The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Read online

  "I'm certain of it. Your features are familiar."

  Her features must be represented in half the populace of Alton. "I've never met you before this day."

  "Have you heard from your mother or uncle?"

  "They were captured by Creek Indians."

  "I didn't ask if you'd heard of them. I asked if you'd heard from them."

  Her pulse stammered before finding rhythm again. Sweat beaded to her forehead, and she swallowed, recalling David's visit just the day before. She plastered a hopeful smile to her lips. "Have they escaped the Indians, then?"

  "Answer the question." She felt the very ether between them convulse, flogged by his tone. "Is it not true that you've recently had contact with your mother or uncle?"

  Her smile withered. "No. I've not." She heard how her voice croaked and knew he'd read her second lie, too. Her flight response got the better of her then, and she attempted to rush past him into the shop.

  His hand braced on the doorjamb, his arm imprisoning her. "If they escaped and contacted you, what action would you take?"

  "Are you telling me they've escaped?" Horror spiraled through Betsy. Fairfax suspected her mother and uncle were free.

  "I asked what you'd do if your kin escaped and contacted you. Cease evading me and answer the question."

  From somewhere in her soul, she found the strength to glare at him. "Sir, how dare you ask of me a hypothetical question and demand a definitive answer?"

  The gray-green ice in his eyes pinioned her. "A non-hypothetical interrogatory. Very well. State your loyalties."

  Smothered, desperate for fresh air, she sucked in a breath. Her ribs froze. Her voice caught in her throat. "I'm neutral."

  "There are no neutrals in this war."

  "Captain Sheffield doesn't agree with you."

  "Captain Sheffield's opinion on this point doesn't concern me. Your grandfather, mother, and uncle are rebel spies. Your aunt is a rebel sympathizer. The apple seldom falls far from the tree, madam."

  She continued to radiate indignation and outrage to mask her fear of him. The thought of being in his company seven hours on the morrow for the return trip to Augusta appalled her.

  After what felt like hours, he softened his voice, but ice clung to his gaze. "Rising to challenges, wretched at lying. How like your mother. It took me little time to dismantle her lies. I'm intrigued to imagine what set of stimuli might loosen your tongue."

  Intuition dragged Betsy's gaze to the black veil peeking from the package on the counter. Her stomach churned again. Without knowing how, she sensed that Fairfax had used the veil to degrade her mother. If she didn't free herself of him soon, the scream compressed in the back of her throat would explode.

  He shifted his gaze, too, verifying the object of her attention. A smile dallied on his lips, gruesome when employed with that midwinter stare, and he removed the hand blocking her escape. "I appreciate our spirited and informative conversation and look forward to more of it." After a bow, he retrieved his hat from the counter. "I shall return at seven on the morrow to escort you to Augusta. Good day, Mrs. Greeley. And good day, Mrs. John Clark Sheridan."

  Chapter Five

  THE BELL OVER the shop door jingled again, and a dark-haired man Susana's age entered carrying a hoe. "Afternoon, Susana." He brushed soot from his apron. "I apologize for taking so long with your hoe. Father and I had to let that new apprentice go." He granted Fairfax a nod of minimal civility. "Lieutenant."

  Fairfax nodded and strutted for the door. "Mr. Hale."

  Hale. A relation to Betsy's father, perhaps? She perked up and stepped into the shop, in clear view of the man with the hoe.

  He spied her. "Oh, you've company." His eyes widened, and recognition sliced his expression. "Susana, who's this?"

  "You remember my niece, don't you, Joshua? Sophie's daughter, Betsy. It's been years since she last visited Alton."

  Fairfax lingered inside, privy to their conversation. Joshua, still staring, said, "How peculiar!"

  Mary thumped down the stairs. "Mrs. Greeley, I've finished the floors." Her jaw dangled at the sight of Betsy and Joshua in proximity. "Why, Mr. Hale, don't Mrs. Sheridan look a bit like your uncle, Jacques le Coeuvre?"

  "Le Coeuvre, yes!" A laugh full of dark humor exploded from Fairfax. "Jacques le Coeuvre and Sophie Barton. Oh, that's rich, indeed. No doubt such a revelation will vibrate Major Hunt's sense of humor, too." With another laugh, he yanked open the door and exited.

  Silence seized the shop after the bell tinkle faded. Betsy fidgeted. Of Jacques le Coeuvre, to whom she was now linked, memory furnished her only with the image of a wandering, old storyteller fond of brandy. Her heart sank. Could that be correct? Not a pedigree to boast of.

  Mary looked around. "Did I say something wrong?"

  Susana snatched the hoe from Joshua and thrust it at the servant. "Put this in the shed outside and weed the bean plot, you lazy wench."

  Mary fumbled with the hoe, curtsied, and scurried out while Betsy, Joshua, and Susana studied each other. "Betsy looks more like my mother." His face long, Joshua gazed in the direction Fairfax had taken. "But I don't suppose that matters now."

  Susana fanned herself with vigor. "Well, Betsy, I see why Sophie hid you in Augusta all these years. What do you know. Uncle Jacques. That sly, old dog."

  Betsy cleared her throat. "Uh, Mr. Hale —"

  "Call me Joshua." After a hesitant start, his smile firmed. "Cousin."

  "May I have a word with you, alone?"

  "Go ahead, dear." Susana flicked her hand at the package on the counter beside Betsy's tote bag. "What shall I do with this?"

  "Put it all in my mother's room." Betsy motioned Joshua toward the door. "Shall we go for a walk?"

  He followed her outdoors around the corner of the house between trees laden with peaches, where they regarded each other. Insects hummed in the air sultry with honeyed fruit. Her lips produced a tentative smile. "You've a brother named Mathias?"

  "He's my half-brother. His father was a Creek warrior who died of smallpox."

  Creek warrior? Betsy touched her cheekbones, understanding where they came from at last. While the idea of French ancestry gave her no pause, she didn't know what to think of being one-quarter Creek Indian. Indians were so different.

  "Our mother married Jacob Hale and had Mathias four months later, and in a few years, Jonah and I came along." Joshua's scrutiny of her deepened. "Here, now, let me look at you more closely. Ah. You're Mathias's daughter, aren't you?"

  She nodded. "Uncle Joshua."

  He grinned. "Well, what a surprise. Here's a hug. Watch the grime." He brushed at his apron again. "Blacksmithing's dirty work." They embraced and laughed, and Joshua held her a long time. It felt the closest she'd ever felt to hugging a father. She didn't want to let go.

  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."

  Joshua extended his hand in Betsy's direction. "Betsy, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Uhbeleduh Duthlwuh, sister to your grandmother. I'm proud to claim Betsy as the true daughter of my brother, your sister's son, Ayukapeta Hokolen Econa, and Nagchoguh Hogdee."

  Nagchoguh Hogdee: Paper Woman, the name given Sophie by the Creek for all those years of printing newspapers. Betsy fumbled her petticoat in both hands. Her curtsy felt clumsy. "Madam."

  Laughing Eyes turned a gaze full of kindness and humor on Joshua. "She has indeed been raised among Whites."

  Hardly a compliment. Betsy tensed even more.

  Joshua's smile was warm with inclusion. "Hear what she has to say, Grandmother."

  Laughing Eyes regarded Betsy, her expression calm, and Betsy understood herself the object of the matron's undivided attention. She recalled reading somewhere that Queen Elizabeth of England had focused on valued visitors the same way, making them feel of merit to earn her audience.