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

Captain Sheffield
occupied a house south of town center.   In June, its former occupant, Major Hunt, had set off in pursuit of
Will, Sophie, and David with eleven soldiers from Alton's garrison.   Stoddard, Betsy, and Clark dismounted,
secured their horses in the shade, and entered the house.
    Inside, Betsy's eyes adjusted to
the gloom of the entranceway, and her gaze wandered up the staircase.   A servant in his fifties emerged from the
rear of the house, gray frosting his bronze-colored hair.   "Ah, Finnegan."   Stoddard gestured to the Sheridans.   "The captain's guests have
arrived.   Where is he?"
    "In the study, sir."   The man nodded toward a closed door opposite
the front parlor.
    "Very good.   See that the Sheridans have the opportunity
to refresh themselves.   I shall fetch
him."   The lieutenant bowed to Betsy
and Clark before knocking on the study door.
    Finnegan ushered the guests into
the parlor and seated them in ladder-backed chairs around a circular tea
table.   Over the clink of china as he
set up the tea service, Betsy heard the study door open, and Stoddard's voice,
low and urgent: " I was the target, sir.   Had the men not performed commendably, I'd have been murdered
yesterday.   You must do something
about him!"
    Clark raised his eyebrows at her,
having also overheard.   Betsy rubbed
clammy palms on her apron and swallowed.   "The devil," Clark muttered.   The devil, indeed.   Small wonder
Stoddard had been nervous all day.   No
random target of "bandits," he'd been singled out by an assassin.
    The front door creaked open, and a
deep, hushed voice consoled Stoddard.   The thump of the lieutenant's boots down the front steps preceded
Betsy's view of him striding out to his horse and the five privates, who'd
remained mounted.   Then the swarthy
commander of Alton's garrison stomped into the parlor.   Betsy doubted he could have tiptoed anywhere
— taller than her uncle and outweighing him by forty pounds.   Omitting a shave for several days, he'd be
mistaken for Blackbeard.   Fifteen years
earlier, Captain Sheffield must have been the terror of everyone's china
collection, but in his early thirties, he and some semblance of poise had made
peace with each other.
    While the servant slipped from the
room, the captain pivoted to his guests, dust clinging to his uniform, dulling
the scarlet.   "John Sheffield at
your service."   Clark introduced
them.   The captain wrung his extended
hand, and Betsy hid her amusement over Clark's wince of pain.   "Pleased to make your
acquaintance.   Thank you for
coming."   He directed a cordial
smile at Betsy and bowed.   "After
tea, your aunt awaits your arrival in your mother's home."
    "Thank you, sir."
    Sheffield assumed his seat and
measured leaves from the canister into the pot.   Finnegan entered with a kettle of steaming water, added water to
the pot, and left to reheat the kettle.   Small talk ensued while the captain passed around cups of steeped tea
and offered sugar and milk.   All Betsy
wanted at first was to inhale the bouquet of the beverage.   She noticed Clark doing the same.   They'd made do for so long with coffee and
hot chocolate for afternoon "tea."   Rebels in several colonies had been out of their minds to dump such
nectar into the ocean.
    She balanced her cup and saucer in
her lap.   "Captain, I'd not met
your predecessor, Major Hunt.   I
understand the Creek Indians injured him.   How does he?"
    "He took a ball in the
leg.   A surgeon in Cow Ford removed it
cleanly.   It's a matter of waiting for
the infection to clear.   Kind of you to
ask.   Your mother and uncle were
captured by those same Indians.   You
must be ill with concern."
    Betsy dropped her gaze to hide her
knowledge otherwise.   "Yes, I can
hardly sleep.   What news do you have of
them?"
    "A delegate from Cow Ford met
the Creek's mico — their leader — to ask the terms for their release.   The mico refused to talk.   Negotiations are at