by Lila Guzmán
Colonel De Gálvez and his entourage tramped over to Captain Gibson and formed a semicircle around him.
“George Gibson,” Colonel De Gálvez said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “you are under arrest.”
Chapter Eight
Everyone gasped, except the British ambassador who smiled smugly at the turn of events.
Captain Gibson took a sip of champagne and regarded Colonel De Gálvez through narrowed eyes. “The devil I am. As an officer in the Continental Army, I deserve …”
“You are a rebel,” the British ambassador interjected, “and a traitor to your country. You deserve to hang.”
At a nod from Colonel De Gálvez, soldiers grabbed Gibson by the arms and hauled him from his chair.
Gibson’s eyes were large and bright with anger. “What is the meaning of this? Colonel De Gálvez, I thought the Spanish were neutral.”
“Search him,” De Gálvez ordered.
Two soldiers rifled through Gibson’s pockets. They extracted several leather pocketbooks, the kind men used to carry money and traveling documents. Colonel De Gálvez flourished the stolen items overhead. Mouth agape, Gibson froze. In unison, he and I darted a look at Eugenie. She must have planted the stolen items on Gibson during their dance. But why? At least now I knew she’d carried that oversized purse to conceal the wallets she had stolen.
“Take this ‘American’ nobody away,” Colonel De Gálvez ordered with a scornful flick of the wrist.
Horrified, I watched soldiers usher Captain Gibson from the ballroom at bayonet point.
My head spun with confusion. I rose unsteadily and took a step toward Colonel De Gálvez, but stopped short. His large, black eyes held a hard, flinty look I’d never seen before.
Eugenie tugged on my sleeve. “Mon cher, Colonel De Gálvez has just cause to arrest Gibson. Trust me.”
How could I? This made no sense. I fell into an empty chair along the far wall. The world had come crashing down around me. What was I to do now? Was I ever going to get to Virginia?
Interest in Gibson’s arrest and speculation about what it meant soon waned and the dancing resumed.
Eugenie slipped her hand in mine. “Come.”
“Eugenie!” I protested, my mind unable to absorb all that had just happened. “I do not wish to dance.”
“Come,” she insisted.
Instead of leading me to the dance floor, she guided me toward the back door. She glanced nervously over her shoulder and appeared relieved no one noticed our imminent departure.
Halfway down the exterior staircase, a chill went through me, for in the street below stood Calderón, pistol in hand. Instead of his usual impeccable uniform, he wore a black full-sleeve shirt, black trousers, and knee boots. His hair hung in stringy, wet locks on both sides of his mud-smudged face.
Eugenie urged me down the stairs, toward him.
Calderón smiled at her and tipped his hat, then scowled the way he always did when he saw me. “By Colonel De Gálvez’s command, you are to come with me.”
“Where to?”
“I am not at liberty to say!” he replied curtly.
“Trust us,” Eugenie said. “He is only following orders. We are to take you to Colonel De Gálvez. That’s all I can tell you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but I knew a soldier’s honor was as sacred as a woman’s virtue. If Calderón was acting on orders, nothing I could say or do would convince him to release me. My spirits sank a little lower.
With Eugenie in the lead, me in the center, and Calderón at my back, we moved silently through the city streets. Instead of heading for the jail, where I expected to join Captain Gibson, they took me in the opposite direction, northward, toward the swamps.
My mind searched frantically for answers. Where were we going? Why the secrecy? Why couldn’t they tell me something, anything?
In spite of her ball gown, Eugenie bunched her skirt in her hands and set a brisk pace through the shadowy streets, toward the upper portion of New Orleans. Once in a while, she glanced over her shoulder. Leaving the city, she charged down a twisting path carved out by wild animals, through tangled undergrowth, unbothered by briars and vines that flogged our faces. She seemed to know every tree root, stump, and rock along the way.
When we halted under cypresses festooned with curtains of gray Spanish moss, Calderón squatted and yanked me down beside him to the damp, spongy ground. He cocked his head, as if listening for something. The sound of pursuers? A signal? Eugenie tucked her mud-splattered gown around her. Crickets and frogs chorused together in the dark. I slapped at a mosquito buzzing by my ear.
“Stay still,” Calderón growled.
“Eugenie,” I whispered, ignoring him, “what …?”
Calderón silenced me with a fierce “Shut up.”
Wisps of cloud swirled over a golden sliver of moon. Little breezes played from one tree to another. The swamp smelled of decaying vegetation and wet peat moss. An owl hooted. Calderón cupped his hand to his mouth and hooted twice.
“Who-o-o! Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” came the swift reply. A signal.
Calderón and Eugenie smiled at each other and jumped up at the same time. We scrambled down a steep riverbank, slipping and sliding in a hail of loose rocks and dirt. Below us, moonlight danced off the Mississippi. And bobbing in the ripples …
My God. I stopped suddenly, and Calderón plowed into me.
Flatboats!
Chapter Nine
“Halt and be recognized!” A sentinel swung toward us, his musket leveled.
By instinct, we raised our hands.
“We are people of peace,” Calderón said in a voice that showed no fear.
The sentinel stepped aside and peered anxiously into the dark forest for signs we’d been followed.
Three flatboats were tied to trees lining the riverbank. Two canoes rode beside them. Buckskinned men in coonskin caps scurried about in the dark, toting crates and barrels and gunny sacks while musketed men stood guard on shore.
Each flatboat looked like a floating house about fifty feet long, rectangular, and with a cabin in the center. At the bow was a small-caliber cannon that could swivel in any direction.
Calderón walked up to Colonel De Gálvez, who stood with his back to us. “Your Excellency. Mr. Bannister is here.”
Colonel De Gálvez turned and grinned. “Good work, Lieutenant.” He bestowed a fatherly kiss on Eugenie’s forehead. “Congratulations. You did it.”
She angled her head to the right. “Did you have any doubts?”
Colonel De Gálvez laughed. “I’d rather not answer that question.”
A man waved frantically to me from the cabin’s curved roof and clambered down a six-rung ladder. In one swift motion, he swung himself over the side and leaped to shore.
It was Lieutenant William Linn, Gibson’s second-incommand. As usual, he wore a puffy-sleeved shirt and homespun trousers held up by suspenders.
I turned to Colonel De Gálvez in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why did you arrest Captain Gibson? Isn’t he going with us?”
Colonel De Gálvez put his hands on my shoulders. “Lorenzo, I apologize for the deception. To keep the British ambassador in the dark, no one, except myself, Eugenie, and Lt. Calderón knew our plans.”
“Not even Captain Gibson?”
“He knew he would be arrested,” Eugenie said, “but he didn’t know when or on what charges.”
“No one knew the details of the plan,” Colonel De Gálvez said. “That way everyone would react naturally when it happened. Gibson will remain in my jail until the flatboats are safely away. When the time is right, I shall put Gibson on the next ship heading north—without the British ambassador’s knowledge.”
Frowning at Eugenie, I said, “You planted those pocketbooks on him while you were dancing.”
“Indeed I did, mon petit chou.”
I had been watching closely and missed it. But then, I’d been keeping an eye on Eugenie’s dancing
partners for misconduct. Not her.
Colonel De Gálvez drew me and Calderón away from the others. “Lt. Calderón is the special envoy sent by King Carlos to make certain the supplies reach the Americans. I have assigned him the additional duty of escorting you on a particular service. I wish you to deliver a letter.”
He handed me a sealed envelope. “Give this to His Excellency, General George Washington, commander in chief of the Continental Army.”
My eyes rounded and my heart skipped a beat. “I am honored, Colonel.” Oddly, it bore no address. I looked at the colonel questioningly.
“The letter is written in disappearing ink for reasons of security,” the colonel said. “Lieutenant Calderón knows the formula to make the ink reappear. The two of you must deliver the letter together. General Washington does not speak Spanish. I do not speak English, nor does Lieutenant Calderón. You will translate the letter for the general. Lieutenant Calderón will see you to the general’s camp.”
“By your leave, Your Excellency,” Calderón said, solemn-faced, “I shall show Mr. Bannister to his quarters.” He led me toward the largest flatboat.
We scrambled across a narrow board that served as a gangplank and jumped to the rough cypress planking. The flatboat listed under our added weight.
In the cabin, Calderón lit a lantern hanging from a peg. The cabin resembled a little house with a small shuttered window on each wall, two comfortable bunks, a fireplace, table and chairs.
I inhaled sharply. All my worldly treasures were there, and more to boot. Papá’s medical bag, my musket, my haversack. Lined up on a shelf along the wall were little alabaster jars of unguents, pigments, and creams. Peruvian bark, calomel, opium, all expensive drugs. When I opened my father’s medical bag, I found everything as he had left it. Forceps for extracting bullets, scalpels, bandages, tourniquets, sponges, amputating instruments. A small shelf held a medical library. Gerald’s Herbal and Plain Concise Practical Remarks on the Treatment of Wounds and Fractures by Dr. John Jones. On the fly page, Colonel De Gálvez had written in an elegant hand, “May God watch over you. I pray these books prove an enlightening, but unnecessary addition to your journey.”
I slipped the colonel’s letter to General Washington between the pages of Gerald’s Herbal and eased the book shut, careful not to let any of the letter show.
I undressed and hung my party clothes on pegs around the walls. “See here, Lieutenant,” I said as I pulled a deerskin hunting shirt over my head, “we’re about the same age. Calling me ‘Mr. Bannister’ seems foolish.”
“On the contrary. It is the height of wisdom.”
“What do you mean?” I pulled up leather breeches.
He looked at me as if he had greatly underestimated my ignorance. “Considering your age, the men need to call you ‘Mister’ as a reminder to show you the proper respect. Furthermore, it’s the proper address for the medical officer on a ship. This is an important mission. It must succeed. The consequences, should I fail, are enormous. If we are discovered, Spain will be dragged into the war prematurely. We are not yet ready to take on Britain. The rebels need supplies, and without them, they will lose the war.”
“Yes. I understand all that.”
“Failure also means my military career is over. From Colonel De Gálvez’s mouth to the king’s ear.”
“You must be joking.”
Giving me an amazed stare, he said, “Colonel De Gálvez comes from the most influential family in Spain. Did you truly not know that? His uncle is José De Gálvez, minister of the Indies, second only to the king. If we are attacked at any time during our trip, do me a favor and take cover. I have to deliver you in a whole skin.”
“Alive, I presume?”
“That would be the best for both of us,” Calderón said grimly. “If the British capture us and find that letter to General Washington,” he said, nodding toward Gerald’s Herbal, “you and I will hang as spies.”
Chapter Ten
Calderón and I returned ashore and hurried toward Colonel De Gálvez and Eugenie, who were still waiting patiently.
The colonel’s eyes were sad. “I am sorry to see you go, Lorenzo.” He pulled me to him in a Spanish-style embrace, then pushed back. “No one place is better than another. If your heart is right, you can be happy anywhere.”
“I hope everything works out with your grandfather,” Eugenie said. “If it doesn’t, you can always come back here.”
My hand found hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Some day I’ll return to New Orleans.”
She returned my squeeze.
“When you reach Fort Pitt,” the colonel said, “Lt. Linn will give you a chit to present to the Continental Congress. It will entitle you to twentyfive dollars a month for your services as medic.”
“Twentyfive dollars?” It was more than I earned as a scribe, and it was twice a second lieutenant’s salary. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Don’t thank me. The Continental Congress thought this mission so important they gave Gibson and Linn a generous letter of credit that authorizes them to obtain money or necessities for them and their men. You are one of those necessities. If you will excuse me,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He darted an understanding look at Eugenie and drifted away.
“So you’re going,” she said. Tears filled her eyes.
I nodded. My throat squeezed so tight, I couldn’t answer. A month ago, I didn’t even know she existed, and now I didn’t want to leave her.
“All hands on board.” Calderón headed toward the head flatboat. “Platoon One to the oars.” He climbed a six-rung ladder to the cabin roof to man a long-handled oar secured in an oarlock.
Two Spanish soldiers with muskets at the ready stood at the bow amid huge barrels while other men set oars in the locks.
I lowered my face slowly and kissed Eugenie’s lips. They tasted like strawberries. My temperature shot up ten degrees.
“Mr. Bannister!” Calderón called out in a faintly impatient voice. “If you please.”
“Au revoir, Eugenie.”
“Au revoir, mon petit chou.”
I climbed into the flatboat. Spanish soldiers loosened the ropes and gave the flatboats a hard shove. I waved to Eugenie and she waved back. The day I’d looked forward to for so long had finally arrived, but as I watched Eugenie grow smaller and smaller, I realized New Orleans was a city I could learn to love. Leaving her behind left me with a sense of loss.
The flatboats turned the first bend in the river and she disappeared from view.
Chapter Eleven
Too excited to sleep, I sat on deck and watched the rowers—silent, serious, shirtless—work their oars. It took all their strength to move the flatboats upstream against a strong current. Veins in their necks stood out from the effort. The Spaniards and Americans manning the twenty oarlocks port and starboard had arms as thick as tree trunks. Gibson had chosen his men for their incredible strength, as had Colonel De Gálvez.
Although sails were hoisted, they hung as limp as the Spanish flag off our stern. A wall of trees along the riverbank prevented a breeze from catching in our sails and helping our boat upstream.
The men rowed with swift, strong strokes. They bent and pulled, bent and pulled. Cypress and orange trees slid past.
“Can’t sleep?” a whispered voice asked. William Linn flopped down beside me on the rough planking. “Me neither.”
I heard an alligator snort in a bayou far away and hoped he would stay where he was.
In the dark, about three hundred yards ahead, lanterns swinging right and left sent light dancing over the water.
I moved forward for a closer look. “What are they doing?” I asked, pointing to the canoes.
“The Mississippi is always low this time of year. That means our lookouts must keep a sharp eye for sunken trees, sandbanks, shoals, islands. Normally, our scouts call out steering directions so the pilots can navigate around them. But sound travels well across the wat
er. We are under orders to make no loud or unnecessary noises.”
“Why must everyone be so quiet?”
“We slipped out of New Orleans without the British ambassador’s knowledge. If he finds out we’ve left, he’ll alert British forts along the way. I like my hair and I’d like to keep it.”
Confused by his statement, I twisted toward him.
“The British give the Indians guns and whiskey for Yankee scalps. Men, women, children. It doesn’t matter to the British.” William shook his head. “Buying the scalps of fellow British citizens doesn’t seem to bother them.”
I grimaced. What did a scalp look like? Was there dried blood on it? A sickening smell? What did it feel like to touch one?
William fingered a lock of his pale yellow hair. “The Indians are especially fond of unusual-colored hair.”
I thought about Eugenie’s long, reddish-gold tresses.
“Shame Captain Gibson isn’t here. He knows all about scalps. He speaks a dozen or so Indian dialects like a native.” William chuckled. “The Gibsons could charm the skin off a snake. Must be in their blood. Gibson’s brother John was captured by the Indians. They killed his companions but an Indian woman rescued him Pocahontas-style. If I could bottle the Gibson charm, I’d sell it and become a rich man.”
I struggled to hold back a laugh.
Grinning, William raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “Captain Gibson is part French nobility. That’s why he speaks French and Spanish and has those fancy airs. Now, my family doesn’t have a drop of noble blood. My great-grandfather came here from Ireland as an indentured servant. My father is a blacksmith.”
A movement to my right caught my eye.
Calderón picked his way among the sleeping men on deck. He bent down, tapped them one by one on the arm, and jerked his thumb toward the oars.
Like spirits rising from the tomb, they got up and shuffled toward the side of the boat. The exhausted oarsmen they replaced stretched out at my feet and were soon fast asleep.
