Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (6 page)

Eventually, he reached Doña María.

As always, she radiated good cheer and loving kindness. Her fair complexion contrasted with her white hair framed by a lacy mantilla. She wore a plain black dress gathered at the waist by a sash of the same color.

He scooped her up, lifting her a foot off the ground, and gave her a hug.

“
¡M'ijo!
” she exclaimed, calling him “my son.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “What a surprise! Look at you! You're a full-grown man, but
¡ay!
How thin you are. Stay with me and I'll fatten you up.”

After weeks of eating jerky and hardtack, the offer sounded wonderful. “How I've missed your cooking!”

She slapped his shoulder, and dust puffed out of his shirt. “Santa María! You need a bath!”

“I do?” Lorenzo asked in pretend surprise.

Doña María laughed, then turned serious. “Did you deliver your father's letter?”

Lorenzo nodded.

“You went all the way to Virginia?”

“And back again.”

“Why didn't you stay with your grandfather?”

A lump formed in Lorenzo's throat. It hurt too much to tell her his grandfather hadn't wanted him.

“
¡Vaya!
” Doña María said, giving his arm a little squeeze. “You can tell me later. The important thing is you're home. You will stay in your old bedroom, of course.”

Lorenzo smiled. “I was hoping you would say that!” He pointed to Red still flirting with the Apache woman. “Could Sergeant O'Shaughnessy share my room?” He wanted Red with him so they could make final arrangements for the cattle drive in private.

“A redhead?” Her sly smile told him she was teasing. “You have the devil in you!” Doña María came from the Canary Islands with the original settlers in the 1730s and believed, as did most Spaniards, that redheads were descendants of Judas Iscariot. “If he bears your stamp,” she conceded, “he must be a fine fellow.”

“He is.” Lorenzo caught Red's eye and signaled him to join them.

Red waved back, but stayed with the girl. Hardly surprising. Red had never been good at following orders. The big Pennsylvanian's refusal to obey a lieutenant had
once saved Lorenzo's life. That clouded Lorenzo's objectivity in matters concerning Red, but he couldn't help it.

“Who is the woman Sergeant O'Shaughnessy is talking to?” Lorenzo asked.

“That's Soledad, Lieutenant De Santoro's sister.”

“His sister?” Lorenzo said in dismay. They bore little resemblance. Soledad looked Apache, whereas Miguel resembled a Spanish aristocrat.

“I should have said his adopted sister. Soledad's mother was the cook on his parents' hacienda. They adopted Soledad after her mother died of smallpox. She's a widow now. Her husband was killed by Comanches.”

Leaving Soledad with apparent reluctance, Red headed toward Lorenzo and Doña María. He made his way through the crowd and stopped in front of them.

“Doña María,” Lorenzo said, slowing his Spanish for Red's benefit, “allow me to introduce Sergeant Sean O'Shaughnessy.”

The elderly widow dutifully offered her hand.

Instead of kissing it, as was the custom, Red gave it a hearty shake and greeted her in mangled Spanish. Doña María handled the situation with her customary grace and dignity.

Lorenzo offered his arm to Doña María, and they headed across the dusty square toward her ranch and his adopted home.

British sailors glistening with sweat strained at the oars as they rowed Dunstan and Thomas toward a warship anchored off the Virginia coast. Overhead, sea gulls squawked and dipped toward them. Waves slapped the rowboat's side.

A naval lieutenant sat stiffly at the bow enveloped in an air of smug superiority. Everything about him said he was an English blue blood.

Dunstan smiled to imagine this man's reaction should he realize he was rowing the illegitimate son of an English lord. To his credit, Dunstan's father had always looked after him, sending him to an expensive boarding school and allowing him to stay on the family's colonial estate whenever he wished. Dunstan's father sat in Parliament, in the House of Lords to be precise, and wielded tremendous power.

As they crossed the bay, Dunstan ran a finger under the uncomfortable cravat around his neck. After seven years in the army, he felt naked without the “old red rag,” as they called the British uniform. Major Hawthorne had done well by him and Thomas, outfitting them like lords and providing an ample purse of shillings and pounds for their mission to New Orleans. Both Dunstan and Thomas wore black knee breeches, silk stockings, a white shirt with ruffled cuffs, buckle shoes, an embroidered waistcoat, and a black broadcloth coat. They looked like doctor and apprentice.

They climbed a rope ladder to the ship's quarterdeck where several naval officers awaited them.

The captain removed his hat, greeted Dunstan with an extravagant bow, and welcomed them aboard as if they were visiting dignitaries.

Dunstan acknowledged the bow with a swift nod.

The captain led Dunstan and Thomas below decks to a small but well-appointed room. Against one wall stood a bunk bed. Opposite it was a small writing desk.

“I trust this will suit?” the captain inquired anxiously.

“It will do,” Dunstan said.

In his last sea voyage, he had been elbow-to-elbow with British redcoats, taking turns sleeping in hammocks, bending his six-foot frame low to keep from scraping his head on the ceiling. This was a definite improvement.

The captain took pains to explain the ship's routine and asked Dunstan and Thomas to share meals with him and his officers in the wardroom. Bidding them a cordial farewell, he left.

Dunstan fell onto the bottom bunk and laced his hands behind his head.

A grin spread across Thomas's face. “I like being treated like nobility.”

Dunstan chuckled. “So do I, son. So do I.” Too excited to sleep, he listened to the ship's wooden timbers creak and shiver. It reminded him of something he had heard not so long ago—the sounds a gallows makes when a man is hanging at the end of a rope.

The ship gently rocked beneath him as it set sail for New Orleans. He rubbed the scar on his face and imagined how Lorenzo Bannister would beg for his life.

An hour after arriving in San Antonio, Lorenzo sank into a tub of steaming water prepared by Doña María's manservant. He hooked his legs over the edge and closed his eyes. In water up to his neck, he planned what he would say tomorrow when he met with the head monk at the mission. No matter what, he had to buy five hundred head of cattle from the mission herd.

If Lorenzo failed, Washington's army would go hungry, and starving men could not fight.

There were other places in Texas where he could get cattle, but San Antonio was home. Besides, he knew all the monks at the mission, and it would be easier to buy cattle there than anywhere else. The mission ranch was big with plenty of cattle to spare.

The door whispered open.

Lorenzo lifted an eyelid, expecting to see a manservant with a steaming bucket of water to refresh the bath. Instead, his roommate, Red, entered carrying a kettle.

Water hit a tin basin and hissed. Steam clouded the mirror on the wall above it.

Red pulled off his shirt and splashed water on his face and neck. Next, the Pennsylvania woodsman laid out a razor, shaving mug, lathering brush, and soap.

Lorenzo straightened. “I didn't know you and a razor had ever made an acquaintance.”

Eyes twinkling, Red worked shaving soap into a lather. “Been a long time.” He scraped off whiskers. “What
do you know about women?”

“Nothing. There's not a man alive who understands them.”

“You gotta know something, you with a fiancée and all.”

“Our courtship was a little strange,” Lorenzo said as he sank back into his bath water. He and Eugenie were an odd pair. He was a spy for General Washington, and he was engaged to a spy for Colonel De Gálvez. He recalled an argument with Eugenie three weeks earlier.

“The colonel wants you to do what?” he had asked in disbelief as they strolled through New Orleans.

“He wants me to deliver a message to General Washington.”

“You can't!”

Eugenie mashed her fists on her hips. “Why not? Someone must tell General Washington about the plan you and the colonel have concocted. How else will the general know to send flatboats down river? The colonel doesn't want to send a letter for fear it may fall into enemy hands.”

“Listen to reason,” he cajoled. “A trip north is dangerous.”

“I get on a ship, sail to Philadelphia, have tea with General and Mrs. Washington, and come back home. What is dangerous about that?”

“The colonies are at war.”

“At war with the British!” she snapped. “I will do anything in my power to help the Americans.”

Lorenzo understood her hatred of the British. He might not have if Colonel De Gálvez hadn't told him about her father, a simple Acadian cobbler. In 1755, the British burned his village in Canada territory to the ground and forced everyone onto ships. Eugenie's father and other refugees arrived in New Orleans a little later. He never saw Acadia again.

“
Corazón
. . .,” Lorenzo began.

Eugenie put two fingers to his lips. “I understand the danger. This is something I must do. Colonel De Gálvez wants me to deliver a message. It's my duty, just as going to San Antonio is your duty!”

At that point, Lorenzo knew he had lost the argument. The next day, Eugenie left with a secret message for General Washington.

The clanking of Red's razor against the wash basin jolted Lorenzo back to the present.

“Soledad's the prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on,” Red said. “I'm going to marry her.”

Lorenzo sat up so quickly, water sloshed from the tub. “Red, you just met her.”

“Don't you believe in love at first sight?”

“I believe in common sense. You can't rush into marriage.”

“Why not? People do it all the time. I gotta marry her before someone else does.”

With a shortage of women on the frontier, widows didn't stay unmarried for long, especially beautiful ones like Soledad.

Lorenzo had heard of arranged marriages between people who had met on the day of the wedding. Sometimes they were successful. Then again, some people courted for years, got married, and lived to regret it.

“I've given this a lot of thought,” Red said. “I'm twenty-nine and my life's half over. I want a family.”

That was something Lorenzo understood. More than once, he'd imagined what it would be like to own a cattle ranch and be welcomed home each night by Eugenie.

“Red, we're leaving in a week.”

“Then I'll have to work fast.”

“If you look cross-eyed at Soledad, Miguel will call you out for a duel.”

“Then I'll have to keep my eyes straight ahead.”

“You can't take a woman on a cattle drive.”

“What if we're married by the time we leave?”

“You have an answer for everything, don't you?”

“I've had a whole hour to think this thing through.”

Lorenzo stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. “If you two are married by the time we leave San Antonio, she can come along.” Lorenzo smiled smugly. The cattle drive would start in a week. Before anyone could wed, marriage banns had to be read at mass and posted on the church door for three consecutive holy days of obligation. Lorenzo and his men would leave San Antonio before that could happen.

Shaving done, Red toweled away remnants of lather. “How do I go about courting a Tejano woman?”

“Same as any other woman. Just be your usual charming self.”

One look at Red and Lorenzo was sorry for his flippant answer. Red was serious about this and wanted help.

“It's customary to ask her father for permission to court her,” Lorenzo said. “In this case, Miguel is her closest male relative. Give me a minute to get dressed. I want to visit Papá's grave. We can stop at Miguel's house along the way.”

At Lorenzo's suggestion, Red wore a white, puffy-sleeved shirt, black trousers, and boots. Doña María completed the ensemble by borrowing two items from her son: a short vest, the kind Tejano men wore, and a black felt hat.

Lorenzo dressed similarly.

At eight o'clock, it was still insufferably hot, although the sun had already set. Lorenzo carried a small hand lantern to light their way. They stopped in front of an adobe building covered with vines. Hummingbirds darted in and out of trumpet-shaped blossoms.

Red knocked on the door.

Several minutes passed before Miguel answered. He wore his uniform, a fact Lorenzo found odd. At home, it was proper to change into civilian clothes.

Miguel frowned, first at Lorenzo, then at Red. “What do you want?”

“I want your sister,” Red said in stiff Spanish.

Miguel's dark blue eyes bored through Red. “Repeat that.”

“I wish to have Señorita Soledad.”

Inwardly, Lorenzo groaned. At this rate, Miguel would soon draw his sword and make mincemeat of Red. “What he means is. . .”

”Let him speak for himself!” Miguel said.

Red stumbled over Spanish phrases that he knew by heart.

Lorenzo was amazed at how nervous Red was. No, nervous wasn't the right word. This giant of a man who had faced charging bears and bayonet-wielding redcoats was terrified.

Somehow Red managed to look Miguel straight in the face and say, “I wish to court your sister.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes. Baptized when I was three days old.”

“If Soledad agrees, you may court her.” Miguel unblocked the door.

Red stepped inside.

Lorenzo, thinking it unwise to leave the two of them alone, followed him.

Miguel went to the foot of the stairs. “
Hermana mía
,” he called. “Sergeant Colorado is here.”