The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (3 page)

Clark touched the lettering.
 
"Dry."

Tom stripped off his coat.
 
"I'll help clean it off."

"Thanks, Tom."

Betsy recovered her mettle and
cleared her throat.
 
"Since the
paint's already dry, gentlemen, removing it can wait fifteen minutes.
 
I've a pot of coffee inside, and I don't
make biscuits every day."

***

Neighbors and their children
pitched in with scrubbing, even the Sweeneys and the Cochranes, Whigs.
 
Sarah and Lucas O'Neal, first cousins to
Betsy's mother, lent a hand.
 
Sarah
removed a second batch of biscuits, burned, from the beehive oven out back
before guiding a fretting Betsy inside.
 
"Off your feet.
 
I shall
manage."
 
When Betsy protested, her
foster-mother shushed her with a St. James expression she'd seen her mother
wear.
 
"The day will only get
longer, and you want the baby's cooperation."

Clark's friend, Lieutenant Adam
Neville, who'd arrived to investigate the crime, popped inside wearing a smile
and his Loyalist Rangers' hunting shirt and trousers.
 
Twenty-five years old, like Clark, Adam removed his hat and bowed
to Betsy and Sarah, manners impeccable despite having fought rebels in the East
Florida swamps beside Colonel Thomas Brown.
 
"Morning, ladies."
 
He assessed
Sarah's competence at replenishing biscuits, ale, and molasses switchel, and
nodded his approval to Betsy, his brown eyes warm.
 
"Listen to Mrs. O'Neal, now, and stay off your feet.
 
That's a hot sun out there."

"Yes, sir."
 
With humor, Betsy saluted him from her
chair.

Several off-duty soldiers and
Rangers — friends with whom Clark shared ale at the White Swan — arrived with
brushes and buckets.
 
Shoulder to
shoulder they worked: Whig and Loyalist, soldier and civilian.
 
They discussed the weather, crops, midsummer
fair, and new babies.
 
Nobody talked
politics.

Late morning, amid children playing
Thread the Needle and Prisoner's Base, potluck appeared on blankets in the
front yard — ham, squash cooked with apples, fruit pastries, molasses bread — along
with grandmothers who shooed away inquisitive dogs and flies.
 
By mid-afternoon, the Sheridans sported the
cleanest house north of town center.
 
Everyone shook hands and congratulated themselves on an event no less
festive than a barn raising — one that had, as a bonus, worn excess energy out
of several dozen little boys and girls.

In the dining room, Betsy pondered
what to do with the leftover food, when she heard Hamlet and Horatio baying in
the front yard.
 
Strangers.

From the window, she spied Clark
striding around front with his axe.
 
After grabbing his fowler and cartridge box, she headed for the front
door and peered out the window.

Their coats blazed scarlet by
patchy afternoon sunlight, their muskets resting across their thighs, six
unfamiliar soldiers sat on horseback in the yard gazing down at the
hounds.
 
Dust and sweat lined the men's
faces.
 
Betsy watched Clark round the
corner of the house and heard him whistle.
 
The dogs quieted and meandered to him.
 
"Afternoon, gentlemen.
 
May
I help you?"

A young lieutenant with dark hair
removed his cocked hat.
 
"Good
afternoon, sir.
 
I'm Lieutenant Michael
Stoddard, sent out of Alton by Captain John Sheffield.
 
I've business with Elizabeth Sheridan.
 
They've told me this is her home.
 
Do you know where I may find her?"

"Ah."
 
Clark gestured for the soldiers to dismount,
propped his axe against the side of the house, and shook the lieutenant's
hand.
 
"How do you do.
 
I'm John Clark Sheridan, her husband.
 
Betsy?
 
Hallo, Betsy!
 
You've
visitors."

A diminutive chill drifted up her
spine.
 
What did the soldiers want with
her
when they should be tracking her wily, old Grandpapa Will St. James, the rebel
who dared collaborate with enemy Spaniards?
 
Had they sniffed her mother or uncle's escape?
 
She set down the fowler and ammunition, walked out to Stoddard,
and curtsied.
 
"Good
afternoon.
 
I'm Betsy Sheridan."

Reins in his hand, the officer
stood at attention and inclined his head.
 
Her first impression, that he was but twenty years old, arose when she
spotted a few pimples on his chin, but she realized from the responsibility in
his dark eyes that he was probably three or four years older — of average
height and build, not at all an uncomely fellow.
 
"Lieutenant Stoddard out of Alton."
 
From inside his coat he removed a sealed
letter, which he presented to her.

She broke the seal, opened the
letter and read:

10 July
1780, Town of Alton

MADAM:

For the Purposes of Formality, I am desirous of tying up a few
loose Threads regarding this disturbing Business of your Grandfather, Mother,
and Uncle.
 
Therefore I beg leave that
you grant me an Audience.
 
You and Mr
Sheridan are welcome to join me for afternoon Tea on Wednesday 12 July. Please
accept Lieut Stoddard and his Soldiers as Escort.
 
I shall see that you are given a suitable Escort for your Return
to Augusta following our Audience.

I am
Madam

Your
obedient Servant

Captn John Sheffield

Mrs Elizabeth Sheridan nee Neely

Betsy reread the letter, noting
Sheffield's wording.
 
She wasn't under
arrest or being commanded.
 
This was a
social event, and her husband was invited.
 
Except for the presence of the soldiers, she sensed no pressure in the
arrangement.
 
Considering that
highwaymen often roamed postal roads, the soldiers represented a generous
gesture from Captain Sheffield.
 
She'd
wanted an excuse to go to Alton and begin her search for Mathias Hale.
 
Here was that excuse.

So why the twinge of foreboding?

She folded the letter.
 
"Clark, shall we have afternoon tea on
the morrow with Captain Sheffield?"

"Must we stay overnight with
your Aunt Susana?"

"It's just for one night.
 
Come now.
 
For that time, you can nod your head at her gabbing and bite your
tongue."

"Oh, very well.
 
I shall make arrangements with the neighbors
to look after the animals while we're gone."

Betsy smiled at Stoddard, who
relaxed for the first time in her presence.
 
"I shall be delighted to take tea with Captain Sheffield.
 
What time shall we away in the morning,
Lieutenant?"

"Look for our escort at seven
o'clock.
 
Thank you, madam,
sir."
 
Stoddard signaled his men to
remount and climbed into his horse's saddle.

Clark's smile was all charm.
 
"You're a man after my heart, Mr.
Stoddard.
 
Nothing like an early start
to escape the heat, eh?
 
And matters
must be blessedly slow for you fellows in Alton if Captain Sheffield could
afford to send his lieutenant."

"Er, no, sir.
 
We've some cattle thieves about."
 
Stoddard paused, and his voice flattened
with discretion.
 
"The lieutenant
formerly stationed in Alton is there through this Thursday, so Captain
Sheffield felt he could spare me to assure you of his good intentions."

Stay clear of Alton for awhile,
especially a lieutenant by the name of Fairfax
David had said.
 
Was the officer to whom Stoddard referred
Lieutenant Fairfax?
 
From Stoddard's
reserve, she assumed the two of them had had a tiff.
 
After all, one too many lieutenants in a garrison of only forty
was bound to generate some epaulet crowding, and officers rubbing each other
the wrong way was nothing new in the British Army.
 
But as she watched the redcoats ride away, foreboding prodded her
that she shouldn't have accepted Sheffield's invitation.
 
Alas, with the recent actions of her family,
she couldn't back out of the trip without generating suspicion.

***

She awakened deep in the sticky summer
night and found the bed empty of Clark except for the scent of his soap.
 
Recognizing the faint sounds of her husband
tinkering around in the shop, she wondered why he couldn't sleep.
 
Her stomach growled.
 
Maybe they could both use a snack.
 
She climbed from bed and eased open the
door.

A conversation in the shop halted
her descent.
 
What business had anyone
with Clark so late at night?
 
Had Sooty
Johns returned?
 
Clark said something
indistinguishable.
 
Then she discerned a
man's voice, Spanish-accented: "To Camden?"

"Yes, Basilio."
 
That was Clark's voice.

Wide-awake, Betsy sneaked down a
few steps where she could remain in shadow but observe.
 
Her eyes bulged at the sight of two
Spaniards headed for the front door, one carrying the cowhide boots.
 
"Luck to you, Clark."

Clark ushered them out.
 
"And to you."

Baffled and disquieted by the
visit, Betsy retreated upstairs and crept into the tiny front room, soon to
become the nursery.
 
The window
overlooked the yard and let her observe the Spaniards mounting horses while the
dogs circled, their tails wagging in recognition.
 
After the Spaniards headed their steeds to the road, the dogs
trotted back to the porch.

Clark shut the door, and she
sneaked back to bed.
 
In another minute,
he shuffled in, shucked his clothing, and sank into bed with a sigh of
exhaustion.

She considered what question to ask
him first.
 
Did Sooty vandalize the
house?
 
How many times had the Spaniards
visited?
 
Did they give Sooty the
Cordovan leather?
 
Where were they
taking the boots?
 
Why was a Loyalist
secretly meeting men from a country at war with Britain?
 
And to whom was he sending secret messages
in the heels of boots?

While she debated, he fell
asleep.
 
She lay awake staring at the
ceiling, instincts screaming that her husband had plunged into something very
ugly.
 
She wouldn't be able to address
it with him on the morrow, not surrounded as they'd be all day by British
soldiers.
 
But she must confront him
soon afterward and find out what was going on.
 
She laid her right palm on her belly, where she'd imagined flutters in
the past few days.
 
No venture was just
about Clark and Betsy Sheridan anymore.

Chapter Three

IN THE COOL of a morning mist,
apprentice Tom Alexander showed up to ready the horses.
 
When Betsy unloaded potluck on him for his
family, he gazed at her, astonished, and blushed.
 
Clark never seemed to notice how he got clumsy or blushed when
she was around, maybe because Tom wasn't offensive about it.
 
She'd considered fixing him up with a good
wife, but alas, there just didn't seem to be any suitable candidates in town.

The soldiers arrived at seven, and
the hounds howled and dashed about, frustrating Clark's attempts to control
them.
 
Tom chased down one scampering,
barking dog with rope and lassoed him.
 
The redcoats guffawed and applauded.
 
Tom bowed.
 
Entertainment at its
finest on the Georgia frontier.

Before Clark mounted his gelding
and received his fowler from Tom, he assisted Betsy onto her mare, Lady
May.
 
He'd strapped the package sent by
Miguel de Arriaga behind her saddle, not at all curious about the
contents.
 
The night before, she'd
removed identification from the box, hidden the letter in her pocket along with
the cipher, and told him, "Just some of my mother's things.
 
I'll drop them off at the house in
Alton."