The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (7 page)

Her voice sounded muffled against
his shoulder.
 
"You're going to be
a great-uncle come Yule."

"Congratulations.
 
Hmm, great-uncle.
 
That takes some getting used to."
 
He considered.
 
"Do
you suppose your father knows about you and the baby?"

"Yes."

He set her out from him.
 
"You sound certain of that.
 
Alas, we've no way of communicating with
him."
 
His expression clamped with
worry.
 
"Prisoner of the Lower Creek.
 
God's teeth."

She glanced around and whispered,
"Can you keep a secret?"
 
His
eyebrows lifted, and he nodded.
 
"My parents are in South Carolina with the Cherokee."

"Jove's arse — how did they —
you —"

"Uncle David hid in my
henhouse yesterday."

"The three of them escaped the
Lower Creek?"
 
Joshua gaped.

"I got the impression the
Lower Creek helped them escape the redcoats.
 
Uncle David couldn't stay to explain.
 
He was on the run.
 
Do you
know where my parents went among the Cherokee?"

"No.
 
I'm not familiar with the Cherokee."

"But there's a Creek village
near here."

"A few miles to the
southwest.
 
It's where Toókóhee Nókúse —
Mathias's father — and my mother lived."

"So his relatives might live
there.
 
Take me there."

"Today?"
 
Joshua studied the angle of the sun.
 
"Very well.
 
We've a good five hours daylight left.
 
But the Creek won't tell you anything."

"I'm Mathias's daughter.
 
You're his brother.
 
Don't you think the two of us can persuade
someone to talk with us?"

Practicality stamped his face.
 
"Betsy, with this war, it comforts me
greatly to know that my one living brother is alive and not captive.
 
He and Sophie have a damned good reason to
stay hidden, and I respect that."

Her blood tingled with frustration,
impatience.
 
"I want to know my
blood father before my baby is born, and I want him to see this
grandchild.
 
Walk in my shoes, Uncle.
 
Think what it would be like to wake up one
morning and have a father when all your life you've never had one.
 
Would you wait for a war to wind down before
you sought him out?
 
I won't let two
armies of pig-headed men come between me and my own blood."

The corners of Joshua's eyes
creased in a smile.
 
"I don't
suppose you would, standing there, looking so obstinate, just like your
mother.
 
All right, I'll introduce you
to the village's Beloved Woman.
 
Her
family adopted my mother.
 
But don't say
I didn't warn you if she won't tell you what you want to know."

***

Cool and moist after the swelter of
afternoon sun, the forest embraced them.
 
Ahead on the Indian trail, Joshua swiveled in his saddle.
 
"Are you a good rider?
 
If we pick up the pace, we'll be home in
time for supper."

Betsy signaled her agreement and
sent Lady May cantering after him.
 
Verdant foliaged branches of oak, maple, hickory, and dogwood whizzed
past, and the earth beneath their horses' hooves mingled with the smells of
sandy soil and horse sweat.
 
Their
passage silenced the sizzle of cicadas, but undaunted mockingbirds, redheaded
woodpeckers, blue jays, and cardinals cavorted in the yellow-green air around
them.

After a few minutes, Betsy called
ahead.
 
"Joshua, where is your
Uncle Jacques?"

"He took off after Will with
Sophie, David, and Mathias.
 
The
official word was that the redcoats executed him in Havana for resisting
arrest."

She recoiled.
 
"From what little I know of Major Hunt
—"

"I don't think
Hunt
executed him."
 
The sting in his
voice made his meaning clear.
 
No wonder
Fairfax had found the thought of Sophie as Jacques le Coeuvre's mistress
amusing.
 
"Alton is well rid of
Fairfax.
 
You cannot spend a minute in
his company without realizing that something is broken inside his head."

And she'd be treated to seven hours
of his company on the morrow.
 
How naïve
she'd been to dismiss David's warning.
 
"Clark and I wondered why Lieutenant Stoddard and Captain Sheffield
were so eager to see him gone."

"They're decent men.
 
So is Major Hunt.
 
But it doesn't surprise me a bit that those murders back in early
June occurred while Fairfax was here.
 
That's when my brother Jonah's throat was slit.
 
And the same night, a Spaniard was skinned alive."

"Gods," whispered Betsy,
following Joshua's implication.
 
"Was Fairfax responsible?"
 
Panic leaped about in her gut.

"Stoddard's 'official'
finding, that the murders were the work of a Spanish assassin, placated
everyone and came just in time.
 
The
Creek had been implicated in the murders, and they were incensed, while the Whites
were itching to butcher Indians."

"You think Stoddard and
Sheffield covered for Fairfax."

"Wouldn't surprise me.
 
The redcoats cannot afford to let a story
leak about one of their officers torturing a prisoner to death."

"He's heading our escort back
to Augusta on the morrow."

Joshua pulled back on the horse's
reins.
 
"Whoa.
 
Steady there, lad."
 
He patted the gelding's neck, and when Betsy
drew even with him, caught her hand and held it.
 
"Whatever you do, stay out of his way.
 
Don't give him cause to suspect you of
anything.
 
That hound from Hades will
tear you to pieces."

She swallowed, her throat dry.
 
The panic in her stomach settled to a leaden
lump of dread.
 
She'd been worse than
naïve to dismiss David's warning.
 
She'd
been a fool.

***

A half-dozen dogs issued from
lengthening shadows at the outskirts of the village.
 
Each barked to alert the Creek of their visitors and circled
Betsy and Joshua.
 
Indians tagged along after
them smiling with recognition, curiosity, and welcome.
 
Joshua returned their greetings.

Betsy followed Joshua in
dismounting and leading her horse.
 
She
had little exposure to large groups of Indians and tried not to gape at the
villagers.
 
But she knew she wasn't
doing a good job of it.
 
The truth was
that she felt overdressed.

Four naked little boys, gripping
branches whittled like spears, chased a rolling hoop in the dirt street between
household compounds, and one boy sent his weapon through the center of the
hoop, earning cheers from his companions.
 
A young woman scraped flesh from deerskin stretched on a wooden
frame.
 
Strands of shells adorned her
naked, bronzed upper torso, flowers diademed her black, braided hair, and a
skirt of floral print covered her from waist to knee.
 
Dressed in like fashion, women bearing baskets of corn strolled
toward the
talwa
, the town center, laughter from their gossip jiggling
their naked breasts.
 
Two warriors in
breechcloths hauled a catch of bass and trout, their earrings and nose-rings
shining in the sunlight.
 
Charcoal-colored tattoos whorled over their bronze skin from their
ankles to their shaved heads and circled their topknots of black hair.

Almost everyone Betsy and Joshua
encountered in the street or sitting before wattle-and-daub huts waved to
Joshua, and he waved back.
 
Even clothed
as a colonist, he was welcomed by the Creek.
 
Betsy fidgeted.
 
She stuck out
like a walnut in a bowl of acorns.
 
How
ironic.
 
Her uncle hadn’t a drop of
Indian blood in him.

A warrior about ten years older
than Betsy jogged over with a grin of amiability and, stinking of rancid bear
grease, clasped arms with Joshua.
 
He
and Joshua spoke Creek, salutations and what Betsy presumed to be polite
inquiries after family members.
 
Among
the tattoos, Betsy noticed a scar on the warrior's thigh still pink with healing
— a sharp knife cut, from the smooth line of the wound.

His hand on her shoulder, Joshua
pulled her a step closer to the Creek.
 
"Betsy, this is my cousin, Sehoyee Yahuh.
 
That's 'Standing Wolf' in English.
 
He's a son of Laughing Eyes, the Beloved Woman.
 
She's talking with the medicine man right
now, but we can wait for her in her
huti's
pavilion."

"Thank you."
 
Betsy inclined her head to the warrior.

"Sehoyee Yahuh and his brother
traveled with Mathias, Sophie, David, and Uncle Jacques as far as St.
Augustine."

Betsy studied Standing Wolf.
 
"You didn't go to Havana?"

The warrior grunted.
 
"Spaniards."
 
She was reminded of the two sneaky Spaniards
and all that Cordovan leather in Clark's shop.
 
"Bandits.
 
Ambush.
 
Wolves.
 
Assassins.
 
Escaped slaves."
 
His upper lip curled like a leaf in late
autumn.
 
"Always the
redcoats."

With such an itinerary, the trip to
St. Augustine must have been sheer nightmare.
 
Perhaps the wound on the warrior's thigh was acquired in the
adventure.
 
She wondered how her parents,
uncle, and great-uncle had survived to reach St. Augustine.

Standing Wolf escorted them past
the town plaza and square ground to the pavilion of his mother's
huti
and trotted off.
 
Beneath the shade
house, Joshua offered the deer hide hammock to Betsy, who settled into it,
gazed at flies on the thatch ceiling, and yawned.
 
Summer's heat and the needs of the baby growing inside her had
made the trip more wearying than usual.

"Uncle Jacques used to bring
Jonah and me to the village when we were boys."

"That's how you learned the
language."
 
She yawned again.
 
The hammock creaked and swayed, and she sank
further into it, comfortable for the first time that day, realizing how tired
she felt.

"Yes.
 
The Creek named your father Ayukapeta
Hokolen Econa.
 
It means 'Walk in Two
Worlds' because Laughing Eyes took him with her when she talked with
settlers.
 
He spent enough time among
colonists and Indians to be considered White by most Whites and Indian by most
Indians.
 
On top of that he learned
blacksmithing from my father."

The family history lesson wavered
in and out as sleep overtook her.
 
"Maybe my father didn't go to South Carolina just to
hide."
 
She yawned a final time.
 
"Maybe he went there as an
ambassador."

She'd just nodded off when Joshua
cleared his throat.
 
"Hssst, Betsy,
they're coming."

The smell of corn cakes being fried
by two women in the
huti's
cooking area adjacent to the pavilion roused
a grumble from Betsy's stomach.
 
She
rolled from the hammock, groggy, and smoothed her petticoat.
 
"How do I look?
 
Oh, dear, all the dust and wrinkles."

She straightened.
 
Too late for grooming.
 
Standing Wolf stepped beneath the shade of
the pavilion, behind him a Creek matron whose gaze flicked over Betsy once
before focusing on Joshua and softening.

Chapter Six

THE MATRON, HER upper torso adorned
with strands of shells and wooden beads, her black hair braided with flowers,
smiled at Joshua.
 
He bowed, and she
coughed with disapproval.
 
"A bow
is all you have for your mother's sister?"
 
They hugged, and she patted his back with a hand gentle enough to
burp babies and firm enough to steer negotiations.
 
"How long has it been since you visited us?
 
Late spring?"
 
Sheepishness slid over his face.
 
"Bring your children next time."
 
She flapped her hand.
 
"But leave that quarrelsome wife of yours at home."