Like a second masquerade for both men. "Elijah must have had a St. James in his ancestry. Or maybe Father had a Carey in his."
David's smile withered. "Insanity. Rebels murdering each other, mysterious Spaniards wandering into it and being flayed alive. It's a black, bloody masquerade, that's what it is. Mathias got a look at the old man's corpse. He must have been unconscious or already dead when they burned him because his arms were straight, not contorted from being tied to restrain him. As if that suggests the killers were humane. But there's nothing humane about murder. And we're still missing a crucial piece to the puzzle."
She couldn't have agreed more. She studied him. "Had you killed someone before yesterday?"
His hand on the saddle hesitated, and he didn't look at her. "Eight years ago. I was all of twenty-three."
"What happened?"
"It was a stupid thing — really, I was quite stupid."
She voiced her instincts. "There was a woman involved."
Joyless laughter escaped his nose. "A married woman."
"You dueled with her husband?"
"Yes. I will never fight another duel." So that was why he preferred widows. "Killing is wretched business. You never forget that last look on their faces."
No, she'd never forget MacVie's eyes when she shot him. Even though her own survival had depended on killing him, she couldn't rejoice at being the survivor, not while the deed was fresh and a portion of her soul sleepwalked with Lady MacBeth. She wondered how soldiers and militiamen could kill repeatedly. All those sets of eyes, damning and beseeching.
David shook his head. "I find no glory in killing another." He glanced over her shoulder. "Monday afternoon, when Uncle Jacques flaunted his enmity over Fairfax, I thought him a fool doting on memories of the Old French War. Then I saw him go after Peter yesterday. If he and Fairfax ever come to blows, Fairfax will have far more on his hands than he expects."
With a shiver, she recalled the angelic radiance on Fairfax's face Sunday morning, when he offered to interrogate her. "Unfortunately, so will Uncle Jacques."
***
By nine, cumulus cluttered the humid atmosphere, heralding afternoon thunderstorms. Concealed in the thicket just off the road, Sophie, David, Jacques, and Runs With Horses awaited the scouts. Standing Wolf, whose thigh gave him no cause for complaint, reported the road empty at least a mile to the south. Mathias rejoined them a few minutes later from the north. "Three peddlers are headed southbound. If we let them travel with us, we'll hear news."
Jacques narrowed his eyes with suspicion. "They will also learn about us."
David pushed his cocked hat up on his forehead. "Not if we allow them the stage. Peddlers love to talk about themselves."
Sophie said dryly, "Any Spaniards among them?"
The others stared at her a moment. Then Mathias grinned. "A good point. I didn't see a Spaniard."
"Well, then, if you didn't see a Spaniard, and you didn't recognize any of them, let's invite them to join us. David, you spin a story about us traveling to — uh —"
"To Savannah. To deliver horses to my sister. And Bear Tracker here and his brother are horse trainers."
"Plausible enough. Just don't give it too much detail. It's hard keeping track of lies."
He winked. "Especially in the boudoir."
Jacques wiggled his eyebrows. "Mais oui!"
Peddlers Harry, Rob, and Tim and their packhorses soon caught up with them, and David's congenial nature encouraged all three to set aside their road-wariness. Paunchy Harry relaxed and gabbed about his fabrics. Spindly Tim's business was deer hides. And red-haired Rob peddled herbs.
Sophie made herself inconspicuous. From the peddlers' cursory glances at her, they'd assumed her a scrawny boy, and she liked it that way. Besides, between their bombast and David's coaching, she couldn't have wedged in a word. But also, the agony from her thighs, ten times worse than that on Tuesday, forced her to concentrate on staying in the saddle.
From time to time, a peddler would glance at the road behind. David finally said, "You expecting company?"
Harry's laugh was nervous. "Ah, no, at least I hope not."
"Sounds like you're running from a cuckolded husband."
Excitable laughter burst from Tim. "Imagine the likes of you cuckolding some doxy's old man, Harry."
Harry scowled. "Why laugh? I got me a doxy in Charles Town, Augusta, and Savannah — more than I can say for you."
David flagged off the bicker. "See here, we don't want to catch a ball meant for your hides, so out with it, lads, on the looks behind."
Rob licked his lips. "It ain't a jealous husband. It's them soldiers we passed yesterday."
"Ah, the militiamen. We passed them, too, with naught but a nod of greeting."
"No, there was a party of ten redcoats headed south on horseback. They'd stopped about thirty miles or so back. Nabbed a fugitive, they had, and were interrogating him."
Sophie forced her facial and shoulder muscles to relax and noticed Jacques attempting to do the same. But all those years of card playing had been a boon to David's theatrics. He slapped the pommel of his saddle. "Jolly show! I say, it's about time the redcoats rounded up criminals and made the land safer."
"True," said Harry in a grudging tone, "but criminal or no, I didn't like what I saw and heard yesterday. Off to the side, a lieutenant was flogging a fellow. As we rode past, there stood the major, calm as you please at the roadside, giving us a good day like he'd just stepped out of a meeting with Parliament, la-dee-dah."
Rob grumbled. "Like it was all in a day's work for them to thrash the poor lout around."
Tim said, "He enjoyed flogging him, the lieutenant did."
Loathing punctuated Jacques's mutter. "English pig."
Sophie shuddered. In his desire to escape the previous day's carnage, Sam Fielding had hopped from the frying pan into the fire. The word "mercy" wasn't in Fairfax's vocabulary. As for why Edward Hunt and Dunstan Fairfax had elected to give chase, she surmised the quest must have become personal for them.
The back of her neck tingled with apprehension. Any soldier who defied movement orders risked a court-martial. Lieutenant Fairfax must be damned certain the quest would score him glory vast enough to excuse his defiance. Will St. James and Jonah Hale had been murdered for that glory. She stared ahead, southward, as if she could see past the hundreds of miles that separated her from St. Augustine. Her neck tingled again.
"To be perfectly honest with you folks," said Harry, "we'd like to pick up the pace a bit. You're good company, but we'd rather not run into them again."
She wondered what the peddlers would think if they knew dead men's horses were roped behind them. David rotated his head to evaluate the others in his party. "These fellows want more speed of the journey. That meet with your approval?"
She thought he'd never ask. They mumbled their agreement. Biting her lip against the throbbing in her thighs, she kicked Samson into a gallop. And the party of nine flew south on the postal road beneath the congesting cumulus of late morning.
Chapter Thirteen
NEAR BRIAR CREEK and the Savannah River, the road sloped out ten feet into dark swamp muck. The terrain stank of sulfur and stagnation, like dozens of farting cows. Beneath overwatered, undernourished trees, Sophie mopped sweat off her neck and slid the soggy kerchief beneath her hat to blot at the hairline. Gnats and flies persecuted the sweaty travelers and tired horses.
In that location back on March 3, 1779, British General Prevost had battled with General Ashe, resulting in two hundred drowned Whigs. She wondered what possessed the men to fight in a place where anyone could drown in seconds by walking the wrong path. Surely they could have agreed to find solid ground first. Women would have done so — but women would probably have found common ground and left the scene without resorting to a battle.
During the day, the peddlers had figured out she was a woman, but none had so much as leered at her. Their manners might be attributed to the presence of h
er five companions. However, she received the impression that none of the peddlers was the sort of fellow to abuse a woman. For random travelers encountered on the road, she could have done far worse.
Rob fidgeted. "Those friends you said you was waiting for out here ain't going to show."
Harry jutted his chin at the western sky, where towering cumulus churned and boiled higher during the time they'd waited at the junction. "I don't like the looks of the weather."
Rob spread his hands. "There's a tavern and trading post at a crossroads a few miles south. They got a decent ale with beds and clean sheets if your money's good. You can even get hot water. And the roof don't leak."
Sophie and David exchanged a look of dejection. Mathias and his cousins had scouted into the snake-infested swamp and found no sign that anyone had preceded them to the area — if their guess had even been correct about El Serpiente's itinerary. With a thunderstorm threatening and the evening approaching, they'd have to push on.
David beamed at the peddlers. "You fellows have the wisdom of it. I'll buy you a round of ale for being such good sports and waiting with us."
The peddlers' spirits perked up at the mention of free brew. Everyone began mounting horses. Sophie stroked Samson's neck. "Five more miles, hey, boy? I'll find you oats and dried apples if you'll just give me five more miles." Samson's tired, dark eyes regarded her with understanding, so she hauled herself back into the saddle, clamping her teeth together against the agony in her thighs. "Good boy." She took a deep breath and trotted him after the others. "This hurts me far worse than it hurts you."
***
Pipe smoke blue-hazed the candlelit common room of Woodhouse's Tavern — a sturdy timber building, the only watering hole for miles — and muted its yeasty, sweaty stink. At one of the rough-hewed tables, six men huddled over dice while several others pondered backgammon. A fiddler scratched out "The Star of the County Down" while a red-haired matron with an Irish accent mangled the tune for her red-haired, Irish family. Men talked over tankards, and women mended socks or embroidered by candlelight at the table next to Sophie, sleepy youngsters nestled against them.
The only woman in the room wearing trousers and a man's shirt, Sophie was also the only woman in the room cleaning a musket — anomalies that other women had difficulty comprehending, judging from inquisitive glances aimed her direction. They probably hadn't blown a man's guts open and stood their ground against wolves in the past thirty-six hours, either.
In the shadows, Standing Wolf and Runs With Horses murmured with Creek warriors from a nearby village. A weary-eyed David leaned against the stone fireplace with his tankard, ignoring Harry's pleas for a card game. Mathias was out back in the forge helping the elderly blacksmith repair the Irish family's wagon wheel, and Jacques lurked around the kitchen.
Widow Woodhouse slid a tray before Sophie and unloaded a bowl of stew, fresh bread, softened butter, and a tankard of cinnamon water on the table. Then, she hiked up her petticoat and straddled Sophie's bench, wobbling it. "I do wish I spoke more French. That father-in-law of yours well knows how to make an old woman remember her girlhood."
Father-in-law? Jacques had spun some crazy story to capture the widow's favor. Sophie sniffed the repast.
Her amiable face rosy, Mrs. Woodhouse tucked gray hair beneath her mobcap. "Voulez, voulez, voulez. I could hardly get my work done for him trying to butter the bread in the oven, if you take my meaning."
Hard to miss Jacques's meaning when he spoke that kind of French. Mouth watering, Sophie set her cleaned musket aside and picked up her spoon. "This smells delicious."
"Eat, child. You're nothing but skin and bones. Got you some hot water started. Should be ready in half an hour. I'll show you the tub out back soon as you've supped."
Sophie swallowed a mouthful. Not enough salt, but after two days of deer jerky, she didn't care. "Thank you."
"Need laundry done? My granddaughter could use the work."
"Umh-umh," said Sophie, her mouth full of bread.
"Got extra oats for the horses in the morning. Poor beasts look half-starved, too."
"Umh-umh."
The proprietress regarded the collection of people, then looked back at Sophie. "So good to have a common room full of decent guests like this. Makes me glad to help travelers."
"Umh-umh."
"A pleasant older gentleman passed through here just after noon, two young fellows with him. All polite. They ate up quick and rode off southbound but left me a decent tip." All right, all right, Sophie acknowledged the hint about a tip. She noticed the widow's expression cloud. "They wasn't at all like that Spaniard who came through about four o'clock."
Sophie coughed up cinnamon water. "Did you say a Spaniard?"
"Aye. He frightened me. You know, sometimes you can tell when a man has killed people. This dreg had me fingering my pistol. I was never so glad to get rid of a patron as him."
So El Serpiente was only about two hours ahead of them. Sophie cast an eager glance in David's direction, but in the next instant estimated the effort they'd exert to overtake the Spaniard and slumped in her seat. She and her party, horses included, were exhausted. If they took up pursuit without rest, each of them might as well shoot themselves in the foot for all the progress they'd make. But an emergency meeting that evening and a pre-dawn start for the morrow were in order.
"Your business must seem dangerous and frightening sometimes with patrons like that Spaniard and his companions."
"Companions? Hah. He was traveling alone. Scum like that don't have friends."
Hadn't MacVie said El Serpiente was accompanied by two Bostonians, "friends of John Adams"? What had happened to them? Perhaps MacVie had lied about them, and El Serpiente traveled alone — yet the campsite near Butlers Creek displayed evidence of three travelers. Even more pieces were missing from the puzzle than they'd assumed, but one thing was certain. Mrs. Woodhouse was observant. With the redcoats less than a day behind, Sophie's party couldn't afford to stand out in her memory by asking peculiar questions about travelers who'd preceded them. "Sorry. I misunderstood." She took another bite of stew. "Delicious. Don't forget our blacksmith."
"I fed him first. Such a kind fellow to help my brother with the wheel. You're a lucky woman."
Why was she a lucky woman? Then, recalling the widow's comment about Jacques being her father-in-law, she realized the story the Frenchman had spun. Jacques needed his mouth gagged. Sophie sweetened her smile. "We're lucky for your hospitality."
Mrs. Woodhouse patted her shoulder. "You need anything else, you let me know. Oh —" A conspirator's twinkle entered her eyes. "I save the little room in the corner upstairs for special guests. You can have it tonight."
Gratitude surged through her. Despite the stress of the past few days, her menses had started right on time, and she was cranky enough to tell her male companions to ride off without her. A night spent alone without their snores would be a delight. "Thank you."
"Cozy in there. Just enough room for the two of you." With a wink, the proprietress heaved herself up, retrieved the tray, and lumbered back to the kitchen.
Oh, hell. Jacques had woven quite a web, the old fool. Annoyed, she nevertheless plowed into her food. She was better off straightening out the sleeping arrangements on a full belly.
The fiddler finished the tune, and the Irishwoman was welcomed back to her seat by polite and obligatory applause from patrons. Tankard in hand, David pushed up from his bench and headed for the fiddler, with his height clearing the low ceiling by only a foot. Sophie motioned him over to tell him about El Serpiente, but he waved her off.
After David spoke with the fiddler, the man sawed out bars of music that sounded vaguely familiar, and naughty. David nodded approval, initiating the first bawdy song of the evening. The entertainment would degenerate from there and run the women and their children out of the common room and upstairs to bed.
Sometimes when David got rolling, he was difficult to snag off the stage. Sophie's li
ps pinched over a burst of displeasure and prudence. She'd grab him between songs, allow other guests to become the center of attention.
The fiddler fired up his introductory measures, and David, saluting her with his tankard and a wicked grin, sang:
A lusty, young smith at his vise stood a-filing.
His hammer laid by, but his forge still aglow.
When to him a buxom, young damsel came smiling
And asked if to work in her forge he would go.
Jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle heigh, ho!
A match for the smith, so away they went thither.
Along to the young damsel's forge they did go.
They stripped to go to 't, 'twas hot work in hot weather.
She kindled the fire and soon made him blow.
Jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle heigh, ho!
She lowered her gaze to the stew, a flush sweeping her neck and cheeks. Jacques had a collaborator. She needed to shut both of them up. Chatter and clatter dwindled so the men could enjoy David's baritone. When it came time for the refrain, they chorused it with such vigor that she was certain the tavern walls would cave in for the "jingle banging."
David circled the room for the next two verses. Women gathered children and bustled out. He wiggled his eyebrows when he reached Sophie on the fifth verse.
Six times did his iron by vigorous heating
Grow soft in her forge in a minute or so,
And often 'twas hardened still beating and beating,
But the more it was softened, it hardened more slow.
All the men swung their tankards in the air and roared, "Jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle heigh, ho!"
She collected her dishes and musket and hauled them from the common room, chased out by the closing verse:
The smith then would go, quoth the dame full of sorrow,
"What would I give could my husband do so?
Good lad, with your hammer come hither tomorrow,
But pray, can you use it once more ere you go?"
Jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle bang, jingle heigh, ho!
Out in the kitchen, she surprised Jacques with his hand on Widow Woodhouse's hip. Sophie set the dishes on the counter, juggled her musket and wagged a finger at him. "That is unconscionable!"
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 11