Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 9
Chapter Twenty
Hawthorne caught Madame before she hit the ground. At first, he thought fainting was another trick on her part, but her cheeks were bright red and she was blazing hot.
“Madame? Madame?” He untied the ribbon beneath her chin, took off her bonnet, and fanned her with it. He pushed back her sweat-soaked tendrils of hair.
Her eyes fluttered open. She was ill. Truly ill.
Davy Morgan, holding the runaway terrier in his arms, rushed toward Hawthorne. “What’s wrong, sir?”
“I don’t know. She fainted.”
“There’s a surgeon on duty inside the fort. Come with me.”
Hawthorne scooped her up in his arms and followed the boy past a number of huts to a slightly larger cabin.
Davy stopped in front of it and pushed the door open so Hawthorne could carry her inside.
A small, blond man with a neatly trimmed beard looked up from a thick book. “The devil take you, Morgan! Haven’t you heard of knocking? And get that mutt out of here!”
“Sorry, sir, but a lady collapsed.”
“Put her over there,” he grumbled, indicating a small bed covered with a quilt.
Hawthorne laid her down.
The surgeon unbuttoned her dress. He stopped and glared at Morgan. “This is a woman of quality, Morgan. Show the proper respect.”
“Um … sir?”
“Get out!” the doctor roared.
Morgan obeyed.
Hawthorne could tell from the doctor’s accent that he came from Edinburgh. God bless the Scottish. They produced the best doctors and the fiercest fighters.
“What’s her name?” the doctor asked.
“Madame …” Hawthorne caught himself in time and covered the blunder. “Madame Marie Claire Hawthorne, my wife. She’s French.” Standing at the foot of the bed with his hands dangling by his side, he watched the doctor minister to Madame. He felt useless. She looked so small, so helpless. How could he have missed that she was seriously ill?
The doctor took her temperature, then her pulse. He examined her throat and ears.
Madame opened her eyes and focused first on Hawthorne, then on the doctor.
“Morning,” the doctor said curtly. “My name is Dr. Somerset. Tell me your symptoms.”
Hawthorne translated the question for her and the answer.
Dr. Somerset moved to the far side of the room, where he unlocked a cabinet and removed several glass canisters filled with medicines.
Hawthorne joined him. He towered over the doctor, who topped out at five-foot-three and was as thin as a greyhound. Hawthorne picked up a bottle labeled belladonna.
“Put that down,” the doctor snapped.
It took every ounce of strength not to snap back, “I outrank you, you little pup.” But Hawthorne was now a civilian and it was unwise to anger the doctor and thereby compromise Madame’s medical care. “What’s wrong with her?” Hawthorne asked as mildly as possible.
The doctor jerked his head up and frowned, as if annoyed that Hawthorne was bothering him with a question. “Scarlatina. Some call it scarlet fever.”
Hawthorne’s blood chilled. His daughter had nearly died from it. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “If she dies, it will be my fault. I forced her to come here.”
“Quite the contrary. You have brought her to the only man in town—nay, in all of West Florida—who can save her. No one knows more about scarlet fever than I. In the winter of ’74, there was an epidemic in Edinburgh. As a medical student, I was in the thick of it and had the opportunity to study the disease firsthand. Since then, I have researched it extensively and developed the most up-to-date treatments. You could say I am the foremost authority in the kingdom.”
Hawthorne doubted Dr. Somerset’s claim, but hoped his ability matched his boasting. “What treatment do you plan to use?”
The doctor began crushing medicine with a pestle. “For scarlet fever, the only medicines that can be depended on are cordials and antiseptics. I’ve seen physicians from the old school kill their patients by mistaking this for a simple inflammation. They used bleedings and purgings. I won’t.”
The doctor mixed powder with wine and used a funnel to pour it into a clay jar.
“You can expect your wife to have something resembling epileptic fits. A stupor is possible. If that happens, bathe her feet and legs in warm water. In many cases, I have noted large swellings of the submaxillary glands and suppurations in one or both ears. Her skin will be covered with red spots, not unlike the measles. However, they will be larger and less uniform. Two or three days after their appearance, they will begin to fall off.”
Hawthorne listened intently, soaking up as much information as possible. It struck him that the doctor showed not a shred of emotion, as if his patient were unimportant and only the disease interested him.
“The most important thing is to bring the fever down,” Dr. Somerset said. “To that end, I am preparing a tincture of Peruvian bark. I want you to give it to her three times a day. Keep her comfortable and make sure she takes in plenty of water. Give her poppy syrup at night.”
“How did she catch this?”
“She must have been around someone who had it.”
Oh, God, Hawthorne inwardly groaned. He recalled the night he had slept next to Madame and how flushed she seemed to be. He couldn’t help smiling at the irony of it all. He had slept with so many women, he had lost count and had never caught a disease. And now he had caught one from a woman he had shared a bed with, but had not slept with.
Dr. Somerset gathered his things and left.
Hawthorne heard hammering. He opened to find Morgan nailing a little sign to the door. It read QUARANTINE.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gálvez stood at his office window and watched a sergeant drill recruits on the manual of arms. He desperately needed trained soldiers, artillerymen in particular.
His agents, scattered throughout the province and West Florida, reported seeing the British amass troops at Baton Rouge. Apparently, they intended to attack from that direction. Only one question remained: When?
Gálvez heard the whisper of moccasins, the barely perceptible click of the door closing, and whirled around.
A buckskin-clad man in a red bandanna bowed low in the French manner. “Your Excellency.”
“How did you get past my guards?” Gálvez asked in surprise.
“I found an unlocked window on the first floor.”
Every time he saw Dujardin, the man had gone a bit more native. This time, he had added a necklace of alligator teeth. In spite of that, Dujardin remembered his aristocratic upbringing in France and waited for Gálvez to be seated before he sat.
“What did you learn in Baton Rouge?” Gálvez asked.
“Lieutenant Colonel Dickson has almost finished the new fort on the Watts plantation. The Waldeckers are settled in.”
“What are they like?”
Dujardin made a scornful noise. “Mostly jailbirds and the dregs of society. They complain about everything. Lieutenant Colonel Dickson is not pleased with them.”
“Will they stand and fight?”
“But of course! They are Germans. It is in their blood.”
“Did the hurricane damage British fortifications?”
“A little. Nothing that is not easily repaired.”
It was not what Gálvez wanted to hear. “Did you get inside the fort?”
“I tried. The guards stopped me.”
Gálvez opened a desk drawer, took out a leather pouch filled with gold, and handed it to Dujardin. “Go back to Baton Rouge. Keep an eye on Dickson. If he does anything interesting, let me know.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Dujardin worried his lower lip.
“Is there more?”
“I ran into someone as I was leaving Baton Rouge. I think it was your wife’s maid.”
Gálvez leaped from his chair. “You saw Eugenie?”
“She and her husband were heading to Baton Rouge.”
“She wore a wedding ring and was with a man who was very protective of her.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. It was a brief encounter.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. I know most of the people in Baton Rouge. This man was a stranger.” Dujardin turned pensive. “He spoke perfect French but he carried himself like a Brit. In fact, he reminded me of Saber-Scar.”
Gálvez jerked back in alarm. He had hanged Sergeant Dunstan Andrews, the erstwhile Saber-Scar, for murder. “Go back to Baton Rouge. Send me a message immediately if you see Eugenie.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Dujardin bowed low and left.
Gálvez leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on steepled fingers, trying to puzzle it out. Eugenie would never go on a mission to Baton Rouge without permission. It was enemy territory and extremely dangerous for her. Dujardin didn’t get the impression she was being held against her will, so that ruled out kidnapping. And the priest had seen her leave with a stranger of her own free will.
There was another possibility Gálvez didn’t want to contemplate. She had become a turncoat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lorenzo slid into a pew next to three-year-old Annie Fitzgerald and her mother. The hurricane had destroyed the office he shared with Dr. Dunoyer, and the parish priest let them use the church to see patients.
“Hello, Annie,” Lorenzo said, smiling at the pigtailed girl. “How’s she doing?” he asked her mother.
“She’s fine as a fiddle,” Mrs. Fitzgerald replied.
“Let’s take a look at that arm.” Lorenzo gently peeled away Annie’s bandage.
The day after the hurricane, Annie happened upon a water moccasin. She picked up the snake and was bitten on the forearm. An hour went by before Lorenzo was notified. He rushed to the child, expecting to find the poison spreading, but to his surprise, there were two fang marks and no sign of swelling. He cleaned the wound and applied a bandage.
Later, Lorenzo asked his partner about that.
Dr. Dunoyer called it a dry bite. For whatever reason, the snake had not released its venom.
“The bite is healing nicely,” Lorenzo said to Mrs. Fitzgerald. Then, to Annie, “Don’t handle any more snakes. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure!”
“Good girl!” Lorenzo flicked the tip of her nose with his index finger.
Annie and her mother left.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colonel Gálvez and Captain Calderón enter with two armed soldiers. Leaving them by the front door, Héctor and the colonel approached, solemn-faced. They looked like the bearers of bad news.
Lorenzo’s heart chilled. He stood up.
The colonel’s smile was forced. “Hello, Lorenzo.”
“Hello, Your Excellency.” His gaze shifted to Héctor Calderón who suddenly found the church interesting. He carried a small, portable desk by the handle, the kind officers used in the field when on horseback.
Lorenzo found that odd. “I have news about Eugenie,” the colonel said. “Let’s have a seat.”
Dios mío, Lorenzo thought. It’s bad enough that I have to sit. He clutched the back of the pew, eased down, and braced for the worst.
Héctor and the colonel sat down on each side of him.
“Someone has seen Eugenie,” the colonel said.
Lorenzo brightened. “Who? Where? Is she all right? Where has she been?”
“She’s fine. I’m not exactly sure where she is. She was spotted heading toward Baton Rouge.”
“Baton Rouge? What’s she doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who saw her?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why can’t you?”
The colonel scowled.
Lorenzo didn’t press the matter. The colonel had all kinds of secrets that he could not reveal for various reasons.
“So someone saw her in Baton Rouge,” Lorenzo said.
“Heading to Baton Rouge,” the colonel corrected.
“Close enough.” Lorenzo stood up. “Thank you for the information.” He took a step to exit the pew.
The colonel leaped up and signaled to Calderón with his hand.
Obeying the silent order, Calderón blocked Lorenzo’s way.
“Let me pass, Héctor.”
Calderón shook his head stubbornly.
Lorenzo turned.
The colonel blocked the other way out of the pew. “Where are you going, Lorenzo?”
“To Baton Rouge.”
“Sit down.”
“No. I have to find Eugenie.”
The colonel sighed. “You’re not going anywhere until we’ve had a chance to discuss this. Have a seat.”
Lorenzo’s temper flared. How dare they block his way! He scrambled over the back of the pew.
Soldiers standing by the door stepped in front of it. They cut off the only exit.
“Look, Colonel, I can’t sit around here and do nothing.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. But I know you, Lorenzo. You have a tendency to go off at half cock.”
Héctor snorted as if to say, “That’s an understatement.”
The colonel went on. “You want to search for Eugenie and bring her back. That’s completely understandable. If Felicité were missing, I’d do the same thing.”
“Then why are you stopping me?”
“Because you don’t have all the facts.”
“What facts do I need?”
“My source said she was with a man.”
All the blood drained from Lorenzo’s head. Jealousy spiked through him. “Who?”
“We don’t know his name.”
Lorenzo sat with a thud. What was she doing with a man?
“The person who saw her,” the colonel said, “didn’t get the impression she was being held against her will.”
“That rules out kidnapping,” Héctor pointed out.
Lorenzo stared at him in dismay. “Do you know what you’re saying? If Eugenie went to British territory on her own, that makes her a turncoat. She would never do that. She hates the British.”
“Sometimes we can think we know someone through and through,” Héctor said, “but still that person can surprise us.”
Lorenzo turned to the colonel. “Eugenie adores you. She would never betray you.”
“I know. She’s like a daughter.”
“Then why don’t you want me to go after her?”
“Because there are a couple of things you haven’t factored in. First, we don’t have enough information at this point. She was seen going into Baton Rouge. That doesn’t mean she’s still there. She could have gone on to Natchez or Mobile.”
Lorenzo absorbed that. “Even if she was merely passing through, someone in Baton Rouge would have seen her.”
“That’s possible,” the colonel admitted. “But there is another problem. Baton Rouge is dangerous territory for you. Someone could recognize you. West Florida is swarming with British soldiers. You were a major in the Continental Army, not some faceless private. Officers stand out.”
“But I’m a civilian now.”
“That only makes matters worse. If someone sees you out of uniform, the natural assumption will be that you are a spy. They will arrest you. I have no authority in English territory. I can do nothing to save you except lodge a formal complaint with the provincial governor and demand your release. You are a Spanish citizen, but he will claim you are British because your father was. From his point of view, you betrayed the crown and committed treason by serving in the Continental Army. You cannot go to Baton Rouge as a civilian. If necessary, I will arrest you to prevent you from doing so.” He waved dramatically to the soldiers by the front door.
Lorenzo clenched and unclenched his jaw. It wasn’t an idle threat. From time to time, the British governor of West Florida accused Gálvez of harboring American rebels. To convince him he wa
s still neutral, Gálvez made showy, prearranged arrests of American smugglers. Once the British were satisfied that justice had been served, he would release the prisoner with a wink and a nod.
Lorenzo glared at the colonel. “Arrest me and be done with it because I’m not going to sit idly by.”
“And I’m not going to allow you to go to Baton Rouge as a civilian. However …” The colonel exchanged a look with Héctor that suggested they had already discussed the matter in detail. “However, there may be a way around our standoff. Last year, I sent one of my officers to Pensacola as an envoy with a letter for Governor Chester. The British treated him as an honored guest because he was an officer in the Spanish army.” Gálvez smiled wryly. “The British always show due respect to rank and social position. He spent several days there. They let him wander about. He took mental note of fortifications, cannons, and troop strength and brought back useful information. It worked once. It might work again. I need someone to go to Baton Rouge and deliver a message to Lt. Colonel Dickson. You are the ideal candidate.”
“But you just threatened to arrest me.”
The colonel lifted a finger. “To keep you from going in as a civilian. If you are an officer in the Spanish army, I could then give you the protection you would not have as a civilian. The British would not dare detain one of my officers and risk an international incident.”
Rubbing his chin, Lorenzo considered that.
“If you went to Baton Rouge with a message,” the colonel said, “it would behoove you to get in and out of town before the British learn we are advancing. We leave on August 27th. Part of my forces will go overland. The rest will sail up the Mississippi. I can’t predict when the British will catch on. I don’t plan to tell my men where we are going or what we are about to do until we cross into English territory.”
“When do you expect that to happen?”