The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (4 page)

They walked their horses out to the
street behind the soldiers, and the party of eight headed south at an easy pace
on the sandy postal road.
 
Nevertheless,
Betsy noticed tautness in the shoulders of Stoddard and the privates.
 
Mid-morning, just north of the Indian
settlement of New Savannah, Stoddard rode back and paced his horse beside those
of the Sheridans.
 
Tension creased the
corners of his mouth.
 
"We aren't
far north of New Savannah.
 
We shall
pause for dinner around noon."

"Is something amiss this
morning?" said Clark.

"No cause for your
concern.
 
Our party skirmished with some
bandits yesterday near here and sent them running."

"Ah, so I need keep my fowler
ready?"

"As you wish, Mr. Sheridan,
however, it appears they've not the stomachs for further challenge."

He touched the brim of his hat in
courtesy and rode forward, but Betsy sensed he wasn't convinced of the bandits'
cowardice.
 
Not a one of the soldiers
discarded his road wariness.

Between New Savannah and Alton,
they stopped to eat.
 
The privates took
turns standing guard during the meal.
 
Heat rippled the rolling hills, cicadas buzzed in the brush, and the
raucous calls of crows punctuated the noon air.
 
Betsy sweated in the shade of an oak, thankful to have a
broad-brimmed straw hat and linen tucker to keep off the sun.

She noted the soldiers'
less-than-appetizing rations and shared ham and pastries with them, after which
Stoddard pointed out a red-tailed hawk circling a thousand feet high.
 
The Sheridans observed the hawk's glorious,
parabolic dive toward the earth.
 
When
the gleam-eyed raptor soared away with a field rat, Stoddard's preoccupation
with bandits thawed long enough for him to exclaim, "Got it!"

At Clark's prodding, the lieutenant
admitted that the benefactor in Yorkshire who'd helped purchase his ensign's
commission raised peregrines, and he'd often swept out the mews and cared for
the raptors.
 
Soon Clark had him and the
men chatting about hunting and fishing.
 
By the time they resumed the journey, Stoddard, while still keeping an
eye on the surrounding terrain, had lowered his reserve enough to offer to buy
Clark ale that night in the Red Rock Tavern.

Betsy had seen her husband's
sociability at work so often she'd almost ceased thinking about it.
 
But this time her instincts vibrated.
 
Perhaps because he'd been orphaned and
hadn't many friends from youth, he made friends everywhere and could charm the
gab out of just about anyone.
 
At the Red
Rock that night, he'd buy enough spirits to cheer his new friends.
 
A good listener, he'd be treated to a great
deal of information from the soldiers, not all of it bluster.
 
She wondered again who was privy to the
cipher written with invisible ink.

They arrived in Alton just after
two and walked the horses down the street lined with a couple dozen drab wooden
buildings — businesses on the ground floor, residences upstairs — past Will St.
James's print shop and post office at the north end of town.
 
Heat pulsated from the ground.
 
Limp-leafed oak and fruit trees shaded the
buildings.
 
From the concentrated smell
of dust, wood smoke, dung, and rotting fruit, she surmised that rain hadn't
fallen in Alton for several weeks.
 
Chickens, goats, and hogs ranging free scuttled out of the way of the
horses.
 
The residents they passed
paused to regard them with curiosity.

About a hundred yards to the east
of the street wound the Savannah River.
 
Across it, Alton's garrison had pitched their tents amidst the haze of
campfires.
 
But Captain Sheffield
occupied a house south of town center.
 
In June, its former occupant, Major Hunt, had set off in pursuit of
Will, Sophie, and David with eleven soldiers from Alton's garrison.
 
Stoddard, Betsy, and Clark dismounted,
secured their horses in the shade, and entered the house.

Inside, Betsy's eyes adjusted to
the gloom of the entranceway, and her gaze wandered up the staircase.
 
A servant in his fifties emerged from the
rear of the house, gray frosting his bronze-colored hair.
 
"Ah, Finnegan."
 
Stoddard gestured to the Sheridans.
 
"The captain's guests have
arrived.
 
Where is he?"

"In the study, sir."
 
The man nodded toward a closed door opposite
the front parlor.

"Very good.
 
See that the Sheridans have the opportunity
to refresh themselves.
 
I shall fetch
him."
 
The lieutenant bowed to Betsy
and Clark before knocking on the study door.

Finnegan ushered the guests into
the parlor and seated them in ladder-backed chairs around a circular tea
table.
 
Over the clink of china as he
set up the tea service, Betsy heard the study door open, and Stoddard's voice,
low and urgent: "
I
was the target, sir.
 
Had the men not performed commendably, I'd have been murdered
yesterday.
 
You must
do
something
about him!"

Clark raised his eyebrows at her,
having also overheard.
 
Betsy rubbed
clammy palms on her apron and swallowed.
 
"The devil," Clark muttered.
 
The devil, indeed.
 
Small wonder
Stoddard had been nervous all day.
 
No
random target of "bandits," he'd been singled out by an assassin.

The front door creaked open, and a
deep, hushed voice consoled Stoddard.
 
The thump of the lieutenant's boots down the front steps preceded
Betsy's view of him striding out to his horse and the five privates, who'd
remained mounted.
 
Then the swarthy
commander of Alton's garrison stomped into the parlor.
 
Betsy doubted he could have tiptoed anywhere
— taller than her uncle and outweighing him by forty pounds.
 
Omitting a shave for several days, he'd be
mistaken for Blackbeard.
 
Fifteen years
earlier, Captain Sheffield must have been the terror of everyone's china
collection, but in his early thirties, he and some semblance of poise had made
peace with each other.

While the servant slipped from the
room, the captain pivoted to his guests, dust clinging to his uniform, dulling
the scarlet.
 
"John Sheffield at
your service."
 
Clark introduced
them.
 
The captain wrung his extended
hand, and Betsy hid her amusement over Clark's wince of pain.
 
"Pleased to make your
acquaintance.
 
Thank you for
coming."
 
He directed a cordial
smile at Betsy and bowed.
 
"After
tea, your aunt awaits your arrival in your mother's home."

"Thank you, sir."

Sheffield assumed his seat and
measured leaves from the canister into the pot.
 
Finnegan entered with a kettle of steaming water, added water to
the pot, and left to reheat the kettle.
 
Small talk ensued while the captain passed around cups of steeped tea
and offered sugar and milk.
 
All Betsy
wanted at first was to inhale the bouquet of the beverage.
 
She noticed Clark doing the same.
 
They'd made do for so long with coffee and
hot chocolate for afternoon "tea."
 
Rebels in several colonies had been out of their minds to dump such
nectar into the ocean.

She balanced her cup and saucer in
her lap.
 
"Captain, I'd not met
your predecessor, Major Hunt.
 
I
understand the Creek Indians injured him.
 
How does he?"

"He took a ball in the
leg.
 
A surgeon in Cow Ford removed it
cleanly.
 
It's a matter of waiting for
the infection to clear.
 
Kind of you to
ask.
 
Your mother and uncle were
captured by those same Indians.
 
You
must be ill with concern."

Betsy dropped her gaze to hide her
knowledge otherwise.
 
"Yes, I can
hardly sleep.
 
What news do you have of
them?"

"A delegate from Cow Ford met
the Creek's mico — their leader — to ask the terms for their release.
 
The mico refused to talk.
 
Negotiations are at a standstill this moment,
and I'm sorry for it, but those Indians can be capricious.
 
They decide daily whether they'll honor
treaties and alliances."

Betsy let out a slow breath of
relief.
 
Thank the heavens the redcoats
didn't know Sophie and David had escaped.

Sheffield cleared his throat.
 
"I expect Major Hunt's account of the
events culminating in Havana within a week.
 
We've interviewed residents from Alton.
 
Everyone we've spoken with insists that neither your mother nor uncle
were rebels.
 
Frankly I'm puzzled as to
their motive for taking up with the rebels."

She considered the rationale David
had implied the day before.
 
"Perhaps, sir, they didn't take up with the rebels but were simply
concerned for my grandfather's well-being.
 
They followed him to Cuba and became entangled in his schemes."

Sheffield scratched his chin.
 
"Your aunt advanced a similar theory,
but she's known for supporting rebel viewpoints."

Betsy smiled.
 
"Aunt Susana talks a great deal, but I
doubt she'd throw herself wholeheartedly into the rebel cause."

"Why is that?"

"Promise you won't repeat
this."

"You have my word."

"She has a dramatic flair that
obscures a lack of backbone."

"Ah.
 
But your mother and uncle
do
possess backbone?"

"Yes, sir."

Sheffield nodded.
 
"Mr. Sheridan's support of His Majesty
is known in Augusta.
 
But tell me,
madam, where are your loyalties?"

She held his gaze.
 
"I won't take sides.
 
Parliament and the Congress are doing a poor
job of listening to each other."

Annoyance squeezed from Sheffield's
lips.
 
"Neutrals.
 
The townsfolk claim your mother and uncle
are neutrals."

"I've heard them remark on the
pig-headedness of both sides, yes."
 
She maintained a cool eye on the captain.
 
"In my mother's recent letters to me, she mentioned that
Major Hunt had begun spending time with her."

Shrewdness twitched Sheffield's
eyebrows.
 
"Gossip says they were
courting.
 
Hardly the actions of a woman
dedicated to the rebel cause."
 
He
studied her reaction.

At first she expected him to
explain away Major Hunt's actions with a statement such as, "Your mother
must have been a spy who set out to dazzle and deceive him."
 
But he remained quiet.
 
If he felt the major's reputation tarnished
by the liaison, he didn't hasten to polish away the smudge.
 
He must have concluded that Sophie Barton
was a decent woman and Edward Hunt was in full command of his faculties.
 
She respected Sheffield for that.

After a moment, he stirred.
 
"Neutrality is a difficult and often
dangerous position to maintain."

"There are plenty of neutrals
out there, sir."

"Yes, I'm aware of it.
 
So is Parliament.
 
A grievously untapped resource for His Majesty."
 
He inspected their teacups.
 
"More tea?"
 
Betsy and Clark extended cups at the same
time, their eager expressions eliciting a chuckle from the captain.
 
"Could I win over a neutral simply by
serving tea, I'd give my next month's pay for a crate of the stuff."

Finnegan reappeared with hot water,
and Sheffield replenished their tea.
 
Conversation turned apolitical.
 
Betsy watched Clark manipulate anecdotes from the captain about his
boyhood in Yorkshire.
 
Sheffield's
hearty laugh filled the room.
 
Not in
his wildest dreams did the captain suspect her husband stuck secret messages in
boots or dealt with enemy Spaniards.
 
No, indeed, there were
two
John Clark Sheridans, and Betsy, with
growing unease, wondered which she'd married.