Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  A bubble of real hope and not mere wishful thinking swelled inside her for the first time since Brendan’s capture. “I shall and, regardless of the outcome, I shall never forget your friendship and assistance.”

  “Always been yur friend, Willa,” he returned with a self-conscious smile, “an’ always be. Jes’ be careful. Don’ you take no chances an’ stick yur pretty neck in some place it can’ squirm loose.” He waved off her protest when she moved to speak. “Already knows what you be fixin’ ta say. I knows you kin take care’a yurself. Taught you maself, didn’ I?”

  Like mist driven before a gale, two horses, one chestnut and one brown-and-white paint, flowed over the countryside in the darkest hours before dawn. The horses seemed to sense their riders’ desperation and threw their hearts and flashing hooves into the flight. Sentries burst out of Sockee Swamp to challenge them on the morning of the second day. But the tale of Captain Ford’s lady had spread through the encampment since Willa’s last visit, and Plato was no stranger to Marion’s men. The militiamen led them without hesitation through the tricky, concealed entrance to Snow Island.

  For the first time, Willa obtained an unimpeded view of the camp. Its location was genius—nearly impossible to find and easy to defend. As they rode toward the general’s shelter, men along the way set aside their tasks to smile and wave as though she were an honored guest rather than the woman who had imprisoned Brendan Ford.

  General Marion waited at the entrance to his lean-to as if he expected them. When Willa dismounted, he strode out and bowed over her hand, pressing it lightly. “Miss Bellingham,” he said with welcome in his voice. “I anticipated your arrival two days ago. But now that you are here, let us waste no time.”

  Willa followed the general into his shelter. She trusted Marion’s men would refrain from shooting her before she could speak to Marion, but she did not foresee a warm reception. She was the enemy, the one who drew Brendan into a trap set for the Swamp Fox himself. She was guilty as charged.

  She and Plato seated themselves before Marion’s desk, and the general minced no words. “You seek my aid to rescue Captain Ford.”

  “How did you know?” she asked with a gasp.

  “I know a good many things, Miss Bellingham. I’m aware of Major Digby’s penchant for stretching the truth. And I have seen how greatly you care for Captain Ford. My informants and my instincts assure me that you participated in the captain’s capture under duress. But I have no desire to spend our time discussing old history. We must find a way to relieve the British command of the burden of Captain Ford before they remove him to Charles Town.”

  Willa sent a smile to Plato and turned her head when another man, virtually as tall as Brendan but twice as wide, entered the lean-to. He eased down on a brass-bound wooden trunk along the wall. His belly, covered by a stained woolen shirt, protruded over his belt. Thin brown hair crept down to his shoulders from the bald spot at the top of his head. When he smiled, he revealed teeth yellowed by tobacco and blackened at the gums from poor care.

  Marion gestured to indicate the newcomer. “Allow me introduce you to Corporal Seamus MacGovern. The corporal held employment as a guard at the Georgetown garrison until recently. Unfortunately, another guard took umbrage at the corporal’s democratic leanings, and Seamus was obliged to flee for his life. Corporal MacGovern has intimate knowledge of the fort’s layout and is likely to know where we can find Captain Ford.”

  Willa’s nostrils flared with the foul odor clinging to the corporal, but she gave him a polite smile, then turned back to Marion. “Have you anyone currently inside the fort?”

  “Indeed we had, until a few days ago,” he replied with an ironic twist to his mouth. “That would be Captain Ford.”

  Willa’s cheeks burned. “I see,” she said softly.

  Marion switched his attention to the corporal. “Kindly instruct us in what we should know, Seamus.”

  MacGovern cleared his throat and spit a wad of tobacco into the corner of the tent. A red flush crept over the man’s face when Marion coughed softly behind his hand. The corporal faced Willa and hung his head. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He had a low, melodious voice, fully the opposite of what she had expected from his appearance. MacGovern described the fort and guards as he slouched against the wall. “I reckon they put Ford in the empty room above the officers’ quarters. They use it from time to time to house special prisoners. It ain’t much, but it’s better than the cells on a prison hulk. The location is tricky, on the second floor of a building in the center of the fort. One window, chained shut, and I’d lay odds they’ve got Ford in chains, too. Missus MacGovern, she’s my sister-in-law, not my wife,” he explained in an aside to Willa, “told me they got that fort buttoned up tighter than a preacher’s britches, begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  Willa could not help but notice her gender was causing the poor man anxiety and slowing down his account. “Never you mind, Mister MacGovern. My ears are not that delicate. Please speak freely. My only concern is in releasing Captain Ford.”

  He gave her a crooked grin. “Thanks, ma’am. Ain’t been around too many ladies. As I was saying, the fort is tight right now. Got ten or twelve guards, some of them real bruisers. Daggert, he’s an animal. Likes to apply the whip and would slit your throat with one hand while eating dinner with the other.”

  Willa clenched her teeth to hold her tongue, and the muscles of her belly knotted. That the guards might whip or mistreat Brendan had not crossed her mind, though knowing Digby’s nature it should have.

  “They brought in another twenty men from the countryside to secure the fort,” MacGovern said. “Getting inside’ll be difficult.”

  “Thank you, Corporal, and please stay,” Marion said when Seamus began to rise. Marion looked at Willa. “I suspect you have some ideas to bring to the table. Would you care to share them with us now?”

  She blinked. As a woman in a male-dominated society, having a man solicit her opinion ranked as a rare occurrence. “With so many guards, I doubt we can assault the fort directly,” she said. She went on when Marion inclined his head. “I can mix potions. My maid, Jwana, is from Hispaniola. She taught me the medicinal uses for plants growing in the swamps. Should we find a way to administer it, I could prepare a strong purge that will focus the garrison’s guards on the latrines rather than on their prisoner. While the redcoats and guards are … incapacitated, we can release Major Ford.” She sent the general a questioning glance.

  He answered her query with a smile. “A decent plan. Have you a suggestion on how to distribute the potion?”

  “In liquor?” she proposed. “One of your men could gift the guards at the gate with a flask of panther’s breath.”

  MacGovern shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said and gave Willa a look of abject apology. “Don’t mean about the potion, ma’am. Guess that’d work right good. But even if the guards accepted the liquor, and they might not, seeing as they’ve been told to expect an escape attempt, they’d keep it for themselves. Maybe then we could get in, but the soldiers inside the walls would shoot us down like mad dogs afore we even made it to the officers’ quarters.”

  Willa pondered their quandary again and gazed out at men shuffling past the tent, their booted feet soft on the bare earth. An odor of cornbread drifted in through the front opening. She heard Marion, MacGovern, and Plato talking in low voices, looking for their own solution. An idea came to her, and she leaned toward MacGovern. “How are the soldiers and prisoners fed?”

  He turned his eyes to her. “MacGovern’s Tavern, my brother’s business, delivers meals twice a day for the officers and prisoners of rank. The commander likes Gwen’s cooking. The common soldiers have their own cook and mess. What’s left over goes to the lower-ranking prisoners.”

  She straightened and clenched her hands in her lap. “Well, we certainly cannot thrust your brother and sister-in-law into harm’s way by throwing suspicion on them,” she said firmly. “After Brendan’s escape, Major Digby wi
ll be hot for the blood of any coconspirators. It would not work in any case, because all the men do not eat the same food.” She fixed her eyes on him again. “What about water? Where does the fort obtain its drinking water? Surely every man must drink some water each day.”

  A frown pulled down MacGovern’s thin lips. “There’s a cistern, but it’s inside the fort in a courtyard beside the commander’s office. And the cover is padlocked.”

  “Who has custody of the key?”

  “The ranking guard at the front gate. That way it’s easy to access when they need it. But even if you could steal the key from the guard, someone would still have to get inside to open the cistern and poison the water.” He lifted a sparse brow at Willa. “That’s what you’re planning to do, ain’t it, ma’am?”

  She sent him a smile. “Indeed, Mister MacGovern. That is exactly what I plan to do.”

  “You?” Plato asked from beside her. He shook his head. “Don’ know if’n I agree wid dat. What would yur pa think ‘bout yur puttin’ yurself in danger?”

  The look she gave him was resolute. “He would think I was as clever and resourceful as any male.”

  “I concur, Miss Bellingham,” Marion put in. “I’m of the opinion you are as clever, resourceful, and courageous as any of my men. I wonder, however, should you succeed in entering the fort, opening the cistern, and dropping in the potion, will the mixture be strong enough to do its work?”

  Willa allowed her gaze to touch upon each man. “I shall make certain it is.”

  Chapter 28

  The winter sun began its slide toward the western horizon when a grubby Negro boy dressed in rags strutted down Front Street toward the garrison. He stopped to pull up his baggy trousers and give a sharp tug on his floppy hat. When he reached the front gate, Sergeant Waters gave him a warning glance to keep on moving and turned back to his conversation with the corporal standing beside him.

  The boy’s filth-encrusted hand tugged at the sergeant’s arm.

  “Take yourself off,” Waters said with a snarl. He raised a threatening hand.

  “Hey, hey,” the boy protested. He sniffed loudly and wiped an arm across his face to smear another coating of dirt over his features. “Jes’ doin’ ma job. Wot you got agin’ a body doin’ his job?”

  Waters laughed and jabbed an elbow into his companion’s side. “What sort of job do you suppose this maggot has? Thief? Pickpocket? Pimp? Here, boy, d’you have a sister at home whom you sell to anyone with a few pence? From the looks of you, I would venture she’s pox-ridden and crawling with lice.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Try your luck elsewhere; we prefer our women clean and free of disease.”

  “Ain’t ma job,” the boy insisted with an air of indignation on his young face. He dug into one pocket of his jacket to pull out a startlingly white piece of stationery and hold it up in a grimy hand. “Dis be.”

  “Let me see that.”

  “No,” the boy yelled. “I don’ get no coin ‘less’n I deliver it ta de boss man.” He nodded solemnly. The floppy hat fell forward over his brown eyes to reveal dark hair plaited into cornrows. He shoved it back. “Dat be wot she says. Says I gots ta put it right in his hands.”

  “She did, eh?” Waters winked at Corporal Smith.

  The boy’s dark eyes were guileless. “Yeah. Dat be wot she says a’right. Says it be ‘portant. De boss man be ‘spectin’ it. Says he be awful pissed if’n anyone else read it. Course I can’ read, so she ain’t worryin’ none ‘bout me.” He tilted the wax-sealed letter to the light from the lanterns hanging beside the gate. “Wot it say?”

  The sergeant leaned forward to make out the words written on expensive paper, the handwriting a delicate, feminine hand. It oozed a scent of French perfume. “'Tis addressed to the garrison commander and says ‘private.’”

  The boy screwed up his face. “Private? Wot dat mean?”

  Waters scowled. “It means ‘tis private, you ignorant maggot.”

  “Don’ matter none.” The boy pulled back his thin shoulders. “I gots ta take dis ta him so I kin get ma coin.”

  The sergeant made a grab for the letter. “I’ll take it to him.”

  “No,” the boy said, jerking back his hand. “I tole you. I gots ta do it. You don’ listen too good.”

  Sergeant Waters slipped his musket off his shoulder and held it in two hands across his chest. “No one enters without a pass. We’re standing special guard duty. The garrison is holding a dangerous prisoner.”

  The boy blew out a sigh redolent with onion. “She says you be sayin’ dat, so she gives me a pass ta give you. But it don’ look like no pass I ever seen.” He rummaged through his pockets again.

  The sergeant sent an amused glance to Corporal Smith, who crossed his arms in front of him and relaxed with one shoulder reclining against the gate. When the boy pulled out a flask, the sergeant looked at it greedily. He took it from the boy’s hands. The initials “M J B” were engraved on its silver surface in fancy script. He uncapped it and took a whiff of the contents. French brandy.

  “Did you steal this?” A glower firmed his mouth. “'Tis worth a bloody fortune.”

  The boy held up his hands. “Ain’t stole not’in'. Missus Bellingham, she gives it ta me ta give you. If’n I done stole it, you think I be wavin’ it under yur nose?”

  “Bellingham?” Waters echoed. He and others in the fort knew Marlene well as Major Digby’s mistress. It seemed she desired to aim higher, all the way to the commander, now that her husband was dying.

  “Whoops,” the boy said. He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Now I be in a pickle. Ain’t suppose ta be sayin’ her name.”

  The sergeant grinned and pocketed the flask. “Okay. I’ll take you to the commander.”

  The boy’s smile showed blinding white teeth.

  “What’s that?” Smith asked as he straightened and pointed down the street to where smoke billowed from the Anglican church, which stabled the command horses.

  Waters shot a glance in that direction. “Check on it,” he ordered. “One of us has to remain here.”

  With a rueful look at the flask in Waters’s pocket, Corporal Smith sprinted off toward the church.

  Waters turned back to the boy. “Run off now.”

  “You says you be takin’ me ta de boss man,” the urchin yelled. He launched himself at Waters and wrapped his skinny arms around the man’s waist.

  “Hey, you!” Waters plucked the boy off him and tossed him to one side. “Come back later. Can you not see I’m busy now?”

  When the boy slunk away and around the side of the fort, Sergeant Waters pulled the stopper from the flask and guzzled brandy while he watched the commotion at the church.

  Willa flattened her back to the fort wall, the key to the cistern clutched in her hand. She shoved it into her pocket and waited. The potion would take effect in about ten minutes.

  They planned to move him to Charles Town in the morning. Digby had stripped off as much of his flesh as possible without killing him outright, but Ford was barely aware of his condition. The fever gripped him yesterday with Lucifer’s gnarled fingers. Or was it the day before? He struggled to concentrate, to clear his mind in the event an opportunity arose for escape. But that possibility was as likely as Willa herself showing up in the garrison. The fever was playing tricks on him again.

  Thoughts of Willa brought back the previous night, when he believed he saw Willa and Digby in his cell, embracing and laughing at him. He frowned and squinted his eyes. The woman had blond hair, not soft brown like Willa’s. Their laughter ended and they argued. He heard something concerning Colonel Bellingham, something about poison, but his raging fever garbled their voices, making them difficult to comprehend. Marlene, he suddenly remembered. The woman was Marlene, not Willa. When he sighed, it sounded like a moan.

  Digby thought to make a spectacle of him in Charles Town. He nearly laughed. It lodged in his chest. He would never make it to the gallows alive. Hell, he could be dead already. He no lo
nger felt the pain, so that must be the case. He was dead, thank God. In his ghostly state, he heard the Grim Reaper knocking against the wooden shutters.

  In the dim twilight, Willa flitted as silently as an owl on wing through the fort. She remained in the shadows from the buildings’ overhanging roofs and pools of darkness along the fort walls as she made her way to the commander’s office, relying on the map provided by Seamus, which she kept securely in her head. She very nearly fell over the cistern. Covered by a wooden slab padlocked at one edge, it jutted up two feet above the ground.

  After extracting the key from her pocket, she unlocked the cover and heaved it to one side. Inside her shirt, pinned to the binding flattening her breasts, were packets of mixed green sprouts from unripe potatoes, water hemlock, pokeweed, and a tiny amount of panther mushroom. Several pins had worked their way loose and pricked her skin when she grappled with the sergeant to lift the key from his belt, and now blood dotted the shirt fabric. But so much mud splattered its surface, the blood would go unnoticed by all but the keenest eye. And she had no intention of being seen by anyone.

  She unpinned the packets and emptied the crushed plants into the cistern, praying the volume of water would dilute the poison enough to sicken and not kill the soldiers. Supper was at six, an hour from now. Seamus had instructed Gwen MacGovern and her daughter to empty Brendan’s water, by kicking over his bucket should it become necessary, and refill it from a bottle of untainted water they would carry with them. Willa doubted he received fresh water every day; however, she had no desire for her concoction to poison him, too.

  All the men should have imbibed the water and taken themselves off to the latrines by ten o’clock. Purging their bodies of the poison would occupy them all night. She smiled when she pictured the pandemonium in the rush to empty their bowels. The fort would be an unpleasant place to inhabit come morning.