Lorenzo's Secret Mission

Finalist, ForeWord magazine's Book of the Year Young Adult category and Second Place Winner, Arizona Literary Contest and Book Awards in the Published Children's

Literature Category

“
Lorenzo's Secret Mission
is highly recommended for its sweeping narrative, its realistic and energetic style, and its unexpected and somewhat startling conclusion.”

—
School Library Journal

“This is the story that delicately and intricately weaves fictional characters with legendary heroes, such as George Washington, to make history come alive.”

—
KLIATT

Lila Guzmán

and

Rick Guzmán

This volume is made possible through grants from the National Endowment for the Arts (a federal agency), the Andrew W.Mellon Foundation, and the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.

Piñata Books are full of surprises!

Piñata Books

An imprint of
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004

Cover illustration by Roberta Collier-Morales.
Cover design by James F. Brisson.

Guzmán, Lila, 1952–

Lorenzo's Secret Mission / by Lila and Rick Guzmán.

p. cm.

Two historical figures, Bernardo De Gálvez and George Gibson, appear prominently in the book.

Summary: In 1776, fifteen-year-old Lorenzo Bannister leaves Texas and his father's new grave to carry a letter to the Virginia grandfather he has never known, and becomes involved with the struggle of the American Continental Army and its Spanish supporters.

ISBN: 978-1-55885-341-6

1. Gálvez, Bernardo De, 1746–1786—Juvenile fiction. 2. Gibson, George, 1747–1791—Juvenile fiction. 3. United States—History— Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Identity—Fiction. 6. Slavery—Fiction.] I. Guzmán, Rick and Lila. II. Title.

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

© 2001 by Lila and Rick Guzmán
Printed in the United States of America

7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6                  11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

Our thanks go to Susan Rockhold, Helen Ginger, Laura Chávez, and Ross Sams for reading and critiquing
Lo renzo's Secret Mission;
to Milord Writer, Vince McCarthy, an Englishman and horror writer who cheerfully accepted the task of making sure the British sounded British; to Dr. James Sidbury of the University of Texas for sharing his knowledge of slavery in Virginia.

Lorenzo's Secret Mission
(Book 1) is based on a true story. George Washington, Bernardo De Gálvez, George Gibson, and William Linn are historical figures. All other characters are fictional.

In Memory of

Angelita Guzmán

(October 2, 1916–September 19, 1999)

and

Gibson's Lambs,

forgotten heroes of the American Revolution

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Historical Information

From my hiding place in the moon-cast shadows, I surveyed a forest of ships anchored in New Orleans' harbor. Some, I knew, would sail to faraway ports, to Spain, or Cuba, or maybe the Two Floridas. I had to find a ship bound for Virginia and get on board somehow, even if that meant becoming a stowaway.

A long knife, bullet pouch, powder-horn, and canteen hung at my side. My most treasured possessions lay at my feet. Papá's medical bag, a flintlock musket he gave me for my birthday two years ago, and a small raccoonskin haversack containing Papá's papers.

On his deathbed, Papá wrote a letter to my grandfather in Virginia. “This letter is important, Lorenzo,” my father had said when he handed it to me. “Promise me you will deliver it.”

“Upon my word of honor, I shall,” I had replied.

Visibly relieved, Papá said, “Your future and the future of many others will depend on that letter. I shall soon join your mother in heaven. You must make your own way in the world. Be brave, Lorenzo. Be a man of honor.”

“I'll make you proud of me, Papá.”

And then he was gone. Two weeks ago, the afternoon of August 7, 1776, I buried my father at a Spanish mission in San Antonio and set out for Virginia.

On the way to New Orleans I had trudged through swamps so spongy, I sank up to my boot tops in mud
and slime. Clouds of mosquitoes attacked me. Worst of all, I had to keep a sharp eye out for snakes and gators.

Now, rested and ready to set out again, I pushed a lock of hair back in place and adjusted the frayed ribbon that held my hair in a pigtail at my neck. I gripped my musket, picked up my possessions, and headed toward the wharf.

Across the street, a party was under way. Harpsichord music drifted through the open windows of a two story house about thirty yards away. A gray, thin-faced man bowed low to a smiling girl dressed all in white. She dropped him a dainty curtsey, and they began to dance a minuet.

I'd never seen a girl with hair the color of a desert sunset. I crossed the street to get a better view and stood beneath a cypress tree. She was fifteen or so, about my age, but her partner looked old enough to be her grandfather. She stared in my direction. I jumped, but realized she couldn't see me in the dark.

Compared to the dancers in silk and satin, I was a sorry sight indeed. The trek had left my buckskin britches and flannel shirt tattered and sweat-stained, my face soiled, and my hair tangled. I stank worse than a wet dog.

The steamy night plastered my shirt to my back. With my sleeve, I mopped away sweat. I uncorked my canteen and took a long drink of water.

Easing past the Customs House, one of the few buildings clearly marked, I slipped down to the wharf so I could look over the ships. Their flags would tell me their place of origin and give me a clue as to their destination.

Papá had warned me about press gangs that captured young men and forced them to serve aboard His Britannic Majesty's ships, so I stayed out of sight. At fifteen years old, I was just what they'd be looking for.

The wharf was busier than I expected. It reminded me of a beehive. Hugging the shadows, I watched, fascinated.

At the far end of the crescent-shaped harbor, the red-and-gold flag of Spain flew from a warship's highest mast. I knew that flag well. Back home in San Antonio, it waved over the army barracks.

Large, square lanterns placed at regular intervals along the wharf lit a path to a warehouse. Bare-chested sailors rolled barrels down a wooden gangplank to men in buckskin, moccasins, and coonskin caps.

How peculiar. Who would unload a ship in the middle of the night? I placed Papá's medical bag and my haversack on the ground, leaned my shoulder against the side of a building, and watched with growing interest.

Barrel after barrel rumbled down the ramp. Huge men rolled them on the wharf to two Spanish officers waiting by the warehouse. One watched the barrels disappear through open double doors while the other jotted something down in a log.

On our travels around New Spain and the Province of Texas, Papá had told me stories about pirates who buried chests full of Spanish doubloons on tropical islands and smuggled molasses and French wine into the British colonies.

These men were probably pirates. Bits of their conversation drifted toward me. The sailors spoke Spanish while their companions used English.

When I heard “General Washington,” I perked right up. Papá had talked about him often. Washington was a fellow Virginian, Papá said, the leader of the British colonists who had begun a revolt against King George.

A large barrel thumped down the wooden ramp and drew my attention back to the ship.

“
Hijo de la
—” began the sailor who had lost his hold on the barrel. Before he could finish his terrible oath, it wobbled to the end of the ramp and crashed into another barrel, narrowly missing one of the men. The impact sounded like a clap of thunder.

The lids burst off both barrels. Out spilled a grainy substance that looked like gunpowder. It made my nose twitch. I laid my finger under it to stifle a sneeze.

A giant of a man in buckskin rushed forward. “Careful!” he said in a menacing growl. He grabbed the two sailors by the scruff of the neck and shook them. “One mistake could blow us to Kingdom Come.”

The two sailors righted the barrels while the buckskin-clad men closest to the accident fell to their knees and scooped up powder.

As they worked, the big man glanced over his shoulder to see who might have witnessed the accident.

At that second, I heard a sound at my back. Instinctively, I reached for my knife.

Cold metal pressed against the back of my head.

“Drop your weapons,” a voice growled in my ear.

I drew a deep breath and eased my musket onto the wooden planks. Next, I unsheathed my knife and laid it beside my musket.

“Put your hands up!” My captor seized me by the collar. “Move, dog!” His grip tightened. He propelled me forward, down the wharf, toward the warehouse, and the Spanish officers waiting there.

The pirates continued to unload the ship. Lucky for me, they hadn't noticed us yet. Close by, their muskets lay stacked in a teepee-like shape.

How long would it take the men to reach their muskets, snatch them up, load, and fire if I managed to bolt away? Thirty seconds if they knew their business. Sixty, if they didn't.

A spiteful, hard shove from behind made me stumble. Seeing my opportunity to escape, I bent low and jabbed my elbow backwards as hard as I could into my captor's stomach. He yipped like a coyote.