"Do you think it's wise to go there? My concern is less about relations between the tribes. I don't want to get underfoot when Gates and Cornwallis stomp about."
He took her in his arms. "Honestly I don't know what we shall encounter in military action. I do know that the word of one Beloved Woman to another will grant us hiding, so at least we shan't be found by anyone from Alton, particularly the redcoats.
"Yes, there's danger in South Carolina. I suppose an option would be to head west, but that's even more dangerous. Unless you know kin elsewhere who would hide us for awhile —"
"They're all in the Carolinas."
"Well, there you have it." He stroked her cheek in the darkness. "If someone had asked me a month ago at Zeb's dance, I'd have told them I never expected you at my side. But having you there has made the hell of the last month more bearable for me. If you will come with me into South Carolina, help and guide me, I shall be the most content man on earth."
Oh, how she wanted to see her daughter again. No bond on the earth equaled the intensity of that between mother and daughter. But playing a part in the formation of an alliance between the Creek and Cherokee called her from beyond her boundaries of comfort and thrilled her with a challenge to both heart and intellect.
Help and guide me. Her soul had come to rest in Mathias as it had never rested in her life. No man's decoration, she was Mathias's partner. A line from The Iliad came to her then: If even in the house of Hades the dead forget their dead, yet will I even there be mindful of my dear comrade. She touched his lips with her fingertips. "I shall go with you."
***
"Hold the lantern closer, will you?" David strapped his bedroll behind his saddle and grumbled at the paling sky. "Bugger that son of a poxy whore. Fairfax must have run several horses to death galloping up here two days behind us."
Mathias entered the circle of light. "Are we ready?"
"Surely, when icicles hang from Satan's breeches."
Sophie gave David a cheery smile and turned to Mathias. "We're ready." She handed the lantern to Runs With Horses and mounted Samson.
Mathias clasped his cousin's arm. "With any luck, Fairfax won't remember to visit the people for at least half a day."
Runs With Horses smiled. "Go. The wind will take your footprints."
The trio walked their horses from the village. Soon after they crossed a brook to the northeast, David halted and dismounted. Mathias and Sophie did the same, and she read her brother's intent in the dawn. Time to part company.
Mathias prodded his shoulder. "Are you sure your widow is worth it?" At David's keen look, he grinned. "Never mind."
"David, I'm going with Mathias."
His eyes twinkled with approval. "Of course you are."
"If you can safely do so, give Betsy my love and tell her I'm all right. And give us a good hug. It shall have to last awhile — oof!" The hug buried her nose in his shoulder. "That feels much more like a bear than a brother." She clung to him. "Oh, please be very careful. I shall miss you terribly."
"And I shall miss you at least as much." He whisked her hat off her head and kissed her forehead. "Musket Woman. Swamp Woman. Ocean Woman. Paper Woman." He dropped the hat back on her head.
She released him, adjusted her hat, and watched him embrace Mathias. A grin split David's face. "You two are so like a couple of peas in a pod. If you decide to make it official, don't forget to invite me. I'm jolly fun at weddings —" He winked. "Just as long as it's someone else's wedding."
Finis
Historical Afterword
History texts and fiction minimize the importance of the southern colonies, Florida, Spain, and the Caribbean during the American War of Independence. Many scholars now believe that more Revolutionary War battles were fought in South Carolina than in any other colony, even New York. Of all the wars North Americans have fought, the death toll from the American War exceeds all except the Civil War in terms of percentage of the population. And yet our "revolution" was but one conflict in a ravenous world war.
Many history texts and fiction also claim that those who identified themselves as patriots were in the majority during this war. Many scholars now believe that neutrals were in the majority, pinioned between two minority and radical opponents and often getting caught in the crossfire, a pattern we see played out in current events. Those who do not learn from history...
Propaganda was a mighty weapon wielded by both sides in this conflict. On 29 May 1780, British Lt. Colonel Banastre Tarleton led a cavalry charge against militia and regulars commanded by Colonel Abraham Buford in the Waxhaws region of South Carolina. Although Buford galloped away, leaving his leaderless unit to be devastated, the bloody outcome of the battle was seized upon by patriots and wrung for every ounce of anti-British propaganda they could twist from it.
The impact of women during the American War, especially those on the frontier, has been minimized. Women during this time enjoyed freedoms denied them the previous two centuries and the following century. They educated themselves and ran businesses and plantations. They worked the fields and hunted. They defended their homes. They ministered their folk religion at gatherings. They fought on the battlefield. Although unable to vote, women did just about everything men did.
Contrary to popular belief, Jamestown, Virginia was not the earliest European settlement to survive in the United States. Don Pedro Menéndez de Avilés established St. Augustine, Florida in 1565, decades before the British built Jamestown.
Established in 1738, Gracia Real de Santa Teresa de Mose (Fort Mose) was a community of freed slaves sanctioned by the Spanish. Destroyed twice by warfare, the concept of Fort Mose remained a beacon into Revolutionary times, drawing many escaped slaves to Florida.
The city of Galveston, Texas is named for Bernardo de Gálvez of the powerful Gálvez family. In the final years of the American War, the Spaniards, led predominantly by Gálvez, battled the British and forced them from outposts such as Pensacola and Mobile along the Gulf of Mexico. Long before Yorktown, Cornwallis's military strategies were already being hampered by Gálvez and the Spaniards.
Luciano de Herrera acted as a Spanish operative in St. Augustine for almost twenty years. When British governor Patrick Tonyn pierced his cover and sent soldiers to arrest him in 1781, Herrera was clever enough to have escaped to Cuba the day before. And when St. Augustine was returned to the Spaniards a few years later, Herrera was granted a leading government post in the city.
Selected Bibliography
Dozens of websites, interviews with subject-matter experts, the following books and more:
Abbott, Shirley. Historic Charleston. Birmingham, Alabama: Oxmoor House, Inc., 1988.
Baker, Christopher P. Havana Handbook. Emeryville, California: Avalon Travel Publishing, 2000.
Bass, Robert D. The Green Dragoon. Columbia, South Carolina: Sandlapper Press, Inc., 1973.
Boatner, Mark M. III. Encyclopedia of the American Revolution. Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania: Stackpole Books, 1994.
Campbell, Colin, ed. Journal of Lieutenant Colonel Archibald Campbell. Darien, Georgia: The Ashantilly Press, 1981.
Gilgun, Beth. Tidings from the Eighteenth Century. Texarkana, Texas: Scurlock Publishing Co., Inc., 1993.
Harland, John. Seamanship in the Age of Sail. London: Conway Maritime Press Ltd, 1984.
Harvey, David Alan and Elizabeth Newhouse. Cuba. The National Geographic Society: Washington, 1999.
Hudson, Charles. The Southeastern Indians. Knoxville, Tennessee: The University of Tennessee Press, 1992.
Kemp, Peter and Richard Ormond. The Great Age of Sail. New York: Facts on File, Inc., 1986.
Lane, Mills. Architecture of the Old South. New York: Abbeville Press, Inc., 1993.
Manucy, Albert. The Houses of St. Augustine: Notes on the Architecture from 1565 to 1821. St. Augustine, Florida: The St. Augustine Historical Society, 1962.
Morrill, Dan L. Southern Campaigns of the American Revolution. Mount Pleasant, South Carolina: The N
autical & Aviation Publishing Company of America, Inc., 1993.
Mullins, Lisa C., ed. Early Architecture of the South. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: The National Historical Society, 1987.
O'Brian, Patrick. Master and Commander. New York: William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd, 1970.
Padron, Francisco Morales, ed. The Journal of Don Francisco Saavedra de Sangronis, 1780-1783. Gainesville, Florida: University of Florida Press, 1989.
Scotti, Dr. Anthony J., Jr. Brutal Virtue: the Myth and Reality of Banastre Tarleton. Bowie, Maryland: Heritage Books, Inc., 2002.
St. Augustine. Confessions. Trans. E. B. Pusey.
Steen, Sandra and Susan Steen. Historic St. Augustine. Minneapolis, Minnesota: Dillon Press, 1997.
Suchlicki, Jaime. Cuba From Columbus to Castro. Washington: Pergamon-Brassey's International Defense Publishers, 1986.
Swager, Christine R. Black Crows & White Cockades. St. Petersburg, Florida: Southern Heritage Press, 1999.
Tunis, Edwin. Colonial Craftsmen and the Beginnings of American Industry. Baltimore, Maryland: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965.
Waterbury, Jean Parker, ed. The Oldest City: St. Augustine, Saga of Survival. St. Augustine, Florida: The St. Augustine Historical Society, 1983.
Woodman, Richard. The History of the Ship. London: Conway Maritime Press, 1997.
Follow Betsy Sheridan's journey
The Blacksmith's Daughter
A Mystery of the American Revolution
by
Suzanne Adair
The patriots wanted her husband dead. So did the redcoats. She took issue with both.
In the blistering Georgia summer of 1780, Betsy Sheridan uncovers evidence that her shoemaker husband, known for his loyalty to King George, is smuggling messages to a patriot-sympathizing, multinational spy ring based in the Carolinas. When he vanishes into the heart of military activity, in Camden, South Carolina, Betsy follows him, as much in search of him as she is in search of who she is and where she belongs. But battle looms between Continental and Crown forces. The spy ring is plotting multiple assassinations. And Betsy and her unborn child become entangled in murder and chaos.
Read the first chapter now
Chapter One
SERENADED BY PREDAWN cricket chirp and frog song on July 11, Betsy Sheridan paced in the dining room, already dressed in her shift, short jacket, and petticoat. Her stomach uneasily negotiated the collision of oily pork odor from Monday night's supper with leather's rich pungency from Clark's shop. She knew better than to blame the queasiness on being four months along with child.
News delivered at suppertime had driven nettles of anxiety into her soul. Her mother and uncle captured by Lower Creek Indians in East Florida — good gods. The Lower Creek didn't treat their prisoners to tea parties. Imagining her mother Sophie and her Uncle David tortured in creative, native ways made her gut feel like a blazing spew of grapeshot.
At the window, she breathed in familiar morning scents wafting from the back yard on a cool breeze: sandy soil entwined with red veins of Georgia clay, wood smoke, pine resin. "Pregnant nose," the midwife had called her heightened sense of smell. Out back, King Lear the rooster crowed. With Clark's apprentices arriving at seven, Betsy had best fetch the eggs and start breakfast soon. Perhaps the morning routine would ease some of her anxiety.
Her lit candle held aloft, she paused outside the cobbler's shop to peer up the stairway. Annoyance rifted her anxiety at the soft snores issuing from their bedroom. Clark wouldn't have overslept had he not stayed up for that midnight delivery of Cordovan leather from Sooty Johns. Betsy had never liked Johns, a greasy little peddler. Because she, curious, had tiptoed downstairs to watch the two men unload the leather, and they thought her asleep the whole time, the delivery had felt illegal.
In the shop, she lit and hung two Betty lamps. Her gaze skimmed over the counter where she kept the ledger and lodged on the workbench piled with Cordovan leather. Magenta by lamplight, it almost assumed the hue of coagulated blood. Spain. Why should Spanish leather be delivered early Tuesday morning to John Clark Sheridan, a British sympathizer, ostensibly one of Spain's enemies? A shudder rose in her, and she wondered whether she should hide the leather.
Not that she needed more to worry about. Shaking off her concerns over the delivery, she walked to the workbench and pushed aside an awl and two cowhide boots to make room for her candle beside a small mirror. The action of settling her mobcap atop her braided dark hair eased her stomach. After a final inspection to ensure a trim appearance, she stood.
One of the cowhide boots slid off the bench, so she leaned over and snagged it. When she propped it beside its mate, she spied a sliver of paper between heel and sole. Curious, she pried it out and read Mrs. Filbert's daughter is Sally in her husband's handwriting.
Odd. Who was Mrs. Filbert?
Betsy tilted the paper closer to the candle. Here, now — what was that? Writing appeared on the edge of the paper nearest the heat.
Amazed, she passed the rest of the paper above the flame. Bluish script gibberish and three-digit numbers filled in the page, some sort of cipher. She waved the paper around. It cooled, and the writing vanished.
A chill brushed her neck. Clark had planted a secret message in the boot. Should she tell him she'd found it?
More anxiety wound through her. Bad enough that her family on the St. James side was in so much trouble lately, but now her husband was involved in questionable deals. When they'd married in January, she'd dreamed of leading a normal, uneventful life: helping him with his business, raising children, tending the garden and house. By the lamplight of that Tuesday morning, though, her optimism looked as naïve as that displayed by fifty-six Congressional delegates who'd signed their names to a declaration of independence from George the Third's rule. Four years later, thousands of redcoats still occupied the thirteen North American colonies.
Another crow from King Lear prompted Betsy's attempt to wedge the paper back in the heel. Unsuccessful and exasperated, she shoved the note into her pocket, lit a lantern, and bustled from the shop with it. The back door squeaked when she exited from dining room into garden, and Hamlet and Horatio loped around from the front yard, tails awag in greeting. She paused to scratch behind the hounds' ears, and memory caught up with her.
Almost two months earlier, during her mother's last visit to Augusta, they'd sat in the dining room sipping herbal tea, and Betsy told her the news: You shall be a grandmother before Yule. They'd laughed and embraced through tears of joy, and for the first time ever, Sophie had talked with her as one mother to another, dissolving the physical distance between them that seven years of living apart had imposed. But now, captive of the Lower Creek...Betsy blinked away the salty mist of misery, her stomach afire again with apprehension.
She stumbled a few steps before righting herself and continued down the path to the henhouse. The dogs bounded away to the front of the house. A sparrow began his reveille. The earth smelled cool, damp, and ripe. Inside the henhouse, she hung the lantern on a hook and grabbed a basket. The hens welcomed her with soft clucks, the acrid odor of their droppings magnified by her nose.
"Well, Titania, have you an egg for me this morning?" The hen shifted to allow Betsy's groping fingers access to straw only. She proceeded to the next hen. "You, Desdemona? Alas, no egg." She straightened. "Strange. Perchance you need a change in diet. Well, I'm sure to find something from Portia. No? Oh, very well, you did lay two eggs yesterday." She fumbled beneath more hens without success, and an eerie sense of familiarity spread through her. The only other time this had happened was when all the eggs had been collected as a prank just prior to her arrival.
She lowered her voice, not daring to believe. "Uncle David?"
She heard amusement in his voice outside the henhouse. "I cannot play that trick on you twice, can I?"
She raced out and flung her arms around dark-haired, lanky, handsome David St. James who'd no doubt passed the night in the arms of a certain wealthy, lovely
widow in town. Small wonder the hounds hadn't alerted her to his familiar presence. "Great thunder, it is you, and you're all right!" She smacked his cheek with a kiss. "Oh, gods, when I heard the news yesterday, I could scarcely eat or sleep for worry." She tugged him toward the house. "Clark has been so worried, too. But you've escaped the Indians!"
David braked their progress toward the house. "Don't tell your husband or anyone else that you've seen me."
"Why not?" She noticed her uncle's hunting shirt and trousers and checked herself. "You're running, aren't you? Mother, too."
"Yes."
"Just like Grandpapa Will."
She watched David's stare home on her. "What do you mean?"
"He was hiding in the henhouse yesterday morning."
David darted a look around. "Where is the old man?"
"Probably in South Carolina." Cynicism seeped into her voice. "That's where he seemed to think he could lay low with rebel friends because he landed himself in all that trouble with the redcoats last month. Running a spy ring from Alton, printing incendiary broadsides, escaping to Havana to intrigue with the Gálvez family. The Gálvez family. Zounds. How did a printer from a frontier town ever catch the eye of people so high up in the Spanish court? And what did he expect from all that intrigue? Surely not a pardon. I don't suppose he'll ever learn, will he? So I fed him breakfast and sent him on his way before it grew light. And where's my mother?"
"On her way to a Cherokee village in South Carolina." He glanced at the sky. "And since I don't want to be recognized on the road, I must away to Williamsburg before it gets much lighter." His tone became shrewd. "I'm here only to assure you your mother is safe and well, and she sends you her love."
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 30
