Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (35 page)

Adam Neville
arrived at seven and plowed through a full bottle of wine and massive steak
like a condemned man issued his final meal.
 
Beneath the stars, the Pearsons and Jonathan waited on Helen and him,
and while the celebratory din from the lower camp increased, Neville filled
Helen's ears with the glorious tales she'd anticipated.
 
The evening whizzed by like dried leaves on
a winter wind.

He left, and
while the Pearsons and Jonathan tidied up, Helen strolled out into a meadow
beyond their tents, where she recognized dismay.
 
Aside from his mention of joining Brown's Rangers in time for the
capture of Fort McIntosh in 1777, the lieutenant had told her nothing about
himself.
 
For three hours, he'd drunk
her wine, eaten her food, and captivated her attention, and the few times she'd
inquired about him, he diverted her to the accomplishments of his commander.
 
After three hours, she didn't know enough
about Neville to explain how he'd come by the desk.
 
Quite a sinuous display of dancing from him.
 
He was a wraith.
 
An excellent disposition for a spy.
 
She shivered.

"Rather
chilly for a shawl."
 
Jonathan drew
up beside her.
 
"Shall I fetch your
cloak?"

She smiled in
gratitude.
 
"Yes, thank
you."
 
When he turned back toward
their tents, her hand darted out and caught his upper arm.
 
"A moment, Jonathan.
 
Tell me what you think."

For several
seconds, he didn't speak, and the noise from the lower camp became
obvious.
 
He grunted.
 
"I think some soldiers will be flogged
on the morrow for excessive drunkenness."

She nodded in
rueful agreement and released him.
 
"And what of Neville?"

"He speaks
a pretty volume, but he doesn't say much."

"I shall
endeavor to listen to what he omits.
 
Fairfax thinks he's a spy, and Neville knows that Fairfax thinks he's a
spy, and Neville is also convinced that I'm Fairfax's minion."

Jonathan
laughed.
 
"Gods, the games these
regiments play with each other, just to scramble atop the military sand
pile.
 
Do let me run back and inspect
the table and Neville's chair for concealed messages before he positions us all
to be arrested by Fairfax."

She caught his
arm again.
 
"Are you serious?"

"Of course
not."
 
When she turned loose his arm,
he bowed and walked away.
 
"Spies.
 
Good
heavens."
 
His chuckle drifted to
her.

The games
these regiments play
.
 
Helen
returned her attention to the night sky, washed of dust and aglow with stars,
and mused again.
 
The Army bristled with
internal suspicion.
 
Regiments postured
for attention from generals, commanders undercut each other's credibility at
the slightest provocation, and jealousy simmered.
 
Not that the rebels didn't behave as churlishly within their own
army, but backbiting within the Crown forces had, at times, bestowed victory
upon a foe when defeat should have been assured.
 
Men did almost anything to gain an edge or divert scarce
resources from someone else's regiment.
 
And Tarleton, who could do no wrong in Cornwallis's eyes, excelled at
diverting those resources and supplies on numerous occasions — most recently
with horses.

Grass rustled
behind her.
 
She grinned up at the
stars.
 
"You know, Jonathan, I
wager Neville wants a piece of Parliament pie, too."

"Fascinating,
darling."

She recoiled
and glowered at Fairfax's approach.
 
"You've been spying on me!"

"I thought
your professor would never leave.
 
Since
he won't be gone long, let us proceed to business."
 
He drew up about five feet from her.
 
"You managed to lure the elusive,
unsocial Adam Neville into conversation for three hours.
 
Parliament pie, indeed."

"I didn't
lure him into anything.
 
I offered
supper in exchange for stories about Thomas Brown.
 
I may write a short feature on him.
 
He's performing a great service for His Majesty."

Fairfax waved
away her words.
 
"What did Neville
confide to make you suspect he has designs on Parliament?"

She propped
hands on her hips.
 
"The occasion
was social.
 
For the record, I never
agreed to spy on him or anyone else for you, so run along, manage your own
dirty laundry, and leave me out of it.
 
Preposterous to imagine Mr. Neville confiding in me anyway.
 
Was I supposed to look for ciphers hidden
beneath my chair afterwards?"

He took a step
toward her, his voice velvety.
 
"You're concealing something from me."

How
exasperating.
 
So many men who professed
allegiance to the king couldn't trust each other and cooperate.
 
Apparently, the boy who died with the
highest rank and most toy soldiers still won.
 
She dumped acid into her voice.
 
"I shall make you a deal.
 
You hand over Badley's bank draft that you've withheld from me, and I'll
tell you everything I know about Neville."

"I doubt
you'd consider that an equitable arrangement."
 
By starlight, he walked a slow circle around her.
 
"I've no bank draft from Badley, and
you decline what I offer as substitute."
 
The delight that unfolded on his face plunged ice through her blood and
tightened her stomach.
 
"At some point,
you'll realize that you must tell me what you know.
 
On that day, the idea of toying with me won't hold half as much
appeal for you as it does right now."

More ice swept
her blood at his implication.
 
He
anticipated some future event to precipitate her crawling to him to beg for
help or forgiveness.

"In the
mean time, darling, carry on.
 
Your
burgeoning friendship with Mr. Neville is everything I might have hoped."

"Why, it's
Mr. Fairfax!"
 
Jonathan's tone
matched the blitheness of Fairfax's, and he joined them, Helen's cloak draping
his forearm.
 
"Just leaving, are
you?"

With a flash of
teeth, Fairfax squared off with him.
 
"I've missed our chess games, sir."

Helen cringed
and backed away.
 
The encounter felt
rotten.

"Have
you?
 
You should have spoken up.
 
I'd formed the impression that you quit
because you disliked the taste of being checkmated.
 
Well, then, when shall we resume?"

"Eight
o'clock on the morrow, after tattoo.
 
Bring your set to my marquee."

"Thank
you, Mr. Fairfax.
 
Good night, and rest
well."

Chapter Thirty-Five

EARLY TUESDAY
MORNING, a rumor reached camp that Brigadier General Daniel Morgan had departed
Charlotte Town and crossed to the west side of the Catawba River some eighty
miles north.
 
He brought with him
seasoned regulars from Delaware and Maryland, plus dragoons commanded by George
Washington's cousin, William.
 
Backcountry
militia, including many men who had served under Thomas Sumter, rallied to
Morgan.

No bugle
sounded for saddles, and speculation from the rumor dwindled.
 
Without an order from Cornwallis to pursue
and engage Morgan, Tarleton enjoyed his respite after November's hard riding.

After
breakfast, Helen headed for the marketplace with her party for a closer look at
the rank and file, camp women, and children.
 
Also, the elegance of the new desk continued to intrigue her.
 
She hoped to track down the merchant who'd
sold Neville the desk and chat.

Strapped
upright to a tree trunk in the lower camp, a legionnaire received lashes from a
company musician thirteen or fourteen years old.
 
The boy's arm jerked up, the cat-o'-nine-tails whistled, and
another set of bloody streaks sprouted across the soldier's whip-bitten, naked
back, accompanied by his writhe and scream.
 
"Drunk and disorderly, first offense" was the explanation
volunteered by a fellow legionnaire from among the crowd of onlookers.
 
The man's company mates, required to attend
the action, projected the appropriate censure and commiseration needed to bring
their wayward fellow back into the fold.
 
"Drunk and disorderly" probably wouldn't happen to one
particular legionnaire again for a while.

Helen idled
among merchants and sutlers, fewer than those who had camped at
Woodward's.
 
She found candles, leather
goods, ribbons, tobacco, ink and paper, sewing implements, tin cups and bowls,
pewter plates, cauldrons, horn spoons, a few bound books, and a variety of
foods.
 
Nowhere did she spot a suitable
gift for an officer's wife or mistress, putting into perspective the haste with
which Tarleton had pounced upon her embroidered pocket.

Her inquiries
over a portable desk resulted in blank stares.
 
What need did the men have for desks while on campaign?
 
Officers brought such luxuries from home, if
they brought them at all.
 
Most of those
who maintained the mile-chewing pace of the Green Horse on the move had little
leisure or inclination at the end of the day to write letters.

She continued
her stroll.
 
The desk merchant must have
been among those who'd elected not to follow the Legion to Daniel's.

"Madam!
 
Wait up a moment!"
 
A sutler of leather goods bustled toward
her.
 
"I got to thinking about that
desk you was asking for."
 
Coffee
stains dulled his teeth.
 
He eyed the
Pearsons and Jonathan, and with a gentle nod Helen encouraged them to walk on
ahead.
 
After they'd meandered toward
the end of the row, the tanner said, "Maybe this won't help you none, but
two evenings ago, right before dark, I saw the agent hand over a fancy desk to
that ranger, Mr. Neville.
 
Treadaway's
his name, I think.
 
Ask Mr. Neville
about the desk.
 
Maybe he'd sell you his
or let Mr. Treadaway know you're looking for one."

"Thank
you, sir."
 
More puzzled than ever,
Helen curtsied.
 
With a tip of the hat,
the tanner hurried back to his wares.

Ugh,
Treadaway.
 
He had money and an interest
in her, so he may have purchased the desk.
 
But why give it to Neville?
 
Why
hadn't the agent inquired after her satisfaction with the gift the previous
afternoon?
 
Did he wish his role in it
to remain secret, and Neville to claim full credit for the desk?

The ranger's
act of crushing her old desk was deliberate, but why destroy it, just to
replace it?
 
Instinct told her that the
easy explanation, that Neville was enamored of her and sought her favor, was
dead wrong.
 
And how was Treadaway bound
up in the incident?

Engaged in the
mystery, she took her time rejoining her party and browsed the commodities.
 
The hornsmith's spoons were lovely.
 
At the stationer's she fondled a book of
poetry but hadn't the money for purchase.
 
Like the tanner, the other merchants and sutlers deferred to her.
 
The men seldom met her gaze, the women
never.
 
Although she sensed them
watching her, as soon as she looked at them, they glanced elsewhere, and up
went the transparent barrier that divided the classes.

How could
rebels claim the equality of all men in their Declaration of Independence while
some men would always be more equal than others?
 
No one escaped the class framework bequeathed by Mother Britain,
no matter how men convoluted the language of bold documents in hopes of
bestowing equality upon themselves.
 
The
truth most self-evident for her was that no signer of the Declaration had
begged for food on a regular basis.
 
Nor
would he choose to experience a pauper's life, just to embrace the equality he
advocated.
 
And she, posed as the gentlewoman
sister of an officer, would never know what went on inside the heads of the
"nobodies" who, each in a small way, contributed to the well-being of
the British Legion.

A half-dozen
young boys playing a form of Dare snagged her interest.
 
She inched toward them, pleased that they
weren't aware of her and thus inclined to expurgate their activities.
 
The leader covered a small bucket with a
cloth and challenged the courage of the younger lads: plunge a hand into
whatever was in the bucket without looking, or play the fool for the next group
of soldiers who rode past.
 
From the
shock and revulsion on the face of the first "victim," Helen guessed
the bucket to contain intestines of livestock slaughtered that morning.
 
But she was dismayed that the next two boys
in line refused the challenge and chose to play the fool.