Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (55 page)

He didn't crack
a smile.
 
"Why does the suggestion
amuse you?"

"Prescott
would never bother looking for me.
 
He's
hated me for years.
 
As far as he's
concerned, I'm as good as dead out here."

Fairfax's eyes
glittered with curiosity.
 
"Why
does he hate you?"

"I suspect
he's angry because the money he squeezed from me didn't sate his avarice.
 
Men like him don't know when to stop."

"Have you
more money somewhere?"

Sarcasm
overrode her aversion and fear of him.
 
"Is this leading to a marriage proposal?
 
You don't strike me as the type who'd marry for money unless
there's power attached to it.
 
A seat in
Parliament, for example."
 
Her
teeth bared.

He bathed her
with a frigid glare.
 
"Answer my
question."

"Oh, for
god's sake!
 
If I'd money, do you think
I'd have taken on this wretched assignment?"

"Yes, I
do."

Her snarl
ebbed.
 
Fairfax knew her too well, and
his question
Have you more money somewhere?
nagged her.
 
"Surely Silas's will accounted for all
the money —"

"Don't be
naïve, Helen."

For months,
Fairfax had been wooing Neville for Epsilon's identity, but Neville was
tough.
 
Prescott was softer than Neville
and had a motive for seeking out the Legion.
 
She thought of Pickens's dead spies just outside the marquee.
 
If Prescott knew the right information, and
Fairfax laid hands on him, oh, yes, the lieutenant would get his answers.

"I'm
unaware of more money."
 
She
flicked a biscuit crumb off her sleeve.
 
"You haven't gone through the effort of placating me after
interrogation so we can chat about my finances.
 
Let's stop beating around the bush.
 
This Stoddard fellow interests me.
 
I never saw you quite so amazed as when I mentioned his
name.
 
Tell me about him."

Fairfax sat
back and scrutinized her several seconds.
 
"Describe him."

"A redcoat
with a Yorkshire accent, dark hair, about your height."

"You said
he entered your tent the night of the Yule feast."

"I'd
hidden a short distance away, expecting to catch that boy.
 
But Stoddard showed up instead, in such a
hurry when he left that he collided with Margaret.
 
And I heard her say that she knew him from last summer in
Camden."

Fairfax
growled.
 
"Stoddard hasn't the
competence for more than training his master's falcons and sweeping out the
mews.
 
But a Yorkshire baronet without
issue waxed sentimental years ago and purchased his falcon-boy an ensign's
commission."

"The class
into which a boy is born doesn't necessarily predestine his character in
manhood.
 
Tarleton is the son of a
merchant.
 
More than Stoddard's common
background must aggravate you."

"Last
June, I'd begun investigating a murder in Georgia when I was transferred to the
Seventeenth Light.
 
Stoddard was
assigned to complete the investigation, so I courteously turned over my notes
to him.
 
Within days, he'd botched the
investigation."

Through
contempt in Fairfax's voice, Helen heard a point he'd glossed over.
 
Michael Stoddard hadn't remained an
ensign.
 
He'd been promoted.
 
For that to happen, he must have
demonstrated more than a nominal amount of competency.
 
She reconsidered her brief meeting with him
more than a week earlier.
 
He didn't
seem incompetent that morning.

David's words
whispered through her memory:
Astute fellow...We're certain he figured it
out, but the redcoats blamed another Spaniard.
 
Damn them, protecting their own demon
.
 
If David was correct, Fairfax murdered a man and concealed
it.
 
Stoddard solved the murder but was
silenced by superiors frantic to prevent word from leaking out about their
fellow officer.
 
Her skin crawled.
 
"I trust an innocent colonist wasn't
blamed for the crime."

"No, just
a stupid Spaniard."

The snatch of
overheard conversation between Stoddard and Neville returned to her.
 
A dark explanation began to shape itself in
her imagination, a tarry, black blob of scaffold that allowed macabre pieces to
drop into place.
 
She pushed it aside
for the time, not quite ready to believe it.

"Stoddard
was transferred to Charles Town in September."
 
By lantern light, a feral gleam rose to Fairfax's eyes.
 
"Why was he out here for Yule?
 
Running a dispatch?
 
Did he retrieve a secret message from the
desk?
 
Bloody long way to travel, just
for a message from Neville."
 
With
a grin, he refocused attention on her.
 
"I was in Winnsborough more than a week.
 
While I was away, did you see Stoddard in camp?"

She held his
gaze and said, "No," with more conviction than she believed herself
capable, unsure why she lied.
 
It wasn't
to protect Neville.
 
"If you've
finished your interrogation, do allow me on my way."
 
She wondered where the nearest latrine was.

He held up his
hand to stay her rising, his grin vanished.
 
"If it's your intention to remain on assignment, I must warn you
that conditions could deteriorate."

"Ah, well,
what's a bit more rain and filth to trudge through?"

"Weather
is only part of the equation."
 
He
rested his hands on his knees.
 
"We're headed through land stripped of provision by rebels.
 
Colonel Tarleton laid in a supply of
flour.
 
After floodwaters recede and we
march, we must catch Morgan within four days or go hungry."

How many times
had her parents starved her?
 
How many
nights had she and Enid gone to bed with their bellies growling?
 
She lifted her chin.
 
"I've known hunger before."

The gleam of
triumph in his eyes unnerved her.
 
"The gods reward warriors."
 
He stood and extended his hand to her.

She accepted
his assistance rising and found herself pulled against him, the thumb of his
hand stroking her palm, the flat of his other hand caressing her back the way
farmers fondle prize stock.
 
Her attempt
at breaking free brought their bodies into more solid contact, and the earthy
scent of his skin and hair filled her head.
 
She averted her face, fear clenching her throat.
 
"After being cooped up in this tent for
hours, I've an urgent need to visit the latrines.
 
Good day."

He resisted her
second attempt to draw away, lifted her palm to his lips, and kissed it.
 
"The battlefield," he whispered,
"is no place for those who don't trust themselves."

"How
arrogant of you to conclude that I resist your advances because I don't trust
myself."

"If so,
answer this question.
 
Is Mr. Quill all
you'd dreamed he'd be, or have you thought of me while lying in his arms?"

Two nights,
she'd done so.
 
She inhaled rum fumes
from her memory, coughed, and gritted her teeth.
 
"Damn you!"
 
Obviously she had unfinished business with her memories of Treadaway.

"I'm
flattered.
 
Consider exploring that with
me before we engage the rebels.
 
Although the battlefield does create a canvas for the painting of one's
own demons —"
 
He kissed her palm
again.
 
"— oftentimes it's a most
unforgiving canvas."
 
He released
her, scooped up the sack containing her desk, and presented it to her with a
bow.

***

Between the
latrine and her tarp, memory visited Helen with an instance of her father
drawing a knife on her.
 
She recalled
the grip of his hand on her wrist and glee in his eyes when he stroked her
throat with the knifepoint.
 
She'd seen
that satisfaction in the eyes of Treadaway, Silas, and Fairfax.
 
What compelled her to walk the same path over
and over?
 
It became more nightmarish
each time she did.

The Chinese
believe that everyone who enters your life is your teacher with a lesson for
you.
 
Should you fail to learn the
lesson the first time, the universe will provide you a more potent teacher the
next time, and stronger and stronger teachers, until you've finally learned the
lesson
.
 
Crows cawed, raspy and
ominous.
 
Helen peered through the
tangle of drippy, witch-fingered trees and heard the hoarse squeal of gray
squirrels.
 
How did she stop attracting
these "teachers?"

By chance, she
intercepted the return of Neville among a mounted party of scouts.
 
She waved down the ranger.
 
"Good afternoon.
 
Spotted any more of Pickens's spies?"

"No, but
they leave us no doubt that they're watching us."

"By the
bye, I thought your friend quite a gentleman.
 
You know, the officer back at Daniel's Plantation."
 
Neville slammed neutrality over a flash of
irritation.
 
"Is he stationed in
these parts?"

"That I
cannot say."
 
He tipped his
hat.
 
"Pardon me.
 
My superior awaits a report."
 
He rode off, shoulders stiff.
 
Each syllable had sounded clipped.
 
Neville didn't like Stoddard any more than
Fairfax and was determined to not release information about him.

Stoddard on the
coast, Neville in the interior: whatever they'd plotted in December, it hadn't
come together.
 
She wondered whether
they'd try again.

Her heart leapt
at the sight of Jonathan waiting before their tarp unscathed, still and quiet,
although from the vigor of his embrace and tenderness of his kiss, she realized
how difficult calm had been for him to attain.
 
He passed a critical eye over her, looking for signs of abuse.
 
She shook her head.
 
"I'm unharmed."
 
She held up the desk.
 
"But I owe you an explanation."

With what
daylight remained, she showed him secret compartments and discussed the
involvement of Rebecca.
 
But for the
time, she withheld information about meeting Lieutenant Stoddard in the
marketplace.
 
Stoddard was out of the
picture.
 
If Fairfax interrogated
Jonathan and pried the detail of that meeting from him, she didn't want to
consider the mercy Fairfax would extend to her for holding out on him again.

After supper,
anyone not on watch retreated to tents or tarps.
 
Hours later, when Jonathan finally allowed her to doze off, she
wished for the opportunity to make love to him in broad daylight, to see his
ecstasy instead of just feeling and hearing it.

The wee hours
of the morning nudged her awake: drizzle on tarp, the routine call of a guard,
a whiff of smoke.
 
The nasty scaffold
came together in her head.
 
She stopped
shoving back the incredulity borne on her conclusions.
 
Jonathan rolled over.
 
"Awake?"

"Just
thinking.
 
Curious about the Army.
 
Officers.
 
Protocol."
 
The sleepy
nonchalance in her voice was the opposite of what she felt.
 
"Jonathan, what would happen if two
officers hated each other, and one plotted the murder of the other but was
found out?"

"Oh."
 
Jonathan yawned.
 
"He'd be executed."

"Yes, I
thought so.
 
Thanks.
 
Good night."

He kissed her
cheek and snuggled against her backside, warm and comfortable, soon sound
asleep.
 
But Helen stared at the canvas
a long time before regaining sleep.
 
She
surmised that Stoddard had uncovered Neville's operations as a double agent and
held that over him to force his compliance with his own scheme.
 
The ranger was in an ideal position to carry
out the murder of Fairfax.
 
But Neville
was a chameleon: not at all the sort of man upon whose fidelity one should hang
a career and life.
 
Michael Stoddard
must be desperate.

Chapter Fifty-Six

BITTER COLD
FOLLOWED a cessation of rain on January tenth.
 
By then, it had been more than a week since the Legion had seen
sunshine.
 
That afternoon, Helen
eavesdropped on an exchange between Tarleton and soldiers camped near her.
 
"Aye, lads, we've seen better weather,
but it won't be long now.
 
Between us
and Lord Cornwallis, we'll crush Morgan's pathetic army.
 
Hallo, Simpson, you like that picture, eh,
lad?"
 
The colonel's easy grin
mirrored the legionnaire's amusement, and he slapped the soldier's shoulder
with camaraderie.
 
"You fellows are
the finest in the army.
 
Never forget
that.
 
It's an honor to serve His
Majesty with you."