The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (22 page)

Sarah took her hand.
 
"They're frightened, confused.
 
Most folks cannot handle a big
misfortune.
 
They resent you for
disrupting their lives with it."
 
She sighed.
 
"Folks do the
best they can to give comfort.
 
That's
where their platitudes come from."

"Their
best
?"
 
Betsy blinked back tears.
 
"Did you hear them?
 
They expect me to make them feel better when
I'm
the one who hurts.
 
And they
want it all fixed overnight!
 
My
problems won't be fixed overnight."

"Lucas and I understand. You
can count on us."

***

In the shade of an oak that
afternoon, the two women snapped beans in the back yard.
 
Sarah might have prattled about social
events and the weather, but she remained quiet, receptive to Betsy in a way
empty talk would have prevented.
 
The
tranquility she invoked enabled Betsy's thinking to clear.

Remaining silent and passive was an
option, but it wasn't a good one.
 
Lucas
had returned from the stationer's shop, unable to post Clark's letter.
 
Molly warned him that Rangers were
inspecting all mail for the Sheridans.

Brown was closing on her.
 
Betsy might as well already be in jail.
 
If she wanted to help her husband, she'd
have to take some risks.

Sarah brushed her forearm.
 
"Lieutenant Neville is here."

Adam strolled around from the front
yard, jangling suspicion through Betsy.
 
She didn't want to talk with anyone, especially a Ranger.
 
However, his face expressed condolence, so
she set the bowl of beans down and folded her hands in her lap to await him.

He bowed.
 
"Good afternoon, ladies.
 
Mrs. Sheridan, may I speak with you?"
 
Seeing the forbearance in her eyes, he added, "This is
personal, not business."
 
Sarah
rose, curtsied, and left, taking both bowls of beans with her.
 
At Betsy's gesture, Adam took Sarah's
seat.
 
"I cannot believe Clark's a
rebel spy."

She wished she could unburden
herself on Adam, but had she been in Brown's position, sending Clark's friend
to dig information from her would be a logical first move.
 
She smoothed a wrinkle in her apron.
 
"I'm as shocked as you are."

"Poor lad.
 
He's probably run scared, hiding and hoping
it'll all blow over.
 
Where did he
go?"

"I already told Colonel Brown
that I don't know."

"Do you suppose he went to
Camden?"

Why would Adam mention Camden
specifically unless Brown suspected Clark had gone there?
 
"This is a business visit, not a
personal one."

"I apologize."
 
He shook his head.
 
"I want to help.
 
Clark sees the best in people and doesn't have much bad to say about
anyone.
 
Most men at the tavern deride
their wives.
 
Not Clark.
 
He praises you for your assistance with the
books or skill with cooking.
 
It shuts
up the lads.
 
Few men love their wives
the way he loves you.
 
He has a good
soul in him."

She bit her lip and turned
away.
 
"Good day, Lieutenant."

"I didn't mean to upset you
more.
 
I'm worried about him.
 
If I found him, I might be able to mediate,
straighten things out."

A tear escaped Betsy's right eye
and rolled down her cheek.
 
Exasperated
for not containing her distress, she fumbled for the handkerchief in her
pocket.
 
Adam extended his.
 
She dabbed her eyes with it and returned
it.
 
"Thank you."

"Please help Clark, even if
you won't involve me."

In the depths of his eyes, fire
clutched for her.
 
Loyalists could be
just as fanatic as rebels.
 
She pulled
away, afraid to look further.
 
"How
can I help him?
 
I don't know where he
is."

He withdrew a paper from his tote
bag and unfolded it, his voice silk in the sultry air.
 
"We received a copy of this last week
from Camden."
 
He turned it to her.
 
"Does it mean anything?"

On the paper, three-digit numbers
were paired with words or names in columns.
 
Betsy's gaze swept the page, where it lodged on the number four hundred
two, the name
Cornwallis
scripted beside it.
 
Good god.
 
Listed above it
was four hundred one: Sir Henry Clinton, Commander in Chief.
 
Horror blossomed through her.
 
Four hundred three: Lord Rawdon.
 
Four hundred seven: Cruger, British
commander at Ninety Six, South Carolina.
 
Four hundred eight: Tarleton, commander of the British Legion.
 
The names went on and on.
 
Thomas Brown's name was there, too.

Her heart hammering, she batted the
paper away.
 
"You think to trap me
with privy military information.
 
Away
with it."

Adam seized her hand.
 
"Colonel Brown doesn't know I'm showing
it to you.
 
It's the key to the cipher
used by the Ambrose spy ring.
 
You've
seen something like it before?"

"No, never!"

"Something on this page looked
familiar to you just now.
 
I saw it in
your eyes.
 
Perhaps a letter Clark
received or sent, coded in such a fashion?"

She snatched away her hand and
stood, her nostrils flared, her body trembling.
 
"Good day, Lieutenant!"

His expression closed.
 
After returning the paper to his tote, he
rose.
 
"Forgive me for deepening
your distress, but I don't believe I'm wrong about your knowledge of this
cipher.
 
I want to help Clark.
 
I don't want to see him executed.
 
If Brown finds him before I do, he'll hang
him."
 
His face glowed with the
fervor of holy cause.
 
"If you
recollect where he went, send for me.
 
I
shall come in an instant."
 
He
bowed.
 
"Good day."

In disbelief, she watched him
saunter for the front yard.
 
So the
redcoats had decoded the Ambrose cipher.
 
How long had they been intercepting Clark's letters and learning rebel
schemes?
 
Perhaps they'd even authored
that letter from "Uncle Isaac" to lure Clark to Camden and capture
him, along with other spies.

She massaged her temple.
 
How the redcoats toyed with her, waiting for
her to break.
 
She'd no idea how much
longer they'd wait, but it was obvious she couldn't afford to remain passive
and under house arrest much longer.

The back door opened.
 
Astonishment shot through her when she
spotted Joshua Hale exiting, and she raced forward to greet him.
 
He grinned and caught his niece up in a
solid embrace.
 
"My dear, you look
exceptional for someone caught in a hornet's nest."

Sarah smiled and waved out the back
door.
 
"I told your uncle he's
welcome to stay with us tonight."
 
She ducked back in.

"But you'll want to head home
on the morrow.
 
I shan't be going to
South Carolina after all.
 
I cannot
leave the O'Neals' property right now."

"Not that anyone in his right
mind would want to go to South Carolina right now."
 
He linked arms with her and guided her back
into the shade.
 
"House arrest is no
fun, so I shall stay a day at least to cheer you up before I return."

"And I shall be delighted for
your company."

"Tell me, have you heard the
latest news out of South Carolina Spartan District?"

Spartan District was some
seventy-five miles northeast of Camden, but the way Whigs and Loyalists bashed
each other around, hostilities could shift any day to another district.
 
"I heard of a battle in which Captain
Huck was killed."

He rolled his head, loosening his
neck from travel.
 
"That was
Wednesday.
 
This started Thursday in
Cedar Springs.
 
Rebel militia under
Elijah Clarke lured a couple hundred Loyalists and British cavalry to their
camp.
 
About thirty-five were
killed."

She winced.
 
Colonel Clarke liked creating a stir.

"And Thursday night, Loyalists
who'd escaped Cedar Springs returned to Gowen's Old Fort near North Carolina
with some Whigs who were passing themselves off as Loyalists."

"Trojan Horse."

"Exactly.
 
Middle of the night, Whigs took the
fort.
 
Fighting and retribution are a
way of life in the Carolina backcountry."
 
Her uncle glanced around to ensure their privacy, withdrew a letter from
his waistcoat pocket, and passed it to her.
 
"I trust you'll know how to deal with
this
."

She stared at the name on the
return address: Isaac Sheridan, Camden.
 
"How did you come by it?
 
I
thought Colonel Brown was intercepting all of Clark's mail."

"My timing was
extraordinary.
 
While the lady who runs
the stationer's shop and I were chatting about you, the afternoon post
arrived.
 
That letter to Clark was in
it.
 
No sooner did she give it to me
than a Ranger walked in and inquired whether there was mail for the
Sheridans.
 
She waved me on my way and
told him no.
 
So there you have
it."

Betsy hoped Molly wouldn't be
keeping Abby Fuller company in jail, although from Joshua's news, it sounded as
though Thomas Brown had his hands full keeping up with the actions of rebel
militia leaders.
 
She broke the letter's
seal.
 
"Uncle Isaac's" spidery
scrawl greeted her from within:

11 July
1780, Town of Camden

My dear
nephew John Clark:

I
regret to inform you that I took a Fall yesterday Afternoon and sprained my
Ankle and Wrist.
 
The Surgeon tells me
Nothing is broken.
 
However, I am at a
Loss to run the Business adequately now, as my Accident necessitated my sharing
the Home of an old Friend, Samuel Taylor, until I mend and can get about
properly again.
 
Please come in all
Haste and assist me, at least for Awhile, with my Business.

I
remain Sir

Your
devoted Uncle

Isaac Sheridan

Not doubting another message
resided, invisible, between the lines, she reread the overt message and
pondered its urgency.
 
Someone wanted
Clark in Camden right away.

Who was Samuel Taylor?
 
The letter Lucas had been unable to post was
addressed to Taylor, also on King Street in Camden. "Leaving 15
July," Clark had written.
 
"Expect
me 18 July.
 
Blood follows."
 
Blood follows.
 
Yes, the Rightful Blood.

"It sure is taking you a long
time to read one little letter."
 
Joshua smiled at her over the top of the page.
 
"Unless you got more than one letter there, that is."

Betsy eyed the house.
 
"Actually, there may be a second letter
hidden here.
 
If we had a source of
heat, like a candle, I'd be able to show you."

Joshua studied her face.
 
"You aren't joking."
 
After groping his waistcoat pockets, he
extracted pipe, tobacco, and tinderbox.
 
"Time for a smoke."
 
He
began stuffing tobacco in the bowl of the pipe.

Betsy knelt and cleared a patch in
the grass.
 
In a moment, the two of them
had a small blaze going with the kindling they found beneath the oak.
 
Joshua lit his pipe and enjoyed a few puffs
on it, mingling the sweet smell of tobacco with the tang of wood smoke.
 
With him crouched beside her, Betsy hovered
the letter as close as she dared to the flames.
 
The Ambrose spy ring's characteristic three-digit cipher blued
between the lines of brown ink.
 
"Look there.
 
You see?"