The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  She felt close to fainting. Sweat streamed between her thighs. If the bandit didn't kill her, Fairfax or the Spaniard would. She was on her own. Tensing, she spotted a small branch nearby: a good weapon to wield after she raked her heel down the bandit's shin and into his instep.

  He firmed his grip on her, and desperation snarled his voice. "I'm tired of dancing with you buggering bloodybacks. Give me what I want, or I'll cut her throat."

  "As I said, let her go unharmed," said Fairfax, "or I shall put a ball between your eyes on my count of five. One."

  "All your money and horses! And drop that pistol!"

  Humming filled Betsy's ears at the look of torment in Clark's expression.

  Fairfax cocked the pistol. "Two."

  "Meet my demands, or I'll kill her!" The bandit pricked her neck with the point of the blade. Fire burned down the side of her neck and into her tucker: blood. Her knees knocked. Terror punched her breath from her lungs and fed it back to her in puny gasps. Rage fueled the bandit's shriek: "The devil damn you black for a liar!"

  "Three."

  The tiny movement of Fairfax's forefinger squeezing the trigger preceded the kerr-poww of the pistol a millisecond before the searing breath of the ball skimmed the mobcap at Betsy's right temple and plowed through cartilage, bone, and brains of the bandit with a wet thump. Blood sprayed the back of her neck. He collapsed. Her hand groped for her neck. The world tinted yellow. Sounds muffled. Her knees buckled.

  Clark caught her before she hit the ground. Seconds later, the sensation of him dabbing off her neck with his handkerchief and water from his canteen anchored her, steadied her pulse. "Thank heavens it isn't deep. It's already stopped bleeding. I've cleaned blood off your clothing." He hugged her from behind, his chest warm against her back. "How do you feel, Betsy?"

  The dead bandit's booted feet haunted her peripheral vision. Her tucker felt pasted to her shoulder. She moaned.

  "Ah, sweetheart. We haven't much time. I hope you're well enough to ride."

  On the road, soldiers cut purses and confiscated weapons from corpses before dragging the bodies into the brush east of the road. Betsy's gaze sought the cumulus-smudged sky, where turkey buzzards would be circling soon enough, then shifted to the edge of the thicket, where Fairfax appeared and dusted off his hands. Somewhere behind her in the brush, the Spaniard lurked. Her voice emerged little more than a whisper. "I will ride." And the sooner the better. Something about the attack didn't seem valid.

  Fairfax strode for them, his face expressionless. She focused her gaze on the horses. Dried weeds and coarse grass crunched beneath his boots. He bypassed them, scouted in the brush, and returned alone to the body of the bandit. Perhaps the Spaniard had witnessed his marksmanship and taken cover again. The bandit's booted feet jiggled as Fairfax relieved the corpse of purse and knife. "One of them escaped and may return with support. Let's be on our way." The lieutenant walked off.

  Her life had been imperiled, but had Fairfax's satisfaction derived from heroism? No, his concept of honor was frightening and fluid, more like that of a cat playing with prey. She murmured to Clark, "Five. He'd shoot on his count of five, he said."

  Clark pressed her arm with his hand. "Hush. Up you go." He rose and helped her to her feet.

  Over his shoulder, Fairfax dosed her with his gray-green stare. "Did I say five, madam? Of course, I meant three." He continued to the horses.

  Clark made sure he was out of earshot before lowering his voice. "How did Captain Sheffield put it yesterday? 'I assure you he's quite capable of handling any problems that might arise on the road.' Thank you, Captain."

  Her gaze shifted north, toward Augusta. In three hours, she'd be home, rid of the company of a brilliant, blighted British officer. There was no place like home.

  ***

  They reached Augusta just after two Thursday afternoon. Betsy's heart lightened at the approach of her foster-father, Lucas O'Neal, on horseback south on the main street. With him were Adam Neville and the Sheridans' nearest neighbors, stocky Ephraim Sweeney and wiry Caleb Cochrane. They held up their hands and pulled their horses to a halt, waiting. Her buoyancy collapsed at their expressions. No welcoming committee, they were conveyors of bad news. Someone close must have died.

  Clark and Betsy sent their horses ahead. Pain wreathed Adam's genial face. "Good god, Clark, we hate to be the ones to tell you this. Your house burned to the ground this morning."

  Betsy stared. She hadn't heard right. "Our house burned?"

  Clark whispered, "Is this your idea of a poor joke?"

  Weariness rimmed Lucas's blue eyes. His head jerked side to side once. He lowered his gaze.

  The shop and Clark's craft and livelihood, gone. Betsy's grandmother Elizabeth's china and cabinet, gone. Their clothing, their heirlooms, their — no, this wasn't real.

  Caleb sputtered, "We ran for the buckets, but it was too late. Thank heaven you weren't inside. It went up so fast."

  Ephraim pressed his hat to his chest. "We're sorry, folks."

  A snarl whipped Clark's face. He kicked his gelding in the sides, sending it northward.

  "Clark, wait!" Adam extended a hand, but Clark was beyond hearing.

  Lucas reached out to Betsy. "Dear, there's nothing left."

  Anguished, she sent Lady May galloping up the street after Clark. In their yard, the henhouse and gardens were intact and undamaged. But nothing remained of the house except a foundation, charred timbers, and stone fireplace and chimney.

  "My god," Clark whispered, supplicating the wreck of their lives to resurrection. "Please, not this!" Betsy found her way to him, and he took her face in his hands, tears in his eyes. "How can I provide for you and our child now?" They fell into each other's arms, too devastated to do anything but stare at the charred, stinking wreckage that had been their home not two days earlier.

  Chapter Nine

  "HUSH NOW," BETSY whispered. They released each other and assembled composure while their friends dismounted and walked over to join them. The soldiers arrived and began dismounting.

  Caleb removed his hat. "Jane found some extra material and can make quilts for when winter comes. Folks in the neighborhood donated clothes. Vicar Glenn started a collection."

  Ephraim beamed. "Ellie's organizing a house raising."

  "Thank you. You're all kind." Clark's voice sounded hollow.

  Lucas patted his shoulder. "Stay with us while you rebuild. You can have the room Betsy shared with my daughter."

  Betsy saw Clark's shoulders relax. The thought that they might get through the disaster and have a home by the time the baby arrived didn't penetrate far into her numbness.

  "You're a good neighbor. Catastrophe happens, folks head to another town where kinfolk help them." Ephraim snapped his fingers, felt inside his waistcoat, and withdrew a sealed letter. "Before I forget, this came for you in yesterday's post." Clark, his actions still wooden, transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. "We'd all hate to see you leave. None of us has much money, but we'll help the best we can."

  Fairfax strode into their midst, curiosity slicing his stony composure. "An unfortunate occurrence, Mr. Sheridan. The men wish me to give you this."

  Betsy met Clark's gaze after he took the purse of the bandits' coin from Fairfax. Well, money was money. Clark gave the lieutenant a brusque nod and caught the attention of the soldiers, whose expressions projected their dismay and commiseration at his loss. Gratitude struggled to his face. "Thank you, fellows."

  Fairfax clasped his hands behind him. "Do you mind if I have a look about your property?"

  Hair stood up on the back of Betsy's neck. They needed him poking around the ruins of their home like they needed more fire. Clark licked his lips. "Uh, why? There's nothing left to see."

  "I may be able to discern how the fire started. If it was accidental, such information might help in designing your replacement home."

  The emphasis Fairfax placed on the word "if" announced his suspicions as to the nature of the blaz
e. Betsy remembered something else Captain Sheffield had said about him. I know he'll get to the bottom of it, if anyone can. Brilliant, blighted Fairfax had a knack for investigation. Oh, joy.

  Adam cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Lieutenant — er —"

  Fairfax scraped his scrutiny over Adam's attire and regarded him without expression. "Fairfax. Lieutenant Dunstan Fairfax."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Lieutenant Adam Neville, Brown's Rangers. We investigated the fire this morning and believe a lightning strike caused it. You're welcome to read the report I made for Colonel Brown." He smiled. "I suggest we withdraw and allow these folks time to deal with their loss."

  "Colonel Brown won't object to having another set of eyes on the incident." Fairfax turned back to Clark, and Betsy saw Adam pinch his lips together in annoyance: a royal provincial dismissed by a British regular. "As I was saying, Mr. Sheridan —"

  "Pardon me, again, Lieutenant." Adam's posture stiffened. "You must clear further investigation with your superior officer in Augusta."

  Fairfax glared at Adam, and Betsy felt wretched for the Ranger, who was only trying to help them. "Regarding protocol, on this site, I, being the regular, am your superior officer. As I commented earlier, another set of eyes never hurts." His stare heaved a wagonload of accusation onto Clark. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Sheridan?"

  Adam's gaze met Clark's, the Ranger's expression imparting apology. Misgiving swam through Clark's face. Under the circumstances, Fairfax's request couldn't be declined. Clark waved vague acquiescence at the ruins of the house. "Be my guest, Lieutenant."

  "Thank you." Fairfax bowed. "Lieutenant, accompany me. I have questions." He ambled toward the remains of the house. Adam trailed after Fairfax.

  Lucas lowered his voice. "Who the hell's the lobsterback?"

  "Someone we're well rid of today."

  Betsy suddenly recalled that Tom Alexander had promised to help watch the house. "Has anyone seen Tom?"

  Ephraim slapped his thigh. "Ellie will yell at me good for forgetting. The lad's at our house recovering from the bump on his head he got while trying to stop your house from burning."

  Betsy's eyes bulged. She and Clark said in unison, "What?" But the story about Tom had to wait, for townsfolk quickly thronged the yard, and the onslaught of Augustans — the nosy, the curious, the sympathetic — began.

  In between hearing accounts of the fire and accepting gifts and commiserations, Betsy noticed Adam had returned to speak with fellow Rangers while Fairfax picked his way through the blackened ruins that had been Clark's shop and studied footprints. At least she needn't worry about producing Arriaga's letter. Later, she spotted Fairfax squatting out near the road, examining wagon ruts and more footprints. What evidence could he hope to find?

  Lucas, Ephraim, and Caleb, seeing how spent the Sheridans were, shooed away townsfolk after half an hour. "Come over to the house and get out of the sun," said Ephraim. "Ellie will fetch us some ale. You can talk with that apprentice of yours."

  "Drink one for me, Clark," said Caleb. "I'm headed back to work."

  "Me, too." Lucas hugged Betsy. "See you at the house for supper." He shook Clark's hand.

  Fairfax, in mid-stride to join them again, called out, "Before you depart, gentlemen, may I have a word with all of you?"

  "Doesn't that one ever smile?" muttered Caleb.

  Ephraim snorted. "From the looks of it, he for sure doesn't shit. Oh, pardon my language, Betsy."

  His posture formal and uncompromising, Fairfax drew up before them. "Mr. Sheridan, be so good as to introduce me to your companions here."

  Clark sighed. "As you fellows heard earlier, this is Lieutenant Fairfax out of Alton —"

  "The Seventeenth Light out of South Carolina, Mr. Sheridan."

  Betsy cocked her eyebrow. So Fairfax had been transferred to the Seventeenth Light Dragoons in South Carolina, cavalry. Perhaps poking about that colony for Mathias Hale wasn't such a good idea just yet.

  "These are my neighbors Ephraim Sweeney and Caleb Cochrane, and my wife's cousin by marriage, Lucas O'Neal."

  Fairfax nodded. "Mr. Sweeney, I understand you were first on the scene this morning."

  Ephraim sniffed. "My son Jeb woke me saying their house was afire. I roused the family and sent him running to the Cochranes so they could help with the water buckets."

  "Yah, it was too late by the time we got here." Caleb shook his head. "Flames were shooting fifty feet high."

  Fairfax craned back his neck and regarded the ancient oak that had cooled the house with its summer foliage. "Fifty feet high, eh? I suppose so. The bottom branches of that tree look a bit singed. Did either of you see anyone leave the premises when you arrived to put out the fire?"

  "Leave? Nope."

  "Me, either."

  "And both of you are Whigs."

  No one spoke. Betsy saw Caleb's jaw and Ephraim's fist tighten. Clark said, "They're my good neighbors."

  "I certainly hope so. Your Ranger friends told me about an incident the day before yesterday. Someone painted 'Tory Scum' across the front of your house. Had your property been vandalized before?"

  "No."

  "Mr. Neville is unaware of similar incidents since his arrival here. Why might you be singled out for such persecution?"

  Clark opened his mouth, then studied the burned house. "You believe the vandalism and burning are related?"

  "Answer my question."

  He swallowed at Fairfax's dagger-sharp tone. Empathy welled through Betsy. Clark took a deep breath. "I've no idea."

  Ephraim slapped Clark on the back. "He's a good Loyalist. He don't bother nobody, and he keeps his mouth shut."

  Ugh. Where did Ephraim come by that gutter grammar all of a sudden? Betsy watched Fairfax wilt Ephraim's jollity with the frigidity of the North Sea. After more silence, he said, "Curious that a Loyalist lives between two Whigs in harmony."

  Caleb picked his teeth and spat something to the left of Fairfax's boot by a couple of inches. "Oh, you think we Georgians go killing each other over politics like them South Carolinians. Nobody in Augusta argues politics with his neighbor no more." He laughed. "It don't get you nowhere. In two years, we've had so many peacocks claiming to be the local government that we got a joke about it. You don't like who's in charge, just wait a week, and it'll change."

  Baffled, Betsy wiggled a finger in her ear. Caleb, like Ephraim, sounded like an uneducated wretch. Peculiar for a man who was the chess champion of Augusta.

  Caleb grinned. "And why shouldn't we live in peace with Clark? He don't have a splinter up his arse like some Britons we know. By the by, Lieutenant Fairfarts — did I get your name right? — I don't recollect who pleaded for your help."

  Betsy fought the urge to hit the dirt. Clark's gaze skittered between Fairfax and Caleb. She could tell he was groping for a way to divert the subject. On the street, five redcoats and three Rangers listened, alert to the beginnings of an altercation.

  But rather than seeing rage climb in Fairfax's expression at Caleb's slurs, she saw amusement. "Mr. Cochrane, Georgia is a Crown colony. As representative of the legitimate government, it's my duty to administer justice. I find no evidence that the fire destroying Mr. Sheridan's house was accidental. Therefore, someone must be apprehended and punished for committing arson."

  Anguish and astonishment at Fairfax's announcement spewed Betsy's stomach like slivers of glass. The same blend of emotions rippled Clark's expression. "Arson, Lieutenant? What evidence did you find for arson in a charred wreck like that?"

  "It's what I didn't find. Furniture. You had a bed, cupboards, chests, chairs, workbenches for your shoemaking?"

  "Yes, of course we had all that."

  "There's no trace of such in the debris."

  Lucas stirred. "The fire got awful hot, Lieutenant. Everything probably burned down to ashes."

  "I've seen burned houses before. Invariably, there's a remnant of the larger pieces of furniture: the frame of a bed, the leg of a dinin
g table. None of that is here. Furthermore, I found no metal. No candlesticks, pots, or spoons."

  Hair stood up on the back of Betsy's neck again. "I don't understand."

  Fairfax faced her with eyes glittering like arctic stars. "Your property was removed before your house was set ablaze." He gestured north. "It was loaded on a wagon prior to a rainstorm about four this morning and driven north on that road after the rain, after your virtually empty house was set afire. Where did the culprit go? Will your possessions turn up?" He eyed Clark. "Did you participate in the execution of this plan?"

  Clark glared at him. "What? You believe I stole my own furniture and set fire to my house?"

  "Did you?"

  "No! That's ridiculous. Are you crazy?"

  "Rebels are crazy."

  "Rebels? Surely Adam told you my loyalties."

  "Indeed." Fairfax contemplated Clark and Betsy. "A peculiar entity, fire. Almost a god — creator, destroyer. You can obscure evidence with it. A letter from a sea captain, for example." He needled his gaze on Betsy. "I know a man who dug up another man's corpse, dressed it like himself, and set fire to it to make everyone think he'd been burned at the stake. It allowed him at least two days lead time over his pursuit."

  "I'll be damned," said Lucas. "You're one of the redcoats who chased my wife's cousins and their father down to Havana."

  Caleb scraped his teeth again and spat something to the outside of Fairfax's other boot. "Havana, eh? Yeah, I figured he didn't get to be the color of a quadroon chasing Will's broadsides around Georgia."

  Ephraim grinned and poked Caleb's shoulder with camaraderie. "Will's 'Tarleton's Quarter' broadsides. I wager there's enough of them floating around that Tarleton can clean his nockhole with them every day. Oh, pardon my language again, Betsy."

  A faint smile curved Fairfax's lips. "I hear Colonel Tarleton is flattered by them and collects them for mementos. But let's return to the business at hand. You've each been far more helpful than you've imagined with this game you've played, pretending ignorance and stupidity. Cease with the peasant pageantry and tell me who, beside your families, witnessed the fire."

  Tom Alexander. Betsy saw, as Fairfax could not help but see, momentary widening in the eyes of Ephraim, Caleb, Lucas, and Clark. "Other witnesses?" Ephraim looked away. "There weren't any others. Somebody would have come forward by now if they'd seen anything."