Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (61 page)

He could well
have tethered his own mount elsewhere.
 
That meant the possibility of his pursuit on horseback later, even
though he hadn't yet come after her.

Calliope was
burdened as a packhorse.
 
No leisure to
redistribute supplies.
 
Helen adjusted
stirrups on the smaller gelding, stowed the knife in a saddlebag, and made
certain the canteen and supply of trail bread and dried venison were where she
could reach them.
 
With the other horses
roped in tow behind, she climbed into the saddle, her petticoat hitched, her
stockings muddy.
 
To hell with
propriety.

Maybe the knife
had nicked Fairfax's femoral artery.
 
No
elation penetrated her shocked numbness at the speculation of him bleeding to
death in the woods.
 
All her attention
was bent on flight, especially when she imagined hearing him holler her name
once more.
 
Or was that wind and fatigue
playing with her?

After circling
well around the site of his recreation, she marked with apprehension her
approach to the road from the laughter and cheers at the abandoned baggage
train — rebels celebrating with Tarleton's supplies.
 
Oh, how they'd love to get hold of three horses and a woman.
 
Terrified, she walked the horses parallel to
the road south and kept hidden.
 
The
voices faded.
 
She guided the mounts up
onto the road.
 
Then she clicked her
tongue and sent them into a trot.

A steady
drizzle lowered upon her, and her breath and that of the horses plumed frigid
clouds before them.
 
She ate trail
rations and drank from the canteen and couldn't quite remember when she'd last
slept.
 
But she was
free
.
 
And tears of raw relief mingled with the
rain on her face.

Chapter Sixty-One

THE APPROACHING
RUMBLE of horses alerted Helen in time for her to steer the team into the
brush.
 
Morgan's men galloped past with
captives.
 
By the fifth such incident,
she realized that panic no longer twitched her hands.

Fairfax didn't
overtake her.
 
Maybe he'd bled to
death.
 
Maybe he'd been captured.
 
How lucky she was to have escaped him and
the patrols, a woman alone.
 
She thanked
the gods over and over.
 
But only in
folk tales did gods manifest a sanctuary for travelers.
 
Night came early in January, in the
hinterland.
 
Exhaustion pounded
her.
 
She had to find shelter.

Where was
Jonathan?
 
Anguish and uncertainty
badgered her to return to the baggage train and look for him among the victims,
but she hadn't seen him injured after the skirmish that morning.
 
Trust me to guard my own back
, he'd
said in Wilmington.
 
She imagined him
telling her, "Your obligation is to your own safety."

While she
continued to push south, her heart ached beyond the worry of what had happened
to him, and tears dampened her face.
 
She smeared them off with the back of her hand, but they kept
misting the road ahead, just as confusion and exhaustion obscured her
future.
 
Camden.
 
Roger and Hannah Pearson.
 
Rebel publishers.
 
Wilmington.
 
Badley and
Prescott's property.
 
Chiswell land in
Boston.
 
The road ran on and on.
 
None of it made sense to her: blindfolded,
spun around, turned loose to stagger about.

Distant rifle
fire east of the road jolted her from a daze.
 
She walked the horses and advanced with caution, wishing Prescott or Treadaway
had left her a firearm.
 
She pulled out
the riding crop and readied the knife, its blade still stained with Fairfax's
blood.
 
Ugh.

Just around a
curve, a dark-haired man shambled from the foliage and flopped belly-down upon
the road about thirty feet ahead of her.
 
She gasped with fright and reined back.
 
He was dressed in the hunting shirt of a backwoodsman, and his right
lower leg was bloody, and there was something far too familiar about him.

From the east
came faint shouts of pursuit.
 
The man propped
himself up and scanned the road south, still unaware of her.
 
She sucked in a breath of shock.
 
Lieutenant Adam Neville.

He struggled to
his feet, almost collapsed, and groaned.
 
Then he swiveled about and spotted her.
 
Recognition exploded across his face.
 
He took a step forward in entreaty and crumpled to his left knee, face
blanched with pain.

Neville wasn't
going anywhere afoot.
 
His rifle was
missing.
 
He must have lost his horse
and gear in that altercation to the east.

She walked the
horses closer, misgivings piled up in her soul.
 
He'd used her to transmit messages to rebels.
 
On the other hand, she was fairly certain
he'd no part of Badley and Prescott's scheme to cut off her funding and strand
her in the backcountry.
 
A scout
familiar with the land, he might know where she could shelter for the night.

"Well met,
Mr. Neville."
 
She brandished the
crop.
 
"Pursuit will be upon you
before long."

His gaze
tracked the riding crop as if it were an old enemy.
 
"Mrs. Chiswell, allow me to ride one of your horses a few
miles.
 
I shall tell you anything else
you wish to learn about Colonel Thomas Brown."

She barked a
laugh.
 
"Who's chasing you this
time — Whigs or Loyalists?"

He
scowled.
 
"Stinking, bloody
Presbyterians, shooting anything that moves, mistaking me for a clan
enemy."

Whatever
Neville had been up to deep in feral Whig territory, it had misfired.
 
She didn't want to encounter any
Presbyterians.
 
She pointed the crop at
his leg.
 
"You need medical
attention."

"I know
where to find it."
 
He gestured
south.
 
"About five miles that way,
an apothecary.
 
Where's Mr. Quill?"

Her lips
firmed, but she wasn't sure whether he spotted the tremble just before she'd
tightened them.
 
"I don't
know."

"You need
protection.
 
The apothecary operates a
safe house.
 
I cannot believe you've
gotten this far alone."
 
He scanned
her face.
 
"And mostly
unharmed."

"Let me be
certain we understand each other.
 
You
need safety and medical help, know where to find it, but lack
transportation.
 
I have transportation
and need safety but lack knowledge of where to find it."

"I think
we understand each other, Mrs. Chiswell."

Her inner
thighs throbbed from riding.
 
She
dismounted without grace, towed the horses forward a few more feet, and
flaunted the crop.
 
"Then we have
an agreement."

"My
thanks."
 
He regarded the crop with
respect.

"Toss all
your knives out on the road."
 
She
collected three and stashed them in the lead gelding's saddlebags.
 
"Climb aboard that gelding back there.
 
Hang on, and don't pass out before telling me
where to turn off to the apothecary's land."

"Madam."
 
He limped back to the gelding, and with what
must have been superhuman effort, climbed into the saddle.

Sounds of
pursuit neared.
 
Helen, remounted, sent
the horses into a trot.
 
Ten minutes
later, when they'd left the Presbyterians behind to wonder over their quarry's
escape, she spared a glance at the ranger, both pleased and disappointed that
he remained in the saddle and hadn't galloped away.

He managed a
weak salute.
 
"Have you any
food?"

Awakened again
to hunger, she scooped two-thirds of the beef into a handkerchief for herself
and tossed the satchel of remaining jerky to the scout.
 
"That's all that's left."

"Thank
you.
 
With any luck, we'll eat beefsteak
tonight."

She chuckled to
recall her fantasy just a day earlier.
 
Beefsteak for supper: sheer fancy.

***

Palmer the
apothecary scratched at his stubbly chin.
 
Candlelight drove haggard lines across his skinny face.
 
"A wagonload of grain and five hogs.
 
Pickens didn't compensate us for any of it.
 
He just told us to be glad he wasn't burning
our buildings."
 
He propped elbows
on the rough-hewn table and his head in his hands.
 
"All this he said in front of my wife.
 
He's no gentleman, that's for sure."

Mrs. Palmer set
a covered pot on the table and rested her hands upon her very pregnant
belly.
 
"We're fortunate they
didn't harm us."
 
In the loft
overhead, the healthy squeals of children wrestling attested to the truth of
her statement.
 
"More stew for our
guests?"

Neville
declined, his injured leg bandaged beneath trousers and stretched out.
 
Helen felt guilty when she eyed the
pot.
 
Beef stew with carrots, turnips,
and onions: the first substantial meal she'd eaten in a week.
 
Mrs. Palmer read her hesitation and ladled a
third bowl of stew for her.
 
"Thank
you," she murmured.
 
Eyes shining,
Palmer's wife carried the pot back over to the hearth.

Helen listened
to conversation and wondered whether the family would offer Neville hospitality
if they knew he'd betrayed people just like them.
 
She could understand neutrals in the war, but she didn't
understand those who deceived both sides.
 
Where did Neville hang his hat?
 
What riled him?
 
Did he honor
allegiance anywhere?

In the
distance, dogs barked, frenzied.
 
The
apothecary's brother burst in through the front door nearly out of breath, a
rifle in his hand.
 
"A party on
horseback riding up the road toward the house."

Stew bowl and
spoon were whisked away from Helen.
 
The
brothers slid the table six feet to the side and shoved back a rug beneath it.
 
Two wooden planks lifted to reveal a ladder
angled down into darkness.
 
Palmer
handed Neville a lit lantern and gestured for Helen to follow the ranger down.

The
hiding-hole, its packed dirt walls reinforced with wood beams, was large enough
for two or three adults to stand in and led to a low tunnel: a fugitive's
egress from the house.
 
Mrs. Palmer
passed down Helen's cloak and desk, and the men shut the planks over them.
 
Shuffling and scraping overhead told Helen
the rug and table had been repositioned.
 
She sighed.
 
Gods, she didn't
want to run back out into the cold night.
 
She'd washed her face and hands for the first time in over a week and
had near to a full belly, and all she wanted to do was sleep in relative
warmth.

The barking
dogs neared the house.
 
Someone whammed
at the front door.
 
It creaked open, and
a man's voice boomed.
 
"Evening,
folks.
 
We're with Major Triplett's
battalion out of Virginia, checking to make sure everyone's safe.
 
We've orders to apprehend and detain anyone
who traveled with Tarleton's army this morning."

The
apothecary's brother quieted the dogs.
 
Palmer struck up such a cordial conversation with the rebel that Helen
was certain she'd have to remain in the hole until dawn.
 
Neville was near the bottom of her list of
people with whom she'd want to be stuck in a hiding-hole.

The ranger
said, low, "I presume you'll return to Wilmington."

She faced him
and inclined her head in acknowledgement.
 
Cognizant of the rebels' proximity, she kept her voice soft.
 
"I presume you'll return to
spying."
 
Neville wouldn't have it
any other way.

His expression
didn't change.
 
"The horse you were
riding looks like Tobias Treadaway's horse."
 
She nodded.
 
"What
happened to him?"

"Lieutenant
Fairfax happened to Treadaway."
 
Neville's lips tightened.
 
"Mr. Fairfax also happened to Maximus Prescott.
 
You rode
his
horse."

"How did
you get the horses away from him?
 
How
did
you
get away?"

In the confined
space there was no way to hide the clench of horror on her face, the memory
that would stay with her a lifetime of being forced to witness the torture of
two men.