by Lila Guzmán
“And how would you get the cattle from the beach to the ship? Row them one by one to a ship anchored in the bay and hope they climb aboard? No, Dunstan. For such an operation, you need a port with docks for loading cattle, a port such as New Orleans. I want you to find out Bannister’s plans and report back to me.” Major Hawthorne half-smiled. “For this mission, you will travel alone and out of uniform.”
“And if I’m caught, I will hang as a spy!”
“Pish posh!” He took an envelope from the mantle. “If you are arrested in New Orleans, simply wave these papers under someone’s nose and say you are cultural attaché at the British Embassy. They give you diplomatic privilege.”
Dunstan frowned. “New Orleans? Why not San Antonio?”
His cousin let out an exasperated breath. “You can hide out at our embassy in New Orleans, but in San Antonio … For God’s sake, Duns. Think! You don’t speak Spanish well enough to pass for a Spaniard!”
Upon hearing his childhood nickname, Dunstan leaped from his seat. “Don’t call me that! No one calls me that. Ever!” He hated his name. On the first day of school, the biggest bully there had shortened Dunstan to “dunce.” The schoolmaster, an old man hard of hearing, hadn’t caught the whispered insult, but nearby students had. They giggled while Dunstan steamed. Far from being a dunce, he knew he was smarter than anyone in the whole school. During recess, Dunstan sought out the bully and picked a fight, determined to put a stop to the name before it stuck. He bloodied his opponent’s nose.
Over time, Dunstan systematically moved from student to student, not even sparing the smaller kids. By the time Dunstan was twelve, every person and animal around gave him wide berth. And no one ever called him “dunce” again.
“Release me!” a fear-tinged voice said.
Dunstan became aware of Thomas’s fingers prying his own from Major Hawthorne’s shirt front.
“Let him go, Dunstan,” Thomas coaxed, using his first name for the first time.
With a jolt, he returned to the present to find his cousin, white-faced with fear, pushed against the wall, and Thomas scowling at him in disapproval.
Dunstan turned toward the window and laced his fingers behind his head. God! An attack on a superior officer. What an incredibly stupid thing to do!
“If you weren’t a blood relation,” Major Hawthorne said, straightening his shirt front, “I’d have you flogged for that.”
Dunstan hung his head. The threat of a flogging was generous. His actions merited a worse punishment. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Silence covered the room. Several seconds went by.
Major Hawthorne’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “You always were a bit of a lad. I’ve never held your murky past against you, and won’t start doing so today. To the contrary, that is precisely why I chose you for this mission. By God! Bring me proof the Spanish are helping Washington and his band of traitors, and I’ll see you wear an officer’s sash.”
Dunstan’s mouth went dry. He wanted nothing more than to be promoted from the ranks. His cousin knew that.
“Done!” Dunstan managed to croak. “By your leave, Cousin.”
He couldn’t help smiling as he left. He would bring proof the Spanish were involved. And for good measure, he would bring Lorenzo Bannister’s head.
Chapter Eight
Shortly before dusk, San Antonio appeared as a tiny dot on the distant Texas plain.
An odd tightness came to Lorenzo’s throat. He was home after a one-year absence.
Miguel ordered his soldiers to herd the recovered cattle toward Atascoso, the mission ranch. The wranglers with the remuda of spare horses trailed after them.
Lorenzo rode toward San Antonio with his men and Miguel. They crossed winding cattle trails and passed through land he remembered working as a vaquero, past herds of goats and longhorned cattle, fields of corn, beans, potatoes, watermelons, and peppers.
The sound of a tolling bell drifted toward them.
Mission San Antonio de Valero stood flanked by cottonwoods, or álamos in Spanish. Behind its thick walls, one could hold off an army for many days if need be.
An urge to visit his father’s grave overwhelmed Lorenzo. He turned his horse south and stopped. His gaze riveted on the mission.
Red and Miguel reined in beside him.
In a room provided by the monks, Lorenzo had kept vigil at his father’s bedside. Helpless, he had watched his father slowly waste away from consumption.
“Captain?” Red said. “You look like you seen a ghost. Are you all right?”
“Let him be,” Miguel said softly. “Captain Bannister’s father is buried at the mission.” He spoke to Lorenzo. “I’ll take your men into San Antonio and see them settled in while you attend to other matters.”
Hearing Red and Miguel ride away snapped him out of his reverie. He touched his heels to Piñata and caught up with them at the river edge. “I appreciate the gesture, Lieutenant, but the men are my responsibility, not yours.”
Together they forded the San Antonio River in water up to their stirrups. As they splashed across, fond memories washed over him, memories of fishing with his father in the river and gathering walnuts from the trees that fringed it.
The provincial capital, a village of twelve hundred souls, lay nestled between the San Antonio River and the San Pedro. The town looked the way Lorenzo remembered it, with sixty or so stone and adobe buildings, about eighty wood houses, and five missions strung along the San Antonio River. From this angle, he could see Mission San José about a league away.
News that strangers were in town traveled with astonishing speed. Doors flew open. People hurried to the Plaza de los Ysleños to meet the newcomers. Spanish soldiers spilled through the fort’s double doors. Little boys and barking dogs raced around like spinning tops while girls giggled and blushed. The horses were soon encircled.
“Well, Captain,” Miguel said as he scanned the gathering crowd, “I certainly am glad your arrival isn’t supposed to be a secret. I’ve lived here for six months, and I’ve never seen anyone get such a hero’s welcome.”
Lorenzo ignored the lieutenant and looked for Doña María Robaina, the elderly widow who was like a grandmother to him. She had given him a job on her ranch when she realized he was penniless. She had paid the carpenter for Papá’s coffin. She had taken care of Lorenzo while he was still reeling from his father’s death.
He didn’t see her. Her small, whitewashed house trimmed in wrought iron looked out on the main plaza. Surely she had heard their arrival.
Red let out a low whistle. He finger-combed his beard with one hand and slicked back his hair with the other, then slid down from his horse. He handed his reins to Private Dujardin.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Lorenzo asked.
“Over there,” he replied vaguely.
Lorenzo dismounted among a sea of faces. Being from a small town meant everyone knew everyone else. He hugged the people closest to him and waved to others, rarely seeing a face he didn’t recognize.
Miguel, still on horseback, regaled the gathered crowd with the rescue of the missing cattle. He gave Lorenzo and his men full credit.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo said, hiding his surprise.
In response, Miguel merely snapped a finger against his hat brim in an unofficial salute. “And most noteworthy for his bravery,” Miguel said in closing, “is Sergeant Colorado.” He gestured toward Red’s empty saddle, then looked all about. “Where’d he go?”
Lorenzo stretched to see over the crowd and found him chatting with an Apache woman. It wasn’t unusual to see Apaches in San Antonio. Many of them lived and worked at the mission, others on ranches as vaqueros.
Lorenzo could understand Red’s interest in her. The woman was gorgeous. She looked about twenty-five years old and had high cheekbones, full lips, and sun-darkened skin. Her large black eyes sparkled with intelligence. She wore a brightly colored cotton blouse and a full skirt with ruffles
at the bottom. A wide fringed shawl draped her head and shoulders. The large gold cross hanging around her neck said she was Catholic.
Clearly, Red was flirting with her, and it looked like she was flirting back.
Lorenzo hoped Red would behave. On the trail he had explained the Tejano honor code in detail to his soldiers. “Family is important to Tejanos,” he had said. “If a father suspects you have dishonored his daughter, it will be within his rights to kill you. It is as simple as that. If he fails, then the duty to cleanse family honor with your blood falls to the girl’s brothers, uncles, and cousins. They will hunt you down, and it will not go well for you.”
Lorenzo’s soldiers had grumbled that he was a killjoy. Now, as he watched Red, he hoped they had taken the warning seriously.
Just then, Lorenzo spotted Doña María coming from San Fernando Church, prayer book in one hand, rosary in the other. He waved to get her attention.
She waved back, her face reflecting her joy, and elbowed her way through the jostling crowd.
“Captain,” Miguel said under his breath, “your men are tired and so are you. I’ll see that they are properly billeted.”
“That’s a job I’ll gladly relinquish, Lieutenant,” Lorenzo said. “Each man has the name and address of a family that will probably take him in. Red will stay with me.”
“It shall be done, sir.”
Lorenzo left Piñata in Private Dujardin’s care. He maneuvered to Doña María, getting his back slapped until it tingled. The people of San Antonio tossed question after question at him that he answered while crossing the main plaza.
Sandaled feet and grinning monks rushed toward him. One after another engulfed him in a heartfelt embrace. The seemingly endless questions and explanations started all over again.
Eventually, he reached Doña María.
As always, she radiated good cheer and loving kindness. Her fair complexion contrasted with her white hair framed by a lacy mantilla. She wore a plain black dress gathered at the waist by a sash of the same color.
He scooped her up, lifting her a foot off the ground, and gave her a hug.
“¡M’ijo!” she exclaimed, calling him “my son.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “What a surprise! Look at you! You’re a full-grown man, but ¡ay! How thin you are. Stay with me and I’ll fatten you up.”
After weeks of eating jerky and hardtack, the offer sounded wonderful. “How I’ve missed your cooking!”
She slapped his shoulder, and dust puffed out of his shirt. “Santa María! You need a bath!”
“I do?” Lorenzo asked in pretend surprise.
Doña María laughed, then turned serious. “Did you deliver your father’s letter?”
Lorenzo nodded.
“You went all the way to Virginia?”
“And back again.”
“Why didn’t you stay with your grandfather?”
A lump formed in Lorenzo’s throat. It hurt too much to tell her his grandfather hadn’t wanted him.
“¡Vaya!” Doña María said, giving his arm a little squeeze. “You can tell me later. The important thing is you’re home. You will stay in your old bedroom, of course.”
Lorenzo smiled. “I was hoping you would say that!” He pointed to Red still flirting with the Apache woman. “Could Sergeant O’Shaughnessy share my room?” He wanted Red with him so they could make final arrangements for the cattle drive in private.
“A redhead?” Her sly smile told him she was teasing. “You have the devil in you!” Doña María came from the Canary Islands with the original settlers in the 1730s and believed, as did most Spaniards, that redheads were descendants of Judas Iscariot. “If he bears your stamp,” she conceded, “he must be a fine fellow.”
“He is.” Lorenzo caught Red’s eye and signaled him to join them.
Red waved back, but stayed with the girl. Hardly surprising. Red had never been good at following orders. The big Pennsylvanian’s refusal to obey a lieutenant had once saved Lorenzo’s life. That clouded Lorenzo’s objectivity in matters concerning Red, but he couldn’t help it.
“Who is the woman Sergeant O’Shaughnessy is talking to?” Lorenzo asked.
“That’s Soledad, Lieutenant De Santoro’s sister.”
“His sister?” Lorenzo said in dismay. They bore little resemblance. Soledad looked Apache, whereas Miguel resembled a Spanish aristocrat.
“I should have said his adopted sister. Soledad’s mother was the cook on his parents’ hacienda. They adopted Soledad after her mother died of smallpox. She’s a widow now. Her husband was killed by Comanches.”
Leaving Soledad with apparent reluctance, Red headed toward Lorenzo and Doña María. He made his way through the crowd and stopped in front of them.
“Doña María,” Lorenzo said, slowing his Spanish for Red’s benefit, “allow me to introduce Sergeant Sean O’Shaughnessy.”
The elderly widow dutifully offered her hand.
Instead of kissing it, as was the custom, Red gave it a hearty shake and greeted her in mangled Spanish. Doña María handled the situation with her customary grace and dignity.
Lorenzo offered his arm to Doña María, and they headed across the dusty square toward her ranch and his adopted home.
Chapter Nine
British sailors glistening with sweat strained at the oars as they rowed Dunstan and Thomas toward a warship anchored off the Virginia coast. Overhead, sea gulls squawked and dipped toward them. Waves slapped the rowboat’s side.
A naval lieutenant sat stiffly at the bow enveloped in an air of smug superiority. Everything about him said he was an English blue blood.
Dunstan smiled to imagine this man’s reaction should he realize he was rowing the illegitimate son of an English lord. To his credit, Dunstan’s father had always looked after him, sending him to an expensive boarding school and allowing him to stay on the family’s colonial estate whenever he wished. Dunstan’s father sat in Parliament, in the House of Lords to be precise, and wielded tremendous power.
As they crossed the bay, Dunstan ran a finger under the uncomfortable cravat around his neck. After seven years in the army, he felt naked without the “old red rag,” as they called the British uniform. Major Hawthorne had done well by him and Thomas, outfitting them like lords and providing an ample purse of shillings and pounds for their mission to New Orleans. Both Dunstan and Thomas wore black knee breeches, silk stockings, a white shirt with ruffled cuffs, buckle shoes, an embroidered waistcoat, and a black broadcloth coat. They looked like doctor and apprentice.
They climbed a rope ladder to the ship’s quarterdeck where several naval officers awaited them.
The captain removed his hat, greeted Dunstan with an extravagant bow, and welcomed them aboard as if they were visiting dignitaries.
Dunstan acknowledged the bow with a swift nod.
The captain led Dunstan and Thomas below decks to a small but well-appointed room. Against one wall stood a bunk bed. Opposite it was a small writing desk.
“I trust this will suit?” the captain inquired anxiously.
“It will do,” Dunstan said.
In his last sea voyage, he had been elbow-to-elbow with British redcoats, taking turns sleeping in hammocks, bending his six-foot frame low to keep from scraping his head on the ceiling. This was a definite improvement.
The captain took pains to explain the ship’s routine and asked Dunstan and Thomas to share meals with him and his officers in the wardroom. Bidding them a cordial farewell, he left.
Dunstan fell onto the bottom bunk and laced his hands behind his head.
A grin spread across Thomas’s face. “I like being treated like nobility.”
Dunstan chuckled. “So do I, son. So do I.” Too excited to sleep, he listened to the ship’s wooden timbers creak and shiver. It reminded him of something he had heard not so long ago—the sounds a gallows makes when a man is hanging at the end of a rope.
The ship gently rocked beneath him as it set sail for New Orleans. He rubbed th
e scar on his face and imagined how Lorenzo Bannister would beg for his life.
Chapter Ten
An hour after arriving in San Antonio, Lorenzo sank into a tub of steaming water prepared by Doña María’s manservant. He hooked his legs over the edge and closed his eyes. In water up to his neck, he planned what he would say tomorrow when he met with the head monk at the mission. No matter what, he had to buy five hundred head of cattle from the mission herd.
If Lorenzo failed, Washington’s army would go hungry, and starving men could not fight.
There were other places in Texas where he could get cattle, but San Antonio was home. Besides, he knew all the monks at the mission, and it would be easier to buy cattle there than anywhere else. The mission ranch was big with plenty of cattle to spare.
The door whispered open.
Lorenzo lifted an eyelid, expecting to see a manservant with a steaming bucket of water to refresh the bath. Instead, his roommate, Red, entered carrying a kettle.
Water hit a tin basin and hissed. Steam clouded the mirror on the wall above it.
Red pulled off his shirt and splashed water on his face and neck. Next, the Pennsylvania woodsman laid out a razor, shaving mug, lathering brush, and soap.
Lorenzo straightened. “I didn’t know you and a razor had ever made an acquaintance.”
Eyes twinkling, Red worked shaving soap into a lather. “Been a long time.” He scraped off whiskers. “What do you know about women?”
“Nothing. There’s not a man alive who understands them.”
“You gotta know something, you with a fiancée and all.”
“Our courtship was a little strange,” Lorenzo said as he sank back into his bath water. He and Eugenie were an odd pair. He was a spy for General Washington, and he was engaged to a spy for Colonel De Gálvez. He recalled an argument with Eugenie three weeks earlier.
“The colonel wants you to do what?” he had asked in disbelief as they strolled through New Orleans.
“He wants me to deliver a message to General Washington.”
“You can’t!”