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

by Adair, Suzanne

  She smelled the supper Hattie had ready for her in the dining room, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. After sweeping her gaze across the common room once more, she whispered, "Thank you Grandpapa. And thank you, Mother."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ON JULY TWENTY-FIFTH, Horatio Gates arrived at de Kalb's camp on Deep River, their combined forces numbering anywhere between 2,500 and 7,000 troops, depending on the source's sobriety. On the twenty-seventh, Gates ordered a march on Camden straight through countryside with little resources to scavenge.

  While Betsy and Tom doubted his wisdom over the march, they couldn't deny that starving Continentals would find Log Town and its invalid soldiers easy pickings. Lord Rawdon realized the same, mustering what able-bodied men he could to detain Gates. If ever Cornwallis's support in manpower and martial prowess was needed, it was then. But the British general remained aloof in Charles Town, and anxiety swelled among Camden's residents.

  Many shop owners, Harker included, professed loyalty while trafficking with rebels, hoping their businesses wouldn't be confiscated whatever the outcome. Some threw diplomacy to the wind, enticed redcoats to desert, and transferred deserters among safe houses to prevent their capture. British commanders remained baffled over desertions, missing the point that loyalty and proper conduct didn't possess a man's soul the way of a cause. But Betsy had witnessed fervor in Clark's eyes as he explained why he cast his lot with the rebels. Even if she didn't swallow rebel propaganda, she heeded the power of the irrational.

  Monday night, the thirty-first of July, she pulled out the last letter to Clark and, thanks to Abel's regular meetings with the Dutchmen, ninety percent of the cipher key. She and Tom set out to decode the hidden message. "Ambrose, Cornwallis," it read. "Black, Rawdon. White, Clinton. Gray, Tarleton. Yellow, Hamilton. Red, Webster. Green, Ferguson. Blue, Brown ... Morton will also advance agenda of Stadtholder."

  Tom paced while she thought aloud. "The colors: codes for agents in the ring? And each is paired with the officer he's supposed to assassinate." She wrinkled her nose. "If van Duser is Ambrose, I cannot imagine him assassinating Cornwallis. But why are the Dutch planning assassinations?" Tom continued to pace. She wondered whether he was listening. "If all these men are killed, the British won't surrender and go home. Officers will fill their positions, and the war will go on."

  Tom stopped and snapped his fingers. "Morton. Do you suppose the reference in the message is to Major Morton, Thomas Brown's adjutant?"

  "'Morton will also advance agenda of Stadtholder.'" Her eyes widened in amazement. "What if the Stadtholder bought replacement officers in advance of assassinations?"

  "And after his men are in place within the army, he turns the tide of war to his favor. For example, the new commander of the Legion doesn't drive his dragoons quickly enough to prevent redcoats from being ambushed and slaughtered by Davie, and the rebels escape with captured ammunition and supplies."

  "But Tom, ammunition and supplies aren't as great an issue as men. It takes time and expense to replace seasoned soldiers."

  "Exactly, and His Majesty is already feeling the attrition. While Britain stretches herself to make an empire of the world, her trained soldiers are dying by the hundreds in the colonies. If Holland can accelerate those losses —"

  "Here's another thought. The Stadtholder's officers will return to honors in Britain. They'll receive titles and land, perhaps posts in Parliament."

  "Zounds, Betsy, the Stadtholder could be running Britain in another fifteen to twenty years!"

  She gave him a wry grin. "Huzzah!"

  "Whom do we tell?" he whispered.

  "No one," she whispered back, her lips quirked with the same gruesome humor that tainted his smile. "I cannot imagine Holland being worse at governing these colonies."

  A tap on their door caused them to jump in alarm. Tom raised his voice. "Uh, a moment, please." They hid the letter, translation, and key, and he opened the door.

  Margaret beamed at them from the doorway. "I've come to tell you that our lieutenant will see me again at eight in the evening on the morrow."

  Betsy felt color drain from her face. She hadn't told Tom about her plan to pass the message about the furniture to Fairfax. He'd just try to talk her out of it along the lines of "Don't tempt the Fates." But she really wanted Abel Branwell and Jan van Duser running scared. The more preoccupied they were with saving their own skins, the more easily they'd let two neutrals go.

  Tom draped an arm around Betsy's shoulder. "Thank you, Margaret. I shall work in a pair of slippers, just for you." Margaret curtsied and walked away. He closed the door and guided Betsy back. "Let's meet in here on the morrow before eight."

  She'd have to find a way to get the note to Fairfax without arousing suspicion. "We print the other side of the newspaper on the morrow. I'll likely run late."

  "Ah, that's right. Very well, if you aren't back by eight-thirty, I shall come looking for you."

  ***

  The next morning, the household was abuzz with news of military action from the thirtieth of July. Rebel leader Isaac Shelby had besieged Thicketty Fort in northwest South Carolina, but because the fort commander surrendered before any shots were fired, the men inside were paroled without injury. Three companies of Loyalists from North Carolina weren't so fortunate near Hanging Rock, cut to pieces by William Davie's rebels before the garrison in Hanging Rock could help them. Cocky and irascible Thomas Sumter had besieged the garrison at Rocky Mount and set the main building afire. But an afternoon thunderstorm extinguished the blaze, and Sumter had withdrawn, thwarted.

  A sealed letter awaited Betsy at breakfast, and she glanced over the contents: "B. Minor injuries at Rocky Mount. In Log Town through Tuesday night. Must talk. Please come. C." Hattie exited the dining room, and Betsy showed the letter to Tom. "It's an opportunity to settle with Clark, but I cannot take advantage of it with Fairfax in Camden today. I don't want to run into him in Log Town, and I hope Clark doesn't run into him."

  Tom nodded, expression grim. "With Clark's phenomenal luck at escaping serious injury, perhaps you'll have another chance to talk with him."

  Espionage, Betsy decided, wasn't for heroes. It was the realm of fools. The sooner she cleared the field and could be mistaken for neither, the better she'd feel.

  ***

  At seven-thirty, she left a completed print run and hurried back to the tavern. She approached with wariness and upon her arrival paused to scrutinize the traffic out front.

  From the noise level and crowd at the hitching post, the common room neared capacity. Scrawny pre-teen boys mingled with the activity and begged off the soldiers. One lad spied her and ran over, evading horses and carriages like an eel, brown eyes alert, dirty face eager. "A full house in there tonight."

  "I can see that, Andy. How's your mama's cough?"

  "Much better. Bless you and Hattie for them biscuits."

  "Sure." Betsy grasped his bony shoulder. "How'd you like to earn two pence tonight?" His jaw dropped open. "It could be dangerous, and you'd have to follow my instructions carefully."

  "Oh, yes, madam!"

  "And I must have your word that you'll tell no one."

  The lad's eyes gleamed. "It's spy work, ain't it?"

  "No questions."

  The sparkle in his eyes remained unfazed. "Yes, madam, 'pon my word, I shall keep quiet."

  "Good. I expect an officer from the Seventeenth Light to arrive soon. I've a message for him, but he mustn't know it came from me. I shall give you a penny to deliver it and another when you report to me afterwards." Andy nodded. "After he reads the message, he'll want to question you. He isn't a good man. He'll hurt you, and he may even kill you. So you must disappear."

  "Don't worry. I know how to disappear."

  "I'm sure you do. Watch your back for a few days, too." She patted his shoulder. "I shall monitor the common room from inside. When I see the officer, I shall come out the back door and give you the message and a penny. Complete your mis
sion and meet me at the back door for the other penny."

  "Yes, madam."

  She described Fairfax to him before they parted company. Hattie had supper waiting for her, but she peeked out and scanned the common room first. "Child, come on over here an' set down. Yo' man eat only one helping before he go straight up to bed. You reckon he's taken a fever?"

  Tom was upstairs, out of the way. Excellent. "He's just tired from all that overtime."

  Betsy gobbled supper. As she finished her ale, she heard a soft knock on the dining room door. Hattie scowled, hands floury, and reached for a towel. "Who's that this time of night?"

  "Not to worry. I shall get it."

  A gleam-eyed Andy danced on the back step. "The rare bird flew in to roost."

  "Wait right there." She strode over and peeked out into the common room in time to see Emma flattering Fairfax near the clients' stairway. He waved away her offer of wine and pointed upstairs. Considering that the ladies played games with clients, he might be made to wait awhile. Betsy slipped out the back door, her pulse so uneven with apprehension that she had to focus calm into her voice for Andy. "He's early for his appointment with Margaret. Here's your first penny, and here's the message."

  The penny vanished from the lad's quick fingers, and he sprinted around for the front. With a sigh of anxiety, Betsy returned inside and assumed position to peek out again. Hattie chuckled. "I don't know what you's up to."

  "Sometimes I just like to watch the activity in the common room." Her eyes bulged. Margaret glided downstairs fifteen minutes early, Fairfax strode over to meet her, and pompous Todd was interrogating Andy at the door to the tavern while a muscle-bound assistant gripped the lad's shoulders. Damn. Andy was going to miss his opportunity. After Fairfax got started on Margaret, who knew how long he'd be occupied?

  Stymied at her scheme, Betsy watched delight flood Margaret's face when Fairfax kissed her hand and the inside of her wrist. They headed upstairs. Betsy sagged against the doorjamb in frustration. But at the front door, Todd had finally allowed Andy to pass. The lad homed in on Fairfax and Margaret, then threaded for the stairs among happy soldiers.

  Betsy sneaked up the service stairway and peered around the corner to find Fairfax and Margaret, hand in hand, entering the first guestroom. The door latched closed behind them. Two seconds later, Andy emerged at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to Betsy. She held up one finger and pointed to room one.

  With a curt nod, he walked forward and rapped on the door. "Lieutenant, I've a message for you."

  "Leave it with Mrs. Branwell downstairs."

  "It's urgent, sir. A matter of intelligence."

  Fairfax yanked open the door and glared at Andy, who extended the letter to him. "This better be good, you filthy little urchin."

  As soon as he snatched the letter, Andy bolted for the stairs. Fairfax's expression transformed from annoyance to rapture when he read the message. He crushed the paper into his fist, that appalling angelic radiance suffusing his face, and his gaze pursued Andy. Never mind sex. The game was afoot. "Boy, wait!"

  After ducking in the room, Fairfax re-emerged with a perplexed Margaret trailing after. "But Dunstan, why cannot it wait half an hour?" If he responded, Betsy didn't hear. He thumped down the stairs, Camden's premier lady of pleasure forgotten.

  Back on the first floor, Betsy surveyed the common room. Andy had navigated it by the time the lieutenant reached the foot of the stairs. Realizing he couldn't bowl through dozens of men to apprehend his quarry, Fairfax shouted. But the din of the room swallowed his words.

  With Andy free and clear out the front door, Betsy ignored Hattie's cocked eyebrow and exited again. They met at the corner of the building. She hugged him despite his grime. "You were brilliant!"

  "Thank you. Let me know if you have any other errands."

  "To be sure. Here's the other penny. And remember, this is our little secret."

  "Yes, madam!" Something around the corner snagged his attention. Then he stared back at her, elation drained from his expression. "Uh oh. It's him, the lieutenant!"

  She snagged his arm and hissed, "Inside that shed!" They raced for the shed where Sally stored gardening tools, closed themselves into humid darkness redolent of corn and earth, and looked out through cracks in the plank door. Enough light remained for them to see Fairfax skulk around the corner. He stood still a moment like a cat casting for scent before walking to the back door and rapping on it.

  Hattie shook her head at his low-voiced query. "Ain't no younguns fittin' that description come through this dining room, Lieutenant. No, sir. Good night to you, too." She shut the door.

  He turned around on the step, again surveying the back yard and gardens. Then he idled toward the shed.

  Betsy heard Andy suck in a breath of fear. With her left hand, she gripped his arm to prevent his flight. With her right hand, she grabbed the handle of a hoe.

  Halfway to the shed, Fairfax paused. His voice softened. "Lad, I apologize for being short with you." He reached inside his vest and jingled his purse. "A shilling if you'll talk."

  A shilling was far more than two pennies. Andy tensed. Betsy, fearing that he was ready to leap for the bait, clamped her hold on him tighter. In the next second, Fairfax moved his hand from purse to dagger. Andy gulped, understanding his true reward if he were discovered. Betsy thrust him behind her, took hold of the hoe with both hands, and bared her teeth.

  "Surely a clever lad like you could use a shilling, eh?"

  She held her breath, as did Andy, while Fairfax listened to the garden around him. Then he sheathed his dagger and strode back the way he'd come.

  "Bloody hell!" whispered Andy. "He was going to kill me!"

  Sweat chilled Betsy's brow. She propped the hoe against the wall of the shed and took a deep breath, remembering the way Fairfax had shot the bandit while toying with her. "I told you he wasn't a good man. He should be gone from Camden in a day or two. Stay clear of the Leaping Stag so he doesn't catch you."

  "You ain't going to see me around here for awhile, madam."

  Hattie wasn't in the dining room to question Betsy when she returned. Upstairs to her room, she wrestled with a scream of instinct. In myths of old, the gods used respect and deference when they released elementals. Now that the beast was loosened on the game, it was too late to wonder whether she, a mere mortal, had been cautious enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THE NEXT MORNING Betsy snooped in Abel's study for the final time. She hadn't slept well, unnerved by the brush with Fairfax and news from Tom that they couldn't afford a packhorse until early September. Fairfax was hard at work mining the lead she'd handed him. Gates was hard at work driving the Continental Army south. Neither man would grant them a month to escape Camden. But since something about all those charitable gifts in the ledger nagged her, she pushed aside dread and grogginess to study ledger entries.

  Charitable contributions for 1780 included multiple payments of at least two hundred pounds each from three men staggered over a period of months. In her head, she tallied the sum Abel had collected in gifts during the first half of the year. 2,800 pounds. Such a sum would lodge nobility in comfort. Astounded, she recalculated, but there was no mistake.

  He'd skimmed money off for his household use. Hence the extravagant furniture upstairs, Emma's wardrobe, the extensive wine cellar, and the well-stocked pantry. But 2,800 pounds? Who were these three men? What made them want to donate such sums to a rebel spy ring? How long had all this been going on?

  For 1779, she found donations from other men. Entries appeared for charitable gifts in 1778 and 1777, too. Abel had been living in style for quite awhile.

  She stared at Josiah Carter's name, his gifts for 1777 tallying 1,500 pounds.

  Odd. She had Carter pegged for a neutral, not a rebel, and certainly not a man zealous enough to hand over 1,500 pounds to a spy ring. Such a sum might bankrupt any plantation owner. Sure enough, his property was almost deserted of livestock and slave
s, and he'd mentioned having to sell off all his land except three hundred acres. She closed the ledger, replaced it in the top drawer, and stared out the window at passersby. If Carter's motivation had been helping the rebels, none of it made sense.

  At the time of his first contribution in March of 1777, the rebels didn't have a chance at victory. Washington was still holding his ragtag army together with the magic of his personality. France didn't display interest in helping him until late 1777, after Horatio Gates was victorious at the Battle of Saratoga. Soon after, other countries such as Spain and Holland announced their interest in the outcome by declaring war on Britain. But in early 1777, the American rebels' cause was too laughable in the courts of Europe for the Stadtholder to fund a spy ring.

  The suspicion grew within Betsy that the men listed in the ledger hadn't donated massive amounts of their money to fund the Ambrose ring. Carter had said, "Mr. van Duser and his attorneys dangle blackmail before my nose." Were Abel Branwell and Jan van Duser in league all the way back in 1777, and did they blackmail Josiah Carter out of 1,500 pounds? Were the "gifts" of the other men the result of blackmail? What could so many men be blackmailed over?

  Out the window, she glimpsed Abel stalking toward the tavern followed by a slender blond fellow about van Duser's age. What the devil? Abel was returning at least twenty minutes early from coffee with the surveyors. Betsy made a sweep of the office to ensure nothing looked out of place, slipped out, and closed the door. When Abel and his companion brushed past her, she was dusting paneling near the dining room.

  She guessed the blond to be der Waal, Jan van Duser's partner, and had her guess confirmed when she heard the Dutch accent in his voice: "I do not know where he is, nor do I know why he should not have joined us this morning!"

  Abel unlocked his office and snarled. "He's left town to double-cross me. You're covering for him."

  "Really, sir!" The blond drew himself up with hauteur. "Your insults carry you over the line of a gentleman's behavior. I do not know what business you and he engage in, nor do I care to learn, but I have endured enough of your conduct for the last year and will have no further dealings with you."