Lorenzo and the Turncoat Read online

  Chapter Twelve

  Lorenzo kept an eye on the rising water and was relieved to see it top off an inch below the second floor. He turned his attention to the constant lightning display beyond the warehouse window. Flash! Flash! Flash!

  Winds screeched past, sounding like a soul in torment. The stone warehouse seemed to be withstanding the hurricane with no problem. But what about the roof? What if it blew off? Would they be sucked out into the hurricane?

  He watched Charles dig into a crate.

  Thomas voiced the question on Lorenzo’s mind. “What art thou doing?”

  “Looking for something. Aha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a pack of playing cards. He opened another crate and found candles. “And I thought taking inventory was a waste of time.” After he lit the candles, he shuffled the cards. “Dealer’s choice?”

  Lorenzo shook his head. Playing cards was entirely too frivolous at a time like this. He was trying to puzzle out what had happened to Eugenie.

  “Thomas?” Charles asked.

  “Playing cards are the devil’s playthings.”

  “Oh, good grief. It’s just a way to pass the time.”

  “People use cards to tell fortunes,” Thomas shot back. “And gamble.”

  Charles sighed, shuffled the cards again, and dealt a game of solitaire.

  Thomas watched with intense interest.

  Lorenzo could tell the boy was itching to join in, but couldn’t get past some religious prohibition about playing cards.

  For an hour the storm raged, making talk impossible.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, it was dead quiet.

  Thomas leaned the back of his head against the wall. “It sounds like the hurricane’s over.”

  “It’s not,” Lorenzo said.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “That’s because we are in the eye of the hurricane.”

  “The eye?” Charles asked. “What’s that?”

  “The center of the hurricane,” Lorenzo explained. “A friend of mine was raised in the Caribbean. He once told me about a hurricane that struck his island. There was an hour of dead silence. Then it struck again coming from the other direction, twice as hard as before.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Charles said. “You must be joking.”

  Lorenzo shrugged. He had better things to do than defend Alexander Hamilton’s truthfulness. If he said there was an hour of calm, then that was the way it happened.

  An hour went by. Charles grew bored with solitaire and began to flick cards into a hat.

  Suddenly, the hurricane struck again, just as Lorenzo had predicted. The wind howled. Rain lashed the warehouse. The roaring and crashing seemed twice as loud as before.

  “Doest thou hear that?” Thomas said in amazement.

  “I hate it when you’re right!” Charles said.

  Lorenzo laughed. “Get used to it. I’m right 99 per cent of the time.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For three hours the hurricane blasted through town. Eventually, it lessened in intensity and spent itself.

  When Lorenzo judged it safe, he threw open the shutters. Thomas joined him at the window while Charles opened one a few feet away.

  No one spoke for a long time.

  Everywhere Lorenzo looked, he saw complete devastation. Trees lay flattened. Muddy water swirled through the streets. The dirt trenches and wall embankments Colonel Gálvez had ordered built for the defense of New Orleans were washed away.

  The city was completely vulnerable to attack.

  All wooden buildings and homes along the river had been blown away by the storm. Entire blocks were leveled. A few lucky houses had lost a roof and nothing more. It was a good bet that fields were flooded and harvests ruined on the plantations beyond the city.

  A carriage with no horse hitched to it was submerged in swirling waters. Lorenzo assumed the wind had blasted the vehicle from a nearby stable and parked it there. All kinds of objects hung from trees: a spinning wheel, strips of paper, a woman’s ball gown.

  Lorenzo was stunned by the damage. His companions seemed equally stunned.

  Drowned animals drifted by. Here a cat, there a dog, further on a pigeon.

  A casket floated down the street. Lorenzo traced a slow cross over his chest. It must have been pushed out of the ground by floodwater.

  New Orleans was below sea level, so families could not bury their loved ones underground. Most were buried on the highest and best-drained land — the top of the three-foot-high levee.

  “Doest thou feel like Noah in the ark?” Thomas asked.

  “This gives me a whole new understanding of his situation,” Lorenzo said.

  Thinking of the ark brought to mind the ships and vessels anchored in the Mississippi River. Lorenzo crossed to the windows facing the river and opened one.

  The harbor was empty.

  Where were the ships? Their captains had no advance warning and didn’t have time to move them upriver to safety.

  Lorenzo rejoined Thomas at the window.

  “I’m thirsty,” the boy said.

  “Me too,” Charles said. “It’s funny when you think about it. We are surrounded by water but can’t drink a drop.”

  Thomas looked at him quizzically.

  “God knows what’s in that water,” Charles explained. “It will make you sick.”

  “What are we to drink?”

  “If we get desperate, there’s wine downstairs.”

  “Assuming the bottles aren’t smashed,” Lorenzo pointed out.

  “That’s what I like about you,” Charles said, “… ever the optimist.”

  A pirogue, a shallow boat used to navigate the bayous, moved up the street. A man in a straw hat rowed from the back bench. Colonel Gálvez occupied the front one.

  He looked up at them and shouted, “Ahoy the warehouse! How are you faring?”

  “Fine, except we need water,” Lorenzo said.

  The colonel’s hand swept the area. “I’d say we are suffering from an excess of water. What might your name be, sir?” He directed the question to Charles.

  Lorenzo was surprised that Gálvez didn’t know him. He had the uncanny ability to address people by name and know their personal situations. Now, more than ever, with the British cruising Lake Pontchartrain in the West Florida, the colonel made it a point to be acquainted with everyone in New Orleans and know their reason for being in the city. Why didn’t he know this man?

  Charles looked at Lorenzo. “What did he say?”

  “He doesn’t speak Spanish, Your Excellency,” Lorenzo said. “His name is Charles Peel.”

  “Is he English?”

  “American. A temporary employee of Mr. Pollock’s. Did you find Eugenie?”

  “No. We’re looking for her and others. My men are going from house to house, taking a tally of the damage and trying to get a count of the dead. Many houses have been destroyed or are in bad shape.”

  “What about my cottage?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Gone.”

  Lorenzo felt like a huge stone was crushing his chest. The hurricane had cost him dearly. He was homeless, and Eugenie was missing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, Eugenie sat at a table on the inn’s first floor and gazed out the window at rays of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover. The world, still wet from the storm, sparkled. She wondered if it had rained in New Orleans.

  Hawthorne occupied the chair opposite her and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he waited for a servant to bring breakfast.

  They were alone, except for the innkeeper who flitted in and out of the room from time to time.

  Eugenie wanted to draw Hawthorne into a conversation so she could find his weak spots and increase her chances of escape.

  “You speak French very well,” she said.

  He smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “From my nursemaid and nanny.”

  “They were
French?”

  “Yes. My father wanted me to be fluent in French.”

  “Why?”

  Hawthorne studied her intently as if judging her sincerity. “From the cradle, I was being groomed to marry a French girl, the daughter of my father’s business associate. When I was born, my father and Marie Claire’s father signed a contract marrying us.”

  Eugenie gasped, horrified by the idea. “Is that a common English custom?”

  “With some of the aristocracy, yes. It was a business deal joining two great houses and two great fortunes. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Keenly interested, Eugenie leaned forward. “Robert,” she said, using his first name for the first time, “when did—”

  “I do not wish to talk about it further,” he said curtly.

  The war had caused separations from Lorenzo that had been hard to bear, but it made them appreciate the time they had together. She hated Hawthorne for kidnapping her, but a small part of her felt sorry for him.

  A servant put plates loaded with eggs, ham, biscuits, gravy, and jam in front of them. Another servant brought a teapot and two cups.

  Eugenie stared at the food. It looked appetizing and smelled delicious. She was famished, but didn’t think she could force a bite down her sore throat.

  Hawthorne, on the other hand, ate with gusto. He stopped suddenly and frowned at her. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “You can’t travel on an empty stomach.”

  Eugenie picked up a biscuit and nibbled on it.

  “Come, now!” He put down his cup. “You must eat more than that!”

  “I can’t. My throat hurts.”

  He picked up the teapot. “A cup of tea will help.”

  “I hate tea. It reminds me of the British.”

  “Why do you dislike the British?”

  “Because they are barbarians who kidnap people.” He looked amused by the remark.

  He poured a cup of tea, stirred honey into it, and pushed it toward her.

  She pushed it back.

  “It will make your throat feel better.”

  “I told you I don’t like tea.”

  “Drink this or I shall force it down your accursed throat.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but accepted the tea and took a giant gulp.

  “Sip it, Madame. Good Lord, where did you learn manners?”

  “A kidnapper dares lecture me on etiquette! You have some nerve.”

  “See here, Madame! We shall spend quite some time together. Shall we make a pact to act civilized?”

  “Not possible. You’re British.”

  “Why do you hate us so?”

  “Because you think the world belongs to you.”

  “We do not!”

  “Of course you do! I can give you dozens of examples to prove it. Let’s start with your American colonies. They are rebelling against you because of the exorbitant taxes you placed on them.”

  He snorted. “The colonists are a stingy, ungrateful lot! We fought a war to protect them from the French and the Indians, but when we raise taxes to pay for that protection, they whine like spoiled children!”

  “The British forced French Canadians to leave their homes.”

  He shrugged. “We won the war and the French lost. To the victor go the spoils.”

  “The Spanish took over Louisiana a few years ago, but they didn’t burn down our homes. They didn’t put us on ships and force us to leave.”

  “No, they moved in with an iron fist and executed five men in one blow.”

  “Because they led an armed rebellion against the Spanish. Once everything calmed down, we realized the Spanish were our friends.”

  Hawthorne laughed. “We conquer Canada and we are monsters. The Spanish conquer you and they are ‘friends.’”

  “They didn’t ‘conquer’ us, so it’s not the same thing.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” he said mockingly. “One was an occupation and the other was … an occupation!”

  She sipped her tea and regarded him over the lip of the cup. “We have French Canadians, Germans, Canary Islanders, Americans, Irish, and free blacks living side by side in complete harmony. If that is what the Spanish do to a province, perhaps the world would be better off if it were all Spanish.”

  “And the fact that you are married to the Spanish governor of Louisiana makes you completely objective in the matter.”

  “He’s a wonderful man. Very kind. Generous. The people of New Orleans adore him. Do you know that he sent flour to Pensacola when he heard the people had nothing to eat? He fed his enemy.” She drained her tea cup.

  “More?”

  “Sure.”

  Sure. Not “yes, please” or “if you would be so kind.” Sure. There was something common about this woman. She used words and expressions he didn’t expect from an aristocrat’s wife. Perhaps she lacked refinement because she had been raised in a backwater colony.

  Hawthorne admired her passionate defense of Colonel Gálvez. Would his own wife do the same for him? Highly doubtful. He took a long look at Madame De Gálvez. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. What a lucky man her husband was.

  He wanted to draw information from her, but he did not want to be obvious about it. He cast about for a subject she would welcome. “How long have you and Colonel Gálvez been married?”

  She hesitated. “A little over a year and a half.”

  “And he’s been governor for three years?”

  “Acting governor.”

  “I stand corrected. How did you meet?”

  “At a party soon after he arrived in New Orleans.”

  He put his hand to his chin in a purposefully thoughtful pose. “I know little of Spanish custom. Must members of the nobility have the king’s permission to marry?”

  Again, she hesitated. “Yes.”

  He wondered why the king had allowed a man of Gálvez’s importance to marry a provincial woman with little to offer. To be sure, her father was a wealthy merchant, but the Gálvez family was one of the richest in Spain and didn’t need her fortune.

  The clock on the wall chimed seven.

  “We must be going,” he said, rising. He tied her hands and led her to the stable behind the inn. If all went well, they would reach his brother’s house on the morrow. He didn’t relish going there, for it would dredge up painful memories, but it was the best place to take Madame De Gálvez.

  They set out up the river road that angled toward the northwest. At a rock outcropping, they veered due north and took an Indian trail that ran through the woods.

  They traveled for hours.

  Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but they never materialized. Running into the forest wasn’t a good idea. Indians, wild animals, and poisonous snakes lived there. For the time being, she was safer with Hawthorne than on her own.

  She recalled something Lorenzo often said. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t know.

  Poor Lorenzo! Her heart ached to think about him. By now, he knew she was missing. He must be frantic.

  When the sun was directly overhead, Eugenie and Hawthorne stopped at a trading post. She looked around the settlement and hoped to see someone she knew, but did not. New people were constantly moving into Louisiana. A year earlier, pioneers from the Canary Islands had built a village they called Gálveztown near the West Florida border.

  Hawthorne dismounted and tied their horses to a hitching post. He helped Eugenie down.

  A woman sat on the front porch with a little boy on her lap and cleaned his face with a handkerchief. He looked about a year old, the same age as Colonel Gálvez’s daughter, Matilde.

  Eugenie smiled to think how many times she had wiped jam and grime from Matilde’s face.

  The mother’s gaze fell to the cord binding Eugenie’s hands. Her eyes widened. She pulled her child away as if Eugenie were a mad dog.

  Hawthorne, taking Eugenie by the elbow, steered her into the trading po
st. He looked acutely uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words. “Put your hands out,” he said gruffly.

  Eugenie obeyed.

  He unfolded a pocketknife and sliced away her bonds.

  “Thank you,” she said, rubbing her wrists, surprised by her sudden freedom.

  “Don’t abuse my generosity,” he growled. “If you misbehave, you will be tied up for the rest of the trip.”

  Hawthorne bought a mule and other supplies, including seven changes of clothes for himself and Eugenie.

  Fear zipped down her spine. Judging by the number of items he purchased, he intended to keep her prisoner for a long time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By late afternoon on her second day of captivity, Eugenie noticed a change in the landscape. Lovely meadows and woods replaced marshy land. They seemed to be at a higher elevation than before. An hour later, they splashed across a shallow river about fifty feet wide that emptied into the Mississippi.

  Two forts sat across from each other, one on the north shore, the other on the south.

  In a burst of understanding, Eugenie knew where they were. Manchac! Colonel Gálvez often complained about illegal smuggling that went on there.

  Bayou Manchac, sometimes called the Iberville River, separated the English colony of West Florida and the Spanish province of Louisiana. She had never been here, but she had seen it on a map. What the map had not shown was a narrow wooden footbridge connecting the Spanish fort to the British one. She supposed that it was difficult to live in isolation as these people did without becoming friends with the enemy.

  “You are now officially in English territory, Madame,” Hawthorne said, grinning, his relief evident.

  Eugenie’s heart sank. Escape would be even more difficult now. She had learned a little English from Lorenzo but wished she knew more.

  Hawthorne suddenly drew rein. “A word of warning, Madame. I will introduce you as my wife, Marie Claire. Deviate one iota from that role and the bonds go back on.”

  “Do you really think you can get away with this?”