The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (48 page)

Mid-morning, word galloped like a
dispatch rider through town that rebel Thomas Sumter had surprised the garrison
at Fort Cary, killing seven and capturing thirty.
 
They'd also confiscated more than two-dozen supply wagons.
 
Rumor spread among the shocked citizens that
the redcoats couldn't protect Camden's residents.

Upon hearing the news, Betsy sat
down hard, stunned to realize that all direct routes to her mother were now in
the hands of the rebels, the ferry blockaded.
 
If she and Tom wanted to leave Camden that night, they'd have to head
east or southeast, toward Charles Town, away from the help of kin.
 
She wrestled with despair.
 
Gods, she didn't want to spend another night
at the Leaping Stag, and she yearned to be away from the aggression.
 
If only they'd left town two days earlier.

Having completed her duties early,
she saddled Lady May and rode out to Josiah Carter's plantation to pick up the
packhorse and pay the balance due.
 
The
roads were thronged with wagons, refugees, and soldiers.
 
In the midst of the horde, Betsy tasted rising
panic.
 
The monstrous storm that had
born down on them for weeks was going to burst loose in the next day.
 
In their desire to be prudent, she and Tom
had waited too late to leave Camden.
 
It
now looked as though they'd have to weather it out with residents, depend on
the redcoats for protection.

After stabling the sturdy old gelding
with Lady May and Tom's horse, she walked to Wade and Gamble's.
 
Tom guided her outside on the porch and
lowered his voice.
 
"Fort Cary,
Jesus.
 
We dare not ride west
tonight."

"We cannot get out of
Camden."

"We shall find a way
out."

"Do we have the money and
supplies to head east?
 
I don't think
so.
 
We cannot leave.
 
We cannot stay."

"Betsy."
 
He gripped her shoulders.
 
"Let's have clear thinking, both of
us."

"I am thinking clearly.
 
I think Gates will march on Camden
tonight.
 
I can feel it out there.
 
We have to leave now."

"No."
 
He held her gaze with his.
 
"I've heard he's still indecisive.
 
It sounds like he doesn't have a plan for
the morrow and will be sitting there when Cornwallis forms a battle line.
 
And if Gates sends that jackal Sumter round
again, I guarantee you the redcoats won't let him make off with more men and
supplies."
 
Tom enfolded her in his
arms.
 
"Listen, sweet Betsy.
 
We're in this together.
 
We'll get through it together, but we have
to stay together in action.
 
Are you with
me?"

Her face pressed to his chest, she
let the beat of his heart beneath her cheek ease panic from her.
 
"Yes."

His shoulders relaxed, and his
fingertips stroked her neck.
 
"I
shall be back right after five.
 
We can
assess where to go from there.
 
You've
already fetched the packhorse.
 
All
you've left for today is printing work and that meeting with Clark."

She nodded as if to agree with him,
but by then, she'd had enough of desperation, enough of watching worry carve
hollows beneath Tom's eyes.
 
It was time
for a leap of faith.
 
And she hoped her
persuasive skills were good enough.

***

Bledsoe the tailor wasn't in, and
his shop was closed up.
 
But it was
business as usual in the print shop, Harker and Saunders pulling off the back
page.
 
Betsy got right to work because
it kept her mind occupied, kept her from worrying about when Bledsoe would
return.
 
She found herself speculating
ten minutes later whether she'd ever be part of a print run again, and realized
she was going to miss the business of printing.

At four, just after they'd hung out
the last papers, Bledsoe burst in through the front door.
 
"Sumter's at it again!
 
This time he got fifty wagons coming from
Ninety Six with supplies and baggage, seventy recruits, and a couple hundred
head of cattle!"

Harker roared, "What the hell
are the redcoats doing about it?
 
Sitting around on their lazy arses?"

The tailor danced back toward the
door.
 
"I heard they gave chase
across the Wateree with a retaliatory force.
 
If I were you, I'd close up.
 
I've already sent my lads home."

"Mr. Bledsoe."
 
Betsy stepped from behind the counter.
 
"Please tell your friend Mr. Stoddard
that I must speak with him."
 
She'd
persuade Stoddard that bringing Tom along would be an asset.

The tailor stared at her,
incredulous.
 
"Madam, I shall do my
best to get word to him, but I doubt I can reach him with all this military
activity."

Dear gods.
 
Stoddard was engaged with the army and
unavailable to help her.
 
She'd been a
fool, indecisive too long.

"For god's sake, Harker, see
her to safety.
 
We'll have battle before
dawn!"
 
Bledsoe flung open the door
and ran out.

Saunders was looking at Betsy.
 
"He's right, Frank.
 
Get Mrs. Sheridan to safety.
 
You and I can finish up here."

Harker grabbed Betsy's hat.
 
"Let's get you out of this."

Through streets boiling with chaos
and summer heat, he escorted her back to the Leaping Stag.
 
He didn't tell her good-bye.
 
He didn't say his usual, "See you on
the morrow."
 
He just tipped his
hat and vanished into the crowd.
 
From
his expression, he didn't expect her back.

"There you is, Miz
Betsy."
 
Her face grim, Hattie
yanked her into the dining room from the back step as if she'd rescued her from
quicksand.
 
Betsy wandered into a common
room empty of soldiers.
 
"They
ain't comin' tonight.
 
They's all out
there."
 
The slave jutted her chin
north.
 
"Waitin' to get into it wi'
the rebels."

"Where's my cousin?"

"Upstairs in bed wi' a
headache."

"Come to think of it, I feel a
headache coming on, too."

Hattie's voice followed her up the
stairs.
 
"You want coffee?"

"No.
 
I shall just lie down for awhile."

She reached the second floor.
 
Maria and Dolly were chatting in Dolly's
room.
 
She slipped into the room she'd
shared with Tom for a month, closed the door, and began packing clothing and
personal effects.
 
The hum of heightened
activity outside intruded.
 
She tried
not to think about the tailor's warning of battle, focusing instead on Tom's
promise that they'd escape together.

Close to 4:45, when she'd finished
packing, she lifted the mattress and pulled out the papers they'd hidden.
 
She no longer needed the cipher key.
 
The spies were in deep trouble, their
operations disrupted, their mission at risk.
 
Best to destroy anything incriminatory.
 
After lighting a candle, she fed the translation and key to the flame.

When she lit the letter Clark had
received in Augusta, she realized the page below it was blank.
 
Frowning, she dropped the letter in the
plate to be consumed, flipped the blank paper over, and looked about on the floor.
 
Where was the letter Clark had written in
Augusta but Lucas had been unable to post?
 
She pulled up the mattress again.
 
The letter was missing.

A more thorough search of the room
proved fruitless.
 
She tried to remember
when she'd last seen that letter.
 
The
night she and Tom had translated the cipher?
 
Had she burned it with her mother's letter or the note Clark sent from
Log Town?
 
She told herself to quit
worrying.
 
Clark hadn't incorporated a
secret message into the letter, so there'd been nothing damaging in it for
her.
 
And she had far greater concerns.

Oh, how she hoped Clark would let
her go when he heard her resolve to leave, but she knew it wouldn't be an easy
parting.
 
A man could leave his wife and
go to war without a second thought, and other men would support his decision.
 
But let a woman leave her husband, and both
parties earned a wicked reputation.
 
Darling,
I should never have doubted your fidelity
.
 
Bah.
 
Why didn't he realize in
Log Town that she was through with him?
 
Get it over with, she told herself, and squared her shoulders.

She exited the house without
encountering the slaves and crossed the garden and yard to the stable.
 
The smells of horse and leather greeted her,
as well as Lady May's welcome.
 
Betsy
smiled and walked to the mare's stall.
 
"Hello, girl.
 
Ready to
travel tonight?
 
There's my lady.
 
I know I should have brought you a
carrot.
 
Perhaps next time.
 
Say, what's this?"

She plucked down a folded piece of
paper dangling from the beams on a string above the mare.
 
Unfolded, the paper revealed another note in
Clark's scribbling:
I must use extreme Caution today.
 
Meet me in the wine Cellar
.

"Leading me on a
hunt."
 
Annoyed, anxious to be done
with it and free of Camden, Betsy crumpled the paper and lobbed it into a
refuse bin beside the door.
 
With a
caress for the mare's nose, she strode from the stable.

Her first thought upon opening the
cellar door was to fetch a lantern, but she spied a source of light below.
 
Her next thought was far less tangible: a
whisper from instinct that something unpleasant waited in the cellar.
 
Indeed, the entire business of her broken
marriage was unpleasant, but she saw no way around the meeting.

Exasperated, uneasy, she pushed
aside her hesitation and proceeded down the stairs.
 
"Hullo?
 
It's
Betsy."
 
Following the light took
her to the end of the second aisle and a lantern propped on the bench she'd
used to reach bottles stored high.
 
To
the left of the lantern was a fresh red rose in an earthenware vase.
 
Dejection prodded her.
 
How like Clark to imagine a romantic rose
would help him negotiate.

She noticed a straight-backed chair
against the wall to the left of the bench and a musket propped between the wall
and chair.
 
A woolen blanket rested on
the seat of the chair.
 
She picked up
the blanket by the corner.
 
As it
unrolled she spotted rope beneath it, two pistols, and a bayonet.
 
Her gaze swept back over the musket and a
saber near it.
 
Saber.
 
Cavalry.
 
Dragoons.

Hairs on the back of her neck began
a slow polarization.
 
She dropped the
blanket.
 
Scent released from it: dark,
humid, savage.
 
Every muscle tensing for
flight, she spun around.

His laugh rich with joy, Lieutenant
Fairfax stepped into her aisle from the shadows of the third aisle, one hand on
his hip.
 
"Darling, I should never
have doubted your fidelity."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

HE ALLOWED HER to reach the steps
before giving chase, as if holding off pursuit were the better part of sport
for him.
 
On the third step, he snagged
her by the waist.
 
She punched his
shoulder.
 
He pinned her arms and
reduced her to a portable, wiggling mass.

Hauled back down the second aisle,
she shrieked.
 
"Help!
 
Hattie!
 
Sally!
 
Help me!"
 
But no one could hear her in the bowels of
the Branwells' wine cellar, just as no one had heard Jan van Duser's screams
when his hand was severed.