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

by Adair, Suzanne

  The worst she might have expected in Augusta for sticking to her principles was sharing a smelly jail cell with Abby Fuller. Now, in Camden, she had to live under the roof of odious Abel Branwell, who might, at any moment, dispute her marital fidelity with the husband she loved. And if that weren't enough misery, she'd need to stay on guard day after day, her nerves wracked all to hell. For if Margaret's confidence were any indicator, Lieutenant Fairfax would return. He'd been a satisfied customer.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "WHAT A MUCKING mess." Tom glanced behind, as much to gauge the angle of the setting sun as to make sure no one sharing the dusty road could hear. "Did you tell Margaret you knew Fairfax?"

  "No." Betsy mopped her forehead with her kerchief and scurried to keep up with his stride eastbound on a road rippling with heat.

  He noticed and slowed. "I keep forgetting my legs are longer."

  "We cannot stay hidden to avoid him."

  Tom shifted his musket from one hand to the other and flexed the muscles in his empty hand. "What do you propose?"

  "Approach Margaret with a story about why we don't want him knowing we're here. Ask her to alert us when he returns."

  "What story are you considering?"

  "I don't know. I've contemplated it all afternoon. Whatever we say, she'll relate it to the others and Emma, so we must use their gossip to our advantage."

  A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes after he considered a few seconds. "Let's build on the story we told the Branwells about our creditors. Fairfax is a creditor. I lost money to him at piquet back in June, when we visited your family in Alton. We agreed I'd make him a pair of boots to cancel the debt."

  "Keep talking. The story sounds plausible."

  "When he came to Augusta to collect, the house and shop had burned the night before."

  "Good. Margaret will spread it around, and you'll become the honorable fellow who intends to pay his debts as soon as he emerges from adversity."

  "Do you think she'll swallow it?"

  She grimaced. "Who knows? She was quite taken with him."

  Tom's expression soured. "Of course she was. He didn't interrogate her. Were she exposed to his tender ministrations, she'd avoid him like malaria." They crested a rise, and he pointed with the musket. "Yonder."

  The pine barren thinned southward to reveal land cultivated in gentle slopes. Presiding over miles of cornfield and pasture, several barns caught the setting sunlight. Smaller buildings phalanxed them. Oaks shaded a two-story manor on a hill.

  In Abel's office, Basilio had mentioned someone named Carter wanting storage fees, presumably for the furniture. She suspected they'd discover "Carter" owned the property surrounding the barn. From the appearance of the land, he didn't look like the sort who lacked for money, but Southern gentry weren't given to publicizing hard times, preferring to maintain a façade of wealth by selling off a slave here or a few acres of land there. "A fellow named Carter was asking for storage fees."

  "Then that's probably his land."

  They walked downhill and left behind the scent of pine resin to head south on a path. Cornfields swallowed them, stalks and leaves dull green from lack of rain. After another few minutes, slave quarters became visible through the foliage, then a couple of Negro women up to their elbows in laundry. When the women straightened to eye them and Tom's musket, Betsy said, "Where might we find Mr. Carter?" Her face shiny with sweat, one woman pointed toward the house, and soapsuds dripped off her forearm.

  They passed more cabins. Tom cleared his throat. "The corn is ready for harvest, but where are the slaves? Even assuming that most hands are working another field, I don't see enough slaves here to occupy these cabins. I certainly don't see enough to have planted all these fields in the spring."

  "I didn't see but a half dozen cattle in the pasture. Perhaps the fall of Charles Town wasn't kind to Mr. Carter."

  "That would explain why he couldn't resist an offer to store your furniture. The barn we want is to the left."

  Startled doves winged away, and a sonata of cicadas encircled Betsy and Tom. Corn cleared to reveal the north end of the barn and three other buildings. From one, the ping and clank of a blacksmith's hammer pierced the cicada-buzz, but otherwise, the area seemed deserted.

  Around the front of the barn, Tom lifted the latch to the door. He and Betsy stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. During the seconds it took for their eyes to adjust to the gloom, Betsy noted that the barn retained the musty smell of livestock, even though desiccated droppings told them no animals had been there for several weeks. They bypassed farm equipment and found her furniture, draped with canvas, in the northeast corner.

  She fondled everything she could get her hands on with a mounting sense of loss until Tom flung canvas back over the cabinet holding her grandmother's china. "Moping won't do you any good. We cannot carry it back with us. We need to find this Carter fellow and get to the bottom of the theft."

  The barn door whammed open. They pivoted in surprise. Four men backlit by waning daylight darted in and took cover behind farm equipment. One called out. "We finally caught you rabble stealing our supplies. Lay down your weapons. Put your hands up. And get out of that corner where we can see you!"

  Taking care to make no sudden movements, Tom dropped his musket and knife in the straw underfoot. Then he and Betsy walked forward with hands visible. A musket held ready, one man rose from concealment and slunk forward to kick Tom's weapons from reach. Bewilderment creased his expression at the sight of them. "Come outside where we can see you better."

  Outside, daylight made Betsy aware from the fine linen and wool on her captors that they weren't farm hands. After examining Tom's musket and knife, a man in his early forties swiveled his dark-eyed gaze back and forth between them. "You aren't the thieves we were expecting in my barn. Who the devil are you? Why were you in there?"

  "Are you Mr. Carter?"

  "Yes, Josiah Carter. And who might you be?"

  "Betsy Sheridan." Seeing that the name "Sheridan" went unrecognized by them, she pondered how to continue. "I was verifying that the furniture stored in the barn is mine."

  Carter shrugged. "What of it? It was delivered this morning."

  "Yes, and stolen from my home in Augusta last week."

  From the blank stares on their faces, she could tell the men knew little, if anything, of the spy ring's activities. Carter said, "Here, now, I saw a receipt for the sale of the furniture."

  "An estate sale in Charles Town? We've heard that story. I assure you the receipt's false."

  Tom shifted his feet. "I was in Augusta last Thursday morning at her home and witnessed the furniture being loaded onto a wagon by Spaniards. One of the thieves knocked me senseless and set the house afire."

  Another of the men blurted, "Spaniards! Did you see who delivered the furniture?"

  "Quiet, Jeremiah." Josiah Carter assumed an expression of diplomacy. "Perhaps there's a misunderstanding about the furniture. I certainly don't want any trouble. Why don't you query the gentleman who purchased it and paid me to store it? He's at the house right now."

  Betsy crossed her arms. "The obnoxious German."

  "German?" Carter stared at her. "He's Dutch, not German."

  Dutch. Of course. That puzzle piece dropped into place. Betsy and Tom exchanged a look of comprehension. Holland had sided with the Continentals against Britain. But Holland didn't have the resources of France or even Spain. The Stadtholder was putting himself out on a financial limb to ally with a ring of rebel assassins and spies, unless the assassination of British military figures furthered agenda for the Dutch.

  She said, "No matter what country he hails from, he's a thief."

  Carter's lips flinched. "In principle, perhaps, but professionally Jan van Duser is a surveyor whose grandfather was one of Camden's first settlers."

  "I will appreciate the opportunity to speak with him."

  "Then I shall escort you to him this moment."

  ***

/>   The mysterious Jan van Duser made them wait in Carter's drawing room for an hour. By the time he deigned to meet them, a slave had made the rounds of the drawing room and lit candles to banish the twilight descending on the countryside. Carter led Betsy and Tom to gardens behind his manor, where torchlight in no way warmed frostbite in van Duser's eyes. Two strapping fellows Betsy hadn't seen before flanked the Dutchman. "Mr. Carter, I require a private audience with these persons." Van Duser motioned toward the house with his ebony walking stick.

  Watching the nervous flicker of Carter's gaze over van Duser's henchmen slid fear up Betsy's spine. Did van Duser presume to harm them on Carter's property and still maintain his storage arrangement with a man who now suspected him of burglary? But perhaps Carter was pinned beneath van Duser's thumb.

  After Carter hurried for the house, the Dutchman signaled everyone to follow and strode into the gardens while his ruffians assumed position behind Betsy and Tom. Betsy sensed the tension in Tom but kept her eyes on van Duser.

  "Mrs. Sheridan, it surprises me to see you here."

  "Why? You stole my furniture. I want it back."

  He turned on them, much of his sunburned face in shadow. In one fluid movement, the henchmen pressed knives to her throat and Tom's. When she swallowed, the steel singed her throat. Fear zinged through her veins like rivers of fire.

  The Dutchman's voice filled with contempt. "I received the distinct impression from your husband that you were intelligent. Yet you and Mr. Alexander are about to have your throats slit. Hardly the move of an intelligent woman. Did you not understand my warning yesterday?"

  She licked her lips. "D-do you plan to tell Clark we were both murdered by banditti?"

  He smiled. Even by twilight it wasn't a lovely sight. "A horror of war, I'm afraid. Outlaws prey upon the innocent."

  "How do you think Mr. Carter will feel having contributed to two murders in his garden, especially since he already suspects that you did indeed steal my furniture?"

  "A few more guineas will ease his conscience."

  Horrified, Betsy realized she had nothing to lose by blasting van Duser with everything she knew. "With so much coin to throw around, you must be Ambrose. Do you plan for Clark to assassinate the Earl Cornwallis, or is Lord Rawdon his target? Who will Basilio and Francisco assassinate? The British won't be duped much longer by Abel Branwell's operation. What more do the Dutch get out of this besides assassinated British officers?"

  "Madam, I fail to understand why you never took such conclusions to the British. They might have completely unraveled our operation by now had you done so. True, they'd have thrown you in jail for complicity, but at least you'd still be alive on the morrow. Apparently you've as little love for them as you have for Continentals. I wonder that any mortal can straddle such a fence for so long. Surely you cannot stay on that fence much longer. When you fall off, I cannot afford for you cast your lot with the British."

  Bitterness clawed through her fear. "I don't expect you to understand. Issues superior to asinine causes inspire my loyalty. My husband's welfare, for example."

  The Dutchman frosted her with his scowl for almost a quarter of a minute. Then, after the barest movement of his head, the pressure from the knife on her throat released. In her peripheral vision, the henchmen backed off and Tom massaged his throat. But in no way did she feel invincible.

  The ring on his forefinger glinting golden by torchlight, Jan van Duser stroked a fern before addressing her again. "Your husband is not of your concern these days. However I assure you he's well."

  She drew a shaky breath. "I want to see him."

  "He's unavailable to meet you. He's performing admirable service for King George by escorting a convoy of supplies to the British base in Hanging Rock north of here." The smile slithered across his face. "They'll never reach Hanging Rock, thanks to intelligence from Mr. Sheridan."

  "Ambushed by Whigs," muttered Tom.

  "Yes. The supplies are badly needed by Major Davie and his North Carolinians. I expect the arrival of a messenger at any moment to confirm his good fortune. Never fear, I shan't allow Mr. Sheridan to languish as a prisoner of war very long."

  Something in his admission about Clark being a prisoner of war activated Betsy's instincts that a double-cross was in the works. "I want to see Clark, and I want my furniture back."

  "Madam, you apparently haven't understood your place in all this. Because 'asinine causes,' as you label them, don't motivate you, I'm convinced you don't intend to spill all this to the British, so I'm releasing you. During the course of our mission, Mr. Sheridan may initiate contact with you." Van Duser expelled annoyance, a hiss like steam escaping a covered pot. "His choice, but you see, he's a very busy man.

  "Be assured, however, that we shan't permit you to initiate contact with him, nor shall you have your furniture back, until our mission is completed. Whether you die by our hands or ever see him or the furniture again depends entirely on whether you can keep your mouths shut and cease meddling in our affairs. I advise both of you to not forget the feeling of steel against your throats. The next time we put it there, you will die.

  "Now get out. At the front door to the manor, you'll find your weapons. Take them and return to Camden. And do not give us cause to suspect you of interfering again."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  TWO BLOCKS FROM the Leaping Stag, Tom yanked Betsy around to him. Torchlight gouged concern into his face. "God's teeth, calm down!"

  Her voice hissed out, even though she realized passersby could eavesdrop. "Those rebels have ruined my life!"

  "Lower your voice!" He released her arm.

  With her next breath, she complied. "They've swayed my husband, burned my house, and stolen my furniture. And I'm neutral!"

  "If they swayed Clark, it was because he decided months ago to follow this course. Nothing you do will stop him. His fellows remind him of his priorities and prevent his straying.

  "And if they burned your house and stole your furniture, you've the company of thousands who've been ground underfoot by the injustices of this war. You cannot stop that, either. Van Duser can buy attorneys and judges who manipulate the law and perform perjury. You've naught but truth to fight with, and it's meaningless against legal perfidies."

  She glared at him and choked back the vile taste of her own helplessness and impotence, hating all devotees to asinine causes who had the financial backing to create victims of war from decent, honest folks. "God damn them all to hell!"

  Tom nodded in agreement, outrage flooding his expression. They both strove for self-control. His voice emerged low but firm. "We shan't find Clark until he desires it. We shan't recover your furniture until the Ambrose ring is ready to release it."

  "I want my life back!"

  "Forget about Clark and your furniture! They aren't worth your life."

  Joshua had said the same. She bit her lip and averted her face from him. Men didn't understand.

  "Our priority now is assuring your safety. Have you relatives elsewhere who might give you sanctuary?"

  Seeking her parents among the Cherokee might open the gates of hell on them all. Tom couldn't possibly know. Still looking elsewhere, she gnawed on her knuckle.

  "Who is it?" he whispered. "I'll see you get to them safely, I swear it, or I'll die in trying."

  "Tom, please, don't make an oath like that."

  "Why not? You know how I feel about you. I've never been good at hiding it. Nor have you minded my showing it."

  She turned back and held his gaze. Abandoned by her husband and threatened by his partners, only a conservative minority would blame her for seeking solace, protection, and affection with another man. In war, folks did what they had to do to stay alive. But Tom was being dragged to the doom of her husband. If anyone deserved an out, it was he. "I have a duty to Clark," she whispered.

  "Clark? He hasn't enough brains to come in out of the rain." The corrosion in his voice stung her. "He's like all the rest of those damned fools
out there, men without honor, men who leave families and pregnant wives to fend for themselves while they indulge in bloodlust and call it duty."

  Shadows covered his face. "Duty to what? To some hopeless cause? Whatever happened to duty to loved ones?" He grasped her shoulders. "You've lost too much. Where must we go to find your relations? I would at least see you regain your safety."

  She shook her head. "If we're caught, we shall all hang."

  His lips tightened. "Ah. Your mother and uncle aren't really prisoners of the Lower Creek. And your uncle did visit you on his way out of Augusta."

  She hoped that somewhere down the road she wouldn't have to justify confiding in Tom to Laughing Eyes. "Surely Colonel Brown has extracted all the details from Abby Fuller by now and even knows where Uncle David went. I cannot return to Augusta, or I shall be arrested."

  "Well, you cannot stay here. Adam Neville is en route spitting nails because you've slipped through his grasp twice. Fairfax will be passing through to partake of Margaret again. And if I were van Duser, I'd have second thoughts about letting us go. Abel Branwell just might ease the Dutchman's conscience by murdering us both in our sleep. Your cousin's whorehouse is no sanctuary. So where are your mother and uncle?"

  She studied him. "Uncle David was headed to Williamsburg, but he's very good at laying low to avoid a rival in cards or love. My mother is hiding with Cherokee Indians in the wilderness near Keowee." Could Betsy live among the Indians? Recalling her experience in the Creek village near Alton, she shuddered. "Perhaps the redcoats will move on soon and take the focus of hostilities with them."

  "The redcoats have held northern cities for years at a time. General de Kalb is in North Carolina with the Southern Continental Army, eyeing Lord Rawdon's portion of the British Army here. Rawdon's pacing nervously with almost a thousand troops sick of yellow fever and malaria. Cornwallis is scrutinizing them both from Charles Town. They're all bound to do something enormous and untidy soon, and on our doorstep.