Free Lorenzo's Secret Mission by Lila Guzmán Page A

between New Orleans and the mouth of the Ohio River. The soldiers’ mission here is to cultivate the friendship of the Indians so they won’t trade with the English.
    You wouldn’t believe how much game is in the woods. Venison. Buffalo. Elk. A man could live in the wild forever and never go hungry. The men go hunting every day and kill enough meat to keep the fort well fed. In my spare time, I teach Lt. Calderón English. In return, he teaches me French.
    I miss you. Je t’aime, ma belle.
    Lorenzo
    November gave way to December. I thought a soldier’s life glamorous until I spent the winter at Fort Arkansas. We grew so bored, we would bet on anything. We put a glass of water on someone’s head and counted how many steps he could take without spilling it. We bet on howmany days the courier would be gone. We even bet on which kind of bird would next land on the parade ground.
    As a medic, I did little more than give out laxatives and liniments, clean and dress sores, and drain abscesses. Considering the way my stomach knotted when I treated patients, I seriously doubted medicine was my calling in life. And, frankly, the prospect that Cornflower would go into labor before we left scared me. I knew nothing about childbirth and had no desire to learn. Papá and I must have set a hundred broken bones, tended as many gunshot wounds, and doctored more ailments than I can recall, but we never once delivered a baby. When a soldier’s wife had childbirth pangs, the married women who lived at the fort helped deliver the baby.
    Unfortunately, Cornflower was the only woman at Fort Arkansas.
    Every morning I made it a point to be on the parade ground where the garrison formed up. The bugler blew assembly, and soldiers gathered around the Spanish flag that snapped in the breeze. The sergeant called roll. At his barked order, the manual of arms began.
    Excitement surged through me. I admired the military precision with which they drilled and envied them their blue jackets and white breeches. Despite the mundaneness of military life in wintertime, I longed to be a soldier.
    When I turned around to head for breakfast, I found William and Calderón standing behind me, quietly watching me.
    Just as we finished breakfast, William challenged me to a tomahawk-throwing contest.
    â€œI knew you gentlemen were bored,” Calderón said, downing one last sip of coffee, “but I didn’t know you’d resort to such measures.”
    Moments later, we stood on the shooting range behind the barracks. Both William and I clutched tomahawks.
    â€œDead center in the cross beam,” I said, calling out mytarget. I took aim, stepped back, and hurled the weapon at a wooden barricade peppered with bullet holes.
    Thwack! The tomahawk quivered to a stop in the place I’d indicated.
    Calderón’s lower lip dropped in amazement.
    I sauntered forward and pulled it out. “Beat that, William.”
    â€œFor the right amount of money,” he replied.
    â€œA Spanish pillar dollar,” I suggested and stepped out of the way.
    â€œYou’re on.” William took quick, casual aim and threw. The tomahawk embedded itself in the slash my tomahawk had made. William burst out laughing. “Looks like the winter I spent with the Indians wasn’t wasted.”
    I peered at the target. “I can beat you in a shooting match.”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    At that, William and I brought out our muskets.
    Calderón strode toward the barricade and pinned a three-inch square of paper to a plank in the center of the barricade. “Your target, gentlemen.”
    I measured my powder and poured it into the priming pan and down the barrel. I took the ramrod from its groove under the gun barrel and rammed a bullet to the bottom. With the ramrod back in place, I threw the stock to my shoulder.
    Calderón watched me with keen interest. He lifted his brows and shot William a significant look.
    â€œI