The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (40 page)

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 mission 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!"