Lorenzo's Secret Mission (2 page)

Weaving and bobbing, I raced toward the darkened streets opposite the wharf, funneling all my energy into running. I glanced over my shoulder as I crossed the square and took a sharp intake of breath.

The pirate had recovered from the blow and was after me. In a burst of speed, I dashed down the alley between the cathedral and a three-story building, rounded the corner, and headed up a long, cobblestone street. I felt like a deer running through a narrow valley to escape from hunters. Boots thudded behind me.

The next time I glanced back, I noticed I had put distance between us. Unfortunately, two men had joined the pursuit, although they were still much farther back.

Deeper and deeper into the city I ran until my chest ached. I had to find a place to rest and take cover. At the next corner loomed a two-story house, its windows dark. Moonlight fell on the lush garden around it. This was as
good a place as any to stop while I caught my breath and figured out what to do next.

I pulled up short and dived behind a bank of oleanders. To my surprise, brick pillars raised the house three feet or so off the ground. Perfect! I ducked down and scooted between the pillars. In a matter of seconds, I crawled to the central one. My breath whooshed in and out. I forced myself to lie still, face down, and control my panting. It had been close, very close, and I wasn't safe yet. A quick vision of walking the plank of a pirate ship leaped to mind.

Seconds later, my ears picked up an unusual sound. Alarmed, I strained to hear better and inched forward to peep out. Moonlight streamed through the leaves and twining vines that concealed me. I spied a giant in buckskin and moccasins walking toe to heel like an Indian, his face veiled in darkness.

My heart hammered. I crouched down, ready to bolt if necessary.

He stood still, studied the ground, looked all around, then started to edge past me. Just then, a man in boots pounded toward him. I watched in horror as they both stopped about three feet away.

“What do you think?” a deep voice asked in hushed tones.

“I think we've lost him.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Yes. I'll know him the next time I see him.”

“One thing's for sure. He can run like the devil.”

The boots shifted. Another pair of moccasins joined them.

The deep voice suddenly slipped into English. “See anything, William?”

“No. Looks like he got away. We'd better return to the ship and see how the men are doing.”

“I agree.” He turned to the man in boots and talked to him in Spanish.

I couldn't see their faces, but I memorized their voices. Apparently, the man in boots spoke only Spanish and one of the men in moccasins spoke only English. The deep-voiced man knew both Spanish and English and interpreted for them.

Both sets of moccasins shuffled off together while the boots headed in the opposite direction. They had given up! I heaved a sigh of relief.

And then something awful struck me. The haversack with the letter to my grandfather. And my father's medical bag. I had lost them on the wharf. Where were they now? How could I recover them? It was too dangerous to go back and look for them now.

I stretched out full length upon the ground, pillowed my head on my crossed arms, and closed my eyes, disappointed in myself. Less than an hour after entering New Orleans, I had lost everything.

The ground, moist and soft, gave off an offensive odor, the smell of decay, but I didn't care. Too tired to keep my eyes open any longer, I fell asleep wondering how I would get my possessions back.

Loud voices coming from the house directly overhead awoke me the next morning. Dappled sunlight filtered through the greenery and touched my face.

“I'm awake, Papá,” I mumbled. Looking around, I suddenly remembered I wasn't in San Antonio with Papá.

Sore from sleeping on the ground, I stretched life back into my limbs. First order of the day, find my possessions. Second, get on a ship to Virginia.

Mulling this over, I trudged downhill toward the dark brown Mississippi and wove in and out of the crowded streets leading to the harbor. Along the way, I passed a schoolhouse where I could hear children chanting their lessons. Then I passed a convent, a cathedral, and a jail.

A warm breeze carried the fragrance of jasmine and magnolia. I drew a deep breath. Somewhere not too far off, someone was brewing coffee. I breathed deeper. What tantalizing aromas.

I passed a reluctant school boy, sailors, and customs officials. Close by, Indians squatted on colorful blankets and sold baskets of sassafras root. A black man, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, pushed a two-wheeled cart loaded with empty glass bottles to the river's edge.

People stepped out of the way when they saw me approach and gave me long, curious looks.

Compared to San Antonio, New Orleans was a big city. San Antonio consisted of little more than a frontier
fort, a Spanish mission, and twenty or so families. New Orleans throbbed with people, all speaking a confusion of languages. It struck me that New Orleans appeared somewhat more civilized than San Antonio, although both were only about fifty years old.

On the eight-foot levee that sloped to the river, I paused. The pirate ship I'd stumbled upon last night had unloaded its cargo and left. A lucky break, especially if the giant and his crew had left, too.

I walked to the last place I had my possessions and looked all about, but my luck didn't hold. Someone had already taken them. Even without Papá's letter, I still had to go to Virginia. My grandfather was my only living relative. So I slipped down to the Customs House, all the time watching for a red-coated British press gang. There, I scanned the huge chalkboard where the harbor master listed outbound ships. Spain. Cuba. France. My heart sank. Not a single ship bound for Virginia. I scowled up at the harbor master's board.

A girl with copper-colored hair stepped to my side. She spoke to me in French.

“I'm sorry,” I replied in English with an apologetic smile. “I don't understand.”

A look of disappointment crossed her face. “I said, what a face you make.” She spoke in broken Spanish, her wide green eyes dancing with merriment. “Nothing could be quite so bad.”

I stared at her in amazement and recognized her at once. She was the girl I'd seen dancing last night. She was even prettier up close. I'd never seen eyes so green or skin so creamy. She wore a straw hat and a white muslin dress.

“My name is Eugenie Dubreton,” she said in a Spanish heavy with a French accent.

I swallowed hard and shifted from foot to foot. Not too long ago, I thought of girls as silly creatures that played with dolls and gave pretend tea parties, but
recently my feelings toward them had started to shift. To make matters worse, here stood a beautiful girl, and I was less than presentable.

“I'm Lorenzo,” I finally managed to squeak out in Spanish. “Lorenzo Bannister.”

“
Enchantée
, Lorenzo,” she said with a small smile. She eyed me a moment, then lowered her voice. “Are you one of Gibson's Lambs?”

“Who are Gibson's Lambs?”

“Fur traders from Pennsylvania.” She turned toward the harbor master's board. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Virginia.”

“That is a long way off.”

“My grandfather lives there. I promised my father I'd deliver a letter to him.” A dull ache came to my chest whenever I thought about Papá.

“And so you go to Virginia?”

“If I can find a ship.”

“There is one leaving for Pennsylvania on October 2.”

I looked back at the board. “It isn't listed.”

She gave me a sly look. “Not yet. It will be. Pennsylvania is not far from Virginia,
n'estce pas
?”

If Eugenie was right about the ship, I had a month to kill. With not a Spanish pillar dollar to my name, I needed work and a place to stay.

Rain-swollen clouds darkened the southern horizon. Bits of trash skittered by, driven by a hot wind that stung my eyes. The rising gulf breeze threatened to blow away Eugenie's straw hat. She held it firmly on her head and clutched a cloth-covered basket a little tighter. “A storm is coming. I must hurry.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Over there.” She pointed to a bakery that faced the wharf.

I watched her walk off and scolded myself for not offering to escort her.

She took three steps, half turned, and waved for me
to catch up. My heart pounded like a wild mustang's hooves over the plain. I didn't need a second invitation.

About twenty feet away, a tavern sign creaked and groaned in the wind.

“My mistress has invited Colonel De Gálvez to dinner,” she said, breaking the silence between us. “He simply adores French pastries.”

“De Gálvez? Papá once doctored a man named Captain De Gálvez. He had two Apache spears in his chest and an arrow in his left arm. I wonder if he's related to Colonel De Gálvez.”

Before Eugenie could respond, a loud, drunken song drew our attention to the tavern on our left. Three soldiers, reeling drunk, burst through the door. Two wore the blue of British marines. Their companion was a redcoat. The first one was short and plump; the second hunched over as if he were carrying a heavy burden; and the third, the tallest of the lot, bore a saber scar on his cheek that made him look dangerous. They sang, “Yankee Doodle went to London, riding on a pony, stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni!”

“Gawd!” the hunchback exclaimed. “Wish I was going to fight the Yankees.”

“Wish I was going to Virginia with you,” the short, fat one said. “Least they speak English there.”

British marines! A chill went through me. Logic told me to run before they seized me and pressed me into service in the British navy. My sense of honor said to stay put and protect Eugenie. I hoped they were too drunk to notice us.

A gust of wind blew the taller soldier's hat into a mud puddle at my feet.

Saber-Scar looked at me and bellowed, “Hey, you! Diego! Fetch my hat!”

“Are you addressing me?” The words popped out in a flash of anger. How many times had Papá warned me to control my temper? More than I could remember.

“Look lively now,” the hunchback said, “and he'll give you half-a-pence.”

I glared defiance at him.

“I say,” the third soldier said. “The bugger's not going to do it.”

Saber-Scar staggered toward me. “Fetch my hat, boy!”

Now, only a distance of a few feet separated us.

“Fetch it yourself.”

Surprise and anger turned his cheeks red. “Little monkey's barking mad. Thinks he's our equal.”

“And got himself a regular lady!” the hunchbacked soldier exclaimed. “Come here, milady.” He pulled Eugenie tight to him and laughed when she struggled to break free.

“Let her go!” I lunged at the man, but my attack was thwarted by the tall soldier, who seized me and pinned my arms behind me.

When Eugenie's captor tried to kiss her, she drew her head back and spat in his face. Livid, the man wiped away spittle, then slapped Eugenie hard. Her cry of pain made me fly into a blind rage. I stomped on Saber-Scar's foot. He cursed and twisted my arms upward until I thought they would snap.

At that instant, footsteps pounded toward us. I jerked my head toward the sound, surprised and glad to see a giant in buckskin, moccasins, and coonskin cap race forward. He stood at least six-feet-six. Dark-haired, fairskinned, he was somewhere between twenty and thirty. At his side trotted a second man.

“I despise an uneven fight,” the giant said, his face tight with anger.

“‘Specially when it's with the Brits,” his companion added. Tall, at least six feet, the second man appeared no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. He wore a puffy-sleeved white shirt and homespun trousers held up by suspenders.

“Bloody hell!” the hunchback exclaimed. “Yankee Doodles!”

At that, the giant struck the hunchback in the nose while his friend clobbered the third soldier.

Using the element of surprise, I bent forward and flipped my captor over my back. Together we fell headlong into the puddle. Covered with mud, I scrambled up a second before Saber-Scar did and lunged at him again.

It became a free-for-all. We jabbed, punched, kicked. I took one on the side of my head. Blood trickled into my eyes. I managed to hit Saber-Scar in the stomach with my right fist. His body jerked at the impact and doubled over. Before he could unfold himself, I gave him a twofisted blow to the back of the neck. He sailed into the street, slid on the mud, and landed next to his hat.

Victory felt good until my hands began to hurt. I tried to shake it out. Just then, a squad of blue-jacketed Spanish soldiers rushed toward us.

“You are all under arrest for disturbing the peace!” the officer-in-charge announced as his soldiers leveled their muskets. “Put your hands up!”

We all raised our hands at the same time.

The Spanish officer retrieved Eugenie's basket and handed it to her. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

His expression changed from tender concern to anger as his eyes moved toward us. “Take them to jail!”

Saber-Scar uttered a terrible oath and shot me a murderous look. Under his breath, he said, “This is all your fault, Diego. I'll get you for this if it's the last thing I do.”

The Spanish officer-in-charge grabbed my collar and tightened his grip. “So we meet again.”

My heart sank. I recognized his voice. Last night on the wharf, he had put a pistol to my head.

“Lieutenant Calderón!” Eugenie said, tugging on his jacket sleeve. “The British started it.”

Ignoring her, he propelled me forward, across the green, toward jail, leaving the rest of his squad to deal with the others.

No doubt Lieutenant Calderón had singled me out because he remembered the elbow jab in the stomach. He shoved me through a wrought-iron gate, down a dark, twisting staircase, and into a dungeon cell that stank like an unemptied chamber pot.