Lorenzo and the Turncoat (16 page)

By late afternoon, two days after leaving Baton Rouge, Lorenzo and Thomas heard the tramp of a multitude of feet. A few seconds later, Gálvez's ragtag army topped the hill. What a colorful crew! The regulars in white and blue appeared first, followed by carabineers in buff jackets with white cross belts. To the right walked the free black militia in white and red. There were men in homespun shirts and trousers and Indians wearing breechcloths, leggings, and moccasins.

Lorenzo and Thomas pulled their horses to the side of the road and watched the men pass by. They had a long way to go and they hadn't made much progress. Lorenzo assumed bad roads and thick forests had slowed them down.

Regular soldiers formed a column with the Mississippi at their left so they could keep an eye on the four vessels sailing upriver under the Spanish flag.

The free black militia and the Indians stayed on the alert for possible ambushes from the thickets and fields of sugar cane that grew on the marchers' right flank. In the rear column, the militia kept watch to prevent an attack from that quarter.

Lorenzo recognized most of them. One or two were his patients. Many were friends or acquaintances.

Héctor Calderón walked at the rear of the regular soldiers. When he spotted Lorenzo, he waved and veered away from the rest.

Lorenzo bounded down and greeted him with the traditional Spanish
abrazo
. “Good to see you, Héctor.”

“Same here.” He reached up to shake Thomas's hand. “Welcome back.”

Lorenzo could tell from Héctor's look of anticipation that he wanted to know about Eugenie but couldn't bring himself to ask.

Lorenzo merely shook his head. No, he hadn't found her.

Héctor clamped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. That was the way it was between them. They communicated without saying a word.

Lorenzo scanned the troops. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing of any importance. Running into you is the most exciting thing to happen since leaving New Orleans. We walk all day, eat cold rations, sleep under the stars exposed to the elements, get up and do the whole thing over again.”

Lorenzo scanned the hodgepodge of men. “It looks like the army has grown.”

“We've added four hundred already. By the time we reach Baton Rouge, the outlying militias will join us.”

Two men walked past speaking English with a decidedly American accent. A knot of men speaking a French Canadian dialect sauntered over to Héctor.

“Henri, you tell him.”

“Why me? I am not the leader.”

“
Mon dieu
. You are the eldest.”

“But Pierre is the one who knows how to write.”

“Ooooh, there is François! He can help. François! Come here!” They motioned him over.

“Who are you,” Héctor asked, “and what do you want?”

“One moment,
mon ami
.”

Héctor frowned. “I am not your
ami
. I am Captain Calderón and—”

“You are not the one the colonel said we were to report to! We go find him.” The men gave Héctor companionable slaps on the back. “
Au revoir, monsieur le capitaine!
We talk later,
oui
?”

Mouth slightly agape, Héctor slapped his hands to his side in complete frustration.

Lorenzo put his hand to his mouth to hold back a laugh. At Valley Forge, he had seen untrained soldiers, just like these men, with not a smidgen of military discipline.
Most soldiers in the Continental Army spoke English, however. Gálvez's army was a confusion of French, Spanish, German, English, and Choctaw—a true Tower of Babel.

Héctor scowled. “I hope these men don't cut and run when they find out where we're going or what we're about to do.”

“They must have their suspicions. Men don't just drop everything at harvest season to go on a romp with the colonel.”

“To be sure, they know something is afoot. Rumors are as thick as honey. But the colonel hasn't told anyone about the declaration of war. No one is to know our destination until the last possible moment. That should prevent a deserter from running off to Baton Rouge and alerting the English.”

“Speaking of the colonel, where is he?”

“He's gone ahead with Don Oliver to enlist volunteers.”

Lorenzo noticed the troops traveled light, taking only what they could carry. There were no packhorses carrying tents, no wagons with extra ammunition, no mules hauling cannon. It looked like the men would be eating off the land or off the generosity of plantations and farms they passed.

“I suppose all the war supplies are on the ships?” Lorenzo asked.

“You suppose right. Your friend Charles is onboard as well.”

“So he did enlist. I'm glad.”

“Thanks for sending him to me. He seems a very competent fellow. Lieutenant Alvarez is pleased with him.”

“What's Alvarez doing here? He was sicker than a horse when I left New Orleans.”

“Still is. He had to come. He's the colonel's only artillery officer.”

“That's a comforting thought.”

“Indeed.”

Gálvez was gambling everything on this attack: the security of New Orleans, his reputation, his career. Lorenzo prayed it turned out well.

Charles felt his stomach lurch. He ran to the fantail, the overhang at the back of the ship, and spewed a vile-looking and vile-tasting liquid. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pivoted and glared at his fellow artillerymen-turned-sailors.

“Look! The fantail lookout is at it again!” one of them exclaimed.

“Keeping a sharp eye out for English pirates?” another asked.

“Oh, shut up,” Charles replied.

They had hung the name “fantail lookout” on him an hour after leaving New Orleans. This was Charles's first time on a ship and it seemed that he was heaving over the fantail every hour on the hour. How was he to know the pitching and rolling would make him seasick? Going against the current and watching the land slip by while you stayed perfectly still made him nauseous. It hadn't been that way when he had escaped down the Mississippi by canoe, but the little boat hadn't pitched and rolled. It drifted with the current, taking him past St. Louis, Natchez, and Baton Rouge to New Orleans, where he had started a new life.

Hawthorne propped Madame up with a bank of pillows and put a gargle of tea and salt water to her lips.

She took a giant sip, swished it around, and spit it out in the cuspidor he held for her. “Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

For the last three days, she had made amazing progress. Her fever had broken soon after he finished praying. Was it a coincidence or had God answered his prayer?

Madame's glands were still swollen, but the redness of her cheeks was starting to fade. At this rate, Dr. Somerset said, he would lift the quarantine within the week.

“Would you like me to read?” Hawthorne asked.

“Yes, please.”

He opened
Gulliver's Travels
to the place he had stopped reading the night before.

Madame's knowledge of English improved daily. Now and then, she didn't understand a passage and he had to explain it. She had a quick mind and saw meaning in scenes that he never realized was there.

Hawthorne read the last chapter and closed the book.

“It is over?” she asked, clearly disappointed.

“Yes. Did you like it?”

“It was an eye-opener. I didn't know anything worthwhile had ever been written by the English.”

He started to open his mouth in protest when he caught the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “The colonel must find you quite a handful.” Keeping a straight face, he said, “I've found the perfect book for us to read next: Daniel Dafoe's
Journal of the Plague Year
.”

“The plague? In light of our present situation, do you really think it wise to …”

His smile betrayed him.

She smiled back. “
Touché
, Robert.”

He picked up
Robinson Crusoe
and flipped it open to the first chapter. He began to read. When he looked up, he saw she had fallen asleep. He tucked the covers around her and scratched his neck. His throat felt sore. He gargled with the unused portion of the tea-and-salt-water mixture and feared he was catching scarlet fever.

Footsore, weary, sword dangling at his side, Lorenzo walked beside Héctor Calderón.

It was September 6, 1779, a typical Louisiana day that began with blood-sucking mosquitoes in the morning and was followed by a steamy heat in the afternoon. Lorenzo was glad the colonel had modified the uniform code to allow linens and cottons to replace heavier materials.

Five miles back, Lorenzo had sold his horse at a farm. He was sorry to see her go, but he knew her snorting and neighing would alert the British to their presence.

Thomas, serving as courier, had ridden back to New Orleans with letters, messages, and other communications. He had been gone for several days and was due back at any time.

Colonel Gálvez and Oliver Pollock rejoined the march, bringing fifty or so militiamen with them. Others trickled in from the outlying settlements of Attakapas, Natchitoches, Opelousas, Pointe Coupee. Gálvez's total force was now 1,427.

Lorenzo hoped it was enough.

The march had fallen silent. After ten days of walking, no one felt like talking or joking. Some men had dropped out of the march due to fatigue. Others were too sick to continue.

“How much farther?” Héctor asked.

Lorenzo recognized an abandoned building he and Thomas had passed on the way to Baton Rouge. “Not far. We will be at Manchac by dusk.”

“Thank God.”

When they were within a half league of Fort Bute, Gálvez climbed onto a fallen tree and called the men together. He stood with his fists on his hips and watched them fan out around him. “Men,” he began, “we have been on the road for several days now and the time has come for me to share a secret with you. I have asked you to join me on an important mission. Until now, I have kept its true nature secret. As you know, thirteen British colonies are in open rebellion against King George. On July 4, 1776, they declared their independence. Two British colonies, however, have not joined the rebellion. West Florida and East Florida have become a haven for English loyalists who wish us ill.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “I have in my possession an intercepted letter exposing a dastardly British plan to attack New Orleans.” Gálvez read the letter aloud.

Murmurs of indignation swept through the crowd. The men uttered vile oaths about the British.

“On the 21st of June,” the colonel said, “His Catholic Majesty declared war on Great Britain and gave me permission to attack the British at the first opportunity. With that in mind, I have decided to strike Baton Rouge. Our first target will be Fort Bute at Manchac. Will you help me protect Louisiana? Will you help me defeat the British and sweep them from the Mississippi Valley once and for all?”

Cheering erupted. Men hooted and pumped fists in the air.

Lorenzo smiled to himself. As usual, Gálvez had them in the palm of his hand.

The colonel waited for the shouts of approval to die down before continuing. “Tonight, under cover of darkness, we will surround the fort. Tomorrow we lay siege to it. From this point forward, the strictest silence must be maintained. Once we cross Bayou Manchac, we will be in British territory. I will tolerate no departure from the rules of war. When an enemy soldier surrenders or is captured, he will be treated fairly, with dignity as befits his rank. Hold yourselves in readiness, men. You will receive further orders directly. I wish to speak with my council of war.”

The men melted away while officers huddled around the colonel.

He jumped down from the fallen tree. “Duty stations for tomorrow will be as follows. The militia under the command of Lieutenant Colonel De Saint Maxent will attack at dawn. The regulars of the Louisiana Infantry Regiment will form a protective screen north of Fort Bute.”

Lieutenant Colonel Miró, the officer in charge of infantry, straightened, eyes glittering. His face reflected an intense longing for action.

A faint smile lifted the corners of Gálvez's mouth. “Yes, Miró. I have saved the best and most dangerous assignment for your men. If Dickson learns of our presence, he will send reinforcements from Baton Rouge. Your soldiers will be our first line of defense against them.”

“It will be our pleasure, sir,” Miró said.

“Any questions?”

The officers ringing him remained mum.

“Very well. You are dismissed. All except Major Bannister and Captain Calderón.”

Héctor's gaze met Lorenzo's. His expression seemed to say, “This can't be good.”

After the others left, Gálvez said, “Thomas arrived this afternoon with mail and messages. My wife forwarded this.” He extracted a page from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Lorenzo.