Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 7

  “Of course. Marie Claire has never been in West Florida so no one knows what she looks like. If you tell anyone that you are Governor Gálvez’s wife, I will shake my head sadly and explain that you suffer delusions of grandeur.”

  After two days of travel, Eugenie was exhausted. All she wanted was to sleep. She felt like she was coming down with something and didn’t feel as mentally sharp as she should. She scratched her neck and wondered if she had poison ivy.

  “What’s wrong?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He ducked his head to take a good look at her neck. “It looks like a sunburn. There’s an Indian village up the way. We’ll stop there and get something for that.”

  True to his word, they stopped at a trading post two miles above Manchac. It held the usual: bolts of cloth, sacks of flour, barrels of oil. On a high shelf were vials of medicine along with herbal bouquets.

  It reminded Eugenie of the medicine in Lorenzo’s office. She tried not to think about him because it made her sad.

  Hawthorne bought food and a jar of salve. He escorted Eugenie to the trading post porch where they sat on a bench and ate lunch. He bit into an apple.

  Eugenie chewed on beef jerky. She was barely able to swallow it.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye. “Does your throat still hurt?”

  She nodded.

  He unscrewed the jar top. Using his index finger, he scooped out a vile-smelling substance.

  Eugenie shrank from him. “What’s that?”

  “Alligator grease.”

  She stayed his hand. “I’m not going to eat that.”

  Hawthorne chuckled. “It’s for external use.”

  “You’re not putting that on me.”

  “It will help your sunburn. From what they tell me inside, ‘Gator Grease’ is good for just about everything.” With a surprising gentleness, he smeared a thin layer on the back of her hand. “How does that feel?”

  “Good.”

  He applied some to her face. “Lift your head.”

  She did.

  He applied a coat to her throat and neck.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You are entirely welcome.”

  A young man whistling a happy tune bounded up the trading post steps. He had long blond hair and an eye patch. He wore buckskin, a bright red bandanna knotted on the side of his head, and a necklace of alligator teeth.

  Eugenie sensed she should know him.

  He glanced at her, stopped, and swiveled toward her.

  Hawthorne stiffened.

  “I am looking for the Clark cabin,” the stranger said, directing the remark to Eugenie. “Do you know where it is?”

  Hawthorne answered for her. “No. We are new to the area.”

  “Vraiment?” The stranger looked surprised. “You look familiar,” he said to Eugenie. “Do I know you?”

  Hawthorne stood and placed himself between the stranger and Eugenie. “Shove off, monsieur!”

  The storekeeper stepped onto the porch. “Jean-Paul! I thought I heard your voice. Come in, my lad! Come in!”

  The stranger touched fingertips to bandanna in a mock salute. “It was a pleasure, monsieur,” he said sarcastically as he stepped inside.

  Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul. Eugenie ran the name through her mind. “Jean-Paul Dujardin!” she muttered.

  “Do you know that man?” Hawthorne asked.

  “He’s a highwayman!” she replied curtly, trying to sound offended. “We hardly travel in the same social circle.”

  Hawthorne studied her, apparently judging her truthfulness.

  Unfortunately, it was the truth. Dujardin had once been a soldier in Lorenzo’s company but had turned outlaw after losing an eye in a duel with an irate husband. He had the morals of an alley cat, Lorenzo said, and had fathered a couple of children off Indian women at various trading posts.

  What incredible bad luck! The first person she recognized was a criminal wanted by Colonel Gálvez.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eugenie and Hawthorne traveled on.

  Shortly, a large settlement came into view. They rode past plantation after plantation. At one, they happened upon a booth where an old woman in a much-worn calico skirt, blouse, and turban sold fruits and vegetables.

  Hawthorne drew rein and twisted toward Eugenie. “We will soon be at our final destination. Select whatever you need for supper.”

  It was an atrociously hot day, and Eugenie did not feel like making anything that required a fire. With that in mind, she picked out tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, onions, strawberries, salad greens, and a melon.

  Hawthorne paid the bill, and they set out again.

  A few minutes later, he pointed at a town on a bluff overlooking the river. “Your new home, Madame, at least for the time being. This is New Richmond. Or, to use the French name, Baton Rouge.”

  Hope surged inside her. She could easily engineer her escape on the town’s crowded streets. To her dismay, Hawthorne veered off the main road before they reached Baton Rouge and turned down a tree-lined lane.

  Eugenie and Hawthorne rode up to a two-story house with a wide, covered verandah. Vines twined around the pillars. She looked for signs of life, but there were none. The house begged for a coat of whitewash. Weeds choked the flowerbeds.

  Hawthorne slid down from his horse and lapped the reins of their horses and the mule around the handrail. He helped Eugenie down, escorted her up the stairs, and took a key from his pocket.

  While he opened up, she scanned the area. The verandah offered a view of the Mississippi River. Like most of Baton Rouge, the house sat on a bluff. From here, she had a good view of the closest building, an earthen fort that overlooked the waterfront. It was still under construction.

  “Madame,” Hawthorne said, pulling her attention away from the fort. He motioned for her to enter.

  The house had a musty smell, as if it had been closed for a while. Hawthorne set about raising the windows. A strong cross breeze soon cleaned the air.

  “A couple of months ago, I inherited this house. We will stay here until this little contretemps with your husband is cleared up.”

  “Will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “In due time, Madame. For the time being, you will continue playing the role of my wife, Marie Claire. Make yourself useful. Help me unload everything.”

  They went outside to the mule. Hawthorne untied boxes and burlap sacks. He handed her the lightest item, the basket of fruits and vegetables they had bought from the roadside vendor. He hefted a large burlap sack over his back. “We will move everything into the hallway for now. It’s getting dark. We can put everything away later.”

  It took three trips to unload the mule.

  Hawthorne lit a candle and led Eugenie into the parlor.

  Dust covers draped the furniture. In the faint light, they looked eerily like ghosts waiting to rise from the grave.

  Hawthorne’s gaze fixed on an oil portrait over the parlor fireplace. He held a candlestick close and stood in the semidarkness, frozen in place.

  Barely visible in the flickering light was a young family of three: husband, wife, and child.

  Hawthorne stood there as if bewitched by the portrait.

  Eugenie realized he had let his guard down. She took a step backwards toward the door, careful not to make a sound. Then a second cautious step. And a third.

  The floor creaked, betraying her.

  Hawthorne turned. “Don’t,” he said coldly.

  She stopped.

  Taking her elbow, he led her around the first floor.

  It consisted of a parlor, dining room, study with built-in bookshelves, and kitchen. Eugenie could tell that he was intensely interested in each room. From time to time, he paused to finger an item. In one room, it was a tiny porcelain shoe that held a pincushion. In another, a coffee cup.

  A narrow staircase took them upstairs to two large bedrooms. Hawthorne entered the one on the left.<
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  Eugenie wandered across the hall to the second bedroom, where she found a small bed, a rocking horse, and a child-sized table and chairs. There was a second bed in the alcove. No doubt it belonged to the slave assigned to watch over the master’s child.

  Through the room’s only window, she saw a small cemetery fenced with black wrought iron. There were two headstones, but from this distance, Eugenie could not make out the names. She glanced at Hawthorne.

  He headed downstairs and waited for her at the bottom of the steps.

  She followed him to the cemetery.

  He stopped in front of two headstones. One bore the name Josephine Hawthorne, born April 3, 1758, died April 7, 1779. The other read Abigail Hawthorne, born December 19, 1776, died April 7, 1779.

  “Mon dieu,” Eugenie said. Deeply moved by the sight, she made the sign of the cross.

  “They died of smallpox,” Hawthorne said in a barely audible voice.

  “Relatives of yours?”

  “My brother’s family.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He looked surprised by her expression of sympathy. “Thank you.” His gaze locked on the headstones. “My brother was the only survivor. It killed everyone. His wife. Daughter. Slaves. He couldn’t bear living here. He felt guilty for letting them die.”

  “Why? He wasn’t to blame.”

  “He was the garrison surgeon and felt that he should have saved their lives.”

  Eugenie recalled the day Lorenzo lost his first patient, a ghostly pale boy who bruised easily. Minor cuts on him never healed. Lorenzo consulted every doctor in town and poured over medical books, all to no avail. “How can I cure him,” Lorenzo lamented, “if I can’t figure out what’s wrong with him?”

  Hawthorne sighed. “I never knew my sister-in-law or my niece. My brother met his wife in Natchez. He was stationed at the fort there. A little later, he was transferred here. He wrote me regularly and told me about the plantation he had bought and how he was growing sugar cane.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He rode off after the funeral.” Hawthorne’s voice cracked. “No one knows what became of him.”

  Eugenie could tell he didn’t want to discuss it any further. Her throat still hurt. “I need a drink of water.”

  He held the candle high overhead. “There should be a well around here somewhere. Ah! Over there.” He led her to a well and drew a bucket of water.

  Using a dipper, Eugenie drank deeply.

  A sliver of moon sailed across the sky, casting shadows on the flagstoned walk.

  They went inside through the kitchen door. Pots and pans hung from hooks and glittered in the candlelight.

  Hawthorne set the water bucket on the table.

  Eugenie felt weak. Her stomach ached and she desperately wanted to eat something, but she simply could not swallow solid food. Maybe she could down some gazpacho. “If you will fetch the food basket,” she said, “I’ll get started on supper.”

  “And leave you in a room with all kinds of weapons? I think not.”

  It had entered her mind that she could hit him with a frying pan, but she was not about to confess to that.

  He smiled. “After you, Madame.”

  “I’m getting tired of you shadowing me all the time.”

  “Women usually enjoy my company.”

  “This woman doesn’t.”

  He laughed. “Then I must try harder to be more charming.” His face came alive when he laughed. Under different circumstances, he was probably a very likable fellow.

  Together, she and Hawthorne fetched the fruit and vegetable basket from the hallway. Eugenie dusted the kitchen table and placed the vegetables on it. She washed tomatoes.

  Hawthorne rolled up his sleeves and helped.

  “Those tomatoes need to be peeled,” Eugenie said. “If you trust me with a paring knife—”

  A rich, hearty laugh rumbled from him. “You once tried to shoot me! I trust you with nothing. I’ll peel them myself.”

  “Everything else needs to be chopped as well.” Eugenie found a bowl and rinsed it out. She searched the larder and discovered salt, pepper, and a crock of Spanish olive oil. She laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Hawthorne asked.

  “I didn’t expect to find Spanish olive oil.”

  She knew the British sometimes went to New Orleans on spending sprees, but most Spanish goods made their way upriver illegally. Mounds and mounds were sold to the British, costing the Spanish government thousands in lost taxes each year.

  In a bowl, she mixed oil, sugar, salt, and pepper. She added the items Hawthorne chopped, smashed them together as best she could, and added a little water. “Voilà! Gazpacho.”

  He contemplated the mixture. “Shall I light the fire so you can cook it?”

  “No. You can carry it to the dining room.”

  “You’re serving cold soup?”

  Eugenie nodded. “The recipe comes from southern Spain, where it’s hotter than the devil. You’re supposed to serve it cold.”

  In the dining room, she took bowls, spoons, and goblets from the china closet. It suddenly occurred to her that a house that had been empty for months hadn’t been robbed. Perhaps nearby residents didn’t believe in stealing from the dead. Or they were afraid of ghosts. Or they thought everything was tainted with the pox.

  Eugenie set the table while Hawthorne lit a candelabrum.

  He pulled out her chair. “Madame, if you please.” He served the soup and lifted a spoonful to his lips. A look of surprise crossed his face. “This is delicious!”

  Eyes closed, Eugenie made the sign of the cross and folded her hands in front of her. She silently said a blessing. When she looked up, she saw Hawthorne had stopped eating and was watching her.

  “You’ve never done that before. Why now?”

  “I didn’t know if Marie Claire was a Catholic, so I said grace silently.”

  “Why do it at all?”

  She swallowed a couple of spoonfuls of soup to give herself time to think of a proper answer. The refreshing soup rolled down her throat, soothing it.

  “When someone does you a favor, do you not thank that person?”

  “Yes. It is considered good form.”

  “God favored us with gazpacho tonight.”

  “I would have preferred beefsteak.”

  “And I would prefer to be free and back in New Orleans. You don’t always get what you pray for.”

  “Have you ever prayed and asked God to smite me?”

  “What I pray for is between me and God.”

  “He obviously hasn’t answered your prayers. I remain unsmitten.”

  “Maybe God is waiting for the right moment.”

  He laughed. “If I were you, I would be angry with God. He didn’t keep you from being kidnapped.”

  “I’m sure He had a good reason.” She paused. “Do you attend church?”

  “I am a member of the C of E.”

  “The … C of E?”

  “Church of England.”

  Eugenie tried to stifle a laugh with her hand.

  “Madame, are you mocking my church?”

  “No.” Eugenie tried to regain control of herself. “I never heard it called the C of E.”

  “In that case, I forgive you.”

  “And I forgive you for kidnapping me.”

  Eugenie intended it as a joke, but could tell by Hawthorne’s suddenly solemn expression that he did not. She took another spoonful of soup but watched him out of the corner of her eye.

  What a complex man he was! One minute he was scorning God. The next, he was welcoming forgiveness.

  Hawthorne wasn’t a bad person, she told herself. He could have killed her any time he wished, but didn’t. He had taken good care of her, making sure she had food, water, and clean clothes. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to attempt an escape.

  She gasped, appalled by her thoughts.

  Hawthorne reached over and placed his hand on
hers. “Are you quite all right, Madame?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “It’s nothing.”

  But it wasn’t. How could she think that the man who kidnapped her was a nice person?

  Suddenly, she recalled what an old friend named George Gibson once told her. His brother John had been taken captive by the Indians when he was a young man. An old woman who had lost her son rescued him from certain death. For several years, John lived with the tribe. He even married an Indian girl.

  “Why didn’t your brother try to escape?” Eugenie had asked. She would never forget George’s answer.

  “After the third or fourth day, John said his feelings shifted with a jolt. He realized that they could have killed him, but didn’t. He didn’t speak the tribe’s language and felt isolated. The old woman who adopted him had shown him acts of kindness. He began to identify with his captors. He didn’t even try to escape.”

  At the time, Eugenie thought George’s brother was a weak man who had given in to pressure.

  Now that she was in a similar hostage situation, she understood how he had felt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Three days after the hurricane devastated New Orleans, Lorenzo collapsed into a pew in St. Louis Church, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He had reached the point of complete exhaustion. He wanted to sleep, but could not.

  Someone slid into the pew beside him. “Lorenzo, come join us in the choir. We need more singers.”

  Lorenzo peered at Colonel Gálvez through halfclosed eyes. “With all due respect, sir, go away and let me sleep.” He shifted in the pew, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “If you change your mind,” the colonel said, “I’ll be over there.” He headed toward the choir loft.

  As usual, Don Bernardo De Gálvez was a bundle of energy. He hadn’t slept since the hurricane struck, but that didn’t seem to slow him down. He helped evacuate people upriver to higher ground, where clean drinking water was available. He supervised the cleanup of the city, making sure downed trees, broken glass, and dead animals were disposed of. The colonel even had to deal with an alligator found swimming the streets of New Orleans.

  Today, at the colonel’s request, a Te Deum would be sung and a special Mass of thanksgiving offered. The colonel was truly amazing. The hurricane had left New Orleans a muddy mess and destroyed his plans to attack Baton Rouge. A lesser man would have thrown his hands up in frustration. But there he was, putting on a robe so he could sing in the choir.