Lorenzo and The Turncoat by Lila and Rick Guzman

LORENZO
and the TURNCOAT
Also by Lila and Rick Guzmn

Lorenzos Secret Mission Lorenzos Revolutionary Quest
LORENZO
and the TURNCOAT
Lila Guzmn and Rick Guzmn
PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON, TEXAS
This volume is funded in part by grants from the City of Houston through The Cultural Arts Council of Houston/Harris County and by the Exemplar Program, a program of Americans for the Arts in Collaboration with the LarsonAllen Public Services Group, funded by the Ford Foundation. Piata Books are full of surprises! Piata Books An imprint of Arte Pblico Press University of Houston 452 Cullen Performance Hall Houston, Texas 77204-2004 Cover design by Giovanni Mora. Guzmn, Lila, 1952 Lorenzo and the Turncoat / by Lila and Rick Guzmn. p. cm. Summary: In the summer of 1779, having served as an officer in the Continental Army, eighteen-year-old Lorenzo Bannister enjoys a quieter life practicing medicine in Spanish-controlled New Orleans, until his fiancee is kidnapped and the governor of the Louisiana territory, Bernardo De Glvez, decides to lead Spanish troops in a surprise attack against the British. ISBN-10: 1-55885-471-1 ISBN-13: 978-1-55885-471-0 1. United StatesHistoryRevolution, 1775-1783Participation, SpanishJuvenile fiction. [1. United StatesHistoryRevolution, 1775-1783Participation, SpanishFiction. 2. LouisianaHistory Revolution, 1775-1783Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)History18th centuryFiction.] I. Guzmn, Rick. II. Title. PZ7.G9885 Lj 2006 [Fic]dc22 2005057417 CIP The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. 2006 by Lila and Rick Guzmn Printed in the United States of America 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Historical Information
Don Bernardo De Glvez, Felicit De Saint Maxent De Glvez, Gilbert Antoine De Saint Maxent, Oliver Pollock, Lieutenant Colonel Esteban Mir, and Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Dickson are historical figures.
St. Louis Cathedral as we know it today did not exist in 1779. In 1788, a fire destroyed the original structure known as St. Louis Church.
All other characters are fictional.
Acknowledgments
Many, many thanks to the following people at the Louisiana State Museum in New Orleans for their help:
A special note of gratitude goes to Charles E. Nolan, Archivist, Archdiocese of New Orleans, for providing information on Mara Matilde Felicia De Glvez, Don Bernardos first child.
Nathanael Heller, Assistant Registrar Dr. Alecia P. Long, Historian/Writer Dr. Charles Chamberlain, Museum Historian Jeff Rubin, Information Services Kathryn Page, Curator of Maps and Manuscripts
Ded icated to the p eo p le o f Lo uisiana and everyo ne w ho help ed them after Hurricane Katrina, August 29, 2005.
Chapter One
Christmas Eve 1778 New York City
Servants scurried from guest to guest in Robert Hawthornes dining room. They took away the first remove, a creamy potato soup, and left. While waiting for the main course, Hawthorne leaned toward the visiting general seated to his right. Sir, I have a riddle for you. How many rebels does it take to win a battle? How many? No one knows, because they havent won a single one! The general guffawed and banged his hand on the table. Hawthorne smiled. It was a good joke, but not necessarily the truth. George Washingtons poorly trained soldiers were keeping the British army at bay. The rebellion should have been smashed long ago. The kitchen door opened. An army of servants streamed through carrying platters, bowls, and casseroles heaped with steaming food. Guests gasped in delight to see salmon with shrimp sauce, buttered lobster, rabbit stew, haunch of venison, sweetbreads, macaroni, peas, potatoes, and custards. Hawthorne relished their reaction. Entertaining guests was his favorite pastime and tonight was espe1
cially auspicious because he was celebrating his promotion to colonel. Two generals in the British army, three colonels, the vicar of the local church, the mayor, a judge, a merchant, and their wives graced his table. He wished the war was over. Perhaps next Christmas would find him back home in England. If he could not spend the holiday with family, he would at least spend it with his dearest friends. Colonel Hawthorne, the generals wife said, leaning toward him, we will miss you so! Me or my parties? Silly goose. You, of course. Must you leave? Alas, dear lady, I must. Without you, this wretched country will be unbearable. Hawthorne patted her hand. Im sure you will bear it. The woman pouted and turned to her husband. Tisnt fair! We finally have someone who can throw a decent party and good King George rips him from us! Tomorrow Hawthorne would leave New York and head to Philadelphia. After the Battle of Brandywine, the American Congress had fled into the countryside like a fox before the hounds. Hawthorne had received secret orders to capture a ringleader at all costs. It mattered little which traitor he served upThomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, or George Washington. His Majesty wished to make an example of someone important to the rebel cause and thereby break their spirit. The front door burst open. Cold air blasted through. The room fell silent at the sight of a pox-scarred man in a tattered greatcoat. Might there be a Hawthorne here? Im rather busy at the moment, Hawthorne said, frowning. Why had the soldier on guard let this rag of a man inside?
Lorenzo and the Turncoat
Sir, its about your cousin. Hawthorne straightened. What news have you? The man worked a much-worn hat through his hands. Hes been hanged, he has. Hawthorne felt the blood drain from his face. He sat in stunned silence while his guests murmured among themselves. Dunstan could not be dead. He had sent him to New Orleans to find proof that the Spanish were secretly helping the American rebels. You must be mistaken, Hawthorne managed to say. No, sir. The news comes direct from the horses mouth, it does. Someone who seen it with his own eyes. Them Spanish dons hanged Sergeant Andrews for a spy. A spy! the generals wife gasped, looking in horror at her husband. Most people considered espionage a less-than-noble profession. Men of honor shunned it. Hawthorne rose, wobbling slightly. If you will excuse me, he said to his guests. Bowing low, he left. He signaled for the messenger to follow him. He strode into the study and closed the door behind them. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he said, What happened to my cousin? That Spaniard, Glvez, hanged him. Colonel Glvez? One and the same. It took a moment to absorb the news. Bernardo De Glvez, Governor-General of the Louisiana province, was a colonel in the Spanish army and an aristocrat. His uncle Jos was one of the most powerful men in Spain. But Sergeant Andrews had diplomatic privilege. The messenger shrugged. The scornful gesture angered Hawthorne. He felt like picking up a paperweight and hefting it at the man but restrained himself.
Had Glvez shrugged too? Had he thumbed his nose at the law? Dunstan shouldnt have been hanged. To be sure, he had sent his cousin to New Orleans to spy on the Spanish and bring him information on American rebels in Louisiana, but he had given him diplomatic papers to protect him. Why hadnt Glvez honored them? Hawthorne fell into a chair and brooded, only vaguely aware of the messenger inching toward the door and leaving. Sounds soaked through the walls, the whinny of horses and the jingle of carriages pulling up to the front door. Doors opened and closed. Apparently, the messengers announcement had dampened spirits and guests were leaving. Hawthornes big moment, the celebration of his promotion to colonel, had been ruined. Disbelief dissolved into slow anger. Hawthorne paced around the room. He opened the armoire door and took out an officers sash, bright red silk with tassels on both ends. He had promised to make Dunstan an officer upon his return. And what a glorious one he would have been! In his minds eye, Hawthorne saw his cousin leading a cavalry charge with sword drawn. Of all his relatives, including his younger brother, Dunstan most resembled him: tall, athletic, with dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. They were both twenty-eight years old and both had been born on the family estate. In their youth, people sometimes mistook them for twins. That ended when Dunstan engaged in a sword fight and acquired a jagged scar on his cheek. Hawthorne wrapped the ends of the sash around his hands and snapped it tight. Dunstan would have worn it with honor. The familys reputation had been stained. The rule of law demanded that Colonel Glvez answer for his illegal actions. Filing charges against him would do no good. Glvez was the law in New Orleans.
No, this situation demanded drastic action. A plan slowly formed. There were details to work out. It would take months to put it into action, for a soldier simply did not walk away from his duties and responsibilities so he could take care of personal affairs. No matter how long it took, he would restore honor to his cousins memory by bringing Glvez to justice.
Chapter Two
August 17, 1779
Lorenzo pushed open an iron gate large enough to drive a carriage through and walked to the courtyard at the back of Colonel Glvezs house. He picked up a pebble and threw it at an open window on the second floor. It pinged gently against the top pane. Eugenie stuck her head out the window. Ill be down in a minute, m o n p etit cho ux. She spoke in French, her native language. Lunch is on the veranda. Ill meet you outside. Lorenzo bounded up the steps. As usual, Eugenie had draped the tray with tea towels to protect it from flies and other pests. In August, New Orleans became an oven. Eating indoors was impossible, so Lorenzo and Eugenie always ate lunch in the courtyard. He peeked under the tea towel and found soup, salad, rolls, silverware, glasses, and a pitcher of water. He breathed deep, enjoying the tangy smell of gazpacho, a soup always served cold. It was Colonel Glvezs favorite dish because it reminded him of his boyhood home in southern Spain. Lorenzo carried the tray to their usual eating spot, a table for two beneath the cypress tree in the backyard. He and Eugenie had fallen into a comfortable routine. In the morning, Lorenzo tended patients at Kings Hospital,
visited Eugenie for lunch, and spent the afternoon at the office he shared with an elderly physician. Lorenzo had become a fixture at Colonel Glvezs house. Servants knew to unlock the back gate at precisely twelve oclock so he wouldnt have to come through the front door and disturb the household. Lorenzo sat down in a wrought-iron chair, grabbed a roll, and bit into it. Good manners suggested that he wait for his fiance, but a man could starve to death in the meantime. Eugenies idea of time differed from his. One minute often stretched to five. A muggy stillness hovered over the city. Blackishgreen clouds edged the southern horizon, but the rest of the sky remained a cloudless bright blue. It was perfect hurricane weather. Eugenie came down the back steps, looking elegant in a dark blue dress. Pearl-encrusted combs, Lorenzos gift on her last birthday, her eighteenth, held reddishgold hair in a tight bun. A small gold cross hung around her neck. Lorenzo stood and walked toward her. A knot came to his throat every time he saw her. He loved this woman with all his heart. Standing on tiptoe, she stretched to kiss him. At 511 Lorenzo towered over her by nearly five inches. They shared a kiss. It had been a long romance, spanning three years. Military duty had caused several lengthy separations, but in two days, they would finally wed. He studied her face. She looked pale and drawn. Her bright green eyes had lost their luster. He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. How do you feel? She swatted it away. I feel fine. Stop being a doctor. Her temperature seemed normal. Still, he worried. Last winter, smallpox had swept through the city, forcing Colonel Glvez to quarantine the sick across the river on
the west bank. Summers were an even more dangerous time, when the heat made New Orleans a breeding ground for disease. Lorenzo ushered Eugenie to a seat, then sat opposite her. She bowed her head, traced the sign of the cross, and folded her hands. He did likewise and listened while Eugenie said grace. She was far more religious than he, although they had both been raised Catholic. Eugenie believed that everything happened for a purpose. Lorenzo wasnt so sure. She ladled the gazpacho into a bowl and set it in front of him while he poured them each a glass of water. Will you see patients after lunch? she asked. He nodded. I have three scheduled. It looks like word is getting out about my practice. He grinned. Of course, it helps that I speak English and Spanish. Both the Americans and the Spanish come to me. Just make sure your patients arent British. Hey! Some of my best friends are British. Lorenzo tried to sound offended. What if I were to tell you a redcoat once saved my life? Id thank him and tell him to get going before I kicked him in the . . . Eugenie! Shins! What did you think I was going to say? Lorenzo laughed out loud. He knew she hated the British, and for good reason. They had burned down her fathers home in Canada because he had refused to pledge allegiance to the king of England. Her father had passed hatred for the British on to his daughter. To turn the subject to something more pleasant, Lorenzo asked, What are your plans for this afternoon?
Im going to church with Colonel Glvez to talk over a few last minute wedding details with the priest. Colonel Glvez was like a father to Eugenie and would give the bride away. He even called her m ija , my daughter, the Spanish term of endearment. Soon after arriving in New Orleans, he had arrested her for picking his pocket. When he learned that her family was dead and she was living alone on the streets, he found her a position as a maid in the Widow De Saint Maxents household. When do you think youll be back? Lorenzo asked. Im not sure. Weve been invited to a party, you know. It starts at seven. Ill be back in plenty of time to get ready. Lorenzo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Of course, I could go without you, it being one of my last nights as a bachelor. Eugenie slapped him playfully on the arm. A far-off rumbling made him glance over his shoulder. A month earlier, a hurricane had threatened the city, sending people scurrying into St. Louis Church where they prayed and lit candles. It had worked. The hurricane spent itself soon after making landfall and passed through the city without much damage. Today, the horizon darkened the same way. Whats wrong, Lorenzo? Eugenie asked. It looks like a hurricane is brewing in the gulf. Weve already had one this year. New Orleans never gets two in one season. Hurricanes are like women. You never know what theyll do next. Eugenie mumbled something in French that Lorenzo didnt catch. He was reasonably sure he didnt want to know what she had said.
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The gazpacho is delicious, he said. Did you make this? Mo n cher! she exclaimed in exasperation. I told you Madame De Glvez showed me how to make it yesterday. Oh, right. Eugenie sighed. You dont pay attention to half of what I say. That means well have a successful marriage. She rested her chin on her fist and leaned forward. Where did you get that idea? From the colonel. She laughed. Youre taking advice from a man whos been married less than two years? Who better? Lorenzo suddenly noticed that Eugenie was toying with her food, pushing bits of salad about the plate. Eat, he said, frowning at her. Im not hungry. Eat, he repeated. Humor me. She stabbed a forkful of salad and crammed it in her mouth. Happy? she mumbled around the food. Ecstatic. Eat more. The back door squeaked open and Colonel Glvez, the Governor-General and most powerful man in the Louisiana Territory, headed toward them. Robert Hawthorne scrambled up a levy and waved good-bye to the sailor who had rowed him to the Spanish side of Lake Pontchartrain. At his back, the West Flo rid a , the British warship that had transported him from Mobile, patrolled the twenty-four mile expanse of water. Hawthorne unfolded a map and got his bearings. New Orleans consisted of straight streets that intersected
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at right angles to form neat squares. The city was nestled between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River. He pocketed the map and set out down a dirt lane that led to the city. He stopped at a guardhouse on the north side of town. Out stepped a soldier wearing a white coat with blue collar, cuffs, vest, and breeches. He straightened a black tricorne with a red cockade. Hawthorne fished papers from his coat pocket. The soldier glanced at them and motioned for him to pass. Apparently, a lone man posed no threat. Hawthorne scanned New Orleans. Sadness swept through him to think that his cousin had died here. These buildings, these trees draped in Spanish moss, this sky were the last things poor Dunstan had seen. Hawthorne headed toward the Mississippi River. He crossed Burgundy, Dauphine, and Bourbon Streets, memorizing every featurea carpenters shop, a bakery, a tailor shop, a wigmakers, a blacksmith. Turning left on Royal Street, he happened upon two elegantly dressed girls about fourteen years old. Only their eyes showed behind unfurled fans. Hawthorne bowed. Mesd em o iselles , he said in flawless French. Co m m ent allez-vo us aujo urd hui? They giggled and curtseyed. In unison, they said, Bien, monsieur. Are you new to our city? the taller girl asked. I have only just arrived. Do you have friends and family in New Orleans? No, I am completely alone. Truly? She trilled her Rs in a most delightful way instead of swallowing them in the French fashion. Hawthorne assumed she was the daughter of one of the Spanish dons in charge of New Orleans.
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This place had promise. What a shame he wasnt going to be in New Orleans long. An old woman buying fruit from a nearby peddler snapped out something in Spanish. The girls gave Hawthorne apologetic looks and hurried over to her. No doubt she would scold them for speaking to strange men in the street. He had heard that these people were overly protective of their daughters and would call you out for a duel before you could say Jack Robinson. The girls and the old woman walked off. The tall girl glanced over her shoulder and winked. He winked back and remembered what sailors on the warship had told him: For smuggling, go to Manchac. For fun, New Orleans.
Chapter Three
Lorenzo sprang up from his chair at the colonels approach. The habit of standing for a superior officer kicked in even though he was no longer in the military. Seo rita , the colonel said, sweeping his hat off his head and bowing low to Eugenie. Your escort has arrived. I have to fetch a few things. She stood and headed inside. Lorenzo pulled out a chair. You might as well make yourself comfortable, sir. Eugenie has no concept of time. The colonel gave him a wry smile as he eased into a seat. Ladies keep us waiting so we will remember how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. If we expect the pleasure of their company, we must be prepared to wait for them. He reached into the bread basket for a roll. Have you thought about the matter we discussed earlier? Yes, sir, and the answer is still no. What would it take to convince you? Nothing short of an act of God. Lorenzo folded his arms across his chest. I like my life the way it is and see no reason to change it. The colonel nibbled on the roll. Not so long ago, you relished fighting the British. My priorities have changed. If the British were to attack New Orleans, Id be among the first to defend it, but I see no need to join the Spanish army.
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I know it looks like the city is secure, but I dont have enough men to fight off an attack. You have five hundred regulars. And three hundred of them are raw recruits who have never been trained or tested. What about the militia? You have over a thousand of them. The colonel snorted. Yes, but they are scattered all over Louisiana. If the British decided to attack, they would overrun us before I could get word to the militia. Do you think that will happen? Glvez looked grim. Its only a matter of time. They can attack from all directions. From Mobile to the east. Baton Rouge to the west. From the north by crossing Lake Pontchartrain. From the south by sailing up the Mississippi. The colonel leaned forward. Thats why I intend to attack them before they attack us. Stunned, Lorenzo could only stare at him. Colonel, the king will have your head on a platter if you start a war. The colonel smiled knowingly. The king declared war on Great Britain on June 21. I received advance warning from my uncle, but the British in Baton Rouge havent heard the news yet. It is to our advantage to keep them in the dark for a little while longer. Sudden realization dawned on Lorenzo. Those ships in the harbor arent there to defend New Orleans! Youre getting ready to attack the British! The colonel nodded. I could sit here and wait for them to make a move or I could take the war to them. The best defense is a good offense. Ive written to the minister of war in Madrid asking for funds and additional troops, but Ive received no answer. Therefore, Ive done my own recruiting. Thats why youve been pressing me to join the army?
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I need experienced officers. My offer stands. A commission in the army at the rank of major. Ill think about it. Think about what? Eugenie asked. She had returned wearing a bonnet that matched her blue dress. Over her arm, she carried a pocketbook. The intensity in the colonels expression suddenly dissolved. He rose, bowed, and gave her a disarming smile. I am trying to entice your fianc to join the Spanish army. Eugenie looked at him aghast. I hope he told you no. The colonels smile grew. Not in so many words. Stand firm, Lorenzo. Turn him down and be done with it. Glvez clucked at her. Im wounded, m ija. Im sure you are. The colonel aimed a finger at Lorenzo. Im losing my best spy because of you. Taking her place is the least you can do. Dont blame Lorenzo, Eugenie said. It was my decision to stop working for you. I told you Cuba would be my last trip. I know. And you will be sorely missed. Colonel Glvezs extensive spy network was scattered throughout Louisiana and West Florida. Each spy worked independently and did not know the identity of others in the network. Eugenie had been part of it for the last three years. Lorenzo often worried that the British would arrest her. A spys fate was to hang on the gallows. Colonel Glvez thrust out his elbow. Shall we? Arm in arm, Eugenie and the colonel headed toward the back gate.
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The possibility of a British attack on New Orleans disturbed Lorenzo. If the Spanish lost the city, the British would control the entire Mississippi River. Lorenzo had devoted the last three years to fighting the British, but had resigned his commission in the Continental Army, satisfied that he had done his part to help free the American colonies. He thought he had left the war behind. Now it had come to him.
Chapter Four
A gate swung open in Hawthornes path, forcing him to stop in his tracks. A Spanish colonel stepped into the street with a woman on his arm. He closed the gate and tested it to make sure it had latched properly. He looked at Hawthorne and nodded a swift greeting. Was this Colonel Glvez? It had to be. How many thirty-year-old colonels could there be in New Orleans? Who was the gorgeous redhead with him? Hawthorne doubted that the colonel would flaunt a lover on the streets. It was one thing to have a wife in England and a mistress an ocean away in the colonies. Hawthorne never had to worry about the two of them running into each other. But New Orleans was a small town. News of indiscretions by the colonel would leak back to his wife. Arm in arm, the couple strolled off at a leisurely pace. Hawthorne trailed behind them, maintaining a reasonable distance. They chatted together happily in French, completely oblivious to the fact that they were being followed. People on the street greeted them with genuine affection. Men doffed their hats. Women curtsied. A Spanish soldier saluted and the colonel returned the greeting. Glvez stopped at a flower vendor and bought a bouquet of daisies. With a courtly flourish, he handed it to the red-haired woman. She accepted with a gracious smile.
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According to reliable sources, the colonel had married the most beautiful woman in New Orleans, a French creole named Felicit De Saint Maxent, a widow with a young daughter. Based on the reaction of people they met, Hawthorne concluded that this woman must be Madame De Glvez. Everything fit. He trailed after them. They made only one stop, at a jewelry store. They lingered inside for ten to fifteen minutes. Hawthorne was beginning to wonder if they had slipped out a back way when they finally emerged. Glvez and his wife crossed a plaza to St. Louis Church, a long, narrow brick building that faced the Mississippi River. Topped with a cupola, it had an arched front door with a round window above it. The colonel and his wife went inside. Hawthorne let out a long sigh. What to do . . . what to do. He had never entered a Catholic church and didnt relish doing so now. People flitted past, some speaking Spanish, most French. It amazed him how many were Negro or mulatto. Easily one-third of them. A strong wind blew in from the southeast and made a fleet of ships and smaller vessels bob in the harbor. It looked like Colonel Glvez had gathered every seaworthy vessel he could get his hands on. The British and the Spanish had lived side-by-side for several years in a delicate peace that could break at any time. Peter Chester, governor of West Florida, had complained to Glvez about giving aid to American rebels and harboring them in New Orleans. Glvez made a show of arresting American smugglers, only to turn them loose shortly thereafter. Hawthorne suspected Spain feigned neutrality but was, in reality, a major supplier of arms to the American rebels. Soldiers shuffled into the main square. Hawthorne watched in amusement as a sergeant attempted to form
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them into rows of four and march them around the square. Out of step, they looked like a drunken centipede with legs going in every direction. What a sloppy lot they were! An English sergeant would whip them into shape in no time. Hawthorne forced his mind back to the problem at hand: what to do about Glvez. Spanish soldiers loitered everywhere. Obviously, kidnapping the colonel here would be impossible. Hawthorne studied the ships in the harbor. He looked back at the soldiers all about. To a trained military eye, it looked like Glvez was preparing for war. A little black boy with a tin bucket in one hand and a cane pole in the other headed to the river. He sat down on the levee, reached into the bucket, pulled out a night crawler, and baited his hook. He dropped his line into the water. A Spanish officer rushed from a government building and dashed into the church. A minute later, he came out with Glvez. He talked with his hands, explaining something that made the colonel scowl. Hawthorne looked at the little fisherman. He looked back at St. Louis Church. Madame De Glvez was still inside. The words bait and wait flashed into his mind. If he couldnt get the colonel directly, he could make the colonel come to him.
Chapter Five
Charles Peel started counting his steps the second he left the boardinghouse. Fifty paces took him to the northwest corner of the main plaza. Another seventy-five found him in front of Chartres Street facing the wharf. By the time he reached three hundred thirty-three steps, he stood before a one-story house with a red-and-whitestriped pole attached to the front. A sign swaying in the wind read Dr. Louis Dunoyer, Surgery, and Dr. Lorenzo Bannister, Medicine. Lo renzo had seven letters in the first name. That was a lucky number and a good omen. There were nine in Bannister. Nine was three squared, another very lucky number. Charless landlady had recommended he visit Dr. Bannister because he was the only doctor in New Orleans who spoke English. Maybe the old sawbones could figure out why his head hurt. Charles slowly climbed the steps to the doctors house and paused on the porch. He didnt like physicians and avoided them whenever possible. Usually, their answer to every medical problem was Bleed the patient. A young man dressed in black came to the door and spoke in Spanish. Do you speak English? Charles asked hopefully. The young man smiled. Yes, I do. May I help you? I have an appointment with Dr. Bannister. The young mans smile expanded. Come inside. Ill see if I can find him.
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Reluctantly, Charles followed him into a hallway that stretched the length of the house. Where are you from? the young man asked. You sound like a Pennsylvanian. Nice guess. Im from Philadelphia. Inwardly, Charles cringed. He had let his guard down and given more information than he intended, but English was a welcome change. For three weeks, he had lived in New Orleans where people spoke French and Spanish. Where did you learn English? Charles asked. The young man, a dark-haired, black-eyed, Spanishlooking fellow, slid back a pocket door. From my father. He was a Virginian. He motioned Charles into a room off the main hallway. It was about ten feet by ten feet with a coat of white paint. A five-shelf bookcase held big, impressive-looking leather-bound books. In front of the rooms only window stretched a table filled with an herb garden and several empty pots. A locked cabinet with glass doors held neatly labeled vials, jars, and crocks. Mr. Peel, I presume? the young man asked, sliding the door shut behind him. Charles nodded, his gaze locking on a jar of leeches. Some swam about freely and looked like black ribbons. Others clung to the glass sides. He counted them. His blood chilled. There were thirteen, a very unlucky number. Please take a seat. The young man gestured toward a wooden stool. Charles sat down. The young man bent over a ledger and marked off a name. He pulled a second ledger from a shelf and opened it. Charles watched him write the date and his name in an elegant hand. The young man took a seat opposite him. What seems to be the problem? Wheres Dr. Bannister?
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Youre looking at him. How old are you? Eighteen? Good guess. I turned eighteen last month. Maybe I should come back later. When Ive turned nineteen? The young man gave him a self-confident smile and waved toward two framed documents hanging on the wall. My credentials. Charles studied both carefully. One was a diploma signed by two doctors in the Continental Army certifying Lorenzo Bannister as a physician. The other was a license issued by the City of New Orleans allowing him to practice medicine. Satisfied? the young man asked. Could I see Dr. Dunoyer? Certainly. He doesnt speak English, but if thats what you want . . . He moved toward the door. No, never mind, Charles said, remembering the word surgery behind Dr. Dunoyers name. A surgeons answer to every malady was to bleed the patient before he cut something off. Dr. Bannister returned to his seat. Whats bothering you, Mr. Peel? Other than my advanced age. Ive had a headache ever since I got to New Orleans. I cant seem to get rid of it. How long have you lived here? Three weeks. How old are you, Mr. Peel? Twenty-three. Married? No. Occupation? Im between positions. The doctor made notations in the ledger. What is your regular occupation? Charles didnt answer. The doctor looked up at him sharply.
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I didnt expect all these personal questions. Dr. Bannister put the quill down and leaned forward, his face deadly serious. Anything you tell me will not go beyond these four walls. You have my word of honor as a gentleman. My job is to cure you, not judge you. But the more I know, the better I can diagnose the cause of your headache. The man seemed sincere, and Charles believed him. Can you read and write? Yes, Charles said, wondering what that had to do with his headache. Show me. The doctor handed him a piece of paper. Write Dr. Bannister can cure headaches. Or whatever suits your fancy. Charles dipped a quill in ink and wrote with swift, sure strokes. He glanced up to find the doctors easy smile had returned. Congratulations. You spelled Bannister correctly. Most people leave out the second n. I saw it on your door. Youre an honest man, Mr. Peel. Call me Charles. He liked this indecently cheerful fellow but wasnt sure why. Take off your shirt, please. Charles obeyed. A frown flitted across the doctors face. Bullet wounds, Charles said to explain the scars on his chest, arm, and stomach. Yes, I know. I got them in the war. Charles felt he needed to let the doctor know he wasnt a highwayman. The doctor smiled sadly. I have a couple of war wounds myself. He moved his fingers deftly over Charless ears, eyes, throat, and neck with a skill that inspired confidence.
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The doctor pulled down Charless lower eyelids and grunted. He did the same with the upper ones, then paused to make notations in the ledger. Do you know whats causing my headaches? The doctor tapped Charless chest and back with his fingers. Sometimes when we move to a new area, it takes a while for the humors to adjust themselves. In other words, you have no clue. The young man looked amused by the remark. I have a couple of ideas. Do they involve bleeding? No. I trained under my father. He was a physician who never put much stock in that, and I tend to agree with him. Are you eating some new kind of food? Something that wasnt available where you lived before? Charles thought about that. Im eating more seafood. What kind? Mainly oysters and shrimp. For the next week, lets avoid seafood, unless it has scales and fins. That may clear up the headaches. The doctor again bent over his ledger and made notes. While he waited, Charles studied the plants growing on the windowsill, each marked in a neat hand. The window looked out on the main plaza. Charles could see a number of people in the square, on the street, by the wharf. One man in particular grabbed his attention. All the blood rushed from Charless head. That certainly looked like Colonel Hawthorne, but it couldnt be. He was in Philadelphia. What would he be doing here? He had no business in New Orleans, unless . . . unless he had been sent to bring him back. Charles choked on the thought. No, it couldnt be Hawthorne, only someone who looked like him.
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Lorenzo noticed his patients sudden change of expression and followed his gaze out the window. Something had clearly upset him, but everything looked normal. A loose pig rooted through garbage. On the opposite sidewalk, a chimney sweep whistled a cheerful tune. A tall man, pale like an Englishman, walked against the wind. Only the approaching storm caused Lorenzo some concern. Rain-swollen clouds had swallowed sun and sky and turned the street a dismal gray. Lorenzo lifted Charless wrist and pressed two fingers to the underside to take his pulse. It was galloping. What had frightened this man? If youre looking for a position in New Orleans, Lorenzo said, trying to sound casual, I may be able to help. When I first came here, I didnt know a soul. I got a job with a man who ran an import-export business. He always looks for extra help around this time of the month, but needs someone who can count and write. Its only for a day or two, though. You should be able to find him on the docks. Mr. Pollocks a big, barrel-chested Irishman with a booming voice. Tell him Lorenzo sent you. Thank you, Charles said in a dismayed voice. Lorenzo noted that the mans pulse was slowing. He didnt know why this happened, but for some reason it was universal. When people were under stress, their blood quickened. When they were calm, their pulse slowed. Suffering an imaginary illness was also universal. Lorenzo suspected that might be the problem in this case. He recalled one of his fathers patients, a man with physical ailments that changed with each visit. One week, it was back pain; the next, a headache or an upset stomach. Lorenzos father always gave the man a bottle of medicine and instructions to take a spoonful every eight hours.
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Whats wrong with Seor Lpez Portillo? Lorenzo had asked after the patient left. Nothing. Nothing? Lorenzo repeated in dismay. But you gave him medicine. A little sugar dissolved in water makes him feel better and does no harm. All his ailments are imaginary. Pap smiled sadly. There is nothing physically wrong with him. Its all up here. He tapped his forehead with his index finger. Distant thunder rumbled, pulling Lorenzo back to the present. He moved behind Charles to look out the window. His elbow hooked an empty flowerpot labeled bella d o nna and sent it crashing against the floorboards. Charles didnt look around to see where the noise had come from. He didnt even flinch. Thats peculiar, Lorenzo thought as he bent over to pick up pieces of pottery. Mr. Peel, he said softly at the mans back. There was no response. Charles, he said a little louder. Still no response. Lorenzo slammed a book against the floor. Charles glanced over his shoulder. Oops, Lorenzo said, trying to act embarrassed. Dio s m o , he thought. The man is partially deaf. Lorenzo took a seat facing him. For the next week, watch your diet. Avoid seafood. In the meantime, lets try something. Lorenzo looked straight at Charles and spoke in a soft whisper. Im going to give you some medicine. I want you to take a spoonful every eight hours. Repeat the instructions, please. Im to take a spoonful every eight hours. Lorenzo suddenly realized that the man wasnt looking him in the eye. He was watching his lips move. Not only was the man partially deaf. He could read lips.
Chapter Six
Hawthorne glanced skyward. He had never seen clouds move so quickly, as if being swept across the heavens by an invisible broom. A storm within the hour would suit his plan perfectly. Bad weather always drove people indoors. Few people would be around to witness what he was about to do. He had to work quickly to put everything into place. A general store sat across from the Plaza de Armas. He stepped inside. It was empty, except for a weaselfaced man behind the counter. Bo njo ur, monsieur, the shopkeeper said. On the wall above his head was a handmade sign that read NOTARY. Hawthorne rested his arms on the counter, gave his most charming smile, and said, I need a piece of paper, ink, and a pen, please. While the man got the requested items, Hawthorne picked a ball of heavy cord from a bin of odds and ends. He set it on the counter. Add this to my bill, please. Of course, monsieur. Hawthorne bent over the blank page the man provided and wrote out an arrest warrant. Before he sold his military commission and became a civilian, he served as an intelligence officer, ferreting out spies and traitors. Most were men, but occasionally he arrested a woman. In the space where he would normally put the criminals name, he paused, then wrote Marie Claire Jupp, his wifes maiden name. Hawthorne finished the arrest
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warrant and glanced over the page. It had no official seal, but looked elegant and impressive in spite of that. He stashed it in his inside coat pocket. Thatll be a pillar dollar, the weasel-faced man said. Hawthorne paid and left. He headed to a blacksmiths shop near the Plaza de Armas. A muscular man making nails looked up from his task. Can I help you? he asked with a heavy Spanish accent. I would like to buy two horses, Hawthorne said. One with a regular saddle, the other with a sidesaddle. The smith laid down his hammer and led him from stall to stall. He had an impressive line of stock from dish-faced Arabians to spirited mustangs. Hawthorne examined them all. None could compete with the thoroughbreds he raised on his estate in England, but he finally found two that would suit his purposes. After they negotiated a price, Hawthorne paid the smith in cash and tucked the bill of sale in his jacket pocket next to the arrest warrant. I need the horses within the hour. The man sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Cant have them ready by then. That wasnt a request. It was a demand. Hawthorne grabbed the mans hand and slapped five pounds sterling into his palm. He gave the man the address of a house he had passed on the way into town. The horses must be in the barn within the hour. The man looked him in the eye and his face lost color, apparently realizing Hawthorne was not a man to be trifled with. Ped rito ! the smith yelled to a little boy mucking out a stall. Get this gentlemans horses ready now! Hawthorne stepped into the street and scanned the pewter-gray sky. It grew darker by the minute. Winds whipped around him, almost blowing the hat from his
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head. He took shelter under a tree with large, waxy leaves. Was Glvezs wife still inside the church? There was one way to find out: go inside. The thought of doing that made him feel awkward and uncomfortable. Raindrops splattered on the ground and decided the matter for him. Staying dry inside a Papist church was more appealing than getting soaked outside it. He dashed across the square and into the church. Blinded by the sudden dimness of its interior, he paused. A feeling of deep discomfort swelled inside him. This was the first time he had set foot in a Catholic church, although he had heard rumors of every stripe about the suspicious activity that went on here. Church services were conducted in Latin, not the language of the common man. Hawthorne wondered why. Truth be known, he didnt believe in any religion. He had been raised by a father who went to church for marriages and funerals. His mother had been only mildly religious. Between the two of them, they hardly inspired a deep affection for belief in anything. Straight ahead stretched rows of box pews. On both sides were paintings of the crucifixion of Jesus, from his trial to being placed in the tomb. The gruesome detail of each painting horrified him, especially the one showing nails being driven into Christs palms. He tried not to look at them as he headed toward the front of the church, where Felicit De Saint Maxent De Glvez chatted with the priest. She tucked a stray wisp of red hair beneath her bonnet. Hawthornes footsteps echoed abnormally loud in the musty dark. Hat in hand, he half bowed. I am sorry to interrupt, he said in fluent French to the priest. He turned to the woman. May I have a word with you in private? Bien sr, monsieur. Of course, sir.
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When they were out of earshot, he said, There has been an accident. The colonel needs you. Her face went white. What has happened, monsieur? He put on a pained expression. Hes been shot. Hes asking for you. Her hand flew to her mouth. Where is he? I am to take you to him. She hurried to the door. Hawthorne ran to catch up with her. Wait! the priest called out. Hawthornes insides collapsed. Had the priest caught on to the deception? Had his plan fallen apart so quickly? Take an umbrella, my son, the priest said. Mine is in the stand by the door. Thank you, Hawthorne said, amused. Only Frenchmen used umbrellas. The ridiculous custom hadnt caught on in England and, hopefully, never would. Come! Madame De Glvez said impatiently, tugging on his sleeve. He stepped outside the church, his foot bracing the door open for her, and unfurled the umbrella. Rain peppered it. She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes as she stepped beneath it. This would be easy. So very easy. They set out. Slowed by treacherously slick cobblestones, they headed up Orleans Alley. They made a right, then a left on Du Maine. The rain became a little fiercer, forcing people indoors. It suddenly occurred to him that he had to get this woman past the guard. Would the soldier on duty recognize her? Most certainly! Not only was Felicit De Saint Maxent De Glvez the governors wife, she was the
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daughter of the richest merchant in town and had been raised in New Orleans. Where are we going? Madame De Glvez asked. They were approaching the northern part of the city, where houses began to thin out. Ahead were empty blocks laid out for the citys expansion. Its ahead. Just a little further. He could feel her tense, as if she suspected this was a ruse. She drew away from him. What is this about? Who are you? He collapsed the umbrella and threw it aside. Seizing her by the upper arm, he pulled her inside a house under construction. He stepped behind her, pinned her arms to her side, and covered her mouth with his hand. Be a good girl, he whispered in her ear, and no. . . Somehow she managed to bite the fleshy backside of his ring finger. She gave him a hard kick in the shins. Surprised, he cursed in English, whirled her around, and shoved her against the wall. He pinned her there with his body. Whipping out his knife, he laid it to her throat. Mad am e , I am armed. I am stronger than you. If you do not do exactly as I want, there will be consequences. And if you ever hurt me again . . . He let the threat hang there, knowing it was more effective unfinished. Pure hatred shown from her eyes. He had expected to see fear. I think we understand each other. He took the knife blade from her throat. I mean you no harm. Obey instructions to the letter, and I will release you in due time. I only wish for a few concessions from your husband. Do you understand? She nodded. Give me your bag. Reluctantly, she handed it over. He searched through its contents and found a key, loose change, several wadded up bills, a string of beads,
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and a ring. It was a simple gold band. He tilted it toward the light to read the inscription. T-E . . . A-M-O. What does that mean? Its Spanish for I love you. He smirked. The colonel is richer than God. Couldnt he afford something a little more expensive? The colonel . . .? Her questioning tone faded. The colonel is a wonderful man, she said indignantly. May I have my ring back? He wondered when she had taken it off. At what point did she think him a common thief and had hidden it in her bag? He had watched her closely from the moment they left the church and had seen nothing suspicious. Here, he said, shoving it on her finger. I am not a thief. No, just a kidnapper. The remark jolted Hawthorne. What a cheeky woman the colonels wife was! Why should that surprise him? She had been born rich and had married richer. She was probably accustomed to servants carrying her around on a silk pillow. There is a guard up the way, he said. If you betray me, his life will be forfeited and his blood will be on your hands. Understand? Perfectly. He took the ball of heavy cord from his jacket pocket and tied her hands in front of her. Next, he picked up the umbrella and unfurled it. Holding her by the arm, they set out again. Eugenies mind was awhirl. He think s I am the co lo nels w ife , she thought. She wondered how he had gotten that idea. It was in her best interest not to tell him about his mistake. No doubt, this man had kidnapped
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her for money and believed the colonel would pay a huge ransom for his wife. He was right. The colonel was madly in love with Felicit. The ring on her finger was Lorenzos. The day of their wedding, she was going to surprise him with it. He didnt realize it was to be a double ring ceremony. That was what she had been talking about with the priest when this man showed up. Eugenies next thought was to attract someones attention, either by screaming or running like the devil. With her hands tied, running would be difficult at best. Could she get away before the man sank a knife into her? There was no one around to come to her aid. Her best hope was for the guard to recognize her and realize she was in trouble. The rainfall increased, turning the street into a muddy mess. They stopped at a barn. Her kidnapper led her inside where two saddled horses awaited. He hoisted her on one and swung up on the other. Taking the reins of her horse, he led her into the storm. Within seconds, they were soaked. Luckily, it was a warm summer day and her bonnet protected her face and hair. Her kidnapper took her due north toward the guard shack. Did her abductor understand Spanish? He was English and had given himself away when he cursed. His French was flawless, a pure Parisian accent full of idioms and turns of phrases only a Frenchman would know. What weapons did this man have on him, other than a knife? How good was he with it? Once, she had seen Lorenzo bury a knife blade dead center in a target. Could this man do the same? Fifty paces ahead lay the guard shack. The sentry stepped out.
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Her heart sank. She didnt recognize the man. He was probably a new recruit from Mexico or the Canary Islands. I am escorting this woman to Baton Rouge to stand trial, her kidnapper said in flawless French. I have an arrest warrant. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. The guard glanced at the paper, narrowed his eyes at Eugenie, and motioned them through. She looked back at New Orleans. Would she ever see it again?
Chapter Seven
Youre hired, the barrel-chested Irishman said, thrusting out a meaty hand to seal the bargain. Thank you, sir, Charles replied as his arm was pumped up and down until it ached. Dont be thanking me. The Irishmans voice boomed in the wharf-side warehouse. Thank Lorenzo. Hes never steered me wrong yet. Except perhaps for that twig over there. Twas on Lorenzos suggestion that I hired young Thomas, the devil take him. A brown-haired boy counting bottles on a shelf glanced up at the mention of his name and smiled. God save the Irish! Come here, young scamp. Show Mr. Peel how to take inventory. Yes, Mr. Pollock. The boy took Charles through a warehouse filled to the rafters with barrels and boxes. Thou art fortunate indeed to work for Mr. Pollock. Hes a fine gent and will treat thee square. Based on the boys accent, Charles assumed he was Quaker. Most everyone Charles had met so far had been Catholic. I would give thee a piece of advice, Thomas said, his piercing blue eyes twinkling. Mr. Pollock has no use for the British. From time to time, say something about the bloody Brits or mention how the Irish saved civilization. The Irish never did that! Charles protested.
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Aye, the boy said, raising an admonishing finger. But they think they did! Mr. Pollock is the richest man in town and the governors best friend. If he says King George is the anti-Christ, dont contradict him. Thanks for the advice. Gentlemen! the Irishman shouted. Thomas grimaced and rubbed his ear. We arent deaf, Mr. Pollock. You arent working, either! Start counting my wares. I expect a complete and accurate account on my desk by tomorrow morning. With that, Oliver Pollock grabbed his cane, swung a cape around his shoulders, and was off. Thomas handed Charles a notebook. Mano s a la o bra. What does that mean? Get to work. For several hours, Charles and Thomas worked on the monthly inventory. They counted boxes of candlesticks and wrote the number on the paper next to candlesticks. They marked an X on the end of the box so they would know it had been counted. After the candlesticks, they moved to the next item on the list, imported wine. After that came pins, needles, ribbon, and cloth. Then there were waist-high jars filled with olive oil, boxes of pewter plates, blankets, pots and pans, sacks of sugar and rice, coffee, pepper, bottles of wine. There were even playing cards and dice. Charles blew out a long sigh. Done! Thomas shook his head. Except for that. Charles followed the boys pointing finger to the second floor. An open storage area stretched from one end of the building to the other. You mean we have to do that too? It will take hours!
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Aye. That it will. Thomas smiled at him slyly. Mano s a la o bra . All afternoon Lorenzo watched dark clouds roll across the sky. The possibility of a hurricane still worried him. Lorenzo brought his pharmacy log up to date and stepped out on the covered porch to study the weather. Rain pinged on the metal roof overhead. His last patient hadnt shown up, probably driven away by the weather. He locked his office door and headed home. If he was lucky, he would get there before the rain completely drenched him. A sudden gale blew his hat off and pushed it down the street. Lorenzo scrambled after it, chasing it to the top of the levee. New Orleans was bowl-shaped and lay about six feet below sea level. On one side was the Mississippi River; on the other, Lake Pontchartrain. If the wind blew hard enough to push water over the levee walls, it would fill that bowl. Rain stung Lorenzos face like hundreds of bees. By the time he reached the cottage he shared with his ward, Thomas, he was soaked to the bone. Shaking off rain like a wet dog, he removed his shoes and drained the water from them. He stepped inside and headed upstairs to dry off and change clothes. He slipped into britches, put on a plain shirt, buttoned a waistcoat over it, then pulled on socks and a jacket. He went downstairs to the kitchen for a bite to eat. There, he found a note from his housekeeper. The party was cancelled because of the weather. Thomas would be working late. She had gone home early to avoid the rain, but had left supper for the two of them. Lorenzo decided to eat with Thomas, then head to Eugenies. He packed a basket of food and left.
Chapter Eight
What was next on the list? Charles looked down at his pad. Crate 66. He walked through the warehouse looking for it. Have you seen Crate 66? he called to Thomas. The boy pointed vaguely to the back of the warehouse. Sixty-six is a lucky number, Charles thought as he headed in the direction Thomas had pointed. Six plus six makes twelve. When you add the digits in twelve, you get three, a perfect number. The crate he was looking for turned out to be a hiphigh wooden box that had never been opened. Charles pried the top loose with a crowbar. Inside were boxes marked hair accessories. He lifted the top of one and found hair pins, brushes, and combs. A lump formed in his throat. He reached inside and pulled out a silver comb, the kind women use to hold their hair in place. Tilting it to the lantern light, his mind took him back to the worst day in his life. He rested his arm o n the d o o r fram e and w atched Ind ians arriving in Fo rt Detro it to co llect the bo unty o n scalp s. Go verno r Henry Ham ilto n enco uraged them to attack Am erican settlem ents and p aid them thirty co lo nial p o und s fo r each head o f hair they bro ught in. Charles tho ught abo ut his fiance, Anne, an Am erican Dutch girl o n a farm several leagues aw ay. Her father w asnt k een o n his d aughter m arrying a so ld ier in
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the British arm y, but had relented after learning that Charles cam e fro m o ne o f the best fam ilies in Philad elp hia. Charless father had nt exp ressed an o p inio n o n the im p end ing m arriage. That w as the ad vantage to being the third child . No o ne cared o verly m uch w hat yo u d id , as lo ng as it w asnt to o scand alo us and yo u d id nt d isho no r the fam ily nam e. A w arm feeling cam e to him to rem em ber the silver co m b he had given Anne the night befo re as a to k en o f his affectio n. It w as engraved w ith her nam e. Oh, Charlie, its beautiful, she had said . She w as the o nly o ne w ho ever used his nick nam e. Mo re Ind ians arrived at the fo rt. Charles d id nt reco gnize their tribe, but that w as hard ly surp rising. There w ere scad s and scad s in the area, m o re than he co uld k eep track o f. No t so lo ng ago , the Ind ians had fo ught fo r the French against the British. No w they w ere their allies. A lank y p rivate p o inted to Charles. Peo p le turned to w ard him . They stared . A feeling o f d isco m fo rt crep t o ver him . He reached into a jack et p o ck et. Where w as his luck y rabbits fo o t? He m ust have left it in his ro o m . No w o rries. His fo urleaf clo ver w o uld p ro tect him . Peo p le shifted unco m fo rtably and m uttered am o ngt them selves. The feeling o f d read grew . He reached into the o ther p o ck et to to uch the fo ur-leaf clo ver. His p o ck et w as em p ty! Where w as his go o d -luck charm ? An Ind ian, grinning ho rribly, held a sho ck o f blo nd hair in o ne hand and a silver co m b in the o ther. Charles clenched his jaw in rage. He stro d e to w ard him . He k new , even befo re he snatched the co m b fro m the savages hand . He k new , even befo re he turned it o ver and read the engraved nam e. He k new .
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Anne w as d ead . The savage held her hair. Charles slugged the Ind ian square in the jaw , send ing him sp raw ling. He fell o n him . Only vaguely d id Charles recall his fists p o und ing and p o und ing and p o und ing, but he rem em bered his d eterm inatio n to k ill the m an. Hand s grabbed him fro m behind and hauled him o ff the Ind ian w ho lay blo o d ied and still.
Thou art a thousand miles away. Huh? What? Charles asked, suddenly back in the present. Sorry. I was thinking about something else. He tried to muster a smile, but couldnt. He was on the run, wanted for murder. There wasnt a lot to smile about.
Lorenzo slogged through the streets of New Orleans on the way to the warehouse. He dodged around puddles and held the food basket tight beneath his cape to protect it from the drizzle. He slid back the main door to the warehouse and announced, I have food! Come and get it. Be right there, Thomas yelled. He clambered down a long ladder, leaving a man with a notebook upstairs in the open storage area. Lorenzo recognized him immediately. Charles! What a pleasant surprise! Hey, Doctor Bannister, the man said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Call me Lorenzo. He was glad to see the man had taken his advice and was now gainfully employed. Come join us. We have plenty. Using a workbench as a table, Lorenzo laid out a plate of fried chicken, corn on the cob, biscuits, and gravy. The aroma of food wafting toward him reminded him that he hadnt eaten since
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lunch. He was suddenly famished. He pulled three crates to the workbench to use as chairs. Charles sat down stiffly on one. He stared at the food the way a starving dog looked at a beefsteak. Lorenzo wondered when Charles had last had a good meal. When do you think youll finish here? Lorenzo asked Thomas. I have no idea, Thomas said. Mr. Pollock said he would skin me alive if the inventory wasnt done by tomorrow morning. Whats the big rush? Dont know. Dont care. Mr. Pollock was a hard taskmaster, but not to the point of making a fourteen-year-old boy stay up all night taking inventory. Lorenzo wondered if this was in preparation for the attack on the British. Was war that imminent? Thomas put his hands together and bowed his head over them. Lorenzo traced a slow cross over his chest and noticed that Charles did not. He merely clasped his hands together and lowered his head. Thomas said grace and ended with a firm Amen! He reached for a drumstick. Help thyself, Charles. There is enough here to feed the Spanish army. For several minutes, they ate in companionable silence. Charles licked chicken grease from his fingers. This is the best meal Ive had in a long time. Thank you. Ill pass your compliments to our housekeeper, Lorenzo said. I hate to leave good company, but I have to go. Heading to Eugenies? Thomas asked. Yup. Eugenie is Lorenzos fiance, Thomas explained. Theyre getting married in two days.
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Charles wrote the numbers 8, 19, 1779 on a piece of paper and added them together. His countenance darkened. You shouldnt get married on that day, Doc. Why not? Add 8, 1, 9, 1, 7, 7, 9 together and you get 42. Four plus two is six. He put his pencil down in a way that suggested he had made his point. So? Six is a very bad number, almost as unlucky as thirteen. Lorenzo was about to challenge his superstitious beliefs when the warehouse doors swung open and Colonel Glvez burst in, soaked from head to toe. A curtain of rain fell behind him. He scowled fiercely at Lorenzo. Have you seen Eugenie? No. Why do you ask? She didnt come home this afternoon. I thought she was with you. She was. I was called away on business and left her at the church. By the time I went back to get her, she was gone. I was hoping you would know where she is. I havent seen her since lunch. The colonel let out a long breath. The priest said he was talking to Eugenie when a stranger asked to speak to her in private. They talked briefly, and she left with him. Who was he? I dont know. The priest didnt recognize him. What did this man look like? Well dressed. Tall. Brown hair. He spoke French. You have no idea where Eugenie is? And she left with a stranger? The colonel nodded. Lorenzo leaped up, knocking over his crate, and dashed out the warehouse door to look for Eugenie.
Chapter Nine
Hawthorne drew rein at the first settlement he came to. The unimpressive cluster of buildings consisted of a trading post made of cypress logs and one-story brick houses built in the French style, with courtyards in the rear. He turned to his hostage. Say anything untoward, and there will be hell to pay. I am an officer of the kings court with papers for your arrest. These people will not interfere with an official in the performance of his duty. I understand my position perfectly, she snapped. Another thing. Never speak to me in that tone again. Keep a civil tongue in your head. He bounded down. As he helped her from her horse, three barefoot, shirtless boys in homespun trousers gathered around gawking at his prisoner. Their eyes fixed on her hands tied in front of her. Whatd she do, m sieur? one of them asked. Hawthorne decided to have a little fun. Sliced a mans throat from ear to ear. He ran his finger over his neck and punctuated the gesture with a slurping sound. Duly impressed, their eyes grew as large as shillings. No doubt, they had heard tales of notorious female pirates like Anne Bonney and Mary Read. Keeping Madame De Glvez at his side, he swapped their horses for fresh ones. He had to get out of Spanish territory as fast as possible. Once they crossed into British territory, they would be under English law where her husband had no jurisdiction. He had to lead her
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horse by the reins because Madame De Glvezs hands were bound in front of her. That slowed them down. Had his original plan worked and he had captured Glvez, he would have taken him directly to the Baton Rouge fort. The commander there would have welcomed the colonel as a valuable prisoner. The kidnapped wife of the Spanish governor, however, was another matter. Hawthorne didnt like this unexpected development, but circumstances had forced him to strike while the iron was hot. Success or failure often depended on the ability to be flexible. No, he couldnt take her to the fort. Kidnapping was a crime and the commander would want no part of it. That left only one place: his dead brothers house. It wasnt a perfect solution and he would have to watch Madame De Glvez night and day until her husband agreed to switch places with her. With his hostage by his side, he went inside the trading post and bought supplies, including a French Charleville musket and powder. He felt more comfortable with a Brown Bess, but this would serve his purpose. He purchased a pistol as well. Hawthorne helped her onto a horse and they set out again. Lorenzo had never felt so scared. Not when he was spying in Philadelphia and was very nearly discovered. Not when he lay wounded, hoping someone would find him before he bled to death. Not when he found himself in the middle of stampeding cattle. Nothing had scared him half as much as this. Where was Eugenie? He and the colonel decided to check every place she could possibly have gone. They went in different directions. Lorenzo visited her girlfriends, one by one, while
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the colonel called on other acquaintances. Lorenzo checked out the cottage he and Eugenie would move into on their wedding night, hoping she had gone there on an errand of some sort. There was no trace of her. Lorenzo leaned his forehead against the wall. He had to find her, even if that meant knocking on every door in New Orleans. And then he recalled how pale she looked at lunch. The hospital. That was it. She had fallen ill and had been taken to the hospital. Lorenzo dashed away. The nun on duty at Kings Hospital took one look at Lorenzo and her eyes spread wide open. Dr. Bannister . . . Whats the problem? Have you seen Eugenie Dubreton? Is she here? No. Why? This had been his final hope. Stunned, he walked away, not knowing what to do next.
Chapter Ten
Hawthorne opened his pocket watch and tilted it toward the fading light. It was seven oclock. They had traveled up the river road for hours and were lucky to have found an inn, although he wished it were further from New Orleans and a bit more elegant. The weather had turned nasty and it was impossible to travel further that night. He helped Madame De Glvez dismount. Holding her elbow, he led her inside. The bottom floor was a tavern filled with raucous men sitting at tables and drinking from pewter tankards. They spoke German. It was hardly surprising that everyone called this part of Louisiana the German coast. All talking ceased when Madame De Glvez entered. The men gave her long, admiring glances. Hawthorne gave them a black look to discourage any interest in her. A barmaid in a mobcap stood behind a long counter that ran the entire length of one wall. She filled a beer mug and looked up. Guten Tag, m ein She froze. Her eyes lit in recognition. Robbie! Robbie Hawthorne! I dont believe it! Hawthorne exclaimed. Patsy? She let out a squeal as she rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. They hugged tight. Patsy was Scottish, the wife of a private soldier who had come to the colonies to fight the rebels. When he fell at Bunker Hill, she took up with a corporal who was later
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stabbed to death in a drunken brawl. Before Hawthorne left New York, she moved in with Sergeant Willoughby. By all appearances, Patsy was working her way up through the ranks. What are you doing here? Hawthorne asked. Trying to keep body and soul together. Wheres Sergeant Willoughby? Died in the spring of the pox. I am so sorry. He squeezed her hands in a gesture of deep sympathy. He was a good man. Tis a bit of all right. Me and him got along dandy, but I got me eye on a German gent. Hes a civilian, alas. I do so love a uniform. She dusted the lapels of Hawthornes jacket. You cut a fine figure in the old red rag. Whyd you leave the service? I decided to set up a law practice in Baton Rouge. Go on with you now! A barrister? You? Isnt that like letting the fox guard the henhouse? He laughed. Perhaps. I didnt know barristers transported prisoners. This one is a special case. Ill need a room for the night. Patsy pushed back beaded curtains separating the bar from a private room. Man needs a room! A red-cheeked customer banged his fist on a table. Wheres that beer, wench? Patsy picked up a mug of frothy beer and blew Hawthorne a kiss. Eugenie understood the gist of what Hawthorne and Patsy said, but most of the conversation was nearly incomprehensible. Lorenzo had taught her a smattering of English, but he spoke in a soft Virginia accent that dropped the Rs. She had never heard English spoken this way, with all the Rs burred.
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Eugenie was wet and tired. She hadnt slept well the night before, a fact she hadnt told Lorenzo because he worried too much. Now, her throat felt scratchy. Traveling with Hawthorne, not knowing their final destination, frayed her nerves. He promised to treat her well if she behaved herself, but would he keep his word? She remained on constant alert. She could not afford to slip up and let him know he had kidnapped the wrong person. He would probably kill her if he learned she was not Felicit De Glvez. Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but Hawthorne never left her alone for a moment. He turned his back when she needed to relieve herself behind a bush, but remained close by. Getting away from Hawthorne when he had so many allies around would be difficult. The further she got from New Orleans, the less her chance for escape. Every step took her closer to English territory, about seventy-five miles upriver from New Orleans. She had to get away as soon as possible. Escape would be even harder once they reached English territory. A pudgy woman pushed through the beaded curtain and greeted Hawthorne in German. He returned the greeting and asked for a room. He paid for it and was given a key. We will eat in the privacy of our room. Please send a tray. The kitchen is closed. He laid a wad of cash on the counter and offered the woman an ingratiating smile. Perhaps you could find some bread and cheese left from supper. Ham would be delightful. And a hot pot of tea. Ja, ja, she said, slipping the money into her apron pocket. She drew back a beaded curtain and yelled to a scullery maid to prepare a tray.
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The innkeeper led them up narrow steps to a thirdfloor bedroom. She cupped her hand around the candlesticks flame to keep it from going out and stopped in front of a door with peeling paint. Hawthorne unlocked it. After you, he said to Madame De Glvez. Hands tied together, she stepped inside. The room held two small beds covered with handmade quilts, a nightstand and porcelain washbasin, a folding screen, a chest of drawers, and a small table with two chairs. The floor was bare and squeaked with every step. If she tries to get away, Hawthorne thought, Ill hear her moving about. He peeked out the rooms only window. Lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating the courtyard below. It was a three-story drop to the ground. Madame De Glvez would break her neck if she tried to escape through the window. You like the room? the innkeeper asked. Yes, it is quite suitable. After the innkeeper left, Hawthorne locked the door and slipped the key in his jacket pocket. Madame De Glvez stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting. Hawthorne untied her hands, removed his wet jacket and spread it over a high-back chair to dry. He took off his shirt, damp around the collar and cuffs, but otherwise dry. He laid the shirt over the folding screen. Change into this. No. Youre soaking wet and will catch a cold if you stay in those clothes. He looked her straight in the eye. I will not ravish you. I have never bedded an unwilling woman and I shant start tonight. You have my solemn promise that I will return you in the condition I found you.
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Casting him a doubtful look, she stepped behind the screen. While he waited, he cleaned his pistol and set it on top of a chest of drawers. Leaving a loaded weapon near such a cheeky woman would be unwise at best. She would use it on him if given the chance. There was a timid knock at the door. Hawthorne opened it. A scullery maid stood there holding a tray of cheese, horn-shaped bread, and a teapot. He gave her a tip and took the tray. He placed it on the table, locked the door, and slipped the key back into his jacket pocket. Madame De Glvez stepped from behind the screen, his shirt reaching her knees. She had taken off her bonnet and unpinned her hair. Reddish-gold tresses went halfway down her back. She edged over to the chair where his jacket hung and shifted nervously from foot to foot. Eco utez, monsieur, she said, hands knotted behind her. If you release me, no harm will come to you. I give you my word. In due time, Madame. My husband will pay any ransom. Name your price. It isnt money I want. What then? I will explain when the time is right, Madame. Please sit down. With great reluctance, she obliged him. He sliced the cheese into thin wafers, cut slices of bread, placed them on a saucer, and put it in front of her. He poured her a cup of tea. She frowned at the food. Eat, Madame. Im not hungry. We have a long trip ahead of us. Eat.
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Sighing, she nibbled on a piece of cheese and washed it down with a cup of tea. Hawthorne studied her while they ate in sullen silence. She kept her eyes down, glancing up occasionally. The last woman he had supped with in the privacy of his bedchamber had been his mistress. What a scene that had become when he told her he was going to Baton Rouge without her! Madame De Glvez finished eating and sat back in her chair. He saw her shiver. Youre cold. Im fine. Get into bed. Youll be warmer there. No. Lord, woman! Do as I say. He went to the bed and turned back the covers. If you please. Arms folded over her chest, she trudged to the bed and slipped between the sheets. Thats a good girl. He tucked the quilt around her. He pushed the second bed next to hers, stretched out beside her on top of the covers and put an arm around her middle. This should keep you from going anywhere. In this position, the slightest movement would wake him. Good night, Madame. I am told I snore, so I apologize in advance for any inconvenience. Eugenie lay in bed, pinned in place by his muscular arm. Little by little, the cold iron key in her hand warmed. She had lifted it from Hawthornes jacket right in front of his face and he had not noticed. She watched lightning illuminate the room and struggled to stay awake. When he fell asleep, she could get away.
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Light snoring turned to deep, throaty snorts. While she waited for just the right moment, she idly wondered if Lorenzo snored. It seemed like hour upon hour went by, but she knew that was not so. Loud drunken voices, most speaking German, drifted through the floorboards from the room below. Tomorrow, they would pass through the Acadian Coast populated with French Canadians, some of them her fathers friends. Noises in the tavern became fewer and fewer. Hawthorne rolled over. His snores changed to short rumbles. Eugenie waited to make her move until she was certain he was asleep. She eased back the covers. A lightning bolt lit the room. She memorized the location of the furniture to avoid running into it. She took mincing steps and prayed the floorboards would not squeak and betray her. Ever so carefully, she eased the key toward the keyhole, but before she could insert it, something rustled behind her. She froze. Her abductor lit a candle. Where do you think youre going? She whirled in surprise. Hawthorne raised up on one elbow. Give me the key. Get back to bed. A flash of lightning lit the pistol on the chest of drawers. She grabbed it and pointed it at him. Go ahead. Shoot. Its not loaded. She aimed and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked in the pan. Nothing happened. She growled in frustration and threw the pistol at him. He caught it in one hand. Damn, woman! I told you I would do you no harm. How am I repaid? You try to kill me. Before this is over, I will see you dead. He looked at her with chillingly cold eyes. Get back to bed.
Chapter Eleven
Rain hammered the warehouse roof. Charles slid back the door a fraction of an inch and peeped out. How could Thomas be sleeping through this? They had finished the inventory some time ago, but decided that the weather was far too bad to venture beyond the warehouse. The exhausted boy had curled into a chair, his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked uncomfortable. Charles took a blanket from a box and wrapped it around him, then went back to watching the lightning display. Lorenzo walked through the driving rain. It slashed his face, but he didnt care. He had to find Eugenie. Where could she be? Who was the man she had left with? He headed home. His path took him toward the warehouse on the waterfront. Lights in the upper window suggested Thomas was still there, working. The howling wind gathered force. A sudden thrust of air hit Lorenzo so hard he had trouble staying upright. He leaned into the wind, only to find it so strong, it actually pushed him back a couple of steps. Rain whipped around him. He grabbed a tree trunk and hung on with all his might. Overhead, branches scraped against each other.
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A wooden house across the way broke up bit by bit. First, roof tiles flew off. A rocking chair on the porch crashed into the wooden railing and smashed apart. Lightning struck the chimney. The loud boom accompanying the crash reminded Lorenzo of a cannon blast. A bolt struck the mast of a ship at anchor. It wasnt safe to be under a tree in a lightning storm, but the second Lorenzo let go of the trunk, he felt like the wind would pick him up and carry him away. Debris swirled in the air. He put his arm before his face to protect it from flying objects. Something whizzed past his head, so close it grazed his ear. If a lightning bolt didnt get him, a wind-driven object would. He had to get somewhere safe . . . and fast. Charles strained to see in the dark. There was something morbidly fascinating about watching this. Nature seemed to be dissolving before his eyes. A swirling gray cloud of debris whooshed by. A new bolt of lightning slashed through the clouds. It was quickly followed by another lightning bolt and another and another. Nature was putting on a brilliant display, far more impressive than any fireworks he had seen. It lit the figure of some idiot who didnt have sense enough to get in out of the rain. Lightning blazed. Dio s m o , Lorenzo thought. I was right. Its a hurricane! There was a bright flash of light. Something cracked overhead. Lorenzo looked up. A tree branch hurtled toward him.
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Charles saw the branch fall and dashed outside. The force of the wind nearly took his breath away. He struggled forward. Completely drenched in seconds, he swiped hair from his eyes and waited for another lightning flash. The whole street lit up. Wind blasted something the size of a bucket through the street. Charles found it impossible to move quickly against the strong gale. Plodding along slowly, methodically, he eventually reached the downed man. In a burst of strength, he managed to move the tree branch, throw the man over a shoulder, and carry him to the warehouse. Thomas stood at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Charles gently deposited his load on the floor. He looked down at the man. It was Dr. Bannister. I have an id io t fo r a d o cto r, Charles thought. Lorenzo! Thomas exclaimed, falling to his knees beside him. He started to shake him awake. Dont do that, Charles said. He might have a concussion. Lorenzo groaned. I dont, but my head hurts like the devil. Serves you right. Ive heard of people who didnt have sense enough to get in out of the rain, but never met one before. Thanks for the sympathy, Lorenzo said, squinting up at him. Youre welcome. Charles took a bottle from his pocket and offered it to him. No thanks, Lorenzo said. Its the medicine you gave me. Did it help? Yeah. Headaches gone. Works like a charm. You really should take a swig.
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Its just sugar water. Lorenzo sat up slowly, wincing. Why did you give me that? Did you think I was faking it? No. But you were out of a job. Probably hadnt been eating well. It was a logical assumption that your headaches were due to stress. Theres more to doctoring than just handing out remedies. Thats something I learned from my father. You treat the whole patient. Charles was caught halfway between anger and gratitude. On one hand, he was upset that the doctor had tricked him. On the other, he had shown him incredible acts of kindness. Getting him a job. Feeding him the first good meal he had tasted in a long time. Lorenzo stood up. He wobbled. Charles caught him. And I thought you were a brilliant doctor with a miracle medicine. Youre cured, arent you? Thats beside the point. Charles went to the warehouse door to close it. Water seeped in on the dirt floor. Charless feet squished in his shoes. There was nothing odd about that. He had stepped into a puddle or two rescuing Lorenzo. But his feet felt too wet. He looked down. He was standing in an inch of water. And it was rising rapidly. Water surged in. He tried to slide the door shut, but pressure kept it open. Thomas! he yelled, horrified to see it up to his shins. Get upstairs. He leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his might. Water was knee high. Lorenzo struggled through the water to help him shut the door. It was no use.
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Come on, Doc, Charles said to Lorenzo. We have to get upstairs. Thomas splashed through the water and scrambled up the ladder on the far side of the room. Water swirled around the warehouse, stopped by enormous bags of rice. Crates with light contents floated to the surface and bounced about. One of them slammed into Lorenzo and sent him splashing into the water. He thrashed about unable to get his footing. Charles lifted him up. Lorenzo coughed out water. He looked panicked. This way, Charles said, directing him toward the ladder. Lorenzo froze. Come on, man! Charles seized him by the arm and forced him forward. Lanterns hanging from pegs along the warehouse wall sputtered, threatening to go out. Charles wanted to grab one, but the water was rising too fast. It would only waste precious seconds, time better spent getting Lorenzo up the ladder. The higher the water got, the harder it was to force their way through it. The last ten feet was through chesthigh water. Charles ran into something and grunted in pain. Are you all right? Lorenzo asked, coming out of his stupor. Ill live. Get going. By the time Charles reached the ladder, water hid the bottom rungs. He had to feel for a toehold. Lanterns flickered. Charles suddenly realized that they were about to be plunged into total darkness. He plowed through water up to his neck and grabbed a lantern. He held it high overhead.
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Lorenzo was halfway up when water doused the other lanterns. Charles scrambled behind him, keeping the lantern above the water. The next thing he knew he was on the second floor, wheezing, gasping for air. Water dripped off all three of them and puddled on the floor. What the hell is wrong with you? Charles yelled in Lorenzos face. Lorenzo took a step back, his face showing surprise. What are you talking about? Why did you freeze, Doc? We could have drowned! Thomas stepped between them. Hes afraid of water, Charles. Lorenzo almost drowned once. Charles immediately regretted his outburst. Im sorry. For what? Saving my worthless hide? Lorenzo grinned, his usual good humor resurfacing. No, I mean . . . I know what you meant. I must say this is a first! Ive never had someone apologize for saving my life before! Water lapped the top rung of the ladder. You may be premature with your gratitude, Charles said, nodding toward the rising water. They were trapped on the second floor. If it rose much higher, they would drown. The crash of a thunderbolt awoke Hawthorne with a start. He still had an arm around his captive but he could feel her trembling. It reminded him of his six-year-old daughter and how she always climbed into bed with him during a storm and huddled beneath the covers. Its just a little rain, he said to Madame De Glvez. That, he thought, was an English understatement. It sounded like the storm would blow the building down
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at any moment. He stroked her cheek with his knuckle. No harm will come to you. I promise. She pushed his hand away. He put his arm around her and anchored the sheets in place. Something troubled him. Her cheek felt unusually hot. He wished she would let him take her temperature, but knew the gesture would not be welcomed.
Chapter Twelve
Lorenzo kept an eye on the rising water and was relieved to see it top off an inch below the second floor. He turned his attention to the constant lightning display beyond the warehouse window. Flash! Flash! Flash! Winds screeched past, sounding like a soul in torment. The stone warehouse seemed to be withstanding the hurricane with no problem. But what about the roof? What if it blew off? Would they be sucked out into the hurricane? He watched Charles dig into a crate. Thomas voiced the question on Lorenzos mind. What art thou doing? Looking for something. Aha! he exclaimed, pulling out a pack of playing cards. He opened another crate and found candles. And I thought taking inventory was a waste of time. After he lit the candles, he shuffled the cards. Dealers choice? Lorenzo shook his head. Playing cards was entirely too frivolous at a time like this. He was trying to puzzle out what had happened to Eugenie. Thomas? Charles asked. Playing cards are the devils playthings. Oh, good grief. Its just a way to pass the time. People use cards to tell fortunes, Thomas shot back. And gamble. Charles sighed, shuffled the cards again, and dealt a game of solitaire. Thomas watched with intense interest.
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Lorenzo could tell the boy was itching to join in, but couldnt get past some religious prohibition about playing cards. For an hour the storm raged, making talk impossible. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it was dead quiet. Thomas leaned the back of his head against the wall. It sounds like the hurricanes over. Its not, Lorenzo said. I dont hear anything. Thats because we are in the eye of the hurricane. The eye? Charles asked. Whats that? The center of the hurricane, Lorenzo explained. A friend of mine was raised in the Caribbean. He once told me about a hurricane that struck his island. There was an hour of dead silence. Then it struck again coming from the other direction, twice as hard as before. I dont believe it, Charles said. You must be joking. Lorenzo shrugged. He had better things to do than defend Alexander Hamiltons truthfulness. If he said there was an hour of calm, then that was the way it happened. An hour went by. Charles grew bored with solitaire and began to flick cards into a hat. Suddenly, the hurricane struck again, just as Lorenzo had predicted. The wind howled. Rain lashed the warehouse. The roaring and crashing seemed twice as loud as before. Doest thou hear that? Thomas said in amazement. I hate it when youre right! Charles said. Lorenzo laughed. Get used to it. Im right 99 per cent of the time.
Chapter Thirteen
For three hours the hurricane blasted through town. Eventually, it lessened in intensity and spent itself. When Lorenzo judged it safe, he threw open the shutters. Thomas joined him at the window while Charles opened one a few feet away. No one spoke for a long time. Everywhere Lorenzo looked, he saw complete devastation. Trees lay flattened. Muddy water swirled through the streets. The dirt trenches and wall embankments Colonel Glvez had ordered built for the defense of New Orleans were washed away. The city was completely vulnerable to attack. All wooden buildings and homes along the river had been blown away by the storm. Entire blocks were leveled. A few lucky houses had lost a roof and nothing more. It was a good bet that fields were flooded and harvests ruined on the plantations beyond the city. A carriage with no horse hitched to it was submerged in swirling waters. Lorenzo assumed the wind had blasted the vehicle from a nearby stable and parked it there. All kinds of objects hung from trees: a spinning wheel, strips of paper, a womans ball gown. Lorenzo was stunned by the damage. His companions seemed equally stunned. Drowned animals drifted by. Here a cat, there a dog, further on a pigeon.
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A casket floated down the street. Lorenzo traced a slow cross over his chest. It must have been pushed out of the ground by floodwater. New Orleans was below sea level, so families could not bury their loved ones underground. Most were buried on the highest and best-drained landthe top of the three-foot-high levee. Doest thou feel like Noah in the ark? Thomas asked. This gives me a whole new understanding of his situation, Lorenzo said. Thinking of the ark brought to mind the ships and vessels anchored in the Mississippi River. Lorenzo crossed to the windows facing the river and opened one. The harbor was empty. Where were the ships? Their captains had no advance warning and didnt have time to move them upriver to safety. Lorenzo rejoined Thomas at the window. Im thirsty, the boy said. Me too, Charles said. Its funny when you think about it. We are surrounded by water but cant drink a drop. Thomas looked at him quizzically. God knows whats in that water, Charles explained. It will make you sick. What are we to drink? If we get desperate, theres wine downstairs. Assuming the bottles arent smashed, Lorenzo pointed out. Thats what I like about you, Charles said, . . . ever the optimist. A pirogue, a shallow boat used to navigate the bayous, moved up the street. A man in a straw hat rowed from the back bench. Colonel Glvez occupied the front one.
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He looked up at them and shouted, Ahoy the warehouse! How are you faring? Fine, except we need water, Lorenzo said. The colonels hand swept the area. Id say we are suffering from an excess of water. What might your name be, sir? He directed the question to Charles. Lorenzo was surprised that Glvez didnt know him. He had the uncanny ability to address people by name and know their personal situations. Now, more than ever, with the British cruising Lake Pontchartrain in the West Florida, the colonel made it a point to be acquainted with everyone in New Orleans and know their reason for being in the city. Why didnt he know this man? Charles looked at Lorenzo. What did he say? He doesnt speak Spanish, Your Excellency, Lorenzo said. His name is Charles Peel. Is he English? American. A temporary employee of Mr. Pollocks. Did you find Eugenie? No. Were looking for her and others. My men are going from house to house, taking a tally of the damage and trying to get a count of the dead. Many houses have been destroyed or are in bad shape. What about my cottage? Lorenzo asked. Gone. Lorenzo felt like a huge stone was crushing his chest. The hurricane had cost him dearly. He was homeless, and Eugenie was missing.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Eugenie sat at a table on the inns first floor and gazed out the window at rays of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover. The world, still wet from the storm, sparkled. She wondered if it had rained in New Orleans. Hawthorne occupied the chair opposite her and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he waited for a servant to bring breakfast. They were alone, except for the innkeeper who flitted in and out of the room from time to time. Eugenie wanted to draw Hawthorne into a conversation so she could find his weak spots and increase her chances of escape. You speak French very well, she said. He smiled slightly. Thank you. Where did you learn it? From my nursemaid and nanny. They were French? Yes. My father wanted me to be fluent in French. Why? Hawthorne studied her intently as if judging her sincerity. From the cradle, I was being groomed to marry a French girl, the daughter of my fathers business associate. When I was born, my father and Marie Claires father signed a contract marrying us. Eugenie gasped, horrified by the idea. Is that a common English custom?
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With some of the aristocracy, yes. It was a business deal joining two great houses and two great fortunes. Nothing more, nothing less. Keenly interested, Eugenie leaned forward. Robert, she said, using his first name for the first time, when did I do not wish to talk about it further, he said curtly. The war had caused separations from Lorenzo that had been hard to bear, but it made them appreciate the time they had together. She hated Hawthorne for kidnapping her, but a small part of her felt sorry for him. A servant put plates loaded with eggs, ham, biscuits, gravy, and jam in front of them. Another servant brought a teapot and two cups. Eugenie stared at the food. It looked appetizing and smelled delicious. She was famished, but didnt think she could force a bite down her sore throat. Hawthorne, on the other hand, ate with gusto. He stopped suddenly and frowned at her. Why arent you eating? I dont feel like it. You cant travel on an empty stomach. Eugenie picked up a biscuit and nibbled on it. Come, now! He put down his cup. You must eat more than that! I cant. My throat hurts. He picked up the teapot. A cup of tea will help. I hate tea. It reminds me of the British. Why do you dislike the British? Because they are barbarians who kidnap people. He looked amused by the remark. He poured a cup of tea, stirred honey into it, and pushed it toward her. She pushed it back. It will make your throat feel better. I told you I dont like tea.
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Drink this or I shall force it down your accursed throat. She narrowed her eyes at him, but accepted the tea and took a giant gulp. Sip it, Madame. Good Lord, where did you learn manners? A kidnapper dares lecture me on etiquette! You have some nerve. See here, Madame! We shall spend quite some time together. Shall we make a pact to act civilized? Not possible. Youre British. Why do you hate us so? Because you think the world belongs to you. We do not! Of course you do! I can give you dozens of examples to prove it. Lets start with your American colonies. They are rebelling against you because of the exorbitant taxes you placed on them. He snorted. The colonists are a stingy, ungrateful lot! We fought a war to protect them from the French and the Indians, but when we raise taxes to pay for that protection, they whine like spoiled children! The British forced French Canadians to leave their homes. He shrugged. We won the war and the French lost. To the victor go the spoils. The Spanish took over Louisiana a few years ago, but they didnt burn down our homes. They didnt put us on ships and force us to leave. No, they moved in with an iron fist and executed five men in one blow. Because they led an armed rebellion against the Spanish. Once everything calmed down, we realized the Spanish were our friends.
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Hawthorne laughed. We conquer Canada and we are monsters. The Spanish conquer you and they are friends. They didnt conquer us, so its not the same thing. Of course it isnt, he said mockingly. One was an occupation and the other was . . . an occupation! She sipped her tea and regarded him over the lip of the cup. We have French Canadians, Germans, Canary Islanders, Americans, Irish, and free blacks living side by side in complete harmony. If that is what the Spanish do to a province, perhaps the world would be better off if it were all Spanish. And the fact that you are married to the Spanish governor of Louisiana makes you completely objective in the matter. Hes a wonderful man. Very kind. Generous. The people of New Orleans adore him. Do you know that he sent flour to Pensacola when he heard the people had nothing to eat? He fed his enemy. She drained her tea cup. More? Sure. Sure . Not yes, please or if you would be so kind. Sure . There was something common about this woman. She used words and expressions he didnt expect from an aristocrats wife. Perhaps she lacked refinement because she had been raised in a backwater colony. Hawthorne admired her passionate defense of Colonel Glvez. Would his own wife do the same for him? Highly doubtful. He took a long look at Madame De Glvez. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. What a lucky man her husband was. He wanted to draw information from her, but he did not want to be obvious about it. He cast about for a sub-
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ject she would welcome. How long have you and Colonel Glvez been married? She hesitated. A little over a year and a half. And hes been governor for three years? Acting governor. I stand corrected. How did you meet? At a party soon after he arrived in New Orleans. He put his hand to his chin in a purposefully thoughtful pose. I know little of Spanish custom. Must members of the nobility have the kings permission to marry? Again, she hesitated. Yes. He wondered why the king had allowed a man of Glvezs importance to marry a provincial woman with little to offer. To be sure, her father was a wealthy merchant, but the Glvez family was one of the richest in Spain and didnt need her fortune. The clock on the wall chimed seven. We must be going, he said, rising. He tied her hands and led her to the stable behind the inn. If all went well, they would reach his brothers house on the morrow. He didnt relish going there, for it would dredge up painful memories, but it was the best place to take Madame De Glvez. They set out up the river road that angled toward the northwest. At a rock outcropping, they veered due north and took an Indian trail that ran through the woods. They traveled for hours. Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but they never materialized. Running into the forest wasnt a good idea. Indians, wild animals, and poisonous snakes lived there. For the time being, she was safer with Hawthorne than on her own.
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She recalled something Lorenzo often said. Better the d evil yo u k no w than the o ne yo u d o nt k no w . Poor Lorenzo! Her heart ached to think about him. By now, he knew she was missing. He must be frantic. When the sun was directly overhead, Eugenie and Hawthorne stopped at a trading post. She looked around the settlement and hoped to see someone she knew, but did not. New people were constantly moving into Louisiana. A year earlier, pioneers from the Canary Islands had built a village they called Glveztown near the West Florida border. Hawthorne dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. He helped Eugenie down. A woman sat on the front porch with a little boy on her lap and cleaned his face with a handkerchief. He looked about a year old, the same age as Colonel Glvezs daughter, Matilde. Eugenie smiled to think how many times she had wiped jam and grime from Matildes face. The mothers gaze fell to the cord binding Eugenies hands. Her eyes widened. She pulled her child away as if Eugenie were a mad dog. Hawthorne, taking Eugenie by the elbow, steered her into the trading post. He looked acutely uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say something, but couldnt find the right words. Put your hands out, he said gruffly. Eugenie obeyed. He unfolded a pocketknife and sliced away her bonds. Thank you, she said, rubbing her wrists, surprised by her sudden freedom. Dont abuse my generosity, he growled. If you misbehave, you will be tied up for the rest of the trip. Hawthorne bought a mule and other supplies, including seven changes of clothes for himself and Eugenie.
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Fear zipped down her spine. Judging by the number of items he purchased, he intended to keep her prisoner for a long time.
Chapter Fifteen
By late afternoon on her second day of captivity, Eugenie noticed a change in the landscape. Lovely meadows and woods replaced marshy land. They seemed to be at a higher elevation than before. An hour later, they splashed across a shallow river about fifty feet wide that emptied into the Mississippi. Two forts sat across from each other, one on the north shore, the other on the south. In a burst of understanding, Eugenie knew where they were. Manchac! Colonel Glvez often complained about illegal smuggling that went on there. Bayou Manchac, sometimes called the Iberville River, separated the English colony of West Florida and the Spanish province of Louisiana. She had never been here, but she had seen it on a map. What the map had not shown was a narrow wooden footbridge connecting the Spanish fort to the British one. She supposed that it was difficult to live in isolation as these people did without becoming friends with the enemy. You are now officially in English territory, Madame, Hawthorne said, grinning, his relief evident. Eugenies heart sank. Escape would be even more difficult now. She had learned a little English from Lorenzo but wished she knew more. Hawthorne suddenly drew rein. A word of warning, Madame. I will introduce you as my wife, Marie Claire. Deviate one iota from that role and the bonds go back on.
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Do you really think you can get away with this? Of course. Marie Claire has never been in West Florida so no one knows what she looks like. If you tell anyone that you are Governor Glvezs wife, I will shake my head sadly and explain that you suffer delusions of grandeur. After two days of travel, Eugenie was exhausted. All she wanted was to sleep. She felt like she was coming down with something and didnt feel as mentally sharp as she should. She scratched her neck and wondered if she had poison ivy. Whats wrong? Hawthorne asked. Nothing. He ducked his head to take a good look at her neck. It looks like a sunburn. Theres an Indian village up the way. Well stop there and get something for that. True to his word, they stopped at a trading post two miles above Manchac. It held the usual: bolts of cloth, sacks of flour, barrels of oil. On a high shelf were vials of medicine along with herbal bouquets. It reminded Eugenie of the medicine in Lorenzos office. She tried not to think about him because it made her sad. Hawthorne bought food and a jar of salve. He escorted Eugenie to the trading post porch where they sat on a bench and ate lunch. He bit into an apple. Eugenie chewed on beef jerky. She was barely able to swallow it. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Does your throat still hurt? She nodded. He unscrewed the jar top. Using his index finger, he scooped out a vile-smelling substance. Eugenie shrank from him. Whats that? Alligator grease. She stayed his hand. Im not going to eat that. Hawthorne chuckled. Its for external use.
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Youre not putting that on me. It will help your sunburn. From what they tell me inside, Gator Grease is good for just about everything. With a surprising gentleness, he smeared a thin layer on the back of her hand. How does that feel? Good. He applied some to her face. Lift your head. She did. He applied a coat to her throat and neck. Thank you. He smiled. You are entirely welcome. A young man whistling a happy tune bounded up the trading post steps. He had long blond hair and an eye patch. He wore buckskin, a bright red bandanna knotted on the side of his head, and a necklace of alligator teeth. Eugenie sensed she should know him. He glanced at her, stopped, and swiveled toward her. Hawthorne stiffened. I am looking for the Clark cabin, the stranger said, directing the remark to Eugenie. Do you know where it is? Hawthorne answered for her. No. We are new to the area. Vraim ent? The stranger looked surprised. You look familiar, he said to Eugenie. Do I know you? Hawthorne stood and placed himself between the stranger and Eugenie. Shove off, monsieur! The storekeeper stepped onto the porch. Jean-Paul! I thought I heard your voice. Come in, my lad! Come in! The stranger touched fingertips to bandanna in a mock salute. It was a pleasure, monsieur, he said sarcastically as he stepped inside. Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul. Eugenie ran the name through her mind. Jean-Paul Dujardin! she muttered. Do you know that man? Hawthorne asked.
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Hes a highwayman! she replied curtly, trying to sound offended. We hardly travel in the same social circle. Hawthorne studied her, apparently judging her truthfulness. Unfortunately, it was the truth. Dujardin had once been a soldier in Lorenzos company but had turned outlaw after losing an eye in a duel with an irate husband. He had the morals of an alley cat, Lorenzo said, and had fathered a couple of children off Indian women at various trading posts. What incredible bad luck! The first person she recognized was a criminal wanted by Colonel Glvez.
Chapter Sixteen
Eugenie and Hawthorne traveled on. Shortly, a large settlement came into view. They rode past plantation after plantation. At one, they happened upon a booth where an old woman in a much-worn calico skirt, blouse, and turban sold fruits and vegetables. Hawthorne drew rein and twisted toward Eugenie. We will soon be at our final destination. Select whatever you need for supper. It was an atrociously hot day, and Eugenie did not feel like making anything that required a fire. With that in mind, she picked out tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, onions, strawberries, salad greens, and a melon. Hawthorne paid the bill, and they set out again. A few minutes later, he pointed at a town on a bluff overlooking the river. Your new home, Madame, at least for the time being. This is New Richmond. Or, to use the French name, Baton Rouge. Hope surged inside her. She could easily engineer her escape on the towns crowded streets. To her dismay, Hawthorne veered off the main road before they reached Baton Rouge and turned down a tree-lined lane. Eugenie and Hawthorne rode up to a two-story house with a wide, covered verandah. Vines twined around the pillars. She looked for signs of life, but there were none. The house begged for a coat of whitewash. Weeds choked the flowerbeds. Hawthorne slid down from his horse and lapped the reins of their horses and the mule around the handrail.
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He helped Eugenie down, escorted her up the stairs, and took a key from his pocket. While he opened up, she scanned the area. The verandah offered a view of the Mississippi River. Like most of Baton Rouge, the house sat on a bluff. From here, she had a good view of the closest building, an earthen fort that overlooked the waterfront. It was still under construction. Madame, Hawthorne said, pulling her attention away from the fort. He motioned for her to enter. The house had a musty smell, as if it had been closed for a while. Hawthorne set about raising the windows. A strong cross breeze soon cleaned the air. A couple of months ago, I inherited this house. We will stay here until this little contretemps with your husband is cleared up. Will you please tell me what this is all about? In due time, Madame. For the time being, you will continue playing the role of my wife, Marie Claire. Make yourself useful. Help me unload everything. They went outside to the mule. Hawthorne untied boxes and burlap sacks. He handed her the lightest item, the basket of fruits and vegetables they had bought from the roadside vendor. He hefted a large burlap sack over his back. We will move everything into the hallway for now. Its getting dark. We can put everything away later. It took three trips to unload the mule. Hawthorne lit a candle and led Eugenie into the parlor. Dust covers draped the furniture. In the faint light, they looked eerily like ghosts waiting to rise from the grave. Hawthornes gaze fixed on an oil portrait over the parlor fireplace. He held a candlestick close and stood in the semidarkness, frozen in place.
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Barely visible in the flickering light was a young family of three: husband, wife, and child. Hawthorne stood there as if bewitched by the portrait. Eugenie realized he had let his guard down. She took a step backwards toward the door, careful not to make a sound. Then a second cautious step. And a third. The floor creaked, betraying her. Hawthorne turned. Dont, he said coldly. She stopped. Taking her elbow, he led her around the first floor. It consisted of a parlor, dining room, study with builtin bookshelves, and kitchen. Eugenie could tell that he was intensely interested in each room. From time to time, he paused to finger an item. In one room, it was a tiny porcelain shoe that held a pincushion. In another, a coffee cup. A narrow staircase took them upstairs to two large bedrooms. Hawthorne entered the one on the left. Eugenie wandered across the hall to the second bedroom, where she found a small bed, a rocking horse, and a child-sized table and chairs. There was a second bed in the alcove. No doubt it belonged to the slave assigned to watch over the masters child. Through the rooms only window, she saw a small cemetery fenced with black wrought iron. There were two headstones, but from this distance, Eugenie could not make out the names. She glanced at Hawthorne. He headed downstairs and waited for her at the bottom of the steps. She followed him to the cemetery. He stopped in front of two headstones. One bore the name Josephine Hawthorne, born April 3, 1758, died April 7, 1779. The other read Abigail Hawthorne, born December 19, 1776, died April 7, 1779.
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Mo n d ieu , Eugenie said. Deeply moved by the sight, she made the sign of the cross. They died of smallpox, Hawthorne said in a barely audible voice. Relatives of yours? My brothers family. Im sorry for your loss. He looked surprised by her expression of sympathy. Thank you. His gaze locked on the headstones. My brother was the only survivor. It killed everyone. His wife. Daughter. Slaves. He couldnt bear living here. He felt guilty for letting them die. Why? He wasnt to blame. He was the garrison surgeon and felt that he should have saved their lives. Eugenie recalled the day Lorenzo lost his first patient, a ghostly pale boy who bruised easily. Minor cuts on him never healed. Lorenzo consulted every doctor in town and poured over medical books, all to no avail. How can I cure him, Lorenzo lamented, if I cant figure out whats wrong with him? Hawthorne sighed. I never knew my sister-in-law or my niece. My brother met his wife in Natchez. He was stationed at the fort there. A little later, he was transferred here. He wrote me regularly and told me about the plantation he had bought and how he was growing sugar cane. What happened to him? He rode off after the funeral. Hawthornes voice cracked. No one knows what became of him. Eugenie could tell he didnt want to discuss it any further. Her throat still hurt. I need a drink of water. He held the candle high overhead. There should be a well around here somewhere. Ah! Over there. He led her to a well and drew a bucket of water. Using a dipper, Eugenie drank deeply.
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A sliver of moon sailed across the sky, casting shadows on the flagstoned walk. They went inside through the kitchen door. Pots and pans hung from hooks and glittered in the candlelight. Hawthorne set the water bucket on the table. Eugenie felt weak. Her stomach ached and she desperately wanted to eat something, but she simply could not swallow solid food. Maybe she could down some gazpacho. If you will fetch the food basket, she said, Ill get started on supper. And leave you in a room with all kinds of weapons? I think not. It had entered her mind that she could hit him with a frying pan, but she was not about to confess to that. He smiled. After you, Madame. Im getting tired of you shadowing me all the time. Women usually enjoy my company. This woman doesnt. He laughed. Then I must try harder to be more charming. His face came alive when he laughed. Under different circumstances, he was probably a very likable fellow. Together, she and Hawthorne fetched the fruit and vegetable basket from the hallway. Eugenie dusted the kitchen table and placed the vegetables on it. She washed tomatoes. Hawthorne rolled up his sleeves and helped. Those tomatoes need to be peeled, Eugenie said. If you trust me with a paring knife A rich, hearty laugh rumbled from him. You once tried to shoot me! I trust you with nothing. Ill peel them myself. Everything else needs to be chopped as well. Eugenie found a bowl and rinsed it out. She searched the larder and discovered salt, pepper, and a crock of Spanish olive oil. She laughed out loud.
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Whats so funny? Hawthorne asked. I didnt expect to find Spanish olive oil. She knew the British sometimes went to New Orleans on spending sprees, but most Spanish goods made their way upriver illegally. Mounds and mounds were sold to the British, costing the Spanish government thousands in lost taxes each year. In a bowl, she mixed oil, sugar, salt, and pepper. She added the items Hawthorne chopped, smashed them together as best she could, and added a little water. Vo il! Gazp acho . He contemplated the mixture. Shall I light the fire so you can cook it? No. You can carry it to the dining room. Youre serving cold soup? Eugenie nodded. The recipe comes from southern Spain, where its hotter than the devil. Youre supposed to serve it cold. In the dining room, she took bowls, spoons, and goblets from the china closet. It suddenly occurred to her that a house that had been empty for months hadnt been robbed. Perhaps nearby residents didnt believe in stealing from the dead. Or they were afraid of ghosts. Or they thought everything was tainted with the pox. Eugenie set the table while Hawthorne lit a candelabrum. He pulled out her chair. Madame, if you please. He served the soup and lifted a spoonful to his lips. A look of surprise crossed his face. This is delicious! Eyes closed, Eugenie made the sign of the cross and folded her hands in front of her. She silently said a blessing. When she looked up, she saw Hawthorne had stopped eating and was watching her. Youve never done that before. Why now? I didnt know if Marie Claire was a Catholic, so I said grace silently.
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Why do it at all? She swallowed a couple of spoonfuls of soup to give herself time to think of a proper answer. The refreshing soup rolled down her throat, soothing it. When someone does you a favor, do you not thank that person? Yes. It is considered good form. God favored us with gazpacho tonight. I would have preferred beefsteak. And I would prefer to be free and back in New Orleans. You dont always get what you pray for. Have you ever prayed and asked God to smite me? What I pray for is between me and God. He obviously hasnt answered your prayers. I remain unsmitten. Maybe God is waiting for the right moment. He laughed. If I were you, I would be angry with God. He didnt keep you from being kidnapped. Im sure He had a good reason. She paused. Do you attend church? I am a member of the C of E. The . . . C of E? Church of England. Eugenie tried to stifle a laugh with her hand. Madame, are you mocking my church? No. Eugenie tried to regain control of herself. I never heard it called the C of E. In that case, I forgive you. And I forgive you for kidnapping me. Eugenie intended it as a joke, but could tell by Hawthornes suddenly solemn expression that he did not. She took another spoonful of soup but watched him out of the corner of her eye. What a complex man he was! One minute he was scorning God. The next, he was welcoming forgiveness.
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Hawthorne wasnt a bad person, she told herself. He could have killed her any time he wished, but didnt. He had taken good care of her, making sure she had food, water, and clean clothes. Maybe it wasnt a good idea to attempt an escape. She gasped, appalled by her thoughts. Hawthorne reached over and placed his hand on hers. Are you quite all right, Madame? Yes, she lied. Its nothing. But it wasnt. How could she think that the man who kidnapped her was a nice person? Suddenly, she recalled what an old friend named George Gibson once told her. His brother John had been taken captive by the Indians when he was a young man. An old woman who had lost her son rescued him from certain death. For several years, John lived with the tribe. He even married an Indian girl. Why didnt your brother try to escape? Eugenie had asked. She would never forget Georges answer. After the third or fourth day, John said his feelings shifted with a jolt. He realized that they could have killed him, but didnt. He didnt speak the tribes language and felt isolated. The old woman who adopted him had shown him acts of kindness. He began to identify with his captors. He didnt even try to escape. At the time, Eugenie thought Georges brother was a weak man who had given in to pressure. Now that she was in a similar hostage situation, she understood how he had felt.
Chapter Seventeen
Three days after the hurricane devastated New Orleans, Lorenzo collapsed into a pew in St. Louis Church, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He had reached the point of complete exhaustion. He wanted to sleep, but could not. Someone slid into the pew beside him. Lorenzo, come join us in the choir. We need more singers. Lorenzo peered at Colonel Glvez through halfclosed eyes. With all due respect, sir, go away and let me sleep. He shifted in the pew, trying to find a comfortable position. If you change your mind, the colonel said, Ill be over there. He headed toward the choir loft. As usual, Don Bernardo De Glvez was a bundle of energy. He hadnt slept since the hurricane struck, but that didnt seem to slow him down. He helped evacuate people upriver to higher ground, where clean drinking water was available. He supervised the cleanup of the city, making sure downed trees, broken glass, and dead animals were disposed of. The colonel even had to deal with an alligator found swimming the streets of New Orleans. Today, at the colonels request, a Te Deum would be sung and a special Mass of thanksgiving offered. The colonel was truly amazing. The hurricane had left New Orleans a muddy mess and destroyed his plans to attack Baton Rouge. A lesser man would have thrown his hands
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up in frustration. But there he was, putting on a robe so he could sing in the choir. The last three days had been a blur to Lorenzo. Staying busy kept his mind off Eugenie. He spent hour after hour treating people who had taken refuge in the church. Some had been cut by flying debris. Others had suffered broken bones when their homes caved in. Many people in New Orleans were now homeless, out of a job, and living in St. Louis Church. Charles Peel was among them. Lorenzo found himself homeless as well. He lived at the church because he had no other place to go. The colonel and his wife asked Lorenzo and Thomas to stay with them. Thomas had accepted, but Lorenzo politely refused, knowing it would dredge up painful memories. The Glvez house suffered little damage, except for a smashed room. The hurricane had uprooted the cypress in the courtyardthe tree Lorenzo and Eugenie always lunched underand had hurled it into her room. The hurricane had struck late at night when most people were asleep. If she had been in bed, she would have been crushed to death. Old feelings surged through Lorenzo, emotions he hadnt experienced since his fathers death. He was mad at God. Lorenzo attended Mass every Sunday and went to confession regularly. Why was God punishing him? Why had He taken Eugenie away? When it appeared Mass was about to start, Lorenzo headed toward the door. He passed the priest and his retinue standing in the back of the church waiting for the processional to begin. Where are you going, my son? the priest asked. Out, Lorenzo curtly replied. Arent you going to sing in the choir? Why? What do I have to thank God for? Eugenie is gone.
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The priest looked stunned by Lorenzos short-tempered remark. Altar boys standing within earshot looked equally stunned. Several made the sign of the cross and gaped at him. Lorenzo, the priest began. He laid a comforting arm on his shoulder. Lorenzo shrugged it off. Leave me alone. He stomped outside and crossed the Plaza de Armas. Leaning against the Royal Treasury Building, he buried his face in the crook of his arm and wept. Lorenzo had never gotten over his fathers death. It had left a hole in his soul. And now Eugenie was gone. So too were all his dreams for starting a family and having a normal, peaceful life. That was quite some scene back there. Lorenzo recognized Charles Peels voice and looked up. Charles stood beside him, solemn-faced, head down, hands laced behind him. I understand what youre feeling. How could you possibly understand? I lost my fiance too. Lorenzo looked quizzically at him. When Anne died, Charles said in a subdued tone, I was angry at God. I hated Him for letting her be . . . murdered. Im sorry, Lorenzo said. Charles acknowledged his sympathy with a nod. Grief sometimes makes us do things that we later regret. Youre strong and will get through this. God never gives us more than we can bear. Im not so sure about that. Music floated from the church, followed by a chorus of mens voices.
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You have two options, Lorenzo. You can reject God and completely turn your back on Him. Or you can trust Him. For my part, I reject the notion that the world is chaotic. Everything happens for a purpose. Was there a purpose to your fiances death? Yes. I dont know what it was, but I know God will reveal the purpose some day. Everything is in His hands. The words struck a chord. Lorenzo had been in some tight spots when everything looked bleak, but things had always worked out for the best. Come on, Doc, Charles said, gently tugging on his arm. You cant let this break you. The church service will do you good. You need to be with friends at a time like this. Lorenzo shook his head stubbornly. If this doesnt beat all! Charles exclaimed in exasperation. I finally find a doctor who knows what hes doing and I save his sorry carcass from drowning. What does he do? He goes to pieces! I cant win! Come on, Doc! He butted his shoulder against Lorenzos. Snap out of it! Lorenzo focused on the music drifting from church. Charles was right. He needed the consolation of religion and friends. For several minutes he listened to the soothing music. Charles stayed by his side. Lorenzo suddenly realized there had been a reason for his fathers death. It had made him leave Texas. He would never have met Eugenie otherwise. He would never have joined the Continental Army. Life would have been completely different. One of Paps favorite sayings suddenly leaped to mind. Sometimes his patients didnt have money to pay him for his services. Pap would put on a mock serious face and say, In God we trust. All others pay cash. But
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Pap would accept the chicken, piglet, or whatever the patient brought as payment. Lorenzo laughed out loud. Did I miss something? Charles asked. It would take too long to explain. Youre right, Charles. Really? What was I right about? Lorenzo headed back to church without answering.
Chapter Eighteen
Hawthorne awoke at first light and rotated his head to work out a crick in his neck. He wished he hadnt spent the night sleeping in a rocking chair. He had started out beside Madame De Glvez as usual, but she had thrashed about, making a good nights sleep impossible. At first, he thought she was doing it on purpose just to annoy him, but as time went by, it became obvious that she wasnt feeling well. He watched her sleep. She looked exhausted, with rings under her eyes. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she mumbled something that sounded like Enzo. The morning breeze billowed the window curtains. He peeped around them to look at Baton Rouge. The rising sun sent spears of light over the town. A million beads of dew spangled the ground. He sat at a desk and penned a note to Glvez. Hand to chin, he watched his hostage sleep. He tried to keep an emotional distance from her and refused to address her by anything but Madame. In spite of that, his feelings toward her were starting to shift. Regrets began to seep in and he didnt like that. If what he suspected were trueif Glvez was readying his forces to attackthen taking her hostage would serve a double purpose. Not only could he bring Glvez to justice, he could prevent an attack on Fort New Richmond. The colonel would think twice about attacking a town where his wife was being held.
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He reread the letter to Glvez, sealed it, and stuffed it in his pocket. At the first opportunity, he would hire someone to hand carry it. That meant he and Madame had to go into town. He riffled through their baggage and found a green dress and matching bonnet ideal for visiting. He hung it up to let the wrinkles fall out of it. His stomach rumbled. He snapped open his pocket watch and found it well past breakfast time. He washed up and changed clothes. A quick check showed Madame still deeply asleep. Leaving her alone was risky, but he believed he could go downstairs, brew a pot of tea, and return before she awoke and tried any mischief. The stairs were the only exit from the top floor, unless she tied bedsheets together and clambered out the window. He left the kitchen door open so he could keep an eye on the staircase. He threw kindling into the stove, took the tinderbox off the ledge, and lit it. He put on a kettle of water and searched through the goods he had bought until he located a tea ball and two tins, one containing loose tea, the other, biscuits. A few minutes later, he carried a tray upstairs and set it on the nightstand. Wake up, Madame. Breakfast is served. He sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. Her cheeks were tinged a light red. It worried him, but he dismissed his concern, telling himself that people with porcelain-like complexions blushed easily. How are you feeling? Fine. Is your throat still hurting? A little. He filled her cup, added honey, and stirred it until dissolved. He passed it to her. She took a sip and winced.
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He frowned. I have an errand to run at the fort. Afterwards, we will go downtown and visit the doctor. Go change your clothes. She slipped behind the folding screen. Remember, he said, making his voice low and threatening, you must play the role of Mrs. Hawthorne to the hilt or there will be hell to pay. She thrust her head around the screen and smiled sweetly. But of course, Robbie. What a strange woman the colonels wife was! She didnt seem scared of him at all. She stepped from behind the screen and looked in the floor-length mirror to comb her hair. The dress accented her eyes and hair perfectly. Hawthorne silently congratulated himself on his ability to put women in clothing that brought out their best features. Not a breath of air stirred the humid August morning as Eugenie and Hawthorne made their way to Fort New Richmond, a quarter-mile from the house. Meadows of indigo and fields of sugar cane stretched behind them. Using the back of her hand, Eugenie wiped away sweat forming under her bonnet brim. She cringed and hoped Hawthorne hadnt noticed the mistake. Felicit would have dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief instead of wiping away sweat like a common field hand. Eugenie glanced up at him. He frowned in a mixture of surprise and confusion. Playing the role of Felicit drained Eugenie emotionally. It took far more mental effort than she expected. She had been Felicit De Glvezs maid for several years and knew her likes and dislikes. It was one thing to be around someone day after day, but it was another matter entirely to be that person.
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Hawthorne slowed his pace. Are you quite all right? Im fine. But she wasnt. She felt awful. Her sore throat had prevented her from eating solid food, and she felt weak with hunger. I need to stop in the fort and speak briefly with the commander. Are you sure you feel well enough for a visit? Im just tired from the trip. She liked the idea of going inside the new fort to see what the British were doing. A dirt road led to a plank drawbridge. A high wooden gate, the only entrance to the fort, stood wide open. Two sentries leaned on their muskets. Apparently, they did not know Colonel Glvezs army was on the march and would soon reach Baton Rouge. But Eugenie did. The colonel had confided to her that he and his army would set out on August 22. Stop that dog! someone yelled. Barreling out of the fort and directly toward them was a yellowish-brown terrier, ears flapping, leash dangling. A red-coated private was in hot pursuit. Hawthorne took off his jacket and threw it on top of the dog. There was a yelp of surprise as dog and jacket went tumbling. Hawthorne scooped both up and clamped his hand over the beasts muzzle. The private ran up to Hawthorne. Thank you! You saved my life. Colonel Dickson would tan my hide if I lost his dog. Hawthorne handed it to him. I had a terrier once that bolted every chance he got. Theyre stubborn dogs.
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Aye, sir, that they are. He tipped his hat in Madames direction. Davy Morgan, at your service, maam. My wife is French, Hawthorne explained to the boy, who stood 53 and looked thirteen years old. Her English is limited. Is she from New Orleans? Private Morgan asked in a confidential tone. No, Hawthorne lied, surprised by the question. Good. Id hate to be the bearer of bad news. What do you mean? New Orleans was hit by a hurricane a couple days ago. We just heard about it. Was anyone hurt? Lots of people. Some killed too. Do you know any of the victims names? No, sir. All I know is the hurricane flattened New Orleans like a pancake. Madame tugged on Hawthornes sleeve. What did he say about a hurricane in New Orleans? she asked in French. He explained it as gently as possible. White-faced, she began to cry. He took her face in his hands and wiped away tears with his thumbs. Please dont cry. The commander will have the latest news about the hurricane. Lets go see him. Hawthorne needed to tell Dickson about war preparations he observed in New Orleans. Before the hurricane, Glvez was posed to strike. Of that, he was sure. Had it stopped him? Or had it only slowed him down a bit? Madame took halting steps. Robbie, she said. I dont feel very . . . She fainted.
Chapter Nineteen
Don Bernardo De Glvez strode toward the Plaza de Armas in the company of Don Oliver Pollock and Captain Hctor Caldern. Both men struggled to keep up with him. Glvez felt like he was wound tighter than a pocket watch. There was so much left undone. He had originally planned to set out for Baton Rouge on August 22, but he hadnt counted on a hurricane sweeping through New Orleans and sending ships, cannons, and supplies to a watery grave. Reenforcements were overdue from Cuba. Had they perished in the hurricane? How many cannons have been salvaged? Glvez asked. Ten, Don Oliver said. Size? Five 18 pounders, four 4 pounders, and one 24 pounder. Ships? Four. A schooner and three gunboats. Don Oliver has miscounted, Hctor Caldern said, grinning. The devil you say! We were only able to raise four. You didnt count the one my men found in the forest. Glvez ground to a halt and smiled wryly. You found a ship in the forest? Yes, Your Excellency, Caldern said. North of town, sitting in the midst of flattened oaks. It would appear the hurricane plucked it from the harbor and
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marooned it there. Its woods-worthy, but I sincerely doubt its seaworthy. Glvez laughed. He could depend on Caldern and his bizarre sense of humor to lighten the mood. How many artillerymen do we have to man the cannons? Thirteen, Caldern said. The number took Glvez by surprise. He needed forty. At a minimum, a gun crew consisted of a loader, spongeman, ventsman, and firer. Have some broadsides printed up. Post them around town. See if you can find some artillery gunners. Firing cannons was a precise science. Men lost body parts, if not their lives, when strict standards were not followed. Glvez set out again. Don Oliver huffed along beside him on the right. Captain Caldern kept pace with him on the left. How many carabineers are ready to march at this moment? Glvez asked. Twenty, Don Oliver panted out. Glvez had organized the New Orleans Carabineers, a militia unit composed of upper class creoles who wanted to serve the cause. However, they didnt want to serve with their barbers and shoemakers. Glvez was concerned about how they would react when they found themselves fighting next to free blacks. A year earlier, he had created a militia unit, the Company of Free Mulattoes, composed of sixty former slaves. Glvez needed men and was in no position to turn anyone down. Upon enlisting, recruits got a musket, powder horn, cartridge box, tinderbox with flint, wooden water barrel, and knapsack with a change of clothes. Glvez had decided that an elite corps of creoles that
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wanted to serve on its own terms could provide its own accoutrements. What is the response from the American settlers? Glvez asked. I have a firm commitment from seven of them. They will join us once we take to the field. What news have you of the Choctaw? Glvez directed the question to Caldern. Their chief has promised 150 braves. They will join us on the march. Glvez added the figures in his head. He could count on leaving New Orleans with 170 regular soldiers in the Louisiana Infantry Regiment and 330 recruits from the Canary Islands and Mexico. That made 500. Add twenty carabineers and eighty free blacks, and he had a force of 600. How many soldiers did the British have? According to reports from his spies, they had reenforced Baton Rouge with additional troops from Pensacola. How many militiamen will join us? Good question, Your Excellency, Caldern said. Its harvesting season. How many will be willing to leave their farms? You can count on the Acadians, Don Oliver put in. They hate the British. He was right about that. They had all been uprooted from their Canadian homes by the British and would see this as a way to settle old scores. What about the Germans? After the hurricane, Caldern said, my soldiers and I checked the outlying villages as far as the German Coast. There is nothing but desolation and destruction for miles and miles. Their crops have been ruined. They will go a-soldiering because they need the money. Did the hurricane perchance hit the British as hard as it hit us?
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There was no answer. Find out. I wish to be on the road to Baton Rouge within the week. Excuse me, Your Excellency? Caldern said. Within the week? I misspoke. I should have said by Friday, August 27th. He didnt miss the look of dismay that Caldern and Don Oliver exchanged. Put yourselves in British boots. You learn that the hurricane has decimated your enemy. What would you do? Attack while he was most vulnerable, Caldern said. So would I, Glvez said. For all we know, the British could be on their way here as we speak. In the past, Glvez had served the king for God and country. Now, everything was different. He had a wife, stepdaughter and one-year-old daughter. His in-laws and dearest friends lived here. The people of New Orleans had embraced him as governor, even though eleven short years ago, they had revolted against the Spanish. Louisiana had been very good to him. Glvez had never been happier. He would do anything in his power to protect the province.
Chapter Twenty
Hawthorne caught Madame before she hit the ground. At first, he thought fainting was another trick on her part, but her cheeks were bright red and she was blazing hot. Madame? Madame? He untied the ribbon beneath her chin, took off her bonnet, and fanned her with it. He pushed back her sweat-soaked tendrils of hair. Her eyes fluttered open. She was ill. Truly ill. Davy Morgan, holding the runaway terrier in his arms, rushed toward Hawthorne. Whats wrong, sir? I dont know. She fainted. Theres a surgeon on duty inside the fort. Come with me. Hawthorne scooped her up in his arms and followed the boy past a number of huts to a slightly larger cabin. Davy stopped in front of it and pushed the door open so Hawthorne could carry her inside. A small, blond man with a neatly trimmed beard looked up from a thick book. The devil take you, Morgan! Havent you heard of knocking? And get that mutt out of here! Sorry, sir, but a lady collapsed. Put her over there, he grumbled, indicating a small bed covered with a quilt. Hawthorne laid her down. The surgeon unbuttoned her dress. He stopped and glared at Morgan. This is a woman of quality, Morgan. Show the proper respect.
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Um . . . sir? Get out! the doctor roared. Morgan obeyed. Hawthorne could tell from the doctors accent that he came from Edinburgh. God bless the Scottish. They produced the best doctors and the fiercest fighters. Whats her name? the doctor asked. Madame . . . Hawthorne caught himself in time and covered the blunder. Madame Marie Claire Hawthorne, my wife. Shes French. Standing at the foot of the bed with his hands dangling by his side, he watched the doctor minister to Madame. He felt useless. She looked so small, so helpless. How could he have missed that she was seriously ill? The doctor took her temperature, then her pulse. He examined her throat and ears. Madame opened her eyes and focused first on Hawthorne, then on the doctor. Morning, the doctor said curtly. My name is Dr. Somerset. Tell me your symptoms. Hawthorne translated the question for her and the answer. Dr. Somerset moved to the far side of the room, where he unlocked a cabinet and removed several glass canisters filled with medicines. Hawthorne joined him. He towered over the doctor, who topped out at five-foot-three and was as thin as a greyhound. Hawthorne picked up a bottle labeled belladonna. Put that down, the doctor snapped. It took every ounce of strength not to snap back, I outrank you, you little pup. But Hawthorne was now a civilian and it was unwise to anger the doctor and thereby compromise Madames medical care. Whats wrong with her? Hawthorne asked as mildly as possible.
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The doctor jerked his head up and frowned, as if annoyed that Hawthorne was bothering him with a question. Scarlatina. Some call it scarlet fever. Hawthornes blood chilled. His daughter had nearly died from it. Oh, God, he whispered. If she dies, it will be my fault. I forced her to come here. Quite the contrary. You have brought her to the only man in townnay, in all of West Floridawho can save her. No one knows more about scarlet fever than I. In the winter of 74, there was an epidemic in Edinburgh. As a medical student, I was in the thick of it and had the opportunity to study the disease firsthand. Since then, I have researched it extensively and developed the most up-to-date treatments. You could say I am the foremost authority in the kingdom. Hawthorne doubted Dr. Somersets claim, but hoped his ability matched his boasting. What treatment do you plan to use? The doctor began crushing medicine with a pestle. For scarlet fever, the only medicines that can be depended on are cordials and antiseptics. Ive seen physicians from the old school kill their patients by mistaking this for a simple inflammation. They used bleedings and purgings. I wont. The doctor mixed powder with wine and used a funnel to pour it into a clay jar. You can expect your wife to have something resembling epileptic fits. A stupor is possible. If that happens, bathe her feet and legs in warm water. In many cases, I have noted large swellings of the submaxillary glands and suppurations in one or both ears. Her skin will be covered with red spots, not unlike the measles. However, they will be larger and less uniform. Two or three days after their appearance, they will begin to fall off. Hawthorne listened intently, soaking up as much information as possible. It struck him that the doctor
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showed not a shred of emotion, as if his patient were unimportant and only the disease interested him. The most important thing is to bring the fever down, Dr. Somerset said. To that end, I am preparing a tincture of Peruvian bark. I want you to give it to her three times a day. Keep her comfortable and make sure she takes in plenty of water. Give her poppy syrup at night. How did she catch this? She must have been around someone who had it. Oh, God, Hawthorne inwardly groaned. He recalled the night he had slept next to Madame and how flushed she seemed to be. He couldnt help smiling at the irony of it all. He had slept with so many women, he had lost count and had never caught a disease. And now he had caught one from a woman he had shared a bed with, but had not slept with. Dr. Somerset gathered his things and left. Hawthorne heard hammering. He opened to find Morgan nailing a little sign to the door. It read QUARANTINE.
Chapter Twenty-One
Glvez stood at his office window and watched a sergeant drill recruits on the manual of arms. He desperately needed trained soldiers, artillerymen in particular. His agents, scattered throughout the province and West Florida, reported seeing the British amass troops at Baton Rouge. Apparently, they intended to attack from that direction. Only one question remained: When? Glvez heard the whisper of moccasins, the barely perceptible click of the door closing, and whirled around. A buckskin-clad man in a red bandanna bowed low in the French manner. Your Excellency. How did you get past my guards? Glvez asked in surprise. I found an unlocked window on the first floor. Every time he saw Dujardin, the man had gone a bit more native. This time, he had added a necklace of alligator teeth. In spite of that, Dujardin remembered his aristocratic upbringing in France and waited for Glvez to be seated before he sat. What did you learn in Baton Rouge? Glvez asked. Lieutenant Colonel Dickson has almost finished the new fort on the Watts plantation. The Waldeckers are settled in. What are they like? Dujardin made a scornful noise. Mostly jailbirds and the dregs of society. They complain about everything. Lieutenant Colonel Dickson is not pleased with them.
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Will they stand and fight? But of course! They are Germans. It is in their blood. Did the hurricane damage British fortifications? A little. Nothing that is not easily repaired. It was not what Glvez wanted to hear. Did you get inside the fort? I tried. The guards stopped me. Glvez opened a desk drawer, took out a leather pouch filled with gold, and handed it to Dujardin. Go back to Baton Rouge. Keep an eye on Dickson. If he does anything interesting, let me know. Yes, Your Excellency. Dujardin worried his lower lip. Is there more? I ran into someone as I was leaving Baton Rouge. I think it was your wifes maid. Glvez leaped from his chair. You saw Eugenie? She and her husband were heading to Baton Rouge. Eugenie isnt married. She wore a wedding ring and was with a man who was very protective of her. What was his name? I dont know. It was a brief encounter. Did you recognize him? No. I know most of the people in Baton Rouge. This man was a stranger. Dujardin turned pensive. He spoke perfect French but he carried himself like a Brit. In fact, he reminded me of Saber-Scar. Glvez jerked back in alarm. He had hanged Sergeant Dunstan Andrews, the erstwhile Saber-Scar, for murder. Go back to Baton Rouge. Send me a message immediately if you see Eugenie. Yes, Your Excellency. Dujardin bowed low and left.
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Glvez leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on steepled fingers, trying to puzzle it out. Eugenie would never go on a mission to Baton Rouge without permission. It was enemy territory and extremely dangerous for her. Dujardin didnt get the impression she was being held against her will, so that ruled out kidnapping. And the priest had seen her leave with a stranger of her own free will. There was another possibility Glvez didnt want to contemplate. She had become a turncoat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lorenzo slid into a pew next to three-year-old Annie Fitzgerald and her mother. The hurricane had destroyed the office he shared with Dr. Dunoyer, and the parish priest let them use the church to see patients. Hello, Annie, Lorenzo said, smiling at the pigtailed girl. Hows she doing? he asked her mother. Shes fine as a fiddle, Mrs. Fitzgerald replied. Lets take a look at that arm. Lorenzo gently peeled away Annies bandage. The day after the hurricane, Annie happened upon a water moccasin. She picked up the snake and was bitten on the forearm. An hour went by before Lorenzo was notified. He rushed to the child, expecting to find the poison spreading, but to his surprise, there were two fang marks and no sign of swelling. He cleaned the wound and applied a bandage. Later, Lorenzo asked his partner about that. Dr. Dunoyer called it a dry bite. For whatever reason, the snake had not released its venom. The bite is healing nicely, Lorenzo said to Mrs. Fitzgerald. Then, to Annie, Dont handle any more snakes. Can you do that for me? Sure! Good girl! Lorenzo flicked the tip of her nose with his index finger. Annie and her mother left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colonel Glvez and Captain Caldern enter with two armed soldiers.
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Leaving them by the front door, Hctor and the colonel approached, solemn-faced. They looked like the bearers of bad news. Lorenzos heart chilled. He stood up. The colonels smile was forced. Hello, Lorenzo. Hello, Your Excellency. His gaze shifted to Hctor Caldern who suddenly found the church interesting. He carried a small, portable desk by the handle, the kind officers used in the field when on horseback. Lorenzo found that odd. I have news about Eugenie, the colonel said. Lets have a seat. Dio s m o , Lorenzo thought. Its bad enough that I have to sit. He clutched the back of the pew, eased down, and braced for the worst. Hctor and the colonel sat down on each side of him. Someone has seen Eugenie, the colonel said. Lorenzo brightened. Who? Where? Is she all right? Where has she been? Shes fine. Im not exactly sure where she is. She was spotted heading toward Baton Rouge. Baton Rouge? Whats she doing there? I dont know. Who saw her? I cant tell you that. Why cant you? The colonel scowled. Lorenzo didnt press the matter. The colonel had all kinds of secrets that he could not reveal for various reasons. So someone saw her in Baton Rouge, Lorenzo said. Heading to Baton Rouge, the colonel corrected. Close enough. Lorenzo stood up. Thank you for the information. He took a step to exit the pew. The colonel leaped up and signaled to Caldern with his hand.
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Obeying the silent order, Caldern blocked Lorenzos way. Let me pass, Hctor. Caldern shook his head stubbornly. Lorenzo turned. The colonel blocked the other way out of the pew. Where are you going, Lorenzo? To Baton Rouge. Sit down. No. I have to find Eugenie. The colonel sighed. Youre not going anywhere until weve had a chance to discuss this. Have a seat. Lorenzos temper flared. How dare they block his way! He scrambled over the back of the pew. Soldiers standing by the door stepped in front of it. They cut off the only exit. Look, Colonel, I cant sit around here and do nothing. Im not suggesting you do. But I know you, Lorenzo. You have a tendency to go off at half cock. Hctor snorted as if to say, Thats an understatement. The colonel went on. You want to search for Eugenie and bring her back. Thats completely understandable. If Felicit were missing, Id do the same thing. Then why are you stopping me? Because you dont have all the facts. What facts do I need? My source said she was with a man. All the blood drained from Lorenzos head. Jealousy spiked through him. Who? We dont know his name. Lorenzo sat with a thud. What was she doing with a man? The person who saw her, the colonel said, didnt get the impression she was being held against her will.
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That rules out kidnapping, Hctor pointed out. Lorenzo stared at him in dismay. Do you know what youre saying? If Eugenie went to British territory on her own, that makes her a turncoat. She would never do that. She hates the British. Sometimes we can think we know someone through and through, Hctor said, but still that person can surprise us. Lorenzo turned to the colonel. Eugenie adores you. She would never betray you. I know. Shes like a daughter. Then why dont you want me to go after her? Because there are a couple of things you havent factored in. First, we dont have enough information at this point. She was seen going into Baton Rouge. That doesnt mean shes still there. She could have gone on to Natchez or Mobile. Lorenzo absorbed that. Even if she was merely passing through, someone in Baton Rouge would have seen her. Thats possible, the colonel admitted. But there is another problem. Baton Rouge is dangerous territory for you. Someone could recognize you. West Florida is swarming with British soldiers. You were a major in the Continental Army, not some faceless private. Officers stand out. But Im a civilian now. That only makes matters worse. If someone sees you out of uniform, the natural assumption will be that you are a spy. They will arrest you. I have no authority in English territory. I can do nothing to save you except lodge a formal complaint with the provincial governor and demand your release. You are a Spanish citizen, but he will claim you are British because your father was. From his point of view, you betrayed the crown and committed treason by serving in the Continental Army.
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You cannot go to Baton Rouge as a civilian. If necessary, I will arrest you to prevent you from doing so. He waved dramatically to the soldiers by the front door. Lorenzo clenched and unclenched his jaw. It wasnt an idle threat. From time to time, the British governor of West Florida accused Glvez of harboring American rebels. To convince him he was still neutral, Glvez made showy, prearranged arrests of American smugglers. Once the British were satisfied that justice had been served, he would release the prisoner with a wink and a nod. Lorenzo glared at the colonel. Arrest me and be done with it because Im not going to sit idly by. And Im not going to allow you to go to Baton Rouge as a civilian. However . . . The colonel exchanged a look with Hctor that suggested they had already discussed the matter in detail. However, there may be a way around our standoff. Last year, I sent one of my officers to Pensacola as an envoy with a letter for Governor Chester. The British treated him as an honored guest because he was an officer in the Spanish army. Glvez smiled wryly. The British always show due respect to rank and social position. He spent several days there. They let him wander about. He took mental note of fortifications, cannons, and troop strength and brought back useful information. It worked once. It might work again. I need someone to go to Baton Rouge and deliver a message to Lt. Colonel Dickson. You are the ideal candidate. But you just threatened to arrest me. The colonel lifted a finger. To keep you from going in as a civilian. If you are an officer in the Spanish army, I could then give you the protection you would not have as a civilian. The British would not dare detain one of my officers and risk an international incident. Rubbing his chin, Lorenzo considered that.
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If you went to Baton Rouge with a message, the colonel said, it would behoove you to get in and out of town before the British learn we are advancing. We leave on August 27th. Part of my forces will go overland. The rest will sail up the Mississippi. I cant predict when the British will catch on. I dont plan to tell my men where we are going or what we are about to do until we cross into English territory. When do you expect that to happen? Around September 5th. Lorenzo counted the days on his fingers. Its going to take you nine days to march seventy-five miles? Thats the slowest forced march in history! The men going with me arent hardened troops used to the rigors of a campaign. I dont want anyone to die of a heat stroke. Likewise, I do not relish telling them we are going without baggage and will be sleeping in the open without tents. Sleeping on the hard ground, Hctor said dryly. I can hardly wait. The colonel ignored the remark. I want you in and out of Baton Rouge in three days. I will give you a letter to Lieutenant Colonel Dickson, complaining about Spanish goods being smuggled into Baton Rouge. Dickson will bluster about for a bit. Tell him that I demand a formal reply and you will not leave without one. That should buy you the time you need to skulk about. Glvez rested a hand on Lorenzos shoulder. Even under the best of circumstances, your mission will be a dangerous one. I understand, Your Excellency. A self-satisfied grin spread across Glvezs face. He pulled out a page from his inside jacket pocket and unfolded it. Hctor opened the portable desk and pulled out a quill and ink bottle.
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Lorenzo eyed the paper suspiciously. It was completely filled out with his name and the rank of major. Only his signature was lacking. He looked at the colonel. You had this all planned out. Of course. Glvez administered the loyalty oath, shook Lorenzos hand, and congratulated him. No selfrespecting major travels without a servant. Find someone you trust to ride with you. Yes, Your Excellency. Lorenzo snapped his fingers in a burst of inspiration. Thomas Hancock! Glvez nodded his approval. Perfect. The Hancocks of New Jersey were well-known British loyalists. Thomas had served Saber-Scar and his cousin Major Hawthorne, but two years ago, he had experienced a change of heart. Saber-Scar was hanged for murder and the Quaker became Lorenzos ward. Glvez rubbed his hands together. Very well, Lorenzo! Lets get you into a Spanish uniform. His face reflected Lorenzos excitement. In an odd sort of way, it felt good to be back in action.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The sun edged toward the west, casting afternoon shadows over New Orleans. Charles played jacks with a brown-eyed girl on the church steps while her mother fed her little sister a gruel supplied by the parish priest. Charless playmate did not speak a word of English, but they communicated nonetheless through gestures and hand signals. Little by little, he was learning Spanish. He spotted a soldier nailing a broadside to the side of a building. People clustered about it. The poster generated a lot of excitement and discussion. Intrigued, Charles decided to see what was afoot. He signaled to the little girl that he would be back and strolled over to the sign. It was written in Spanish and he could only make out a word here and there. So ld ad o s were clearly soldiers. Artillera looked like artillery. While puzzling it out, a hand touched his shoulder. He pivoted. Hello, Charles. Lorenzo grinned down at him from atop a big black horse. Charless jaw dropped. Overnight, Lorenzo had gone from a doctor in a traditional black suit to a soldier in uniform. He looked splendid in a white coat with blue collar and cuffs, blue breeches, white shirt, white stock, and blue waistcoat. Perched on his head was a black tricorne with a red cockade.
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Good Lord! What happened to you? I became a staff officer for Colonel Glvez. Lorenzo nodded toward the broadside. Thinking about joining the army? Colonel Glvez is looking for soldiers. Is that what the sign says? Yes. Its good, solid employment. Theres a problem. I dont speak Spanish. How hard can it be to learn load, aim, fire? Besides, it specifically asks for artillerymen, something youre trained to do. Charles stared at him in surprise. How do you know that? Lorenzo glanced around to see who was within earshot. He leaned low over his horses neck. You didnt react when I dropped something in my office the other day. When you told me you were in the army, I put two and two together. Its common knowledge that most artillerymen are deaf as posts. That was true enough. Having cannons boom in your ears eventually destroyed your sense of hearing. You should join, Charles. He considered that. Lots of people were out of work because of the hurricane, himself included. Mr. Pollock let him go because merchandise in the warehouse was ruined and there was nothing for him to do. Charles lost everything when the boardinghouse collapsed. He had no money, no food, no job. Lorenzo offered him a cockeyed grin. You would be doing the colonel a big favor by enlisting. He needs you. He only has thirteen artillerymen and we both know thats a very unlucky number. Charles squinted at him. Are you making fun of me? No, Im simply using every argument I can to convince you.
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Charles knew he could not live on the parish priests charity forever. Lorenzo hadnt steered him wrong yet. I hate it when youre right. Where do I sign up? Lorenzo pointed to a gray stone building facing the Plaza de Armas. Ask for Captain Caldern. Tell him Lorenzo sent you. He speaks a little English and can get you squared away. Thomas rode toward them on a white Arabian and led a loaded pack mule by the reins. He wore civilian clothes that looked one size too big. Charles knew that Colonel Glvez had taken the boy in after the hurricane. His brown knee britches, cream-colored shirt, and matching embroidered waistcoat probably belonged to the colonel. Thomas drew rein beside Lorenzo. Hello, Charles! Tis nice to see thee again. Hello, Thomas. Are you ready, herm anito ? Lorenzo asked Thomas. Aye. Lorenzo stretched his hand down to Charles who gave it a firm shake. God be with thee, Thomas said to Charles. And with you too. Godspeed. They rode away. On his way across the Plaza de Armas, Charles had second thoughts about joining the army. Before, he had only been a deserter. Enlisting in a foreign army made him a turncoat. The British punished deserters severely. He had once seen a man flogged until his skin was cut to ribbons. The British executed traitors.
Chapter Twenty-Four
There, there, Hawthorne said as he bathed Madames forehead in lukewarm water. The last rays of light filtered through chinks in the cabin wall. He welcomed the cool evening breezes wafting from the Mississippi. Davy Morgan, their kindhearted guard, realized they were sweltering in the cabin and allowed Hawthorne to open the window. Hawthorne applied a large blistering patch to Madames neck, per the doctors orders, and measured a dose of poppy syrup into a tablespoon. He lifted her head. Open wide. She turned away. Come, my dear. Cooperate. Its for your own good. No, Lorenzo. He wondered who Lorenzo was. Hawthorne placed the spoon to her lips. Lorenzo said for you to drink this. She swallowed the medicine and fell asleep. Lieutenant Colonel Dickson, commander of Fort New Richmond, sat at his supper table and petted the terrier resting in his lap. Beg! he ordered. The yellowish-brown dog lifted her front paws. Good girl! He fed her a morsel of chicken, white meat of course. What a capital dog Lucy is! Dont you
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agree, Jubilee? So intelligent. So extraordinary. A dogs dog. The slave clearing the table nodded. Yes, sir. I suppose shes a mighty fine critter for a dog her size. Her size! What did he know about purebred dogs? Dickson should have sold Jubilee down the river a long time ago. All too often, he bordered on impudence. It was a good thing he prepared food worthy of the gods on Olympus. Dickson had tasted all kinds of new dishes from Jubilees kitchengumbo, grillades, touffe. Tonight, his culinary skills shonered beans and rice, shrimp bisque, and fried oysters. Lucy is ready for her bath, Dickson said. Take her. Jubilee did as ordered. Dickson put on his hat and checked it in a mirror. He plucked a piece of lint from his jacket, readjusted his hat, smoothed his moustache, and set out for his nightly constitutional. He stopped at the south wall and peered down at men busily digging a moat around the fort. In the distance, others cut down trees to finish the palisade around the forts walls. Work was going well, very well indeed. Three acres of sharp pointed cypress stakes would soon surround the fort. That should deter attacks. Dickson thought about the letter he had just received from superiors in East Florida, advising him to be on high alert. Dickson snorted. The British army was the best in the world. The Spanish wouldnt dare attack. Davy Morgan had delivered a message from Mr. Hawthorne, the unfortunate fellow whose wife had come down with scarlet fever. Dickson admired the mans devotion to his civic duty, but put little stock in the warning that Glvez was posed to attack. The hurricane had put the New Orleans dons in their place! Dicksons superiors planned to knock down the Spanish hornets nest in New Orleans. He knew what
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would happen then. The Spanish would pull out their stingers and attack the closest fort. That would be Fort Bute. It had been badly damaged in the spring floods and was indefensible against cannon. Perhaps the time had come to pull back to Baton Rouge. Yes, that was what he would do. He would leave a skeleton crew at Fort Bute. Let the Spanish come! Lorenzo and Thomas spent the night in the Spanish fort opposite Fort Bute and had breakfast with the commander. The day before, they had ridden hard up the river road, changing horses frequently at inns and trading posts. By dusk, they were five leagues from Baton Rouge. They thanked the commander for his hospitality and swung onto their horses. Thirty minutes later, they began to pass plantations and outbuildings. Baton Rouge, a settlement sitting on a high bluff, soon came into view. Lorenzos nerves tightened like a guitar string. Eugenie was last seen here. His eyes swept left and right looking for clues to her whereabouts. It was a foolish hope, but on the way up the river road, he had expected to see some token to indicate that she had passed this way: a scarf tied to a tree branch or a rosary glittering from a bush. From time to time, he stopped and asked people if they had seen a redheaded French woman. No one had. Lorenzo and Thomas rode past signs hanging from storefronts. They advertised the same services as in New Orleans, except everything was in English. There were doctors, lawyers, merchants, surveyors, tailors, carpenters, masons, tanners, butchers, blacksmiths, bakers, and gunsmiths. People went about their early morning tasks and showed no reaction to Lorenzos uniform. This surprised
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him and suggested that soldiers from the Spanish fort frequently ventured into Baton Rouge, even though they werent supposed to. Lorenzo drew rein and studied Fort New Richmond from a distance. Colonel Glvez expected the British to make a stand at Fort Bute as the first line of defense against a Spanish invasion. Now that Lorenzo had seen both forts, he had his doubts. Thomas stopped beside him. Dirt walls? Do my eyes deceive me? Im afraid not. Dirt? Thomas repeated, clearly confused. Wouldnt wood be better? I know it doesnt make a lot of sense, but cannonballs splinter wood into toothpicks. Earthen walls are the best defense against artillery. Cannonballs dont damage them. They just bury themselves in the dirt. Lorenzo watched a crow fly overhead and land inside the fort. From a birds-eye view, it must look like a six-pointed star. Cannon barrels protruded from every angle. Sharp pointed cypress stakes surrounded the fort. It could hold off the enemy in all directions. Lorenzo and Thomas slid down from their horses and walked the last fifty yards to two sentries on each side of the drawbridge. One was a Waldecker, a German mercenary sent by his prince to fight for King George III. The other man wore a British uniform and asked to see their papers. Lorenzo pulled a pass signed by Colonel Glvez from an inside jacket pocket. I am Major Bannister, staff officer for His Excellency, Colonel Glvez. I have come to deliver a letter to Lieutenant Colonel Dickson. The sentry, a private in the 16th Regiment of Foot, inspected the paper. Private Morgan, sir, at your service. Please come with me.
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Stiff with formality, Lorenzo handed Thomas the reins. Thomas, playing the role of servant to the hilt, took them and trailed along behind Lorenzo and the private. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorenzo studied an eighteen-foot-deep trench around the fort. He had read about castles with moats and drawbridges, but had always imagined water around them. This moat was dry. It was a disturbing sight. In his minds eye, he saw a death trap where men would die if the colonel tried a frontal assault. A cannon was aimed at the drawbridge. Any soldier trying to storm the front gate would be blasted to bits. I trust you had a pleasant trip, sir, the private said. Very pleasant. I plan to go to New Orleans some day. They say its a nice place to visit. It is. I think youll like it. Lorenzo could only guess the purpose of each hut and cabin they passed. Most forts had a guardhouse, granary, arms magazine, storehouse, and barracks. A well near the parade ground indicated the fort had an ample water supply and could withstand a long siege. The colonel will not be pleased with my report, Lorenzo thought. The element of surprise was the only thing in Glvezs favor. Judging by the friendliness of Private Morgan, the British were unaware that Spain had declared war. Lorenzo passed a cabin with a small porch. An armed guard stood in front of it. Intrigued, Lorenzo took a couple of steps forward to read the sign nailed to the door. QUARANTINE. Why didnt you tell me there was a contagious disease in the fort? Lorenzo asked.
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Because the doctor said the disease has been contained to that cabin, the private replied. It isnt a threat. Whats the illness? Scarlet fever. Lorenzo had never treated anyone with the disease, but he had read about it in medical books. He had once asked his office partner what it looked like and how to cure it. Dr. Dunoyer said he had never treated it. Who has scarlet fever? Lorenzo asked. Mrs. Hawthorne. Hawthorne? Thomas asked, his face reflecting sudden terror. Is her husband an officer? No. A plantation owner. They just arrived in Baton Rouge. Poor lady! She was visiting the fort when she got sick. Lorenzo shot a glance at his valet. Thomas looked relieved by the information. Hawthorne, the British officer he had once served, was the only man who could identify him as a turncoat. Hawthorne gave Madames hand a comforting little squeeze. Guilt gnawed at his insides. He wasnt sure how she had gotten scarlet fever, but she had been in his custody when she began showing signs of it. He was responsible for her health and well-being. Scarlet fever was a complication he hadnt expected. But did it alter his plan? He thought about that a moment. No, it only delayed it a bit. Someone knocked timidly on the door. When he opened it, he found a basket of food and a pitcher filled with tea. He picked them up and stood for a moment in the doorway, enjoying the fresh air.
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Davy Morgan, the softhearted private, had been replaced by a Waldecker who didnt look nearly as kind or sympathetic. Just then, Hawthorne spotted Private Morgan. He stood outside headquarters with a Spanish officer and a lad holding the reins of two horses. The Spanish officer stepped inside. Morgan remained with the lad tending the horses. There was something familiar about the valetthe way he walked, the way he carried himself. From this angle, Hawthorne could not get a good look at his face. He took a step forward. The guard cocked his pistol and aimed it straight at Hawthornes heart. Freezing in place, he raised his hands palm up in a conciliatory gesture. No doubt the soldier had orders to shoot to kill rather than let the two of them out of quarantine and risk spreading the disease to the fort. The lad holding the horses turned his head slightly. Hawthornes jaw dropped. It was Thomas! He recognized him immediately, despite his being a head taller than the last time he had seen him. Hawthorne had sent him with Dunstan to New Orleans to gather information. He had never seen either of them again. Perplexed, Hawthorne went back inside. Fist to chin, he hunched over and tried to puzzle it all out. Had Thomas been captured by the Spanish along with Dunstan? If so, how did he escape? What was he doing in Baton Rouge? He was holding two horses, one for himself and one for the officer. Evidently, he was the Spaniards servant. Thomas had always been a reliable source of information and honest to a fault. Hawthorne wanted desperately to talk to the lad, but could do nothing until the quarantine was over.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lorenzo cradled his three-cornered hat in the crook of his arm and bowed to Lieutenant Colonel Dickson. It is an honor to meet you, sir. Dickson acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod and gestured for him to take a seat. Lorenzo eased into a well-padded, red velvet chair and did a quick scan of the room. Eugenie would have called the gilt mirror, hanging tapestry, and statue of a Roman goddess Baroque bad taste. She despised rooms designed to impress guests rather than make them feel at home. Lorenzo tamped down his sorrow. He and Eugenie had become so entwined, thoughts of her filled every waking moment. Everything reminded him of her in one way or the other. He thought leaving New Orleans would ease the pain. It did not. Lorenzo forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. His Excellency, Don Bernardo De Glvez, Governor of the Louisiana Territory and Colonel in His Catholic Majestys Army, sends his greetings. Lorenzo slipped the colonels letter from his inside pocket and passed it toward Dickson. He refused to take it. I dont read Spanish. The colonel is aware of that, sir. He wrote it in French. Dicksons eyes shifted left and right, as if he were thinking of a reason not to accept the letter. With a look of resignation, he stretched forth his hand, palm up, and
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Lorenzo deposited it there. Dickson broke the seal, unfolded it, and read. He reached for a quill pen and dipped it in ink. No, he wrote beside the first point. He shook his head and wrote no to the second request. He lingered over the next one. No, he said after a long moment of hesitation. He wrote no to the rest of the points so quickly, Lorenzo doubted he had read them all. Sir, Lorenzo began, the colonel doesnt expect an immediate answer. But he shall have one. The points are open to negotiation. No, they arent. No contraband enters Baton Rouge. There are no smugglers here. Therefore, I cannot comply with any of your colonels requests. The man was either a liar or deluded. Smuggling was rampant. Maybe he recognized this as a ruse and wanted to get Lorenzo out of Baton Rouge as quickly as possible. Thank you for your kind consideration, sir, Lorenzo said, taking the letter Dickson passed back. He tried to remain cordial with the man, although he had taken an instant, irrational dislike to him. You have your answer. I want you out of English territory at once. Lorenzo forced a smile. Sir, I fear that will be impossible. I have a second mission in your fair town. I am to deliver a letter to a woman named Eugenie Dubreton. Do you perchance know where she lives? I know of no such person. She is French. A redhead. I am told she is very beautiful. Im sorry. I cant help you. Lorenzo decided to drop the matter. A kidnapper could hold Eugenie under this dunces nose and he would never know it.
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Dickson pointed a finger at him. If I see you in town tomorrow . . . Well, lets just say there will be consequences. I bid you ad ieu , sir, and thank you for your gracious hospitality. Lorenzo bowed and headed out the door. Hawthorne lit a candle and tilted Beo w ulf , a book he remembered from his childhood, to the light. The doctor had an excellent library, meticulously catalogued by genre. What a stroke of good luck. With all this reading material, he wouldnt die of boredom. The doctors cabin would be home for the next two weeks. Engrossed in the story of Beowulfs fight with Grendel, he read and read. After a while, he pulled out his pocket watch. Nine thirty? Already? He glanced at Madame, fitfully sleeping. He checked to make sure she was comfortable and returned to his reading. Around midnight, he finished the book, closed it, and returned it to its proper place on the shelf. Madame stirred. Her eyes half opened. She mumbled something he didnt understand. He leaned over her and refreshed the moist cloth on her forehead. You were right about the hurricane, Lorenzo. There was that name again. Her gibberish continued, making little sense. She muttered something about a wedding and thrashed about. There, there, he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and mopping her forehead and cheeks. Hawthorne laid the back of his hand against her forehead. She pushed it away. Stop being a doctor, Lorenzo. Who was Lorenzo?
Chapter Twenty-Six
At the crack of dawn, Lorenzo sat beside Thomas in sullen silence and stared at the ham and poached eggs the innkeeper served for breakfast. He had never felt so disheartened. He had knocked on every door in town, but no one had seen a French woman with auburn-red hair. Thomas gobbled his food down and eyed Lorenzos plate. Are you going to eat that? Lorenzo slid the plate in front of him. Thomas tore into it with gusto. Breakfast finished, they saddled up and set out down the road that led from Baton Rouge to Manchac. Lorenzo twisted around and took one final look. Common sense told him to admit she was gone. It wasnt unusual for people to vanish and never be heard from again. Once, on a cattle drive, the cook disappeared in a stampede. No one ever knew what had become of him. Still, Lorenzos heart told him Eugenie was alive. His head told him otherwise. Hawthorne ran his hands through his hair and watched Madame thrash about. She began to mumble. Oh, God, please! Not another hallucination. It had been an awful night with Madame experiencing one fever-induced nightmare after another.
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The first one concerned him greatly. She had fancied herself a domestic servant in the Glvez household and held an imaginary conversation with Colonel and Mrs. Glvez. An hour later, a second hallucination scared the devil out of him. She looked up at the ceiling and laughed. Do you see them, m o n cher? she asked. No n, m a p etite. He mopped sweat beads from her forehead. What do you see? Angels. She laughed, her eyes on the ceiling in rapt attention. Oh, look. They are but three inches tall. See how they play? No n, m a cherie. There! Do you not see the little one tumbling and turning somersaults? He looks like Lorenzo. Oh, my! He bumps into Hctor. Her eyes seemed to follow an imaginary chase scene. Her expression turned serious. Robert, why are the angels here? Have they come for me? He felt his heart rumble. No, Madame. Your mind is playing tricks. Oh, no. I see them very clearly. Hawthorne squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears about to spill down his cheeks. He liked this woman, truly and genuinely felt a deep affection for her. He admired the way she fought him and attempted to escape. He even admired her for grabbing his pistol and trying to shoot him. He took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, and softly kissed her fingers. If the fever did not break soon, Dr. Somerset had said on his last visit, she would die. Hawthorne lowered his head and did something he had not done in a long time. He prayed.
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By late afternoon, two days after leaving Baton Rouge, Lorenzo and Thomas heard the tramp of a multitude of feet. A few seconds later, Glvezs ragtag army topped the hill. What a colorful crew! The regulars in white and blue appeared first, followed by carabineers in buff jackets with white cross belts. To the right walked the free black militia in white and red. There were men in homespun shirts and trousers and Indians wearing breechcloths, leggings, and moccasins. Lorenzo and Thomas pulled their horses to the side of the road and watched the men pass by. They had a long way to go and they hadnt made much progress. Lorenzo assumed bad roads and thick forests had slowed them down. Regular soldiers formed a column with the Mississippi at their left so they could keep an eye on the four vessels sailing upriver under the Spanish flag. The free black militia and the Indians stayed on the alert for possible ambushes from the thickets and fields of sugar cane that grew on the marchers right flank. In the rear column, the militia kept watch to prevent an attack from that quarter. Lorenzo recognized most of them. One or two were his patients. Many were friends or acquaintances. Hctor Caldern walked at the rear of the regular soldiers. When he spotted Lorenzo, he waved and veered away from the rest. Lorenzo bounded down and greeted him with the traditional Spanish abrazo . Good to see you, Hctor. Same here. He reached up to shake Thomass hand. Welcome back. Lorenzo could tell from Hctors look of anticipation that he wanted to know about Eugenie but couldnt bring himself to ask. Lorenzo merely shook his head. No, he hadnt found her.
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Hctor clamped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. That was the way it was between them. They communicated without saying a word. Lorenzo scanned the troops. What did I miss? Nothing of any importance. Running into you is the most exciting thing to happen since leaving New Orleans. We walk all day, eat cold rations, sleep under the stars exposed to the elements, get up and do the whole thing over again. Lorenzo scanned the hodgepodge of men. It looks like the army has grown. Weve added four hundred already. By the time we reach Baton Rouge, the outlying militias will join us. Two men walked past speaking English with a decidedly American accent. A knot of men speaking a French Canadian dialect sauntered over to Hctor. Henri, you tell him. Why me? I am not the leader. Mo n d ieu . You are the eldest. But Pierre is the one who knows how to write. Ooooh, there is Franois! He can help. Franois! Come here! They motioned him over. Who are you, Hctor asked, and what do you want? One moment, m o n am i. Hctor frowned. I am not your am i. I am Captain Caldern and You are not the one the colonel said we were to report to! We go find him. The men gave Hctor companionable slaps on the back. Au revo ir, m o nsieur le cap itaine! We talk later, o ui? Mouth slightly agape, Hctor slapped his hands to his side in complete frustration. Lorenzo put his hand to his mouth to hold back a laugh. At Valley Forge, he had seen untrained soldiers, just like these men, with not a smidgen of military disci-
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pline. Most soldiers in the Continental Army spoke English, however. Glvezs army was a confusion of French, Spanish, German, English, and Choctawa true Tower of Babel. Hctor scowled. I hope these men dont cut and run when they find out where were going or what were about to do. They must have their suspicions. Men dont just drop everything at harvest season to go on a romp with the colonel. To be sure, they know something is afoot. Rumors are as thick as honey. But the colonel hasnt told anyone about the declaration of war. No one is to know our destination until the last possible moment. That should prevent a deserter from running off to Baton Rouge and alerting the English. Speaking of the colonel, where is he? Hes gone ahead with Don Oliver to enlist volunteers. Lorenzo noticed the troops traveled light, taking only what they could carry. There were no packhorses carrying tents, no wagons with extra ammunition, no mules hauling cannon. It looked like the men would be eating off the land or off the generosity of plantations and farms they passed. I suppose all the war supplies are on the ships? Lorenzo asked. You suppose right. Your friend Charles is onboard as well. So he did enlist. Im glad. Thanks for sending him to me. He seems a very competent fellow. Lieutenant Alvarez is pleased with him. Whats Alvarez doing here? He was sicker than a horse when I left New Orleans.
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Still is. He had to come. Hes the colonels only artillery officer. Thats a comforting thought. Indeed. Glvez was gambling everything on this attack: the security of New Orleans, his reputation, his career. Lorenzo prayed it turned out well.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charles felt his stomach lurch. He ran to the fantail, the overhang at the back of the ship, and spewed a vilelooking and vile-tasting liquid. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pivoted and glared at his fellow artillerymen-turned-sailors. Look! The fantail lookout is at it again! one of them exclaimed. Keeping a sharp eye out for English pirates? another asked. Oh, shut up, Charles replied. They had hung the name fantail lookout on him an hour after leaving New Orleans. This was Charless first time on a ship and it seemed that he was heaving over the fantail every hour on the hour. How was he to know the pitching and rolling would make him seasick? Going against the current and watching the land slip by while you stayed perfectly still made him nauseous. It hadnt been that way when he had escaped down the Mississippi by canoe, but the little boat hadnt pitched and rolled. It drifted with the current, taking him past St. Louis, Natchez, and Baton Rouge to New Orleans, where he had started a new life. Hawthorne propped Madame up with a bank of pillows and put a gargle of tea and salt water to her lips. She took a giant sip, swished it around, and spit it out in the cuspidor he held for her. Thank you.
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You are quite welcome. For the last three days, she had made amazing progress. Her fever had broken soon after he finished praying. Was it a coincidence or had God answered his prayer? Madames glands were still swollen, but the redness of her cheeks was starting to fade. At this rate, Dr. Somerset said, he would lift the quarantine within the week. Would you like me to read? Hawthorne asked. Yes, please. He opened Gullivers Travels to the place he had stopped reading the night before. Madames knowledge of English improved daily. Now and then, she didnt understand a passage and he had to explain it. She had a quick mind and saw meaning in scenes that he never realized was there. Hawthorne read the last chapter and closed the book. It is over? she asked, clearly disappointed. Yes. Did you like it? It was an eye-opener. I didnt know anything worthwhile had ever been written by the English. He started to open his mouth in protest when he caught the mischievous twinkle in her eye. The colonel must find you quite a handful. Keeping a straight face, he said, Ive found the perfect book for us to read next: Daniel Dafoes Jo urnal o f the Plague Year. The plague? In light of our present situation, do you really think it wise to . . . His smile betrayed him. She smiled back. To uch , Robert. He picked up Ro binso n Cruso e and flipped it open to the first chapter. He began to read. When he looked up, he saw she had fallen asleep. He tucked the covers around her and scratched his neck. His throat felt sore. He gargled with the unused portion of the tea-and-saltwater mixture and feared he was catching scarlet fever.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Footsore, weary, sword dangling at his side, Lorenzo walked beside Hctor Caldern. It was September 6, 1779, a typical Louisiana day that began with blood-sucking mosquitoes in the morning and was followed by a steamy heat in the afternoon. Lorenzo was glad the colonel had modified the uniform code to allow linens and cottons to replace heavier materials. Five miles back, Lorenzo had sold his horse at a farm. He was sorry to see her go, but he knew her snorting and neighing would alert the British to their presence. Thomas, serving as courier, had ridden back to New Orleans with letters, messages, and other communications. He had been gone for several days and was due back at any time. Colonel Glvez and Oliver Pollock rejoined the march, bringing fifty or so militiamen with them. Others trickled in from the outlying settlements of Attakapas, Natchitoches, Opelousas, Pointe Coupee. Glvezs total force was now 1,427. Lorenzo hoped it was enough. The march had fallen silent. After ten days of walking, no one felt like talking or joking. Some men had dropped out of the march due to fatigue. Others were too sick to continue. How much farther? Hctor asked.
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Lorenzo recognized an abandoned building he and Thomas had passed on the way to Baton Rouge. Not far. We will be at Manchac by dusk. Thank God. When they were within a half league of Fort Bute, Glvez climbed onto a fallen tree and called the men together. He stood with his fists on his hips and watched them fan out around him. Men, he began, we have been on the road for several days now and the time has come for me to share a secret with you. I have asked you to join me on an important mission. Until now, I have kept its true nature secret. As you know, thirteen British colonies are in open rebellion against King George. On July 4, 1776, they declared their independence. Two British colonies, however, have not joined the rebellion. West Florida and East Florida have become a haven for English loyalists who wish us ill. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. I have in my possession an intercepted letter exposing a dastardly British plan to attack New Orleans. Glvez read the letter aloud. Murmurs of indignation swept through the crowd. The men uttered vile oaths about the British. On the 21st of June, the colonel said, His Catholic Majesty declared war on Great Britain and gave me permission to attack the British at the first opportunity. With that in mind, I have decided to strike Baton Rouge. Our first target will be Fort Bute at Manchac. Will you help me protect Louisiana? Will you help me defeat the British and sweep them from the Mississippi Valley once and for all? Cheering erupted. Men hooted and pumped fists in the air. Lorenzo smiled to himself. As usual, Glvez had them in the palm of his hand.
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The colonel waited for the shouts of approval to die down before continuing. Tonight, under cover of darkness, we will surround the fort. Tomorrow we lay siege to it. From this point forward, the strictest silence must be maintained. Once we cross Bayou Manchac, we will be in British territory. I will tolerate no departure from the rules of war. When an enemy soldier surrenders or is captured, he will be treated fairly, with dignity as befits his rank. Hold yourselves in readiness, men. You will receive further orders directly. I wish to speak with my council of war. The men melted away while officers huddled around the colonel. He jumped down from the fallen tree. Duty stations for tomorrow will be as follows. The militia under the command of Lieutenant Colonel De Saint Maxent will attack at dawn. The regulars of the Louisiana Infantry Regiment will form a protective screen north of Fort Bute. Lieutenant Colonel Mir, the officer in charge of infantry, straightened, eyes glittering. His face reflected an intense longing for action. A faint smile lifted the corners of Glvezs mouth. Yes, Mir. I have saved the best and most dangerous assignment for your men. If Dickson learns of our presence, he will send reinforcements from Baton Rouge. Your soldiers will be our first line of defense against them. It will be our pleasure, sir, Mir said. Any questions? The officers ringing him remained mum. Very well. You are dismissed. All except Major Bannister and Captain Caldern. Hctors gaze met Lorenzos. His expression seemed to say, This cant be good.
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After the others left, Glvez said, Thomas arrived this afternoon with mail and messages. My wife forwarded this. He extracted a page from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Lorenzo. He unfolded it, tilted it toward the fading light, and read. Hctor peeped over his shoulder to follow along. The note, written in French, stated that Madame De Glvez was being held at an unspecified location. Further instructions would be forthcoming. I dont understand, sir, Lorenzo said, confused. The letter arrived in New Orleans a few days ago, the colonel said. My wife opened it in my absence. Imagine her surprise to learn she was missing. Oh, my God, Hctor said, eyes wide in sudden understanding. Someone is holding Eugenie hostage. And for whatever reason, he thinks she is my wife. The colonel clamped a hand on Lorenzos shoulder. This is good news. Eugenie is alive and well. The kidnapper will no doubt contact me again and ask for money. I will pay any amount. Shes like a daughter to me. Lorenzos heart filled with hope, certain he would see Eugenie again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dinner is served! Hawthorne said brightly as he helped Madame to a sitting position. He put a tray across her lap. Tonight, her dinner consisted of soft food: beef broth, boiled rice, and diluted wine. She greedily swallowed spoonful after spoonful of broth and sipped her drink while he ate broiled fish and a baked potato. How weak she looked! The fever had finally broken. On his last visit, Dr. Somerset held out hope for a full recovery. Finished, she toyed with the spoon, pushing it around the bowl, her gaze locked on it. There are people in New Orleans who are worried about me. I would like to send a message to my family to let them know Im safe. They know. A week or so ago, I gave Dr. Somerset a letter addressed to your husband. He promised to find someone to hand deliver it. A ransom note? Not exactly. What exactly? It was a brief note letting your husband know that you were in my custody. I see. Deep in thought, she rested her index finger against her chin. A letter from me would prove you are holding me hostage. He studied her a moment. He could see the wheels and gears in her brain turning like the inner workings of a clock.
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She looked him in the eye. For all he knows, I was blown away by the hurricane and you are simply a scoundrel wanting to profit off his misery. True enough. You realize I will read the letter before it is sealed. Dont you trust me? She gave him a disappointed look. I would trust you with my life. Truly? she asked, eyes wide in surprise. No. I was joking. Sometimes, she was nave and trusting. At other times, she was a sly fox. He removed her soup bowl and put paper, quill, and ink in its place. She bent over a blank page. He took a book off the shelf and thumbed through it while he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Madame wrote several lines, then crumpled the paper. She started a second letter. Thats not right, she said, scolding herself. Problems? Writing a letter that will get past your censorship isnt as easy as it sounds. He laughed and propped his bootless feet on the bottom of the bed. An hour later, she exclaimed, Vo il! Cest fini! That took long enough. He stretched out his hand. May I? She glanced over the letter one final time and handed it to him. It was in French and read: My d ear lo ve, I am safe and in the custo d y o f the m an w ho sent the ranso m no te. Fear no t, d ear heart, fo r I am fine. He is treating m e w ell and has no t m istreated m e. I m iss yo u terribly and ho p e to be in yo ur arm s so o n. We have been invited to a m ask ed ball to celebrate Fathers birthd ay.
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I exp ect to be ho m e in tim e to help m y sisters p rep are fo r it. The ball p ro m ises to be quite an affair. Until the d ay that I am ho m e. I rem ain yo ur m o st lo ving and ad o ring w ife. Felicit. Hawthorne searched for a secret code in the letter. Other than some odd paragraphing, he detected nothing. The next time Dr. Somerset visits, Ill give him the letter. Eugenie hid feelings of great relief. In the past, she had sent the colonel masked letters from Havana and Philadelphia. A heart laid over the letter would reveal its true message. Would he realize she had called him dear heart on purpose? If he remembered the date of his father-in-laws birthday, he would figure out the right size to use. The letter revealed that she was being held at the Baton Rouge fort. It was a terrible gamble, but Hawthorneclever though he washadnt figured it out.
Chapter Thirty
Im awake, Lorenzo mumbled, slapping at the hand roughly shaking him. Get up, Colonel Glvez whispered. Lorenzo shook away sleep and stood, dirt and debris falling from his uniform. He found himself enveloped in a thick, gray mist and damp with dew. Stiff from sleeping on the ground, he rotated a shoulder. Overnight, hills clad with oaks, poplars, and chestnuts disappeared in a fog so deep, Lorenzo felt he could cut it with his sword. September 7, 1779, promised to be a dreary day. Come, Colonel Glvez ordered. He went into the fog. Lorenzo buckled on his sword belt, snatched up his musket, and bolted after the colonel. By the time he caught up with Colonel Glvez, he was standing under an oak tree. At first, Lorenzo thought the colonel was watching the Louisiana Infantry prepare for battle. It took him a moment to realize that Glvez was clutching a rosary and praying. Silent as ghosts, the regulars gathered their equipment and fanned out. They disappeared into the mist. The only sounds came from the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of an animal scurrying away through the underbrush. Conflicting emotions surged through Lorenzo. His friends were going into battle. He longed to go into the fog with them, but as staff officer, he had to stay at the
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colonels side and protect him at all costs. Should the battle go badly, Lorenzo had to prevent the colonels capture, even if that meant taking a bullet for him. What a prize the Spanish governor of the Louisiana territory would be for the British! Once the regular soldiers were in place, Glvez strode off to the militia ringing the fort. Lorenzo hurried along at his side. The colonel spoke encouragement to the militiamen, addressing each by name. He located his father-in-law, Lieutenant Colonel De Saint Maxent, and gave him last minute instructions. Both men consulted their pocket watches, set the time for attack at 5:30 a.m., and embraced Spanish-style. The colonel and Lorenzo returned to the tree where they had started. Oliver Pollock, the colonels aide-de-camp, was waiting for them. He looked grim and was uncharacteristically quiet. A voice shouted Allo ns-y, m es garco ns! Lets go, boys! Men yelled and charged into battle. Lorenzo could only imagine what was happening, based upon sound. War cries of men rushing the fort filled the dawn. Muskets crackled. Metal struck against metal. In his minds eye, Lorenzo saw men scrambling through breaches in walls, slashing with swords, stabbing with bayonets. He heard cursing in English and in a language he did not recognize, possibly the dialect of the German Waldeckers. An occasional cry of a soul in agony made him wince. It was impossible to determine if it was friend or foe. All men in pain sounded alike.
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Not a single cannon fired. Artillerymen blinded by the fog wouldnt see the attackers until they were on top of them. By then, cannon fire did no good. The siege of Fort Bute seemed to go on forever, but Lorenzo knew that fear and concern had distorted his sense of time. In the thick of battle, time meant nothing, but now, as he listened and worried, it seemed to stretch. The sun rose and began to burn off the fog. Little by little, the noise of battle decreased. Lorenzo saw movement in the thinning gray. He unslung his musket, cocked it, and threw the stock to his shoulder. Parbleu! Do not shoot! I am not English! Lieutenant Colonel De Saint Maxent emerged, grinning. Glvez laughed with relief. He grabbed his father-inlaws upper arms and planted a kiss on each cheek. God has answered my prayers. You are safe. But of course, m o n fils . And I return victorious! He half-turned and waved behind him. Redcoats and German mercenaries, hands held high, emerged from the fog. Militiamen prodded them along with bayonets. Glvez stood with his legs spread, fists on hips. Who is the senior man present? Lorenzo translated the question from Spanish to English. A British lieutenant stepped forward. Lieutenant McDonald of Captain Millers Independent Company. He presented his sword to Glvez. I give my word of honor that my men and I will not attempt an escape. Glvez accepted it as a sign of the forts surrender. He immediately handed it back to show that he had accepted the officers word. At the first opportunity, I pledge that each soldier will be exchanged for a Spanish prisoner of equal rank.
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Lorenzo knew their fate and felt sorry for them. The colonel was a man of his word and would try to secure their release, but that took time. Most of them were of no consequence to their superiors in Pensacola. They were doomed to spend the rest of the war in prison. Secure the fort. Glvez directed the order to Lieutenant Colonel De Saint Maxent. Lorenzo knew the routine. Soldiers would enter the fort with pistols drawn and search room-by-room to make sure there were no hidden surprises or traps. Then they would inventory captured supplies. Glvez swiveled toward Lorenzo. Ready the prisoners for transport to New Orleans. He left. Lorenzo, realizing that some of them spoke limited English, signaled for them to sit. Surrounded by armed militiamen, they complied without complaint. Lorenzo fished paper and pencil from his jacket pocket and drew three columns: one for name, another for rank, and the last for military unit. He started with the highest ranking officer, Lieutenant McDonald, then moved to the second captured officer. Next came the soldiers. Whats your name? he asked the first Waldecker. The man looked at the lieutenant. Wie heissen Sie? McDonald asked. The man replied. How do you spell that? Lorenzo asked. Lieutenant McDonald lifted a shoulder. Your guess is as good as mine. How do you fill out duty rosters if you dont know how to spell their names? I dont. Arent you their commander?
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No. Im responsible for transporting soldiers by ship. It was my bad luck to be at the fort when you attacked. Where is their commander? The lieutenant reddened and glanced away. I count twenty heads, Lieutenant, Lorenzo said, trying to sound casual. Two officers and eighteen men. Where are the rest? The man had no guile. His blush deepened. Lorenzo whistled to a corporal passing by. Tell the colonel that Major Bannister requests his presence. Yes, Major. The corporal ran off. The fort could accommodate two hundred in an emergency, but they had captured only twenty soldiers. A gut instinct told Lorenzo that something was wrong. He recalled hearing soldiers tell about the Battle of Concord. When the British retreated to Boston, minutemen hid behind trees and plucked them off like turkeys at a shoot. Several minutes passed before Glvez returned. Major? Lorenzo moved out of earshot of the prisoners. Your Excellency, we captured only twenty soldiers. Where are the rest? Not hiding in the fort. Weve searched it from floor to ceiling. I have a bad feeling about this. Why did Dickson leave such a small detachment to guard the fort? Where are their companions? Glvez digested that. Ill send scouts ahead to see whats afoot. Did an ambush await them on the march to Baton Rouge? Or was Dickson massing his forces at Fort New Richmond?
Chapter Thirty-One
Hawthorne stood at the cabin window enjoying the fresh air whooshing into the room. A noise at his back made him turn. Madame stretched and yawned. She threw back the covers, hopped out of bed, and rummaged through a suitcase of clothing. Davy Morgan had gone to the plantation to retrieve necessities. The boy had not missed an item on Hawthornes list. Boy! The lad was eighteen but looked thirteen. That was the curse of topping out at 5 3. How did you sleep? Hawthorne asked. He faced away from her so she could change clothes. Very well. And you? Well enough. He felt miserable, not from sleeping in a chair, but because his sore throat wouldnt go away. To make matters worse, he had a fever. He feared he was coming down with scarlet fever. When will Dr. Somerset lift the quarantine and allow us to leave? Madame asked as she changed clothes. I never felt better. He said he would stop by this morning. I wager he will give you a clean bill of health. What happens when we leave here? We go back home. My home is New Orleans. I meant the plantation.
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You promised to release me in due time, Robert. How long do you plan to hold me hostage? Lets talk about this later. I want to talk about it now. Why did you kidnap me? You obviously dont need the ransom. Ive seen you spend money like a drunken sailor. The plantation you inherited is worth a fortune. Isnt it time you told me what this is all about? He chewed on his lower lip, wondering how much to tell her. Doubts started to close in on him. In an odd sort of way, he regretted this whole affair. You can turn around now, she said. She wore the dark green dress he had bought at a trading post. Now, it hung a little loose on her. I have never seen a woman change clothes so quickly and look so good afterwards. Youre dodging the question. How long do you plan to hold me hostage? He moved two chairs to face each other, then gestured for her to sit down. He joined her, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward. I want you to understand that the original plan was to kidnap your husband, not you. In New Orleans, I followed him and soon realized it would be impossible to capture him. He was too well guarded. I kidnapped you instead. Lucky me. No. Lucky me. He forced a smile. This whole escapade was much more enjoyable with you instead of your husband. I thank you for the pleasure of your company. I was sick most of the time. You were a pure delight in spite of that. He found himself biting his fingernails, an annoying gesture that he tried to avoid. He clasped his hands tight to make himself stop. I had a good reason for doing all of this.
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Which was? I had to bring your husband to justice. She pulled back slightly. Justice? For what? For breaking the law. He has done nothing of the sort! He is the most honorable man I know. Hawthorne smiled sadly. I admire your sense of loyalty, but it is misplaced. You must have the courage to face the truth. Your husband has broken the law and must be brought to justice. He has not! He held his hands up as if to ward off blows. Calm down, Madame. Hear me out. Do you understand the concept of diplomatic privilege? Of course I do. Your husband hanged my cousin despite his having diplomatic privilege. At first, Madame looked perplexed by his remark, then her gaze slid sideways and her eyes narrowed, as if trying very hard to remember. The moment her eyes fixed on him again, he could tell she had made the connection. Dunstan Andrews! Precisely. Oh, Robert. I should have figured that out before. You look like him, except for . . . for . . . The scar? Yes, I know. She frowned at her hands knotted before her. What exactly do you want of Don Bernardo? I want him to admit in court that he was wrong. I want a legally binding document that cleanses the family name of this stain. You want something that can never be! He was merely carrying out his duty as governor. If you let me go, I promise he will give you an accounting to your sat-
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isfaction. Dunstan Andrews committed murder on Spanish soil, Robert. Thats why he was hanged. Thats a lie! he yelled. Madame stood up and jammed her fists on her hips. It is the Gods truth. Dunstan Andrews killed soldiers and cowboys. She stopped suddenly. From her expression, he could tell she was about to reveal privileged information. Go on, he commanded. I cant. Indeed you must! If you have information I need to know, please dont withhold it. She dropped into a chair and grew pensive. Hawthorne dropped to one knee in front of her and took her hand in his. Please tell me what you know. She took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye and said, I was at your cousins execution. He was captured in Spanish territory and put on trial for killing soldiers and cowboys in Texas. Texas? A bad feeling began to bud. He had given Dunstan direct orders to remain in New Orleans. What was he doing in Texas? She hesitated. Trying to kill Lorenzo Bannister. That rang true. Dunstan hated him. Hawthorne listened in fascination as she told him about a cattle drive from San Antonio to the Mississippi River and Dunstans murder of the soldiers and cowboys guarding it. According to Madame, Dunstan had gone off on his own private mission of revenge. Your cousin was given a fair trial, she ended by saying. There were plenty of witnesses. Soldiers from the Presidio San Antonio de Bjar testified against him. It is all properly documented. People loyal to your husband are hardly in a position to speak freely. A little Quaker boy who saw everything testified against your cousin as well.
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A boy named Thomas? Yes. Thomas Hancock. Hawthorne had worked with the boy long enough to know he saw the world in black and white. There were no gray areas. It was a rigid view, but something Hawthorne rather admired. It made the boy predictable and dependable. Thomas would not have put his hand on the Bible and testified in court against Dunstan unless he was guilty. Hawthorne thought about the scar on his cousins cheek. In a duel with a lords son, Dunstan had knocked the sword from his opponents hand and pinned him to the floor. At that point, he should have released him. He didnt. He killed him. It was murder. Cold-blooded, black-hearted murder. The room became unbearably hot. Hawthorne could not get a good breath of air. He crumpled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Eugenie froze. Several seconds passed before she realized what had happened. She bolted to the door and flung it open. Get Dr. Somerset at once. Robert has collapsed! The sentry, unable to desert his post, relayed the message to a passing soldier. It suddenly occurred to her that she was free for the first time in weeks. Robert had passed out. She could leave! She took a step, but remembered that the guard had orders to shoot if they left quarantine without permission. She glanced at Hawthorne. How pitiful he looked. A strange sense of loyalty and gratitude settled over her. He had stayed by her bed and nursed her back to health. Every time she opened her eyes, there he was, taking care of her. Was it right to desert him in his hour of need? No. She rushed back to him. He was far too heavy for her to lift, so she cradled his head on her lap. For the first time, she noticed his flaming red cheeks. Mo n d ieu , she muttered. He had scarlet fever. Lorenzo sent the twenty prisoners of war captured at Fort Bute to New Orleans and turned his attention to the matter of the missing soldiers. Musket slung over his
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back, he circled the outside of the fort and studied the ground. Dried boot prints showed hundreds of feet rushing toward the fort. Lorenzo made a wider arc and found six pairs of prints that concerned him. They headed away from the fort. He squatted to look at them more closely. Glvez crouched beside him. What do you see? Im not sure, Your Excellency. Lorenzo stood up. I have bad news, the colonel said. I just heard from my agent in Baton Rouge. Dickson isnt sending soldiers to retake Fort Bute. It appears he considers the fort a complete loss and not worth the fight. He plans to make a stand at Fort New Richmond. Ive seen the fort up close, Lorenzo said. Taking it wont be easy. I know. Head down, Lorenzo followed the boot prints into the woods with the colonel at his side. He trailed them for a mile, long enough to convince himself that the tracks were made by men thrashing through the undergrowth, running like the devil was after them. More bad news, sir, he said, pivoting toward Glvez. It looks like six men escaped from the fort in the chaos of battle and are headed straight to Baton Rouge. Glvez scowled and gave a rock an angry kick. Lorenzo knew what he was thinking. He had lost the element of surprise.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Six days later, Eugenie bent over a shirt she was sewing for Private Davy Morgan. One day when he delivered their supper, she noticed a long rip in his jacket and volunteered to repair it. When he took it off, she was surprised to see that his shirt had patches on patches. She glanced at Hawthorne lying in the bed she once occupied and was relieved to see that he was sleeping peacefully. His scarlet fever repeated the same steps as hers. The rash on his neck and face had spread to his chest, back, and the rest of his body. His tonsils and glands had swollen and he complained of a sore throat. Eating was so painful, he could only swallow soft food and liquids. He slept for hour after hour. To pass the time, she sewed for soldiers at the fort. There was a knock on the door. Eugenie answered. Not surprisingly, it was Davy. He liked to spend his free time in the cabin and always made himself useful. Sometimes, he changed Roberts clothes. Other times, he ran errands. Once in a while, he and Eugenie played checkers, a game he called d raughts . Soon after Robert got scarlet fever, Davy popped his head around the cabin door and asked if he could come in. Do you not have fear of scarlet fever? she had asked in English. No, maam. Had it when I was a wee lad. Me and my brothers was in quarantine for six weeks.
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Six weeks! Eugenie exclaimed. Yes, maam. He smiled wryly. Me mum thought she would lose her mind afore it was over. Do you need some help, maam? Would you mind sweeping the floor? Twould be me pleasure. He sprinkled the floorboards with water to settle the dust and grabbed the broom in the corner. It suddenly occurred to her that he was one of the nicest young men she had ever met. He was a British farmhand who worked on an earls estate until an army recruiter came through. Davy saw an opportunity to escape a dreary life and seized it. Eugenie finished the last seam on his new shirt and handed it to him. Vo il . He inspected it. You really sew good. Do you like it? Yes. Its yours. Mine? She nodded. His eyes lit up. Mine? Merci beauco up ! he said, using a French phrase she had taught him. Pas d e quo i, she replied. It was nothing. He folded it carefully, placed it on the table, and returned to his work. He swept dirt into a heap and broomed it onto the dustpan that Eugenie held. She emptied it into the trash can. She did a bit of housecleaning in her own mind, sweeping away old hatreds, grudges, and bitterness. A British doctor had cured her of scarlet fever, a disease that often proved fatal. Davy had shown her and Hawthorne a number of kindnesses and had befriended them for no particular reason. Now that she had lived with the British, actually seen them up close, they didnt seem so bad.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lorenzo lifted his hat and sleeved away sweat. He peered at Fort New Richmond sitting on a bluff about a half mile away. Colonel Glvez stood beside him. Bring back memories? Yes, Your Excellency. There is one big difference, though. Last time I was here, I didnt sneak up on the fort like a thief in the night. Glvez laughed. It was September 19, 1779. Glvezs army had advanced along the slope between the bluffs of Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River and was now setting up camp beyond the reach of the forts muskets and cannons. Glvezs little navy of four ships lay anchored downriver out of sight. Boom! Instinctively, Glvez and Lorenzo flinched and ducked. A cannonball sailed from the fort and fell short. It bounced and rolled. Last time I was here, the fort didnt shell me, Lorenzo said. No? Glvez said in mock surprise. The British fired a second shot, but it, too, fell short. Why are they wasting ammunition? Lorenzo asked. Theyre sending a message: We know youre there and well flatten you if you come too close.
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A bouncing cannonball on dry ground could kill scores of men. In wet weather, it would hit soggy earth and stop. Hands laced behind him, Glvez turned and strode off. Lorenzo hurried to catch up. Guarding Glvez was a duty that alternated between him and another staff duty officer. At all costs, they had to protect the colonel. Eugenie watched Robert sleep. The last time Dr. Somerset checked on him, she had asked why his recovery was taking longer than hers. Why had all his joints swelled? The doctor sidestepped the questions. Thunder boomed beyond the cabin wall. It reminded Eugenie of the last time she saw Lorenzo. He sat on the colonels patio eating lunch with her and glanced over his shoulder at a rumbling behind him. Thunder pealed again. Eugenie went to the window. The sky was a cloudless pale blue. Thats not thunder, Robert said, rousing from a long sleep. Thats cannonfire. Whats going on? I dont know. She stepped onto the cabin porch. Davy trotted past, musket slung over his back. Whats going on? she yelled. The Spanish are advancing from the south! He tipped his hat and ran on. The Spanish! If she could only get to them, she would be free! Eugenie noticed that the guard was gone. She stepped to the end of the porch and strained to see the front gate. British soldiers had pushed it shut and barred the forts only exit. There was no escape.
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The sun balanced on the western horizon as Lorenzo and Colonel Glvez reconnoitered the area around the fort, looking for a good area to set up the artillery. They came across a series of earthen mounds that rose out of the meadow about a thousand yards from the fort. Some had flat tops; others were cone shaped. What are these? the colonel asked, scratching his head. Indian mounds. Why did they build them? I dont know. Boom! A solid iron ball ripped open a large chunk of earth in a mound several hundred yards away. Lorenzo jumped in spite of himself. Would he ever get used to the sudden noise? Glvez didnt twitch. These mounds look like a good place to set up the artillery. How are you going to do that, sir? Lorenzo asked. The mounds are within range of Dicksons cannons. Nodding thoughtfully, he strolled off to a forest area south of the fort. From time to time, the British fired at Spanish troops busily preparing for battle. There was no way to know when to expect another shot. Boom! A cannonball tore limbs from an oak. It bounced and rolled, but did no damage, except to the tree. Glvez visited each company commander and spoke encouragingly to the soldiers. He headed to the river where his little navy rested at anchor. There, he ran into his aides, Oliver Pollock and Lieutenant Colonel Mir, supervising the unloading of supplies. When he pointed to the mounds, they echoed Lorenzos concerns. Glvez walked off again, hands laced behind him, head down. He stopped under an oak and leaned a hand against it. A frontal assault would be suicide, he said,
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speaking more to himself than to Lorenzo. Dickson has cleared all outbuildings within musket range of the fort. There is no place for a sharpshooter to take cover. Weve lost the element of surprise. We cant storm the fort. Well have to bombard it. Sir, Dickson has eighteen cannons, Lorenzo pointed out. You only have ten. Glvez lifted an index finger. But mine are bigger than his. Sir, we could shell thunder out of the fort, but Dickson will simply sit tight and shell us back. Eventually, we will run out of ammunition. Glvez looked at the mounds. His gaze slid to the forest. He smiled mischievously. Then well have to trick him. Take some men to the woods south of the fort. Have them dig trenches and chop down trees. Make a lot of noise. Attract the forts attention. I want them to think Im setting up an artillery battery in the grove south of the fort. It would be best if Dickson repositioned his cannons so they were all pointing in that direction. While you are busy elsewhere? Glvez nodded. Devilishly clever, Colonel. I have my moments. He slapped Lorenzo companionably on the back. Help yourself to whatever supplies you need. Move, Bannister! In the descending twilight, Lorenzo took thirty men to the supply officer for shovels, axes, lanterns, candles, and tinderboxes. He led them into the forest. When he judged they were at a safe distance from enemy muskets and cannonballs, he halted. He selected ten men. Chop these down, men. He slapped each tree to be felled. You ten, Lorenzo said to the militiamen. Fire on the fort from time to time. I want Dickson to think you are giving the others cover so they can work. And you lucky devils, Lorenzo said, addressing the remaining ten.
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You get to dig trenches. Make noise. Lots of noise! Let the British know youre here! The woodcutters set to work. Suddenly, light flashed from the fort. Puffs of smoke plumed into the air. The British lobbed one cannonball after another at them. Fire away, Dickson! Lorenzo exclaimed. It was too dark to see Glvez and his men behind the Indian mounds, but Lorenzo knew they were there. He also knew the diversionary tactic was working. Not a shot was aimed at Glvez erecting a battery within pointblank range of the fort. By morning, Dickson would be in for a big surprise.
Chapter Thirty-Five
On the morning of September 21, Lieutenant Colonel Dickson sat in his dining room waiting for his slave Jubilee to serve breakfast. The Spanish were knocking at his door. Well, not exactly knocking, Dickson thought. They were chopping down his forest. He had ordered his cannons repositioned to face the noise. Artillerymen worked feverishly through the night to move them. Glvez was so predictable. He was doing exactly what Dickson would have done under the same circumstances. Dickson had seen his kind beforearistocratic snobs who thought themselves superior because they had been born to position and privilege. Some of his own officers snubbed him because he was the son of a footman and a housemaid. Well, he would show them that he was just as good as Glvez! His Excellency, Lord of New Orleans, would soon eat humble pie. Jubilee placed a delicious looking plate in front of him. The savory aroma of ham and eggs in Jubilees special sauce wafted toward him. His mouth watered. He reached for his knife and fork. Beyond the forts walls, a cannon thundered. Damn those Diegos! Dickson muttered. Impossible to eat a meal in peace. A cannonball sailed through the roof and landed in the middle of breakfast.
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Glvez pumped his fist in the air, pleased to see the first cannonball clear the walls and land somewhere inside the fort. If Dickson wasnt awake before, he certainly was now. There was no way to know where shots would go until the first couple of rounds were fired. Cannonballs werent perfectly spherical. In flight, they could veer left, right, up, or down. The gunnery crew ran the first cannon back into position. Shooting always sent it hurtling back several feet and it took all four men of the crew to reposition it. Excitement surged through Glvez. For the last three years, he had been an administrator, not a warrior. He had forgotten how exhilarating and terrifying a battle could be. Eugenie awoke to the sound of an echoing boom. Startled, she jumped from her chair and threw the cabin door wide open. The cannon fire sounded further away. She watched in horror as a cannonball plowed its way across the parade ground. Soldiers, yelling and cursing, hurried to their posts. One was still buckling on a sword belt. Another hopped on one leg as he pulled on a boot. Officers snapped out orders. Whats going on? Robert asked. Eugenie turned to find him awake. The fort is under attack. Her voice wavered in spite of herself. He tried to sit up but fell back into the pillows. She rushed over to him. Youre too weak to be out of bed. No, Madame. I am not.
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She tucked covers around him, then sat down at his side and knotted her hands in her lap so he wouldnt see that they were shaking. She was terrified of the bombardment, but she was far more terrified by Roberts condition. His recovery was taking too long. Something was dreadfully wrong, but Dr. Somerset would not tell her what. Robert complained of stiff joints and had no energy. His knuckles and toes were horribly swollen. He patted her hand. You neednt be afraid. Im not. Youre terrified and too proud to admit it. No worries. Youll make it through this. God will protect you. Speechless, she stared at him a moment. But you said God did not . . . Listen carefully, for I shall say this but once. I was wrong. Now that Ive had time to reconsider my position, I realize why God allowed me to kidnap you. He wanted me to bring you here to Dr. Somerset. We have excellent doctors in New Orleans. Im sure you do, but are they experts in scarlet fever? Dr. Somerset is. He learned all the latest methods in a recent epidemic in Scotland. You couldnt have been in better hands. You survived scarlet fever. I doubt youll be squashed by one of your husbands cannonballs. There was something different about Robert now, but she could not put her finger on what it was. Cannons roared and belched out smoke. They punched gaping holes in the walls of Fort New Richmond. Lordy, Lordy! one of Lorenzos trench diggers exclaimed. The colonels plan was working beautifully. Flame spurted from Spanish cannons but not a single British
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one responded. They were all turned in the wrong direction. Lorenzo yearned to be in the thick of the fight, not watching it from the woods. He told his men to report to their units. Glvez needed artillerymen. Although Lorenzo had never fired a cannon, he figured he could help out somehow. Hunched over, he ran to the Spanish battery, careful to make a wide arc of the fort and stay beyond musket range. Overnight, Glvez and his men had dug trenches behind the mounds. Lorenzo watched the gunners work with practiced precision. He could not take his eyes off the big guns as they thundered and spit out fire and smoke. One team swabbed the barrel with a wet ramrod and took a break, passing a dipper of water from man to man. A gunner looked up. A smile blossomed on his face. He motioned for Lorenzo to join him. It took a moment to recognize the face stained with black powder and smudged with dirt. Charles? Lorenzo asked tentatively. He bowed low. At your service, Major. Lorenzo crept toward the trench and slid down the slope. Have you ever fired a cannon, sir? Charles asked. No, never. Would you like to? Sure. Rule Number One. Never walk in front of it. Rule Number Two. Remember the recoil and dont ever stand behind it. Stand here. Charles took Lorenzo by the arm and moved him off to the side. Dont leave this spot until I tell you, sir. How many shots can you fire in a minute? Three. He nodded toward the gunners. If you have well-drilled gunners like these fellows. This is my
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sponger, Enrique. His cousin Antonio. And Francisco, who is somehow related to both of them. They tipped their hats and spoke to Lorenzo in Canary Island Spanish. Lorenzo returned the greeting. Mano s a la o bra, am igo s! Charles said. He pointed to the cannon and motioned for them to move it forward. They pushed the cannon back into place, then took their positions around it. Charles swiveled toward Lorenzo. Would you like to be the ventsman, sir? Id only slow you down, I fear. Thats quite all right. Betsy needs to cool down anyway. Betsy? Lorenzo asked, amused that Charles had named his cannon. Charles peeled off a glove and passed it to him. Treat her like a lady. Put this on, sir, if you please. Lorenzo obeyed. Put your thumb on the touchhole and dont remove it if you value your life. Lorenzo pressed his thumb to a vent at the end of the gun. What happens if I lift it? Youll blow us to New Orleans. Covering the touchhole keeps a stray spark from igniting any leftover powder in the barrel. Charles signaled to his helpers with a swift, downward chop. Understanding the gesture, Enrique and Antonio, the two gunners at the front right and front left of the cannon, sprang into action. Enrique dipped a fleecy ramrod in the water bucket by the cannons wheels while Antonio checked for debris left in the cannon from the last firing. Charles brought a charge from the ammunition storage chest. Meanwhile, the sponger wiped the gun barrel with a mop. When it was clean and dry, Charles passed
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the charge to Antonio who loaded it. Enrique, the spongeman, pushed a clump of wadding in behind it. Antonio, the loader, put a cannonball into the barrel and used the ramrod to pack everything tightly. You may remove your thumb, sir, Charles said. He cleared the vent using a piece of wire. He poured priming powder into the hole leading to the main charge, then sighted the cannon. Firing the cannon! He put a flame to the touchhole. Powder sizzled. A few seconds later, fire and smoke spurted from the barrel in a thunderous roar. A plume of smoke burst from the vent hole. The cannon recoiled several feet. Lorenzos ears rang. No wonder artillerymen go deaf, he thought. After firing, the spongeman dipped his ramrod into a bucket of water and cleaned out the cannon barrel. The firing sequence started all over again. Dickson stood in the middle of complete chaos and studied the situation in dismay. How could this have happened? More than thirty of his men had been killed or wounded. Bloody sheets draped corpses in the central courtyard. For three hours, Glvez had given the fort an incessant pounding. A barrage from well-protected Spanish cannons rained down a steady hail of cannonballs at point blank range. Most of his gunners were either dead or wounded. The rest of Dicksons men were pinned down. So were the 150 settlers who had taken refuge inside the fort when the rumor spread that the Spanish army was advancing on Baton Rouge. Dickson had repositioned his cannon, but it was too late to do any good.
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Incoming missiles leveled barracks and cabins. Miraculously, the one used to quarantine the Hawthornes still stood. Dickson took a step and slid on ground slick with blood. He stamped his foot. Ive had quite enough! He ordered a soldier to unfurl a white flag over the wall. Listen! Hawthorne said. Eugenie looked up from darning socks. I dont hear anything. Precisely. The Spanish have stopped shelling us. What does that mean? Before he could answer, the door slammed open. Davy rushed inside. Dickson is surrendering. Defend yourselves as best you can. He handed Hawthorne a sword and a pistol.
Chapter Thirty-Six
At three oclock in the afternoon, the gate to the fort swung open and two British officers emerged under a flag of truce. Excitement zipped through Lorenzo as he positioned himself beside Colonel Glvez and other officers at the end of the dirt road leading to the fort. The approaching men kept their eyes straight ahead and ignored the soldiers lining their path. They stopped in front of Glvez and bowed. The taller of the two spoke. Lieutenant Colonel Dickson, 16th Foot Regiment, commanding his Britannic Majestys troops on the Mississippi and in West Florida, sends his regards to His Excellency, Don Bernardo De Glvez. The colonel nodded. I am pleased to accept his regards. With whom am I speaking? Major Henry Windsor, engineer. This is Dr. Somerset, regimental surgeon. I have been asked to deliver articles of capitulation. They are in French, for we have no Spanish interpreter inside the fort. Glvez took the offered pages and nodded his acknowledgment. I would be honored if you gentlemen would join me for refreshments. Lorenzo had seen civil exchanges like this one before and they never ceased to amaze him. Men who had tried to kill each other hours earlier now met and exchanged pleasantries.
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Major Windsor and Dr. Somerset fell into step with the colonel. They set out for a two-story house with wide verandahs on three sides. Lorenzo and the rest of the colonels staff followed. It suddenly struck Lorenzo that the surrender of this fort was completely different from the one at Fort Bute. Instead of being taken by storm, it was being handed over with gentlemanly politeness according to the rules of war. Glvez waved Windsor and Somerset into seats. Wine, gentlemen? An orderly served Glvezs guests and staff officers while the colonel scanned the articles of capitulation. Dr. Somerset cleared his throat. Your Excellency, I must ask a special favor. Glvez glanced up questioningly. Before your untimely arrival, I had two cases of scarlet fever under quarantine. The wife came down with it first and then the husband. Are they still contagious? No, I lifted the quarantine but they couldnt return home because of your siege. Glvez waved in Lorenzos direction. Major Bannister is a physician. He will see to their needs. One case turned into rheumatic fever, Dr. Somerset said. Someone will have to carry him from the fort. He slips in and out of delirium, but that is to be expected. Ill arrange a stretcher for him, Lorenzo said. If you will excuse me, the colonel said curtly, I must write a reply to your commander. Major Bannister, please join me. Lorenzo had known the colonel for three years and could tell when he was upset. The colonel continued to act like a gentleman, but he was seething beneath the surface. Lorenzo nodded to their guests and followed him into a sunny room.
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Glvez paced in agitation. It being a hot September day, the windows stood wide open so he spoke softly in a smoldering voice. I have never read such nonsense! He shoved the articles of capitulation into Lorenzos hands. As he read the unreasonable demands, his disbelief grew. Dickson did not want his troops taken as prisoners of war. Glvez was to put them on Spanish vessels and send them to Pensacola. Lorenzo shook his head. Does he think he won the battle? In a way, I admire his nerve. He has no way out and he knows it. He is trying to negotiate the best deal for himself and his people. Ive captured all ships coming from Pensacola, including the West Flo rid a . Dickson is completely isolated. A devilish smile lifted the corners of Glvezs mouth. Write this down. Lorenzo grabbed paper and quill. He could not hold back a chuckle when Glvez refused Dicksons demands and ordered him to surrender not only Baton Rouge, but Fort Panmure at Natchez, the Amit River post, the fort on Thompson Creek, and every other British post under Dicksons control. That will teach him a thing or two about negotiating! Glvez said, rocking on his heels. Lorenzo kept a straight face but inwardly joy swept through him. The colonel had swept the British from the lower Mississippi Valley and had only lost one soldier in battle. King Carlos would give him a well-deserved promotion to general.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next day at the time agreed upon in the articles of capitulation, Glvez stood on the road leading to the fort and waited for Dicksons formal surrender. Flanked by his officers, he struggled to maintain his dignity and keep an emotionless face when he felt like leaping for joy. The gate creaked open. A drummer beat out a steady tattoo as five hundred soldiers filed out beneath the flags of their companies and regiments. Nearly half were German Waldeckers. Five hundred paces from the fort, each soldier stopped and laid down his weapons. They were herded into the custody of waiting Spanish troops. The fort emptied. Dickson gave his word of honor that only the Hawthornes remained inside. Glvez nodded to Lorenzo, signaling it was safe to enter. Lorenzo headed toward the fort with Charles Peel, an English-speaking soldier who would help with the stretcher. Glvez turned and strolled to headquarters. From his verandah, he saw a horseman approaching at breakneck speed. He shaded his eyes and smiled to see that it was Thomas, his courier. The boy skidded to a stop in a spray of dirt and jumped down. I have a letter from Eugenie! he exclaimed, thrusting a ragged, travel-worn paper toward him. Glvez tore into it like a hungry wolf on a carcass. He read it, but stopped, perplexed. His father-in-laws
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masked ball had been held last April. Eugenie knew that. She was there. It suddenly hit him. She was telling him it was a mask letter. He read it again. Dear heart. That meant a heart was the cover. But what size was it? With his fingernail, he etched an imaginary heart in the center. It revealed nothing. He enlarged the heart. Still nothing. He drew one that nearly covered the page. The remaining words formed a message that leaped out. I am in the Bato n Ro uge fo rt. Glvez jerked his eyes to the gate. Lorenzo and Charles had disappeared inside. There were only two people left inside the fort: One of them was Eugenie. The otherher kidnapper! By all the saints! he exclaimed. Lorenzo is heading into an ambush! He grabbed the reins to Thomass horse, scrambled onto it, and dashed toward the fort. Sweat rolled down Hawthornes face and chest. The fever had returned, worse than before. Madame sponged his face with a wet cloth and spoke to him soothingly. She propped him up with pillows and gave him a drink. Someone rapped on the door. Madame moved toward it. No! Hawthorne croaked. He had seen what soldiers did to captured women and he would not let that happen to Madame. He reached for Davys pistol. His heart raced from the effort. The door swung open. Two Spanish soldiers stepped inside. Mrs. Hawthorne? one of them said in English. I have come toDio s m o ! Eugenie! He grabbed Madame and pulled her to him in a tight embrace.
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Cocking the pistol sent pain shooting through Hawthornes fingers. Every joint hurt. He pointed the pistol. Release her! Robert! Dont! Madame screamed. This is . . . A second man pushed the first one out of the way. He dashed forward and grabbed the pistol. Hawthorne wrestled with him. Give me the pistol! the man said. Hawthorne recognized the man, or at least he thought he did. Lieutenant Peel? What are you doing here? A third Spaniard dashed into the room, weapon drawn. There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar. Someone cried out in pain. Hawthorne let the pistol slip from his hand. Charles Peel clutched his forehead. Damnation! He shot me! Lorenzo let Eugenie go and moved over to Charles. He examined the wound. Its just a scratch, Charles. Bear up. The bullet grazed your temple. He glanced over at the colonel. He had gathered Eugenie in his arms and was hugging her tight. Mija! he muttered over and over. Mija! Eugenie squeezed him back. Lorenzo turned his attention to the man in bed. He was unconscious. Lorenzo checked his pulse to see if he was still alive.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hawthorne opened his eyes. The cabin ceiling had turned from brown to white. A breeze whipped through an open window, bringing the aroma of flowers in bloom. At first, he thought he had died and gone to heaven, but then he saw a man in uniform leaning over him, holding his wrist the way a doctor would. Good afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne, the man said. Where am I? In Colonel Glvezs temporary quarters. Youve been delirious with the fever for the last two days. A woman walked toward him from across the room. Hello, Robert. Madame! He smiled to see her. You arent hurt. In a burst of sudden recognition, Hawthorne remembered the doctor. You attacked Madame. She and the doctor exchanged a significant look. No, he didnt, she said. Lorenzo would never hurt me. Lorenzo? Hawthorne asked. Youre Lorenzo? Yes. She kept asking for you. She did? The doctor looked pleased. She was having hallucinations. I could not understand why she would call out for someone other than her husband. Why did she ask for you? Again, a significant look passed between the two of them.
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Robert, Madame said, Im not who you think I am. I am not Felicit De Glvez. Youre not? Who are you? Eugenie Dubreton. A slow realization set in. You tricked me! You tricked yourself! You saw me with the colonel and made an assumption. I played along to protect my mistress. I kidnapped Colonel Glvezs domestic servant? She nodded. He sank into a bank of pillows and laughed. To uch, Madame. Well played! Well played, indeed! His gaze slid to the doctor, who had failed to introduce himself. And who are you? I am Eugenies fianc. You have my deepest sympathies. What do you mean by that? The doctor looked half-perplexed and half-annoyed. She was more trouble than you can imagine. She bit me. She even tried to shoot me with my own pistol. You deserved everything you got, Eugenie said. The doctor struggled to hold back a smile. She told me about the kidnapping, but she left out those details. Just to quell my curiosity, sir, Hawthorne said, whats your name? The doctors mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Are you sure you want to know? We purposefully avoided telling you. Hawthorne had a bad feeling about this. Go on, he urged. You have my complete attention. Lorenzo Bannister. Oh, God. Laughter rumbled from the doctor. I must admit there was an awkward moment when I had to decide if I was going to kill you or cure you. Luckily for you, the doctor won out over the angry fianc.
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Lucky me. Maybe. As Eugenies fianc, I reserve the right to call you out for a duel when you are completely recovered. Youre going to make sure I recover so you can kill me. Is that the plan? Basically. Unfortunately, Colonel Glvez has first dibstones on you. Speaking of Colonel Glvez, Eugenie said, I promised that he would give you a full accounting of your cousins death. I spoke to him about the matter. He wants to talk to you whenever you feel well enough. Lets get this over with, Hawthorne said. I know Im in a lot of trouble. Eugenie left. I seem to recall shooting someone, Hawthorne said. Lorenzo nodded. Charles Peel. He has a minor head wound. Lorenzo tilted his head questioningly. Why did you call him Lieutenant Peel? I was out of my mind and mistook him for someone else. Really, Lorenzo said in an unconvinced voice. Thats quite a coincidence. You plucked the name Peel out of thin air. Hawthorne locked gazes with him. Its a common English name. Tell me about Lieutenant Peel. A strange feeling that he could trust this man settled over Hawthorne. When I was in New York, I met an artillery officer named Peel. He was a decent chap with few vices. He transferred to Fort Detroit and I lost track of him until rumors began to circulate. According to my sources, he fell madly in love with a Dutch girl and planned to marry her. Unfortunately, she was killed. You
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see, Governor Hamilton paid the Indians for scalps. Hers happened to be one they brought in one day. Shock registered on Lorenzos face. Hawthorne exhaled deeply. It was an enormous blunder, perhaps the biggest mistake we have made in the war. Lorenzo frowned in confusion. How so? It has turned public opinion against it. Colonists who were once loyal British subjects have given us their backs. How can we protect them, they wonder, if we cant protect the fiance of one of our own lieutenants. So there was a purpose to her death. She didnt die in vain. Pardon me? Hawthorne said. Nothing. No, you meant to say something. Charles Peel, the man you claim you do not know, once told me he believed that God had a purpose behind his fiances death. He did. Her name has become a rallying cry for American troops. Charles should know this. Yes, he certainly should. Hawthorne thought it best to keep the rest of the story to himself. Charles Peel had killed the man who scalped his fiance. Governor Hamilton ordered him locked in the stockade, but Peel escaped with the help of friends. Hawthorne was glad he had. Under the circumstances, it would be wrong to prosecute Peel. There was a legal term for his crime: justifiable homicide. Glvez paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned to let Lorenzo and Thomas enter. Thomas, if you feel uncomfortable . . . I can do this, Your Excellency.
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They entered and found Hawthorne propped up by pillows. Thomas! His eyes sparked with genuine affection. What a wonderful surprise! How have you been, my boy? Fine, sir. Glvez rested a hand on the boys shoulder. I asked Thomas to speak to you because he knows better than anyone what happened with Sergeant Andrews. He has agreed to answer all questions. Would you prefer to interview him in private? That wont be necessary. Thomas eased into a chair beside Hawthornes bed while Glvez and Lorenzo retired to the back of the room. Hawthorne asked Thomas several polite questions before he got to the matter at hand. Glvez had the distinct impression that he had been trained as a lawyer. Miss Dubreton told me Sergeant Andrews went to Texas, Hawthorne said. Is that true? Yes, sir. Despite my telling him to stay in New Orleans? Yes, sir. Why did he go there? To settle an old score with Lorenzo. Did you go with him? Yes, sir. So you saw everything? Not everything. Most of it. Hawthorne digested that. But you saw enough to make an informed opinion. Yes, sir. He paused. Was Dunstans execution justified? Yes, sir, Thomas said firmly. He committed murder.
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Then what Miss Dubreton told me was true. Hawthorne laid his head back and focused on a distant point. There was a long pause. I am satisfied, Your Excellency. Thomas would never lie, not even if you told him to. Glvez moved to the foot of the bed. You have placed me in an awkward position. On the one hand, you committed a crime when you kidnapped Eugenie. On the other, you did me a favor. By bringing her here to Baton Rouge, you twice saved her life. Once, from the hurricane. Once from scarlet fever. Further, Eugenie and Lorenzo were to be married at the St. Louis Church two days after the kidnapping. Virtually the entire city would have been at the wedding when she was most contagious. It is possible you spared New Orleans an epidemic. Not me. God. The response caught Glvez off guard. He had expected the man to seize the opportunity to negotiate a light sentence. Thomas appeared equally surprised. Thou hast changed, sir. Hawthornes face clouded. I hope so, son. Glvez could not help comparing Hawthorne to Sergeant Dunstan Andrews. In his cousins final moments, he had been completely unrepentant. This man was ready to accept punishment. Glvez swiveled toward Lorenzo. In private, Eugenie had asked for leniency for her captor. Glvez understood her request. He had once captured some Apache youths in battle. After a couple of days, they showed an odd sense of loyalty to him and asked to stay with him. At the time, he had not known what to do with them, so he sent them to school in Mexico City. Yes, Glvez understood the strange relationship between captor and hostage. He doubted that Lorenzo did.
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Glvez scowled at Hawthorne. Are you prepared to hear my decision? Hawthornes gaze met his. Yes, Your Excellency. For crimes against His Catholic Majesty, I order Robert Hawthorne of Baton Rouge into exile from all Spanish territory until such time as I, Governor-General of Louisiana, decide otherwise. It took Hawthorne a moment to find his tongue. Thank you, Your Excellency. That is most generous. It is a fitting punishment. Glvez glanced at Lorenzo. To judge by his scowl, he did not agree.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next day, Lorenzo stood on the colonels verandah with the priest from the San Gabriel Church. Lorenzo wondered how the colonel had enticed the sour-faced old man to travel to Baton Rouge to perform a wedding ceremony. He supposed it was difficult for anyone to turn down a request from the colonel. Lorenzo also supposed he should feel nervous, but he didnt. He had been waiting for this day for a long time. Lorenzo wore his dress uniform and was flanked by Thomas Hancock and Captain Hctor Caldern. Soldiers fanned out on the lawn beyond the verandah. While they waited, Davy Morgan entertained guests with a merry fife tune. Eugenie had told Lorenzo and the colonel about the young mans many acts of kindness toward her and Hawthorne. At Lorenzos suggestion, Glvez gave Davy a pardon so he could accompany Hawthorne into exile. Hawthornes recovery from rheumatic fever would take months. He needed a nurse. Glvez stepped onto the porch with Eugenie on his arm. A knot formed in Lorenzos throat. She looked beautiful in a white satin dress lent to her by one of the townswomen. Davys fife tune changed to a slow march. Eugenie and the colonel slowly approached and stopped in front of Lorenzo. The three of them turned toward the priest who stood in front of a makeshift altar. He began the nuptial Mass. Due to the extraordinary cir179
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cumstances surrounding the wedding, the priest used a shortened version. Who gives this woman to be married to this man? the priest asked. I do. Colonel Glvez placed Eugenies right hand in the priests and stepped back. The priest in turn put her hand in Lorenzos. Receive the precious gift of God. He asked the usual questions. Had they come to marry freely? Did anyone object to the wedding? Satisfied that there were no impediments, he told them to join hands. They repeated the wedding vows after the priest. He turned to the makeshift altar and sprinkled holy water on the wedding rings. He put one in Lorenzos right hand. Lorenzo took Eugenies left hand in his left. He placed the ring on her thumb and said, In the name of the Father. He moved the ring to the forefinger and said, And the Son. He placed it on the next finger. And the Holy Ghost. He slid it on her ring finger. With this ring I thee shield. Eugenie repeated the ring ceremony, ending with the words: With all my heart I thee enfold. The priest said the nuptial blessing over them, then introduced them to the crowd as Major and Mrs. Bannister. The crowd applauded. To Lorenzos surprise, Hctor now stood with seven other officers lined up at the foot of the verandah steps. He had slipped away at some point in the ceremony. Draw swords! Hctor commanded. They put blade tips together to form an arch. Your brother officers wish you much happiness, Hctor said. Thank you, one and all, Lorenzo said.
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Arm in arm, he and Eugenie passed beneath the swords. At the end of the path, a carriage and a driver waited. Caldern ordered, Return swords. Blades hissed as the men put them back in their sheaths. The colonel kissed Eugenie on the cheek. Congratulations, m ija. He shook Lorenzos hand. Ive been waiting for this wedding for a long time. Me too, Lorenzo said, smiling at his bride. I need to speak to your husband, the colonel said to Eugenie. May I borrow him, Mrs. Bannister? Can I stop you? Technically, no. I am his commander. In that case, you have my permission. Lorenzo and the colonel left Eugenie by the carriage and walked a short distance away. I know you joined the army because it was expedient in finding Eugenie, the colonel said. I also know that you can resign your commission at any time and go back to medicine. Lorenzo eyed him warily, neither confirming nor denying. But you wont do that because the military is in your blood. If you remain my staff officer, I promise to take you places. Are those places I want to go? Have you ever been to Mobile or Pensacola? No. The question confirmed Lorenzos suspicions. The colonel planned to attack British posts along the Gulf of Mexico. I will head back to New Orleans soon, but will leave a detachment here to make the transition to Spanish rule. Baton Rouge is a lovely place to honeymoon. Glvez fished a key from his pocket and handed it over. A wedding gift from me and Felicit. This goes to a home I just
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purchased. It has a number of bedrooms in need of children. Lorenzo laughed. You are wicked, sir. Glvez tugged on his jacket sleeve and tried to look offended. I found Eugenie homeless on the streets of New Orleans and now I leave her to your care. I could not be happier. Glvez gave Lorenzo a Spanish-style hug. Go back to your bride. Lorenzo did. What was that about? Eugenie asked. The colonel gave us a house. He could have done that in my presence. Eugenie eyed the colonel suspiciously as he strolled away. Hes up to something. What devious plot is he hatching this time? You wont believe it, Lorenzo said. Baton Rouge was just the beginning.
Historical Note
Fort New Richmond overlooked the Baton Rouge waterfront and stood south of present-day Pentagon Barracks at the intersection of Spanish Town Road and Lafayette Street. The Indian mounds where Glvez placed his cannon battery were located near North Boulevard. While in Baton Rouge, Glvez stayed in a frame building known as the Spanish Commandants House. It was formerly at 727 Lafayette Street. Charles Peels fiance, Anne, is a fictional character. Her story is based on the unfortunate death of Jane McCrea, a young woman engaged to a British soldier. She was murdered and scalped by Indians, allies of the British. Her death shocked the colonists and rallied many to the cause of the Revolution. Lorenzos next adventure takes place on the high seas and is tentatively titled Lo renzo s Pirate . Colonel Glvez attacks Mobile in 1780 and forges on to Pensacola in 1781.
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PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON, TEXAS

All other characters are fictional.

Lila Guzmn and Rick Guzmn