Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (43 page)

Spoken as if
he'd bequeathed a gift of immense value upon her.
 
Fury simmered inside her again.
 
She began counting in silence.
 
One.
 
Two.
 
Three.
 
Four...

"If you'd
just tell me when David St. James sneaks into camp — oh, that's right.
 
You're still pretending he won't be
here."

David
wasn't
coming.
 
David wasn't an idiot.
 
Five.
 
Six.
 
Seven.
 
Eight...
 
She was running out of numbers.

He sighed.
 
"I hope you won't lack for dance
partners.
 
Good day."

***

A substantial
amount of cooked hog and vegetables, baked apples and pears, and cornbread
vanished before dark — largesse from Tarleton, distributed among the rank and
file.
 
After nightfall, in a
torch-rimmed field north of the manor house, Helen, her garnets at her throat
and ears, wandered from a huge bowl of mulled cider to a huge bowl of waes hail
to a supply of the best wines from market, avoiding Treadaway.
 
The agent had indeed arrived early that
morning, well before the tanner notified her of the desk.

By the time she
sat with the officers and their ladies, she'd consumed enough wine to not give
a jot whether the overcast sky sprinkled on them.
 
On another section of tables, Treadaway, well into his cups, ogled
the cleavage of someone's mistress.
 
She
made a mental note to steer clear of him for the remainder of the evening.
 
Thank heaven the agent had never appeared to
connect her with the girl in the tool shed.

During the
first course of onion soup, she was seated next to Fairfax, but they ignored
each other, and the fellow on her other side stayed sober long enough to hold a
lucid conversation about deer hunting.
 
How much more pleasant the night would be were she seated with
Jonathan.
 
They'd race to identify the
herbs and spices in each course, laughing over recipes divine and
disastrous.
 
Jonathan danced well,
too.
 
But alas, his portrayal of a
servant denied them each other's company at both supper table and dance ground.

After the soup
was cleared away, a bell rang, and the men scrambled to switch seats, to the
laughter and surprise of the ladies.
 
Broiled bass appeared on the tables, and Helen got to hear about horse
racing and advantages of various firearms from a cornet and a captain.

The bass
vanished, the bell rang again, and Tarleton, ruddy-cheeked, wine goblet in
hand, redirected an officer of the militia so he could plant himself next to
Helen and scowl at her.
 
Gold and braid
on his uniform winked in the candlelight.
 
"You've no idea how I've had to fight my way over here."
 
A plate containing half a chicken manifested
on the table before him.
 
She
laughed.
 
"Madam, I need your
advice on a delicate matter.
 
With whom
should I dance the first tune?"

She spotted
Margaret in conversation with Fairfax.
 
"Margaret, of course."

"How
orthodox.
 
What of the second tune,
then?"
 
He wiggled his eyebrows at
her.

"With the
lady attached to the officer of the highest rank."

"That
might be you."

"Mmm,
probably not."
 
She shaved a piece
of chicken from the plate set before her.

"Exactly
when may I presume to dance with you, then?
 
Third?"

"How about
the fifth dance?"
 
The soup hadn't
quite been hot enough, and the bass was bland, but the chicken was moist and
flavorful.
 
She chewed in haste lest
someone collect their plates while Tarleton distracted her with flirting, and
before she could eat enough.

"The
fifth
dance?"
 
Mock outrage flooded his
expression.
 
"Never have I had to
wait so many tunes to dance with a woman."
 
He leaned his elbow on the table, pressed his forehead to his
palm, and heaved a sigh.
 
"I may
languish before then."

"Try the
chicken," she whispered.
 
"It
will sustain you."

"How
cruel."
 
He hacked off a
drumstick.
 
"You enjoy chicken
while I swoon at your side."
 
He
nibbled at the drumstick.
 
"I'm
ready to cast my heart at your feet, and — hmm."
 
He chewed off a larger bite and swallowed.
 
"You know, you're right, the chicken is
delicious.
 
I'm curious about
something."

Beguiling dark
eyes beamed playfulness at her.
 
She
shivered pleasantly in response.
 
"Do ask."

"When do
you expect David St. James to visit you in camp?"

Shock withered
her good humor and stiffened her expression.
 
"I'm certain I've no idea what you're talking about, sir."

He barked out a
laugh.
 
"Thus spake his
mistress."
 
A flush stormed to her
face, and he laughed again.
 
"It's
his father I'm after.
 
I've hanged a
rebel in almost every trade, but never a printer.
 
I don't know whether I'd have forgiven Pat Ferguson if he'd
dispatched Will St. James for me.
 
And
now, St. James has run to the protection of Daniel Morgan's camp."

Cold spread
through Helen's limbs.
 
Although
Tarleton made light of it, David's father had deeply angered him, pricked his
pride by printing that broadside.
 
Tarleton wouldn't rest until he'd captured and hanged him.

Somehow Fairfax
had tapped into and aggravated the wound.
 
Anxiety claimed Helen.
 
"You
don't really want to wade through General Morgan's camp to fetch him, do you?
 
I mean, wouldn't that be ill-advised?
 
Surely there are other rebel printers around,
all of them easier to nab."

He
grinned.
 
"The more difficulty, the
more glory, madam.
 
And for the same
reason, I await the fifth dance tonight with infinite patience."

The bell rang a
third time.
 
"You will send for me
immediately, won't you, if St. James's son pays you a visit in camp?"
 
He bowed and sauntered off with his wine
goblet to flatter another woman.

Helen watched
him go, her soul tunneled with misgiving.
 
If David were daft enough to sneak into camp and get himself captured,
it wouldn't matter whether he knew how to find his father.
 
Tarleton would have him tortured to
death.
 
Meanwhile, the Legion's
commander crouched with "infinite patience" while Will St. James hid
in the mishmash army of Daniel Morgan to the north.
 
Tarleton thirsted to hang St. James.
 
What in the world was he waiting for?

He awaited the
blessings of his commander, the Earl Cornwallis, before turning loose the
wolves of the Legion upon Morgan — and Will St. James.
 
And Fairfax had convinced him that every bit
of it was his own brainchild.

Chapter Forty-Three

NEVILLE, IN HIS
hunting shirt, put in an appearance at the main course and tricked a
wine-befuddled ensign out of a seat next to Helen.
 
"I apologize for my tardiness.
 
An officer's paperwork must be finished before play."

Especially
paperwork that involved scripting another cipher and concealing it in her desk
while everyone was busy.
 
And Treadaway
was present to retrieve the coded update himself.

She longed to
compliment the ranger on the handsome desk his partner had procured to allay
Fairfax's suspicions, just to see his reaction.
 
"Your timing is exquisite.
 
I'd saved the first dance for you and was about to relinquish it to someone
else."

He speared pork
with his knife.
 
"Aren't you
dancing the first with Mr. Fairfax?"

She shook her
head.
 
"Sibling spat."
 
Amusement relaxed his expression, and she
wondered how far she could get Neville to drop his guard, short of a seduction
attempt.
 
After all, she wasn't
desperate
to find out which regiments had formed the cabal to discredit Tarleton and
redirect Legion resources.

During the
fruit and cheese, privates lit the Yule bonfire to one side of the dance
ground.
 
Two other privates tuned their
fiddles.
 
The more affluent merchants
and contractors arrived with their ladies.
 
Except for the fiddlers and men who cleaned up the feast, no rank and
file were present.
 
Helen suspected the
merchants and contractors had received invitations only to bolster the ranks of
women upon the dance ground.
 
The
exclusivity amused her.
 
In reality,
since the regiment was provincial, negligible social and economic distinction
existed between officers and merchants.

Successful at
evading Treadaway the entire meal and lining up partners for additional dances,
Helen took position on the grounds with Neville for the first tune.
 
As she'd promised him more dances that
evening, she was gratified to discover that he could actually dance.
 
However, she wasn't pleased to spot Fairfax
observing them from the sidelines.

The fifth tune,
couples lined up for a hornpipe, and Tarleton bounded over and claimed her,
playacting snaps and growls at men who flocked around her.
 
He paraded her into position with him at the
head of the line, eager eyes on her sweat.
 
Clearly he'd transcended his self-imposed proscription over wooing
sisters of officers.

Fairfax nodded
approval at her, and her stomach tensed with annoyance.

After the sixth
tune, danced with Neville, she snagged Hannah and a lantern from where servants
gathered beyond the sidelines.
 
During a
moment of inattention, Fairfax missed their departure.
 
At least five more tunes would be played
before musicians and dancers took a break, so she had a good half hour to snoop
back at the tents.

The lantern
outside her tent stood in the position she'd left it.
 
Puzzled, she ducked inside with the lit lantern and withdrew the
desk from its canvas bag.
 
The drawer
was empty.
 
How was that possible?
 
With Treadaway in camp, surely Neville
planned for a cipher pickup.
 
Annoyed,
she closed the drawer, tucked the desk back in the bag, and grabbed her fan.

Wait.
 
There was a smaller compartment.
 
She returned to the desk and popped open the
compartment.
 
Her eyes bugged at a scrap
of paper no more than three inches square lodged inside.
 
No cipher, the plain script on it read:
S
— F in camp through new year — N
.

"N"
had to be Neville, but why did he forgo using both code names and cipher — and
why employ the secondary compartment?
 
Who was "S?"
 
She
stared at the body of the message.
 
"F."
 
Winter teased her
spine.
 
Was "F" Fairfax?

Was Neville
working
two
teams, a double agent?

Arctic cold
crawled beneath her cloak.
 
Rebecca
wasn't coming to the tent that night for a pickup.
 
Nor was Treadaway.
 
The
message in the smaller compartment was intended for a different audience than
those who plotted to divert Legion resources.
 
The unknown messenger could, that moment, be watching, waiting for her
to leave.
 
She must discover who it was.

She closed the
compartment and bagged up the desk.
 
Outside her tent, she raised her voice.
 
"I
finally
found that blasted fan, Hannah.
 
Do let's hurry back!"
 
She set out at a brisk pace north, toward
the tumult of the dance ground, and Hannah followed.

The trail was
deserted.
 
They passed two other
campsites.
 
Helen darted a look around,
snatched the lantern from Hannah and covered the light, grabbed Hannah's hand,
and towed her behind a set of tents.
 
"Hush!" she whispered to the startled blonde.
 
"We're going back there for a
look.
 
We must be quiet, or we'll scare
them off."
 
Hannah nodded, and
Helen could tell she was curious, if confused.

They doubled
back and crouched behind an unoccupied tent less than twenty-five feet from
Helen's, providing an unobstructed view of their tents as well as the
trail.
 
Helen whispered, "We may be
here a quarter hour."
 
She didn't
expect to wait longer than that.
 
Any
messenger would come before the break, before the risk of discovery, when a few
dancers might trickle back to tents to fetch personal items like fans.