The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (14 page)

"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 know."

"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."