Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (57 page)

"Not to
us
.
 
Not even to his own mother."

Rowdy laughter
rolled over Helen, bundled nearby in her cloak and burrowed against Jonathan
for warmth.
 
She longed to record her
impressions of the mid-morning bravado, but she anticipated a march soon.
 
Her gaze tracked the escorted arrival of
another captured rebel scout.
 
Surely by
then, the reconnaissance team had determined the location of ambushes.

Campbell,
dismounted, fired up again.
 
"If
Morgan weren't such an idiot, he'd remember how we overtook that addle-pate,
Buford."

Helen mused
that General Morgan certainly did seem to be foolish of late.
 
He'd been duped for his lack of vigilance
the previous night and was allowing himself to be cornered into a region where
cattle farmers grazed their stock.
 
A
battleground full of cow turds: la, what a ripe bunch the Legion would be when
it was over.
 
Still, the rebels were
rested, and Morgan was certain to seize cattle farther north to ensure that his
men stayed well-fed.

Her mouth
watered at the mental image of a sizzling beefsteak on a plate before her,
medium rare and tender, and a glass of red wine, and buttered rice and turnips
and beans and cheese and an apple tart and — Her stomach clenched with hunger
and spasmed her body.

Jonathan
caressed her shoulder, and she heard his stomach growl.
 
They had emergency rations of dried fruit
and meat hidden away in Calliope's pack, but she suspected that Jonathan would
grow a good deal hungrier before he partook of them.
 
Besides, eating from their stores without sharing among the
empty-bellied soldiers was poor form.

Treadaway
plodded past, intent on Campbell.
 
"My friend, sell me a ration, eh?"
 
He jingled coins in his purse.

The dragoons
laughed, and Campbell looped an arm over the agent's shoulder.
 
"Would that I had a ration to
sell.
 
I could command a pretty price
for it.
 
Maybe you should have stayed
with his Lordship's army.
 
He's plenty
of food."
 
Campbell thumped his
shoulder.
 
"Chin up, old boy.
 
I fancy we'll dine on beefsteak soon."

A murmur of
agreement and resolve swept the soldiers, and a long-faced Treadaway stumped
off.
 
The agent stuck out like a thumb
whacked by a hammerhead.
 
Why was he
there among them?
 
And why was the
"disposable" agent still alive?
 
Had Fairfax not yet found a tight enough cover for slitting his throat?

Another thought
seized her.
 
Newman's murder coincided
with the arrival of Treadaway, his fellow spy.
 
What if it had been the agent, not Fairfax, who murdered the postal
carrier?
 
Was Treadaway the leader of
the branch of Epsilon spies planted within the Legion, empowered to take the
lives of members who'd slipped up?
 
Or
had a leader from the Epsilon ring contacted Treadaway in Camden, ordered him
to seek out the Legion and purge Newman from the group?

Camden.
 
Fairfax said something about Camden the
afternoon he interrogated her.
 
David in
Camden, yes.
 
Someone else there, too.
 
Exhaustion and cold kept her mind from seizing
the detail.

Besides, the
army was on the move again.
 
She and
Jonathan steered clear of Highlanders, who jostled each other and those around
them with ill-concealed fatigue and battle lust.
 
Overnight, fuses had shortened on men from other units as well.
 
Sleep and food
, she thought.
 
If Tarleton couldn't find that combination
for his men soon, rebels might well hold the field, despite their foolish
moves.

Scouts reported
that Morgan's rear guard had quit its post to join the main army.
 
The Legion's cheer thundered through the
forest.

"Scotland
the Brave" yowled with abandon from bagpipes, and Tarleton astride his
charger paraded up and down the line.
 
"Sing!
 
We have them on the
run!
 
Sing, lads!"
 
Men's voices belted verse after verse to the
overcast sky, daring it to rain on them again.
 
And the rain held off.

***

Late afternoon,
they occupied the site Morgan abandoned that morning.
 
A half-cooked meal awaited them: pork, cheese, hominy,
johnnycakes, and coffee.
 
Some was
inedible, burned or ruined with dirt, but fires were built up to cook what was
salvageable, and the chaplain blessed the meal as a portent for Tarleton's
victory.

Their most
recent meal was twenty-four hours earlier.
 
Even with civilians receiving one-quarter rations, soldiers couldn't eat
their fill.
 
Men first tried to buy or
trade for food.
 
Then they
scuffled.
 
From a safe vantage point,
Jonathan and Calliope at her side, Helen watched the rank and file teeter on
anarchy with mingled horror and fascination before junior officers restored
order.
 
Could it be true that
civilization was a myth, and without food, humans were but a day or so from
becoming animals?

The march
resumed by torchlight along the rebels' wide, sloppy trail, testament of their
panic, but the condition of the route impeded baggage wagons, forced the army
to a crawl.
 
Helen staggered over
churned ground and tree branches.
 
Hunger wrung her insides with ferocity.
 
A dull ache crept into her skull.

Her ankle
snagged on a sapling.
 
Down she sprawled
into wet, moldy leaves less than a foot from a horse turd.
 
Jonathan hoisted her to her feet and pulled
the mare out of traffic.
 
"Ride
Calliope."

A groan echoed
in her stomach.
 
She whispered, "I
need to eat."

He glanced at
soldiers and civilians milling past them and held his voice low for her.
 
"Then I shall provide a
diversion."

While he faced
away from the traffic, unbuttoned his breeches, and relieved himself, Helen
fumbled the pack open enough to locate their food, sneaked a piece of beef
jerky, and shoved more jerky and dried apples into her pockets.
 
They rejoined the march, and over the next
few minutes, under cover of darkness, she passed rations to Jonathan and fed
herself.
 
To her relief, her stomach
quieted and the headache receded, but her limbs still ached.
 
Sating her need for rest wouldn't come so
easy.

The march
paralleled Thicketty Creek.
 
Dampness
penetrated to her feet as if she wore no boots.
 
Numerous scouts, Neville among them, overtook and intercepted the
army.
 
On a stretch of high ground,
Tarleton halted his advance to receive reports and question more captured
rebels.
 
After the order for rest came,
exhausted soldiers not on duty rolled up in their blankets and sought sleep on
the hard ground around smoky campfires.
 
Many shivered or trembled in their sleep, cold and hunger a barrier to
the deep rest they craved.

The lit candle
Jonathan held over Helen's shoulder allowed her to pen a journal entry: one
paragraph, her script rickety like that of an old woman.
 
She sanded the entry and reflected a moment
upon the final sentence:
Rebel army awaits Legion where cows are penned
.
 
Cowpens.
 
Good gods, what a bloody boring name for a battle site.
 
Londoners would hate it.
 
She'd have to research a more colorful name
after Tarleton beat the pulp out of Morgan.
 
Many of those imbeciles who'd jeered and cursed the Legion just a day
earlier would beg for mercy on the morrow.
 
With a sigh, she closed the desk.

She slept the
same shivery sleep of soldiers.
 
Furies
with skull heads haunted her dreams.
 
Two swept near her, bony faces leering.
 
She shuddered, not sure whether she'd half-awakened and was pinned a
witness to their banter by her fatigue.

"Damned
excellent brandy.
 
I say, old boy, spare
me more.
 
It's quite taken the chill
off."

"In a
moment.
 
But first, look closely at her,
Mr. Treadaway.
 
Are you certain you
don't recognize her?"

"Forgive
me for saying this, but your sister looks like a wench I sold back in
Wiltshire.
 
I could swear I sported with
her a few years before that."

"She isn't
my sister."

"She isn't?
 
Who the hell is she, then?"

"The wench
you sold."

"The devil
you say!
 
By god, that's rich.
 
What a talented little mouth she had.
 
I wager her mouth's even more talented
now."

"I shan't
dispute you on that point.
 
Who
purchased her?"

"Merchant
named Silas Chiswell."

"Is he the
man with her now?"

"Nah.
 
Looks like one of Chiswell's advisors.
 
Quill is his name."

"Your
recall astounds me.
 
Let's see to some
brandy for you."

Helen clawed
her way awake, coughed in the raw, smoky night, and struggled to a sitting
position, her gaze swinging around the campsite.
 
Jonathan blinked up at her in question.

Sentries picked
their way around snoring blankets.
 
Campfires had burned down, more coals and less smoke.
 
Neither Fairfax nor Treadaway was in sight.

Jonathan's arm
encircled her waist.
 
"Bad dream,
eh?"

"What a
nightmare."

"I haven't
slept so well tonight, either."
 
He
stroked her.
 
"Unless I've read the
signs wrong, we've an early start on the morrow.
 
You'd best crawl inside this blanket with me and take what sleep
we have remaining."

She obeyed and
snuggled against him.
 
"Jonathan,
you're the best friend I've ever had."
 
His hand clasped hers, and she regained sleep.

***

The bugle
shattered what little rest she claimed and flung her into the chaos of men forming
up to march.
 
She studied the
overcast.
 
No sign of dawn, and it
didn't feel as though she'd slept much.
 
She helped Jonathan fold their blankets.
 
"What time is it?"

"Around
two.
 
Reports are in.
 
Morgan has reinforcements on the way.
 
Tarleton decided to intercept him
first."

In dismay, she
swept her gaze north, where the terrain roughened.
 
She spotted Liza, Jen, Sally, Rebecca, and Margaret.
 
"The route grows more impassable.
 
We'll be another full day traveling this
byway."
 
Another day without
food.
 
Her stomach rumbled.

Jonathan
indicated the 71st light infantry, in position to march.
 
"They're heading out first to clear the
way."
 
By firelight, he fixed her
with a sober expression.
 
"My guess
is that Tarleton will leave the baggage behind for this final leg of the
march."

Her dismay
converted to alarm.
 
"We're
vulnerable without soldiers!"
 
Disappointment's barb lodged in her heart.
 
Not only would those left behind be vulnerable, they wouldn't be
present for the battle.
 
In one instant,
she drew a breath to protest all the miles and weeks she'd traveled and toughed
it out with the Legion, only to be denied a first-hand observation of her
story's climax.
 
In the next instant,
she sagged her shoulders.
 
Even were she
permitted to mount Calliope and ride out with the Legion, she was too worn to
do so.
 
In truth, she had by then woven
such a tapestry of detail about the courage of Tarleton and the Legion that she
didn't need to see the actual battle to dazzle readers with their victory.
 
She had enough for her story.

Jonathan
sniffed.
 
"Do you think Tarleton
would come this far, just to leave his baggage guarded by
civilians
?
 
I've peeked into it.
 
Quite a few bottles of wine cached away, a
victory celebration planned for his officers, no doubt.
 
Soldiers need to guard it."

A laugh gusted
through her.
 
As usual, Jonathan had the
wisdom of it.
 
The baggage wouldn't be
left defenseless.
 
She also realized
that she'd omitted plenty of points from her journal out of fatigue and
haste.
 
Here at last was her opportunity
to catch up, while she could still remember that information.