Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 2

  “The gazpacho is delicious,” he said. “Did you make this?”

  “Mon cher!” she exclaimed in exasperation. “I told you Madame De Gálvez showed me how to make it yesterday.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Eugenie sighed. “You don’t pay attention to half of what I say.”

  “That means we’ll have a successful marriage.”

  She rested her chin on her fist and leaned forward. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “From the colonel.”

  She laughed. “You’re taking advice from a man who’s been married less than two years?”

  “Who better?”

  Lorenzo suddenly noticed that Eugenie was toying with her food, pushing bits of salad about the plate. “Eat,” he said, frowning at her.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat,” he repeated. “Humor me.”

  She stabbed a forkful of salad and crammed it in her mouth. “Happy?” she mumbled around the food.

  “Ecstatic. Eat more.”

  The back door squeaked open and Colonel Gálvez, the Governor-General and most powerful man in the Louisiana Territory, headed toward them.

  Robert Hawthorne scrambled up a levy and waved good-bye to the sailor who had rowed him to the Spanish side of Lake Pontchartrain. At his back, the West Florida, the British warship that had transported him from Mobile, patrolled the twenty-four mile expanse of water.

  Hawthorne unfolded a map and got his bearings. New Orleans consisted of straight streets that intersected at right angles to form neat squares. The city was nestled between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River. He pocketed the map and set out down a dirt lane that led to the city.

  He stopped at a guardhouse on the north side of town.

  Out stepped a soldier wearing a white coat with blue collar, cuffs, vest, and breeches. He straightened a black tricorne with a red cockade.

  Hawthorne fished papers from his coat pocket.

  The soldier glanced at them and motioned for him to pass. Apparently, a lone man posed no threat.

  Hawthorne scanned New Orleans. Sadness swept through him to think that his cousin had died here. These buildings, these trees draped in Spanish moss, this sky were the last things poor Dunstan had seen.

  Hawthorne headed toward the Mississippi River. He crossed Burgundy, Dauphine, and Bourbon Streets, memorizing every feature—a carpenter’s shop, a bakery, a tailor shop, a wigmaker’s, a blacksmith. Turning left on Royal Street, he happened upon two elegantly dressed girls about fourteen years old. Only their eyes showed behind unfurled fans.

  Hawthorne bowed. “Mesdemoiselles,” he said in flawless French. “Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?”

  They giggled and curtseyed. In unison, they said, “Bien, monsieur.”

  “Are you new to our city?” the taller girl asked.

  “I have only just arrived.”

  “Do you have friends and family in New Orleans?”

  “No, I am completely alone.”

  “Truly?” She trilled her Rs in a most delightful way instead of swallowing them in the French fashion.

  Hawthorne assumed she was the daughter of one of the Spanish dons in charge of New Orleans.

  This place had promise. What a shame he wasn’t going to be in New Orleans long.

  An old woman buying fruit from a nearby peddler snapped out something in Spanish.

  The girls gave Hawthorne apologetic looks and hurried over to her. No doubt she would scold them for speaking to strange men in the street. He had heard that these people were overly protective of their daughters and would call you out for a duel before you could say Jack Robinson.

  The girls and the old woman walked off. The tall girl glanced over her shoulder and winked.

  He winked back and remembered what sailors on the warship had told him: For smuggling, go to Manchac. For fun, New Orleans.

  Chapter Three

  Lorenzo sprang up from his chair at the colonel’s approach. The habit of standing for a superior officer kicked in even though he was no longer in the military.

  “Señorita,” the colonel said, sweeping his hat off his head and bowing low to Eugenie. “Your escort has arrived.”

  “I have to fetch a few things.” She stood and headed inside.

  Lorenzo pulled out a chair. “You might as well make yourself comfortable, sir. Eugenie has no concept of time.”

  The colonel gave him a wry smile as he eased into a seat. “Ladies keep us waiting so we will remember how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. If we expect the pleasure of their company, we must be prepared to wait for them.” He reached into the bread basket for a roll. “Have you thought about the matter we discussed earlier?”

  “Yes, sir, and the answer is still no.”

  “What would it take to convince you?”

  “Nothing short of an act of God.” Lorenzo folded his arms across his chest. “I like my life the way it is and see no reason to change it.”

  The colonel nibbled on the roll. “Not so long ago, you relished fighting the British.”

  “My priorities have changed. If the British were to attack New Orleans, I’d be among the first to defend it, but I see no need to join the Spanish army.”

  “I know it looks like the city is secure, but I don’t have enough men to fight off an attack.”

  “You have five hundred regulars.”

  “And three hundred of them are raw recruits who have never been trained or tested.”

  “What about the militia? You have over a thousand of them.”

  The colonel snorted. “Yes, but they are scattered all over Louisiana. If the British decided to attack, they would overrun us before I could get word to the militia.”

  “Do you think that will happen?”

  Gálvez looked grim. “It’s only a matter of time. They can attack from all directions. From Mobile to the east. Baton Rouge to the west. From the north by crossing Lake Pontchartrain. From the south by sailing up the Mississippi.” The colonel leaned forward. “That’s why I intend to attack them before they attack us.”

  Stunned, Lorenzo could only stare at him. “Colonel, the king will have your head on a platter if you start a war.”

  The colonel smiled knowingly. “The king declared war on Great Britain on June 21. I received advance warning from my uncle, but the British in Baton Rouge haven’t heard the news yet. It is to our advantage to keep them in the dark for a little while longer.”

  Sudden realization dawned on Lorenzo. “Those ships in the harbor aren’t there to defend New Orleans! You’re getting ready to attack the British!”

  The colonel nodded. “I could sit here and wait for them to make a move or I could take the war to them. The best defense is a good offense. I’ve written to the minister of war in Madrid asking for funds and additional troops, but I’ve received no answer. Therefore, I’ve done my own recruiting.”

  “That’s why you’ve been pressing me to join the army?”

  “I need experienced officers. My offer stands. A commission in the army at the rank of major.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about what?” Eugenie asked. She had returned wearing a bonnet that matched her blue dress. Over her arm, she carried a pocketbook.

  The intensity in the colonel’s expression suddenly dissolved. He rose, bowed, and gave her a disarming smile. “I am trying to entice your fiancé to join the Spanish army.”

  Eugenie looked at him aghast. “I hope he told you ‘no.’”

  The colonel’s smile grew. “Not in so many words.”

  “Stand firm, Lorenzo. Turn him down and be done with it.”

  Gálvez clucked at her. “I’m wounded, m’ija.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  The colonel aimed a finger at Lorenzo. “I’m losing my best spy because of you. Taking her place is the least you can do.”

  “Don’t blame Lorenzo,” Eugenie said. “It was my decision to stop working for you.
I told you Cuba would be my last trip.”

  “I know. And you will be sorely missed.”

  Colonel Gálvez’s extensive spy network was scattered throughout Louisiana and West Florida. Each spy worked independently and did not know the identity of others in the network. Eugenie had been part of it for the last three years.

  Lorenzo often worried that the British would arrest her. A spy’s fate was to hang on the gallows.

  Colonel Gálvez thrust out his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Arm in arm, Eugenie and the colonel headed toward the back gate.

  The possibility of a British attack on New Orleans disturbed Lorenzo. If the Spanish lost the city, the British would control the entire Mississippi River.

  Lorenzo had devoted the last three years to fighting the British, but had resigned his commission in the Continental Army, satisfied that he had done his part to help free the American colonies. He thought he had left the war behind. Now it had come to him.

  Chapter Four

  A gate swung open in Hawthorne’s path, forcing him to stop in his tracks.

  A Spanish colonel stepped into the street with a woman on his arm. He closed the gate and tested it to make sure it had latched properly. He looked at Hawthorne and nodded a swift greeting.

  Was this Colonel Gálvez? It had to be. How many thirty-year-old colonels could there be in New Orleans?

  Who was the gorgeous redhead with him? Hawthorne doubted that the colonel would flaunt a lover on the streets. It was one thing to have a wife in England and a mistress an ocean away in the colonies. Hawthorne never had to worry about the two of them running into each other. But New Orleans was a small town. News of indiscretions by the colonel would leak back to his wife.

  Arm in arm, the couple strolled off at a leisurely pace.

  Hawthorne trailed behind them, maintaining a reasonable distance.

  They chatted together happily in French, completely oblivious to the fact that they were being followed. People on the street greeted them with genuine affection. Men doffed their hats. Women curtsied. A Spanish soldier saluted and the colonel returned the greeting.

  Gálvez stopped at a flower vendor and bought a bouquet of daisies. With a courtly flourish, he handed it to the red-haired woman.

  She accepted with a gracious smile.

  According to reliable sources, the colonel had married the most beautiful woman in New Orleans, a French creole named Felicité De Saint Maxent, a widow with a young daughter. Based on the reaction of people they met, Hawthorne concluded that this woman must be Madame De Gálvez. Everything fit.

  He trailed after them. They made only one stop, at a jewelry store. They lingered inside for ten to fifteen minutes. Hawthorne was beginning to wonder if they had slipped out a back way when they finally emerged.

  Gálvez and his wife crossed a plaza to St. Louis Church, a long, narrow brick building that faced the Mississippi River. Topped with a cupola, it had an arched front door with a round window above it. The colonel and his wife went inside.

  Hawthorne let out a long sigh. What to do … what to do. He had never entered a Catholic church and didn’t relish doing so now.

  People flitted past, some speaking Spanish, most French. It amazed him how many were Negro or mulatto. Easily one-third of them.

  A strong wind blew in from the southeast and made a fleet of ships and smaller vessels bob in the harbor. It looked like Colonel Gálvez had gathered every seaworthy vessel he could get his hands on. The British and the Spanish had lived side-by-side for several years in a delicate peace that could break at any time. Peter Chester, governor of West Florida, had complained to Gálvez about giving aid to American rebels and harboring them in New Orleans. Gálvez made a show of arresting American smugglers, only to turn them loose shortly thereafter. Hawthorne suspected Spain feigned neutrality but was, in reality, a major supplier of arms to the American rebels.

  Soldiers shuffled into the main square. Hawthorne watched in amusement as a sergeant attempted to form them into rows of four and march them around the square. Out of step, they looked like a drunken centipede with legs going in every direction. What a sloppy lot they were! An English sergeant would whip them into shape in no time.

  Hawthorne forced his mind back to the problem at hand: what to do about Gálvez.

  Spanish soldiers loitered everywhere. Obviously, kidnapping the colonel here would be impossible.

  Hawthorne studied the ships in the harbor. He looked back at the soldiers all about. To a trained military eye, it looked like Gálvez was preparing for war.

  A little black boy with a tin bucket in one hand and a cane pole in the other headed to the river. He sat down on the levee, reached into the bucket, pulled out a night crawler, and baited his hook. He dropped his line into the water.

  A Spanish officer rushed from a government building and dashed into the church. A minute later, he came out with Gálvez. He talked with his hands, explaining something that made the colonel scowl.

  Hawthorne looked at the little fisherman. He looked back at St. Louis Church. Madame De Gálvez was still inside.

  The words “bait and wait” flashed into his mind.

  If he couldn’t get the colonel directly, he could make the colonel come to him.

  Chapter Five

  Charles Peel started counting his steps the second he left the boardinghouse. Fifty paces took him to the northwest corner of the main plaza. Another seventy-five found him in front of Chartres Street facing the wharf. By the time he reached three hundred thirty-three steps, he stood before a one-story house with a red-and-white-striped pole attached to the front. A sign swaying in the wind read Dr. Louis Dunoyer, Surgery, and Dr. Lorenzo Bannister, Medicine. Lorenzo had seven letters in the first name. That was a lucky number and a good omen. There were nine in Bannister. Nine was three squared, another very lucky number. Charles’s landlady had recommended he visit Dr. Bannister because he was the only doctor in New Orleans who spoke English. Maybe the old sawbones could figure out why his head hurt.

  Charles slowly climbed the steps to the doctor’s house and paused on the porch. He didn’t like physicians and avoided them whenever possible. Usually, their answer to every medical problem was “Bleed the patient.”

  A young man dressed in black came to the door and spoke in Spanish.

  “Do you speak English?” Charles asked hopefully.

  The young man smiled. “Yes, I do. May I help you?”

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Bannister.”

  The young man’s smile expanded. “Come inside. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  Reluctantly, Charles followed him into a hallway that stretched the length of the house.

  “Where are you from?” the young man asked. “You sound like a Pennsylvanian.”

  “Nice guess. I’m from Philadelphia.” Inwardly, Charles cringed. He had let his guard down and given more information than he intended, but English was a welcome change. For three weeks, he had lived in New Orleans where people spoke French and Spanish. “Where did you learn English?” Charles asked.

  The young man, a dark-haired, black-eyed, Spanish-looking fellow, slid back a pocket door. “From my father. He was a Virginian.” He motioned Charles into a room off the main hallway. It was about ten feet by ten feet with a coat of white paint. A five-shelf bookcase held big, impressive-looking leather-bound books. In front of the room’s only window stretched a table filled with an herb garden and several empty pots. A locked cabinet with glass doors held neatly labeled vials, jars, and crocks.

  “Mr. Peel, I presume?” the young man asked, sliding the door shut behind him.

  Charles nodded, his gaze locking on a jar of leeches. Some swam about freely and looked like black ribbons. Others clung to the glass sides. He counted them. His blood chilled. There were thirteen, a very unlucky number.

  “Please take a seat.” The young man gestured toward a wooden stool.

  Charles sat down.

  The young man bent over a
ledger and marked off a name. He pulled a second ledger from a shelf and opened it.

  Charles watched him write the date and his name in an elegant hand.

  The young man took a seat opposite him. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Where’s Dr. Bannister?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “How old are you? Eighteen?”

  “Good guess. I turned eighteen last month.”

  “Maybe I should come back later.”

  “When I’ve turned nineteen?” The young man gave him a self-confident smile and waved toward two framed documents hanging on the wall. “My credentials.”

  Charles studied both carefully. One was a diploma signed by two doctors in the Continental Army certifying Lorenzo Bannister as a physician. The other was a license issued by the City of New Orleans allowing him to practice medicine.

  “Satisfied?” the young man asked.

  “Could I see Dr. Dunoyer?”

  “Certainly. He doesn’t speak English, but if that’s what you want …” He moved toward the door.

  “No, never mind,” Charles said, remembering the word “surgery” behind Dr. Dunoyer’s name. A surgeon’s answer to every malady was to bleed the patient before he cut something off.

  Dr. Bannister returned to his seat. “What’s bothering you, Mr. Peel? Other than my advanced age.”

  “I’ve had a headache ever since I got to New Orleans. I can’t seem to get rid of it.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Peel?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “Occupation?”

  “I’m between positions.”

  The doctor made notations in the ledger. “What is your regular occupation?”

  Charles didn’t answer.

  The doctor looked up at him sharply.

  “I didn’t expect all these personal questions.”

  Dr. Bannister put the quill down and leaned forward, his face deadly serious. “Anything you tell me will not go beyond these four walls. You have my word of honor as a gentleman. My job is to cure you, not judge you. But the more I know, the better I can diagnose the cause of your headache.”