The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  "You cannot do that, Tom. Your mother needs you."

  "She needs monetary support, and what better way to do that than to follow my master and send her my wages?"

  "South Carolina isn't Georgia. We just have an occasional skirmish or battle here. They fight daily there. We could all be killed. How much good will you do your mother dead?"

  "I'm going with you. I shall find Clark this morning, tell him you've told me you're moving to Camden to care for an ailing uncle, and offer my continuing services as his apprentice. I shan't breathe a word that I know the truth of his business."

  "He won't listen to you."

  "Maybe not, but I got a horse. I'll follow him. And that settles it."

  Misery swam through her soul. "You are hard-headed."

  He stood and helped her up, enclosing her hand a moment longer in the callused warmth of his hand while gazing into her eyes. His gaze placed her troubled heart in the realm of acceptance and non-judgment, the way she felt around Sarah, Lucas, and Sophie. "I prefer to think of myself as devoted, rather than hard-headed."

  Scarlet in Betsy's peripheral vision fragmented the peace, and she and Tom dropped each other's hands in surprise. Rising sunlight on Lieutenant Fairfax's face failed to thaw his gaze and emphasized the blood red of his coat. "Ah, if it isn't both happy neutrals."

  Chapter Thirteen

  WITH THE CONFIDENCE of a cat cornering his next meal, Fairfax strolled forward. "I'm not surprised to find you two together. At least it spares me an extra trip before I leave Augusta."

  Rose flew from the house flapping her apron. "Shoo! I told you out front to question him after he eats his breakfast. How dare you set foot in my back yard without my permission? Now shoo, you vile critter, and take those men out front with you!"

  Tom eyed Fairfax. "What do you want?"

  "I've more questions for both of you."

  "How long will this take?"

  "Five minutes."

  Exasperation flooded Tom's face. "Five minutes, Mama." With a loud sigh that echoed her son's irritation, Rose marched back inside, slamming the back door after her. Tom strode toward Fairfax. "Make haste. I'm not courteous on an empty belly."

  Betsy followed him, reading infinite patience in Fairfax's expression. Her stomach flip-flopped. What further questions could he possibly have?

  "Mr. Alexander, do you think the foreign language spoken by those men yesterday morning might have been Spanish?"

  "I already told you I don't speak foreign languages."

  "Colonel Brown has reports of Spanish agents involved in a rebel spy ring in Georgia and the Carolinas. The agents are known by multiple aliases, but their true names are Basilio San Gabriel and Francisco de Palmas." His gaze darted back and forth between Tom and Betsy, scouring her face for the smallest flinch that betrayed her recognition of the names.

  "I don't recognize those names. As I told you, I didn't see or hear much before they hit me."

  "Did Mr. Sheridan have business with Spaniards?"

  Tom shook his head. "Not that I ever noticed."

  "Madam, you kept the books. Any Spanish customers?"

  She hoped Fairfax didn't plan to instigate a witch-hunt among the Spanish families in the area. "José Garcia ordered shoes from Clark in March. He's our only Spanish customer."

  "Who supplied Mr. Sheridan's leather?"

  "Mostly Dutton and Sons out of Charles Town or George Gaskins in Savannah. There were some traders who made the rounds several times a year, like Sooty Johns."

  "Any Spanish suppliers?"

  Betsy shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of."

  Fairfax opened a portfolio and withdrew an incinerated piece of leather about twelve inches square. Just before he handed it to Tom, Betsy spotted the rich, red Cordovan finish on a corner spared the flame. It required all her discipline to keep acknowledgement from her expression, and she sensed Tom doing the same. Fairfax was baiting another trap. "Identify the type of leather for me, please, sir."

  "It's too badly burned. Cowhide, I'd guess."

  Fairfax pointed out the reddish corner. "Does that help?"

  "No, I've never seen anything like it."

  "Curious, Mr. Alexander. You're reportedly Mr. Sheridan's most skilled apprentice, and yet you cannot identify Spanish Cordovan leather while his next most experienced apprentice did so last night. He also said a new shipment of it waited in Mr. Sheridan's shop the morning everyone was outside cleaning 'Tory Scum' off the house. I found this piece of leather in the ruins of the Sheridan house. What a coincidence." He replaced the burned leather in his portfolio and closed it up.

  "I never entered the shop Tuesday. I was outside all day cleaning the house."

  "That's true. He stayed outside all that day." Too late, Betsy reminded herself not to volunteer information.

  Fairfax homed in on her. "But you saw the Cordovan leather. When did the delivery arrive?"

  She wouldn't be able to repair the slip. "The night before our house was defaced."

  "Who delivered it?"

  "I don't know. I was asleep."

  "You were asleep when a delivery of expensive, exclusive Cordovan leather arrived? Is it standard procedure for your husband to receive deliveries in the middle of the night?"

  Her right shoulder projected what she hoped looked like disinterest with a lopsided shrug. "I don't know about standard procedure, but it isn't unknown. Those traders can keep late hours. Sometimes they'll close down the taverns before paying Clark a visit."

  "When was the last time you saw Sooty Johns?"

  She regarded a cumulus cloud. "A few weeks ago."

  "How about Monday night, delivering the Cordovan leather?"

  How in hell did Fairfax find that out? "No." Betsy heard the extra firmness in her voice and regretted it.

  A smile slithered across Fairfax's mouth before vanishing into the granite of his expression. "When was the last time you saw the Spaniard who killed the Givenses?" Mind-reading creature of the netherworld, he advanced into her hesitation with victorious eyes. "Last night, here in Augusta?"

  "Actually I-I saw him in the brush yesterday. That's why I blundered out into the bandit. The Spaniard recognized me and was trying to kill me as a witness."

  Mock sorrow pinched Fairfax's face. "A pity you didn't inform me so I could hunt him down and rid us of the menace. Alas, poor Mr. Johns has paid for your hesitation with his life."

  Betsy scowled. "What are you talking about?"

  With his forefinger, Fairfax drew a line across his neck. "Just like the Givenses. His throat slit from ear to ear some time last night. We found his body stuffed in a rubbish barrel behind the Bronze Boar tavern this morning." He jutted his chin north. "Just a few streets in that direction, you know."

  Betsy felt her face drain of color. Poor Mr. Johns indeed. "He wasn't worth a Spaniard's knife. A local wretch followed him when he left the tavern drunk, then robbed and murdered him."

  "He hadn't been robbed." Fairfax's gaze hopped between Tom and Betsy. "And assassins from Casa de la Sangre Legítima slit their victims' throats from ear to ear."

  Casa de la — what? Tom stirred. "You've lost me. What language are you speaking, Lieutenant?"

  "It's Spanish." Betsy swallowed, liking the sound of it less with each passing second. "It means House of the Righteous — no, Rightful — Blood."

  "Ah, so you speak Spanish, Mrs. Sheridan?"

  "A little. But I don't know anyone who goes about calling himself by such a preposterous title, and I don't know why an assassin would kill tanners in Alton or waste his time on a slimy peddler."

  Fairfax fondled the silk on the nearest corn stalk and cocked his head to study both of them, his eyes green mockery. "Does Mr. Sheridan know you two are cuckolding him?"

  In the stunned silence that followed, a crow cawed. A flush climbed Betsy's neck. Tom whispered, "I beg your pardon?"

  "His business is robust. He needs you, the most talented apprentice in Augusta, so he cannot afford to l
et you go, no matter the indiscretions you commit beneath his nose." His fingers continued stroking the corn silk. "I imagine the tension is incredible for all three of you. How much easier if he was out of the picture. So you paint a slur on his house and burn the house the following night after some Spaniards conveniently cart off all the furniture."

  "How dare you accuse me of such atrocious deeds?" Tom snarled. "You're a scoundrel. You haven't the decency to take your miserable carcass from this town where your company is sought by no one!"

  "Tom, no!" Betsy gripped his upper arm, halting his advance toward Fairfax.

  Fairfax continued to caress the silk. "Ah, so even though I saw you and Mrs. Sheridan holding hands behind the corn a few minutes ago, you aren't —"

  "No, we aren't!"

  He released the silk and snapped his fingers. "The deuce. How conveniently that would explain several motivations. And how you, madam, maintain neutrality amidst your family's rebel infamy astounds me. The pressure to yield to them and convert to the rebel cause must be tremendous. I wager it was overwhelming this past Tuesday morning."

  Her brow lowered in confusion. "Tuesday morning? I don't understand."

  "You know, when your Uncle David popped in on you for a quick visit before he left town."

  She felt lightheaded and worked her mouth in shock and futility. Fairfax most certainly saw the truth blaze across her expression in those seconds, but she had to save face anyway. "My — my uncle is free of the Indians? Is my mother free also?"

  "Come now, I knew you were lying in Alton when you told me you hadn't communicated with them. Thanks to my — er — persuasive abilities with a certain widow here in town, I've discovered he paid her a visit Monday night."

  The reason behind Abby Fuller's haunted, red-rimmed eyes became clear to Betsy then, and her stomach knotted when she imagined how Fairfax might have "persuaded" information out of the widow. She lifted her chin. "Did this widow say my uncle had planned to visit me on his way out?"

  "I find it hard to believe he'd leave town the next morning without saying hello to blood kin, without telling you where he, your grandfather, your mother, and that half-breed Creek Indian who was helping them were headed."

  "I never saw him."

  Fairfax sighed. "Let's be reasonable. You come from a family of traitors. I believe you know where most of them are hiding. If you refuse to cooperate, you aren't a neutral. You're as much a traitor as they are. Tell me everything you and your uncle discussed Tuesday morning, and I shan't arrest you."

  Tom rolled his eyes. "You cannot arrest her. Did someone see her with her uncle? You've naught but circumstantial evidence."

  "A mountain of circumstantial evidence creates warrant for arrest." His tone lashed Betsy. "Out with it, or I shall see you lodged in Augusta jail this morning!"

  "I never saw my uncle." Her chin trembled, and she pressed both lips together.

  "Mr. Rainey!"

  A redcoat stepped from the shadows of the house. "Sir."

  "Place Mrs. Sheridan under arrest."

  "Yes, sir." The soldier headed for them unwinding rope.

  Tom balled both fists. "You cannot do this, Lieutenant!"

  Betsy glared at Fairfax. "Tom, find Clark and tell him everything that happened. See if he can find Colonel Brown."

  Fairfax shook his head. "Colonel Brown won't bother with such a trivial matter as the imprisonment of yet another rebel."

  "We shall see about that. I may come from a family of rebels, as you label them, but I'm married to one of Augusta's leading Loyalists." The soldier Rainey had reached them by then. "Oh, put that rope away. I shan't give you a fight."

  Fairfax nodded. "A wise decision."

  Tom growled at Fairfax. "You dung-eating pig, if you hurt her in any way —"

  "Mrs. Sheridan knows her place, Mr. Alexander." Fairfax presented him with a smile that his lip muscles stumbled over, so unaccustomed were they to the motion. "You do well to review yours."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "LET ME OUT of here, you bleeding sod! I ain't buggered nobody's ten-year-old son."

  Her fingers plugging her ears, Betsy could still hear the drunk in the cell across from her. The jailer pounded on his door. "Shut up in there, or I'll gag you and put you in irons." The drunk subsided. The jailer muttered, "Sorry about that one, madam," through Betsy's grate.

  En route to jail, she'd held her head high, proud to follow the footsteps of another neutral, her mother, who'd been arrested and imprisoned. But the glamour wore off as soon as she smelled the piss, puke, and mold inside jail and heard the drunk's tirade. Sophie Barton must be made of tougher stuff than her daughter was. At least Betsy had a cell to herself.

  The jailer had done her a favor and let Clark visit earlier. Seeing his expression of outrage through the grate had brought her close to tears. "What brutality! I'll find Colonel Brown, Betsy, I promise. We'll have you out of there this morning!"

  In the interim, though, she had plenty of time to think.

  Even had she confessed David's visit to Fairfax, she doubted he'd have believed her. As Joshua Hale had cautioned, Fairfax had something broken inside his head. He was correct about most of the circumstantial evidence he'd amassed against her. Unless he got sidetracked, he'd eventually substantiate his claims.

  She pondered what he might have done to extract information from Sophie and Widow Fuller. Then she rubbed her temple and abandoned the thought line. Not only was it a waste of her energy, but she doubted, chilled, whether her imagination was capable of envisioning Fairfax's boundaries with forms of interrogation.

  Women's voices filtered back. Through the grate, she heard Jane Cochrane: "For goodness sakes, you know she isn't a traitor. This isn't about Betsy Sheridan being a spy, either."

  "No, indeed!" That was Ellie Sweeney's voice. "This is about some odious man harassing a helpless woman, and her with child, too. For shame! Times are hard enough without decent women being thrown in jail for no good reason!"

  "That's right!" chorused other women whose voices blended. "Let her go. Let her go. Let her go."

  The chant gathered momentum, and Betsy wondered how many women had assembled in the office. At least a dozen, she guessed. A smile touched her lips as she imagined them in their straw hats and cotton aprons, holding baskets and wagging fingers at the jailer.

  "Ladies, please!"

  "We won't stand for this!"

  "Men shan't take advantage of us any longer!"

  "We've washed your laundry, mended your breeches, and cooked your meals, and this is how you thank us?"

  "Let her go. Let her go. Let her go."

  In the other cell, the drunk no longer sounded surly. "Jesus Christ, I'm going to die at the hands of a mob of women."

  "Ladies, calm down!" Nervousness spiked the jailer's command. Betsy wondered whether he'd ever been harassed by a group of indignant goodwives. "Surely you understand my position. I can only release her with the approval of an officer of the Crown."

  "There's a dreadful stink coming from those cells. You let us back there to make sure she's all right."

  "I cannot, but trust me, she's quite well."

  At least half a dozen women booed him, and Betsy identified the voice of Ruth Glenn, Loyalist wife of the Anglican vicar: "You'd even deny her the civility of morning coffee? How barbaric!"

  "Ladies, be realistic about this. I cannot allow you to serve coffee to an inmate. I shall lose my job over it!"

  "Better your job than something else." Betsy didn't recognize the woman's voice, but the corrosiveness in her tone gave her a chuckle.

  "And we have the means of slicing bread in our baskets."

  The drunk's voice rose in lamentation. "Ohhhhh, sweet Jesus, spare me. I won't ever do it again, I promise."

  Panic charged the jailer's tone. "Shall I interpret that as a threat to a government official?"

  "And put all of us in jail, too? Excellent idea. I've no qualms about keeping Betsy company."

  Bet
sy heard spurs and harnesses outside. Adam Neville's voice pierced the clamor. "Whoa, there. Why, Mr. Moore, what's this at jail this morning? A quilting?"

  "Er, no, Lieutenant. It's a misunderstanding."

  Rose piped up. "That it is. Betsy Sheridan's imprisoned on false charges." Several women voiced agreement.

  Adam murmured something to quiet them, then spoke up. "I have orders to escort her to a meeting to clear that up with Colonel Brown this very moment over at the ferry."

  Ellie said, "We'd best follow to keep an eye on them."

  While other women agreed to join the procession, Betsy heard the jailer confer with the lieutenant. "Your paperwork's in order, sir. Very well, have your men wait here while I fetch her. Er, you, too, Mr. Sheridan." Betsy took heart at the thought of Clark waiting outside for her. "All right, ladies, step aside. That's it, step aside. Don't go crowding her after she's out."

  The clink of key in lock sounded at the door of Betsy's cell, and she clasped her hands. After the door swung open, the jailer motioned her out. "Colonel Brown wants to chat, and here's Lieutenant Neville to escort you."

  A smiling Adam motioned her to the exit. "Right this way."

  The ladies of Augusta phalanxed her, fussed over her, and clucked sympathy and outrage over the arrest, all the while conveying her out to her horse, where Clark waited with opened arms. After an embrace, he helped her mount Lady May. In the saddle, she inhaled a deep breath of morning, amazed at how marvelous Augusta's summer humidity smelled and felt compared to the interior of jail. Standing near the ladies, Tom saluted her with a grin. She grinned back. Thank you, Tom Alexander!

  Adam mounted his horse and led the way, Betsy and Clark falling in behind him, two Rangers bringing up the rear on horseback, while Tom, Sarah, Rose, Diana, Ellie, Jane, and a number of women followed on foot. In a minute they arrived at the ferry crossing, where the Savannah River sparkled in the morning sunlight. They dismounted to meet those awaiting them on foot: Colonel Brown and several Rangers, and Lieutenant Fairfax and the five soldiers who had accompanied him out of Alton.