The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (35 page)

"I shall give him the invoice
when he returns.
 
He takes morning
coffee on weekdays with two surveyor friends of his."
 
Coffee wasn't the only thing Abel was taking
with van Duser and der Waal.
 
If the
accountant kept a regular schedule, she'd have the cipher upstairs decoded in
no time.
 
"You look tired,
dear.
 
Are we working you too
hard?"

"Not at all.
 
Tom and I aren't used to sleeping in a
tavern."
 
She flashed Emma a smile
that she hoped appeared apologetic.
 
"Taverns
are noisy.
 
So he's going to work
overtime to see if we can save enough money to at least rent our own place in a
few weeks."

"I do understand, dear."

"And since you don't often
need my help in the afternoons, I shall assist him by finding jobs around
town."

"I admire you for working with
your husband that way.
 
A month will
give me plenty of time to find a reliable chambermaid, although I doubt any
could measure up to your efficiency."

Betsy refreshed her smile and eased
out a sigh of relief.
 
One hurdle
down.
 
Emma wasn't going to fight
her.
 
She shifted her smile across the
dining room to where Maria sipped coffee and Margaret studied them with those
endless dark eyes of hers.
 
"Er,
Margaret, yesterday afternoon, you mentioned a client from Alton."
 
Maria set down her cup, all ears.
 
"He sounded like a soldier I know.
 
Perchance is he Lieutenant Fairfax?"

Margaret's expression didn't
change, but Maria leaned over to her with a grin.
 
"Watch out, Peggy.
 
She's sweet on him."

Betsy felt her ears heat.
 
Margaret's smile grew seductive.
 
"I wondered if you were the same
Sheridan he was looking for."

Fairfax expected her in town.
 
Gods, he'd a demon's sense for
investigation.
 
Betsy tried to stay
calm.
 
"He asked about
me
?"

"No.
 
He asked if I'd keep my ears open for someone named John Clark
Sheridan."

"Oh.
 
I see."
 
Betsy
swallowed, not at all relieved.
 
"John Clark Sheridan, you say?
 
I've not heard of him.
 
I shall
ask my husband if the name is familiar.
 
Perhaps he's a relation."

"But you do know
Dunstan."

Maria purred, and Betsy felt
indignant at her implication.
 
"Well, I'm acquainted with him.
 
When Tom and I visited my family in Alton, he played piquet with the
lieutenant."
 
Betsy twisted her
lips with fake remorse.
 
"I'm
ashamed to admit that my Tom lost more money than he should have.
 
He and the lieutenant agreed that a new pair
of boots would cancel the debt.
 
Since
the lieutenant was coming to South Carolina by way of Augusta, he escorted us
back.

"Unfortunately, we didn't have
a home to return to, or a shop for that matter.
 
Our house had burned in our absence.
 
Tom's creditors descended on him like turkey vultures.
 
While his intentions to pay off Lieutenant
Fairfax are honorable, it's going to take us awhile to get back on our
feet."

"You don't want me to let him
know you're here."

"I will be grateful if you
don't mention it.
 
When he returns to
visit you, let us know.
 
We'll stay out
of sight.
 
Tom will get the debt repaid
before the end of the year."

Maria snickered.
 
"You'd best find a way to keep your man
away from piquet."

Betsy rolled her eyes and heaved a
sigh meant to sound forbearing.
 
"You have the right of it there."

"Ladies."
 
Emma came forward.
 
"If
anyone
asks for the Sheridans, don't let on that
they're here.
 
This war deals bad knocks
to good folks.
 
Betsy and Tom need time
to recover."

Margaret and Maria sealed the pact
with silent nods that communicated they'd pass the word along to the
others.
 
Betsy wiped sweaty palms on her
apron.
 
She felt like she'd danced on a
rope above a pit of lions.

Sally entered and bobbed a
curtsy.
 
"Miz Emma, they's sent
word from th' hospital in Log Town.
 
They needs more linen.
 
Rebels
ambushed a supply train yesterday, and they's lots o' King's Friends injured
right now needing bandages."

Betsy stared.
 
Clark had been in that supply train.

"I suspect they'll need more
than bandages.
 
They'll need some of
Hattie's salve to fight infections, and willow bark for tea."
 
Emma grasped Betsy's elbow.
 
"Dear, can you spare a few hours today
to help me in Log Town?"

And place herself in a superb
position to discover what had happened to Clark?
 
Betsy threw back her shoulders with dedication.
 
"You can count on me."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ABOVE THE SMELLS of dirt, horse,
and scorched pork, the stenches of putrefaction, human waste, and vomit brewed
beneath the blazing sun and bore down on Betsy when she and Emma dismounted at
the perimeter of Log Town.
 
They waited,
sweating, in the scant shade of a pine tree.
 
Guards secured their horses and inspected the contents of their baskets.
 
Two privates then escorted them through camp
to the hospital.

While walking avenues of canvas
tents draped with scarlet wool coats too warm to wear, Betsy smelled rum and
unwashed humans.
 
She heard
pennywhistles and fiddles and the laughter of young men on a one-way passage to
obliteration before their lives had even begun.
 
Conversation paused in their wake.
 
From the silent stares she and Emma received, she could almost
hear the thoughts of the soldiers.
 
Not
camp women.
 
Pretty.
 
Young
.
 
It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, even in broad
daylight, even with an escort.

Sutlers hawked fabric, ink, and
tobacco.
 
Wainwrights installed a new
wheel on a wagon, and a blacksmith repaired a coffeepot.
 
Her gaze pierced wood smoke to haggard women
toting water, cooking, and mending, and ragged children darting out of the way
of oxen hauling supply wagons.
 
She
wondered how many civilians in camp had homes to return to and shuddered to
imagine herself among them, raising her child in squalor.

The stench of death increased, and
she saw canopies shielding hundreds of supine bodies.
 
So many soldiers packed together, most still and quiet, some
muttering or twitching in deliriums.
 
Women in grimy aprons offered rum or water to those who were lucid.
 
Flies swarmed over everything.
 
How vulnerable the army was in Camden.
 
There wasn't enough willow bark in all of
South Carolina to accommodate such human suffering.

Their escort waved them beneath a
canopy where the groaning of men was louder and pointed out several men
clustered around a bloody table.
 
Betsy
and Emma set down their baskets, removed their straw hats beneath the shade,
and fanned away flies.
 
"Emma?"
 
A tow-headed
lad of fifteen rose on an elbow and plucked at her petticoat.
 
Betsy sucked in alarm at bloody bandages
swathing his lower right leg, and Emma knelt beside him.
 
"Peter Griffin, oh, dear heavens, what
are you doing here?"

He flopped back on a filthy
blanket, his face twisted with agony, his voice a croak.
 
"I left with the militia yesterday
morning.
 
Whigs ambushed us, tied us
back to back, headed us out to meet Davie.
 
Middle of the night, we fell into an ambush of our own men.
 
They killed more than half of us.
 
Couldn't see who we were in the dark.
 
Got the fellow tied with me right through
the heart.
 
G-got my leg, too."

Emma patted his hand.
 
"Lie still and let the surgeon fix your
leg."

He rose again in terror.
 
"He says the bone's too badly broke,
and he'll have to take my leg!
 
Don't
let him take it!"

"Mr. Griffin!"
 
Emma rose, and she and Betsy turned to the
approach of the surgeon, a blood-spattered apron tied across his ample torso,
his two muscular assistants following him.

"Noooooo!"
 
Peter tried to roll up to a standing
position, but the assistants were upon him.
 
"No, I won't let you take my leg!
 
I won't!"
 
Betsy covered her
mouth with her hand in horror, and a pallid-faced Emma lifted a handkerchief to
her own mouth.

"I'm afraid the leg has to
come off, sir.
 
Lucky you are that I
have something to ease the pain.
 
You
shan't feel a thing, I promise."
 
The surgeon motioned the assistants toward the gore-spattered table.

"Noooooo!"
 
Peter clutched for Emma before being borne
away.

The surgeon lingered.
 
"Mrs. Branwell?"
 
Emma lowered her handkerchief and
nodded.
 
"I'm Dr. Daniels."
 
He indicated the baskets.
 
"I appreciate the donation.
 
If you can help here for a few hours, I'd
appreciate that, too, and see you get an escort out.
 
My staff gets one fever after another."
 
In the background, Peter's lamentations grew
gurgled, as if one of the assistants had poured something down his throat.
 
"You know the lad?"

"He's the youngest brother of
one of my friends.
 
I shall notify his
mother."

"Thank you.
 
Bloody shame when I have to take a boy's
leg.
 
Damn this war."

Daniels ambled for the surgery
table flexing his biceps.
 
Emma turned
away blinking back tears.
 
Betsy took
her hand.
 
"Let's do what we can
for an hour and leave.
 
This is
horrid."

Emma nodded.
 
"If Peter's here, there are likely
others from Camden also.
 
Perhaps they
even brought back the bodies of those killed in the ambush."

"The surgeon looks dreadfully
busy.
 
I wager he hasn't had the time
yet to catalogue the casualties."
 
Betsy's gaze ranged across the shaded area, taking in men who were
reclining or sitting.
 
"No doubt you'd
be helping him further if you recognized some of these fellows."
 
Her voice trailed off as she watched an
unshaven dark-haired man with a clean bandage on his left upper arm stand and
look at her full on.
 
"Oh, my
god."

Clark's eyes widened with
recognition.
 
Then a blend of emotions
traversed his expression: fear, flight, frustration, furtiveness.
 
She gaped at him, the realization that he
displayed no longing for her or regret for the situation pinioning her like a
bayonet in her stomach and halting her instinct to bound forward and cast
herself into his arms.
 
Her reflection
in his eyes was, in fact, that of a source of betrayal.
 
The bayonet of anguish twisted upward and
punctured her heart.

"Do you know that militiaman,
Betsy?"

She unclamped her jaw and felt the
ache in her head bleed through her soul.
 
Her voice sounded dead.
 
"He's from Augusta."

"Men travel quite a ways to
serve our king, don't they?"
 
Emma
nudged her.
 
"He looks none the
worse.
 
Go on over and chat.
 
Maybe you can help him get word to loved
ones in Georgia.
 
I sure hope he didn't
leave a wife and children behind."

"So do I."
 
Betsy wandered over to Clark, who gestured
to the east edge of the canopy: privacy if they kept their voices down.
 
In awkward silence, they regarded each other
a few seconds.
 
Betsy said, "How's
the arm?"