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

mounted his gelding
and received his fowler from Tom, he assisted Betsy onto her mare, Lady
May.   He'd strapped the package sent by
Miguel de Arriaga behind her saddle, not at all curious about the
contents.   The night before, she'd
removed identification from the box, hidden the letter in her pocket along with
the cipher, and told him, "Just some of my mother's things.   I'll drop them off at the house in
Alton."
    They walked their horses out to the
street behind the soldiers, and the party of eight headed south at an easy pace
on the sandy postal road.   Nevertheless,
Betsy noticed tautness in the shoulders of Stoddard and the privates.   Mid-morning, just north of the Indian
settlement of New Savannah, Stoddard rode back and paced his horse beside those
of the Sheridans.   Tension creased the
corners of his mouth.   "We aren't
far north of New Savannah.   We shall
pause for dinner around noon."
    "Is something amiss this
morning?" said Clark.
    "No cause for your
concern.   Our party skirmished with some
bandits yesterday near here and sent them running."
    "Ah, so I need keep my fowler
ready?"
    "As you wish, Mr. Sheridan,
however, it appears they've not the stomachs for further challenge."
    He touched the brim of his hat in
courtesy and rode forward, but Betsy sensed he wasn't convinced of the bandits'
cowardice.   Not a one of the soldiers
discarded his road wariness.
    Between New Savannah and Alton,
they stopped to eat.   The privates took
turns standing guard during the meal.   Heat rippled the rolling hills, cicadas buzzed in the brush, and the
raucous calls of crows punctuated the noon air.   Betsy sweated in the shade of an oak, thankful to have a
broad-brimmed straw hat and linen tucker to keep off the sun.
    She noted the soldiers'
less-than-appetizing rations and shared ham and pastries with them, after which
Stoddard pointed out a red-tailed hawk circling a thousand feet high.   The Sheridans observed the hawk's glorious,
parabolic dive toward the earth.   When
the gleam-eyed raptor soared away with a field rat, Stoddard's preoccupation
with bandits thawed long enough for him to exclaim, "Got it!"
    At Clark's prodding, the lieutenant
admitted that the benefactor in Yorkshire who'd helped purchase his ensign's
commission raised peregrines, and he'd often swept out the mews and cared for
the raptors.   Soon Clark had him and the
men chatting about hunting and fishing.   By the time they resumed the journey, Stoddard, while still keeping an
eye on the surrounding terrain, had lowered his reserve enough to offer to buy
Clark ale that night in the Red Rock Tavern.
    Betsy had seen her husband's
sociability at work so often she'd almost ceased thinking about it.   But this time her instincts vibrated.   Perhaps because he'd been orphaned and
hadn't many friends from youth, he made friends everywhere and could charm the
gab out of just about anyone.   At the Red
Rock that night, he'd buy enough spirits to cheer his new friends.   A good listener, he'd be treated to a great
deal of information from the soldiers, not all of it bluster.   She wondered again who was privy to the
cipher written with invisible ink.
    They arrived in Alton just after
two and walked the horses down the street lined with a couple dozen drab wooden
buildings — businesses on the ground floor, residences upstairs — past Will St.
James's print shop and post office at the north end of town.   Heat pulsated from the ground.   Limp-leafed oak and fruit trees shaded the
buildings.   From the concentrated smell
of dust, wood smoke, dung, and rotting fruit, she surmised that rain hadn't
fallen in Alton for several weeks.   Chickens, goats, and hogs ranging free scuttled out of the way of the
horses.   The residents they passed
paused to regard them with curiosity.
    About a hundred yards to the east
of the street wound the Savannah River.   Across it, Alton's garrison had pitched their tents amidst the haze of
campfires.   But