Lorenzo and the Turncoat Read online

  LORENZO

  and the TURNCOAT

  Also by Lila and Rick Guzmán

  Lorenzo’s Secret Mission

  Lorenzo’s Revolutionary Quest

  LORENZO

  and the TURNCOAT

  Lila Guzmán

  and

  Rick Guzmán

  This volume is funded in part by grants from the City of Houston through The Cultural Arts Council of Houston/Harris County and by the Exemplar Program, a program of Americans for the Arts in Collaboration with the LarsonAllen Public Services Group, funded by the Ford Foundation.

  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 design by Giovanni Mora.

  Guzmán, Lila, 1952–

  Lorenzo and the Turncoat / by Lila and Rick Guzmán.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In the summer of 1779, having served as an officer in the Continental Army, eighteen-year-old Lorenzo Bannister enjoys a quieter life practicing medicine in Spanish-controlled New Orleans, until his fiancee is kidnapped and the governor of the Louisiana territory, Bernardo De Gálvez, decides to lead Spanish troops in a surprise attack against the British.

  ISBN-10: 1-55885-471-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55885-471-0

  1. United States—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Participation, Spanish—Juvenile fiction. [1. United States—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Participation, Spanish—Fiction. 2. Louisiana—History— Revolution, 1775-1783—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—History—18th century—Fiction.] I. Guzmán, Rick. II. Title.

  PZ7.G9885 Lj 2006

  [Fic]—dc22

  2005057417

  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.

  © 2006 by Lila and Rick Guzmán

  Printed in the United States of America

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

  Historical Information

  Don Bernardo De Gálvez, Felicité De Saint Maxent De Gálvez, Gilbert Antoine De Saint Maxent, Oliver Pollock, Lieutenant Colonel Esteban Miró, and Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Dickson are historical figures.

  All other characters are fictional.

  St. Louis Cathedral as we know it today did not exist in 1779. In 1788, a fire destroyed the original structure known as St. Louis Church.

  Acknowledgments

  Many, many thanks to the following people at the Louisiana State Museum in New Orleans for their help:

  Nathanael Heller, Assistant Registrar

  Dr. Alecia P. Long, Historian/Writer

  Dr. Charles Chamberlain, Museum Historian

  Jeff Rubin, Information Services

  Kathryn Page, Curator of Maps and Manuscripts

  A special note of gratitude goes to Charles E. Nolan, Archivist, Archdiocese of New Orleans, for providing information on María Matilde Felicia De Gálvez, Don Bernardo’s first child.

  Dedicated to the people of Louisiana and everyone who helped them after Hurricane Katrina, August 29, 2005.

  Contents

  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 Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Historical Note

  Chapter One

  Christmas Eve 1778

  New York City

  Servants scurried from guest to guest in Robert Hawthorne’s dining room. They took away the first remove, a creamy potato soup, and left.

  While waiting for the main course, Hawthorne leaned toward the visiting general seated to his right. “Sir, I have a riddle for you. How many rebels does it take to win a battle?”

  “How many?”

  “No one knows, because they haven’t won a single one!”

  The general guffawed and banged his hand on the table.

  Hawthorne smiled. It was a good joke, but not necessarily the truth. George Washington’s poorly trained soldiers were keeping the British army at bay. The rebellion should have been smashed long ago.

  The kitchen door opened. An army of servants streamed through carrying platters, bowls, and casseroles heaped with steaming food.

  Guests gasped in delight to see salmon with shrimp sauce, buttered lobster, rabbit stew, haunch of venison, sweetbreads, macaroni, peas, potatoes, and custards.

  Hawthorne relished their reaction. Entertaining guests was his favorite pastime and tonight was especially auspicious because he was celebrating his promotion to colonel. Two generals in the British army, three colonels, the vicar of the local church, the mayor, a judge, a merchant, and their wives graced his table. He wished the war was over. Perhaps next Christmas would find him back home in England. If he could not spend the holiday with family, he would at least spend it with his dearest friends.

  “Colonel Hawthorne,” the general’s wife said, leaning toward him, “we will miss you so!”

  “Me or my parties?”

  “Silly goose. You, of course. Must you leave?”

  “Alas, dear lady, I must.”

  “Without you, this wretched country will be unbearable.”

  Hawthorne patted her hand. “I’m sure you will bear it.”

  The woman pouted and turned to her husband. “‘Tisn’t fair! We finally have someone who can throw a decent party and good King George rips him from us!”

  Tomorrow Hawthorne would leave New York and head to Philadelphia. After the Battle of Brandywine, the American Congress had fled into the countryside like a fox before the hounds. Hawthorne had received secret orders to capture a ringleader at all costs. It mattered little which traitor he served up — Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, or George Washington. His Majesty wished to make an example of someone important to the rebel cause and thereby break their spirit.

  The front door burst open. Cold air blasted through.

  The room fell silent at the sight of a pox-scarred man in a tattered greatcoat. “Might there be a Hawthorne here?”

  “I’m rather busy at the moment,” Hawthorne said, frowning. Why had the soldier on guard let this rag of a man inside?

  “Sir, it’s about your cousin.”

  Hawthorne straightened. “What news have you?”

  The man worked a much-worn hat through his hands. “He’s been hanged, he has.”

  Hawthorne felt the blood drain from his face. He sat in st
unned silence while his guests murmured among themselves. Dunstan could not be dead. He had sent him to New Orleans to find proof that the Spanish were secretly helping the American rebels.

  “You must be mistaken,” Hawthorne managed to say.

  “No, sir. The news comes direct from the horse’s mouth, it does. Someone who seen it with his own eyes. Them Spanish dons hanged Sergeant Andrews for a spy.”

  “A spy!” the general’s wife gasped, looking in horror at her husband.

  Most people considered espionage a less-than-noble profession. Men of honor shunned it.

  Hawthorne rose, wobbling slightly. “If you will excuse me,” he said to his guests. Bowing low, he left. He signaled for the messenger to follow him. He strode into the study and closed the door behind them.

  Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he said, “What happened to my cousin?”

  “That Spaniard, Gálvez, hanged him.”

  “Colonel Gálvez?”

  “One and the same.”

  It took a moment to absorb the news. Bernardo De Gálvez, Governor-General of the Louisiana province, was a colonel in the Spanish army and an aristocrat. His uncle José was one of the most powerful men in Spain.

  “But Sergeant Andrews had diplomatic privilege.”

  The messenger shrugged.

  The scornful gesture angered Hawthorne. He felt like picking up a paperweight and hefting it at the man but restrained himself.

  Had Gálvez shrugged too? Had he thumbed his nose at the law? Dunstan shouldn’t have been hanged. To be sure, he had sent his cousin to New Orleans to spy on the Spanish and bring him information on American rebels in Louisiana, but he had given him diplomatic papers to protect him. Why hadn’t Gálvez honored them?

  Hawthorne fell into a chair and brooded, only vaguely aware of the messenger inching toward the door and leaving.

  Sounds soaked through the walls, the whinny of horses and the jingle of carriages pulling up to the front door. Doors opened and closed. Apparently, the messenger’s announcement had dampened spirits and guests were leaving. Hawthorne’s big moment, the celebration of his promotion to colonel, had been ruined.

  Disbelief dissolved into slow anger. Hawthorne paced around the room. He opened the armoire door and took out an officer’s sash, bright red silk with tassels on both ends. He had promised to make Dunstan an officer upon his return. And what a glorious one he would have been! In his mind’s eye, Hawthorne saw his cousin leading a cavalry charge with sword drawn. Of all his relatives, including his younger brother, Dunstan most resembled him: tall, athletic, with dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. They were both twenty-eight years old and both had been born on the family estate. In their youth, people sometimes mistook them for twins. That ended when Dunstan engaged in a sword fight and acquired a jagged scar on his cheek.

  Hawthorne wrapped the ends of the sash around his hands and snapped it tight. Dunstan would have worn it with honor.

  The family’s reputation had been stained. The rule of law demanded that Colonel Gálvez answer for his illegal actions. Filing charges against him would do no good. Gálvez was the law in New Orleans.

  No, this situation demanded drastic action. A plan slowly formed. There were details to work out. It would take months to put it into action, for a soldier simply did not walk away from his duties and responsibilities so he could take care of personal affairs. No matter how long it took, he would restore honor to his cousin’s memory by bringing Gálvez to justice.

  Chapter Two

  August 17, 1779

  Lorenzo pushed open an iron gate large enough to drive a carriage through and walked to the courtyard at the back of Colonel Gálvez’s house. He picked up a pebble and threw it at an open window on the second floor. It pinged gently against the top pane.

  Eugenie stuck her head out the window. “I’ll be down in a minute, mon petit choux.” She spoke in French, her native language. “Lunch is on the veranda. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Lorenzo bounded up the steps. As usual, Eugenie had draped the tray with tea towels to protect it from flies and other pests. In August, New Orleans became an oven. Eating indoors was impossible, so Lorenzo and Eugenie always ate lunch in the courtyard.

  He peeked under the tea towel and found soup, salad, rolls, silverware, glasses, and a pitcher of water. He breathed deep, enjoying the tangy smell of gazpacho, a soup always served cold. It was Colonel Gálvez’s favorite dish because it reminded him of his boyhood home in southern Spain.

  Lorenzo carried the tray to their usual eating spot, a table for two beneath the cypress tree in the backyard. He and Eugenie had fallen into a comfortable routine. In the morning, Lorenzo tended patients at King’s Hospital, visited Eugenie for lunch, and spent the afternoon at the office he shared with an elderly physician.

  Lorenzo had become a fixture at Colonel Gálvez’s house. Servants knew to unlock the back gate at precisely twelve o’clock so he wouldn’t have to come through the front door and disturb the household.

  Lorenzo sat down in a wrought-iron chair, grabbed a roll, and bit into it. Good manners suggested that he wait for his fiancée, but a man could starve to death in the meantime. Eugenie’s idea of time differed from his. One minute often stretched to five.

  A muggy stillness hovered over the city. Blackish-green clouds edged the southern horizon, but the rest of the sky remained a cloudless bright blue.

  It was perfect hurricane weather.

  Eugenie came down the back steps, looking elegant in a dark blue dress. Pearl-encrusted combs, Lorenzo’s gift on her last birthday, her eighteenth, held reddish-gold hair in a tight bun. A small gold cross hung around her neck.

  Lorenzo stood and walked toward her. A knot came to his throat every time he saw her. He loved this woman with all his heart.

  Standing on tiptoe, she stretched to kiss him. At 5’11” Lorenzo towered over her by nearly five inches.

  They shared a kiss. It had been a long romance, spanning three years. Military duty had caused several lengthy separations, but in two days, they would finally wed.

  He studied her face. She looked pale and drawn. Her bright green eyes had lost their luster. He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. “How do you feel?”

  She swatted it away. “I feel fine. Stop being a doctor.”

  Her temperature seemed normal. Still, he worried. Last winter, smallpox had swept through the city, forcing Colonel Gálvez to quarantine the sick across the river on the west bank. Summers were an even more dangerous time, when the heat made New Orleans a breeding ground for disease.

  Lorenzo ushered Eugenie to a seat, then sat opposite her.

  She bowed her head, traced the sign of the cross, and folded her hands.

  He did likewise and listened while Eugenie said grace. She was far more religious than he, although they had both been raised Catholic. Eugenie believed that everything happened for a purpose. Lorenzo wasn’t so sure.

  She ladled the gazpacho into a bowl and set it in front of him while he poured them each a glass of water.

  “Will you see patients after lunch?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I have three scheduled. It looks like word is getting out about my practice.” He grinned. “Of course, it helps that I speak English and Spanish. Both the Americans and the Spanish come to me.”

  “Just make sure your patients aren’t British.”

  “Hey! Some of my best friends are British.” Lorenzo tried to sound offended. “What if I were to tell you a redcoat once saved my life?”

  “I’d thank him and tell him to get going before I kicked him in the …”

  “Eugenie!”

  “Shins! What did you think I was going to say?” Lorenzo laughed out loud. He knew she hated the British, and for good reason. They had burned down her father’s home in Canada because he had refused to pledge allegiance to the king of England. Her father had passed hatred for the British on to his daughter.

  To turn the subject to something more pleasa
nt, Lorenzo asked, “What are your plans for this afternoon?”

  “I’m going to church with Colonel Gálvez to talk over a few last minute wedding details with the priest.”

  Colonel Gálvez was like a father to Eugenie and would give the bride away. He even called her m’ija, my daughter, the Spanish term of endearment. Soon after arriving in New Orleans, he had arrested her for picking his pocket. When he learned that her family was dead and she was living alone on the streets, he found her a position as a maid in the Widow De Saint Maxent’s household.

  “When do you think you’ll be back?” Lorenzo asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “We’ve been invited to a party, you know. It starts at seven.”

  “I’ll be back in plenty of time to get ready.”

  Lorenzo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Of course, I could go without you, it being one of my last nights as a bachelor.”

  Eugenie slapped him playfully on the arm.

  A far-off rumbling made him glance over his shoulder.

  A month earlier, a hurricane had threatened the city, sending people scurrying into St. Louis Church where they prayed and lit candles. It had worked. The hurricane spent itself soon after making landfall and passed through the city without much damage. Today, the horizon darkened the same way.

  “What’s wrong, Lorenzo?” Eugenie asked.

  “It looks like a hurricane is brewing in the gulf.”

  “We’ve already had one this year. New Orleans never gets two in one season.”

  “Hurricanes are like women. You never know what they’ll do next.”

  Eugenie mumbled something in French that Lorenzo didn’t catch. He was reasonably sure he didn’t want to know what she had said.