Lorenzo and the Turncoat (17 page)

He unfolded it, tilted it toward the fading light, and read.

Héctor peeped over his shoulder to follow along.

The note, written in French, stated that Madame De Gálvez was being held at an unspecified location. Further instructions would be forthcoming.

“I don't 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,” Héctor 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 Lorenzo's 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. She's like a daughter to me.”

Lorenzo's heart filled with hope, certain he would see Eugenie again.

“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 I'm 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.

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.”

“Don't 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 naïve 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. “That's not right,” she said, scolding herself.

“Problems?”

“Writing a letter that will get past your censorship isn't as easy as it sounds.”

He laughed and propped his bootless feet on the bottom of the bed.

An hour later, she exclaimed, “
Voilà! C'est 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 dear love, I am safe and in the custody of the man who sent the ransom note. Fear not, dear heart, for I am fine. He is treating me well and has not mistreated me. I miss you terribly and hope to be in your arms soon. We have been invited to a masked ball to celebrate Father's birthday
.

I expect to be home in time to help my sisters prepare for it
.

The ball promises to be quite an affair
.

Until the day that I am home
.

I remain your most loving and adoring wife
.

Felicité
.

Hawthorne searched for a secret code in the letter. Other than some odd paragraphing, he detected nothing. “The next time Dr. Somerset visits, I'll 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-law's 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 Hawthorne—clever though he was—hadn't figured it out.

“I'm awake,” Lorenzo mumbled, slapping at the hand roughly shaking him.

“Get up,” Colonel Gálvez 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 Gálvez 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 Gálvez, 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 Gálvez 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
colonel's side and protect him at all costs. Should the battle go badly, Lorenzo had to prevent the colonel's 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, Gálvez 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 colonel's aide-de-camp, was waiting for them. He looked grim and was uncharacteristically quiet.

A voice shouted “
Allons-y, mes garcons!
” Let's 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 mind's 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.

Not a single cannon fired. Artillerymen blinded by the fog wouldn't 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.

Gálvez laughed with relief. He grabbed his father-in-law's upper arms and planted a kiss on each cheek. “God has answered my prayers. You are safe.”

“But of course,
mon 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.

Gálvez 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 Miller's Independent Company.” He presented his sword to Gálvez. “I give my word of honor that my men and I will not attempt an escape.”

Gálvez accepted it as a sign of the fort's surrender. He immediately handed it back to show that he had accepted the officer's word. “At the first opportunity, I pledge that each soldier will be exchanged for a Spanish prisoner of equal rank.”

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.” Gálvez 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.

Gálvez 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.

“What's 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 don't know how to spell their names?”

“I don't.”

“Aren't you their commander?”

“No. I'm 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 Gálvez 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. We've 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?”

Gálvez digested that. “I'll send scouts ahead to see what's afoot.”

Did an ambush await them on the march to Baton Rouge? Or was Dickson massing his forces at Fort New Richmond?

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 Hawthorne's 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 wouldn't go away. To make matters worse, he had a fever. He feared he was coming down with scarlet fever.