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

lieutenant."
    "Er, no, sir.   We've some cattle thieves about."   Stoddard paused, and his voice flattened
with discretion.   "The lieutenant
formerly stationed in Alton is there through this Thursday, so Captain
Sheffield felt he could spare me to assure you of his good intentions."
    Stay clear of Alton for awhile,
especially a lieutenant by the name of Fairfax David had said.   Was the officer to whom Stoddard referred
Lieutenant Fairfax?   From Stoddard's
reserve, she assumed the two of them had had a tiff.   After all, one too many lieutenants in a garrison of only forty
was bound to generate some epaulet crowding, and officers rubbing each other
the wrong way was nothing new in the British Army.   But as she watched the redcoats ride away, foreboding prodded her
that she shouldn't have accepted Sheffield's invitation.   Alas, with the recent actions of her family,
she couldn't back out of the trip without generating suspicion.
    ***
    She awakened deep in the sticky summer
night and found the bed empty of Clark except for the scent of his soap.   Recognizing the faint sounds of her husband
tinkering around in the shop, she wondered why he couldn't sleep.   Her stomach growled.   Maybe they could both use a snack.   She climbed from bed and eased open the
door.
    A conversation in the shop halted
her descent.   What business had anyone
with Clark so late at night?   Had Sooty
Johns returned?   Clark said something
indistinguishable.   Then she discerned a
man's voice, Spanish-accented: "To Camden?"
    "Yes, Basilio."   That was Clark's voice.
    Wide-awake, Betsy sneaked down a
few steps where she could remain in shadow but observe.   Her eyes bulged at the sight of two
Spaniards headed for the front door, one carrying the cowhide boots.   "Luck to you, Clark."
    Clark ushered them out.   "And to you."
    Baffled and disquieted by the
visit, Betsy retreated upstairs and crept into the tiny front room, soon to
become the nursery.   The window
overlooked the yard and let her observe the Spaniards mounting horses while the
dogs circled, their tails wagging in recognition.   After the Spaniards headed their steeds to the road, the dogs
trotted back to the porch.
    Clark shut the door, and she
sneaked back to bed.   In another minute,
he shuffled in, shucked his clothing, and sank into bed with a sigh of
exhaustion.
    She considered what question to ask
him first.   Did Sooty vandalize the
house?   How many times had the Spaniards
visited?   Did they give Sooty the
Cordovan leather?   Where were they
taking the boots?   Why was a Loyalist
secretly meeting men from a country at war with Britain?   And to whom was he sending secret messages
in the heels of boots?
    While she debated, he fell
asleep.   She lay awake staring at the
ceiling, instincts screaming that her husband had plunged into something very
ugly.   She wouldn't be able to address
it with him on the morrow, not surrounded as they'd be all day by British
soldiers.   But she must confront him
soon afterward and find out what was going on.   She laid her right palm on her belly, where she'd imagined flutters in
the past few days.   No venture was just
about Clark and Betsy Sheridan anymore.
    Chapter Three
    IN THE COOL of a morning mist,
apprentice Tom Alexander showed up to ready the horses.   When Betsy unloaded potluck on him for his
family, he gazed at her, astonished, and blushed.   Clark never seemed to notice how he got clumsy or blushed when
she was around, maybe because Tom wasn't offensive about it.   She'd considered fixing him up with a good
wife, but alas, there just didn't seem to be any suitable candidates in town.
    The soldiers arrived at seven, and
the hounds howled and dashed about, frustrating Clark's attempts to control
them.   Tom chased down one scampering,
barking dog with rope and lassoed him.   The redcoats guffawed and applauded.   Tom bowed.   Entertainment at its
finest on the Georgia frontier.
    Before Clark