Lorenzo and the Turncoat (6 page)

Thomas put his hands together and bowed his head over them.

Lorenzo traced a slow cross over his chest and noticed that Charles did not. He merely clasped his hands together and lowered his head.

Thomas said grace and ended with a firm “Amen!” He reached for a drumstick. “Help thyself, Charles. There is enough here to feed the Spanish army.”

For several minutes, they ate in companionable silence.

Charles licked chicken grease from his fingers. “This is the best meal I've had in a long time. Thank you.”

“I'll pass your compliments to our housekeeper,” Lorenzo said. “I hate to leave good company, but I have to go.”

“Heading to Eugenie's?” Thomas asked.

“Yup.”

“Eugenie is Lorenzo's fiancée,” Thomas explained. “They're getting married in two days.”

Charles wrote the numbers 8, 19, 1779 on a piece of paper and added them together. His countenance darkened. “You shouldn't get married on that day, Doc.”

“Why not?”

“Add 8, 1, 9, 1, 7, 7, 9 together and you get 42. Four plus two is six.” He put his pencil down in a way that suggested he had made his point.

“So?”

“Six is a very bad number, almost as unlucky as thirteen.”

Lorenzo was about to challenge his superstitious beliefs when the warehouse doors swung open and Colonel Gálvez burst in, soaked from head to toe. A curtain of rain fell behind him.

He scowled fiercely at Lorenzo. “Have you seen Eugenie?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“She didn't come home this afternoon.”

“I thought she was with you.”

“She was. I was called away on business and left her at the church. By the time I went back to get her, she was gone. I was hoping you would know where she is.”

“I haven't seen her since lunch.”

The colonel let out a long breath. “The priest said he was talking to Eugenie when a stranger asked to speak to her in private. They talked briefly, and she left with him.”

“Who was he?”

“I don't know. The priest didn't recognize him.”

“What did this man look like?”

“Well dressed. Tall. Brown hair. He spoke French.”

“You have no idea where Eugenie is? And she left with a stranger?”

The colonel nodded.

Lorenzo leaped up, knocking over his crate, and dashed out the warehouse door to look for Eugenie.

Hawthorne drew rein at the first settlement he came to. The unimpressive cluster of buildings consisted of a trading post made of cypress logs and one-story brick houses built in the French style, with courtyards in the rear. He turned to his hostage. “Say anything untoward, and there will be hell to pay. I am an officer of the king's court with papers for your arrest. These people will not interfere with an official in the performance of his duty.”

“I understand my position perfectly,” she snapped.

“Another thing. Never speak to me in that tone again. Keep a civil tongue in your head.” He bounded down. As he helped her from her horse, three barefoot, shirtless boys in homespun trousers gathered around gawking at his prisoner. Their eyes fixed on her hands tied in front of her.

“What'd she do,
m'sieur
?” one of them asked.

Hawthorne decided to have a little fun. “Sliced a man's throat from ear to ear.” He ran his finger over his neck and punctuated the gesture with a slurping sound.

Duly impressed, their eyes grew as large as shillings. No doubt, they had heard tales of notorious female pirates like Anne Bonney and Mary Read.

Keeping Madame De Gálvez at his side, he swapped their horses for fresh ones. He had to get out of Spanish territory as fast as possible. Once they crossed into British territory, they would be under English law where her husband had no jurisdiction. He had to lead her
horse by the reins because Madame De Gálvez's hands were bound in front of her. That slowed them down.

Had his original plan worked and he had captured Gálvez, he would have taken him directly to the Baton Rouge fort. The commander there would have welcomed the colonel as a valuable prisoner. The kidnapped wife of the Spanish governor, however, was another matter. Hawthorne didn't like this unexpected development, but circumstances had forced him to strike while the iron was hot. Success or failure often depended on the ability to be flexible.

No, he couldn't take her to the fort. Kidnapping was a crime and the commander would want no part of it.

That left only one place: his dead brother's house. It wasn't a perfect solution and he would have to watch Madame De Gálvez night and day until her husband agreed to switch places with her.

With his hostage by his side, he went inside the trading post and bought supplies, including a French Charleville musket and powder. He felt more comfortable with a Brown Bess, but this would serve his purpose. He purchased a pistol as well.

Hawthorne helped her onto a horse and they set out again.

Lorenzo had never felt so scared. Not when he was spying in Philadelphia and was very nearly discovered. Not when he lay wounded, hoping someone would find him before he bled to death. Not when he found himself in the middle of stampeding cattle.

Nothing had scared him half as much as this. Where was Eugenie?

He and the colonel decided to check every place she could possibly have gone. They went in different directions. Lorenzo visited her girlfriends, one by one, while
the colonel called on other acquaintances. Lorenzo checked out the cottage he and Eugenie would move into on their wedding night, hoping she had gone there on an errand of some sort.

There was no trace of her. Lorenzo leaned his forehead against the wall. He had to find her, even if that meant knocking on every door in New Orleans. And then he recalled how pale she looked at lunch.

The hospital. That was it. She had fallen ill and had been taken to the hospital. Lorenzo dashed away.

The nun on duty at King's Hospital took one look at Lorenzo and her eyes spread wide open. “Dr. Bannister … What's the problem?”

“Have you seen Eugenie Dubreton? Is she here?”

“No. Why?”

This had been his final hope. Stunned, he walked away, not knowing what to do next.

Hawthorne opened his pocket watch and tilted it toward the fading light. It was seven o'clock. They had traveled up the river road for hours and were lucky to have found an inn, although he wished it were further from New Orleans and a bit more elegant. The weather had turned nasty and it was impossible to travel further that night.

He helped Madame De Gálvez dismount. Holding her elbow, he led her inside.

The bottom floor was a tavern filled with raucous men sitting at tables and drinking from pewter tankards. They spoke German. It was hardly surprising that everyone called this part of Louisiana “the German coast.”

All talking ceased when Madame De Gálvez entered. The men gave her long, admiring glances.

Hawthorne gave them a black look to discourage any interest in her.

A barmaid in a mobcap stood behind a long counter that ran the entire length of one wall. She filled a beer mug and looked up. “
Guten Tag, mein
—” She froze. Her eyes lit in recognition. “Robbie! Robbie Hawthorne!”

“I don't believe it!” Hawthorne exclaimed. “Patsy?”

She let out a squeal as she rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck.

They hugged tight.

Patsy was Scottish, the wife of a private soldier who had come to the colonies to fight the rebels. When he fell at Bunker Hill, she took up with a corporal who was later
stabbed to death in a drunken brawl. Before Hawthorne left New York, she moved in with Sergeant Willoughby. By all appearances, Patsy was working her way up through the ranks.

“What are you doing here?” Hawthorne asked.

“Trying to keep body and soul together.”

“Where's Sergeant Willoughby?”

“Died in the spring of the pox.”

“I am so sorry.” He squeezed her hands in a gesture of deep sympathy. “He was a good man.”

“‘Tis a bit of all right. Me and him got along dandy, but I got me eye on a German gent. He's a civilian, alas. I do so love a uniform.” She dusted the lapels of Hawthorne's jacket. “You cut a fine figure in the old red rag. Why'd you leave the service?”

“I decided to set up a law practice in Baton Rouge.”

“Go on with you now! A barrister? You? Isn't that like letting the fox guard the henhouse?”

He laughed. “Perhaps.”

“I didn't know barristers transported prisoners.”

“This one is a special case. I'll need a room for the night.”

Patsy pushed back beaded curtains separating the bar from a private room. “Man needs a room!”

A red-cheeked customer banged his fist on a table. “Where's that beer, wench?”

Patsy picked up a mug of frothy beer and blew Hawthorne a kiss.

Eugenie understood the gist of what Hawthorne and Patsy said, but most of the conversation was nearly incomprehensible. Lorenzo had taught her a smattering of English, but he spoke in a soft Virginia accent that dropped the Rs. She had never heard English spoken this way, with all the Rs burred.

Eugenie was wet and tired. She hadn't slept well the night before, a fact she hadn't told Lorenzo because he worried too much. Now, her throat felt scratchy. Traveling with Hawthorne, not knowing their final destination, frayed her nerves. He promised to treat her well if she behaved herself, but would he keep his word?

She remained on constant alert. She could not afford to slip up and let him know he had kidnapped the wrong person. He would probably kill her if he learned she was not Felicité De Gálvez.

Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but Hawthorne never left her alone for a moment. He turned his back when she needed to relieve herself behind a bush, but remained close by. Getting away from Hawthorne when he had so many allies around would be difficult. The further she got from New Orleans, the less her chance for escape. Every step took her closer to English territory, about seventy-five miles upriver from New Orleans. She had to get away as soon as possible. Escape would be even harder once they reached English territory.

A pudgy woman pushed through the beaded curtain and greeted Hawthorne in German.

He returned the greeting and asked for a room. He paid for it and was given a key. “We will eat in the privacy of our room. Please send a tray.”

“The kitchen is closed.”

He laid a wad of cash on the counter and offered the woman an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you could find some bread and cheese left from supper. Ham would be delightful. And a hot pot of tea.”

“
Ja, ja
,” she said, slipping the money into her apron pocket. She drew back a beaded curtain and yelled to a scullery maid to prepare a tray.

The innkeeper led them up narrow steps to a third-floor bedroom. She cupped her hand around the candlestick's flame to keep it from going out and stopped in front of a door with peeling paint.