The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (15 page)

"What's Basilio's partner's
name?"

"If I tell you more, and the
redcoats learn what you know —"

"Ignorance isn't a risk I'm
prepared to take.
 
Out with Basilio's
partner's name."

He hesitated.
 
"Francisco."

"How many times did they come
in the middle of the night?"

"Eight."

Her head reeled.
 
"Eight?
 
When did they start?"

"May twenty-sixth of this
year."

Two weeks after Charles Town and
the southern rebel army surrendered to the British.
 
As long as Betsy had known Clark, almost two years, she'd been
convinced of his devotion to the King, but he'd been in the employ of the
rebels far longer than the two months since the capture of Charles Town.
 
Had he
ever
been loyal to King
George?
 
"Explain the Cordovan
leather."

"It arrived after I resumed my
activities with them."

A bribe instead of a threat.
 
"Where were the Spaniards taking those
boots?"

"To an agent in the Carolinas.
 
I don't know his name.
 
The way we're organized, each of us only
knows the names of two or three others, and we have aliases and false
identities."

"Who is Ambrose?"

His gaze on her became shrewd.
 
"The alias for our leader.
 
Where did you hear the name?"

"From Lieutenant
Fairfax."

"Damnation."

"What does all this have to do
with Cornwallis?"

He shook his head again.

"What's your mission?"

His lips flattened.
 
"Some things I just cannot tell
you.
 
Perhaps later, but not now."

He'd put her off by telling her the
least important information.
 
"Did
Sooty Johns write 'Tory Scum' on our house?"

"Yes, to tighten my cover
here, although if Basilio and Francisco did burn the house, the ring must have
changed direction and be leading to additional responsibilities for me."

"Without a home for a
base?
 
Hah."
 
Betsy threw up her hands.
 
"Even I can see how thin your cover is.
 
To involve you deeper would destroy
it."

"At least Fairfax will be gone
soon."

She thought of the Givens murders
and the horrendous encounter with bandits on the road back to Augusta.
 
"How many Spaniards are in your
ring?"

Wariness returned to his face.
 
"Basilio and Francisco are the only
ones I've met."

"I witnessed a Spaniard
leaving the Givens home right after their murder.
 
He tracked us on the road today."

Clark gaped.
 
"You said nothing of this
earlier."

"When have we had the chance
to talk?
 
I blundered from cover into
that bandit because the Spaniard was skulking in the woods, recognized me from
Alton, and came after me."

"Why didn't you tell
Fairfax?"

"Fairfax."
 
She snorted.
 
"At the time, I was far too terrified and just thankful to
be alive.
 
Something about the attack of
those bandits tells me we weren't random targets.
 
Perhaps the Spaniard hired them and planned it.
 
So who is he?"

"I don't know."
 
He flicked his gaze away.
 
"I've no word of another Spaniard in
the ring."

Clark was lying to protect
her.
 
"What if he isn't in the
ring?"

Moroseness and stubbornness set his
jaw.
 
She wouldn't get further with him
that night.

"Very well, then.
 
I shall turn in for the night."
 
Her jaw also defiant, she scooted to the far
side of the bed.
 
"Blow out the
candle when you've undressed."

He rose, unbuttoned his waistcoat,
then patted the inner pocket with a frown.
 
"Almost forgot about this letter."

She lay on her side watching
him.
 
"The one Ephraim gave you
this afternoon?
 
Who's it from?"

"Isaac Sheridan, King Street,
in Camden, South Carolina."

"Sheridan?"
 
Her eyebrows rose.
 
"A relation?"

Without answering, he broke the
seal and brought the paper close to the light.
 
Expression faded from his face when he skimmed the letter.
 
Then he warmed the paper over the flame.

Betsy, seeing his face empty of
emotion, realized the letter contained a ciphered message, and she sat up
again, her chest tight with omen.
 
He
turned the paper to her, where pale blue numbers faded, sandwiched between a
spidery scrawl of dark ink:

9 July
1780, Town of Camden

My dear nephew John Clark:

It has been half a Year since last I heard from you.
 
I hope All is well with you and your new
Wife. How much a Blessing it is to have the Wife for Helpmate in the Shop.
 
I do so miss your Aunt Catherine.

There are Soldiers aplenty in Camden these Days since the Capture
of Charles Town, and All of them needing Boots, it seems.
 
My Business flourishes, as does all Business
in Camden.

Alas but that I could say the same for the Health of my Hands and
Heart.
 
How my Hands pain me with
Rheumatism!
 
The Surgeon tells me he
does not believe my old Heart can survive another Year.
 
I must rest and give up operating my
Business.
 
The very Thought of letting
an Outsider direct the Apprentices and manage the Books pains me almost as
much, so I shall make you an Offer.

Move to Camden with your Wife and assume the Operation of my
Business for the next Year.
 
I shall
give you sixty percent Profit off old Business and ninety percent Profit off
new Business.
 
I shall also establish
you in a decent Dwelling near me.
 
All I
ask, beyond my small share of Profit, is the comfort of your nearness in my final
Days.

Think on it, dear Nephew, but do not think too long.
 
My Days grow short, and I would go to my
Maker knowing my Friends and Family are with me and my Business is well-tended.

I am
Sir

Your
devoted Uncle

Isaac Sheridan

Her chest still tight, Betsy reread
the letter before handing it back.
 
"I take it you don't have an Uncle Isaac," she whispered,
"but this fellow is posing as such.
 
The spies want you in Camden.
 
What's in Camden?"
 
She
thought of the number 402 again.
 
"Surely not Cornwallis."

"He's in Charles Town.
 
Lord Rawdon now holds Camden."
 
Clark set the letter afire and watched it
blacken to ash in a pewter dish at the bedside.
 
"Camden's a central location for Crown patrols that report
from the backcountry.
 
Much by way of
rumor and strategy flows through Camden these days."

"You're to keep watch for the
rebels in Camden."
 
Intuition
brushed her but faded before she could grasp it.

He dragged his gaze off the
cinders.
 
"Yes.
 
I realize you hate this, but I beg you to
stay with me.
 
I need your
loyalty."

"What about the rebel cause
has earned
your
loyalty?"

He regarded darkness in a
corner.
 
"Their passion, their
fever, their love of life.
 
They want
all men to live out their dreams in this huge land of opportunity.
 
No land restrictions.
 
No taxes.
 
No one telling you to worship a certain god or bow to a certain
ruler.
 
No limit to life except what
your own two hands can produce."
 
His eyes grew fervent.
 
"If
the Patriots win, all men will be free and equal."

She kept her voice low.
 
"Even the Negroes?"

"Soon enough, yes."

He couldn't have thought that part
through.
 
The agricultural economy of
the southern colonies was quite enmeshed with slavery, and she didn't see
anyone freeing slaves anytime soon.
 
"You said no taxes?
 
The
Congress taxes colonies even now."

"Only until the war is
over."

"Do you really believe all
that?"

"The Ambrose ring is like my
family."

He might mouth rebel dogma, but his
true motive for sticking with the spies was the camaraderie and bond he'd found
with them.
 
In dismay, she realized the
depths to which his insecurity from being orphaned had dug.
 
How important were she and the baby in his
life?
 
Unwilling to drag from him an
answer she wasn't ready to hear, she decided to confront him with the
obvious.
 
"Fairfax will be in South
Carolina.
 
He'll consider it significant
when we, already suspects in his mind as spies, turn up in Camden."

"South Carolina is a big
colony.
 
I trust the lads in Camden to
take care of us, make our cover plausible.
 
Should our paths cross with Fairfax's again, he may fret and pace with
suspicion all he wants, but he won't be able to pierce our cover."

She recognized the prod to her
consciousness.
 
"Our
furniture.
 
Will we find it in the
'decent dwelling' near your Uncle Isaac?"

"Ah, yes, now I see why they
burned the house.
 
They're relocating me
to Camden."

Monstrous!
 
"At the Sweeneys', Fairfax took
inventory of what was stolen from our house.
 
Suppose he gains access to our home in Camden and assesses what's there
— the exact pieces of furniture that went missing, down to the clothing and
quilts.
 
Even I'd consider the
coincidence to be too great."

Clark seized her hands in his, his
determination intense.
 
"Trust
me.
 
We know what we're doing.
 
We shall make it work."

She shook her head.
 
"I don't want to leave family and
friends here, and I have a bad feeling about Camden.
 
Stay, rebuild your business, continue spying if you must, but
write 'Uncle Isaac' and tell him you aren't coming."

"That isn't an
option."
 
His grasp of her hands
grew almost painful.
 
"Trust me,
dear heart."

Gazing into his eyes, she felt
desperate.
 
In the past ten minutes,
he'd let her see a man she didn't know.
 
She resisted the urge to pull away from his touch.
 
After all, he was her husband, and she'd
exchanged wedding vows to stay at his side.
 
But the fiery determination she saw in his eyes reminded her too much of
the angelic radiance in Fairfax's face just before he killed or
interrogated.
 
Surely, if she pondered
it long enough, she could find the argument to dissuade her husband from his
association with the rebels.
 
"Heaven help us," she murmured.

Chapter Twelve

DAWN ON FRIDAY, July 14, found
Betsy plodding along to the home of the Alexanders, a loaf of Sarah's molasses
bread in her basket.
 
Lack of sleep muddied
her thoughts.
 
She'd lain awake most of
the night listening to Clark's snores.

Two days earlier, she'd wished for
a plausible reason to go to South Carolina so she could search for her
parents.
 
Now, her house was gone.
 
Her husband perpetrated treason against the
government.
 
Not that she could muster
exuberant praise for that government, but still, it was
lawful
.
 
And she must move to the most war-torn
colony in British North America so Clark could continue spying.
 
The world had turned upside down.
 
She had to be more careful what she wished
for.

Augustans opening shop for the day
called out sympathy over the loss of her house.
 
A lump formed in her throat at their goodwill, kind-hearted
people she'd known most of her life.
 
Leaving such a solid community disturbed her even more than the
knowledge of Clark's role in her distress.

Scant community awaited her in
Camden, home of a third cousin, Emma, who'd married the owner of the Leaping
Stag, Camden's most prosperous tavern.
 
Betsy hadn't seen Emma in almost eight years and wondered if she and her
family would ever feel like community or Camden would ever feel like home.

She detoured to the stationer's
shop, where the plump proprietress behind the counter offered coffee.
 
"We're so sorry about your house.
 
But I'm making a blanket for that baby of
yours, and Matthew, you know how fancy he gets with carpentry, he's hard at
work on a couple of stools for you."

"Thank you, Molly."

"How can I help you this
morning?"

Betsy set down her coffee cup,
withdrew from her basket the letters she'd written before leaving the house,
and handed them to Molly.
 
"Please
see them posted today."

"Gladly."
 
Molly examined one address.
 
"Joshua Hale, Hale and Sons Smithy,
Alton, Georgia.
 
It should reach him
later today.
 
I'm expecting a southbound
rider presently.
 
And, hmm, Emma
Branwell, the Leaping Stag Tavern, Camden, South Carolina.
 
That letter may take a few days."

"I understand.
 
Thank you."
 
Betsy had debated breaking Clark's confidence because she so
needed someone to talk with.
 
She'd
finally settled for brief, scant-detail letters to her uncle and cousin about
their burned house and relocation.
 
She
hoped Joshua would accompany her to Camden.