Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest (13 page)

“Go!” the man begged.

She hesitated. She couldn't leave a wounded man untended. And Mrs. Harris was ill, in the house. What should she do?

After a moment of indecision, Molly dashed through the barnyard, bolted up the steps to the kitchen, and grabbed her cape and bonnet from the peg. “Mrs. Harris!” Molly yelled. “The redcoats are coming! There's a wounded man in the yard!” On the run, she threw the cape around her shoulders and fastened it under her throat. She slammed on the bonnet and tied the ribbon under her chin. Halfway to the barn, she froze.

British soldiers emerged from the mist.

There was no time to saddle Long Shot. She led the wounded man's horse to the split-rail fence and climbed to the top rail. Balancing precariously, she fitted her foot in the stirrup and scrambled onto the horse.

Redcoats, more than Molly could count, marched up the road that led past the farmhouse.

She glanced back at the barn, then at the house. Two people needed her help. Was it right to leave them? But thousands of soldiers were in danger. She had to warn General Washington that the British regulars were on their way. She slapped the horse's rump.

“Stop her!” a British voice called.

A bullet whistled overhead. She bent over the horse's neck to make herself a smaller target. Cape flying, she rode toward General Washington's camp and prayed for the people she left behind.

Lorenzo and Soledad scouted ahead of the herd, scanning the horizon for signs of danger. They came to a wide stream where three Indians were fishing. In his head, Lorenzo went over the tribes he knew, but didn't recognize this one. That was hardly strange. The Province of Texas was a big place, the home of many Indians.

“Do you recognize the tribe?” Lorenzo asked Soledad.

“Yes. Cocos. A friendly tribe.”

Lorenzo made the sign for peace to see how they would react. One of them approached cautiously, returning the sign. Soledad spoke to them in a dialect Lorenzo didn't understand. The tallest one pointed to the left and talked at length. Soledad listened politely, frowning and nodding from time to time. At one point, her expression darkened as if they had just given her bad news. They talked on. Eventually they signed “good-bye.”

Lorenzo and Soledad turned their horses and rode off.

“Did you understand what they said?” Soledad asked.

“Not a word.”

“My tribe came this way following the buffalo and visited the Cocos. The news is not good. Chien d'Or tried to kill Chief Iron Bear and was expelled from the tribe. So were the people of his teepee.”

“That would include his wife, I assume.”

“And the French smugglers he was harboring.”

The Apache woman Lorenzo had seen earlier came to mind. He described her to Soledad.

“That's Raven Feather, wife of Chien d'Or. If she's around, her husband and his renegades can't be far away. Chien d'Or isn't the kind to act on the spur of the moment. He studies his targets and looks for weak spots.”

“And we're the target?”

Soledad didn't have to answer. Her face said it all.

Molly's horse charged into the American camp and slid to a stop in a spray of pebbles.

A sergeant grabbed the reins. “What's the rush, Molly?”

“I got a message for the general.” She looked all about and discovered him talking to the Marquis de La Fayette, a tall, thin man in a white-powdered wig.

She ran forward, plunging past soldiers, veering around campfires, darting past the general's bodyguard. “Sir!” She pulled on his sleeve.

“Molly,” the general scolded, “it isn't polite to interrupt a . . .”

“British regulars are on the way!”

Soldiers within earshot stiffened.

Oddly, the general's gaze fixed on her bonnet. He frowned the way he did when the cook served peas, then began to shout orders.

The camp burst into action. Officers snapped out commands. Men snatched up muskets, powder horns, and rushed to join their companies.

Dazed, Molly stood in the middle of it all, wondering why General Washington had believed her without question. She was glad he had, but still, it was odd.

The general returned to Molly. “Are you wounded?”

“No, sir. I mean . . . I don't think so.”

He gave her a comforting smile. “Your bonnet is.” He untied it, eased it off, and thrust his little finger through a bullet hole.

She gasped.

“I owe you a new bonnet, soldier.”

Soldier. Molly relished the term. She wanted to be part of the war and now she was.

Lorenzo woke up before dawn and watched the cook through half-closed eyes. It was natural for him to be up well before anyone else, so breakfast would be ready and they could start the cattle moving by daybreak.

Tortillas puffed up in one iron skillet while bacon sizzled in another. Coffee perked over the fire.

Lorenzo unfolded a crude homemade calendar and marked an X through September 12. The cattle drive was behind schedule. He hadn't expected to swing off course to avoid buffalo. Several times he had taken the cattle a couple of leagues upstream to find a place to ford because the rivers were up. All that had cost him precious time.

The flatboats would leave Pennsylvania soon. They would drift down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, going with the current. It would take them about three weeks to reach the rendezvous point.

There was no way to know for sure if they set out on time. Lorenzo could only hope they would be at the right place at the agreed-upon time.

Lorenzo shook Red awake, then moved to Ambrosio and the others.

They cursed good-naturedly, stretched, scratched themselves, shook their blankets out, rolled them tight, and tossed them in the wagon.

As usual, Private Dujardin washed his face, combed his hair, and changed shirts before heading to breakfast.
He was the only one obsessed with cleanliness.

Lorenzo surmised they must all stink like buffalo and had become used to the odor.

“Getting all spruced up is a waste of time,” one of the men told Dujardin. “Ain't no women around, ‘cepting Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.”

“And she ain't available,” Red said.

“Who you trying to impress?” asked Sebastián, one of Miguel's soldiers.

Private Dujardin flicked lint from his buckskin shirt. “I am a . . . gentleman. Gentlemen are always washed.”

One of the others hooted. “We got a gentleman in our midst. What'ya know about that?!”

“From all the yipping going on,” Red said, “I thought I was in the midst of a bunch of hound dogs.”

Lorenzo smiled to himself. Driving cattle consisted of hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. He hoped the good-natured banter would last the entire trip.

Dunstan kept an eye out for hostile Indians. Many tribes had allied themselves with the British, angry that colonists encroached on their land. He had no clue how Indians in Spanish territory would react to strangers, and he wasn't anxious to find out.

“Wolf!” Thomas exclaimed, pointing to the left.

A large dog slowly padded toward them, snarling and showing its teeth. It was three hundred yards away, well out of musket range.

Their horses snorted in fear and skittered away. Dunstan pulled hard on the reins to keep his horse from bolting. Sometimes it was better to face down an animal. Running only encouraged an attack.

A sharp whistle pierced the forest silence.

The dog stopped instantly, but continued to bare his
teeth.

It was the strangest-looking dog Dunstan had ever seen. Spotted like a leopard, it had chilling blue eyes that gave Dunstan the impression the beast could see into his soul.

“What kind of dog is that?” Thomas asked.

Dunstan recalled a conversation with Spanish soldiers in a New Orleans bar. When the Spanish explored the Gulf Coast in the 1500s, they brought war dogs with them to hunt, guard camp, and use in battle. Some were wounded or left behind. Some were captured by Indians. “I think that's a Catahoula.”

Thomas sounded the word out. “That's the oddest-looking hound I've ever seen.”

A man's voice called to the dog in an Indian dialect. The Catahoula spun around and took off running.

Dunstan's gaze raked the forest, searching for the Indian and caught a glimpse of a man in a yellow headband before he melted into the foliage.

“Hurry, Molly!” Bill yelled. He tied leather saddlebags behind his horse's saddle.

“Coming!” She dashed toward her brother and General Washington who stood beside him.

The general hugged Molly tight. “I'll miss you. I'm sorry to see you go, but you'll be safer with your brother.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. What did it matter that he was a general? His soft Virginia accent sounded just like her father's.

“Take care of your brother,” the general said.

“I will, sir. How's the Marquis?”

“The physician assures me he'll be fine.”

The Marquis de La Fayette had been wounded in the leg during the previous day's battle. Other officers had
been wounded or killed.

“Please thank Mrs. Washington for watching Molly,” Bill said, climbing onto Long Shot.

“I shall.” The general lapped an arm around Molly's waist and plopped her in front of her brother. “Write us at your earliest convenience. And may God bless your trip.” He patted Bill's leather saddlebags.

Holding the reins in his right hand, Bill slipped his free arm around Molly and held her tight against him.

She leaned back into her brother's well-worn buckskin shirt and a little of her fear dissolved.

The British were everywhere. General Washington had lost the Battle of Brandywine Creek the day before. He and his troops had nearly been surrounded and captured!

This wasn't the first time the army had been in full retreat, but she hoped it would be the last. She looked up at her brother. “Where are we going, Bill?”

“Fort Pitt.”

Fort Pitt! Where was that? He was supposed to leave with the flatboats soon. Had all that changed?