Lorenzo and the Turncoat (20 page)

Cannons roared and belched out smoke. They punched gaping holes in the walls of Fort New Richmond.

“Lordy, Lordy!” one of Lorenzo's trench diggers exclaimed.

The colonel's plan was working beautifully. Flame spurted from Spanish cannons but not a single British
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. Gálvez 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, Gálvez 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 don't ever stand behind it. Stand here.” Charles took Lorenzo by the arm and moved him off to the side. “Don't 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
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.

“
Manos a la obra, amigos!
” 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?”

“I'd only slow you down, I fear.”

“That's 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 don't 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?”

“You'll blow us to New Orleans. Covering the touch-hole 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 cannon's 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
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.

Lorenzo's 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, Gálvez 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 Dickson's 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.

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. “I've 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 don't 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.

At three o'clock 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 Gálvez 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 Gálvez and bowed.

The taller of the two spoke. “Lieutenant Colonel Dickson, 16th Foot Regiment, commanding his Britannic Majesty's troops on the Mississippi and in West Florida, sends his regards to His Excellency, Don Bernardo De Gálvez.”

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.”

Gálvez 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.

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 colonel's 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.

Gálvez waved Windsor and Somerset into seats. “Wine, gentlemen?”

An orderly served Gálvez's 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.”

Gálvez 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 couldn't return home because of your siege.”

Gálvez waved in Lorenzo's 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.”

“I'll 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.

Gálvez 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 Lorenzo's hands.

As he read the unreasonable demands, his disbelief grew. Dickson did not want his troops taken as prisoners of war. Gálvez 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. I've captured all ships coming from Pensacola, including the
West Florida
. Dickson is completely isolated.” A devilish smile lifted the corners of Gálvez's mouth. “Write this down.”

Lorenzo grabbed paper and quill. He could not hold back a chuckle when Gálvez refused Dickson's demands and ordered him to surrender not only Baton Rouge, but Fort Panmure at Natchez, the Amité River post, the fort on Thompson Creek, and every other British post under Dickson's control.

“That will teach him a thing or two about negotiating!” Gálvez 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.

The next day at the time agreed upon in the articles of capitulation, Gálvez stood on the road leading to the fort and waited for Dickson's 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.

Gálvez 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.

Gálvez 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.

Gálvez tore into it like a hungry wolf on a carcass. He read it, but stopped, perplexed. His father-in-law's
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 Baton Rouge fort
.

Gálvez 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 other—her kidnapper!