Lorenzo and the Turncoat (18 page)

“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.”

“You promised to release me in due time, Robert. How long do you plan to hold me hostage?”

“Let's talk about this later.”

“I want to talk about it now. Why did you kidnap me? You obviously don't need the ransom. I've seen you spend money like a drunken sailor. The plantation you inherited is worth a fortune. Isn't 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.”

“You're 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.”

“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 satisfaction.
Dunstan Andrews committed murder on Spanish soil, Robert. That's why he was hanged.”

“That's a lie!” he yelled.

Madame stood up and jammed her fists on her hips. “It is the God's 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 can't.”

“Indeed you must! If you have information I need to know, please don't 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 cousin's 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 Dunstan's 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 Béjar 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.”

“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 cousin's cheek. In a duel with a lord's son, Dunstan had knocked the sword from his opponent's hand and pinned him to the floor. At that point, he should have released him. He didn't. 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.

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. “
Mon dieu
,” 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
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.

Gálvez crouched beside him. “What do you see?”

“I'm not sure, Your Excellency.” Lorenzo stood up.

“I have bad news,” the colonel said. “I just heard from my agent in Baton Rouge. Dickson isn't 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.”

“I've seen the fort up close,” Lorenzo said. “Taking it won't 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 Gálvez. “It looks like six men escaped from the fort in the chaos of battle and are headed straight to Baton Rouge.”

Gálvez scowled and gave a rock an angry kick.

Lorenzo knew what he was thinking.

He had lost the element of surprise.

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 Robert's clothes. Other times, he ran errands. Once in a while, he and Eugenie played checkers, a game he called
draughts
.

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, ma'am. Had it when I was a wee lad. Me and my brothers was in quarantine for six weeks.”

“Six weeks!” Eugenie exclaimed.

“Yes, ma'am.” He smiled wryly. “Me mum thought she would lose her mind afore it was over. Do you need some help, ma'am?”

“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 earl's 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. “
Voilà
.”

He inspected it. “You really sew good.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“It's yours.”

“Mine?”

She nodded.

His eyes lit up. “Mine?
Merci beaucoup!
” he said, using a French phrase she had taught him.

“
Pas de quoi
,” 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 didn't seem so bad.

Lorenzo lifted his hat and sleeved away sweat. He peered at Fort New Richmond sitting on a bluff about a half mile away.

Colonel Gálvez stood beside him. “Bring back memories?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. There is one big difference, though. Last time I was here, I didn't sneak up on the fort like a thief in the night.”

Gálvez laughed.

It was September 19, 1779. Gálvez's 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 fort's muskets and cannons. Gálvez's little navy of four ships lay anchored downriver out of sight.

Boom!

Instinctively, Gálvez 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 didn't shell me,” Lorenzo said.

“No?” Gálvez said in mock surprise.

The British fired a second shot, but it, too, fell short.

“Why are they wasting ammunition?” Lorenzo asked.

“They're sending a message: We know you're there and we'll flatten you if you come too close.”

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, Gálvez turned and strode off.

Lorenzo hurried to catch up. Guarding Gálvez was a duty that alternated between him and another staff duty officer. At all costs, they had to protect the colonel.