by Lila Guzmán
He continued to study the fire. “So … have you ever considered taking on an assistant?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
Calderón swiveled toward me, his look expectant.
“Do you know what you’re getting into? As a physician, you’re called to a patient’s bedside at all hours of the day and night. You’ll never get rich. Patients often paid Papá in chickens, piglets, or eggs.”
“Well, at least I wouldn’t go hungry.”
One thing about Calderón: he always found a bright spot in every situation.
“Oh, what the devil,” I said as I thrust out my hand to seal the deal. “You’ll have plenty of time to change your mind.”
Calderón broke into an embarrassed grin and shook my hand. “Thanks, Lorenzo.”
“I’m not sure I’ve done you a favor.”
“You have. This is my first Christmas away from home. You and Cornflower made it a memorable one. Some day, I’ll tell my grandchildren about delivering an Indian baby. I might even mention you were present.”
Saying that, he retired for the night, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Last Christmas, Papá and I had visited Mexico City for the holidays. On my first Christmas without Papá I had delivered a baby and acquired a medical apprentice. Where would I be next Christmas? In Virginia with my grandfather? Or in Scotland, studying medicine at the University of Edinburgh, my father’s alma mater?
I found neither possibility particularly cheering.
Chapter Nineteen
“Close the door, Lorenzo,” William said. He ran his hand over his face and indicated with his chin that Calderón and I were to sit across the table from him. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.” He flexed his jaw and studied the latest message from New Orleans. “Colonel De Gálvez just learned the British ambassador has sent a party of men to stop us.”
“That would explain the Indian attack,” Calderón said, “and the Redcoats we saw.”
“But that was three months ago,” I pointed out. “Would they wait so long to attack again?”
“Yes,” William said, “if they have good reason to wait. Maybe they’re setting a trap upriver. Maybe they’re waiting for us to leave Fort Arkansas to avoid an international incident. As long as we stay on the left bank of the Mississippi, we are in Spanish territory.”
“Or maybe they’re waiting for reinforcements,” Calderón suggested glumly.
Complete silence settled over the room.
“There’s a British fort on the Mississippi just before we reach the Ohio River,” Calderón said. “If I were the British, I’d gather my forces and launch an attack as we pass by.”
“So would I.” William scratched his beardless chin. “I need to know what the British plan to do. Someone must scout ahead and report back about their troop strength.”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
I didn’t miss the look William and Calderón exchanged across the table. They clearly expected me to volunteer.
William’s gaze fixed on me. “Do you know what you’re getting into? You’re a civilian with this expedition, under no obligation …”
“Maybe not, but I’m the only one who can do this. Neither of you two can slip through the forest undetected. Your yellow hair,” I said to William, “will give you away.” I turned to Calderón. “The same goes for your brown hair. I can pass for an Indian.” To emphasize my point, I wound a wisp of straight black hair around my finger. “Besides, I’m running low on opium and other drugs I can’t get from the woods. Only I know which drugs I need.”
“How well do you speak Choctaw?” William asked.
“Well enough to slip in and out of the fort,” I replied, glad Cornflower had taught me the basics of Choctaw.
The rest of the day, we worked out a plan. By midafternoon, I looked like a Choctaw brave in leggings, breechcloth, and moccasins. My black hair hung in two braids, Indian fashion. With a buffalo cape around my shoulders and a gunny sack hidden beneath it, I headed for the pier.
The Lambs and the Spanish soldiers at the fort trailed after me, having gotten wind something was afoot.
Red ran a hand through his waist-long auburn beard and spoke the question that must have been on everyone’s tongue. “Where you going dressed like that?”
I forced a smile. “Upriver to do a little scouting.”
“Alone?” he asked, his disapproval evident.
William answered for me. “Alone.”
“But, sir,” Red began, “someone should go with him to make sure …” He trailed off when William’s nostrils flared and his cheeks reddened with anger.
In the unnerving silence that followed, the Lambs exchanged scowls and gave William nasty looks. Apparently, they wanted to protest their commanding officer’s decision, but knew they couldn’t.
With that, I climbed into a canoe and took paddle in hand while Red untied its rope.
William wore a distressful look while Calderón mumbled something. Probably a prayer.
At first, I paddled with sure, strong strokes, but two hours of fighting the current rubbed my palms raw. I developed a keen appreciation for the Lambs’ hard work rowing us upstream.
On the way upriver, I had plenty of time to think. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But I had to get opium and other drugs, and for that, I had to enter the fort. When Colonel De Gálvez and Captain Gibson stocked the flatboats with medical supplies, they apparently hadn’t counted on the delay at Fort Arkansas.
By my third hour of paddling, a fort flying the British flag loomed into view on the right bank. Soon, the biting smell of wood smoke rode the breeze. English voices floated toward me. The closer I got, the stronger the smells and sounds grew. I breathed in a pungent aroma. Tonight the British would dine on venison stew. Normally, my mouth would water at the smell. Today, fear stole my appetite.
The fort’s double gates stood wide open, guarded by two bored-looking sentries.
It was late afternoon by the time I tied my canoe to a tree. I hid in the underbrush. In the deepening twilight, I observed the fort and the Redcoats’ daily routine. The fort swarmed with activity. Soldiers fetched water from the river, chopped wood, groomed horses.
The original plan that Calderón, William and I had worked out was simple. Study the fort, find a weak spot, and scale the wall. Now I saw that was unnecessary.
For an hour, I watched Indians come and go through the fort’s front gate. So many entered, I lost count of them all. It looked like a gathering of many tribes.
Shortly before dark, a bugle called, announcing that the gate would close for the night. Everyone outside the fort hurried inside. The time had come. A sudden dryness settled in my throat.
Entering the fort proved surprisingly easy. When a band of five Indians approached, I fell in behind them. The sentries seemed not to notice me. Even so, my pulse raced and my breathing quickened as I stepped inside the enemy fort.
Chapter Twenty
A shiver coursed through me when the double gate slammed shut and a heavy wooden crossbar thudded into place, locking me in for the night.
Two rings of Indians sat around a roaring fire on the dusty parade ground.
Trying to look inconspicuous, I joined them and sat cross-legged on the outside row, hunched over, my buffalo robe drawn tight across my shoulders. For a long while, I watched everything and counted the Redcoats as William had suggested. So far, I had seen one officer, one sergeant, two corporals, and six privates. Like any frontier fort, the compound consisted of barracks, officers’ quarters, stables, kitchen, and a wooden building with a tin roof.
What size force did we face? How many men were out of sight in the barracks? Or in the kitchen at supper?
Several Indians filled their bowls from the cauldron where stew bubbled and seethed, then returned to the circle.
The air shimmered in the firelight. Flickering sparks spiraled into the darkening sky and lit a six
-foot-tall Redcoat leaning against the barracks door.
My blood chilled the instant I saw the jagged wound on his cheek. Saber-Scar. Here. Not more than thirty feet away, watching the Indians. His gaze swept over them and landed briefly on me.
My skin grew clammy with sweat and fear. What if he recognized me?
His eyes moved away to the man on my right. Looking disgusted, Saber-Scar turned and disappeared inside the barracks.
I blew out a sigh of relief and resumed my study of the compound. The building roofed with protective tin must be the supply room where gunpowder and ammunition were stored. If I could slip in there undetected …
A hand clamped down on my shoulder and jerked me from my thoughts. I froze.
“Little brother,” a deep voice said, “who sent you?”
I jumped up and turned. A kindly, wrinkled face smiled at me.
“I am here to represent Chief of the Three Forks.” With practiced ease, I repeated the line Cornflower had taught me.
“A long and tiring journey. You must be hungry. Eat.” He pointed toward the cauldron.
I picked up a bowl and helped myself to the stew. Before I finished ladling it, two British soldiers, one an officer, the other Saber-Scar, emerged from a wooden building and strode toward me.
For a second, my heart refused to beat. Should I make a dash for safety? Stay still and hope Saber-Scar wouldn’t notice me? Casually stroll away?
Amazingly, they brushed past me, hardly glancing in my direction. To them, I was just one more Indian brave.
In spite of my wobbly knees, I managed to return to my seat.
The British officer stationed himself in front of the fire and laced his hands behind his back. “Greetings, my brothers. On behalf of His Britannic Majesty, King George the Third, I welcome you.” He paused.
A short, squat Indian leaned toward an elderly chief and whispered a translation in his ear.
The chief replied in Choctaw, and his Indian interpreter put his speech in acceptable English.
The words reached me, but I only half-listened to the standard greetings and exchange of gifts. I was too busy memorizing every detail to tell William later. I suddenly realized why they hadn’t attacked us. There were fortythree of us and only a handful of British soldiers.
In a long ceremony that involved speech after speech, Indians and British exchanged tokens of friendship. The elderly chief stood unsteadily and leaned on a brave’s arm to deliver an address thanking the British for their hospitality. “By dawn’s first light,” he ended by saying, “we will return to our village.”
Upon hearing that, the British officer stamped his foot like a spoiled child, and my attention snapped back to the proceedings.
“We fight a common enemy,” he snarled. “An enemy who steals your land. Even now, they move up the Father of Waters on big boats. Have you seen them?”
The Indians shook their heads.
My spine tingled with alarm. Colonel De Gálvez was right. The British had learned of our departure and were searching for us.
“Your British father, King George, wishes us to live in peace, but there will be no peace if supplies reach the Evil Ones who invade your land and hunt your game. He expects you to fight.”
A muscle worked in the old chief’s jaw when he heard the translation. “Many braves have died for you,” the chief responded. “We will die no more.”
“By the new moon,” the British officer countered, “King George will bring many soldiers to capture the rebels. There will be much honor to share and a double bounty for each rebel scalp.”
The old chief seemed to consider that. “When the moon is new, we will return.”
The new moon. Of course. That made sense. Under a new moon, troops could use the darkness to move into position undetected. Had the British finally learned how easy it was to spot their scarlet coats in the woods?
The flatboat flotilla had to leave now. If we waited too long, British reinforcements would arrive before we rowed past this fort.
The peace pipe passed from man to man, each one in the inner circle taking a draw, holding it, then expelling a long, gray plume. I’d heard of smoking the peace pipe, but had never seen it. I watched, fascinated, and took a draw when it was my turn.
The ceremony over, each Indian rolled himself in his blanket and made himself comfortable as best he could. The parade ground, littered with multicolored blankets, looked like a living patchwork quilt.
For some time, I watched the spangled sky and waited for the deep, rhythmic breaths that told me everyone had fallen asleep. I eased up and crept toward the supply door, hoping to find it unlocked. It was. At my touch, the door creaked open an inch. I hurried inside and gently closed it behind me.
Footsteps approached, heavy-booted British footsteps, not an Indian’s soft patter. I held my breath and waited for the soldiers to pass by. Unfortunately, they decided to pause at the storeroom door for a chat. I wished I could see what they were doing. Worried that they might come in, I scrunched down behind a big barrel.
“Can we trust these savages?” That was the British officer speaking.
“If they say they haven’t seen flatboats, then no flatboats have passed by.”
I recognized Saber-Scar’s voice at once.
“Where are those damn rebels?”
“We’ll find them easy enough, sir. A half-breed boy named Lorenzo Bannister disappeared from New Orleans the night Gibson’s Lambs slipped away. It’s a good bet he’s with them.”
“A half-breed, you say?”
“He was raised in New Spain. Looks like he was fathered off a Mexican woman. He’s only about fivefoot-six, and the men with him are all over six feet tall. He’s the darkest one of the lot and will stand out like a sparrow among cardinals.”
Saber-Scar didn’t seem to know about the Spanish soldiers with the flotilla. At least he hadn’t mentioned them so far. But he planned to use me as the way to distinguish our flatboat from others going up the Mississippi. What if we were captured because of me? The thought sickened me.
“Catching the rebels is all good and well,” Saber-Scar went on in a low, confidential tone. “It will do wonders for our military careers. But the real prize is Little Lord Lorenzo.”
“How so?”
“His grandfather is Judge Armand Bannister.”
“Judge Bannister of Virginia has a half-breed grandson working with the rebels?” the officer asked in an amazed voice. “I know Armand Bannister. I know him well. He has never said he had a grandson.” He chuckled. “So Armand’s son mixed his blood with a Mexican. And a woman with Indian blood to boot. I don’t wonder that Armand kept that secret.”
“Before I left New Orleans,” Saber-Scar said, “I wrote Judge Bannister and told him I’d found his long-lost grandson living in New Orleans. He offered to pay me handsomely for him.”
“Of course he did. Judge Bannister is the richest man in Albemarle County.” The British officer uttered a terrible curse. “You’ve fallen into a gold mine. I want a piece of this. If you and I deliver his grandson, we could retire from military service and live like kings. At all cost, we must capture the boy.”
Not a shred of light penetrated the storeroom. The air around me grew close and hot. Even so, a chill surged through me when I heard those words. After a moment, I heard Saber-Scar and the British officer walk away.
First things first, I told myself. As soon as I returned to Fort Arkansas, I’d tell William why we had to leave immediately. Right now, I had to concentrate on finding the medicine and getting back downriver.
Like a blind man, I felt my way around the room until I touched glass, cold and smooth. Afraid that a light would give me away, I resorted to pulling out the stoppers and taking a gentle whiff to determine the contents of the bottles. I tested vial after vial, rejecting some, slipping others into my gunny sack. As quiet as a rabbit, I headed toward the now-smoldering campfire to find a way out of the fort.
The sight of a sentry on patro
l at the front gate stopped me short. On the second-story platform, a guard leaned over the east wall scanning the forest. His musket rested against the upright logs sharpened to a point. I wheeled around in the shadows and climbed a wooden ladder to an unguarded platform along the opposite wall. I leaned forward. Casting a quick eye over the ground below, I judged the drop to be seven feet or so. I saw nothing that resembled a soft landing spot. The jump wouldn’t kill me, but I might twist an ankle or break a leg. I decided to look for a better way out. I turned around in time to see Saber-Scar saunter out of the barracks. He unbuttoned his pants to relieve himself on a post and looked up. Straight at me.
Our eyes made contact. He angled his head questioningly and started toward me. Steeling myself and clutching the gunny sack to my chest, I climbed between two sharp-pointed logs. Just before I dropped over the side, Saber-Scar shouted, “Guard!”
I landed with a bone-jarring thud, picked myself up, and trotted toward the forest. Worry and fear for my life spurred me on. I had to get back and warn William. We had to set out at once or we would be captured.
At the edge of the clearing, with the fort about fifty yards behind me and the safety of the woods a few yards away, I heard a loud pop and felt a burning sensation in my back.
I’d been shot.
Chapter Twenty-One
The bullet’s impact pitched me forward, face down in the leaves carpeting the forest floor. Instinct urged me to get up, but pain as hot as a branding iron shot through me every time I moved.
Back at the fort, confusion reigned. Someone bellowed out, “Who fired that shot?” while another voice roared, “Bugler! Sound the alarm!”
I heard the muffled sound of feet running toward me. Someone knelt beside me and muttered curse after curse. He lifted me as if I were no heavier than a feather pillow and cradled me in his arms.
