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

  Fairfax allowed another discomforting silence to elapse. Then he motioned them all closer and pitched his voice low. "Obstruction of the king's justice is an offense of the same magnitude as treason. Each of you is lying to me about this crime. I'm certain none of you wants to end his life on a gibbet. Out with the name of this witness, or I shall have all of you arrested and interrogated."

  "Oh." Ephraim grafted a pleasant smile to his face. "You'll be wanting to talk with Tom Alexander, then."

  Chapter Ten

  EXHAUSTION UNDER ELLIE'S eyes sank deeper than usual. "Oh, Betsy, I'm so sorry, dear. Sit and have some hot chocolate."

  Anxious about what would transpire between Fairfax and Tom, Betsy glanced at Clark, last in the procession upstairs. "Let me make sure Tom's all right first."

  Ephraim introduced Tom to Fairfax as she slipped in the room upstairs. Propped with pillows, Tom lay on the bed Jeb shared with his brothers. His cheeks colored at the sight of Betsy.

  "Relax, son." Tom's widowed mother, Rose, shoved faded sandy-colored hair back beneath her mobcap, dampened a cloth in a basin, and dabbed his forehead with it. "Doctor says he can come home tonight. I never thought I'd be thankful for Tom's hard head. He doesn't ever give up, bless his heart."

  Across the room, Fairfax inspected the occupants: Rose, Ephraim, Adam, Clark. When his gaze found Betsy, it swept back and forth between her and Tom, flustering her, so she shifted close to Clark. Fairfax nodded to Rose. "Indeed, he's fortunate to have survived. I'm curious about the incident and have a few questions about Mr. Alexander's head injury."

  "Oh, now, that can wait until the morrow, after he's had a good night's sleep." Rose fanned a fly off Tom's brow.

  "No, I leave for South Carolina on the morrow."

  "You're probably going to ask the same questions the soldiers asked him at noon today."

  "Madam, if you would be so kind as to step outside —"

  "I will not." Rose bristled. "I won't have you tiring my boy."

  "Mama." Tom grasped her wrist. "Let him speak."

  After Tom released her, Rose dropped the cloth in the basin and stood, glowering at Fairfax. "Thank heaven most soldiers aren't obnoxious." She swept out on a whiff of poultice.

  Tom sighed, eyes closed. "I'm not feeling well this moment, Lieutenant, so I will appreciate your being quick about it."

  Fairfax stationed himself beside the basin. Tom blinked his eyes open. Betsy watched Fairfax's icy gaze reach out and clutch Tom by the throat. Anxiety puckered the skin on her arms and neck.

  "Mr. Alexander, what is your relationship with Mr. Sheridan?"

  "I'm his apprentice."

  "For how long?"

  "Four years."

  "And how old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "He says you're an early riser. What time do you usually arrive for work at the shop?"

  "Around seven."

  An awkward, sickening silence fell over the room, the silence that evolves when a yawning metal trap has been baited and left to do its business. Tom stared at the foot of the bed, tense against the pillow. Fairfax's gaze swept the length of him. "What time did you arrive at the Sheridans' house this past Tuesday morning?"

  Tom wrinkled his brow, remembering. "That would have been about the usual time. Seven o'clock."

  "Was something amiss that morning?"

  "Why, yes, someone had —" Tom broke off and darted a look at Clark before returning his stare to the foot of the bed. "There was a slur painted red across the front of their house."

  "What slur?"

  "It said 'Tory Scum.'"

  "And you were the first person to notice it, just as you were, supposedly, the first person to arrive on the scene of arson this morning."

  Clark stirred. "Now see here, Lieutenant. Tom had nothing to do with either incident. I'd stake my life on it."

  "What makes you so certain?"

  "I know him. And besides, he's a political neutral."

  Fairfax's gaze slithered over to Betsy. She diverted her attention elsewhere, away from a frigid smile that toyed with her again. The lieutenant said, "A neutral. Another neutral. Peculiar. Here in Augusta, but nowhere else in the colonies, we have happy Whigs living alongside happy Loyals with happy neutrals wending through their midst. I'd inform His Majesty that the Garden of Eden exists in the Georgia colony but for some disgruntled serpent with a love of red paint and, two days later, a love of arson."

  He paced before the window, three steps across and three steps back. "Mr. Alexander, what time did you arrive at the Sheridans' house this morning?"

  "A little after four."

  "How little after four?"

  "I — uh — maybe four-twenty. Four-thirty."

  "And the occasion for such an early arrival?"

  "I woke during a thunderstorm and couldn't get back to sleep, so I went to collect eggs from the Sheridans' hens."

  "It was dark at four-thirty in the morning. You took a lantern? Good. What did you see when you arrived?"

  Betsy, noting that Tom's lips sealed, realized he'd seen something. She also knew Fairfax had marked the tightening of Tom's lips. She could almost hear hinges in the trap groaning and quivering, eager to be sprung.

  Tom fingered the upper back of his head and winced, still studying the end of the bed. "This is where my memory goes fuzzy. I walked into the yard, and something heavy fell on me. A limb, I reckon. The next thing I knew, Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Cochrane were standing over me, and people were shouting and running about, and the Sheridans' house was afire."

  Another uncomfortable, Fairfax-induced silence ensued while the lieutenant's gaze roamed Tom's clothing and profile. "Were you injured anywhere beside your head, Mr. Alexander?"

  "No."

  "Any bruises or scratches on your shoulders, neck, or arms?"

  "No."

  "And that's the clothing you were wearing this morning when you were knocked out. Allow me a look at that knot on your head. Here is where you were hit? Ah, yes." Fairfax fingered the back of his own head. "I know exactly how much that must pain you." He meandered to the other side of the room, turned about, and faced Tom, triumphant. "Let's go over this again. What did you see when you arrived at the Sheridans' house this morning at approximately four-thirty?"

  "I told you I didn't see anything."

  "You also said you were struck by a falling object. A limb, you conjecture. Were you bending over to examine something on the ground when it hit you?"

  "No."

  "Then you weren't hit by a falling limb. Mr. Sweeney and Mr. Cochrane told me there was nothing on the ground around you such as branches or limb debris to substantiate your claim that you were struck by a falling limb. Furthermore, you received no injury to your upper body or damage to your clothing, common when a limb falls on a person. And there is a clearing in the overhead foliage above where you were found. No limbs or branches could have fallen on you at that spot.

  "Your injury was caused from a blow to the back of your head with a blunt object, likely a piece of wood and not metal, since your skull doesn't appear to have been fractured. You know someone struck you from behind. So here we have arrived at the same question. What did you see just before you were struck from behind?"

  "I-I don't remember."

  "Let me assist your memory, then. You saw a wagon loaded with the Sheridans' property in their yard, ready to be driven off, did you not?"

  Wham! Betsy tensed, feeling the trap slam about Tom. Dear gods, why wasn't he divulging information to Fairfax? Why was he letting the lieutenant disembowel him with interrogation? She resisted looking at Clark, fear and suspicion like dizzy birds winging and swirling in her stomach. Had Tom witnessed something that compromised Clark's integrity?

  Tom turned from Fairfax and stared through Betsy to the door. Escape, she read on his face, escape. His voice emerged dull. "Yes, I think I remember the wagon now."

  "Excellent. And how many men were with the wagon?"

  "I don't kno
w."

  "There must have been at least two?"

  "I'm not sure. But one man couldn't have loaded all that furniture alone." Apprehension rippled across Tom's face.

  "What were they saying to each other?"

  "I was only there a few seconds before I was knocked out."

  "But you heard them speaking. What words did they speak?"

  "Another language, I think."

  A chill prickled Betsy's spine. Fairfax drilled his attention on Tom. "Which language?"

  A tremor shook Tom's head. His eyes filled with desperation. "I don't know. I only speak English."

  Like many in the Georgia colony, he understood Spanish. Why was he lying again?

  Fairfax's eyes glittered with that unholy, archangelic light. "Parlez-vous Français? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

  "I don't understand what you're saying."

  "¿Habla usted Español?"

  Tom turned back to him. "If you want my help, ask me in English." His color gray, he shut his eyes. "My head hurts. I don't care to answer more questions now. Come to my house on the morrow if you must. I'm too tired to continue today."

  Betsy had seen tabby cats watch field mice with the same intensity that Fairfax regarded Tom. "Very well. I shall leave you to rest. Thank you for your time. You've been of tremendous help toward solving this crime. Don't leave town tonight, not until I can ascertain whether I've further questions for you." Tom made a vague motion of acquiescence. The lieutenant redirected his attention. "Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, be assured that I shall discover who stole your furniture and burned your house, and then bring them to justice. It's my duty to see the Crown's justice executed. You're loyal subjects of His Majesty. I'm at your service." He inclined his head.

  Clark's response sounded mechanical. "Thank you, but I don't see how you can help us. You're due shortly to catch up with your cavalry unit in South Carolina."

  "The world, sir, is not so large as you might imagine. I guarantee you it isn't large enough to hide a wagonload of furniture, perhaps sodden furniture." He gestured toward the door. "I've a few more questions for the rest of you. Shall we repair downstairs and allow Mr. Alexander his repose?"

  They filed from the bedroom, Fairfax first, followed by Ephraim, Adam, and Clark. When Betsy moved to follow them, she heard Tom whisper her name. He motioned her to close the door. "Quickly, before Mama returns." She sat at his bedside, afraid of what she saw in his eyes. "Clark's in deep trouble."

  She made a furtive glance over her shoulder. "Hush."

  "The Cordovan leather. How did he come by it? He had to deal with Spaniards somehow, and he's a Loyalist."

  "Forget you ever saw it."

  "Done. What's his business with Spaniards?"

  "I'm not exactly sure."

  "Trust me, I shan't breathe a word of it." He lifted his jaw. "I wouldn't betray Clark. I've known him most of my life. You — both of you — have been so kind to me. Tell me what he's into so I can cover for him."

  "Oh, Tom, I don't know what to tell you. I honestly don't know enough myself to say for sure, but it's growing deeper and deeper with each day." Her hands shook, and she clasped them to still the trembling. "And it frightens me."

  He brushed her wrist with his fingers. "I lied to Lieutenant Fairfax."

  Her heart skipped a beat. She glanced at the closed bedroom door again. "You lied about the men you saw with the wagon?"

  "Yes. There were at least four. I did hear one speak just before I was hit on the head. He was a Spaniard. ¡Cuidado, Basilio, un hombre! he said. 'Look out, Basilio, a man!'" Tom swallowed. "Your dogs — Caleb is holding them for you — they weren't barking or nervous with any of those men. They'd seen them all before."

  "Good gods," she whispered. Disillusionment crashed over her world and splintered what remained of it into glistening shards of betrayal. How could Clark have done such a thing? That night, she must confront him.

  Tom's gray eyes searched her face. "Find me on the morrow and tell me about it."

  Involve him further in what was almost certainly suicide? "I cannot." She squared her shoulders. "I will not."

  "I don't care about this war. You know that. I want to help Clark. And you. You're going to need help."

  The stairs creaked with Rose's ascending footsteps. Betsy grafted serenity into her expression and stood. Tom was a decent fellow, undeserving of being stomped underfoot by Britain and an international ring of spies. "I won't involve you." Before he could protest, she turned her back to him and opened the door for his mother. "You get well, you hear me, Tom Alexander? The shop may have burned, but Clark still needs his apprentices." Then she smiled at Rose and trotted downstairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  IN THE WEE hours of Friday morning, Betsy rolled onto her back in the bed she'd shared growing up with a cousin. Scents of pine and dewy earth and the music of frogs and crickets drifted in through the window. Against the tumult of her thoughts, it had all proved useless at relaxing her for sleep.

  Men's murmurs rose from the ground floor. Imagining how Clark acquiesced to offers of community aid revolted her. For hours she'd pondered how to dissuade him from further endangering them and defrauding the community, but she had no answers.

  Chair legs squawked on the floor below. She heard Clark thank elders and friends. After they mounted horses and rode away, the house quieted. Betsy detected the low, diplomatic tone of Lucas. His tread preceded Clark's upstairs. The bedroom door creaked open. Clark shut it and peeled off his coat. When she sat up, he cleared his throat. "Sorry to wake you, darling. I tried to be quiet."

  "I was already awake." Her voice sounded steady. Good. She swung her feet over the side of the bed and groped for the tinderbox. "Let's talk."

  He yawned and hung his coat on a peg. "On the morrow. I'm exhausted."

  "No. This won't wait." She lit a candle.

  His mouth tugged downward, Clark sat at the foot of the bed. "As I feared, it will take us at least a year to rebuild. I must buy all new tools and make furniture. Fortunately, my business has been robust, and Lucas says we can live here until the house raising." She said nothing, and he shifted on the bed, unable to read her. "Support me through this. Dear heart, I need you."

  She kept her voice quiet. "Basilio and his friends stole our furniture and burned our house. I demand to know why."

  Shock splintered his expression. "The devil — how —?" He regained composure, and his gaze on her narrowed. "Demand? Neither of us can demand a thing at this point."

  "You must not mind the taste of charity. Did they destroy our home to intimidate you into compliance?" She exhaled fury. "I'm your wife, yet never once did you consult me about pursuing this appalling scheme with the rebels. Do you realize how angry I am? I could spit fire right now, Clark. I wonder whether I can trust you, especially since we're getting sucked deeper in.

  "I don't support your decision or activities. It's wrong to endanger the three of us and take advantage of our neighbors' and friends' goodwill. I insist that you pull out of this mission."

  Bleakness crawled over his face. "I cannot."

  Betsy relaxed tension from her jaw. "I want to support you, but if the baby and I are going to be at risk, I must know the stakes. Otherwise —" She compressed her lips, showing him a determination that she didn't yet feel at the bottom of her soul. "Otherwise, I'm leaving you. Lucas and Sarah will protect me."

  "Betsy, no!"

  "Then tell me why Basilio stole our furniture and burnt our house. You seemed on such good terms with him two nights ago, when he was sneaking about the house with his partner."

  Clark spread his hands. "If he did it, I honestly don't know why. I feel just as betrayed as you do. I thought they understood that I could be trusted to complete my assignment."

  "What's Basilio's partner's name?"

  "If I tell you more, and the redcoats learn what you know —"

  "Ignorance isn't a risk I'm prepared to take. Out with Basilio's partner's name."

  He h
esitated. "Francisco."

  "How many times did they come in the middle of the night?"

  "Eight."

  Her head reeled. "Eight? When did they start?"

  "May twenty-sixth of this year."

  Two weeks after Charles Town and the southern rebel army surrendered to the British. As long as Betsy had known Clark, almost two years, she'd been convinced of his devotion to the King, but he'd been in the employ of the rebels far longer than the two months since the capture of Charles Town. Had he ever been loyal to King George? "Explain the Cordovan leather."

  "It arrived after I resumed my activities with them."

  A bribe instead of a threat. "Where were the Spaniards taking those boots?"

  "To an agent in the Carolinas. I don't know his name. The way we're organized, each of us only knows the names of two or three others, and we have aliases and false identities."

  "Who is Ambrose?"

  His gaze on her became shrewd. "The alias for our leader. Where did you hear the name?"

  "From Lieutenant Fairfax."

  "Damnation."

  "What does all this have to do with Cornwallis?"

  He shook his head again.

  "What's your mission?"

  His lips flattened. "Some things I just cannot tell you. Perhaps later, but not now."

  He'd put her off by telling her the least important information. "Did Sooty Johns write 'Tory Scum' on our house?"

  "Yes, to tighten my cover here, although if Basilio and Francisco did burn the house, the ring must have changed direction and be leading to additional responsibilities for me."

  "Without a home for a base? Hah." Betsy threw up her hands. "Even I can see how thin your cover is. To involve you deeper would destroy it."

  "At least Fairfax will be gone soon."

  She thought of the Givens murders and the horrendous encounter with bandits on the road back to Augusta. "How many Spaniards are in your ring?"

  Wariness returned to his face. "Basilio and Francisco are the only ones I've met."