by Lila Guzmán
Voices speaking Apache and French filtered through the walls. Somewhere not too far away, a baby wailed, and a woman sang a lullaby to comfort it. The aroma of roast meat traveled on the light breeze entering the teepee.
The flap lifted. His wife, Raven Feather, came in carrying cubes of roast meat fastened on green sticks and handed them to him. She wore a knee-length deerskin dress decorated with glass beads. Long deerskin stockings served as slippers.
He told her about stealing the cattle, only to lose them.
“The Spanish sleep like bears,” she said. “Take the cattle back, my husband. They are yours.”
“I will, when the time is right. After last night’s raid, the Spanish will have their guard up.” He chewed thoughtfully on a cube of beef.
“You have done more for the people than our own chief! Iron Bear wants to live in peace with the Spanish.” She waved her hand scornfully. “Peace! He is an old man who has lost the will to fight. You should be chief.”
Exactly what he was thinking, and it gave him another idea. “Go to San Antonio. Find out what you can about the redheaded man and his companions. By your return, I will be chief.”
She beamed at the word “chief.”
“Go, woman.”
Raven Feather obeyed without question.
Sitting alone in his teepee, Chien d’Or pondered what to do next. “Chien d’Or, chief of the Lipan Warriors,” he muttered. It sounded good, very good. He stroked the buffalo hide beneath him and plotted the perfect end for Chief Iron Bear.
Dunstan deposited his last load of firewood on the ox cart and fell into line behind seven German-speaking Hessians.
After the guard determined all axes were back in the storage box, prisoners and guards set out. They tramped single file through the Virginia forest down a road winding between steep banks. The prisoners traveled on foot while the guards rode on horseback, one in front, one in back.
Dunstan concentrated on the Quaker boy marching at the head of the line. The boy’s whispered words, “Thou hast friends in high places,” repeated themselves in Dunstan’s mind, giving him hope. At the same time, they bothered him. Why had his cousin ordered him to report to him at once? What was so important that his cousin wanted him to break out of prison? And why had he waited two months to send someone with a message?
During the march to camp, Dunstan also wondered why the guards hadn’t slapped leg irons on them. Perhaps the rumor was true. The rebels were overwhelmed with Hessian prisoners of war and didn’t know what to do with them. One day, on a particularly boring morning, Dunstan tried to count them but lost track at two hundred fifty.
German princes hired out their fellow countrymen to King George but refused to pay a ransom when they were captured. It looked like the Hessians would spend the rest of the war as prisoners. King George, on the other hand, cared about his English subjects and arranged prisoner exchanges.
The Quaker boy stumbled. Limping to the side of the road, he perched on an enormous boulder, removed his shoe, fished out a pebble, and tossed it into a bank of ferns. He sat, making no motion to put his shoe back on, and winked at Dunstan.
The guard rode over to the boy. “Let’s go!”
“No!”
Whip in hand, the guard slid down from his horse. “Get up!”
Every eye turned on them.
“I said, get up!”
“I am tired and wish to rest.”
The boy was creating a diversion! Every muscle tensed as Dunstan formed an escape plan.
The second guard called out, “Let the boy be. I’ll bring him later.”
Ignoring his companion’s offer, the guard seized the boy’s arm and forced him to his feet. “This is the thanks I get for going soft on you and letting you be water boy. Start walking.”
Head raised in sudden defiance, the boy pulled free. “I refuse to take one more step.”
The guard brought the bullwhip down squarely on the boy’s shoulders. A sharp crack of leather rang out.
“Stop that!” the second man bellowed, nudging his horse forward.
Before the guard could bring the whip down again, the second guard bent low and grabbed his wrist. “For God’s sake, he’s just a boy.”
This was the moment Dunstan had waited for. With all attention focused on the little Quaker, Dunstan rushed the mean-spirited guard, driving a shoulder into his stomach and knocking him off balance.
The man reeled backwards, stumbled over a log, and landed on his back in a pile of dead leaves.
The sudden commotion made the horses rear. Arms whirling like windmills, the second guard fell off. His mount danced to the left, then skittered down the lane with the second horse not far behind.
Dunstan dove for the pistol dropped by the second guard, snatched it up, and jammed it into the guard’s temple. “Tell your friend to drop his weapons or I’ll blow your brains out.”
By the time the guard stammered out, “Do as he says,” the other guard had already deposited his weapons on the ground.
The Hessians looked at each other but did nothing.
Anger slashed through Dunstan to see the prisoners standing like stone blocks. “You two!” he roared, using the broken German he’d learned during his confinement. “Go to the wagon. Get rope. Tie them up!”
Dunstan’s shouted order brought them to life.
A prisoner scooped up a musket, put the stock to his right shoulder, and aimed at the guard. His finger twitched on the trigger.
“Nein, nein, nein!” Dunstan roared, knocking the muzzle aside and making the prisoner recoil in surprise. “Keine …” At a loss for words, Dunstan did a swift pantomime of slicing his finger over his throat and waving his hand in a sign of no. The rebels wouldn’t waste time looking for a handful of escaped prisoners, but murderers were another matter. The last thing he wanted was the entire Continental Army hunting them down.
While the Hessians bound the first guard hand and foot, Dunstan wedged one pistol under his belt and handed the other to the little Quaker.
Holding it awkwardly, as if he had never handled a weapon before, the boy studied it for a second. A smile spread across his face as he imitated Dunstan and slipped it under his belt.
Dunstan briefly considered ordering the Hessians to form ranks and become his own private army. Then common sense prevailed. He and the Quaker boy had a better chance of escape alone. “Gehen Sie!” Dunstan spat out in German. “Go!”
Pandemonium reigned. Prisoners scattered in all directions. Some crashed into the forest and disappeared in the lush tangle of trees. Others sprinted down the road, away from camp.
Dunstan and the Quaker scrambled up the closest bank, grabbing onto tree roots to pull themselves to the top. Chest heaving, he paused to study the angle of the sunlight slanting through the forest.
He guessed they had six good hours of daylight left. “Come on …” For the first time, it occurred to Dunstan that he didn’t know the boy’s name. “What’s your name?”
“Thomas Hancock,” the boy replied.
“Of the New Jersey Hancocks?”
“Aye.”
That explained a lot. The Hancocks, well-known and well-respected Quakers from southern New Jersey, had remained loyal to good King George and often slipped information on rebel movement to British intelligence.
Dunstan catalogued all that in his mind for future use. The first thing he had to do was report to his cousin, Major Hawthorne. The second was to find Lorenzo and kill him.
Chapter Seven
Molly carried a plate of leftovers from General Washington’s lunch to the makeshift chicken yard.
Private Welsh, on guard, unlatched the gate and pushed it open for her. “It looks like General Washington didn’t touch his food,” he said in his prim Connecticut accent.
“He didn’t have much of an appetite today.”
“Poor fellow! He is a man full of woe,” Private Welsh said.
Molly nodded. General Washington hadn’t won a victory
in months. Some members of Congress and certain army officers wanted to replace him as commander in chief. The prime candidate was Benedict Arnold.
The possibility of losing General Washington made Molly angry. She had met Benedict Arnold and didn’t trust him. He was the kind of man who would sell his own mother for the right price.
Molly handed Private Welsh the plate. She always gave him a chance at leftovers before she fed them to the chickens.
He picked up a corn pone and bit off a huge chunk. “Delicious! What is it?”
“In Virginia, we call it a corn pone. I baked it myself.” Molly tossed the peas to the chickens. General Washington hated peas.
The chickens devoured them, then craned their necks, looking around for more.
“Molly, if you were old enough, I’d marry you like that!” Private Welsh snapped his fingers.
“Why? ‘Cause I can cook?”
He grinned and flicked the tip of her nose with his finger. “Precisely.”
A hen drooped, let out a strangled squawk, and flopped over dead.
Private Welsh straightened. “What the devil?”
A second chicken fell over dead. In a matter of minutes, bodies littered the chicken yard.
Color drained from Private Welsh’s face. He stared at the corn pone in his hand. “I’ve eaten poisoned food.”
Molly shook her head. “I baked that myself. Those pones never left my sight.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The guard looked immensely relieved. “Who prepared the peas?”
“The cook.”
“He tried to poison General Washington! Come on, Molly. You’re my witness. The cook will hang for this.”
Iron Bear stood with arms crossed and watched the four French smugglers enter Chien d’Or’s teepee. He wished he hadn’t allowed them to stay, but the day Chien d’Or brought them to camp, one had been wounded and needed help. He didn’t trust any of them, and he trusted Chien d’Or least of all. He was sneaky as a coyote. It was odd how two children from the same parents could be so different. Bayé, Chien d’Or’s brother, had been an honorable man, a brave warrior who had died in battle protecting the tribe from Comanches.
Iron Bear decided to give Chien d’Or’s associates the benefit of the doubt, but he would still keep an eye on them. He would watch Chien d’Or even closer.
It was early afternoon when Dunstan and Thomas arrived in Charles City, Virginia, on stolen horses. Wedged between the James and Chickahominy Rivers, the village consisted of sturdy two-story brick houses and resembled other colonial villages they had passed through.
Dunstan followed Thomas to the most elegant house in town. A British flag on the side flapped in the breeze.
When they alighted, sore and travel-worn, Thomas automatically took the reins of both horses and tied them to a waist-high iron hitching ring.
Dunstan was beginning to like this most useful boy. He never whined, although they had traveled at top speed for hours. When they stopped to rest, Thomas anticipated Dunstan’s needs, and when he did not, Dunstan only had to explain once how he wished things done. Someone had trained the boy well.
With Thomas trailing in his wake, Dunstan bounded up the red-brick steps to a redcoat standing woodenly on guard. At their approach, the soldier scanned him from head to toe, disapproval at Dunstan’s tattered coat and much-patched trousers evident.
Thomas stepped around Dunstan. “The rooster has flown the coop.”
It was clearly a password. The guard swung the door open without hesitation and led them to a sitting room decorated with portraits of sour-looking people in old-fashioned clothing. Against one wall stood a fireplace with two armchairs angled toward it. A horsehair couch occupied the opposite wall. In the center of the room, a highly polished table held a china service for six.
Dunstan fell into a chair and propped his feet on the hearth.
“I shall inform the major of your arrival.” The soldier turned and left.
Thomas stood in the center of the room, working his hat through his hands.
“Relax,” Dunstan said. He waved toward the empty chair.
Reluctantly, the boy sat down.
During the ride to Charles City, Dunstan had taken Thomas’s measure as a man. The lad would serve him well. He was smart enough to choose the winning side of this war, smart enough to obey him, but not smart enough to question orders.
Major Hawthorne entered, stuffing his shirt in his pants.
Thomas leaped to his feet as Dunstan slowly unfolded himself.
Wigless, hair disheveled, the major reeked of cheap perfume, suggesting he had just left female companionship. Major Hawthorne was famous for parties that put Roman orgies to shame.
Dunstan smiled to recall the ad his cousin once placed in a colonial newspaper. “Housekeeper needed for British officer. Women with scruples and high moral character need not apply.”
“Dear cousin,” Major Hawthorne said, shaking his hand warmly. “A pleasure to see you again.” He turned to Thomas and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well done, my boy! An entire battalion couldn’t have done better.”
Thomas beamed.
Turning back to Dunstan, Major Hawthorne looked at him appraisingly. “You look none the worse for wear, in spite of your recent indisposition. The thought of you languishing in prison was positively mortifying.”
“So mortifying you waited two months to spring me? Cut the malarkey and just tell me why the hell you brought me here.”
Thomas looked shocked by Dunstan’s rudeness and rough language.
“My dear cousin,” Major Hawthorne said in a gentle voice. “Always in a hurry. You must learn to take life easy and enjoy yourself. Shall I have the cook prepare something? Ham perhaps? They cure it to perfection here.” Major Hawthorne brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly in a gesture of delight.
“I haven’t the time.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dunstan saw Thomas slump in disappointment and realized the boy must be starving. “Oh, very well. Thomas, tell the major what you would like.”
“Ham and boiled eggs.” The boy’s gaze fell. “If it isn’t too much trouble, sir.”
“No trouble at all,” the major exclaimed. “You deserve a greater reward than that for what you’ve done.” He pulled a long tasseled rope hanging from the ceiling.
A woman wearing an apron came to the door in seconds.
Dunstan eyed her appraisingly. She was far too beautiful to be a mere maid.
After Major Hawthorne ordered dinner, she left, closing the door behind her.
“Let’s discuss why you’re here.” Dunstan’s cousin eased into an armchair and signaled for them to sit. “Intelligence has reason to believe the Spanish are up to their necks in this rebellion. We must find out just how deeply involved those New Orleans dons are. You know them better than anyone. I believe you acquired some of their language in New Orleans?”
Dunstan nodded.
“Excellent! I am told you once crossed paths with Lorenzo Bannister.”
Dunstan scooted to the edge of his seat. “You have news of him?”
“In a manner of speaking. Our spies in New Orleans report that Bannister lives with Colonel De Gálvez. It appears Gálvez filed papers on his behalf. Court proceedings were held behind closed doors, with the resulting documents sealed and spirited away. We believe the colonel has made Bannister his ward.”
Dunstan snorted. “Why would he do that? Bannister’s grown and can take care of himself.”
Major Hawthorne lifted a shoulder. “The story grows more curious by the minute. Bannister and several of his soldiers were spotted leaving New Orleans on horseback.”
“His soldiers?”
“Yes. He is now a captain in the rebel army.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Quite. Bannister and his men headed due west. They were dressed as civilians and traveled light, apparently in a hurry. What lies due west of New Orleans?”
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“How the hell should I know?”
“San Antonio, dear cousin. The capital of the Province of Texas.”
“Why would Bannister and his men head there?”
“I should like to think they have come to their senses and are deserting the rebel army, but I rather imagine we can’t be that lucky, now can we? What do you know about San Antonio?”
“Not much.”
Major Hawthorne handed him a map.
Dunstan uncurled it and studied it.
His cousin continued. “A chain of Spanish missions runs along the San Antonio River—five missions in all—San Antonio de Valero, San José, Concepción, San Juan, and Espada.”
Dunstan followed the river’s meandering path and located the missions.
“All are under the protection of Fort San Antonio de Bexar. Ninety-three soldiers and officers guard the garrison. They do little more than drill and attend to routine duties. The village of San Antonio consists of about twelve hundred settlers, most from the Canary Islands. The number of Indians inside mission walls is ever changing, for they come and go at will.”
“Is that traitor Washington recruiting Indians to his side?”
“No. The Spanish and the Indians have been fighting for years. I quite imagine Bannister and his men are after something else.”
“What? There’s nothing in Texas but barbarians and wild beasts.”
“What kinds of wild beasts? Let’s ponder that a moment, shall we? The ranches around San Antonio are filled with horses and cattle. No doubt there are more cattle than people in Texas.”
Dunstan stroked his lower lip thoughtfully. “Horses and cattle are two things Washington needs badly.”
“Desperately,” Major Hawthorne corrected. “And the rebels will go to any length to acquire them.”
“All the way to Texas?”
Major Hawthorne gave him a wicked grin.
Dunstan studied the map again. “It’s a long way from Texas to the colonies. They would have to drive the cattle overland to … No. Not overland. That poses too many problems. Rough terrain. Wild beasts. Indians. If I were Bannister, I would head to the Gulf of Mexico to put the cattle on a waiting ship.”
