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  LORENZO’S

  SECRET MISSION

  Praise for Lorenzo’s Secret Mission

  Finalist, ForeWord magazine’s Book of the Year Young Adult category and Second Place Winner, Arizona Literary Contest and Book Awards in the Published Children’s

  Literature Category

  “Lorenzo’s Secret Mission is highly recommended for its sweeping narrative, its realistic and energetic style, and its unexpected and somewhat startling conclusion.”

  —School Library Journal

  “This is the story that delicately and intricately weaves fictional characters with legendary heroes, such as George Washington, to make history come alive.”

  —KLIATT

  LORENZO’S

  SECRET MISSION

  Lila Guzmán

  and

  Rick Guzmán

  This volume is made possible through grants from the National Endowment for the Arts (a federal agency), the Andrew W.Mellon Foundation, and the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.

  Piñata Books are full of surprises!

  Piñata Books

  An imprint of

  Arte Público Press

  University of Houston

  452 Cullen Performance Hall

  Houston, Texas 77204-2004

  Cover illustration by Roberta Collier-Morales.

  Cover design by James F. Brisson.

  Guzmán, Lila, 1952–

  Lorenzo’s Secret Mission / by Lila and Rick Guzmán.

  p. cm.

  Two historical figures, Bernardo De Gálvez and George Gibson, appear prominently in the book.

  Summary: In 1776, fifteen-year-old Lorenzo Bannister leaves Texas and his father’s new grave to carry a letter to the Virginia grandfather he has never known, and becomes involved with the struggle of the American Continental Army and its Spanish supporters.

  ISBN: 978-1-55885-341-6

  1. Gálvez, Bernardo De, 1746–1786—Juvenile fiction. 2. Gibson, George, 1747–1791—Juvenile fiction. 3. United States—History— Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Identity—Fiction. 6. Slavery—Fiction.] I. Guzmán, Rick and Lila. II. Title.

  PZ7.G9885 Lo 2001

  [Fic]—dc21

  2001034006

  CIP

  The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

  © 2001 by Lila and Rick Guzmán

  Printed in the United States of America

  7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  Acknowledgments

  Our thanks go to Susan Rockhold, Helen Ginger, Laura Chávez, and Ross Sams for reading and critiquing Lo renzo’s Secret Mission; to Milord Writer, Vince McCarthy, an Englishman and horror writer who cheerfully accepted the task of making sure the British sounded British; to Dr. James Sidbury of the University of Texas for sharing his knowledge of slavery in Virginia.

  Lorenzo’s Secret Mission (Book 1) is based on a true story. George Washington, Bernardo De Gálvez, George Gibson, and William Linn are historical figures. All other characters are fictional.

  In Memory of

  Angelita Guzmán

  (October 2, 1916–September 19, 1999)

  and

  Gibson’s Lambs,

  forgotten heroes of the American Revolution

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter TwentyFour

  Chapter TwentyFive

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Historical Information

  Chapter One

  From my hiding place in the moon-cast shadows, I surveyed a forest of ships anchored in New Orleans’ harbor. Some, I knew, would sail to faraway ports, to Spain, or Cuba, or maybe the Two Floridas. I had to find a ship bound for Virginia and get on board somehow, even if that meant becoming a stowaway.

  A long knife, bullet pouch, powder-horn, and canteen hung at my side. My most treasured possessions lay at my feet. Papá’s medical bag, a flintlock musket he gave me for my birthday two years ago, and a small raccoonskin haversack containing Papá’s papers.

  On his deathbed, Papá wrote a letter to my grandfather in Virginia. “This letter is important, Lorenzo,” my father had said when he handed it to me. “Promise me you will deliver it.”

  “Upon my word of honor, I shall,” I had replied.

  Visibly relieved, Papá said, “Your future and the future of many others will depend on that letter. I shall soon join your mother in heaven. You must make your own way in the world. Be brave, Lorenzo. Be a man of honor.”

  “I’ll make you proud of me, Papá.”

  And then he was gone. Two weeks ago, the afternoon of August 7, 1776, I buried my father at a Spanish mission in San Antonio and set out for Virginia.

  On the way to New Orleans I had trudged through swamps so spongy, I sank up to my boot tops in mud and slime. Clouds of mosquitoes attacked me. Worst of all, I had to keep a sharp eye out for snakes and gators.

  Now, rested and ready to set out again, I pushed a lock of hair back in place and adjusted the frayed ribbon that held my hair in a pigtail at my neck. I gripped my musket, picked up my possessions, and headed toward the wharf.

  Across the street, a party was under way. Harpsichord music drifted through the open windows of a two story house about thirty yards away. A gray, thin-faced man bowed low to a smiling girl dressed all in white. She dropped him a dainty curtsey, and they began to dance a minuet.

  I’d never seen a girl with hair the color of a desert sunset. I crossed the street to get a better view and stood beneath a cypress tree. She was fifteen or so, about my age, but her partner looked old enough to be her grandfather. She stared in my direction. I jumped, but realized she couldn’t see me in the dark.

  Compared to the dancers in silk and satin, I was a sorry sight indeed. The trek had left my buckskin britches and flannel shirt tattered and sweat-stained, my face soiled, and my hair tangled. I stank worse than a wet dog.

  The steamy night plastered my shirt to my back. With my sleeve, I mopped away sweat. I uncorked my canteen and took a long drink of water.

  Easing past the Customs House, one of the few buildings clearly marked, I slipped down to the wharf so I could look over the ships. Their flags would tell me their place of origin and give me a clue as to their destination.

  Papá had warned me about press gangs that captured young men and forced them to serve aboard His Britannic Majesty’s ships, so I stayed out of sight. At fifteen years old, I was just what they’d be looking for.

  The wharf was busier than I expected. It reminded me of a beehive. Hugging the shadows, I watched, fascinated.

  At the far end of the crescent-shaped harbor, the red-and-gold flag of Spain flew from a warshi
p’s highest mast. I knew that flag well. Back home in San Antonio, it waved over the army barracks.

  Large, square lanterns placed at regular intervals along the wharf lit a path to a warehouse. Bare-chested sailors rolled barrels down a wooden gangplank to men in buckskin, moccasins, and coonskin caps.

  How peculiar. Who would unload a ship in the middle of the night? I placed Papá’s medical bag and my haversack on the ground, leaned my shoulder against the side of a building, and watched with growing interest.

  Barrel after barrel rumbled down the ramp. Huge men rolled them on the wharf to two Spanish officers waiting by the warehouse. One watched the barrels disappear through open double doors while the other jotted something down in a log.

  On our travels around New Spain and the Province of Texas, Papá had told me stories about pirates who buried chests full of Spanish doubloons on tropical islands and smuggled molasses and French wine into the British colonies.

  These men were probably pirates. Bits of their conversation drifted toward me. The sailors spoke Spanish while their companions used English.

  When I heard “General Washington,” I perked right up. Papá had talked about him often. Washington was a fellow Virginian, Papá said, the leader of the British colonists who had begun a revolt against King George.

  A large barrel thumped down the wooden ramp and drew my attention back to the ship.

  “Hijo de la—” began the sailor who had lost his hold on the barrel. Before he could finish his terrible oath, it wobbled to the end of the ramp and crashed into another barrel, narrowly missing one of the men. The impact sounded like a clap of thunder.

  The lids burst off both barrels. Out spilled a grainy substance that looked like gunpowder. It made my nose twitch. I laid my finger under it to stifle a sneeze.

  A giant of a man in buckskin rushed forward. “Careful!” he said in a menacing growl. He grabbed the two sailors by the scruff of the neck and shook them. “One mistake could blow us to Kingdom Come.”

  The two sailors righted the barrels while the buckskin-clad men closest to the accident fell to their knees and scooped up powder.

  As they worked, the big man glanced over his shoulder to see who might have witnessed the accident.

  At that second, I heard a sound at my back. Instinctively, I reached for my knife.

  Cold metal pressed against the back of my head.

  “Drop your weapons,” a voice growled in my ear.

  I drew a deep breath and eased my musket onto the wooden planks. Next, I unsheathed my knife and laid it beside my musket.

  “Put your hands up!” My captor seized me by the collar. “Move, dog!” His grip tightened. He propelled me forward, down the wharf, toward the warehouse, and the Spanish officers waiting there.

  Chapter Two

  The pirates continued to unload the ship. Lucky for me, they hadn’t noticed us yet. Close by, their muskets lay stacked in a teepee-like shape.

  How long would it take the men to reach their muskets, snatch them up, load, and fire if I managed to bolt away? Thirty seconds if they knew their business. Sixty, if they didn’t.

  A spiteful, hard shove from behind made me stumble. Seeing my opportunity to escape, I bent low and jabbed my elbow backwards as hard as I could into my captor’s stomach. He yipped like a coyote.

  Weaving and bobbing, I raced toward the darkened streets opposite the wharf, funneling all my energy into running. I glanced over my shoulder as I crossed the square and took a sharp intake of breath.

  The pirate had recovered from the blow and was after me. In a burst of speed, I dashed down the alley between the cathedral and a three-story building, rounded the corner, and headed up a long, cobblestone street. I felt like a deer running through a narrow valley to escape from hunters. Boots thudded behind me.

  The next time I glanced back, I noticed I had put distance between us. Unfortunately, two men had joined the pursuit, although they were still much farther back.

  Deeper and deeper into the city I ran until my chest ached. I had to find a place to rest and take cover. At the next corner loomed a two-story house, its windows dark. Moonlight fell on the lush garden around it. This was as good a place as any to stop while I caught my breath and figured out what to do next.

  I pulled up short and dived behind a bank of oleanders. To my surprise, brick pillars raised the house three feet or so off the ground. Perfect! I ducked down and scooted between the pillars. In a matter of seconds, I crawled to the central one. My breath whooshed in and out. I forced myself to lie still, face down, and control my panting. It had been close, very close, and I wasn’t safe yet. A quick vision of walking the plank of a pirate ship leaped to mind.

  Seconds later, my ears picked up an unusual sound. Alarmed, I strained to hear better and inched forward to peep out. Moonlight streamed through the leaves and twining vines that concealed me. I spied a giant in buckskin and moccasins walking toe to heel like an Indian, his face veiled in darkness.

  My heart hammered. I crouched down, ready to bolt if necessary.

  He stood still, studied the ground, looked all around, then started to edge past me. Just then, a man in boots pounded toward him. I watched in horror as they both stopped about three feet away.

  “What do you think?” a deep voice asked in hushed tones.

  “I think we’ve lost him.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Yes. I’ll know him the next time I see him.”

  “One thing’s for sure. He can run like the devil.”

  The boots shifted. Another pair of moccasins joined them.

  The deep voice suddenly slipped into English. “See anything, William?”

  “No. Looks like he got away. We’d better return to the ship and see how the men are doing.”

  “I agree.” He turned to the man in boots and talked to him in Spanish.

  I couldn’t see their faces, but I memorized their voices. Apparently, the man in boots spoke only Spanish and one of the men in moccasins spoke only English. The deep-voiced man knew both Spanish and English and interpreted for them.

  Both sets of moccasins shuffled off together while the boots headed in the opposite direction. They had given up! I heaved a sigh of relief.

  And then something awful struck me. The haversack with the letter to my grandfather. And my father’s medical bag. I had lost them on the wharf. Where were they now? How could I recover them? It was too dangerous to go back and look for them now.

  I stretched out full length upon the ground, pillowed my head on my crossed arms, and closed my eyes, disappointed in myself. Less than an hour after entering New Orleans, I had lost everything.

  The ground, moist and soft, gave off an offensive odor, the smell of decay, but I didn’t care. Too tired to keep my eyes open any longer, I fell asleep wondering how I would get my possessions back.

  Chapter Three

  Loud voices coming from the house directly overhead awoke me the next morning. Dappled sunlight filtered through the greenery and touched my face.

  “I’m awake, Papá,” I mumbled. Looking around, I suddenly remembered I wasn’t in San Antonio with Papá.

  Sore from sleeping on the ground, I stretched life back into my limbs. First order of the day, find my possessions. Second, get on a ship to Virginia.

  Mulling this over, I trudged downhill toward the dark brown Mississippi and wove in and out of the crowded streets leading to the harbor. Along the way, I passed a schoolhouse where I could hear children chanting their lessons. Then I passed a convent, a cathedral, and a jail.

  A warm breeze carried the fragrance of jasmine and magnolia. I drew a deep breath. Somewhere not too far off, someone was brewing coffee. I breathed deeper. What tantalizing aromas.

  I passed a reluctant school boy, sailors, and customs officials. Close by, Indians squatted on colorful blankets and sold baskets of sassafras root. A black man, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, pushed a two-wheeled cart loaded with empty glass bott
les to the river’s edge.

  People stepped out of the way when they saw me approach and gave me long, curious looks.

  Compared to San Antonio, New Orleans was a big city. San Antonio consisted of little more than a frontier fort, a Spanish mission, and twenty or so families. New Orleans throbbed with people, all speaking a confusion of languages. It struck me that New Orleans appeared somewhat more civilized than San Antonio, although both were only about fifty years old.

  On the eight-foot levee that sloped to the river, I paused. The pirate ship I’d stumbled upon last night had unloaded its cargo and left. A lucky break, especially if the giant and his crew had left, too.

  I walked to the last place I had my possessions and looked all about, but my luck didn’t hold. Someone had already taken them. Even without Papá’s letter, I still had to go to Virginia. My grandfather was my only living relative. So I slipped down to the Customs House, all the time watching for a redcoated British press gang. There, I scanned the huge chalkboard where the harbor master listed outbound ships. Spain. Cuba. France. My heart sank. Not a single ship bound for Virginia. I scowled up at the harbor master’s board.

  A girl with copper-colored hair stepped to my side. She spoke to me in French.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied in English with an apologetic smile. “I don’t understand.”

  A look of disappointment crossed her face. “I said, what a face you make.” She spoke in broken Spanish, her wide green eyes dancing with merriment. “Nothing could be quite so bad.”

  I stared at her in amazement and recognized her at once. She was the girl I’d seen dancing last night. She was even prettier up close. I’d never seen eyes so green or skin so creamy. She wore a straw hat and a white muslin dress.