Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (39 page)

Empathy
fortified his expression of respect.
 
"The Enlightened One honors every day, my dear."

***

Helen and
Hannah spent the afternoon in the equine section of camp and talked with
farriers who shod horses with iron from Camden.
 
In the heat of the previous May, Tarleton had overtaken and
annihilated Buford's command at the cost of dozens of his own horses.
 
When he'd chased Sumter down after Camden
and also at Blackstock's, he'd lost more.
 
But she'd never have known it from the geldings and mares in
corral.
 
The Legion always got
replacement horses.

His expression
smug, a farrier volunteered names of commanders whose horses were diverted to
the Legion — officers who'd been in the Army twice as long as Tarleton.
 
Not only horses but also supplies and
resources like iron were diverted from other units to the Legion.

The consequence
of Tarleton's preferential treatment registered anew on Helen.
 
Never mind that he'd recently been denied
another rank advancement.
 
He'd risen
fast and furious and was far too favored among the generals to be respected by
fellow officers.

Without
difficulty, she imagined the desk, Neville, and Treadaway as part of some
internal movement to equalize that preferential treatment.
 
In Badley's study in September, Hannah had
overheard Prescott say that someone named Epsilon would have to make do, even
though he didn't have enough supplies.
 
Then Neville said Epsilon might be forced to withdraw.
 
Did Prescott and Badley scheme to divert
resources from the Legion to another unit?
 
Perhaps a plot was afoot to pump the Legion with misinformation, make
them appear idiots, cost Tarleton his command.
 
The possibilities staggered Helen.

Fairfax would
entertain himself by foiling such a cabal before Tarleton ever caught wind of
it.
 
Perhaps he'd offer heads on a
platter to the Legion's commander with the faux-modesty she'd observed in the
foyer at Woodward's Plantation.
 
Elsewhere in the Crown forces, he'd snap military careers off at the
base like a tornado on a rampage through a grove of pines.

At times, it
amazed her that the British Army possessed enough cohesion to win battles
against the rebels.

Half an hour
before sunset, Neville caught up with the women en route to their tents.
 
His smile cheery, he dismounted his horse to
walk beside Helen.
 
"Lovely
weather, eh?
 
No rain in sight, and a
good fire tonight will take the chill off.
 
What have you been up to?"

"I've
visited the horses.
 
Such well-kept
beasts."

"The
Legion spares no expense to obtain premium mounts."

"That
doesn't sit well with other commanders."

"Bah.
 
Let them ride as hard and fast as the
Legion.
 
They'd shut their mouths soon
enough."
 
His gaze darted around to
ensure that no one except Hannah walked nearby.
 
"How goes your research?
 
I think Mr. Badley made a superlative choice of journalist for this
assignment."

"Superlative?"
 
Surprised and a little uneasy, Helen
laughed.
 
Neville appeared almost giddy
in her presence.
 
Either he wasn't privy
to Badley's scheme to dump her in the hinterlands, or he'd just executed some
fantastic acting skills.

He seemed to
blush a little.
 
"Pardon the warmth
of my adjective, but you take this project seriously.
 
You aren't just closeted with the officers' ladies.
 
You're out quite a bit, investigating camp
operations."
 
He presented a bold
stare.
 
"That desk I found for you
— how does it suit your purposes?"

"Very
well."
 
She scrutinized his
expression.
 
Was this the same Adam
Neville who'd resisted speaking to her the morning they left Camden?
 
"It's beautiful."
 
Instinct prodded her to lead with her
curiosity.
 
"And Mr. Fairfax wants
one just like it."

"I don't
doubt it.
 
I fancied it for myself.
 
It's a handsome piece."

"No, you
don't understand.
 
He's never seen the
desk you gave me, but this morning at market, he asked me to look for one just
like it among the merchants.
 
He
described it perfectly and said he thought it might make an appearance at
market within the next five days."

Winter invaded
Neville's eyes.
 
"Well, that's peculiar."

"Which
merchant sold you the desk?
 
Perhaps I
can point Mr. Fairfax in his direction —"

"I cannot
imagine why he expects a desk at market."
 
Neville glanced away and scratched his neck, as if his hunting shirt had
grown too tight on him.
 
"I doubt
there's another like it out there.
 
Well-crafted pieces just don't show up very often out here.
 
It's probably a good idea to keep your desk
out of sight.
 
No point in rubbing Mr.
Fairfax's nose in the fact that you got a quality piece before he did.
 
But do continue your search at market.
 
You never know what might turn up
there."

Neville was
lying.
 
And he was up to something.

He beamed.
 
"Oh, why talk about
him
?
 
Will you dance with me at the Yule
celebration?"

Whew, that was
quite an about-face.
 
Helen propped her
hands on her hips and grinned at him.
 
"How many dances, sir?"

"A half
dozen."

Quite a bold
request, and she was certain there was method to it beyond the madness he
affected in her company.
 
"In
London, a mere three dances with the same man is proof of a secret
betrothal."

Embarrassment
wiped his expression.
 
"Oh, no,
madam, I assure you that's not at all my intent."

What
was
his intent?
 
For certain, it wasn't
courtship, but he seemed willing to let her think it might be.
 
"Your request is unreasonable.
 
Colonel Tarleton expects to dance with me,
and I expect to dance with other officers."

"Five
dances, then."

Helen pretended
to consider his offer.
 
Neville might
want to occupy her with dancing to allow transit of another cipher through her
desk.
 
If she wished to outfox him and
double back for observation during part of the dance, she'd have to plan
ahead.
 
"More than two dances are
considered gossip-worthy.
 
I can promise
you no more than two."

"This is
the Carolina backcountry, not London.
 
Three
dances."

She cocked an
eyebrow.
 
"Three?
 
I guarantee you that Mr. Fairfax won't get
three dances from me that night."

"I'm a
better dancer than he."

Great heavens,
if Fairfax could only hear what issued from Neville's mouth.
 
Three dances.
 
She'd slip away with Hannah somewhere near the end of the first
half for some snooping, and Neville would never miss her because they'd already
danced.
 
"Very well, sir.
 
Three dances it is."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

"IT'S JUST
FOR six months.
 
Paul can manage
business for that time."

"No."

"Hannah,
honey, they need me."

"Over my
dead body are you joining the Legion."

Helen shivered
out a yawn and pulled the homespun jacket on atop her woolen petticoat, shift,
and tucker.
 
Twice she pricked herself
in the darkness fastening the jacket, but the Pearsons were long overdue for
their argument, and she wanted to give them space.

Tugging her
cloak across her shoulders, she emerged from her tent.
 
Something snagged at her head and neck.
 
She gasped and identified by touch what draped
the top of the tent and dangled before the entrance: holly twined with
ivy.
 
Blessed Midwinter.

Dismayed, she
dragged the foliage off, flinching over the jab of holly.
 
She resisted her inclination to throw it in
a trash pile.
 
Instead, she carried it
with her across the field silver and crunchy with tiny jewels of ice.
 
At the dawn place, she looped the holly and
ivy, offered the wreath to the frosty ground, and stood in silence, seeking
stillness and nourishment from the earth.
 
Sunrise brightened on her face.
 
The hum of life behind her rose, defiant and persistent for another day.

By the time she
returned to her campsite, more rumor buzzed, that General Nathanael Greene had
left Charlotte Town two days earlier, on the nineteenth, intent on capturing
Ninety Six.
 
Considering that he'd have
to ram a disparate blend of regulars and militia through the bayonet-lined jaws
of the Crown's Southern army, Helen deemed the enterprise unlikely.
 
Greene and his militia counterpart, Daniel
Morgan, sounded too intelligent and shrewd.
 
Sure enough, no bugle sounded for saddles.

But she had a
hunch about rumors of military movements and ciphers hidden in her desk, so she
herded her party away from their tents and out to watch a Legion drill before
nine o'clock.
 
Upon their return, she
noticed the lantern twisted back to the entrance of her tent.
 
Inside, she found another cipher to Epsilon
from Omega.

While the
Pearsons bickered more over Roger enlisting, she pondered shadows created by
those trees to the east, just outside picket lines: an excellent place to
observe who entered her tent.
 
Soon
enough, she'd know the identity of the messenger.
 
But she hadn't yet answered a more important question.
 
To whom would she give the information she
collected?

***

The tanner with
coffee-stained teeth rose from his bench and bowed.
 
"Good to see you again, madam.
 
How may I be of service this afternoon?"

A patron was
engrossed in examining hides on a display table.
 
Helen motioned the tanner aside.
 
"I've heard that another desk might appear in market over the next
few days, before Christmas, and I should like to purchase it as a gift."

"Did you
ask that ranger about the last one?"

"Yes, but
I'd rather leave him out of this purchase.
 
Keep your eyes open.
 
When you
spot the desk, I shall pay you two pence to secure it for me with the
merchant.
 
When I have it in my hands, I
shall pay you an additional two pence."

On the chance
that a desk appeared in market, she'd have something to show Fairfax.
 
If the tanner found a desk, she'd eat four
pence.
 
But if Fairfax paid her, it
would offset her outlay to the tanner.

The tanner
licked his lips at the mention of money.
 
"Certainly, madam, just tell me where to find you."

She provided
directions to her campsite and left the marquee.
 
Hannah, who'd waited outside, caught up with her, and they headed
for the food, where Helen supplied enough detail about shopping for supper,
along with money, to keep Hannah busy for a while.
 
After pleading weariness, Helen left her and headed back to the tents
— but not on the main trail.

She sneaked
among trees, picked her spot behind an oak, and settled with a clear view of
their tents, some fifty feet distant.
 
She hoped the messenger would arrive before Hannah returned.

Three officers'
wives and their maids strolled through the site chatting and paused while one
showed something in her basket to the others.
 
In silence, Helen implored them to move along.
 
Next, a slender girl aged ten or eleven skipped past from the
lower camp pushing a hoop along with a stick.
 
The hoop bumped and wobbled over the irregular surface of the ground,
but the girl commanded its course with precision.
 
Two Legionnaires greeted her and halted between the campsite and
trees to monitor the area after she'd gone on her way.
 
Helen held her breath when one walked a
circle around the tents, let out her breath in disappointment when both
continued on their patrol.

By then, it was
almost time for Hannah to return.
 
Maybe
the messenger wouldn't arrive until the morrow.
 
Maybe the messenger had spotted her and wouldn't come at
all.
 
Maybe she was foolish to believe
she could infiltrate a smooth operation.

The girl
returned.
 
Her hoop rolled against
Helen's tent, and the child skipped over to retrieve it.
 
But after roving a look around her, she
untied the bottom of the tent flap and ducked inside Helen's tent.
 
Helen sat straight, her jaw dangling in
amazement.
 
The girl emerged within
seconds, retied the flaps, twisted the branch around to face outward, and sent
her hoop spinning along the trail toward the lower camp.