Lorenzo and the Turncoat (5 page)

Eugenie's mind was awhirl.
He thinks I am the colonel's wife
, she thought. She wondered how he had gotten that idea. It was in her best interest not to tell him about his mistake. No doubt, this man had kidnapped
her for money and believed the colonel would pay a huge ransom for his wife. He was right. The colonel was madly in love with Felicité.

The ring on her finger was Lorenzo's. The day of their wedding, she was going to surprise him with it. He didn't realize it was to be a double ring ceremony. That was what she had been talking about with the priest when this man showed up.

Eugenie's next thought was to attract someone's attention, either by screaming or running like the devil. With her hands tied, running would be difficult at best. Could she get away before the man sank a knife into her? There was no one around to come to her aid. Her best hope was for the guard to recognize her and realize she was in trouble.

The rainfall increased, turning the street into a muddy mess.

They stopped at a barn. Her kidnapper led her inside where two saddled horses awaited. He hoisted her on one and swung up on the other. Taking the reins of her horse, he led her into the storm. Within seconds, they were soaked. Luckily, it was a warm summer day and her bonnet protected her face and hair.

Her kidnapper took her due north toward the guard shack.

Did her abductor understand Spanish? He was English and had given himself away when he cursed. His French was flawless, a pure Parisian accent full of idioms and turns of phrases only a Frenchman would know.

What weapons did this man have on him, other than a knife? How good was he with it? Once, she had seen Lorenzo bury a knife blade dead center in a target. Could this man do the same?

Fifty paces ahead lay the guard shack. The sentry stepped out.

Her heart sank. She didn't recognize the man. He was probably a new recruit from Mexico or the Canary Islands.

“I am escorting this woman to Baton Rouge to stand trial,” her kidnapper said in flawless French. “I have an arrest warrant.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

The guard glanced at the paper, narrowed his eyes at Eugenie, and motioned them through.

She looked back at New Orleans. Would she ever see it again?

“You're hired,” the barrel-chested Irishman said, thrusting out a meaty hand to seal the bargain.

“Thank you, sir,” Charles replied as his arm was pumped up and down until it ached.

“Don't be thanking me.” The Irishman's voice boomed in the wharf-side warehouse. “Thank Lorenzo. He's never steered me wrong yet. Except perhaps for that twig over there. ‘Twas on Lorenzo's suggestion that I hired young Thomas, the devil take him.”

A brown-haired boy counting bottles on a shelf glanced up at the mention of his name and smiled. “God save the Irish!”

“Come here, young scamp. Show Mr. Peel how to take inventory.”

“Yes, Mr. Pollock.” The boy took Charles through a warehouse filled to the rafters with barrels and boxes. “Thou art fortunate indeed to work for Mr. Pollock. He's a fine gent and will treat thee square.”

Based on the boy's accent, Charles assumed he was Quaker. Most everyone Charles had met so far had been Catholic.

“I would give thee a piece of advice,” Thomas said, his piercing blue eyes twinkling. “Mr. Pollock has no use for the British. From time to time, say something about ‘the bloody Brits' or mention how the Irish saved civilization.”

“The Irish never did that!” Charles protested.

“Aye,” the boy said, raising an admonishing finger. “But they think they did! Mr. Pollock is the richest man in town and the governor's best friend. If he says King George is the anti-Christ, don't contradict him.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Gentlemen!” the Irishman shouted.

Thomas grimaced and rubbed his ear. “We aren't deaf, Mr. Pollock.”

“You aren't working, either! Start counting my wares. I expect a complete and accurate account on my desk by tomorrow morning.” With that, Oliver Pollock grabbed his cane, swung a cape around his shoulders, and was off.

Thomas handed Charles a notebook. “
Manos a la obra
.”

“What does that mean?”

“Get to work.”

For several hours, Charles and Thomas worked on the monthly inventory. They counted boxes of candlesticks and wrote the number on the paper next to “candlesticks.” They marked an X on the end of the box so they would know it had been counted. After the candlesticks, they moved to the next item on the list, imported wine. After that came pins, needles, ribbon, and cloth. Then there were waist-high jars filled with olive oil, boxes of pewter plates, blankets, pots and pans, sacks of sugar and rice, coffee, pepper, bottles of wine. There were even playing cards and dice.

Charles blew out a long sigh. “Done!”

Thomas shook his head. “Except for that.”

Charles followed the boy's pointing finger to the second floor. An open storage area stretched from one end of the building to the other.

“You mean we have to do that too? It will take hours!”

“Aye. That it will.” Thomas smiled at him slyly. “
Manos a la obra
.”

All afternoon Lorenzo watched dark clouds roll across the sky. The possibility of a hurricane still worried him. Lorenzo brought his pharmacy log up to date and stepped out on the covered porch to study the weather. Rain pinged on the metal roof overhead.

His last patient hadn't shown up, probably driven away by the weather. He locked his office door and headed home. If he was lucky, he would get there before the rain completely drenched him.

A sudden gale blew his hat off and pushed it down the street. Lorenzo scrambled after it, chasing it to the top of the levee.

New Orleans was bowl-shaped and lay about six feet below sea level. On one side was the Mississippi River; on the other, Lake Pontchartrain. If the wind blew hard enough to push water over the levee walls, it would fill that bowl.

Rain stung Lorenzo's face like hundreds of bees. By the time he reached the cottage he shared with his ward, Thomas, he was soaked to the bone. Shaking off rain like a wet dog, he removed his shoes and drained the water from them. He stepped inside and headed upstairs to dry off and change clothes. He slipped into britches, put on a plain shirt, buttoned a waistcoat over it, then pulled on socks and a jacket. He went downstairs to the kitchen for a bite to eat. There, he found a note from his housekeeper. The party was cancelled because of the weather. Thomas would be working late. She had gone home early to avoid the rain, but had left supper for the two of them.

Lorenzo decided to eat with Thomas, then head to Eugenie's. He packed a basket of food and left.

What was next on the list? Charles looked down at his pad. Crate 66. He walked through the warehouse looking for it. “Have you seen Crate 66?” he called to Thomas.

The boy pointed vaguely to the back of the warehouse.

Sixty-six is a lucky number, Charles thought as he headed in the direction Thomas had pointed. Six plus six makes twelve. When you add the digits in twelve, you get three, a perfect number.

The crate he was looking for turned out to be a hip-high wooden box that had never been opened. Charles pried the top loose with a crowbar. Inside were boxes marked “hair accessories.” He lifted the top of one and found hair pins, brushes, and combs.

A lump formed in his throat. He reached inside and pulled out a silver comb, the kind women use to hold their hair in place. Tilting it to the lantern light, his mind took him back to the worst day in his life.

He rested his arm on the door frame and watched Indians arriving in Fort Detroit to collect the bounty on scalps. Governor Henry Hamilton encouraged them to attack American settlements and paid them thirty colonial pounds for each head of hair they brought in
.

Charles thought about his fiancée, Anne, an American Dutch girl on a farm several leagues away. Her father wasn't keen on his daughter marrying a soldier in
the British army, but had relented after learning that Charles came from one of the best families in Philadelphia
.

Charles's father hadn't expressed an opinion on the impending marriage. That was the advantage to being the third child. No one cared overly much what you did, as long as it wasn't too scandalous and you didn't dishonor the family name
.

A warm feeling came to him to remember the silver comb he had given Anne the night before as a token of his affection. It was engraved with her name
.

“Oh, Charlie, it's beautiful,” she had said. She was the only one who ever used his nickname
.

More Indians arrived at the fort. Charles didn't recognize their tribe, but that was hardly surprising. There were scads and scads in the area, more than he could keep track of. Not so long ago, the Indians had fought for the French against the British. Now they were their allies
.

A lanky private pointed to Charles. People turned toward him. They stared
.

A feeling of discomfort crept over him. He reached into a jacket pocket. Where was his lucky rabbit's foot? He must have left it in his room. No worries. His four-leaf clover would protect him
.

People shifted uncomfortably and muttered amongt themselves
.

The feeling of dread grew. He reached into the other pocket to touch the four-leaf clover. His pocket was empty! Where was his good-luck charm?

An Indian, grinning horribly, held a shock of blond hair in one hand and a silver comb in the other
.

Charles clenched his jaw in rage. He strode toward him. He knew, even before he snatched the comb from the savage's hand. He knew, even before he turned it over and read the engraved name. He knew
.

Anne was dead. The savage held her hair
.

Charles slugged the Indian square in the jaw, sending him sprawling. He fell on him. Only vaguely did Charles recall his fists pounding and pounding and pounding, but he remembered his determination to kill the man
.

Hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him off the Indian who lay bloodied and still
.

“Thou art a thousand miles away.”

“Huh? What?” Charles asked, suddenly back in the present. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.” He tried to muster a smile, but couldn't. He was on the run, wanted for murder. There wasn't a lot to smile about.

Lorenzo slogged through the streets of New Orleans on the way to the warehouse. He dodged around puddles and held the food basket tight beneath his cape to protect it from the drizzle. He slid back the main door to the warehouse and announced, “I have food! Come and get it.”

“Be right there,” Thomas yelled. He clambered down a long ladder, leaving a man with a notebook upstairs in the open storage area.

Lorenzo recognized him immediately. “Charles! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Hey, Doctor Bannister,” the man said, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Call me Lorenzo.” He was glad to see the man had taken his advice and was now gainfully employed. “Come join us. We have plenty.” Using a workbench as a table, Lorenzo laid out a plate of fried chicken, corn on the cob, biscuits, and gravy. The aroma of food wafting toward him reminded him that he hadn't eaten since
lunch. He was suddenly famished. He pulled three crates to the workbench to use as chairs.

Charles sat down stiffly on one. He stared at the food the way a starving dog looked at a beefsteak.

Lorenzo wondered when Charles had last had a good meal. “When do you think you'll finish here?” Lorenzo asked Thomas.

“I have no idea,” Thomas said. “Mr. Pollock said he would skin me alive if the inventory wasn't done by tomorrow morning.”

“What's the big rush?”

“Don't know. Don't care.”

Mr. Pollock was a hard taskmaster, but not to the point of making a fourteen-year-old boy stay up all night taking inventory. Lorenzo wondered if this was in preparation for the attack on the British. Was war that imminent?