Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (5 page)

“I haven't the time.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dunstan saw Thomas slump in disappointment and realized the boy must be starving. “Oh, very well. Thomas, tell the major what you would like.”

“Ham and boiled eggs.” The boy's gaze fell. “If it isn't too much trouble, sir.”

“No trouble at all,” the major exclaimed. “You deserve a greater reward than that for what you've done.” He pulled a long tasseled rope hanging from the ceiling.

A woman wearing an apron came to the door in seconds.

Dunstan eyed her appraisingly. She was far too beautiful to be a mere maid.

After Major Hawthorne ordered dinner, she left, closing the door behind her.

“Let's discuss why you're here.” Dunstan's cousin eased into an armchair and signaled for them to sit. “Intelligence has reason to believe the Spanish are up to their necks in this rebellion. We must find out just how deeply involved those New Orleans dons are. You know them better than anyone. I believe you acquired some of their language in New Orleans?”

Dunstan nodded.

“Excellent! I am told you once crossed paths with Lorenzo Bannister.”

Dunstan scooted to the edge of his seat. “You have news of him?”

“In a manner of speaking. Our spies in New Orleans report that Bannister lives with Colonel De Gálvez. It appears Gálvez filed papers on his behalf. Court proceedings were held behind closed doors, with the resulting
documents sealed and spirited away. We believe the colonel has made Bannister his ward.”

Dunstan snorted. “Why would he do that? Bannister's grown and can take care of himself.”

Major Hawthorne lifted a shoulder. “The story grows more curious by the minute. Bannister and several of his soldiers were spotted leaving New Orleans on horseback.”

“His soldiers?”

“Yes. He is now a captain in the rebel army.”

“That's interesting.”

“Quite. Bannister and his men headed due west. They were dressed as civilians and traveled light, apparently in a hurry. What lies due west of New Orleans?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“San Antonio, dear cousin. The capital of the Province of Texas.”

“Why would Bannister and his men head there?”

“I should like to think they have come to their senses and are deserting the rebel army, but I rather imagine we can't be that lucky, now can we? What do you know about San Antonio?”

“Not much.”

Major Hawthorne handed him a map.

Dunstan uncurled it and studied it.

His cousin continued. “A chain of Spanish missions runs along the San Antonio River—five missions in all—San Antonio de Valero, San José, Concepción, San Juan, and Espada.”

Dunstan followed the river's meandering path and located the missions.

“All are under the protection of Fort San Antonio de Bexar. Ninety-three soldiers and officers guard the garrison. They do little more than drill and attend to routine duties. The village of San Antonio consists of about twelve hundred settlers, most from the Canary Islands. The number of Indians inside mission walls is ever
changing, for they come and go at will.”

“Is that traitor Washington recruiting Indians to his side?”

“No. The Spanish and the Indians have been fighting for years. I quite imagine Bannister and his men are after something else.”

“What? There's nothing in Texas but barbarians and wild beasts.”

“What kinds of wild beasts? Let's ponder that a moment, shall we? The ranches around San Antonio are filled with horses and cattle. No doubt there are more cattle than people in Texas.”

Dunstan stroked his lower lip thoughtfully. “Horses and cattle are two things Washington needs badly.”

“Desperately,” Major Hawthorne corrected. “And the rebels will go to any length to acquire them.”

“All the way to Texas?”

Major Hawthorne gave him a wicked grin.

Dunstan studied the map again. “It's a long way from Texas to the colonies. They would have to drive the cattle overland to . . . No. Not overland. That poses too many problems. Rough terrain. Wild beasts. Indians. If I were Bannister, I would head to the Gulf of Mexico to put the cattle on a waiting ship.”

“And how would you get the cattle from the beach to the ship? Row them one by one to a ship anchored in the bay and hope they climb aboard? No, Dunstan. For such an operation, you need a port with docks for loading cattle, a port such as New Orleans. I want you to find out Bannister's plans and report back to me.” Major Hawthorne half-smiled. “For this mission, you will travel alone and out of uniform.”

“And if I'm caught, I will hang as a spy!”

“Pish posh!” He took an envelope from the mantle. “If you are arrested in New Orleans, simply wave these papers under someone's nose and say you are cultural attaché at the British Embassy. They give you diplomatic
privilege.”

Dunstan frowned. “New Orleans? Why not San Antonio?”

His cousin let out an exasperated breath. “You can hide out at our embassy in New Orleans, but in San Antonio . . . For God's sake, Duns. Think! You don't speak Spanish well enough to pass for a Spaniard!”

Upon hearing his childhood nickname, Dunstan leaped from his seat. “Don't call me that! No one calls me that. Ever!” He hated his name. On the first day of school, the biggest bully there had shortened Dunstan to “dunce.” The schoolmaster, an old man hard of hearing, hadn't caught the whispered insult, but nearby students had. They giggled while Dunstan steamed. Far from being a dunce, he knew he was smarter than anyone in the whole school. During recess, Dunstan sought out the bully and picked a fight, determined to put a stop to the name before it stuck. He bloodied his opponent's nose.

Over time, Dunstan systematically moved from student to student, not even sparing the smaller kids. By the time Dunstan was twelve, every person and animal around gave him wide berth. And no one ever called him “dunce” again.

“Release me!” a fear-tinged voice said.

Dunstan became aware of Thomas's fingers prying his own from Major Hawthorne's shirt front.

“Let him go, Dunstan,” Thomas coaxed, using his first name for the first time.

With a jolt, he returned to the present to find his cousin, white-faced with fear, pushed against the wall, and Thomas scowling at him in disapproval.

Dunstan turned toward the window and laced his fingers behind his head. God! An attack on a superior officer. What an incredibly stupid thing to do!

“If you weren't a blood relation,” Major Hawthorne said, straightening his shirt front, “I'd have you flogged for that.”

Dunstan hung his head. The threat of a flogging was generous. His actions merited a worse punishment. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Silence covered the room. Several seconds went by.

Major Hawthorne's mouth curled into a half-smile. “You always were a bit of a lad. I've never held your murky past against you, and won't start doing so today. To the contrary, that is precisely why I chose you for this mission. By God! Bring me proof the Spanish are helping Washington and his band of traitors, and I'll see you wear an officer's sash.”

Dunstan's mouth went dry. He wanted nothing more than to be promoted from the ranks. His cousin knew that.

“Done!” Dunstan managed to croak. “By your leave, Cousin.”

He couldn't help smiling as he left. He would bring proof the Spanish were involved. And for good measure, he would bring Lorenzo Bannister's head.

Shortly before dusk, San Antonio appeared as a tiny dot on the distant Texas plain.

An odd tightness came to Lorenzo's throat. He was home after a one-year absence.

Miguel ordered his soldiers to herd the recovered cattle toward Atascoso, the mission ranch. The wranglers with the remuda of spare horses trailed after them.

Lorenzo rode toward San Antonio with his men and Miguel. They crossed winding cattle trails and passed through land he remembered working as a vaquero, past herds of goats and long-horned cattle, fields of corn, beans, potatoes, watermelons, and peppers.

The sound of a tolling bell drifted toward them.

Mission San Antonio de Valero stood flanked by cottonwoods, or
álamos
in Spanish. Behind its thick walls, one could hold off an army for many days if need be.

An urge to visit his father's grave overwhelmed Lorenzo. He turned his horse south and stopped. His gaze riveted on the mission.

Red and Miguel reined in beside him.

In a room provided by the monks, Lorenzo had kept vigil at his father's bedside. Helpless, he had watched his father slowly waste away from consumption.

“Captain?” Red said. “You look like you seen a ghost. Are you all right?”

“Let him be,” Miguel said softly. “Captain Bannister's father is buried at the mission.” He spoke to Lorenzo. “I'll take your men into San Antonio and see them
settled in while you attend to other matters.”

Hearing Red and Miguel ride away snapped him out of his reverie. He touched his heels to Piñata and caught up with them at the river edge. “I appreciate the gesture, Lieutenant, but the men are my responsibility, not yours.”

Together they forded the San Antonio River in water up to their stirrups. As they splashed across, fond memories washed over him, memories of fishing with his father in the river and gathering walnuts from the trees that fringed it.

The provincial capital, a village of twelve hundred souls, lay nestled between the San Antonio River and the San Pedro. The town looked the way Lorenzo remembered it, with sixty or so stone and adobe buildings, about eighty wood houses, and five missions strung along the San Antonio River. From this angle, he could see Mission San José about a league away.

News that strangers were in town traveled with astonishing speed. Doors flew open. People hurried to the Plaza de los Ysleños to meet the newcomers. Spanish soldiers spilled through the fort's double doors. Little boys and barking dogs raced around like spinning tops while girls giggled and blushed. The horses were soon encircled.

“Well, Captain,” Miguel said as he scanned the gathering crowd, “I certainly am glad your arrival isn't supposed to be a secret. I've lived here for six months, and I've never seen anyone get such a hero's welcome.”

Lorenzo ignored the lieutenant and looked for Doña María Robaina, the elderly widow who was like a grandmother to him. She had given him a job on her ranch when she realized he was penniless. She had paid the carpenter for Papá's coffin. She had taken care of Lorenzo while he was still reeling from his father's death.

He didn't see her. Her small, whitewashed house trimmed in wrought iron looked out on the main plaza. Surely she had heard their arrival.

Red let out a low whistle. He finger-combed his beard
with one hand and slicked back his hair with the other, then slid down from his horse. He handed his reins to Private Dujardin.

“Where do you think you're going?” Lorenzo asked.

“Over there,” he replied vaguely.

Lorenzo dismounted among a sea of faces. Being from a small town meant everyone knew everyone else. He hugged the people closest to him and waved to others, rarely seeing a face he didn't recognize.

Miguel, still on horseback, regaled the gathered crowd with the rescue of the missing cattle. He gave Lorenzo and his men full credit.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo said, hiding his surprise.

In response, Miguel merely snapped a finger against his hat brim in an unofficial salute. “And most noteworthy for his bravery,” Miguel said in closing, “is Sergeant Colorado.” He gestured toward Red's empty saddle, then looked all about. “Where'd he go?”

Lorenzo stretched to see over the crowd and found him chatting with an Apache woman. It wasn't unusual to see Apaches in San Antonio. Many of them lived and worked at the mission, others on ranches as vaqueros.

Lorenzo could understand Red's interest in her. The woman was gorgeous. She looked about twenty-five years old and had high cheekbones, full lips, and sun-darkened skin. Her large black eyes sparkled with intelligence. She wore a brightly colored cotton blouse and a full skirt with ruffles at the bottom. A wide fringed shawl draped her head and shoulders. The large gold cross hanging around her neck said she was Catholic.

Clearly, Red was flirting with her, and it looked like she was flirting back.

Lorenzo hoped Red would behave. On the trail he had explained the Tejano honor code in detail to his soldiers. “Family is important to Tejanos,” he had said. “If a father suspects you have dishonored his daughter, it will
be within his rights to kill you. It is as simple as that. If he fails, then the duty to cleanse family honor with your blood falls to the girl's brothers, uncles, and cousins. They will hunt you down, and it will not go well for you.”

Lorenzo's soldiers had grumbled that he was a killjoy. Now, as he watched Red, he hoped they had taken the warning seriously.

Just then, Lorenzo spotted Doña María coming from San Fernando Church, prayer book in one hand, rosary in the other. He waved to get her attention.

She waved back, her face reflecting her joy, and elbowed her way through the jostling crowd.

“Captain,” Miguel said under his breath, “your men are tired and so are you. I'll see that they are properly billeted.”

“That's a job I'll gladly relinquish, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo said. “Each man has the name and address of a family that will probably take him in. Red will stay with me.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

Lorenzo left Piñata in Private Dujardin's care. He maneuvered to Doña María, getting his back slapped until it tingled. The people of San Antonio tossed question after question at him that he answered while crossing the main plaza.

Sandaled feet and grinning monks rushed toward him. One after another engulfed him in a heartfelt embrace. The seemingly endless questions and explanations started all over again.