The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (52 page)

She gasped.
 
"Tom!"
 
She coughed.
 
"Tom,
yes, over here!"

He clambered down the stairs, a
lantern held above him, and drew up, dumbfounded, at the sight of her bound to
the chair.
 
"Oh, my god.
 
Oh, Betsy!"
 
Knife drawn, he rushed forward and set down the lantern so he
could cut her bonds.
 
He dragged her up
out of the chair and crushed her to him.
 
From the confines of the chair, every joint in her body ached, and every
muscle trembled with fatigue.

He bore her weight while she stretched
limbs, restored circulation, found her footing.
 
Then, after sheathing his knife, he took her face in his hands
and kissed her eyelids, cheeks, mouth, and chin.
 
"I thought I'd lost you, oh, my sweet Betsy.
 
Who on earth did this to you?"
 
He felt the tremor shoot through her and set
her back at arms' length, stepping on the rose in the process.
 
A snarl curdled his handsome face.
 
He snatched up the rose and flung it.
 
"I swear to god, I'll kill the
maggot."

"Please, let's just leave
here.
 
I don't know when he'll be
back."

He grabbed the lantern and caught
her about the waist to help her ascent.
 
Outside, frogs and crickets lauded night.
 
She sucked in lungfuls of air that didn't smell of wine or
conquest.
 
By the light of a moon one
night past full, she visited the vault and relieved her aching bladder.

A single candle burned in the
dining room, where Hattie embraced her and set food before her.
 
"Child, yo' man tried to get some help
searching fo' you, but them soldiers was all too busy."

Tom read the blankness on Betsy's
face.
 
"The redcoats marched north
last night to engage the Continentals."

"Last night?
 
What time is it now?"
 
Betsy crammed buttered cornbread in her
mouth.

"Just on four in the
morning."

"I've been down in the cellar
almost twelve hours."

"Tied up all that time?
 
You poor thing.
 
An' poor Mistuh Tom, wishing he'd a thought to check the cellar
earlier."
 
Hattie's gaze took in
Betsy's reddened wrists, and she scowled.
 
"Who would do such a thing to a woman with child?"

Tom slammed his fist on the
table.
 
"A dung-eating pig."

Betsy covered his fist with hers,
seeing the opportunity to explain their departure.
 
"Hattie, a crazed British lieutenant is trying to kill
me.
 
Tom and I had intended to sneak out
of Camden late yesterday, but I was captured and imprisoned in the cellar.
 
He must have marched out with
Cornwallis.
 
Perhaps that's why my life
was spared long enough for Tom to find me.
 
We must leave before dawn.
 
Will
you wrap up some food for both of us?"

"Yes, but where are you
goin'?"

She firmed her jaw.
 
"To a safe place to have my baby."

With a curt nod of her head, the
slave turned away to the beef roast on the counter and sliced pieces of
it.
 
"This here ain't no place to
be havin' a baby, that's fo' sure.
 
Hattie'll get a couple meals ready fo' you."

"Thank you.
 
Where's my cousin?"

"Here."
 
Wraithlike, Emma drifted from the darkened
common room, her fingers plucking at the bodice of her bedgown.
 
She flicked a haughty glance from Tom to
Betsy.
 
"I heard what you
said."
 
She paused.
 
"At least remain until my husband
returns."

Betsy held Emma's gaze.
 
"He won't be returning.
 
He kept the wrong company."

Emma's lips trembled.
 
"Then stay and help me.
 
You wanted to manage the ledger.
 
It's yours.
 
I'll help you and Tom find a home in Camden, a lovely house.
 
But please don't leave me."

Betsy wondered how many men Emma
had smitten with that pathetic, helpless look.
 
Not that she herself was beyond being moved by her cousin's plight, but
running the tavern wasn't her problem anymore.
 
She said in a quiet voice, "My first duty is to my unborn, making
sure the baby is birthed in peace and quiet.
 
There will be neither in Camden for awhile.
 
I must move on."

Emma choked out a sob of
despair.
 
Then she swept past them,
seized her bottle of laudanum from the windowsill, and ran upstairs.
 
After her passage, Hattie averted her gaze
to the meat she'd been carving.
 
"Well, what you waitin' fo?
 
You folks got to go.
 
Finish up
yo' meal.
 
Get yo'selves packed."

Chapter Forty-Two

BY THE TIME they'd transferred
everything downstairs and begun loading the horses, the eastern sky was paling
on a muggy, warm day.
 
Betsy handed one
of the last bundles to Tom.
 
"In
the cellar, Fairfax and I witnessed a meeting of the Ambrose spy ring.
 
Adam Neville is Ambrose.
 
He's a double agent.
 
He figured out that I led Fairfax to the spy
ring.
 
He's ordered his men to kill me —
and kill Clark, should he try to warn me."

Even in the darkness she saw worry
on Tom's face deepen.
 
"Good
god."
 
He strapped the bundle on
the packhorse.

"One of the Ambrose ring could
be stationed at the ferry across the Wateree."

"Agreed.
 
Shall we make for Charles Town, then?"

She considered.
 
"If I remember the map correctly, the
rebels are camped off the Waxhaws Road, almost due north.
 
The first route we'd selected, the one that
parallels the Wateree — doesn't it branch to the northwest well south of the
rebel camp?"

"Yes, it does, south of Log
Town, in fact."

"Let us ride northwest,
then.
 
With luck, we shall slip past all
of them to the west."

"All right.
 
I'm willing to give it a try."

They led the packhorse from the
stable.
 
Her gaze shifted north.
 
She blinked.
 
"Did you see that just now?
 
It looked like lightning, except that it — oh, look, there it is
again."

Tom studied the northern sky.
 
Intermittent flashes painted the horizon
scarlet.
 
Beneath their feet the earth
vibrated.
 
He walked several steps away
for a view unblocked by trees.
 
Disbelief etched his face at the light display.
 
"It isn't lightning.
 
It's cannon fire."

She grimaced.
 
Cornwallis and Gates had found each other.

Tom strode back to the stable,
snagging her elbow on the way.
 
"Regardless of who wins that battle, we'll be mired in heavy
traffic on the road this morning if we don't ride ahead of it now."

When they finished balancing the
loads on the horses ten minutes later, the eastern sky smoldered with
sunrise.
 
The northern horizon had
quieted.
 
Tom helped her mount Lady May
and handed up her loaded musket.
 
Then
he climbed into his horse's saddle and adjusted his musket and reins.

They headed north.
 
She wished she could have felt enthusiastic
about riding away from the month in hell, but her womb had begun to ache.
 
Violence rippled the air ahead, expanding in
all directions, dragging down her mood.
 
Somewhere to the north, hundreds of men and horses surely lay dead or
dying upon a battlefield, their spirits whispering for her to beware.
 
She and Tom weren't safe yet.
 
Before the morning was spent, disaster had
plenty of time to seek them out.

***

The soldier at the blockade
apologized.
 
"We've troops
patrolling all up and down the Wateree with orders to allow none but His
Majesty's forces access to the road."

Betsy gazed with longing at the
northwest road, her head fuzzy with exhaustion, and heard her frustration
echoed in Tom's voice.
 
"Trying to
prevent rebels access to their men in Fort Cary, eh?"
 
He indicated the Waxhaws road.
 
"May we travel north?"

Another redcoat blocking the road
spread his hands.
 
"I advise
against it.
 
We saw cannon fire that way
not half an hour ago.
 
Been a great
battle six or seven miles north.
 
We've
no word yet on the outcome, but you might be taking yourselves into
peril."

"That's right," said the
third soldier.
 
"Even if you miss
having your head torn off by a cannonball or a bayonet stabbed through your
guts, scavengers come in after battle, help themselves to whatever they
find.
 
Rebel scavengers would be
animals.
 
I hear they haven't eaten in a
week."

"They're so hungry they'd eat
your flesh."

"While you're still breathing
and conscious."

Betsy almost smiled at the young
men.
 
Gruesome their suggestions might
be, but they were doing their job, trying to dissuade civilians from taking a
questionable route.

Tom's lips pinched.
 
"I don't suppose we want to be caught
in a retreat back to Log Town, either."

"Retreat?"
 
The first soldier drew up in
indignation.
 
"Lord Cornwallis
wouldn't retreat."

"No, sir, he didn't march out
of here last night to retreat.
 
He
marched out to shove war down the throats of seven thousand scummy rebels."

Tom's jaw hung slack.
 
"
Seven
thousand?"

"Outnumbered three to one, and
still he marched north.
 
He's a
lion."
 
Pride glowed in the
soldier's smile.

The three soldiers appeared to
reconsider Cornwallis's odds.
 
Then the
first man inclined his head toward Tom.
 
"You're right, sir, getting caught in a retreat wouldn't be jolly
fun."

Tom exhaled.
 
"We need to reach Charlotte Town."

"Wait a few days.
 
Let all this settle down."

"Or take our chances on the
Waxhaws Road today."
 
Tom motioned
Betsy closer.
 
"This road connects
with the road west."

She glanced from the soldiers to
Tom, aware that the redcoats were attentive to their conversation, knowing that
she and Tom had to make it sound convincing.
 
"How much delay will we encounter on that route?"

"Perhaps an hour or two."

"Is that all?"

Tom shifted in his saddle.
 
"Under ideal circumstances.
 
As this fine soldier informed us, ideal
circumstances probably don't lie ahead."

"If the rebels hold the ferry
south of town, we cannot get past that way.
 
Cousin Mary will be worried if we don't show."
 
She rubbed her pregnant belly for emphasis.

"Let's head north, then.
 
If it looks bad, we'll return to Camden and
wait it out."

Or try to sneak west from one road
to the other, perhaps, and skirt the action.
 
Betsy flashed Tom a smile.
 
"Very well, dear, let us try that course."

The soldiers stepped aside, their
expressions doubtful.
 
"Luck to you
folks."

Tom tipped his cocked hat at the
fellow in charge.
 
"Thank you,
gentlemen."
 
He and Betsy clicked
their tongues and headed the horses north at an easy trot.
 
When they'd ridden a quarter mile, past
several bends in the sandy road, he signaled for her to ride alongside him, his
posture in the saddle conveying their need for wariness.

The eastern sky brightened over thinning
pine barrens, and Betsy noticed the absence of birdsong and morning scamper
from squirrels.
 
About six o'clock, she
sniffed the air.
 
"Black powder and
wood smoke."