by Lila Guzmán
While the others prepared supper, Lorenzo wandered around the fort. It saddened him to see Los Adaes abandoned and in disrepair. The chapel, guard house, barracks, wells, blacksmith shop, powder house, and corrals echoed with loneliness.
He entered the chapel and looked around. Everything had been removed except for a few wooden benches. He dusted one off, sat, closed his eyes, and prayed. He had a difficult decision to make. What should he do about the horses?
After three days of hard riding, they were nearly worn out. Some of them were going lame. Piñata and Red’s horse were in the best shape, but Lorenzo doubted that they could make it much farther. He hated himself for treating them this way. He had allowed them to forage and rest as much as possible, but now, they were spent.
“You look like a man with a problem.”
Lorenzo jumped. Soledad had come in as silent as a ghost and now sat beside him.
“The last time I was here,” Lorenzo said, “the fort was a beehive. Over a hundred soldiers lived inside these walls. I wish the king hadn’t closed it. I could use some extra men right about now.”
“You could have gotten some fresh horses, too. You need them more. Ours can’t go much farther.”
Lorenzo laced his fingers together behind his neck and bent over. He was so tired he could barely think straight. “There’s an abandoned French fort a few leagues away. It’s on a river that flows into the Mississippi. I may have to leave the horses there.”
“The tribes are friendly around here. I’m sure I can talk them into trading canoes for horses.”
“I hate to lose Piñata.”
“Life is full of hard choices.”
Lorenzo mustered a smile. “It certainly is.”
After a refreshing night’s sleep, they set out on horseback, reaching Fort Saint Jean Baptiste an hour later.
Red and Soledad rode off with every horse. A lump formed in Lorenzo’s throat when he saw Piñata leave. He loved that horse.
An hour later, they came down river, Red paddling one canoe, Soledad in the other.
After packing the canoes with muskets and ammunition, Lorenzo added his medical bag, but prayed he wouldn’t need it.
Thomas climbed in the lead canoe, and Lorenzo joined him. Red, Soledad, and Dujardin scrambled into the second one.
Splash. Pull. Splash. Pull. Splash. Pull. Lorenzo and his crew whizzed down river, making good time. He was grateful they didn’t have to row against the current, but worried about the possibility of an Indian attack. They were perfect targets. Moss-draped trees edged the riverbank and made it impossible to tell if they were being watched.
By mid-morning, the Mississippi came into view. A fish made the mistake of breaking the surface of the placid water. An eagle swooped down and flew off with it.
“Captain!” Thomas exclaimed. “We’re getting close.”
“How can you tell?”
Thomas pointed to a blackened tree that had been struck by lightning. “I remember seeing that just after Dunstan and I left the hideout. We’re about a mile away.”
Lorenzo pulled to shore, and the other canoe followed. They grabbed their weapons and leaped out. He laid his index finger to his lips. In complete silence, they followed a path that ran parallel to the river, but was hidden by forest.
“Look, sir,” Thomas whispered, pointing to smoke curling skyward.
Lorenzo’s heart beat a little faster. He raised his hand to signal a halt. “Thomas, I want you to stay here.”
“Aye, sir.”
He handed Thomas a tomahawk. “I know you don’t believe in violence, but I don’t want to leave you here defenseless.”
Thomas nodded and clutched the weapon.
Lorenzo was surprised that the boy took it without protest.
From then on, everything was done by gesture.
They fanned out. Lorenzo carried his medical bag in one hand, his musket in the other. Making not a sound, they wove their way through the trees to a clearing. Fifty feet away sat a cabin no more than six feet by six feet. The smoke Thomas had spotted was coming from the chimney.
A redcoat stepped outside carrying a wooden bucket and headed toward the river.
Lorenzo and his crew ducked behind trees and bushes. He motioned for everyone to stay hidden.
Red pointed upwards, signaling he was going to climb a tree to see what he could see. Slinging his musket over his back, he clambered up a pine and perched on a high limb. He gazed toward the river and splayed his fingers to indicate he saw five redcoats, then traced a stripe on his upper arm to indicate their military ranks. Four privates and a corporal.
Where were the rest? Inside the cabin? Or out in the woods? It was impossible to tell. Lorenzo made himself comfortable. This could be a long wait.
A tall, lanky man carrying an ax emerged.
Number six, Lorenzo said to himself.
The man went to the woodpile, removed his coat and began to chop wood. Soon, another redcoat came out, basket in one hand, musket in the other. He headed into the forest.
Seven.
The lumberjack was joined by an officer who stood beside him and chatted while he worked. Eight. Where were the other four? Lorenzo didn’t dare attack until he was sure where they were.
Dusk was falling. Evening birds began to sing from the trees.
Lorenzo’s patience was wearing thin. He didn’t relish spending the night waiting for something to happen, but there was one bright spot. The dark would bring everyone to the cabin for safety. He glanced up at Red and grinned. Red had found a nook where two branches came together and rested his back against the trunk.
“Flatboats round the bend!” a deep British voice yelled from the river’s edge.
Lorenzo strained to see them.
Three musket-toting British soldiers spilled from the cabin and ran full tilt to the river about three hundred yards away.
The people on the flatboats had no idea they were headed for an ambush. There was no time to warn them. Lorenzo glanced up at Red and mouthed “Fire at will.” Crouching, Lorenzo darted from tree to tree and dropped behind a cypress.
Weaving and bobbing through the forest, his friends spread out and took cover to his left and right.
Fifty yards away, the British lined up on the shore forming a wall of red and took slow, deliberate aim, targeting the flatboats. Muskets banged, spitting out fire.
On board the flatboats, people screamed, ran, and hid behind whatever they found. Men in buckskin shouldered muskets and fired at the British. A woman in a hooded robe hunkered behind a barrel and wrapped her arm around a little girl’s shoulder.
Red shot from the treetops, bringing down the British officer. It was standard military strategy to eliminate officers first. It would take about twenty seconds to reload.
The surprised Brits swiveled.
“Fire!” Lorenzo yelled.
Flames burst from every muzzle, followed by puffs of smoke. Lorenzo, Dujardin, and Soledad brought down a man apiece. Everyone squatted behind trees to reload.
Smoke wisped about, temporarily blocking the view.
British soldiers hid behind trees lining the river, their backs to the water. They were trapped in the unenviable position of being shot at from both sides.
From the treetop, a musket cracked, bringing down another redcoat, while another volley burst from the flatboats.
Dujardin peeped out and aimed.
A musket ball from a different direction struck Dujardin and spun him around. He sprawled face down.
Musket in hand, Lorenzo dashed from one tree to the next, taking cover until he could reach out, grab Dujardin’s collar, and drag him to safety. The only sound in the forest was his low moans while Lorenzo checked his wound. It was unnerving, trying to keep an eye on the enemy without making yourself a target.
Where had the unexpected shot come from? The twelfth redcoat, the missing man no doubt. Lorenzo suddenly realized Soledad was no longer hiding to his right.
Long moments we
nt by. The forest fell silent.
A redcoat, hands raised in surrender, walked toward them.
Red, still in the treetop, began to laugh. He climbed down faster than Lorenzo thought possible.
Soledad prodded the captured soldier forward with a musket. “This is the last one, Captain. He was down at the riverbank fishing when all the excitement began. The rest are dead.”
Red gave his wife a congratulatory hug.
“We are friends,” a male voice called. It sounded like a New Englander. A small, blond man waving a tattered patriot flag eased into the clearing. “We need help. We have wounded on the flatboats.”
“I’ll be right there!” Lorenzo dropped his musket and grabbed his medicine bag. He ran to the flatboats tied up along the riverbank and jolted to a stop.
Eugenie sat on a barrel and held a bloody cloth to her forehead.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lorenzo splashed into the water and hopped aboard. Without thinking, he grabbed Eugenie and pulled her tight to him. He felt overjoyed and scared at the same time. He kissed her and she kissed him back. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you were coming home by ship.”
“The British captured Philadelphia. I had to flee with the patriots.”
Lorenzo hugged Eugenie tight. She was safe, and that was all that mattered. “Let me see your forehead.” He peered at her wound. “You have splinters of wood lodged there. A musket shot probably hit some wood and sent chips flying.”
“Molly wasn’t so lucky.” Eugenie pointed to a small figure on the flatboat deck. A man bent over her, caressing her forehead.
Through half-closed eyes, Molly studied the man kneeling beside her brother.
“Relax,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m a doctor.”
“I know. You’re Cap’n Bannister,” Molly said.
His eyes jumped from her wound to her face, then back again. “Have we met?”
“In General Washington’s camp.”
“Don’t talk,” Bill said. “Let him do his work.”
Lorenzo dug into his medical kit and pulled out a small jar. He put it to her lips. “Drink. This will ease the pain.”
She swallowed and grimaced.
Next, he took out a wicked-looking instrument.
It reminded her of kitchen tongs. She watched in horror as they inched toward her wounded leg. She grabbed his hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“Extracting the bullet,” Lorenzo said, prying her fingers loose. “This will hurt a little, but I’ll be as gentle as possible.”
Molly bit her lips to keep from screaming. She would be brave. She would not cry. She focused on Eugenie, standing behind Lorenzo, smiling down at her.
“Look here!” Lorenzo held the instrument in front of her face and showed her a blood-soaked bullet. “Compliments of the Brits.” He passed it to Eugenie, who wrapped a handkerchief around it. “A souvenir of your first battle with the British.”
“It’s not her first battle,” Bill said, smiling with brotherly pride. “Molly saw the British coming up Brandywine Creek. She alerted General Washington to the danger and nearly lost her life as a result.”
“So you’re a spy for General Washington!” He reached in the medicine bag and held out a jar, then removed the stopper. A vile smell wafted into the air. “You know what this is, Molly?”
“No. It smells awful.” She began to feel lightheaded.
“It’s monkey blood.”
“You’re not going to put that on me, are you?”
“It’s not real monkey blood. That’s just the name my father always called it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure he had a reason.”
Molly sank into sleep although she tried to stay awake.
Lorenzo tucked a blanket around her. “She’ll be fine, Bill. She’ll have a scar, that’s all.”
Her brother let out a long breath. “Thanks, Lorenzo. In all the ruckus, I forgot to ask. Where are the cattle?”
“They’ll be along shortly. We got some unexpected help from Lipan Apaches.”
Bill looked confused. “Indians? You mean like that fellow?” He pointed to shore.
Thomas stood there, holding a tomahawk.
“Who’s that?” Eugenie asked.
“The boy he left in the forest,” Thomas said, clambering over the edge of the flatboat. “Thomas Hancock, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry,” Lorenzo said. “I forgot you were out there.”
“Aye, and I missed all the fun,” Thomas grumbled.
“He’s not the only thing I left in the forest,” Lorenzo said to Eugenie. “I brought you some presents from San Antonio, but I left them with Miguel.”
“Who’s Miguel?”
“That’s a long story.” Lorenzo gathered Eugenie in his arms and told her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Four weeks later, Lorenzo and Eugenie headed to the gallows on the outskirts of New Orleans.
“Mon dieu!” Eugenie exclaimed, looking around. “It looks like the whole city is turning out for Saber-Scar’s execution.”
Lorenzo agreed.
Along the way, he brooded over the cattle drive. In some ways, it had been a failure. In others, a resounding success. Miguel and his newfound friends had managed to deliver one hundred fifty head of cattle to the rendezvous point, not the five hundred General Washington needed. They had been slaughtered, salted, packed in barrels, and sent north by flatboat. Chief Iron Bear and his band had returned home while Miguel and Saber-Scar headed to New Orleans.
Lorenzo wondered what had happened to the rest of the herd and the remuda of horses. He would probably never know.
No, it hadn’t worked out the way he had planned, but he took comfort in knowing he had done his best and had paved the way for future cattle drives.
Still, Lorenzo had learned about the British ambush and stopped it. More importantly, he had kept the Mississippi open. Apparently, there were no British surprises along the Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers. The flatboats bringing Eugenie home had no problem until they reached the outpost established by Saber-Scar.
The Mississippi River was vital. If the British had gained control of the waterways leading to General Washington’s back door, they would have cut off access to Spanish supplies and could have attacked on another front: the west.
The war was far from over, Lorenzo mused. The British had captured Philadelphia, the capital of the United States, and the Continental Congress was on the run. Many who once declared themselves patriots had now turned their coats.
These were dreary times.
Clusters of people circled the gallows where Saber-Scar would hang. Lorenzo and Eugenie stopped on the fringe of the crowd.
He spotted Bill and Molly heading into town. Worried that an infection might set in, Bill had decided to stay in Louisiana, close to medical care.
Molly waved excitedly. Grabbing her brother’s sleeve, she dragged him across the street to the spot where Lorenzo and Eugenie stood.
“Bonjour, Molly!” Eugenie exclaimed.
“You’re looking well,” Lorenzo said.
“Leg’s almost as good as new. See?” Molly took a couple of steps.
Lorenzo could tell she was trying hard not to limp.
“You’re a good doctor.”
Lorenzo smiled. “My father was a good teacher.”
Both Molly and Dujardin had refused medical treatment from anyone except Lorenzo. He appreciated their show of confidence and was glad both were recovering nicely.
Thomas threaded his way through the crowd and stopped in front of them. “Good morning, everyone!” He handed Lorenzo a rolled paper tied in blue ribbon.
Lorenzo accepted it. “That didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”
“A small miscalculation on thy part,” Thomas said knowingly.
Wanting to spare the lad the sight of Saber-Scar’s execution, Lorenzo had sent him on an errand on the other side of
New Orleans.
Bill spoke to Thomas. “Molly and I are going back home tomorrow. We could take you to your home in New Jersey.”
“I am home,” the boy said flatly. “I am officially Captain Bannister’s ward.”
Lorenzo had taken Thomas in, just as Colonel De Gálvez had taken him in. Thomas was brave and intelligent, with great potential, but Lorenzo would have to step sharp to stay ahead of him.
The Hancock family would be disappointed to receive Thomas’s letter and learn he had become a full-fledged American rebel. The British would be even more upset to lose a talented little agent.
“Molly and I have some shopping to do before the trip,” Bill said. “If you will excuse us.” He and Molly headed into town, away from the execution site.
The sound of hooves, tramping feet, and a drumbeat sounded to the right. People stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to watch the procession. Spanish soldiers on horseback, led by the executioner, marched down the road.
A priest rode beside Saber-Scar, giving him last rites, although the condemned man had stated he didn’t want them.
The redcoat captured by Soledad sat in the New Orleans jail. He had been in uniform and, according to the rules of war, would be exchanged for an American prisoner. Saber-Scar, however, wasn’t so lucky. He had been given a trial and been found guilty for the deaths of the vaqueros and Miguel’s soldiers.
“Diplomatic privilege is not a license to ignore the law and commit crimes,” Colonel De Gálvez had pointed out when he sentenced Saber-Scar to die.
Saber-Scar’s horse was led forward and positioned beneath the noose, facing the crowd.
Greasy, unkempt hair framed Saber-Scar’s face. He had a jailhouse pallor. Dark rings circled his eyes. He scanned the crowd.
“Does the prisoner have any final words?” the executioner asked.
Saber-Scar’s gaze, a look as hard as flint, rested on Lorenzo.
The executioner started to put a hood over Dunstan’s head.
