Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (11 page)

“I thought we had seen the last of him,” Héctor said.

“So did I. I was baffled to learn he was out of uniform until I saw the name Dunstan Andrews on the most recent list of embassy personnel.”

“Embassy personnel!” Héctor said. “They're all spies!”

Colonel De Gálvez lifted a finger. “Spies with diplomatic papers.”

“What you gonna do about Saber-Scar?” Cincinnatus asked.

“I am expelling all Brits from the province. For some time now, I have contemplated closing the embassy. With Saber-Scar hiding there, now is the time to strike.”

Dunstan slumped. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He would be blamed for the expulsion of his countrymen from Spanish territory.

The colonel continued, “If all went well in San Antonio, Lorenzo should have left with the cattle by now.”

Dunstan took a breath. So his cousin was right! Bannister
had gone to San Antonio for cattle. Apparently, Colonel De Gálvez had authorized Bannister's little trip.

“The embassy closure won't happen overnight. Colonel De Gálvez continued. “The British need time to make arrangements to leave.”

Slowly, a grin formed on Dunstan's lips. He still needed written proof of Spanish involvement, something he could show Major Hawthorne, but once he had that, a promotion to officer was assured. Suddenly, his future looked bright.

The grandfather clock struck seven. Dunstan jumped.

“If you will excuse me,” the colonel said, “I have another appointment.”

Chairs scraped against the floor.

Tiptoeing as fast and silently as possible, Dunstan eased into a darkened room opposite the office. He flattened himself against a wall and listened to Colonel De Gálvez talking with Héctor Calderón.

Their voices faded. A door opened and shut.

Two minutes. Five. Ten. Dunstan's heart raced. Where was Cincinnatus?

Footsteps sounded in the room overhead. Dunstan cocked an ear. So the old slave had gone upstairs.

The house darkened. Soundlessly, Dunstan stole inside the office. Luckily, the shutters were open and the last rays of sunlight filtered through. It would be too dangerous to slip a tinderbox from his pocket and light a candle. He had to work fast before he lost daylight.

First, he searched through papers on the colonel's cluttered desktop. Nothing. Hardly surprising. It would be unwise to leave an important document in the open. Dunstan pulled out drawer after drawer. Think rationally. Where would he hide secret papers?

A safe. Dunstan just hoped it would be here and not in Colonel De Gálvez's downtown office.

Dunstan scanned the bookshelves. A safe could be hidden behind them. Then something occurred to him.
Some books weren't books at all. He ripped volumes off shelf after shelf, opening them quickly and putting them back in place when he found them to be bona-fide books. He pulled out a two-volume set of
Don Quixote de la Mancha,
and a hopeful feeling settled over him. It was a bit light. Taking a deep breath, he opened the front cover. Pages had been cut out of the center, leaving a well. Inside were several folded sheets of paper. He unfolded and smoothed out the pages.

Feet moved overhead.

Dunstan had to work fast. He tilted the first paper to the light and scanned it. Judge Bannister had sold Cincinnatus to Sean O'Shaughnessy—whoever that was. The fool had paid $500 and had then given the old slave his freedom. What a waste of money.

Footsteps sounded on the staircase.

Working faster, Dunstan unfolded the next paper and scanned it.

“My God!” he whispered, disbelieving his eyes. He moved closer to the window, holding the paper next to the pane. He couldn't have read it correctly. It wasn't possible. He reread the document. It was! Joy swelled inside him.

A letter from George Washington and Patrick Henry to Colonel De Gálvez. They wanted to buy Texas beef to feed the Continental Army.

Dunstan unfolded another paper and nearly laughed out loud. A map with a rendezvous point foolishly marked on it and the words October 16. This changed everything! He memorized the location, then scanned another page. Freedom papers for Lorenzo Bannister.

A strange icy thrill shivered through Dunstan as a new plan took shape. Revenge on Lorenzo pushed the cattle to the back of his mind. Dunstan had once heard the story of an Englishman kidnapped from the British Isles and forced to work for years on a Carolina tobacco plantation. Dunstan suddenly realized that killing Bannister
was too quick and easy. He could extract a better revenge by making Lorenzo's life a bloody nightmare. No doubt there were other copies of the freedom papers in the local court. But that would do Lorenzo little good when Dunstan sold him into slavery a thousand miles away.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Dunstan stuffed the letter from George Washington and Patrick Henry in his pocket. This was the proof he needed. He carefully folded the other papers, put them back inside the book, and returned it to its shelf. He scanned the room with a critical eye. Everything was as he had found it. No one would suspect he had been here. He unlatched the window and raised it. Cautiously, he looked out to make sure no one was watching before stepping through.

Thomas, standing across the street, straightened up. Hands clasped behind him, he strolled toward the house as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Dunstan patted his pocket to make sure the letter was there. He had plans. Big plans.

At dawn on September 9, Lorenzo scouted ahead and paused in a meadow thick with foot-high grass and bright yellow wildflowers. The Colorado River lay over the ridge. He jumped off Piñata and noticed the ground was soggy. A sliver of worry ran through him. Golden grass had crunched underfoot and plains had been dry when he and his men had first passed through. Now everything was springtime green. A heavy rain must have fallen recently. Rivers might be swollen and difficult to cross.

Miguel pulled alongside him and jerked his head toward a curtain of rain to the north. “Look, Captain.”

“I see it.”

Sheets of water drenched the hills. It was impossible to gauge how far away the rain was. Two leagues? Five? The flatness of the land distorted distances.

All it took was a heavy rain upstream to turn a dry creek into a rampaging torrent. Lorenzo had never seen a flash flood, but had heard stories. If a wall of water moved downstream at the precise time the cattle were crossing, everyone would be swept to their deaths.

Leaving Piñata with Miguel, Lorenzo walked along the river, his concentration locked on the murky water to gauge its depth. When he came to a tree with roots protruding out the bank, he paused and studied the rock-strewn shore below. He had to find a good place to ford as soon as possible.

When he and his men passed through earlier, the horses had trouble finding enough water to drink. Now he couldn't see the river bottom. That worried Lorenzo. It worried him a lot.

Stones and sand abruptly shifted under his weight. He lost his footing and tumbled down the bank into a spray of wet leaves and debris. He landed on his bottom in a foot of water.

Miguel flung himself from his horse and dashed to the tree. “Captain! Are you all right?”

Lorenzo rose and brushed mud from his buckskins. “Well, that was embarrassing.”

“Need some help down there?” Miguel asked, grinning.

Lorenzo ignored him and grabbed a tree root to climb the bank.

A roar like the sound of a waterfall froze him in place. The noise changed abruptly to a giant hiss.

“Get out of there!” Miguel shouted in high-toned desperation. “That sounds like a flash flood!”

A wall of white water surged from upstream, directly at Lorenzo. He grabbed a second root. Frothy water, head high, raced toward him.

Miguel, bracing a leg against a tree root, stretched out his hand. “Grab hold!”

Lorenzo's fingertips brushed Miguel's, but an arm of water shot out, engulfed him and yanked him under.

Lorenzo's heart beat wildly as he struggled not to breathe. Arms flailing, he fought to push himself to the surface. At the last second, when he was sure he couldn't hold his breath another instant, he popped to the surface and gasped. He gulped in air.

Water dripped from his hair, blinding him. He shook his head and could barely make out Miguel and the two horses. Had the water swept him so far downstream in so short a time?

Lorenzo struggled to keep his head above water, but
he swirled around like a leaf in a whirlpool.

Dirty water filled his mouth. Suction pulled him under. He struggled to the surface and pumped his arms in a useless effort to reach the shore. Submerged objects battered his body until he hurt all over.

Engulfed in an eddy of whirling water, he could do nothing but ride it out. Everything happened so quickly, Lorenzo was only dimly aware of zooming around a bend, hitting the shore, then being shoved further downstream by the force of water before he could grab something.

Ahead, a dark object loomed in the middle of the river. Directly in his path lay an uprooted tree. He was headed straight for the trunk.

Lorenzo thought fast. If he became entangled in the limbs to the right or the roots on the other side, he could drown. His best bet was in the center, the tree trunk.

He swam with all his might. No matter how much strength he put into it, he made little headway. Fighting the river current stole all his energy. He felt like his lungs would burst from exertion.

Closer and closer the tree came. If the impact knocked him unconscious, he would drown for sure. Hands straight out, he prepared himself for a battering against the log. He hit. It nearly knocked the breath out of him. He hooked his elbow around an upright tree branch and clung to it. The current tried to rip him loose, but he held on. His chest heaved and his muscles ached.

He lay puffing, heart hammering in his chest. He thought he heard his name over the water's roar.

He looked up and saw Miguel on the riverbank, lasso in hand. His horse stood behind him. Apparently, Miguel had raced down the riverbank after him on horseback.

“Captain, stay right there,” Miguel called out.

Too exhausted to answer, Lorenzo watched his rescuer twirl the rope once, twice overhead, then throw it.

It landed too far away for him to grasp. Lorenzo's
heart lurched. His fingers were cramping. Before long he would lose his grip on the log.

Miguel pulled the rope ashore. Again the rope sailed across the flood. This time, it landed close enough for Lorenzo to grab.

“Put the rope around your waist, Captain, and I'll haul you to shore.” Miguel looped the rope around his saddle horn and secured it.

Lorenzo struggled to do as he was told.

Meanwhile, Miguel unbuckled his sword belt, pulled the leather sash that read SAN ANTONIO DE BEXAR over his head, and removed the padded
cuera
. Next he yanked off his buckskin leggings and boots. He only wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tight blue knee breeches.

At that instant, Lorenzo was glad he wore buckskin and moccasins. Weighted down by his uniform, he would never have broken the surface and would surely have drowned.

Lorenzo felt his grip slipping. If Miguel didn't do something soon, the tide would sweep him away. Miguel backed his horse up. Lorenzo felt himself being dragged through the raging torrent. He was too exhausted to swim to shore.

Miguel waded in and reached for him. “Grab my hand.” Lorenzo obeyed without question. Raging water soaked them as Miguel pulled him to shore.

Lorenzo collapsed on the riverbank. He lay flat on his back, gasping, chest heaving. He rolled over on his side and vomited what seemed like a gallon of water.

Miguel slapped him hard on the back. “You'll be fine, Captain, but I must say you look like a drowned rat.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo coughed out. “I owe you.”

“Indeed you do, sir.”

“Remind me never to join the navy.”

Miguel laughed. “I admire a man who can look death
in the face and keep his sense of humor.”

Lorenzo sat back and swiped wet hair out of his eyes. Slowly his breathing returned to normal.

Miguel's thin linen shirt clung to him and made the form beneath it visible. Partly surprised, partly confused, Lorenzo stared at Miguel's chest. Evident through the water-soaked shirt was a bandage wrapped tightly around his chest and knotted in the back.

Lorenzo had seen his father use a similar bandage many times on patients with broken ribs. Why would Miguel use such a thing? His ribs were fine. Nursing mothers often bound their breasts similarly when they were ready to wean their babes and wanted their milk to dry up.

Lorenzo jerked his eyes to Miguel's face, then back down to his chest. He couldn't help but stare. No, he told himself. It couldn't be.

But it was. Miguel had . . . Lorenzo couldn't bring himself to think it.

Miguel crossed his arms over his chest protectively in a purely feminine gesture.

Lorenzo gasped at a sudden realization. Miguel was a girl.

“Well, this explains a lot,” Lorenzo said. “Why would you pretend to be a man?”

Miguel looked him straight in the eye for the first time. “It's a long story.”

“Well, start talking. I want to hear this.”

“My twin brother, Miguel, inherited the ranch after Papá died. He had no desire to continue the cattle business, so he went to Spain to study at the university. I ran the ranch while Soledad tended house. She met an Apache brave named Bayé, and they got married. I was sorry to see her go, but glad at the same time. Bayé, was a fine man who had a way with horses.” Miguel paused. “You can tell a lot about a man's character by the way he handles horses.”

Lorenzo nodded in agreement.

“Then one day, about four years ago, disaster struck. The king of Spain confiscated the ranch, and I had no way to support myself.”

“Did the king take the ranch for debts?”