by Lila Guzmán
“I understand the attachment that forms when men serve together. No men were killed in action.” He resumed his dictation. “I send my sincere gratitude …”
General Washington continued on, and I continued to write. As the ink dried, it disappeared. It turned out that he wanted to buy food for the Continental Army from Colonel De Gálvez.
Once the letter was finished, I eased it into Gerald’s Herbal.
“I would be honored if you gentlemen joined me for coffee.”
“The honor would be ours, indeed, Your Excellency,” Calderón said.
The bodyguard stationed at the back of the tent left without a word, as if he had heard a silent order. Moments later he returned with a fresh pot of brewed coffee and four clay mugs.
“I would serve you gentlemen tea,” the general remarked with a smile, “but nowadays, it’s unpatriotic.”
We all laughed.
A few minutes later, over coffee, Calderón and I told him about our flatboat adventure.
I took a sip of coffee and regarded the general over the lip of my cup. Either he was immensely interested in Calderón’s narration of the Indian attack or he was struggling to decipher Calderón’s English.
A sudden thought entered my head. What if Papá could see me now? It struck me that he would be proud that General Washington had selected his son as his personal envoy to the Spanish.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The day I’d dreaded for so long finally arrived. Today, May 21, 1777, I would meet my grandfather.
At dusk Calderón and I reached the edge of my grandfather’s plantation. Newly planted fields of Virginia tobacco, the finest in the world, stretched out before us.
Slaves dripping sweat hoed a field in the failing light. To my left I spied a man with a back scarred like Red’s. I reined in my horse and shivered.
“What is wrong with you?” Calderón demanded.
I didn’t answer. I merely shrugged.
Calderón and I continued on, my soul burdened by the sight. Papá said slavery was the main reason he left Virginia. I knew it was the custom of the day, but seeing it with my own eyes, on my grandfather’s land, sickened me.
A huge black man, bent beneath a load of wood, lumbered across the dirt road fifteen paces ahead of us. My gaze locked on an R branded on his cheek, then fell to his bare feet. Three toes on one foot had been whacked away. R must stand for runaway. The sight chilled me to the core.
Five minutes later, Calderón and I drew up in front of a three-story, gray stone building surrounded by lush flower gardens and neatly trimmed hedges. We dismounted.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I drew Papá’s letter from my haversack.
An elderly house servant in blue-and-white livery descended the front steps, greeted us with a low bow, and attended to our horses.
“Good evening, my good man,” I said. “I have a letter for Judge Bannister. May I speak to him?”
A tall, rawboned man rose from a rocking chair on the front porch. He stepped toward the white wooden railing and glared down at me. “What do you want?”
I knew who he was even before he identified himself. He looked so much like Papá. I hadn’t expected that. The same fair complexion, straight blond hair, and gray-green eyes. I guessed him to be about seventy years old.
“Sir,” I began in my most gracious tone, “I am here on a private matter. I’m Lorenzo.”
My grandfather drew a huge breath, and his hand flew to his chest. He took a step back. All color drained from his face. “Lorenzo?” he whispered. “So you came, after all. Cincinnatus!” he yelled to the slave at the foot of the steps. “I am not to be disturbed.”
I pivoted around. So Cincinnatus was alive. How I wanted to talk to him. No doubt he was filled to the brim with stories about my father. But I could do that later. For the moment, I had other business.
Calderón and I climbed the steps, he in his dress uniform, I in a suit of clothes I had bought in Philadelphia after we had left General Washington’s camp.
When my grandfather and I were within arm’s reach, we stood unmoving, staring at each other.
Calderón looked from my grandfather, to me, and back again. His gentle smile faded into a frown of confusion, as if he had expected us to fall into each other’s arms and put on a grand display of emotion. The awkwardness of the moment stretched.
“Let’s go inside,” my grandfather suggested.
Calderón started toward the front door. My grandfather stepped in front of him, arms folded across his chest, his expression sharp. “Not you, boy. You stay outside.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Calderón’s face turned cardinal red.
“Lieutenant Calderón is an esteemed friend,” I said as I watched a vein pulse on my grandfather’s forehead.
Calderón had insisted upon accompanying me to Virginia, even though his orders from Colonel De Gálvez said only to see me to General Washington’s camp. His feeble excuse was that he’d never been to Virginia and wanted to see it. I suspected he had a good reason to delay his return to military duty in New Orleans, but I couldn’t imagine what that might be.
Calderón directed a fierce scowl at my grandfather, the kind of scowl he had given me when we first had met. “I am in Mr. Bannister’s employ. He hired me as his bodyguard to escort him to Virginia.”
“Ah,” my grandfather said, as if Calderón’s statement made everything clear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I studied Calderón. Never did I imagine him to be such an accomplished liar, and I wondered why he embroidered the truth.
“Come inside and I’ll pay you,” my grandfather said, unblocking the door.
“Mr. Bannister paid me already.”
Another lie.
I stepped toward Calderón to give him a typical farewell hug. He took a quick step backwards. I didn’t know what to do or say. Had I somehow angered him? Embarrassed him? I thought we were friends, and friends always said goodbye with a hug.
“Goodbye, Mr. Bannister,” Calderón said, giving me a deep bow. “I am glad to serve you.” He slipped back into Spanish. “Do not tell your grandfather what I am saying. Something is not right here. Keep your guard up.”
“Yes,” I replied in English for my grandfather’s benefit. “I will gladly send your commander a letter commending your services.”
“Thank you.” Calderón turned toward my grandfather and gave him a grandiose bow. “Goodbye, sir. It has been a great pleasure to meet you.”
After nine months with Calderón, I knew him well. I also knew when he wasn’t being himself. Whatever game he was playing, he was playing to the hilt.
Another goodbye. It both saddened and worried me to watch him walk away.
As I followed my grandfather inside, I noticed he had a slight limp and a nodule on his ear, two signs of gout.
A giant staircase rose from the entry foyer to the second floor. Oil paintings of richly dressed people lined the walls. One portrait showed a highly decorated British naval officer, his full lips pursed like a pampered child. My gaze fixed on it.
“That is my father,” my grandfather said. “He was an admiral in the Royal Navy. He died in battle during Queen Anne’s reign, when I was two years old.”
A moment of illumination struck me. That would mean my great-grandfather died at the beginning of the century, during the War of Spanish Succession. Had he died fighting the Spanish? Did that account for my grandfather’s dislike of Spaniards?
In the library, I lowered myself into a chair facing a large desk. A portrait of the British monarch, King George, hung in a place of honor behind it.
My blood pumped a little faster. My grandfather was a Tory, a British sympathizer. Had General Washington known that? Was that why he scowled when I mentioned my grandfather’s name?
Feeling ill at ease, I gazed about the room. How should I start a conversation? What did I call him? Grandfather? Judge Bannister? Sir?
Maps of the British Isles, Europe, and Virginia lin
ed the walls. A round window overlooked the grounds and offered a view of a garden just coming into bloom. Sunset fell on the Blue Ridge Mountains, making a warm picture in the distance. But an icy air hung inside the room.
My grandfather laced his hands together in a prayerful stance and leaned toward me. “You are Jack’s responsibility. Where is he?”
I swallowed hard. “Papá passed away nine months ago from consumption.” I waited for a reaction. A tear. A look of surprise. Or regret. After a long pause, I said, “He wrote you, sir, from Saltillo, Mexico, when we started our journey to Virginia.”
“He said nothing about being ill, only that he was coming back.”
I handed him Papá’s letter. “On his deathbed, he asked me to deliver this.”
During the long silence that followed, he unsealed it, read it, and refolded it. He forced a smile. “Your father asks me to use my considerable influence to find you a position. I presume you read and write.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father refused to serve His Britannic Majesty.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with great deliberation. “You can continue the Bannister tradition of service to the crown. I have friends in the Royal Navy. All I have to do is contact a certain individual I know.”
“No, sir,” I said with a firm shake of the head. “I have other plans …”
“The Royal Navy enjoys great prestige. Bannisters have always been navy men. Except for your father.” He blew out a huge sigh that suggested Papá had disappointed him greatly. “This is your opportunity to correct his egregious error.”
“Sir, my father was a fine man who did what he thought best.”
“Is that so?” My grandfather stared at me, long and cold.
“Yes. He was an excellent physician …”
“Who served as lapdog for the Spanish army and mingled with the scum of the earth.”
A red rage surged through me. I jumped to my feet. “My father saved many lives. Some of the bravest men I’ve ever known were Spanish soldiers.”
I also was thinking of my Lambs. They were not scum, but uneducated and uncultured men who had put their lives at jeopardy for American freedom. I bit my tongue, angry that I had to let his remarks go unchallenged, but I couldn’t respond without giving away important information to a Tory.
My grandfather waved his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. Sit down. I only have your best interests at heart.”
I eased back into my chair.
He drummed his index finger on the desk. “I know of a planter from Alexandria looking for a private secretary. I’m sure he would give you the position if I recommended you.”
“Sir … I have a position.” I thought fast. How much could I tell him without giving away too much? “In New Orleans I worked as a scribe for an import-export firm. I have a position there.” And Eugenie. Thinking about her brought a smile to my face.
Fingering my father’s letter, he nodded, as if deep in thought. He rose and walked to the portrait of King George, a hinged picture that hid a wall safe. He spun the tumblers, opened the safe, and placed my father’s letter inside.
How I wanted that letter. My father’s last letter. My grandfather meant to keep it. Maybe it had great sentimental value to him.
“Well, boy,” my grandfather said, turning, “you may stay the night, as I do not wish to turn you out into the dark. Mind you, I expect you to be on your way by tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
I was as anxious to leave as he was to be rid of me. How could this awful person have raised a kind and wonderful man like my father?
“Let’s go see that your horse is properly bedded for the night, and then we’ll share supper.”
It was full dark by the time we stepped out the back door. Lantern in hand, my grandfather led me toward a small brick building where the lawn met the woods. “Let’s stop here, shall we? I’ll have Cook prepare you a good breakfast to start your trip right.” He unlocked the door and gestured for me to enter first. “Go unhook a ham.”
No sooner had I stepped inside than something heavy crashed down on my head.
The dirt floor rushed toward me, and darkness enveloped me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It could have been five minutes or several hours later when I came to. My head throbbed. I pushed up from the ground, cold and hard beneath me, and stood unsteadily. My head brushed against something dangling from the ceiling. The smell of cured meat filled the air.
My grandfather had locked me in the smokehouse!
Sweat dampened my forehead. When I reached into my jacket pocket for a handkerchief, I realized I was no longer in my new suit of clothes. I ran my hands over my shirt and pants and found myself in a scratchy linen shirt and cotton trousers, the kind of clothes slaves wore.
“Oh, no!” I groaned. The rawhide pouch that hung around my neck on a rawhide string was gone as well. My grandfather had taken that too. It contained two hundred dollars, my entire salary as medic. Calderón and I had visited the Continental Congress in Philadelphia on the way so I could cash in the chit William had given me.
Feeling my way around in the dark, I found the door. My excitement melted into disappointment to discover the absence of a door knob.
There was no way out.
Black despair filled me. The walls closed in. Then suddenly, a key turned in the lock.
“The boy’s in here,” my grandfather said.
I shaded my eyes from the lantern light and saw my grandfather enter with a British naval officer on his heels.
Two armed redcoats, one with a musket, the other with a billy club, stationed themselves by the door, effectively blocking the only exit.
Oh, God. No. My grandfather was selling me to a press gang. To make matters worse, I recognized one of them.
Saber-Scar leered down at me, the same way he had on the street in New Orleans. He knew me at once. A look of deep satisfaction spread across his face.
I recalled Saber-Scar’s promise the day we met. I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do. And now he had.
“Head down,” he ordered. He stiffened and gripped his musket a little tighter when I did not immediately obey. “Now!”
I had no choice but to lower my head.
The officer orbited me and looked me over from head to toe as if I were a horse at an auction. He squeezed my arm muscles.
“He’s a good boy,” my grandfather said. “As docile as a lamb.”
“Hmmpf!” Saber-Scar exclaimed. “I knew him when I lived in New Orleans. He’s a troublemaker. In and out of jail constantly for brawling.”
I wanted to protest this lie, but was in no position to do so.
The British officer lifted my chin with his riding crop and peered at me. “We shall see. Take off your shirt.”
I forced down the panic rising inside me. In one motion, I pulled my shirt over my head.
“His back is clean,” my grandfather said in a relieffilled voice. “He’s never been flogged. As I said, docile as a lamb. The boy’s been living in New Spain. Speaks Spanish like a native. If the Spanish enter the war,” my grandfather said, an anxious quiver in his tone, “he could prove useful.”
The British officer grunted in agreement.
“If you had done your job,” my grandfather said to Saber-Scar, “I could have avoided the embarrassment of having him show up on my doorstep. I’m not paying you a damned farthing. Just get him out of my sight.”
The British officer gave me an evil smile. “I’ll make good use of him. He should serve me well.”
Involuntary servitude on board a British ship! Panic mixed with anger set in. If I tried to desert, I would be flogged. If they found General Washington’s letter … God in heaven! What had my grandfather done with it? Had he given it to the British?
“Put your shirt back on,” the British officer ordered.
Before I could do so, Saber-Scar said, “Wait.”
I froze.
“Look at this, sir.”
The British officer stroked the scar on my back with his riding crop. His lips curled at the edge. “Shot in the back. Running away, were you?”
Saber-Scar’s sharp intake of breath told me he had made the connection. An evil smile grew. “It was you,” he said with sudden understanding. “You were at the fort. You must have overheard our plans. That’s how the flatboat flotilla was able to evade us at every turn. How droll! We’ve been after you for a long time.” Saber-Scar laughed out loud. “Sir! It would appear we have captured a rebel spy.”
My heart sank. I knew what happened to spies. They were hanged.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
We traveled for half an hour on horseback with the British officer in front and the two Redcoats close behind. Slowed by darkness, we picked our way down a narrow dirt road through a pine-scented forest.
Why had my grandfather done this? Why did he write Papá telling him to come home if he hadn’t wanted us back? I searched for an answer, but found none.
A plan. I needed a plan. With two guns behind me, escape was out of the question.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Eugenie, gorgeous in her green ball gown. A warming thought. Something to hold on to. She loved me. She expected me to return to New Orleans some day. I had to survive this.
Something whizzed through the air past my ear. Ahead of me, a tomahawk buried itself in the officer’s head.
Indians!
I bent low over my horse’s neck for protection and swiveled around in time to see Saber-Scar slump and fall from his horse. Another tomahawk had found its mark.
My mount skittered to the side. Fearing he would bolt and throw me, I gripped the reins tighter. My knees dug into the saddle as I tried desperately to stay on. “Easy now,” I coaxed.
An instant later, a sharp crack rang out, and Saber-Scar’s companion fell dead.
My horse reared and pawed the air. I toppled off and felt myself sailing backwards. My arms flailed the air. I hit the ground with a bone-jolting thud. All the breath rushed out of me. For a split second, I thought I was dead, but the pain exploding through me meant I still lived.
