Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  The current of memories carried her farther back to a summer afternoon eighteen years before, to one of her earliest memories of Mathias's depth. A scant two weeks before she was to marry Jim Neely, she and the girls stole clothes from the boys at the swimming hole. On the opposite side of the pond she discovered and swiped Mathias's clothing. A good sport about it, he traded repartee while she returned articles of clothing one by one, starting with his left moccasin.

  When he'd bent to help her disentangle her petticoat from brambles, across the ropy muscles and Creek tattoos on his left shoulder she'd seen an outrage: faded scars, legacy of his stepfather's wrath. Why did Jacob Hale beat him? Had Mathias let the fire in the forge go out or been slow with the bellows? Not likely. Jacob had never taken to his stepson, no flesh of his own. But still, that was no reason for Jacob to beat him.

  Didn't his brothers know their father beat him?

  Mathias had regarded her then, expression composed, precursor to his solace over her twins. Of course his brothers knew. How could they not know? Sophie, do me a favor and don't say anything about it, he'd said. In fact, just forget about it.

  Sophie returned to Sunday, June 4, 1780 in the dusk. How peculiar that sitting in her father's bedroom should call to mind Mathias's depth. Yet something told her it wasn't coincidence.

  She pulled the wedding band from her pocket and scrubbed scorch marks off with her fingernail. Tears pressured her throat, but when she waited for relief, the flood didn't come. Instead, a blaze in her insides burned the tears away. She didn't want to weep. With her bare hands, she wanted to strangle every redcoat, rebel, and Spaniard she could find. Will couldn't be forever gone. She expected him to stomp in through the back door at any moment calling for his supper. Exhaling despair and bewilderment, she closed her eyes, and another memory trickled into her head: Will with six-year-old Betsy on his knee.

  ***

  "Grandpapa, what's your favorite animal?"

  "A horse. He's smarter than most men I know, and he'll tell you who's the master."

  "What's your favorite color?"

  "Green. It's the color of the deep, untamed wilderness."

  "And your favorite number?"

  "Three, for my three children and three grandchildren."

  ***

  Anxious, Sophie rose, pocketed the wedding band, and brushed her fingertip over one of three painted wooden soldiers ornamenting a bookshelf. Three clay pots of different sizes each contained tobacco for Will's pipe. On his desk she found quills for his inkpot and three seals. A shudder wove up her back and stirred her imagination. Three.

  Back in her room, the door closed, a lantern lit, she opened Confessions to page seventeen and wrote the third letter of the fourth word. Next to it she wrote the third letter of the sixteenth word on page twenty-five, and from page forty-nine, pulled the third letter of the eleventh word. By the time she'd ferreted out twelve third letters from the book, she'd cracked the cipher. Those letters spelled "Don Alejandro."

  Night settled over Alton while she dipped her quill in ink and extracted the message one letter at a time. Then she sat back and whispered, "Gods." don alejandro de galvez awaits you midnight june seventeenth near old fort beware the serpent

  She knew who "the serpent" was. Had Will been supposed to meet a Spanish lord at midnight on June seventeenth but been killed by the serpent? "Don Alejandro" might know something — if she could talk with him.

  Many forts in North America could be reached by a man on horseback within two weeks of leaving Alton. Where was the "old fort?" She correlated the page-word pairs with the letters to make sure she hadn't missed any, but she'd used them all. Edward wouldn't have kept any of the message from her. Perhaps Will had known his destination in advance. Or perhaps the clue to his destination was conveyed in another manner.

  She rolled her head around to work kinks from her neck, picked up the book, and examined scratches on the front and back covers. None of it looked like secret code. The soldiers had slit the covers, hoping for clues. She examined the spine, still amazed that her father would tolerate material from a "damned Papist" in the house. And St. Augustine, of all people.

  The chill slid up her backbone again. St. Augustine. San Agustín. Wasn't there an old Spanish fort at St. Augustine in East Florida?

  Having acquired East Florida from Spain after the Old French War, Britain had booted most Spaniards out to Havana, then concentrated military attention on the thirteen colonies. The garrison and residents of St. Augustine formed a stronghold of the king's friends. The city hardly sounded like a haven for a meeting between a rebel courier and a Spanish lord, unless the meeting was facilitated by an agent in St. Augustine. How likely was it that a spy for Spain resided there?

  The Congress was desperate for support from another European power like France. Spain had declared war on Britain in June of the previous year, then intrigued with France. But Spain hadn't made an official alliance with the American rebels. Even though rebels in the southern colonies won smaller battles, such as that fought not far from Alton at Kettle Creek the year before, the entire southern Continental army had surrendered to the redcoats just three weeks earlier in Charles Town. The Crown also held Augusta and Savannah. The rebels needed more direct intervention from Spain. Earning approval of a Spanish lord who had the ear of King Carlos couldn't hurt the rebel cause.

  Time to make Edward aware that she'd cracked the code so he could exonerate her, and she could find out what else Mathias had needed to tell her. The folded paper in hand, she headed downstairs, entered the front shop, and stopped short, stalling a conversation between Barrows and Fairfax. Both men looked at her. What the deuce was Fairfax doing there instead of Edward? She slid the paper toward the pocket of her petticoat, but Fairfax missed nothing. "Barrows, it appears Mrs. Barton has completed her assignment."

  "Yes. Inform Major Hunt that I've decoded the cipher."

  "Excellent." He strode forward and shot out his hand. "I shall convey it to him."

  "I'll give it to him when he arrives here tonight."

  "Unfortunately, he's occupied with new issues." Was that worry in his tone? "He's unavailable to meet you tonight. Give me the translation."

  She hesitated a second too long. Seizing her upper arm, Fairfax propelled her against the wall, where he pinned her wrist. With a gasp of pain and astonishment, she released the paper. He snatched it, still restraining her. "Mrs. Barton, can it be that you don't trust me?"

  Fear and anger twisted round each other in her soul for a second or two before the same anger that parched her of tears crushed the fear. Fairfax would love to cow her. Rather than yielding to her desire to jam her knee into his groin, she glared at him. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

  He released her. "I'm glad we understand each other. What have we here? Ah, Gálvez. Do you know who the Gálvez are?" She shook her head. "They've distinguished themselves in military service to the Spanish monarchy. Don Miguel: counselor of war. Don José: minister of the Indies. Don Matías: captain-general of Guatemala. Don Bernardo: brigadier-general and thorn in our side in West Florida. While I've not heard of Don Alejandro, the family is quite large. Cozying with the powerful Gálvez. How well this fits with our anticipation of rebel activities. I'm intrigued. How did you break the code?"

  He thought she lied and was feeding the redcoats a story they expected to hear. Anger firmed her jaw. "My father's favorite number is three. Every letter in that message represents the third letter in a word in Confessions. Each word is identified in the list by page number and word number on the page."

  "Show me an example of this scheme."

  Turning about, she exited the shop, but it was too soon to breathe relief. Fairfax followed her up to her bedroom. By lantern light, she opened the book to page seventeen and brought the paper with the column of figures close while he spread the translation open on her desk. "You see, the third letter of the fourth word is a 'd,' and if you turn to page twenty-five, the third letter of the sixteenth
word is an 'o.'"

  "I see that. Where is the location of the 'old fort' specified in the translation?"

  While heading up the stairs, she'd decided it would be a cold day in hell before she let Fairfax in on her hunch about St. Augustine. "Did I receive all the cipher to translate?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Then that's the full message. I see no destination."

  Angelic radiance transforming his expression, he stepped toward her, but she refused to retreat. His gaze tarried over her face, as if her resistance intrigued him. "Are you being honest with me?"

  "Work it out for yourself. No destination is mentioned."

  He regarded her a moment longer before sitting at the desk. While he flipped pages in Confessions, she walked to the window and leaned on the sill, longing to feel a breeze on her skin. After a few minutes, he stood and tucked the papers into a breast pocket. "Thank you very much." He swept from her room.

  She descended to the shop in time to hear him tell Baldwin and Barrows, "For no reason must she leave the house tonight."

  Eyes wide with incredulity, she stomped toward them. "I've performed my duty! I'm no longer under arrest. I must pay my respects to Jacob Hale."

  "You'll stay in the house. Conditions have changed."

  She balled her fists. "What conditions?"

  "Someone manufactured a rumor about the garrison that those idiotic savages believed and took issue with. Major Hunt's orders. You remain in the house until he resolves the matter. On the morrow, I'm sure you'll be allowed to pay your respects."

  The story was the biggest pile of hog dung Sophie had ever smelled. The Creek near Alton were of White-Stick persuasion, not Red-Stick. They'd been a peaceful people during her whole lifetime. Were that not the case, she and other residents of Alton would never have received invitations to join the Creek for certain festivals. No, she was still under house arrest. Fairfax had merely dressed it up in different clothing. "I must talk with Major Hunt."

  "I shall relay your message. We protect the King's friends, Mrs. Barton. Remember that Baldwin and Barrows are here as a service to you. Good night." With a bow, he was out the front door, only to return in seconds, a clay flowerpot in his hand. "This was on your front porch. Someone sending condolences, I presume."

  "Widow Flannery. Last night she promised to send me something for my garden." Sophie retrieved the pot from him, yellow daisies in dark soil. Odd, she could have sworn Mrs. Flannery had told her she'd send herbs, not daisies. "Thank you." Then she watched Fairfax leave again and finally let out that slow breath of relief.

  Chapter Seven

  MARY WAS FETCHING water from the well out back near the kitchen building when Sophie noticed a sliver of oiled paper protruding from the soil in the flowerpot. She held the pot closer to the lantern in the dining room, dug out the oiled paper, and unfolded it to find a strip inside displaying a cipher similar to the one she'd just decoded. Bewildered by the find, she jumped at the sound of Mary clattering to the back step with a full bucket and jammed the oiled paper and cipher in her pocket. Her expression composed, she stretched while the maid set the bucket on the table. "I'm for bed. Turn in after you've watered these daisies."

  "Are those two soldiers spending the night?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, at least we won't have to worry about Spaniards or Indians causing us a fright in the wee hours of the morning."

  Hearing the clack of dice on the counter in the shop, Sophie smiled with irony. "Such a comfort."

  She poked her head into the shop and bade the men goodnight before heading upstairs, feet dragging in pretense of weariness. But behind her closed bedroom door, she rushed to the desk and spread the new cipher open. Fairfax had left Confessions on her desk. Did the new cipher use the same key?

  Within minutes, its message emerged: serpent knows all old fort too dangerous leave immediately for havana woman in black veil awaits you church of saint teresa. Her imagination leaped.

  If Don Alejandro hadn't already been diverted to Cuba for the meeting, he might still expect to rendezvous with a messenger in St. Augustine. She could pose as the messenger, meet the Spaniard, and learn who'd murdered her father and Jonah Hale. Perhaps she'd even help bring the murderer to justice.

  Ah, but embracing such a plan required freedom, a horse, and supplies. She had none of that. She slumped in the chair with a ragged sigh, admitting the crazy, reckless nature of the scheme.

  Brooding, she rose, stuffed the new cipher and translation into her pocket, dimmed the lantern, and lay back on her bed. The night was moonless, the atmosphere heavy with moisture. No breeze ventured inside her window. Sweat gathered between her thighs, in the crack of her buttocks, and in her armpits. She'd have been far more comfortable undressed to her shift, but intuition prodded her that the night wasn't over.

  For the information in the new cipher to be legitimate, the courier must have gotten skittish at the sight of soldiers at the house and decided to drop the pot off without drawing attention to himself. The Red Rock closed at two in the afternoon on the Lord's Day, so the courier would have had little chance to hear that the recipient of the flowerpot was dead. Therefore the probability was good that she wasn't dealing with a false encryption, and she could trust the cipher.

  Who was El Serpiente? A Spaniard, surely, but from his actions, no ally to rebels or redcoats. She stared at the ceiling. Her imagination, stimulated by books and business, yet bound for years by scant contact with the educated world, ran amok. So many different interests collided in the American War, but she had yet to see any nation concerned for the people in the colonies. What sort of world were these "interests" bequeathing to her daughter and unborn grandchild?

  Uncanny quiet held the night outside her window, crickets and frogs reluctant to complete the melodies they started, reminding her of more immediate concerns. Fairfax's story about the Creek was absurd. Knowing her discomfort with him, Edward wouldn't have sent him to her house. Something had happened to Edward. Perhaps Captain Sheffield had had to assume command of the garrison. She knew nothing of Sheffield, but she'd observed Edward's sensible leadership style contributing to calm, fair relations between soldiers and civilians in the four months since his arrival. The repercussions for Alton, if he proved unable to exercise his leadership, might not be pleasant.

  Again she thought of his offer from the previous night. She couldn't expect a better offer anywhere. She had little money and was thirty-three, a woman with gray in her hair and autumn in her womb. But she didn't love Edward. If she never grew to love him, how satisfied would she feel with her life?

  Even thornier was the issue of class. And in England, Edward would court and marry someone Betsy's age and beget children upon her. Soon enough, Lady Hunt would develop finesse at the non-intellectual means of taming her husband. When it came right down to it, most males responded to that non-intellectual persuasion with a predictable deficit of common sense. Did Sophie want to be in the middle of all that?

  Something scraped her window, so she rolled over and looked out. Dark as the night had grown, she discerned an oblong blot of midnight that lifted and scratched at her window frame.

  Fright ignited in her chest, and she sprang from bed. Someone had scaled the side of the house and was balanced atop the porch, trying to enter though her window. Time she took advantage of the soldiers' duty to protect her.

  "Sophie!" whispered the shadow. "Sophie!"

  She hesitated. Was it someone bringing secret word of her father's murderer, perhaps? She crept around the bed and flung aside the curtain, where her gaze lodged on a Creek warrior balanced on the porch roof and clinging to the side of the house. A scream tightened her throat, but before it could escape the man stuck his turbaned head inside. "Shhhh! It's me!"

  Voice recognition routed out terror. "M-Mathias!"

  Earrings tinkling, the blacksmith glanced down at the ground before turning back to her. "I must speak with you. You're in danger. May I come in?"

&n
bsp; She backed away, and he crawled inside accompanied by the scent of pine straw. Seldom had she seen him dressed like a Creek, and she tried not to gape at the picture he created with feathers and shells, turban, tomahawk and knife, breechcloth, leggings and moccasins. She yanked the curtains closed. "What in the world are you doing out there?"

  "The Creek have surrounded the garrison and number over one hundred and fifty."

  Her gape magnified. So Fairfax hadn't been fabricating the story. One hundred and fifty Creek warriors. Many must have been summoned from Red-Stick villages. "What's happened? Have the colonists given offense?" Heavens, some clod of a farmer must have flung the gauntlet and openly accused the Creek of the murders.

  "No, our business is with the British alone."

  Our business. Well, at least he was clear about his allegiance. "But King George and the Creek have a treaty —"

  "Treaty? Bah! What is the worth of King George's word if his soldiers will impersonate others to kill hundreds of people?"

  "What are you talking about?" Sophie frowned.

  "They've schemed with outlaws and mercenaries to impersonate the Creek and massacre the townspeople."

  "That's a rumor. Lieutenant Fairfax spoke of it tonight. There's no logical reason for the soldiers to do such a thing."

  "Did logic figure into 'Tarleton's Quarter?'"

  "Oh, come now, the redcoats don't usually massacre their prisoners, and I still haven't heard how this hare-brained rumor originated."

  "British intelligence reports that Spain has launched an offensive to capture Georgia and Florida later this summer —"

  "British intelligence?" She looked askance at him. He hadn't picked up that tip standing over an anvil. What maelstrom had Will plunged into with El Serpiente and Don Alejandro?

  "Britain is sending seven hundred more troops into Georgia with no time to expand the barracks at local forts."