Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 8

  The last three days had been a blur to Lorenzo. Staying busy kept his mind off Eugenie. He spent hour after hour treating people who had taken refuge in the church. Some had been cut by flying debris. Others had suffered broken bones when their homes caved in.

  Many people in New Orleans were now homeless, out of a job, and living in St. Louis Church. Charles Peel was among them.

  Lorenzo found himself homeless as well. He lived at the church because he had no other place to go. The colonel and his wife asked Lorenzo and Thomas to stay with them. Thomas had accepted, but Lorenzo politely refused, knowing it would dredge up painful memories.

  The Gálvez house suffered little damage, except for a smashed room. The hurricane had uprooted the cypress in the courtyard—the tree Lorenzo and Eugenie always lunched under—and had hurled it into her room. The hurricane had struck late at night when most people were asleep. If she had been in bed, she would have been crushed to death.

  Old feelings surged through Lorenzo, emotions he hadn’t experienced since his father’s death. He was mad at God. Lorenzo attended Mass every Sunday and went to confession regularly. Why was God punishing him? Why had He taken Eugenie away?

  When it appeared Mass was about to start, Lorenzo headed toward the door. He passed the priest and his retinue standing in the back of the church waiting for the processional to begin.

  “Where are you going, my son?” the priest asked.

  “Out,” Lorenzo curtly replied.

  “Aren’t you going to sing in the choir?”

  “Why? What do I have to thank God for? Eugenie is gone.”

  The priest looked stunned by Lorenzo’s short-tempered remark.

  Altar boys standing within earshot looked equally stunned. Several made the sign of the cross and gaped at him.

  “Lorenzo,” the priest began. He laid a comforting arm on his shoulder.

  Lorenzo shrugged it off. “Leave me alone.”

  He stomped outside and crossed the Plaza de Armas. Leaning against the Royal Treasury Building, he buried his face in the crook of his arm and wept.

  Lorenzo had never gotten over his father’s death. It had left a hole in his soul. And now Eugenie was gone. So too were all his dreams for starting a family and having a normal, peaceful life.

  “That was quite some scene back there.”

  Lorenzo recognized Charles Peel’s voice and looked up.

  Charles stood beside him, solemn-faced, head down, hands laced behind him. “I understand what you’re feeling.”

  “How could you possibly understand?”

  “I lost my fiancée too.”

  Lorenzo looked quizzically at him.

  “When Anne died,” Charles said in a subdued tone, “I was angry at God. I hated Him for letting her be … murdered.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lorenzo said.

  Charles acknowledged his sympathy with a nod. “Grief sometimes makes us do things that we later regret. You’re strong and will get through this. God never gives us more than we can bear.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Music floated from the church, followed by a chorus of men’s voices.

  “You have two options, Lorenzo. You can reject God and completely turn your back on Him. Or you can trust Him. For my part, I reject the notion that the world is chaotic. Everything happens for a purpose.”

  “Was there a purpose to your fiancée’s death?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what it was, but I know God will reveal the purpose some day. Everything is in His hands.”

  The words struck a chord. Lorenzo had been in some tight spots when everything looked bleak, but things had always worked out for the best.

  “Come on, Doc,” Charles said, gently tugging on his arm. “You can’t let this break you. The church service will do you good. You need to be with friends at a time like this.”

  Lorenzo shook his head stubbornly.

  “If this doesn’t beat all!” Charles exclaimed in exasperation. “I finally find a doctor who knows what he’s doing and I save his sorry carcass from drowning. What does he do? He goes to pieces! I can’t win! Come on, Doc!” He butted his shoulder against Lorenzo’s. “Snap out of it!”

  Lorenzo focused on the music drifting from church. Charles was right. He needed the consolation of religion and friends. For several minutes he listened to the soothing music.

  Charles stayed by his side.

  Lorenzo suddenly realized there had been a reason for his father’s death. It had made him leave Texas. He would never have met Eugenie otherwise. He would never have joined the Continental Army. Life would have been completely different.

  One of Papá’s favorite sayings suddenly leaped to mind. Sometimes his patients didn’t have money to pay him for his services. Papá would put on a mock serious face and say, “In God we trust. All others pay cash.” But Papá would accept the chicken, piglet, or whatever the patient brought as payment.

  Lorenzo laughed out loud.

  “Did I miss something?” Charles asked.

  “It would take too long to explain. You’re right, Charles.”

  “Really? What was I right about?”

  Lorenzo headed back to church without answering.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hawthorne awoke at first light and rotated his head to work out a crick in his neck. He wished he hadn’t spent the night sleeping in a rocking chair. He had started out beside Madame De Gálvez as usual, but she had thrashed about, making a good night’s sleep impossible. At first, he thought she was doing it on purpose just to annoy him, but as time went by, it became obvious that she wasn’t feeling well.

  He watched her sleep. She looked exhausted, with rings under her eyes. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she mumbled something that sounded like “‘Enzo.”

  The morning breeze billowed the window curtains. He peeped around them to look at Baton Rouge. The rising sun sent spears of light over the town. A million beads of dew spangled the ground.

  He sat at a desk and penned a note to Gálvez. Hand to chin, he watched his hostage sleep. He tried to keep an emotional distance from her and refused to address her by anything but “Madame.” In spite of that, his feelings toward her were starting to shift. Regrets began to seep in and he didn’t like that. If what he suspected were true—if Gálvez was readying his forces to attack—then taking her hostage would serve a double purpose. Not only could he bring Gálvez to justice, he could prevent an attack on Fort New Richmond. The colonel would think twice about attacking a town where his wife was being held.

  He reread the letter to Gálvez, sealed it, and stuffed it in his pocket. At the first opportunity, he would hire someone to hand carry it. That meant he and Madame had to go into town. He riffled through their baggage and found a green dress and matching bonnet ideal for visiting. He hung it up to let the wrinkles fall out of it.

  His stomach rumbled. He snapped open his pocket watch and found it well past breakfast time. He washed up and changed clothes. A quick check showed Madame still deeply asleep.

  Leaving her alone was risky, but he believed he could go downstairs, brew a pot of tea, and return before she awoke and tried any mischief. The stairs were the only exit from the top floor, unless she tied bedsheets together and clambered out the window. He left the kitchen door open so he could keep an eye on the staircase. He threw kindling into the stove, took the tinderbox off the ledge, and lit it. He put on a kettle of water and searched through the goods he had bought until he located a tea ball and two tins, one containing loose tea, the other, biscuits.

  A few minutes later, he carried a tray upstairs and set it on the nightstand. “Wake up, Madame. Breakfast is served.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up. Her cheeks were tinged a light red. It worried him, but he dismissed his concern, telling himself that people with porcelain-like complexions blushed easily. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “Is your throat still h
urting?”

  “A little.”

  He filled her cup, added honey, and stirred it until dissolved. He passed it to her.

  She took a sip and winced.

  He frowned. “I have an errand to run at the fort. Afterwards, we will go downtown and visit the doctor. Go change your clothes.”

  She slipped behind the folding screen.

  “Remember,” he said, making his voice low and threatening, “you must play the role of Mrs. Hawthorne to the hilt or there will be hell to pay.”

  She thrust her head around the screen and smiled sweetly. “But of course, Robbie.”

  What a strange woman the colonel’s wife was! She didn’t seem scared of him at all.

  She stepped from behind the screen and looked in the floor-length mirror to comb her hair. The dress accented her eyes and hair perfectly. Hawthorne silently congratulated himself on his ability to put women in clothing that brought out their best features.

  Not a breath of air stirred the humid August morning as Eugenie and Hawthorne made their way to Fort New Richmond, a quarter-mile from the house. Meadows of indigo and fields of sugar cane stretched behind them.

  Using the back of her hand, Eugenie wiped away sweat forming under her bonnet brim. She cringed and hoped Hawthorne hadn’t noticed the mistake. Felicité would have dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief instead of wiping away sweat like a common field hand.

  Eugenie glanced up at him.

  He frowned in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  Playing the role of Felicité drained Eugenie emotionally. It took far more mental effort than she expected. She had been Felicité De Gálvez’s maid for several years and knew her likes and dislikes. It was one thing to be around someone day after day, but it was another matter entirely to be that person.

  Hawthorne slowed his pace. “Are you quite all right?”

  “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. She felt awful. Her sore throat had prevented her from eating solid food, and she felt weak with hunger.

  “I need to stop in the fort and speak briefly with the commander. Are you sure you feel well enough for a visit?”

  “I’m just tired from the trip.” She liked the idea of going inside the new fort to see what the British were doing.

  A dirt road led to a plank drawbridge. A high wooden gate, the only entrance to the fort, stood wide open. Two sentries leaned on their muskets. Apparently, they did not know Colonel Gálvez’s army was on the march and would soon reach Baton Rouge. But Eugenie did. The colonel had confided to her that he and his army would set out on August 22.

  “Stop that dog!” someone yelled.

  Barreling out of the fort and directly toward them was a yellowish-brown terrier, ears flapping, leash dangling. A redcoated private was in hot pursuit.

  Hawthorne took off his jacket and threw it on top of the dog.

  There was a yelp of surprise as dog and jacket went tumbling. Hawthorne scooped both up and clamped his hand over the beast’s muzzle.

  The private ran up to Hawthorne. “Thank you! You saved my life. Colonel Dickson would tan my hide if I lost his dog.”

  Hawthorne handed it to him. “I had a terrier once that bolted every chance he got. They’re stubborn dogs.”

  “Aye, sir, that they are.” He tipped his hat in Madame’s direction. “Davy Morgan, at your service, ma’am.”

  “My wife is French,” Hawthorne explained to the boy, who stood 5’3” and looked thirteen years old. “Her English is limited.”

  “Is she from New Orleans?” Private Morgan asked in a confidential tone.

  “No,” Hawthorne lied, surprised by the question.

  “Good. I’d hate to be the bearer of bad news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “New Orleans was hit by a hurricane a couple days ago. We just heard about it.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Lots of people. Some killed too.”

  “Do you know any of the victims’ names?”

  “No, sir. All I know is the hurricane flattened New Orleans like a pancake.”

  Madame tugged on Hawthorne’s sleeve. “What did he say about a hurricane in New Orleans?” she asked in French.

  He explained it as gently as possible.

  White-faced, she began to cry.

  He took her face in his hands and wiped away tears with his thumbs. “Please don’t cry. The commander will have the latest news about the hurricane. Let’s go see him.” Hawthorne needed to tell Dickson about war preparations he observed in New Orleans. Before the hurricane, Gálvez was posed to strike. Of that, he was sure. Had it stopped him? Or had it only slowed him down a bit?

  Madame took halting steps. “Robbie,” she said. “I don’t feel very …” She fainted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Don Bernardo De Gálvez strode toward the Plaza de Armas in the company of Don Oliver Pollock and Captain Héctor Calderón. Both men struggled to keep up with him. Gálvez felt like he was wound tighter than a pocket watch. There was so much left undone. He had originally planned to set out for Baton Rouge on August 22, but he hadn’t counted on a hurricane sweeping through New Orleans and sending ships, cannons, and supplies to a watery grave. Reenforcements were overdue from Cuba. Had they perished in the hurricane?

  “How many cannons have been salvaged?” Gálvez asked.

  “Ten,” Don Oliver said.

  “Size?”

  “Five 18 pounders, four 4 pounders, and one 24 pounder.”

  “Ships?”

  “Four. A schooner and three gunboats.”

  “Don Oliver has miscounted,” Héctor Calderón said, grinning.

  “The devil you say! We were only able to raise four.”

  “You didn’t count the one my men found in the forest.”

  Gálvez ground to a halt and smiled wryly. “You found a ship in the forest?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Calderón said. “North of town, sitting in the midst of flattened oaks. It would appear the hurricane plucked it from the harbor and marooned it there. It’s woods-worthy, but I sincerely doubt it’s seaworthy.”

  Gálvez laughed. He could depend on Calderón and his bizarre sense of humor to lighten the mood.

  “How many artillerymen do we have to man the cannons?”

  “Thirteen,” Calderón said.

  The number took Gálvez by surprise. He needed forty. At a minimum, a gun crew consisted of a loader, spongeman, ventsman, and firer.

  “Have some broadsides printed up. Post them around town. See if you can find some artillery gunners.”

  Firing cannons was a precise science. Men lost body parts, if not their lives, when strict standards were not followed.

  Gálvez set out again.

  Don Oliver huffed along beside him on the right. Captain Calderón kept pace with him on the left.

  “How many carabineers are ready to march at this moment?” Gálvez asked.

  “Twenty,” Don Oliver panted out.

  Gálvez had organized the New Orleans Carabineers, a militia unit composed of “upper class” creoles who wanted to serve the cause. However, they didn’t want to serve with their barbers and shoemakers. Gálvez was concerned about how they would react when they found themselves fighting next to free blacks. A year earlier, he had created a militia unit, the Company of Free Mulattoes, composed of sixty former slaves.

  Gálvez needed men and was in no position to turn anyone down. Upon enlisting, recruits got a musket, powder horn, cartridge box, tinderbox with flint, wooden water barrel, and knapsack with a change of clothes. Gálvez had decided that an elite corps of creoles that wanted to serve on its own terms could provide its own accoutrements.

  “What is the response from the American settlers?” Gálvez asked.

  “I have a firm commitment from seven of them. They will join us once we take to the field.”

  “What news have you of the Choctaw?” Gálvez directed the question to Calderón.

  “Their chief has promised
150 braves. They will join us on the march.”

  Gálvez added the figures in his head. He could count on leaving New Orleans with 170 regular soldiers in the Louisiana Infantry Regiment and 330 recruits from the Canary Islands and Mexico. That made 500. Add twenty carabineers and eighty free blacks, and he had a force of 600.

  How many soldiers did the British have? According to reports from his spies, they had reenforced Baton Rouge with additional troops from Pensacola.

  “How many militiamen will join us?”

  “Good question, Your Excellency,” Calderón said. “It’s harvesting season. How many will be willing to leave their farms?”

  “You can count on the Acadians,” Don Oliver put in. “They hate the British.”

  He was right about that. They had all been uprooted from their Canadian homes by the British and would see this as a way to settle old scores.

  “What about the Germans?”

  “After the hurricane,” Calderón said, “my soldiers and I checked the outlying villages as far as the German Coast. There is nothing but desolation and destruction for miles and miles. Their crops have been ruined. They will go a-soldiering because they need the money.”

  “Did the hurricane perchance hit the British as hard as it hit us?”

  There was no answer.

  “Find out. I wish to be on the road to Baton Rouge within the week.”

  “Excuse me, Your Excellency?” Calderón said. “Within the week?”

  “I misspoke. I should have said by Friday, August 27th.”

  He didn’t miss the look of dismay that Calderón and Don Oliver exchanged.

  “Put yourselves in British boots. You learn that the hurricane has decimated your enemy. What would you do?”

  “Attack while he was most vulnerable,” Calderón said.

  “So would I,” Gálvez said. “For all we know, the British could be on their way here as we speak.”

  In the past, Gálvez had served the king for God and country. Now, everything was different. He had a wife, stepdaughter and one-year-old daughter. His in-laws and dearest friends lived here. The people of New Orleans had embraced him as governor, even though eleven short years ago, they had revolted against the Spanish. Louisiana had been very good to him. Gálvez had never been happier. He would do anything in his power to protect the province.