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

by Adair, Suzanne

  Betsy's gaze swept over Thomas Brown, called "Burntfoot" after drunken Whigs had assaulted him in 1775 at his plantation, tied him semi-conscious to a tree, and burned off two of his toes. Brown returned her appraisal, gaze steady. Had she not known, she'd never have guessed that he, dressed in an ordinary hunting shirt and wearing a battered hat to cover where he'd been partially scalped in the Whig attack, was a lieutenant colonel. He bowed and touched the brim of his hat. "Mrs. Sheridan."

  She curtsied. "Thank you for the audience, sir."

  He flashed her a smile before directing the smile at Clark, standing behind her. "You're fortunate to have caught me in Augusta. But I can usually find time for the King's Friends."

  Betsy marveled over his poise. His ropy, slight frame and his face, weather-beaten beyond his thirty years, clued her that those tales she'd heard about him roughing it in the Florida swamps with his Rangers, helping Governor Tonyn repulse rebels from East Florida, were accurate.

  His smile faded into all-business. With a motion of his head to indicate the stone-faced Fairfax, at attention fifteen feet behind him, he returned his focus to her. "Mr. Fairfax has related some evidence against you. Even though it's circumstantial, it casts suspicion on you as a conspirator with rebels. That your house was recently defaced and then burned is also quite peculiar. Counterbalancing all that are the character witnesses of citizens who assure me you've never displayed an inclination toward the rebel cause. And I know your husband to be a leading supporter of His Majesty here in Augusta.

  "So, we've naught but circumstantial evidence and character witnesses for a case, and I ask myself whether we even have a case against you." Hands on hips, he leaned a few inches closer, his gaze on her sharpening. "Are you a rebel?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you helping the rebels?"

  "No, sir."

  He rubbed his chin. "There's a rebel spy ring operating across Georgia and the Carolinas, affiliated with spies in the Northern colonies. We know the Southern branch to contain at least a dozen members including two Spaniards, one Frenchman, and two women. Have you communicated with anyone in that ring?"

  Such as her husband? "No, sir." The untruth stuck in her windpipe, hoarsened her voice. She coughed once.

  "Did you communicate with your Uncle David this past Monday or Tuesday?"

  Heaven help her and David St. James. "No, sir."

  Fairfax stirred. "She's lying, sir."

  Irritation seasoned Brown's tone. "Lieutenant, as you were. Madam, are you willing to swear allegiance to His Majesty that I might be assured of your intentions?"

  She swallowed. "Sir, I claim neutrality. You know there are a good number of neutrals out there. If I must swear an oath as a Loyalist to avoid being returned to jail, then I shall do so. But would I not be a more effective witness to others of the King's intentions if I swore such an oath of my own volition, having come to my decision after being treated justly by representatives such as yourself?"

  In the background, Fairfax eased tension from his jaw. Thomas Brown drew back from her, evaluating her sincerity. Clark cleared his throat. "Colonel, sir, I believe her to be telling the truth about not having seen her uncle. She knows I've been worried about him also. If she'd heard from him, she'd have told me. I don't believe they made contact."

  Betsy watched the colonel discern the honesty in Clark's face, and she thanked the heavens she'd never confided in her husband about David's visit. Fairfax also perceived Clark's honesty. His jaw clenched again. Brown nodded, a decisive motion, and raised his voice a bit. "Very well, Mrs. Sheridan, I'm satisfied for now that you're clear of involvement with the rebels. You're free to go about your way."

  Approval and applause rose from the clustered spectators. Relief swamped Betsy, and she wobbled a curtsy. "Thank you, sir. I shan't forget your fair dealing."

  Clark shook Brown's hand. "Indeed, thank you, sir."

  Sarah and Rose bustled over and hugged her. Over Sarah's shoulder, Betsy saw Fairfax step forward, his nostrils expanded. "Sir, I remind you her blood relations are rebel spies."

  "Thank you, Mr. Fairfax." Brown faced him, irritation flexing his lips. "Again, I appreciate the brilliant investigative work you've performed since yesterday, particularly when it comes to Mrs. Fuller's involvement, and I've commended you to your superiors. As you've a critical assignment awaiting you in South Carolina, I shan't detain you. The ferry is ready to convey you. Good day. God speed." The undercurrent in his voice was as clear as if he'd spoken aloud: Good riddance. Stoddard and Sheffield had said the same.

  "Sir." Fairfax made a stiff salute.

  Brown returned the salute, swiveled to Betsy and Clark, and bowed. "Good day, madam, sir." He headed for his horse, held ready by one of the Rangers.

  Sarah stroked Betsy's cheek, her gray eyes kind. "My sweet lamb, I'm so glad that's over. Coffee back home ought to settle your nerves."

  From the corner of her eye, Betsy noticed the approach of Fairfax. She faced the horses and tittered out a nervous laugh. "That sounds delightful."

  Clark crooked his arm for her. "Shall we, then, darling?"

  "One moment, Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan."

  Rose coughed out disapproval, her tone curdled. "Good Lord, what else do you want?"

  Betsy turned back around with reluctance, her apprehension escalating at how soft Fairfax's voice had become. Clark stiffened. "Yes, Lieutenant, what do you want?"

  Fairfax looked them over, and a midwinter chill scraped her at the soothing tone he invoked. "How fortunate that Colonel Brown grants the benefit of doubt where integrity is concerned, and your friends and neighbors in Augusta are so supportive. I presume I shan't encounter either of you in South Carolina. You see, that which is circumstantial often lacks little additional effort before being rendered substantial." After a curt inclination of his head, he pivoted and strode for the ferry and the soldiers under his command.

  Clark pulled her against him and pitched his voice low. "That tick-bitten rat."

  Her muscles twitching with the instinct for flight, Betsy clung to him and stared after Fairfax. Now her husband must see the folly of his assignment in South Carolina and agree to abandon the mission. Surely he must.

  Chapter Fifteen

  VISITORS PLAGUED THE O'Neals until past dinner, tongues wagging in curiosity and concern, preventing Betsy from discussing the move to Camden with Clark. He slipped away with Lucas after dinner to the White Swan, returned at three to the bed where Betsy napped, and awakened her with kisses on her brow.

  Alerted by perturbation on his face, she sat, pulled on her shoes, and grabbed her straw hat. Then they rode their horses north to the burned foundation of their house, where, in the open, both could see passersby on the road: free at last to speak without the fear of eavesdropping.

  Clark propped his fowler against the back of the hen house. Upwind of the bitter stench of burned timber, they strolled through the garden plot. He snapped a twig and flung away the pieces. "Why did you tell Tom we were moving?"

  She kept her voice low. "I needed to confide in someone."

  "I didn't give you permission to talk with anyone about it."

  She squared her shoulders. "I didn't give you permission to spy for the rebels. See here, we're in this together." She placed a hand over her belly. "All three of us. Let's not make decisions independently of each other from here on."

  His gaze measured her a few seconds. Then his shoulders dropped an inch. "All right. Exactly what did you tell Tom?"

  "That your uncle needed help with his business in Camden, and with our house destroyed, moving seemed like a good option."

  He nodded. "That's the story he told me. I'm glad you were sensible enough to keep the rest of it from him."

  Sensible. Betsy wanted to scream with irritation. She wasn't the party lacking sense, unless one considered the way she'd lied to Colonel Brown.

  "Have you told anyone else?"

  "I posted letters to Joshua and my cousin Emma this morning. T
hey received the same story Tom heard. We could use Joshua's company on the road, and Emma can help us settle in Camden."

  "Who else have you told?"

  "No one."

  "Good. Perhaps we can trust those three to keep quiet about it because frankly, I'm not sure we should go to Camden now."

  She gasped. "Oh, can you mean it?"

  He nodded again. "Lieutenant Fairfax is too close to figuring out everything. With a broken cover, I'm a threat to the mission. The Seventeenth Light must surely pass through Camden. I cannot place our lives or the mission at risk by going. I shall post a letter on the morrow advising my contacts of my position and alerting them of Fairfax."

  "Oh, thank heaven." Relief plowed through Betsy. She hopped across the plot to embrace him.

  He removed her straw hat and kissed the top of her mobcap. "And after what happened Wednesday, I imagine the redcoats in South Carolina will be on their toes for awhile anyway."

  "Wednesday?" She frowned up at him.

  "Crown forces under the command of Captain Christian Huck were in the Catawba Valley, burning houses and plundering plantations. Some of Thomas Sumter's men caught up with them early Wednesday. Huck was killed. His men surrendered." He dropped the hat back on her head with a swagger. "They're damned lucky we allowed them to surrender, what with the cries of 'Tarleton's Quarter' resounding through the land."

  Betsy shivered in the July heat. Tarleton's Quarter. Back in May, rebels had labeled the bloody victory of Tarleton's British Legion over Continental forces "Tarleton's Quarter." Her grandfather Will St. James had printed broadsides about the incident — crude pictures of a British soldier bayoneting a kneeling militiaman — before he slipped through British hands and fled Alton, bound for that ill-fated meeting with Spaniards in Havana.

  Clark stroked her cheek. "I see how this has distressed you. I can still do the Patriots good by continuing my observations and reports from Augusta. Let's stay and rebuild our home."

  Joy flooded her heart. She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him, not caring that it knocked her hat into the parsley. "Oh, thank you!"

  "I enjoy seeing you smile, sweetheart."

  "I'd smile more if we had our furniture back."

  He sighed. "I'm not sure it's prudent for all of it to turn up in Augusta straight away. For now, let's assume we won't see it again for awhile. I'm truly sorry."

  After catching her hand in his, he scooped up her hat, led her from the herb plot, and replaced the hat. He grabbed the horses' reins and picketed them out of sight behind the hen house. During his embrace, she didn't allow her disappointments and misgivings to spill into the response she gave him. But projecting the appropriate warmth cost her. Since Wednesday, her trust in him had decayed. Although he'd come to his senses about Camden, she wasn't certain what priority he placed on family safety. Ah, but surely trust could be regained?

  He nibbled her fingertips and whispered, "When we rebuild the house, I shall make certain we have at least six bedrooms to accommodate our multitude of children, my Betsy, my love. Mmm, your wrist, so soft, so delicious. Plead fatigue after supper tonight so we can retire early, and I can massage your naked shoulders abed."

  She snickered. "Safety agrees with you, my husband."

  "Mmm." He kissed her hand. Then he released her, pivoted for the edge of the shed, took a half-step from concealment, and jumped back behind again. "The devil!"

  She registered the stiffness in his posture. When he snatched up his fowler, she frowned. "What is it?"

  "Shh." He peered around the edge of the shed a second or two. "Stay out of sight. Don't make noise," he whispered.

  "Why not?" she whispered back.

  "It's that Spaniard I saw watching me in the tavern today. He's snooping in the ruins of the house."

  What Spaniard? Dear gods, not the same man tracking them the day before, the one who'd murdered the Givenses?

  Clark cocked his fowler and peeked back around. Wind sighed in pine needles. Hens in the shed gave occasional, soft clucks. Betsy peered around the other side of the shed.

  He faced the road in what had two days earlier been Clark's shop, his dark hair queued up beneath a broad-brimmed hat. When he swung back around, dark eyes scouring the charred remains, Betsy slunk for cover, chilled with recognition. Amid the ruins of their home, his face was just as cold with determination as it had been at the Givenses' shop and out in the brush.

  In half a minute, she saw Clark's shoulders sag with relief, and she heard the whicker of a horse on the road. "Good," Clark muttered. "He's leaving."

  "He's the one. He killed the Givenses and tracked us yesterday."

  "You're certain?"

  "Yes. Who is he?"

  "I don't know." Clark rolled his shoulders back.

  Betsy took a deep breath. "Casa de la Sangre Legítima."

  He sucked in a breath and gripped her shoulders, his expression belying the fact that he was all too familiar with the Rightful Blood. "Where did you —?"

  "Mr. Fairfax again. You heard about Sooty's murder? That Spaniard killed him. Who are these assassins? Why did they kill the Givenses and Sooty? Why are they stalking us?"

  Betrayal crawled through his expression. "Good god, they didn't tell me there were more than five of them. I-I cannot believe they'd do this to me."

  "Clark!" Her stomach roiling with dread, Betsy shook his arm. "Are your rebel 'friends' hoping you'll get killed by this assassin because they don't trust you?"

  "They didn't mistrust Givens and Sooty, yet now they've been assassinated. Perhaps Ambrose doesn't know about this assassin."

  Or perhaps Ambrose was allowing unproductive branches of the tree to be pruned. Clark was running out of people to trust. Fear galloped through Betsy. "We're no longer safe." Remembering the Spaniard's face so empty of warmth, she wondered where they would be safe. She reached for the reins and mounted Lady May without Clark's assistance.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To report the Spaniard's latest movements to Colonel Brown." A nudge in the sides sent the mare into a trot.

  "No! I'm your husband, and I forbid it!"

  The assassin who'd murdered the Givenses and Sooty was stalking them. Time to seek His Majesty's protection for loyal subjects. She reached the road without acknowledging Clark and encouraged her horse into a canter toward the center of town.

  ***

  Brown traced his forefinger along the handle of a teapot on the O'Neals' mantle. No tea had steeped within it for several years. Rebels who controlled imports turned their noses up at anything British. The Ranger moved on to regard the clock, poised on eight that evening. "Where had you seen the Spaniard before?" Face devoid of cordiality, he swiveled and scrutinized Betsy.

  He kept returning to the question, as if convinced she knew Clark's attacker. She squirmed, her lower back aching from having sat on the stool too long. The questioning wasn't going well. Brown seemed to have changed his mind about her innocence. "Two nights ago, when he left the Givens shop in Alton, and yesterday on the road back to Augusta."

  "What were you doing when you saw him in Alton?"

  "Riding with Lieutenant Stoddard back toward the print shop."

  "And on the road to Augusta?"

  "I was in the brush back from the road, of necessity."

  "What did Lieutenant Fairfax do yesterday when you told him about the Spaniard?"

  "I-I didn't tell him then about the Spaniard."

  Brown's scrutiny sharpened. "The Spaniard menaced you twice, and you failed to inform Mr. Fairfax?"

  She bounced a glance off the two Rangers in the doorway, and her stomach gurgled. Interrogation didn't sit well with her digestion. "I ran from the Spaniard straight into the capture of a bandit. It was horrifying. After Mr. Fairfax shot the bandit, I was too shaken to do more than mount my horse."

  Brown slammed down a stool before her and sat. His ever-present hat shaded the upper portion of his head, and his eyes trapped flecks of lamplight, making him r
esemble a night creature with a gleaming stare. Imagining scalped spots beneath the hat filled her with a blend of pity, revulsion, and dread.

  "You told your husband about your encounters, yet he hasn't filed a complaint about this scoundrel's activities. Why not?"

  "We arrived home to a burned house. We've been in shock."

  Brown braced hands on his knees, his gaze searing her the way summer sun beat upon pine barrens. "This morning I all but dismissed evidence brought against you by a fellow officer. Now it appears you lied to me, and he was correct in his assertions that you're a spy."

  She shook her head. "I'm not a spy, and I don't understand why our being attacked by a Spaniard makes me so. Spaniards support the rebel cause and would attack Loyalists."

  He watched her expression. "Casa de la Sangre Legítima."

  "Lieutenant Fairfax told me of this House of the Rightful Blood. What is it?"

  "It's an extreme faction dedicated to purging Spanish culture of contamination from the Bourbon French."

  She pulled back to focus on him. "An impossible endeavor, considering how long the Bourbons have influenced Spain."

  "Nevertheless, the faction has infiltrated this colonial uprising with assassins directed to murder those who side with the French or stand in the way. Your husband is part of the Ambrose ring, allied with the French, is he not? What is his mission? How long has he been a traitor? Who burned your house and stole your furniture?"

  Casa de la Sangre Legítima. The Ambrose spy ring. Betsy spread her hands, baffled. "I know nothing of these matters, Colonel. Perhaps the assassin mistook him for someone else."

  A smile swathed Brown's scorn with all the appeal of a pastry covering rancid meat. "Some of these assassins followed your grandfather, mother, and uncle all the way to Havana." That was news to her. She stared. His sarcasm tightened over frayed patience, and he straightened on the stool. While the clock struck eight, he waited for the vibrations from the final bong to fade from the air. "Where are your loyalties?"

  "I'm not a rebel spy, sir."