Cam looked at her in horror. “I thought he was in Fort Wyndham!”
“He’s not there yet. He won’t be there until the end of the month,” Wanda confessed.
“Ladies!” called Erskine, cutting the conversation off abruptly. “I’ve asked Lucas to take you back to the manor. I have business here to sort out. I hope you dinna think it rude of me.”
Wanda smiled. “That would be fine, Mr. Erskine. Would it be all right for Cameron to stay with us until we leave? She’ll be traveling on to Philadelphia with me.”
He beamed at them. “Fine, fine. Tell the housekeeper she’s to be treated well, would you, Mrs. Duncan?”
Wanda winked at him, and they climbed onto the wagon seat beside Lucas. He stared at them. “Ye can’t sit up here, misses,” he said firmly in his thick brogue.
Cam glanced at the back of the cart. It was heaped high with piles of ore, waiting to be taken to the foundry. “I’m not riding back there. Why can’t we sit up here with you?”
Lucas frowned. “Not fittin’, I should say, miss.”
Suddenly it hit Cam – she couldn’t believe she didn’t see it sooner. “Is this a race thing?” she spluttered.
Wanda intervened diplomatically. “Lucas, are you concerned that it’s not proper for a couple of white women to be sharing the front seat of the wagon with you? Is that it?”
“Aye, tis exactly what I am concerned about, miss,” he nodded.
Wanda sighed, but didn’t budge. “Well, honey, I’ll tell you what. My friend is tired and wants to go back to the manor. Anyone says anything about it, you just let me handle ‘em, okay?”
Lucas smiled, and clicked the reins. “As ye say, miss.”
The rocking motion of the cart soon lulled Cam to sleep, and she awoke to find herself slumped over against Wanda. The wagon had stopped in front of a large house, and a few men were strolling towards them.
“Wake up, princess,” called Wanda. “We’re here.”
“Mmrph.” Cam sat up, stiff from the nap.
“Mrs. Duncan,” called one of the men. He offered a hand to Cam to assist her, and she ungracefully toppled into his arms.
“Cam, this is Peyton Basham, the major I told you about. Peyton, this is a dear friend of mine, Miss Cameron Clark of Virginia,” Wanda said formally.
Cam regained her footing, apologizing profusely for stomping on the major’s toes, and brushed herself off. He was staring at her, and it occurred to her that she looked thoroughly disreputable. “I’d like to go wash up,” she mumbled.
“Mm, I would expect so,” Basham replied pleasantly. His eyes flickered up to Lucas, as Wanda jumped down nimbly from her perch on the seat.
“Thank you, Lucas,” she called gaily, waving goodbye to him. Lucas turned the cart and began his trip back to the mine.
“You ought to be more careful,” he drawled softly, but just loud enough for Cam to hear. “You can’t trust the free ones any more than you can a slave.”
Cam decided that she didn’t really like Basham, but Wanda dismissed him with a flip of her hand. “Oh, pooh, Peyton. You’re just part of that whole Virginia aristocracy, and you can’t get past it. Lucas is very nice and I’ll be damned if I’m going to ride in the back of a filthy old horse cart when there’s a perfectly good seat up front for me to sit on. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my friend needs to go in and rest a spell.”
Cam couldn’t believe her ears. Wanda was playing the Southern-belle routine to the hilt. As they crossed into the foyer, Cam whispered, “What was all that about, Scarlett O’Hara?”
“I didn’t want to get into a conversation about the merits versus the evils of slavery with Peyton,” Wanda shrugged.
Cam couldn’t think of anything to say to that, beyond “What merits?” so she allowed Wanda to escort her upstairs. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Mudd, drew her a bath, and she was finally left alone.
I’m here at last, she thought. Robert’s on a prison ship, but I’m one step closer to finding him.
She soaked for a while, and scrubbed herself gingerly with a bar of lavender soap. When the water finally cooled, she climbed out reluctantly and dried herself off. Digging around in her bag, she pulled out her spare chemise, dress and stockings, which she had made following the patterns in Wanda’s letter. She dressed quickly, and then sat on the large four-poster bed for a moment.
Mrs. Mudd woke her the next morning, bearing a tray of porridge, bread and black coffee. “Miss? Are you awake?” she asked gently.
Cam cocked one eye open at her. “Umm. What time is it?”
The plump housekeeper smiled at her. “It’s about half past eight, dear. The rest of the house has been up for hours, but Mrs. Duncan said you needed your rest. She said you’d had a rather difficult journey.”
You don’t know the half of it, Cam thought, stifling a grin. “You could say that,” she replied. “Where is Wanda right now?”
Mrs. Mudd smiled pleasantly. “She’s waiting for you in the library. She said to tell you to come find her once you’ve eaten.”
Mrs. Mudd seemed nice, a lot like Granny Emily. Cam wolfed down the breakfast, realizing it had been two full days since she had eaten. She had packed some jerky and biscuits in her bag, but had quite forgotten them in all the excitement.
Wanda was seated at Erskine’s desk in the downstairs library. “I talked to Basham last night. He did indeed write a letter to Angus. I asked him to.”
“Well, good. I guess that means I really am here.”
Wanda smiled. “What do you suppose would happen if he didn’t write to Angus? There would be no letter for you to find, and so you wouldn’t be here. Would you have just not come, or would you just disappear in the middle of the night?”
Cam shivered. “Good question. I can’t say I like the idea of just vanishing like I was never here.”
“Mm. Something to think about, isn’t it?”
Cam looked at the desk. “What is that you’re reading?”
Wanda wiggled her eyebrows. “Top secret spy stuff,” she grinned. “No, not a really huge secret. It’s a list of the men in the 16th Regiment of Light Dragoons.”
“Um, okay,” said Cam blankly. “Is that us or the English?”
“Royal troops, through and through. They’re armed cavalrymen, and they’ve caused General Washington more than a little bit of trouble over the past few months. They’re encamped at Fort Wyndham right now.”
“And that’s why you’re on your way there?” asked Cam.
Wanda nodded. “There’s a Lieutenant among their ranks who has been sending me information. He’s evidently got something he wants me to see in person, and he’s asked me for help. I think he’s going to desert.”
Cam was surprised. “Does that happen often?”
“Occasionally. This fellow is a bit mysterious. He started sending me letters back in September, by private courier. I have no idea why he picked me. Maybe he thinks a woman is a safer ally,” Wanda smiled.
Cam rolled her eyes. “Right. When do we leave for Pennsylvania?”
“Soon. The British don’t take the city until the fall…”
“Are you sure about that?” Cam interrupted.
“Positive. But they already have encampments and forts in the area. That’s why I need to get to my gentleman in the 16th soon.” Wanda gazed at the list again, and folded it up, slipping it into a pocket in her skirt. “If I wait too long, the whole place will be under siege and no one will be able to get back out.” She folded her hands across her chest and peered at Cam. “Now. About Robert.”
“Yes,” Cam replied instantly. “You said he’s on a prison ship.”
“Here’s basically what happened. You can draw your own conclusions. Captain Dominic Thibodeaux of the Lady Meg was given a letter – by Angus, as a matter of fact – a letter of authority from the Continental Congress. It authorized the ship, which is privately owned by Robert and his uncle Andrew, to engage in privateering. At some point, Thibodeaux wrote a letter to Mo
llie, saying that Rob had died of an infected shot wound, and had left his portion of the ship’s profits to Hamish and Jamie.”
Cam nodded vigorously. “I saw all that. In Mollie’s journals.”
“Okay,” said Wanda, in her lecture voice. “In January of this year, the Lady Meg was captured while trying to board a British cargo ship. Thibodeaux was shot and killed for putting up a fight.”
Cam thought briefly of the handsome sea captain, with his tattooed face and deep smooth voice. “Was he definitely killed?”
Wanda looked at her. “It’s been confirmed,” she said abruptly. “Thibodeaux is dead. Now, at the same time, there appears in the roster of sailors an Alexander MacFarland.”
“Robert,” said Cam automatically.
“Probably. There’s no record of an Alexander MacFarland being on the ship when it left Richmond or Charleston, and I haven’t been able to find any evidence of him signing on later.”
Cam frowned. “So Robert had Thibodeaux write to Mollie, telling her he was dead, and the whole time he was on the ship, as Alexander MacFarland.”
“I think so, yes.” Wanda stared pointedly at her.
“But why? Why would he fake his own death and leave all his money to the boys?”
Wanda shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. My suspicion is that he just didn’t want to go back to the Ridge, and decided to go back to his life at sea.”
Cam shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Wanda laughed. “Sure it does. Boy, you are naïve.”
“I am not naïve. What are you talking about?”
Leaning across the desk at her, Wanda said earnestly, “There was no reason for him to go back to the Ridge, honey. You weren’t there anymore.”
Cam sat in silence, digesting this. “You really think so?” she asked in a small voice.
“I do. It’s not so far-fetched, really.” Wanda twirled a long strand of red hair around her finger. “Why did you come back here, Cam?”
“To stop them from hanging Robert,” she answered promptly.
“You came back because he wasn’t there. He wasn’t in Haver Springs with you.”
She’s right. I came back not just because I couldn’t let them kill him, but because I couldn’t go on without him anymore…
There was a tap on the door, and Ambrose Meador stuck his shaggy head in. “Mrs. Duncan? Ah’m to tell you we’ll be on our way tomorrow at dawn. He wants to know if your friend will be traveling with us?”
“I already told him she would be,” Wanda snapped. “Sorry, Ambrose. Yes, please tell him she will be accompanying me to Pennsylvania.”
Meador nodded, and disappeared again.
Cam toyed with a quill pen on the desk, dipping it into the inkwell experimentally.
“Quit that, you’ll get ink all over the place,” ordered Wanda.
Obediently, Cam put the quill back in the pot. She looked up at Wanda. “So tell me about this prison ship.”
Aboard the Frigate Lord Savernack
At Anchor on the Delaware River
The man called Alexander MacFarland shifted on his narrow pallet. It was two feet wide, and six feet long. He was forced to lie curled up or with his feet dangling off the end to accommodate his size. He stared in the dim light at the bottom of the upper pallet, just twelve inches from the end of his nose.
He felt something crawling on him, and reached down to scratch, but the heavy fetters prevented him from reaching the culprit. He shivered with revulsion. In all his years he had never had lice or any other sort of infestation, and now here he was in a dark hull that was simply crawling with foul creatures. The lice weren’t quite as bad as the rats, but then again, he reflected, you couldn’t eat a louse. The rats, at least, could be useful.
He could tell by the slivers of gray light shining through the grate above his head that the sun was coming up soon, and he looked forward to the daylight desperately. During the day, his captors allowed him and the others to have their chains taken off, and they were permitted to roam about the ship freely – as freely as one could in a hold stuffed with over a hundred men. Twice a day, they were taken up on deck so the hold could be flushed out with water from the bilges. Twice a day was not nearly enough to get rid of the stench.
Alexander’s clothes were threadbare and filthy. He could smell himself, had been able to for weeks now. There were worse odors than his own body, though. The man below him had died the other night, after a few days of the bloody flux, and the sour aroma was nearly overpowering. The hold smelled of vomit and urine and every other foul thing imaginable.
He had lost weight since being here, but was not yet weak. Once every few days his captors would throw down some moldy fruit in addition to the slop the prisoners were served daily. Although many of the men with him turned up their noses at it, he eagerly ate any that came his way, and occasionally traded a chunk of weevil-infested bread for the fruit. His years on ships had taught him well, and he was one of the few prisoners who still had all of his teeth; many, some half his age, had none at all.
Since his ship was taken, he and the other men in here, all charged with acts of piracy, had been treated most inhumanely. He had been whipped on three occasions for refusing to turn evidence against the others.
He had seen younger, weaker men die from the brutality. He actually looked forward to the day the British came to take him to the gallows. If they couldn’t kill him on the Lord Savernack, they’d hang him on land, at the garrison.
He didn’t care.
He had lived a decent life, and although it had not turned out quite the way he once planned, he would die in peace. Of course, he would die wondering what had happened to her. He wondered if she was alive, wondered if she was happy.
He could remember every detail of her face, of her dark blonde hair, and those gray eyes that had bored into the depths of his soul. The way she smelled came back to him, and he groaned in frustration. The memories were all he had of her now.
The grate above his head was flung open.
“Get up, you bloody treasonous buggers!” shouted a thick English voice.
“All o’ you that ain’t dead yet,” hooted another. There was much laughter and catcalling on the decks above, and Alexander shifted once more so that the chains could be removed from his shackles, along with the other men in his row of pallets.
Once released, he slid from his shelf, and stretched to his full height, the top of his head brushing the low ceiling. The sun beat down into the hold, and he squinted.
Yes, today might not be a bad day to die.
Chapter Sixteen
Northern New Jersey
June 1777
The small party had been traveling west for several days now, and Cam had gotten her body re-acquainted with the mechanics of traveling on horseback. At first, her rear end hurt and her legs were a little stiff, but after the first two days she was feeling better, unused muscles getting back into the routine of things. Wanda had been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride so far, so Cam got the chance to make the acquaintance of the men traveling with them.
She had caught Gavin O’Toole, who was only fifteen, leering at her occasionally. He had large tobacco-stained teeth and bad breath, and sometimes contrived ways to brush up against her. Cam ruled all this to overactive teenage male hormones, and tried to ignore O’Toole as much as she could.
She revised her opinion of Peyton Basham who, for all his pro-slavery tendencies, was actually a decent sort. He was intelligent and well-read, and Cam found herself discussing literature with him as they rode. They had a lengthy discussion about his favorite novel, Robinson Crusoe. He told her he enjoyed the book in part because he suffered from horrible seasickness and would never in his life set foot on a ship, given a choice in the matter. She got the feeling, however, that he didn’t entirely trust her, as he made occasional reference to her unscheduled appearance in Ringwood.
His brother-in-law, Ambrose Meador, was just the opposite. He
was a silent bear of a man, and occasionally disappeared off into the woods so quietly she didn’t even know he’d left, and then returned just as inaudibly carrying a rabbit or pheasant he had killed. She never heard a shot, and suspected that Meador was capable of just sneaking up on his prey and killing it with his bare hands.
They camped that night in a small clearing ringed by wild berry plants and feasted on a turkey that Meador had collected during the afternoon. Wanda threw together some corn biscuits, and Cam munched away happily.
“So,” she said through a mouthful of turkey. “How is Angus?”
Wanda shook her head. “I don’t know. When I left he was still kind of mad at me. I told him you might show up in Morristown, and that’s why he couldn’t come with me to Pennsylvania.”
Cam’s eyes widened. “I thought about going to Morristown, to tell you the truth. But then I found Basham’s letter, and Ringwood just seemed a lot easier.” She shivered at the memory of her black, turbulent passage. “It made more sense to come through the mine and catch you there in Ringwood, instead of traveling all the way to Morristown by myself.”
Wanda eyed her. “You blend very well. Did you use the patterns I left you?”
“Sort of. There was a college student who came into Granny’s Goodies periodically to buy old clothes, and I asked her for some tips on building re-enactment costumes.” Cam paused slightly. “I didn’t realize how authentic some people get. I had to sew myself a couple of pairs of linen drawers.”
Wanda grinned. “Yeah, well, no Victoria’s Secret stuff here. I see you drew the line at wearing a corset, though.”
Cam blushed furiously. “Well, I didn’t know where to get one, and it seemed kind of hard to sew one myself.”
“That’s okay. I don’t wear one either. It’s not like the corset police are going to nab you or anything.”
They both laughed at that, and Cam finished her dinner. The turkey had made her drowsy. She laid out her bedroll beside Wanda, and soon was fast asleep.
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