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

by Adair, Suzanne

  "And that looks like fresh blood on it." Murray raised his voice. "Joe, over here. George, Fergus — cease work for now. Pete, Raymond, Jeremy — get out there and help the sentries. Step lively. Brown's Rangers are in the neighborhood."

  Betsy motioned Joshua and Tom to join her. Captain Murray drew up tall and imposing before Joe MacCrae, whose lower lip took a sullen downturn during his salute. "Mr. MacCrae, this woman says you murdered civilians with whom you had personal grievance and disguised it as military action."

  Joe feigned being flabbergasted and gaped at Betsy. "She said that?" He laughed. "Captain, she's lying. Did she also tell you some crazy story about being a spy for the Continentals? And you believed that, too?"

  "She isn't lying, sir." Tom stepped forward with Joshua. "All three of us watched the MacCraes burn the Duffy family's house this afternoon and load them into that wagon."

  "Notice the blood stains on the wagon, sir," said Joshua.

  "MacCrae, you'll hang for it."

  "I don't think so."

  Betsy heard the sound of muskets being cocked and realized that MacCrae kinfolk had taken aim on them and the non-MacCraes in the clearing. Her palms grew sweaty. Murray scowled. "This is treachery!"

  "I ain't ending my life on a rope."

  A musket discharged from the road. Everyone heard the warning of a sentry —"Rangers!"— before the sentry howled in agony.

  "To arms, men!"

  The issue of civilian murder tabled for the moment, the MacCraes trained their muskets on the incoming trail while the other men snatched their weapons. Betsy, Tom, and Joshua rushed for their horses, but MacCraes blocked their escape.

  Everyone waited while seconds spilled past. The militiamen in the clearing sweated and listened to sounds of the forest night and the sputtering of torches. "Rebels!" Adam Neville's voice ended minutes of taut nerves. "You're surrounded. Lay down your weapons. We promise you quarter!"

  "Quarter, hell!" A MacCrae spat. "Tarleton's Quarter!"

  "No, men! Listen to me, and do as he says! I recognize his voice. You'll be treated well. Lay down your weapons." The captain threw down his musket and knife. Other Whigs followed his example, even the MacCraes, until the shush of muskets, fowlers, knives, and tomahawks landing on pine straw had ceased. Remembering that fanatic look in Adam Neville's eyes, Betsy couldn't envision him granting quarter to Murray's party. What made Murray think otherwise?

  "The lady and her two companions remain where they are, off to the side. The rest of you walk to the center of the clearing. Keep your hands where we can see them."

  Murray's men shuffled like skittish sheep past the firearms. Rangers emerged from cover, soundless wraiths, weapons ready. They passed Betsy, Tom, and Joshua and hemmed in the Whigs. "Be still, men." Murray radiated calm and trust.

  Joe sneered. "Look at them sons of bitches. Damn them."

  "Keep your mouth shut, MacCrae." Murray smiled at Adam.

  "I won't! Damn you, Captain, you've sold us out!"

  MacCrae dove for a discarded musket, rolled to a crouch, and fired. Four more Whigs dove through the rotten-egg stench of black powder smoke for firearms. One even managed to discharge his before the Rangers opened fire and transformed the clearing into a fusion of sulfur and scarlet slaughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  CLOAKED BY THE chaos, Joshua and Tom hoisted Betsy astride into Lady May's saddle and thrust Lucas's musket into one hand. "Hold on! Yee-aww!" Tom slapped the mare's flank. Joshua whizzed past on his gelding. Betsy, clinging to musket and reins, guided Lady May after him toward the road. Branches swiped at her face. She bent low behind the mare's neck to dodge them.

  Betsy emerged on the road with Tom bringing up the rear. Joshua's horse gave a nervous snort, and he stroked the beast's neck. "Fly for Ninety Six!" He sent his gelding galloping northward.

  "Ninety Six?" Betsy kicked the mare after him.

  "That way they won't look for us in Camden!"

  Admiration for her uncle's ingenuity overcame the fatigue locking her muscles. For the next few minutes, she focused on encouraging and maintaining Lady May's gallop. The orb of the moon, near full, painted their escape route silver and lent excellent visibility ahead and behind. However as Betsy had feared that afternoon, the mare was too worn for flight. Joshua and his mount pulled ahead, and Tom's gelding inched past, and their lead over her increased.

  Joshua threw a look over his shoulder. "Faster!"

  "She's too tired!" As Betsy spoke, she felt the mare's first shudder. She might have used the riding crop to exact another quarter mile gallop from the poor beast, but after a glance behind, she realized it wouldn't have helped.

  Riders pursued them. From the way they were bearing down, only a rested Lady May might have outrun them. Joshua and Tom continued to pull ahead of her. Tears of frustration mingling with sweat stung her eyes. Was the musket she'd seized loaded? She flung another look behind to spot a rider out in front closing on her, and she gritted her teeth. By all the gods, she wouldn't let them capture her easily.

  Lady May continued to lose speed. Foam rose to her lips. "Steady, girl. This is going to be terribly loud." Betsy cocked the musket and snatched another look behind. The Ranger out front had eaten up the distance between them and was only about thirty feet behind her. "Good, my Lady. Good girl." The road ahead lay flat and even. "Now's our chance. Steady, there!"

  Betsy twisted about, dragged up the musket, and squeezed the trigger. Holding it one-handed, she'd no strength to aim. When the musket belched saffron fire, the kick nearly flung her from the saddle. Lady May neighed in fright and faltered. Betsy regained control, her right shoulder knotted from the recoil. A grim smile stretched her lips. She'd heard the pursuing horse's scream of agony, and she'd seen it collapse and fling the rider off. One down. How many were still back there?

  Lather spewed off Lady May's mouth, and her breathing grew labored. Another shudder wracked her. Tom and Joshua had reduced speed, realizing she was in trouble after hearing the musket. Betsy flung another look over her shoulder. "Give me whatever you can, girl! Here comes another of those Rangers."

  Her musket grasped by the still-warm barrel, she waited until she heard the breathing of both Ranger and horse. Peripheral vision furnished her with correct timing. The butt caught the man on the jaw and knocked him clean off the saddle. Even though the musket was yanked from her hands in the process, she let out a whoop of primeval victory that would have done her Creek grandfather proud.

  Adam Neville was upon her seconds later and received a taste of riding crop before falling back to reassess his strategy. When he bore down on her again, he deftly hooked the crop from her hands with the butt of his musket. Her efforts at fighting him off with her bare hands would have yielded doubtful results, but Lady May dropped from gallop into canter, thus putting an end to Betsy's flight.

  Rangers flew past to apprehend Joshua and Tom, but Betsy's companions brought their own flight to an end upon her capture and waited in the road to surrender. Adam gripped her hands, and, controlling his own horse with his knees, pried the reins from between her fingers and slowed their horses to a walk. "Madam." He took a couple of deep breaths. "I hereby arrest you and your accomplices in the name of His Majesty King George the Third."

  ***

  Exhaustion avalanched upon Betsy. The Rangers hauled her up on Adam's horse, on pillion, took Lady May in tow, and headed back south, where they met more Rangers and a caravan of riderless horses. All Whigs who'd survived the original battle now lay with their compatriots and enemies in the mass grave they'd spent the afternoon digging. No muss, no fuss. How convenient for Neville and the Rangers.

  They established camp with pines and oaks shielding them from the road and lit no fire, picketing horses beneath an oak. Betsy sat on a blanket spread by her uncle and stared at pairs of boots and moccasins traipsing back and forth before her in the moonlight. Tom brought water and trail rations and fussed over her because she showed no interest in either. She'd be
en awake for almost twenty-four hours. Food wasn't what her body craved. Wild flight on horseback couldn't be good for the baby.

  Adam walked over, fists on hips. She glanced at him and restrained her cockiness over the damage her riding crop had inflicted on his lower lip. The swelling was evident even by moonlight.

  "Why were you headed for Ninety Six?" His injured lip fuzzed his speech.

  "We were trying to escape you."

  "Don't waste my time."

  "You're wasting your own time. You're within the law to hang me. There's room for my body in that mass grave."

  "Are you such a shrew with Clark?" She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Had Clark escaped the assassin's knife? "You headed to Ninety Six to join your husband, didn't you?" She opened her eyes and remained mute. "Such devotion. Misplaced, I assure you. Haven't you wondered why he married you?"

  "He loves me."

  "Perhaps, but he appreciates your intelligence more. He abhors working with numbers, you see. No other young lady in Augusta had quite the bright mind or knack for the ledger that you do. Having you around means he isn't bothered by the less appealing aspects of business." Adam tilted his head in closer. "And what a clever way to circumvent paying your most valuable employee. Marry her." Betsy's exhaustion didn't quite deflect his dart of doubt. "If I were you, I'd think twice about blind devotion." He pulled back to evaluate the effect of his words.

  Could Clark be that callous? The trust between them was just rickety enough to start teetering. Her head drooped, concealing her disillusionment. "I don't know where my husband is. Did you not read the letter I left for Sarah and Lucas?"

  "Letter? A good-bye letter for the O'Neals?"

  Her heart sank. He hadn't seen the letter. "Yes."

  "We left Augusta at four o'clock in the morning, having received a tip that you were headed to Alton. I admit admiration for the trail your Creek friends left. We almost followed them back to Alton, thinking there were five of you headed south, rather than the two Creek." Interesting. Adam didn't realize Runs With Horses and Standing Wolf had come with them to South Carolina, and he didn't suspect the brothers were out there in the woods somewhere. "When I left Augusta, the O'Neals hadn't yet awakened to find you missing and read your letter. Apprise me of the content of this letter."

  "I intended it for Thomas Brown."

  "Of course you did. Cease stalling."

  "I told him I remembered that the Spaniard who held me at knifepoint referenced the Ambrose spy ring as French-loving fools and implied that their mission was to strip Britain of her military command." Adam stared at her. "I also related to him that I'd become a subject of ridicule to the inhabitants of Augusta. I found this distressing, body and spirit, and deemed it best to spend the duration of my pregnancy with a relation elsewhere. That's why I was headed to Ninety Six."

  "And Clark shall meet you there when?"

  "I've already told you I don't know where he is or what his plans are." She studied the blanket again, her head nodding. It was becoming as difficult to stay awake as it had become obvious that Adam meant to capture Clark and administer the King's Justice, despite his profession of friendship and concern.

  "Who is this relation in Ninety Six?"

  "I've not told anyone, not even my foster parents."

  Adam knelt, grasped her upper arms, and forced eye contact. "If you don't tell me who you're visiting in Ninety Six, I shall consider that portion of your story to be a lie."

  "Martha Neely, my father's aunt." Perhaps the old woman was still alive.

  He released her and stood. "Bah. Women run after their husbands and forget about their kin when they're distressed."

  "The sampling of women on which you base your conclusion appears to be —" She searched for the right word. "— rather small. Sir."

  He digested the insult without retort in a moment of icy silence. "I doubt you'll provide me with more useful information tonight. However, on the morrow we shall resume this conversation. Geoffrey."

  One of the Rangers trotted over and saluted. "Sir?"

  "Bind these three."

  "Yes, sir."

  Joshua, who'd been sitting nearby, struggled to a standing position and faced Adam. "Bind us? Why, Lieutenant?"

  "We've been on the road almost as long as you have. I don't plan to post a sentry tonight and won't let you run off after going through such lengths to capture you."

  "We're too tired to run far."

  "You'd be surprised how far rebels can run when they're tired. Good night, madam. And good night, gentlemen."

  ***

  Betsy fell asleep with her eyes full of Altair, Deneb, and Vega, brilliant blue-white stars forming the Summer Triangle. Too exhausted for her bonds to impact sleep, she also ignored her grimy clothing and the sultry, stifling night. She jerked awake, exhausted, to the stench of rancid bear grease. Starlight glinted on a knife in the hands of an Indian kneeling beside her. The first second, terror tore through her. Then she recognized Standing Wolf, who signed for her silence and cut her bonds.

  After he helped her up, she trudged with Joshua, Tom, and the warrior to the horses, where Runs With Horses held their mounts and firearms ready. Lady May dragged along, as unrefreshed as Betsy. Runs With Horses brought the mare into the moonlight, caressed her flanks, withers, and neck, and whispered to her, whereupon the mare revived a bit. He turned the reins over to Betsy.

  The five walked their horses well around the camp of snoring Rangers in the pre-dawn humidity. Only when they reached the road half a mile south did they risk speech. Joshua clasped arms with both Creek. "Thank you."

  "Thank Creator, who opened a way at last." Runs With Horses gestured west, where the Rangers lay asleep. "Why you don't let us slit their throats?"

  "Trust me, they'll head to Ninety Six at dawn, not Camden."

  The warrior grunted. "We must ride for Camden until dawn, then, two hours at most. Horses are tired. We are tired. But we know a place safe for rest."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHEN THE CREEK guided them back to the Duffys' cabin, Joshua agreed with his cousins on their choice of haven. Neither the Duffys nor their neighbors were returning. Betsy was too tired to object out of principle.

  The horses were picketed out back. The travelers took turns at watch. Mid-afternoon Betsy awakened with her right shoulder knotted from one-handed musket firing. While the men waited outside, she washed and changed her shift to the spare she'd taken with her to Alton. Then all of them polished off a pot of rabbit stew full of vegetables from the garden and mopped out their bowls with slabs of day-old bread from the beehive oven. To replace the knives Runs With Horses hadn't been able to recover from the Rangers, they confiscated three pristine hunting knives from the family's collection.

  They left the cabin in the evening about six, bypassing the road south to Orangeburg within minutes. By sunset their road had taken an east-northeast bearing. Beneath moonlight, the swelter eased from the air. They put twenty miles between themselves and the cabin before camping off the road near a creek in the pine forest at the west edge of the Saxagotha Territory.

  One homesteader they'd passed just after the Orangeburg Road had given them a cheery wave and mentioned they were the first travelers he'd seen all day. Still, they ate trail rations for supper and lit no fire. Odds were great that the Rangers had galloped to Ninety Six in search of their escapees. The homesteader's greeting seemed to confirm it. But no one wanted to risk being caught.

  Tuesday morning dawned clear. The party took to the rolling road again before full daylight. The excellent time they made placed them near Fort Granby and the junction of the Broad and Saluda Rivers before noon. The swampy terrain hosted the first mosquitoes Betsy had encountered on the trip. She and her companions waited several hours amidst the mosquitoes for the ferry that crossed the Congaree River.

  After debarking the ferry, they pressed on northeast. Nightfall found them camped north of the road leading to King's Mountain: an easy day's trav
el to Camden on the morrow. They built a campfire and partook of roasted rabbits, dried fruit, trail bread, and coffee for supper.

  Betsy studied the Creek. For the first time she wondered how far her father had adopted Indian ways. Did he look like Runs With Horses and Standing Wolf, an oiled, muscular mass of tattoos with a shaven head and teeth glinting white in the firelight? She visualized her mother in the arms of a Creek warrior. Her imagination yielded an alien, queer, and disquieting picture. Beyond blood ties, did she and Mathias Hale have much to share with each other?

  Surely she and her husband had much more in common. Supine on her bedroll, she fell asleep contemplating the familiar territory of her dilemma with Clark. But later she dreamed that Laughing Eyes, wise and unsmiling, whispered Creek in her ear.

  ***

  Camden, South Carolina entered history as the Fredericksburg township on the east side of the Wateree River circa 1733. However, not until the late 1750s did trade in the area assume cohesion and an actual town emerge. Fredericksburg metamorphosed into Pine Tree Hill, a quaint name that yielded to the politics of prominent citizens, predominantly one Joseph Kershaw, who wished to honor Charles Pratt, Lord Camden, for his intercessory measures in Parliament on their behalf. In 1780, Camden was one of but a handful of South Carolina towns to possess a genuine courthouse, no small accomplishment for a backcountry hamlet that had, one generation earlier, been just a few plantations.

  Five major roads fed the town like anchoring strands that draw insects into the heart of a spider's web. Betsy and her companions entered Camden on the afternoon of Wednesday, July 19, after passing Fort Cary and taking the ferry across the Wateree.

  Camden's non-wartime population probably equaled that of Augusta, but the presence of Francis Rawdon's portion of the British Army and its civilian followers doubled that population and quadrupled the business opportunities and headaches of residents. The five walked their horses on the main east-west road, taking in the throbbing, laughing, stinking, sweating colorful life cluttering the streets. Betsy had never seen so many redcoats in one place; and the excursion provided her first exposure to Jägers and Hessians. Many soldiers weren't "coated" at all and had, in deference to the relentless, un-British heat, doffed their wool coats to become "white shirts."