Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution (24 page)

Sophie eyed the
saddlebags.
 
What was Hawthorne
protecting?

He holstered
his pistol and glanced at her.
 
"Very well, yes, a meeting with Don Alejandro was arranged for us
in St. Augustine."

"Will Don
Alejandro then plead the cause of the Continental Congress to King
Carlos?"
 
She studied Hawthorne's
noncommittal expression.
 
"Spain
has yet to ally herself formally with the Congress, but it's clear from the way
she's intrigued with France for half a year that she's determined to thrash
Britain."

Hawthorne
granted her the ghost of a smile.
 
"Spain will divide with France the spoils from this war."

"Spoils?"
 
Sophie echoed the smile, even while intuition
prodded her.
 
He wasn't what he
seemed.
 
Something in his accent,
perhaps.
 
"Spain would dearly love
to have East Florida back.
 
She was the
first European nation to claim the territory."
 
She listened to his response.

"The
Congress shall return East Florida to Spain, who has, of late, seen the value
of intensifying military activities against Britain.
 
One of my companions bears intelligence from the Continental
Army.
 
He will meet with Don Alejandro
to discuss how Spain's strategies might be synchronized with ours."

"With
yours
?"
 
Cynicism brushed Mathias's tone.
 
"What is left of the Continental Army
after the fall of Charles Town?"

The young man
looked south.
 
"We shall fight to
free this country from King George's tyranny until the last of us falls."

Hawthorne might
be from the North, but his mindset matched that of rebels from Darien, Georgia
to Williamsburg, Virginia.
 
Ironic that
those who strove to oust the government, rather than defend or reform it,
envisioned themselves the "patriots."

David's tone
was quiet and firm.
 
"Sir, we're in
the position of protecting you.
 
You owe
us an explanation of who we're protecting you from and what's in your
saddlebags."

His chin
lifted.
 
"I've told you all you
need to know."

"Not
quite."
 
Sophie pulled the second
cipher from her haversack and showed him the numerical sequence.
 
"This cipher was intended for Will St.
James, except that it arrived the day after he was murdered in Alton — we
suspect by the serpent."

Hawthorne's
sulk intensified.
 
"You expect me to
decode it?"

"No.
 
I've already done so.
 
It instructs him to meet in Havana, as St.
Augustine has become too dangerous.
 
The
serpent knows about it."
 
Hawthorne's lips compressed.
 
"El Serpiente."
 
She
returned the cipher to her haversack.
 
"Who is El Serpiente?"

The young man
studied her, obstinate, and made a faint gesture of dismissal with his
head.
 
"As you've deduced, La
Habana is our alternate meeting location.
 
We've no idea whether El Serpiente knows it's the secondary site."

La Habana.
 
How interesting that he gave Havana its
Spanish name.
 
And it was obvious he
didn't want to tell them more about the Spaniard.
 
Sophie glared at him.
 
"El Serpiente.
 
Who is
he?"

He sighed.
 
"He's a trained assassin from a Spanish
faction called
Casa de la Sangre Legítima
."

David's
expression soured.
 
"'House of the
Rightful Blood.'
 
What is it they think
is so rightful about themselves?"

"They
resent the influence of French Bourbons on Spain and believe that Spain, allied
with France in the Old War, has lost enough to Britain in North America.
 
They commissioned master assassins last year
to infiltrate the coalition between Spain and France.
 
Five came to America to assassinate Spanish and French
representatives and anyone who gets in the way."

David expelled
a hard breath.
 
"Jolly.
 
That's ever so damned jolly.
 
Here we've wandered into the midst of it
all."

"Their
signature execution is to slit the throat of a victim from ear to ear."

Mathias's eyes
bulged for a second.
 
Then emotion slid
from his face.

Hawthorne said,
"Two assassins were killed in the northern colonies last year.
 
Three continue the mission."

Jacques ambled
over.
 
"
Au contraire
, Alton
claimed a third just last week.
 
He was
flayed alive."

Suspicion
pierced the pain on Hawthorne's face.
 
"Who would do such a thing?"

Sophie resisted
the urge to look northward along the road.
 
"We're not certain.
 
The
assassin's body was found near the bodies of two other men."

Mathias
glowered.
 
"My brother was one of
them.
 
His throat had been slit from ear
to ear."

Hawthorne
bounced his glance around the party.
 
"It sounds as though an assassin got him, but I wouldn't know for
certain."

Would they ever
have their suspicions confirmed about who had murdered Will, the other Spanish
assassin, or Jonah?
 
Hawthorne talked in
circles, and they didn't have time to dawdle and question him more.
 
Since Mathias had finished with the
bandages, Sophie stood and brushed off her hands.
 
"Let's see if you can ride.
 
I apologize we've no leisure to brew you something to ease your pain."

His features
distorting with pain, the young man accepted Mathias and David's assistance in
standing.
 
Then he insisted on
transferring his saddle and saddlebags from the dead mare to Donald
Fairbourne's horse.
 
Mathias checked his
bandage, but no fresh blood soaked outward from the wounds.
 
Helped into the saddle, the spy took the
reins despite bloodless lips.
 
Not while
he was conscious was he letting the redcoats have him or what he transported.

Runs With
Horses caught up with them as they resumed their trek south on the road to
report the absence of soldiers for several miles back.
 
In Creek, Standing Wolf updated his brother
on Hawthorne.
 
The rigors of horseback
sealed the Bostonian's remaining strength into silence.
 
They walked the horses a few minutes to make
sure the young man wasn't going to collapse.
 
Then they increased their pace to a trot.
 
Mathias resumed scouting southward, and Standing Wolf dropped
behind.

David sidled
his gelding up to Samson.
 
Sophie
assessed her brother's preoccupied expression.
 
"How's your arm?"

"My
arm?
 
Oh,
that
arm.
 
Hurts like the deuce."
 
He nodded toward Hawthorne, twenty feet
ahead of them, and murmured, "I don't know how he stays in his saddle
without whimpering."

She lowered her
voice, too.
 
"Weren't you ever
fervent and idealistic when you were a puppy?"

"Possibly
about women, but I doubt I'd ride with two holes in my side for
any
woman.
 
And definitely not for a
cause."

"There's
more to him than meets the eye."

"Or
ear."

"You heard
it, too.
 
His accent."

"He wasn't
born in Boston."

She
nodded.
 
"He speaks Spanish words
with such clear vowel sounds.
 
I wager
he was born in Spain and raised and educated in Boston."

"And
Hawthorne's an alias.
 
Something else
doesn't make sense.
 
He was shot from
the front, but his horse was shot from
behind
.
 
Who shot him, El Serpiente?
 
Was the assassin responsible for both shots?"

"Maybe he
had help.
 
He mentioned a fifth
assassin."

"We should
have checked the site for more evidence."
 
David gnawed his lower lip.
 
"The morning you were under house arrest, I told you the old man
was in over his head.
 
We're in over
our
heads now, too.
 
A Spanish spy with
saddlebags full of the gods know what, a redcoat patrol behind us — bah!
 
I say we exit this perilous stage."

She
sighed.
 
"Alas, we cannot back out
yet.
 
We've a moral obligation to get
Hawthorne to safety.
 
Darien,
perhaps."

"If he
remains alive as far as Darien.
 
You
realize the very fact that we're chasing the old man's killer makes us look
like we're in bed with the French and prime prey for those
assassins."
 
He shook his
head.
 
"Damn the war."

A quarter hour
later, Mathias trotted his horse back to report that the tracks showed El
Serpiente's horse had slipped a shoe.
 
The Spaniard needed to find at least a hammer and nails, if not a
farrier or a smith, before he continued much farther.
 
No trading post was marked on the map in their vicinity, and the
settlement of Darien was more than an hour away.
 
The assassin was on foot not far ahead.
 
They could encounter him before noon.
 
And Mathias saw no sign that he had an accomplice.

Mathias and
Runs With Horses checked their weapons and rode southward to discover the
assassin's whereabouts.
 
Dry-mouthed,
Sophie made sure her musket was loaded.
 
Jacques and David readied their own weapons and Hawthorne's
pistols.
 
Then they proceeded after Runs
With Horses and Mathias.

In another
quarter hour, Mathias rode back to them.
 
"Looks like an abandoned trading post about a mile ahead, set back
from the road.
 
We tracked El Serpiente
headed that way."
 
His gaze roved
over them and came to rest on Sophie.
 
"Watch yourselves."

The five
rendezvoused with Runs With Horses and arrived at a building shaded by pines
and live oaks.
 
At one time, underbrush
had been cleared all the way to the road, but foliage had encroached on the
structure after its abandonment.
 
Aside
from cicadas strumming the noontime and an occasional crow caw, Sophie heard
nothing other than movements of her party.
 
Tracks in the sand leading to the building revealed that a man on foot
and a three-shoed horse had preceded them.
 
However, there was no sign of man or horse.

Jacques and
Mathias helped Hawthorne dismount just outside the cleared brush.
 
Mathias motioned the young man to wait there
and caught Sophie's eye.
 
"Stay with
him."

Still partially
concealed, Mathias, David, Jacques, and Runs With Horses spread out to encircle
the building, firearms ready.
 
Hawthorne
leaned against his saddle, exhaustion escaping his lips.
 
She reached for her canteen.
 
"Water?" she whispered.
 
He shook his head no, his face devoid of
color.

He couldn't
travel much farther.
 
"You're
better off lying down for now."
 
She kicked together a pile of pine straw, eased him onto it, and stood
in time to glimpse Jacques and Runs With Horses disappearing behind the
building.

Hawthorne grew
quiet.
 
Musket in hand, Sophie walked
past him, her horse, and those of the others to the four extra horses and gave
each of them a pat.

A twig snapped
in the palmetto brush behind her, and she spun about.
 
With no time to raise her musket, she found herself staring down
the barrel of a pistol not four feet from her; and above the pistol gleamed the
fatigue-rimmed black eyes of El Serpiente.
 
Fear beat her pulse into staccato.

Grime and sweat
streaked through stubble on his face, matted his hair, and sullied his
clothing.
 
He stank of sweat and
horse.
 
"
La hija del Lobo
."
 
His upper lip twitched with sarcasm.
 
"French-loving fools."

"You've
misunderstood —"

"Drop the
musket."
 
When she hesitated,
hatred snarled his lip.
 
"
Now
!"
 
He cocked the pistol She swallowed and let
the musket drop.
 
"
Bueno
.
 
Untie the last two horses."

Horror and
outrage flooded her.
 
Why did he need
two
horses unless he planned to take her hostage?
 
"I won't go with you."