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

by Adair, Suzanne

  "Betsy, you're with child. You need protection. Clark isn't protecting you. With his head full of Patriot garbage, I doubt he even knows how to save his own hide. You're only going to get protection from another neutral. Your mother's neutral."

  "I mustn't endanger her."

  "Cease being noble about this. If she knew the peril you're in, she'd put herself at risk to assure the safety of her only child and unborn grandchild."

  Betsy's throat tightened. Tom had met Sophie only twice, yet he knew her well.

  "My mother would do the same for me. Mothers are a special breed. I reckon you'll be that kind of mother someday, too."

  She swallowed. Perhaps she could manage living among the Indians for a short while, as long as Sophie was with her. "All right, I shall try to find her, but I haven't money to travel right now, and neither do you. We'll need to save money so we can get out."

  He nodded. "On the morrow I shall ask Mr. Wade about overtime. Sniff around, find odd jobs that pay decent coin."

  Betsy detested the obvious solution, yet it was a superb source of income. "I've time off in the afternoons. Little as I like the work, I shall present myself to the town printer on the morrow and inquire whether he needs an assistant with layout." She grimaced. "If need be, I can even pull the press."

  "Excellent." Tom's teeth flashed in a smile, and he took her hand. "Between the two of us, perhaps we can escape this hellhole in a month and get you to safety."

  ***

  After another night in a tavern throbbing with boisterous redcoats, a bleary-eyed Betsy waved Tom off to work on Friday. Then she forced down coffee and a biscuit and trudged back upstairs to tidy their room and clean the aftermath of bliss in four guestrooms. The night had intensified her feelings of loss and anger. Every time she ran fingers over the fine finish of Emma's furniture, it reminded her that she had no furniture or home. The furniture and home from Augusta were gone.

  So was the Betsy Sheridan of Augusta, she realized with a tremor of fear. Who was she, really?

  She envisioned Ruth Glenn sipping coffee in Augusta and saying in a sweet voice, "Furniture and a home are only things of this world. Lust for them but sets your feet upon the path to hell." Betsy scrubbed the very hell out of the guestroom floors, effacing good Mrs. Glenn, upstanding Mr. Branwell, and eminent Mr. van Duser. Furniture and a home were only things of this world until she was deprived of them. Then she recognized them for what they were — not just shields against starvation and disease, but keys to her own identity.

  Finished cleaning by ten-thirty, she proceeded downstairs with dirty linen. A delivery of rum arrived. When she knocked on Abel's door, invoice in hand, she found the door unlocked and no one within. Tom's comment about caution with Abel came to mind. She flushed it out with a scowl, daring the weasely accountant to make an attempt on her life.

  After shoving the invoice in her pocket, she marched in. Monitoring the hallway and the window, which faced the street, she looked over Abel's desk before finding the business ledger in the top drawer of a cabinet. Savoring her catch, she snooped in other drawers.

  The expected invoices were there: liquor, food, glassware, furniture, repair of the roof after a tornado, labor of employees. But she hadn't a clue what the invoices she found to and from "Messrs. van Duser and der Waal, Surveyors" and other men and business entities were about. A pity she couldn't put those in the hands of the redcoats to make sense of them, but she didn't want to implicate Emma.

  While poking about the third drawer, she discovered the key for the Ambrose ring's cipher. Hidden beneath the mattress in her room was the final ciphered letter sent to Clark in Augusta. She committed to memory the first ten number-word combinations from the list that followed those for the military figures. Then she replaced the key as she'd found it, closed the cabinet, and left, resolved to snatch future peeks at the cipher key.

  Emma was in the dining room talking with Margaret and Maria, a slim brunette. Betsy greeted the ladies. Her cousin beamed and hugged her with affection. "I just inspected the rooms. My word, but you've done a marvelous job this morning. Thank you ever so much."

  "You're welcome. Rum arrived a few minutes ago. I had the men unload the kegs in the common room." Betsy retrieved the invoice from her pocket. "Abel wasn't in his office."

  "I shall give him the invoice when he returns. He takes morning coffee on weekdays with two surveyor friends of his." Coffee wasn't the only thing Abel was taking with van Duser and der Waal. If the accountant kept a regular schedule, she'd have the cipher upstairs decoded in no time. "You look tired, dear. Are we working you too hard?"

  "Not at all. Tom and I aren't used to sleeping in a tavern." She flashed Emma a smile that she hoped appeared apologetic. "Taverns are noisy. So he's going to work overtime to see if we can save enough money to at least rent our own place in a few weeks."

  "I do understand, dear."

  "And since you don't often need my help in the afternoons, I shall assist him by finding jobs around town."

  "I admire you for working with your husband that way. A month will give me plenty of time to find a reliable chambermaid, although I doubt any could measure up to your efficiency."

  Betsy refreshed her smile and eased out a sigh of relief. One hurdle down. Emma wasn't going to fight her. She shifted her smile across the dining room to where Maria sipped coffee and Margaret studied them with those endless dark eyes of hers. "Er, Margaret, yesterday afternoon, you mentioned a client from Alton." Maria set down her cup, all ears. "He sounded like a soldier I know. Perchance is he Lieutenant Fairfax?"

  Margaret's expression didn't change, but Maria leaned over to her with a grin. "Watch out, Peggy. She's sweet on him."

  Betsy felt her ears heat. Margaret's smile grew seductive. "I wondered if you were the same Sheridan he was looking for."

  Fairfax expected her in town. Gods, he'd a demon's sense for investigation. Betsy tried to stay calm. "He asked about me?"

  "No. He asked if I'd keep my ears open for someone named John Clark Sheridan."

  "Oh. I see." Betsy swallowed, not at all relieved. "John Clark Sheridan, you say? I've not heard of him. I shall ask my husband if the name is familiar. Perhaps he's a relation."

  "But you do know Dunstan."

  Maria purred, and Betsy felt indignant at her implication. "Well, I'm acquainted with him. When Tom and I visited my family in Alton, he played piquet with the lieutenant." Betsy twisted her lips with fake remorse. "I'm ashamed to admit that my Tom lost more money than he should have. He and the lieutenant agreed that a new pair of boots would cancel the debt. Since the lieutenant was coming to South Carolina by way of Augusta, he escorted us back.

  "Unfortunately, we didn't have a home to return to, or a shop for that matter. Our house had burned in our absence. Tom's creditors descended on him like turkey vultures. While his intentions to pay off Lieutenant Fairfax are honorable, it's going to take us awhile to get back on our feet."

  "You don't want me to let him know you're here."

  "I will be grateful if you don't mention it. When he returns to visit you, let us know. We'll stay out of sight. Tom will get the debt repaid before the end of the year."

  Maria snickered. "You'd best find a way to keep your man away from piquet."

  Betsy rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh meant to sound forbearing. "You have the right of it there."

  "Ladies." Emma came forward. "If anyone asks for the Sheridans, don't let on that they're here. This war deals bad knocks to good folks. Betsy and Tom need time to recover."

  Margaret and Maria sealed the pact with silent nods that communicated they'd pass the word along to the others. Betsy wiped sweaty palms on her apron. She felt like she'd danced on a rope above a pit of lions.

  Sally entered and bobbed a curtsy. "Miz Emma, they's sent word from th' hospital in Log Town. They needs more linen. Rebels ambushed a supply train yesterday, and they's lots o' King's Friends injured right now needing bandages."

  Betsy stared.
Clark had been in that supply train.

  "I suspect they'll need more than bandages. They'll need some of Hattie's salve to fight infections, and willow bark for tea." Emma grasped Betsy's elbow. "Dear, can you spare a few hours today to help me in Log Town?"

  And place herself in a superb position to discover what had happened to Clark? Betsy threw back her shoulders with dedication. "You can count on me."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ABOVE THE SMELLS of dirt, horse, and scorched pork, the stenches of putrefaction, human waste, and vomit brewed beneath the blazing sun and bore down on Betsy when she and Emma dismounted at the perimeter of Log Town. They waited, sweating, in the scant shade of a pine tree. Guards secured their horses and inspected the contents of their baskets. Two privates then escorted them through camp to the hospital.

  While walking avenues of canvas tents draped with scarlet wool coats too warm to wear, Betsy smelled rum and unwashed humans. She heard pennywhistles and fiddles and the laughter of young men on a one-way passage to obliteration before their lives had even begun. Conversation paused in their wake. From the silent stares she and Emma received, she could almost hear the thoughts of the soldiers. Not camp women. Pretty. Young. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, even in broad daylight, even with an escort.

  Sutlers hawked fabric, ink, and tobacco. Wainwrights installed a new wheel on a wagon, and a blacksmith repaired a coffeepot. Her gaze pierced wood smoke to haggard women toting water, cooking, and mending, and ragged children darting out of the way of oxen hauling supply wagons. She wondered how many civilians in camp had homes to return to and shuddered to imagine herself among them, raising her child in squalor.

  The stench of death increased, and she saw canopies shielding hundreds of supine bodies. So many soldiers packed together, most still and quiet, some muttering or twitching in deliriums. Women in grimy aprons offered rum or water to those who were lucid. Flies swarmed over everything. How vulnerable the army was in Camden. There wasn't enough willow bark in all of South Carolina to accommodate such human suffering.

  Their escort waved them beneath a canopy where the groaning of men was louder and pointed out several men clustered around a bloody table. Betsy and Emma set down their baskets, removed their straw hats beneath the shade, and fanned away flies. "Emma?" A tow-headed lad of fifteen rose on an elbow and plucked at her petticoat. Betsy sucked in alarm at bloody bandages swathing his lower right leg, and Emma knelt beside him. "Peter Griffin, oh, dear heavens, what are you doing here?"

  He flopped back on a filthy blanket, his face twisted with agony, his voice a croak. "I left with the militia yesterday morning. Whigs ambushed us, tied us back to back, headed us out to meet Davie. Middle of the night, we fell into an ambush of our own men. They killed more than half of us. Couldn't see who we were in the dark. Got the fellow tied with me right through the heart. G-got my leg, too."

  Emma patted his hand. "Lie still and let the surgeon fix your leg."

  He rose again in terror. "He says the bone's too badly broke, and he'll have to take my leg! Don't let him take it!"

  "Mr. Griffin!" Emma rose, and she and Betsy turned to the approach of the surgeon, a blood-spattered apron tied across his ample torso, his two muscular assistants following him.

  "Noooooo!" Peter tried to roll up to a standing position, but the assistants were upon him. "No, I won't let you take my leg! I won't!" Betsy covered her mouth with her hand in horror, and a pallid-faced Emma lifted a handkerchief to her own mouth.

  "I'm afraid the leg has to come off, sir. Lucky you are that I have something to ease the pain. You shan't feel a thing, I promise." The surgeon motioned the assistants toward the gore-spattered table.

  "Noooooo!" Peter clutched for Emma before being borne away.

  The surgeon lingered. "Mrs. Branwell?" Emma lowered her handkerchief and nodded. "I'm Dr. Daniels." He indicated the baskets. "I appreciate the donation. If you can help here for a few hours, I'd appreciate that, too, and see you get an escort out. My staff gets one fever after another." In the background, Peter's lamentations grew gurgled, as if one of the assistants had poured something down his throat. "You know the lad?"

  "He's the youngest brother of one of my friends. I shall notify his mother."

  "Thank you. Bloody shame when I have to take a boy's leg. Damn this war."

  Daniels ambled for the surgery table flexing his biceps. Emma turned away blinking back tears. Betsy took her hand. "Let's do what we can for an hour and leave. This is horrid."

  Emma nodded. "If Peter's here, there are likely others from Camden also. Perhaps they even brought back the bodies of those killed in the ambush."

  "The surgeon looks dreadfully busy. I wager he hasn't had the time yet to catalogue the casualties." Betsy's gaze ranged across the shaded area, taking in men who were reclining or sitting. "No doubt you'd be helping him further if you recognized some of these fellows." Her voice trailed off as she watched an unshaven dark-haired man with a clean bandage on his left upper arm stand and look at her full on. "Oh, my god."

  Clark's eyes widened with recognition. Then a blend of emotions traversed his expression: fear, flight, frustration, furtiveness. She gaped at him, the realization that he displayed no longing for her or regret for the situation pinioning her like a bayonet in her stomach and halting her instinct to bound forward and cast herself into his arms. Her reflection in his eyes was, in fact, that of a source of betrayal. The bayonet of anguish twisted upward and punctured her heart.

  "Do you know that militiaman, Betsy?"

  She unclamped her jaw and felt the ache in her head bleed through her soul. Her voice sounded dead. "He's from Augusta."

  "Men travel quite a ways to serve our king, don't they?" Emma nudged her. "He looks none the worse. Go on over and chat. Maybe you can help him get word to loved ones in Georgia. I sure hope he didn't leave a wife and children behind."

  "So do I." Betsy wandered over to Clark, who gestured to the east edge of the canopy: privacy if they kept their voices down. In awkward silence, they regarded each other a few seconds. Betsy said, "How's the arm?"

  "A mere flesh wound."

  "You're fortunate." She turned her gaze away from the bone saw at the table and tried to shut out Peter's babbling. "How ironic. Young Peter over there loses his leg for his sincere devotion to the king, and you walk away almost unscathed. You look surprised to see me."

  Clark's lips tightened. "I am."

  "Or perhaps you're simply surprised to see me alive after your friend van Duser nearly killed me last night."

  He shook his head. "Jan wouldn't have killed you."

  "Of course not. He'd planned to tell you it was bandits who slit my throat." Doubt flickered in Clark's eyes before he doused it. "Just as he'd planned for you to be accidentally shot in the ambush last night, tied back to back with a true Loyalist in a defenseless position. Fortunately for me, van Duser believed my assertion that your safety was what motivated me. Fortunately for you, the ambushing men couldn't see well in the dark, and their aim on you was off by —" She eyed his injured arm. "— one foot."

  "I won't stand here and be insulted by you."

  "Our furniture is in Josiah Carter's barn. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Nothing. It's safe there. I suggest you leave it alone."

  "Clark, you may enjoy running around in the forest picking up ticks and stinking like a goat, but I want and need a home. In case you've forgotten, I'm carrying your child. I don't enjoy living off the charity of my cousin."

  "Then you should have listened to me and stayed in Augusta."

  She stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to believe how indurate he sounded. This was her husband? ...what a clever way to circumvent paying your most valuable employee. Marry her. Adam's taunt didn't seem far-fetched at all. "You've taken off on this damned fool cause and abandoned me. All my worldly possessions are in a barn a mile and a half east of Camden. You've ruined my life."

  "If your life has
been ruined, it's you who've done it by disobeying me and following me here after I told you to stay in the protection of Lucas and Sarah in Augusta."

  "Protection? Can it be then that you don't know I left town to avoid being thrown in jail by Colonel Brown?"

  "You're overreacting. It was house arrest. If you return, of course he'll throw you in jail for breaking house arrest."

  "Listen to me." She took a deep breath. "My Uncle David apparently spent Monday night the tenth with Widow Fuller and told her he might drop in on me on his way out Tuesday morning. Naturally the redcoats interrogated that out of her. So you see, it really doesn't matter whether Uncle David saw me on his way out. In Brown's eyes, I'm an active link to my uncle, whom he's certain is a rebel. Even a lamebrain would realize there was no protection for me in Augusta. After all my 'friends' began blaming me for your actions, I no longer even desired to remain there. So I'm in the protection of my cousin Emma, the only relation I knew how to reach quickly. And here in Camden, I find my only worldly possessions confiscated, and I receive confirmation that my husband has, indeed, abandoned me."

  He leaned against a canopy post, scratched stubble on his jaw, and sighed. "I didn't know about your uncle. I presumed you were here to harass me into returning to Augusta."

  "It's a bit late for that, wouldn't you agree?"

  "It's been too dangerous for me to contact you."

  "You don't realize the half of how dangerous it is. Was the Spaniard from Casa de la Sangre Legítima who chased you from Augusta the same who was found flayed alive several days ago?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you've Lieutenant Fairfax on your tail. He's suspected of flaying alive another Spaniard last month in Alton."

  "Ye gods." Clark swallowed.

  "You may also expect Lieutenant Neville to arrive in town hunting you sometime over the next few days."

  "Thank you. I shall keep alert for his arrival." An awkward silence opened between them. "I still hope to make this up to you someday. Will you let me?"