Lorenzo's Revolutionary Quest Read Online Free PDF Page A

the kind of man who would sell his own mother for the right price.
    Molly handed Private Welsh the plate. She always gave him a chance at leftovers before she fed them to the chickens.
    He picked up a corn pone and bit off a huge chunk. “Delicious! What is it?”
    â€œIn Virginia, we call it a corn pone. I baked it myself.” Molly tossed the peas to the chickens. General Washington hated peas.
    The chickens devoured them, then craned their necks, looking around for more.
    â€œMolly, if you were old enough, I’d marry you like that!” Private Welsh snapped his fingers.
    â€œWhy? ‘Cause I can cook?”
    He grinned and flicked the tip of her nose with his finger. “Precisely.”
    A hen drooped, let out a strangled squawk, and flopped over dead.
    Private Welsh straightened. “What the devil?”
    A second chicken fell over dead. In a matter of minutes, bodies littered the chicken yard.
    Color drained from Private Welsh’s face. He stared at the corn pone in his hand. “I’ve eaten poisoned food.”
    Molly shook her head. “I baked that myself. Those pones never left my sight.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œPositive.”
    The guard looked immensely relieved. “Who prepared the peas?”
    â€œThe cook.”
    â€œHe tried to poison General Washington! Come on, Molly. You’re my witness. The cook will hang for this.”

    Iron Bear stood with arms crossed and watched the four French smugglers enter Chien d’Or’s teepee. He wished he hadn’t allowed them to stay, but the day Chien d’Or brought them to camp, one had been wounded and needed help. He didn’t trust any of them, and he trusted Chien d’Or least of all. He was sneaky as a coyote. It was odd how two children from the same parents could be so different. Bayé, Chien d’Or’s brother, had been an honorable man, a brave warrior who had died in battle protecting the tribe from Comanches.
    Iron Bear decided to give Chien d’Or’s associates the benefit of the doubt, but he would still keep an eye on them. He would watch Chien d’Or even closer.

    It was early afternoon when Dunstan and Thomas arrived in Charles City, Virginia, on stolen horses. Wedged between the James and Chickahominy Rivers, the village consisted of sturdy two-story brick houses and resembled other colonial villages they had passed through.
    Dunstan followed Thomas to the most elegant house in town. A British flag on the side flapped in the breeze.
    When they alighted, sore and travel-worn, Thomas automatically took the reins of both horses and tied them to a waist-high iron hitching ring.
    Dunstan was beginning to like this most useful boy. He never whined, although they had traveled at top speed for hours. When they stopped to rest, Thomas anticipated Dunstan’s needs, and when he did not, Dunstan only had to explain once how he wished things done. Someone had trained the boy well.
    With Thomas trailing in his wake, Dunstan bounded up the red-brick steps to a redcoat standing woodenly on guard. At their approach, the soldier scanned him from head to toe, disapproval at Dunstan’s tattered coat and much-patched trousers evident.
    Thomas stepped around Dunstan. “The rooster has flown the coop.”
    It was clearly a password. The guard swung the door open without hesitation and led them to a sitting room decorated with portraits of sour-looking people in old-fashioned clothing. Against one wall stood a fireplace with two armchairs angled toward it. A horsehair couch occupied the opposite wall. In the center of the room, a highly polished table held a china service for six.
    Dunstan fell into a chair and propped his feet on the hearth.
    â€œI shall inform the major of your arrival.” The soldier turned and left.
    Thomas stood in the center of the room, working his hat through his hands.
    â€œRelax,” Dunstan said. He waved toward the empty