"So I says to myself, 'Harry, today is your lucky day. Work the ladies up to the silk. Show them cotton, wool, and linen first. When they see that silk, they'll fall in love and pay your price, see?' Well, do you think I got my price, eh?"
While maintaining the expression she reserved for tea parties, Betsy wondered whether Harry ever shut up. Over his shoulder, she saw Joshua roll his eyes. "I don't know, sir."
Harry slapped the pommel of his saddle. "Them soldiers' wives argued over the silk like it was gold. I got quadruple my price. That was double what I paid for it. Was I clever?"
A bark of laughter escaped spindly Rob, peddler of deer hides. "Sure, Harry, you was clever, and it was the last time you was clever."
A surly look enveloped Harry's face. "You ain't sold too much lately, so you got nothing to brag on." He flung a look behind him at the carrot-headed herb peddler. "You, either."
"You hear me say anything, Harry?" The third peddler scowled. "Get off my back. Rob's too. Folks ain't buying much these days. Here in the Carolinas a man cuts his neighbor's throat, just because the neighbor looks at him wrong."
Rob gestured eastward. "Aye, and you cannot even blame it on them redcoats in Camden and Charles Town."
The herb peddler continued: "They're just plain crazy here. I ain't making another trip to the backcountry until this war is over."
Sullenness settled over the peddlers. Tom, who'd been riding in the rear, sent his gelding forward. "I take it you fellows were unable to sell your wares at the homes we passed earlier on the Augusta road."
Rob scoffed. "Last trip those folks was happily trading. This trip they told us to go away like we was banditti. Some of the houses looked abandoned."
"Come to think of it," said Joshua, "we haven't seen anybody else on the road today."
"Us, either." Harry sniffed with clear disdain for settlers who would forgo backcountry traveling, just because a war was on.
So no one had seen the Rangers. Betsy's intuition prodded her to remain vigilant. Adam Neville was coming after her. She felt it in her bones. "Not even out of Augusta?"
"Nope. Haven't seen a soul except you folks since we started out at dawn."
"Harry, look yonder at the road to Ninety Six."
They all gazed a quarter mile ahead to the crossroad, where eight men waited on horseback, a battered wagon hitched to a riderless horse with them. Joshua frowned. "Recognize them?" The peddlers said no. Joshua tightened his lips. "I know you lads were headed for Ninety Six today, but let's stick together getting through that group."
Betsy cast about wondering, as she was sure Joshua and Tom were wondering, why the two Creek warriors hadn't emerged from hiding to tell them about the men on the road. Were the men bandits? Unease prickled her scalp, the bandit attack south of Augusta vivid in her memory. If her party turned about and bolted back westward, she wasn't sure Lady May could outdistance the eight men's horses after a full day's travel.
The distance closed. She saw that the men wore the hunting shirts and trousers of backcountry folks and ranged from Tom's age to men in their forties. A day's beard growth and bloody bandages on several, plus grime on their rumpled clothing implied they'd just come from a skirmish. Her unease deepened. Each man carried a firearm.
Joshua trotted his horse to the front of the party and squared his shoulders. "Afternoon, gentlemen." He tipped his hat and rode through the intersection, making sure his rifle was visible. The men scrutinized them and said nothing. Betsy, Tom, and the peddlers rode by unchallenged, their firearms in the open. She let out a deep breath.
Matching the speed of their horses, the men encircled them, the last bringing the horse and wagon in tow with a clatter. A man paced Joshua, his expression steely. "Are you a Duffy?"
"Indeed not, sir."
"Where you headed?"
"East."
"I can see that. You trying to be a crafty fellow?"
"No, sir. I answered your question. We don't mind the company if you and your men are headed east also."
The spokesman and several others blocked the road, bringing everyone to a stop. "Holy gods," muttered one of the peddlers. Betsy stroked Lady May's neck with trembling fingers.
"I reckon I was too subtle." The spokesman pulled out a pistol. "You folks tell us whose side you're on, and don't be claiming neutrality. There ain't no neutrals here."
Memory furnished Betsy with details of a proclamation issued by General Clinton in the aftermath of the Crown's victory at Charles Town. Any man in South Carolina not swearing allegiance to the Crown was deemed a rebel, allowing Loyalists to identify and persecute potential traitors from among their own neighbors.
A nervous laugh spilled from Rob. "I'm on whatever side you lads are on!" The other two peddlers chimed in with gusto.
"Shut up, all three of you!"
A man to the right of the spokesman gestured to Rob. "I know him. He buys and trades deer hides."
"Yes, sir, I do, and they're the finest hides you ever —"
"Shut up. Recognize anybody else, Zechariah?"
"That one over there sells cloth. My wife got a decent bolt of linen off him this spring."
Harry wobbled out a smile. "I'm delighted to hear my customers are —"
"You shut up, too. Anybody else?"
"We bought horehound from that red-haired fellow."
Pistol still in hand, the leader leaned toward the peddlers. "You three, begone!"
Harry tipped his hat. "Yes, sir. Good day!" He kicked his horse in the ribs and sent it and his packhorse in tow back to the crossroad, where he broke into a gallop headed north on the road to Ninety Six. The other two peddlers and their packhorses allowed him little lead space.
Dust settled while the leader pinned his gaze on Betsy, Tom, and Joshua. His eyes were bloodshot, and black powder spattered his right jaw. "Now, we ain't never seen you folks before. What side are you on?"
Tom said in a quiet, firm voice, "A pox on King George."
One of the men tittered. "To be sure, that old fart is as poxed as a body can get."
"Quiet, Cain. They were guessing. They ain't Patriots. I wager they came from Georgia." He layered such loathing on the word "Georgia" that it seemed to hang in the air like swamp gas.
"Colonel Clarke works Georgia," one man volunteered. "Dan and Fred are from Georgia. There's good folks there."
Betsy lifted her chin. "We're from Augusta. What of it?"
"Thomas Brown." The leader spat on the ground, and several men followed suit.
Betsy felt her heart flip-flop. "We suspect a group of Rangers to be following us some four to twelve hours behind."
"Why?"
She took a deep breath and considered how much she dared tell. "The Ambrose ring."
Cain scanned her fingers for some sort of jewelry. A blank look transcended the leader's face. "The Amberly — What the deuce are you talking about, woman?"
"Since you've yet to produce the appropriate countersigns, I'm not permitted to release more information to you."
"Countersigns? What countersigns?" The leader cocked his pistol and aimed it at her, a scowl on his face. "You think I'm stupid, don't you, woman? No woman ever called me stupid."
Betsy gripped her reins to still the shaking in her hands. "Perhaps not, but your commander will label you stupid and then some if you shoot us and mire this portion of the mission."
"Jesus," said Zechariah, "she's a spy for the Continentals!"
"She's a lying harlot."
Zechariah prodded the leader. "Joe, the Continentals use women to deliver messages across lines. The bloodybacks don't think 'em capable of spying."
Joe waved his pistol at Joshua and Tom. "I'm not getting a word of sense out of her. Which one of you doesn't want his brains blown out?"
Joshua said, "You'll find us equally unhelpful, sir. Madam over there is the leader of our triad."
Tom nodded. "We're organized in triads. The senior member — Madam, in our case — is given most of the info
rmation. Our business is merely to see her safely to the end of her mission."
Even though he lowered his pistol, a snarl etched Joe's mouth. "Well, then, Patriots, we got Patriot business in these parts. You come with us. Then we'll take you to the captain and let him decide what's to be done with you."
"Sir." Betsy flared her nostrils with what she hoped looked like indignation. "Our mission is of the gravest import."
"So is ours. You'll just have to wait."
"We dare not spare the time to accompany you."
Joe pointed a finger at her. "Shut up and stay quiet the way a woman should, or I'll gag you. You understand me, Madam Triad Leader?"
Chapter Nineteen
PANELS OF LATE afternoon sun pierced the pine copse and bathed the cabin in the clearing with pastel yellow. Joe hollered from behind a pine tree, "Liam Duffy, are you home?"
A woman's voice rang from inside: "He ain't home, MacCrae."
"He ain't home because he's out killing Whigs."
"Too bad he missed your vile hide. Go away, or I'll use this here musket to fix it so as you never sire another beast."
Joe snarled. "Liam's found himself a whore!"
Musket fire from the cabin peppered the woods. Men scrambled for better cover and returned fire. One ball smacked the tree shielding Betsy. Tom shoved her flat. "Stay down!"
"How did you know the MacCraes were rebels?" she whispered.
"This is Loyalist territory. The MacCraes look out of place and were in a recent skirmish."
Joshua scuttled over to make sure they were uninjured. "These men are taking a risk coming out here. I'm surprised the neighbors haven't ridden over to investigate the noise."
Betsy shivered when the obvious answer occurred to her. Joe MacCrae had killed Liam Duffy and his neighbors in the skirmish and planned to exterminate the rest of the family. "Joshua, we have to get out of here."
"Suggest a plan. They're guarding our horses and weapons."
A ball ricocheted and hit a man in the thigh. Joe ordered his men to stop firing and collect kindling. Cursing low, Joshua brushed his hand over pine straw beneath him. "Dry as a bone. No rain here in a couple of weeks. He's going to burn their house down."
"But there's a woman inside and perhaps children with her!" Visions of her own house in Augusta burning rammed a knot of horror into Betsy's gut. "That's murder!"
More shots erupted from within the house. One showered them with pine bark and green needles, but Joshua's attention was elsewhere. "Listen. Crow caws. Do you hear them?" He lifted his head and cawed: three, one, two.
"Indians!" Tom lifted up on elbows. "Where are they?"
"In the Duffy's corn near the road." Frustration puckered Joshua's brow. "They aren't able to help until dark. Too late for the Duffys." The MacCraes had started a fire near the house. Joshua cawed several more times, and determination tensed his lips. "I told them to stay put for now."
A lobbed firebrand rolled five feet from the house and extinguished. The pitcher had better luck with the following two brands. With the left front corner of the house smoldering, Joe announced, "Your house is afire! Come out here without your weapons. I promise I won't shoot you in your front yard."
An infant wailed, and people coughed inside. Flames crawled up the left side of the house. An older child joined the baby in lamentation. Tears of helplessness and horror blurred Betsy's vision. Had the Duffys chosen to burn to death?
The front door whammed open, and they staggered out filthy and gagging: an elderly man, four women — one with a babe in arms — and five youths. The grandfather shook his fist. "You'll pay for this, MacCrae, I promise!"
***
The pain in Betsy's backside clawed up into her shoulders, distracting her from mulling over their fate. Although the MacCraes had smothered the fire, they'd bound the Duffys and loaded them into the wagon. Through early evening the party plodded westward. She couldn't stop thinking the MacCraes meant to murder the family and loot the home.
The presence of three witnesses hobbled such a scheme. Joe had allowed them to ride their horses but had bound their hands. She suspected their lives had been spared because he half-believed her charade about being a spy.
Close to sundown, at the deserted intersection with the Ninety Six Road, he halted and ordered two men to escort Betsy, Joshua, and Tom into the woods. Then he and the rest of his men continued on the road with the Duffys.
Lady May plunged after the lead horse into the murk of a pine barren on what appeared to be an old Indian track. Betsy's eyes grew accustomed to gloom, enabling her to maintain pace and avoid getting snagged on vines and low branches. Behind her she heard the horses of Joshua, Tom, and the second escort.
A putrid metallic odor intensified with each second. They emerged in a small clearing. She gaped. Joshua whispered, "Ah, no." And Tom gulped.
Torchlight threw garish shadows over the carcasses of dead horses and bodies and severed limbs of men laid out by half a dozen filthy men in hunting shirts. Three other men, their heads just visible, heaved shovelfuls of sand out of a mass grave, and one cupped a hand to his mouth. "It's about got ready, Captain."
Betsy was unable to block out the stink of death, blood, and feces. Her bound wrists thwarted her attempt to reach her handkerchief. She panted, and her stomach churned.
"What now, Malachi? This is no place for a lady."
The MacCraes dismounted and saluted a sun-weathered man in his thirties. "Joe picked these three up on the road, Captain. They was headed out of Augusta. Wait 'til you hear their story."
"Cut their bonds. Get them down off their horses and bring them to me." The captain walked away, shoulders sagging.
The MacCraes marched them, unbound, to the north end of the clearing, where the stench wasn't intense. By torchlight, Betsy saw the captain's horse picketed in the brush and could hear a brook meander. He studied them. "I'm Captain Ned Murray. Who are you?" A musket shot sounded from about a mile distant, and the captain glared at Malachi. "What the devil?"
"It's my brother, sir. Cherokee stalked us while we was scouting." Another musket shot echoed through the dusk. "One shot Hosea. Joe spotted them again and gave chase ten minutes ago. Sounds like he finally found them. We got enough to deal with here without worrying about savages trying to loot us."
Betsy's initial fear was for Standing Wolf and Runs With Horses, and she flung a look of despair and grief at Joshua and Tom. Then the shots continued, eleven of them in all, and she read in the faces of her companions the realization of who had been on the receiving end of those shots. She hung her head. Every one of the MacCraes deserved to be hanged for murder.
Captain Murray's face was granite. "Good work." He braced his fists on his hips. "You three, I require your names."
Betsy firmed her jaw. "Our names aren't as important as our mission and the Ambrose ring."
His eyes widened, and his lips parted in surprise. "Well, I'll be — Knight to Queen."
Damn, he'd given her a password, and she'd no idea of the counter. Better keep bluffing. "Knight to Bishop."
Expression emptied from his face. "Give the two men food and drink if they require it. See to their horses. I must have private conversation with this lady."
Joshua and Tom were marched away. Murray's shrewd look fixed on Betsy. "Hungry? I've small beer and dried venison."
She tried to consider the needs of the baby growing inside her, rather than murder and carnage. "Yes, sir, thank you."
After handing her a flask and satchel, he began a thoughtful pace back and forth. "The skirmish occurred about one-thirty this afternoon. We were sent on reconnaissance by Colonel Clarke and ambushed by Tories. They're all Tories around here. We prevailed." Well, that confirmed why no neighbors rode over to help the Duffys. They were dead. "I lost half my men and several horses." He glanced toward the mass grave. "Had it just been Tories dead out there, I'd have left them for scavengers, but the men and I felt it best to bury all of them. I hope the delay doesn't set us u
p for retaliation." He stopped pacing to eye her. "I must decide what to do with you and your companions."
She swallowed venison. "Let us go so we may continue our mission. Mr. MacCrae has already delayed us."
"You gave me the wrong counter awhile ago."
She tossed her head to cover her nervousness. "It was what I was given in my last correspondence."
"Blathering, incompetent fools," he muttered, "who never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing."
"I appreciate your caution, sir, however I have but three days to complete my mission. You must let us go."
"With all due respect, I must escort you to Colonel Clarke."
The last person she wanted to see was Elijah Clarke. Despairing that she wouldn't reach Camden in time to help her husband, she flung down the food and drink and frosted Murray with a glare. "Brown's Rangers are pursuing us." Murray's eyes bulged. "They won't pause to chat when they find you."
"How far behind are they?"
"When we were detained by MacCrae, no more than four hours."
Urgency tensed his face. "Thank you. I shall expedite our departure. There's Joe this moment, returned from dealing with those savages." He grasped his musket and ammunition box.
She snagged his arm. "It wasn't Indians that he executed. It was a family of Loyalists for whom he had personal enmity."
"Madam, do you know what you're saying?"
"I do, sir. MacCrae and his men weren't scouting. They were burning the Duffys' house. My companions and I saw it with our own eyes. Just a few minutes ago I counted eleven shots, one for each Duffy. They were murdered. As MacCrae's commanding officer, I charge you with dispensing appropriate justice."
Wrath chilled his face. From the complexity of emotion that followed, she wondered whether he were more outraged at MacCrae for his barbarism or her for exposing it. He snatched his arm away from her. "Attend me."
At the mass grave, men were shoving in horse carcasses and militiamen's bodies. The battered wagon used to haul the Duffys sat off to the side. Betsy shuddered at bloodstains blotching the wood. "Captain, he used that wagon to transport the family."
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 14