Read Online Lorenzo's Secret Mission by Lila Guzmán - Free Book Online

Linn and Lt. Calderón wounded, I am in charge of the flatboats. A bullet grazed Red in the head, but his wound is minor. We wrapped Corporal García’s body in a sail, tied a cannon ball to his ankles, and buried him in a watery grave after praying over him. The fear of another Indian attack prevented us from pulling to shore and giving him a proper burial on land.
    September 30: The men are in good spirits, though exhausted and on constant alert. The threat of more attacks hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. Calderón is running a high fever.
    October 1: We are making good time. We can use the sails now, and have increased speed. Calderón’s fever has broken.
    October 2: The possibility that British spies in New Orleans learned of our escape worries me. I can only hope the attack three days ago was aimed at stealing our cargo, not stopping our mission.
    October 3: Another 18 miles behind us.
    October 6: Flatboat ran aground on a sandbar. Men pushed with oars as hard as they could until the boat swung free.
    October 11: Saw two Natchez Indians on shore. They stared at us and we stared back. All quiet.
    October 13: Passed Fort Rosalie, an abandoned French fort. From here on, the river becomes more treacherous. Navigating at night is now impossible. We pull to shore at dusk and make fast to trees along the bank. Anchors are useless because the soft mud on the river bottom is covered with submerged logs. Some of the men are so exhausted, they have to be carried ashore in blankets.
    October 16: It is a long and difficult haul up the Mississippi. The muddiness of the river slows us, but that isn’t the worst part. The river twists and turns like a snake. A distance of 100 miles measured in a straight line winds up being 180.
    October 17: The farther north we travel, the clearer the Mississippi becomes. I keep ceramic crocks filled with strong, brown Mississippi water. When the water settles, a half-pint tumbler yields two inches of slime. In spite of this, the water is wholesome and tastes good. It is cool even on the hottest days. The rowers drink it down, sediment and all, and never suffer any bad effects.
    October 18: Passed a British fort in broad daylight. They saw us, but did nothing. We can only speculate why.

    William hobbled to my writing table and read over my shoulder. “Good job, Lorenzo.” He initialed the log with his uninjured hand. “I hate being wounded. I feel useless.”
    I cleaned the quill and put away my writing utensils. “Why do you think the British didn’t attack? Are they planning something?”
    â€œWish I knew. Maybe they saw the Spanish flag and decided not to attack a neutral vessel, or maybe they don’t know where our cargo is headed. Most likely, they see flatboats with the Spanish flag going upriver to St. Louis every week or so.”
    â€œSt. Louis? Where’s that?”
    â€œFarther up the Mississippi, past the Ohio River, on the western bank. The French founded it, but the Spanish own it now.”
    I stretched my arms over my head, glad another long day was drawing to a close.
    Calderón lay in the bunk just as I had left him, snoring, twitching, and grunting like a man with a troubled conscience.
    I served myself a mug of steaming coffee. Usually, I liked my coffee laced with cream and sugar, but nowadays I took it black because I needed to stay alert. With the only two officers on board wounded, my extra responsibilities kept me occupied until well into the night. If only Captain Gibson were here.
    I pulled a chair close to Calderón and sat there for a few minutes while I built up the courage to lift his dressing. My chin on my fist, I tried to figure out a mystery. Calderón reminded me of someone. My gaze fell upon his profile, particularly his nose, and then it dawned on me.
    â€œNo,” I muttered. “It can’t be.” I took a Spanish pillar dollar from my pocket and studied it a