez said. “I'll be back shortly.”

The door closed.

“We're in the study,” Héctor Calderón called out.

“Very well,” the colonel replied. His footsteps headed away from Dunstan toward muffled voices coming from the far end of the hall.

Dunstan approached slowly, ready to bolt if necessary, but stopped where a sliver of light fell on the floorboards. A six-inch gap between door and frame showed a fraction of a room lined with bookshelves.

Dunstan heard various voices, all male. He could see Colonel De Gálvez, hands knotted before him, at a giant mahogany desk. In an armchair to the right sat Cincinnatus, his legs crossed. A swatch of blue meant Héctor was at his side.

Were they the only ones in the house?

Dunstan stayed on constant alert. Should someone come downstairs or through the front door, he would steal away in the opposite direction. If captured, he would pull out diplomatic papers.

“Let's get down to business,” Colonel De Gálvez said. “Saber-Scar is back in New Orleans.”

Dunstan's ears picked up at the nickname given him by Lorenzo Bannister.