Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (64 page)

The impact of
women during the American War, especially those on the frontier, has been
minimized.
 
Women during this time
enjoyed freedoms denied them the previous two centuries and the following
century.
 
They educated themselves and
ran businesses and plantations.
 
They
worked the fields and hunted.
 
They
defended their homes.
 
They ministered
their folk religion at gatherings.
 
They
fought on the battlefield.
 
Although
unable to vote, women did just about everything men did.

Although the
term "camp follower" did not come into use until the early 19th
century, civilians have followed armies throughout history.
 
Contrary to popular belief, most camp
followers during the War of Independence were not prostitutes.
 
They were contractors, merchants, sutlers,
and craftsmen, and the slaves, servants, friends, and kinfolk of soldiers.
 
Women and children followed an army to
preserve the fragile family unit, but they also derived protection from the
army.
 
When a man enlisted, those of his
family who remained at home risked death or abuse from vindictive parties on
the other side of the fence.

War
correspondents as we know them today didn't exist during the American War.
 
A journalist's motivation for following an
army was almost always to report on the army as a good investment for political
entities such as the Spanish government that had a stake in the outcome of the
conflict.
 
Women operated printing
presses, contributed society news to papers and magazines, and were involved in
other aspects of printing in 1781, but not until the following century did they
find solid, professional ground as journalists.

Selected Bibliography

Dozens of websites, interviews
with subject-matter experts, the following books and more:

Babits, Lawrence E.
 
A Devil of a Whipping: The Battle of
Cowpens
.
 
Chapel Hill, North
Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 1998.

Barefoot, Daniel W.
 
Touring South Carolina's Revolutionary
War Sites
.
 
Winston-Salem, North
Carolina: John F.
 
Blair Publisher,
1999.

Bass, Robert D.
 
The Green Dragoon
.
 
Columbia, South Carolina: Sandlapper Press,
Inc., 1973.

Boatner, Mark M.
 
III.
 
Encyclopedia of the American Revolution
.
 
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania: Stackpole
Books, 1994.

Butler, Lindley S.
 
North Carolina and the Coming of the
Revolution, 1763-1776
.
 
Zebulon,
North Carolina: Theo.
 
Davis Sons, Inc.,
1976.

Butler, Lindley S.
 
and Alan D.
 
Watson, eds.
 
The North
Carolina Experience
.
 
Chapel Hill,
North Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 1984.

Gilgun, Beth.
 
Tidings from the Eighteenth Century
.
 
Texarkana, Texas: Scurlock Publishing Co.,
Inc., 1993.

Mayer, Holly A.
 
Belonging to the Army: Camp Followers and
Community During the American Revolution
.
 
Columbia, South Carolina: University of South Carolina Press, 1996.

Morrill, Dan L.
 
Southern Campaigns of the American
Revolution
.
 
Mount Pleasant, South
Carolina: The Nautical & Aviation Publishing Company of America, Inc.,
1993.

Peckham, Howard H.
 
The Toll of Independence: Engagements and
Battle Casualties of the American Revolution
.
 
Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1974.

Scotti, Anthony J.
 
Brutal Virtue: the Myth and Reality of
Banastre Tarleton
.
 
Bowie, Maryland:
Heritage Books, Inc., 2002.

Schaw, Janet.
 
Journal of a Lady of Quality: Being the
Narrative of a Journey from Scotland to the West Indies, North Carolina, and
Portugal in the Years 1774 to 1776
.
 
eds.
 
Evangeline W.
 
Andrews and Charles M.
 
Andrews.
 
New Haven: Yale University Press, 1921.

Tunis, Edwin.
 
Colonial Craftsmen and the Beginnings of
American Industry
.
 
Baltimore: The
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999.

Watson, Alan D.
 
Society in Colonial North Carolina
.
 
Raleigh, North Carolina: North Carolina
Division of Archives and History, 1996.

Watson, Alan D.
 
Wilmington, North Carolina, to 1861
.
 
Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland &
Company, Inc., Publishers, 2003.

Watson, Alan D.
 
Wilmington: Port of North Carolina
.
 
Columbia, South Carolina: University of
South Carolina Press, 1992.

Follow Lieutenant Michael
Stoddard's journey as an investigator

in Book 1 of an exciting new
series

Regulated for Murder

A Michael Stoddard American
Revolution Thriller

by

Suzanne Adair

For ten years, an execution
hid murder. Then Michael Stoddard came to town.

Bearing a dispatch from his
commander in coastal Wilmington, North Carolina, redcoat Lieutenant Michael
Stoddard arrives in Hillsborough in February 1781 in civilian garb. He expects
to hand a letter to a courier working for Lord Cornwallis, then ride back to
Wilmington the next day. Instead, Michael is greeted by the courier's freshly
murdered corpse, a chilling trail of clues leading back to an execution ten
years earlier, and a sheriff with a fondness for framing innocents—and plans to
deliver Michael up to his nemesis, a psychopathic British officer.

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Chapter One

A MESSAGE
SCRIPTED on paper and tacked to the padlocked front door of the office on
Second Street explained how the patriot had come to miss his own arrest:

Office closed
due to Family Emergency.

Family
emergency? Horse shit! Lieutenant Michael Stoddard hammered the door several
times with his fist. No one answered. He moved to the nearest window and shoved
the sash.

Two privates
from the Eighty-Second Regiment on the porch with him pushed the other window
sash. It was also latched from within. One man squinted at the note. "What
does it say, sir?"

Michael peered
between gaps in curtains. Nothing moved in the office. Breath hissed from him.
"It says that the macaroni who conducted business here sold two clients
the same piece of property and skipped town with their money under pretense of
family emergency."

"A lout
like that wants arresting." The other soldier's grin revealed a chipped
front tooth.

"Indeed.
Wait here, both of you." Michael pivoted. His boot heels tapped down the
steps.

Afternoon
overcast the hue of a saber blade released icy sprinkle on him. He ignored it.
Ignored Wilmington's ubiquitous reek of fish, wood smoke, and tar, too, and
trotted through the side yard. At the rear of the wooden building, two
additional soldiers came to attention at the sight of him. The red wool of
their uniform coats blazed like beacons in the winter-drab of the back yard.

He yanked on
the back door and found it secured from the inside, rather than by padlock. The
young privates had no luck opening a window. Michael looked inside, where
curtains hadn't quite covered a pane, and confirmed the stillness of the
building's interior.

A plume of
white fog exited his mouth. He straightened. Ever since Horatio Bowater had
grudgingly dropped assault charges against Michael and his assistant days
earlier, Major Craig had bided his time and waited for the land agent to supply
him with an excuse to take another rebel into custody. A disreputable business
transaction presented the ideal pretext for arrest.

And when James
Henry Craig ordered someone arrested, it had damn well better happen.

Michael squared
his shoulders. By god, he'd nab that bugger, throw his dandy arse in the
stockade, where the premium on real estate that past week had risen in direct
proportion to the number of guests incarcerated.

Surely Bowater
had left evidence in his office. Business records or a schedule. Without facing
his men, Michael regarded the back door anew, attention drawn to the crack
between door and jamb. "The men sent to Mr. Bowater's residence should be reporting
shortly. However, I suspect our subject has departed town." He half-turned
toward his soldiers. "Henshaw."

"Sir."

"Fetch a
locksmith from the garrison, quickly. Tell him we've a padlock on the front
door."

"Sir."
Henshaw jogged for the dirt street, the clank of his musket and cartridge box
fading.

The other
soldier, Ferguson, remained quiet, awaiting orders. A wind gust buffeted them.
Glacial sprinkle spattered Michael's cheek. Another gust sucked at his
narrow-brimmed hat. He jammed it back atop his dark hair. He and the men would
be drenched if they didn't complete their duties soon and seek shelter.

He shrugged off
February's breach beneath his neck stock and ran fingertips along the door
crack. The wood was warped enough to reveal the metal bolt of the interior
lock. He wedged the blade of his knife into the crack and prodded the bolt with
the tip. Wood groaned and squeaked. Splinters shaved from the jamb. In another
second, he felt the bolt tremble. He coaxed it, one sixteenth of an inch at a time,
from its keeper until he found the edge and retracted the bolt.

He jiggled the
door by its handle and felt it quiver. At the edge of his senses, he registered
an odd, soft groan from inside, somewhere above the door.

But the warmth
of enthusiasm buoyed him past it. There was no bar across the door on the
inside. The latch was free.

Satisfaction
peeled his lips from his teeth. Horatio Bowater was such a careless fool. Had
the agent replaced the door and jamb with fresh wood, an officer of His Majesty
would never have been able to break in like a common thief.

He stepped back
from his handiwork and sheathed his knife. Ferguson moved forward,
enthusiastic. Michael's memory played that weird impression again, almost like
the grate of metal upon metal. Careless fool indeed, whispered his battlefield
instincts. He snagged Ferguson's upper arm. "Wait." He wiggled the
latch again. Skin on the back of his neck shivered. Something was odd here.
"Kick that door open first, lad."

Ferguson
slammed the sole of his shoe against the door. Then he and Michael sprang back
from a crashing cascade of scrap metal that clattered over the entrance and
onto the floor and step.

When the dust
settled and the cacophony dwindled, Michael lowered the arm he'd used to shield
his face. Foot-long iron stalagmites protruded from the wood floor. Small
cannonballs rolled to rest amidst scrap lumber.

The largest
pile of debris teetered, shifted. Michael started, his pulse erratic as a
cornered hare. With no difficulty, he imagined his crushed corpse at the bottom
of the debris pile.

Bowater wasn't
such a fool after all.

Ferguson toed
an iron skillet aside. His foot trembled. "Thank you, sir," he
whispered.

Words hung up
in Michael's throat for a second, then emerged subdued. "Indeed. Don't mention
it." With a curt nod, he signaled the private to proceed.

Ferguson rammed
the barrel of his musket through the open doorway and waved it around, as if to
spring triggers on more traps. Nothing else fell or pounced. Michael poked his
head in the doorway and rotated his torso to look up.

A crude cage
stretched toward the ceiling, a wooden web tangled in gloom, now clear of
lethal debris spiders. Bowater hadn't cobbled together the device overnight.
Perhaps he'd even demonstrated it for clientele interested in adding unique
security features to homes or businesses.

Michael ordered
the private on a search of the stable and kitchen building, then stepped around
jagged metal and moved with stealth, alone, past the rear foyer. The rhythm of
his breathing eased. He worked his way forward, alert, past an expensive walnut
desk and dozens of books on shelves in the study. Past costly couches, chairs,
tables, brandy in a crystal decanter, and a tea service in the parlor. He
verified the chilly office vacant of people and overt traps, and he opened
curtains as he went.

In the front
reception area, he homed for the counter. The previous week, he'd seen the
agent shove a voluminous book of records onto a lower shelf. No book awaited
Michael that afternoon, hardly a surprise. Bowater was devious enough to hide
it. And since the book was heavy and bulky, he'd likely left it behind in the
building.

Wariness
supplanted the self-satisfaction fueling Michael. A suspect conniving enough to
assemble one trap as a threshold guardian could easily arm another to preside
over business records. Michael advanced to the window beside the front door.
When he unlatched it and slid it open, astonishment perked the expressions of
the redcoats on the front porch. "I've sent for a locksmith to remove the
padlock." He waved the men inside. "Assist me."