Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (41 page)

A singsong
girl-child's voice lifted above the hiss and pop of the fire.
 
"Here's a blanket for Nan, Mama."

"Thank
you, Rebecca."

Helen stared at
the girl who draped a wool blanket around Nan's shoulders.
 
Then she masked her own expression into
neutrality.
 
No mistaking Liza's
daughter, the cipher messenger.
 
She'd
seen her that first afternoon, too, feeding kindling to the smolder beneath a
cauldron of pease soup.

Helen edged
closer.
 
"Here with your husband,
Nan?"

A grimace
puckered the sick woman's mouth.
 
"I buried him at Camden in August."

Helen's heart
panged.
 
She soon found out why Nan had
stayed with the Legion.
 
Her rebel kin
in North Carolina burned their house and barn after her husband joined the
Legion.
 
Nan and her thirteen-year-old
son barely escaped with their lives.
 
He
was the company musician who'd flogged the drunken legionnaire several days
earlier.

Helen couldn't
linger after her water boiled because others awaited a spot at the fire.
 
She packed the pot, insulated with a towel
and old scraps of blanket, in her basket.
 
Her glance returned to Nan.
 
In
the widow and her musician son, she'd found focal points for her article on
civilians.
 
But as for Liza's daughter
Rebecca, transmitter of secret messages, she didn't yet know what to
think.
 
To be sure, Rebecca supplemented
the family's meager rations, but at what price?

The eastern sky
paled, and the trail had grown more trafficked.
 
Near her campsite, she encountered Roger in the company of two
legionnaires.
 
Near-panic speared his
tone.
 
"Mrs. Chiswell!
 
Where have you been?"

Alarmed that
she'd been recognized, Helen closed the shawl around her better to hide her
lower-class clothing and straightened her posture.
 
"On a morning stroll."

"Well, you
mustn't do that again without at least telling someone where you're
going!"
 
Roger flailed his arms
around.
 
"Hannah, Mr. Quill, and I
had no idea where you were.
 
You weren't
even out in the field watching the sunrise as usual!"

The locksmith
appeared almost unhinged.
 
Malaise
clamped Helen, especially with the presence of the legionnaires.
 
"Roger, there's no cause for alarm.
 
I'm unharmed."

"Tell that
to Mr. Fairfax.
 
These lads are ordered
to bring you back."

Gods, no, not
Fairfax.
 
Arguing with Hannah had cost
Roger perspective.
 
In a dither over her
absence, the locksmith had sought Fairfax's help.
 
And now she'd gained a jailer.

Obviously, it
was time for her to intervene in the Pearsons' domestic squabble.
 
She didn't bother to hide the snap in her
voice.
 
"Mr. Fairfax is a busy man.
 
Let's not keep him waiting."

At the
campsite, Hannah jumped up from a bench with a cry of relief at the sight of
her and rushed forward.
 
"Thank
goodness you're well!
 
I'd never have
forgiven myself if you'd come to harm."
 
She stared.
 
"That's my
shawl!"

"Here.
 
Take it.
 
I must have grabbed it by accident in the dark."
 
Near the bench, Jonathan, who'd been
standing, relaxed his shoulders and shot Helen an expression full of
perplexity.
 
Guilt surged through her at
his look.
 
Maybe she
should
have
said something.

Fairfax
approached from the picket line.
 
Even
from a distance, ice preceded him.
 
She
turned her back, knelt, and untied the bottom of her tent flaps enough to slide
the basket inside.
 
When she
straightened, he was close enough to hear, so she directed a glare at the
Pearsons and deepened the snap in her voice.
 
"What's the fuss about?
 
I
wanted an early morning walk in solitude.
 
As you can see, I'm unharmed.
 
Did you think I'd been abducted?"

Fairfax's
proximity could no longer be ignored, so she shifted her glare to him.
 
Inhumanity seethed in his eyes and wilted
her courage.
 
She gulped.
 
Without speaking, he crooked his forefinger
at her —
come with me
— and pivoted for the trees.

Jonathan
stiffened but didn't interfere.
 
With a
ragged exhale, Helen followed the lieutenant.
 
Her fingers had numbed by the time she passed the trees and emerged in
the field.
 
Fairfax walked a
contemplative circle around the wreath of holly and ivy she'd lain upon the
ground Midwinter morning, then studied the eastern sky.
 
She paused about ten feet from him and
rubbed her hands.

"What is
your business in the lower camp?"
 
He turned and gouged a stare through her.

"I went
out for a predawn walk."

"Cease
lying to me, Helen.
 
Dressed like a
peasant.
 
Reeking of wood smoke.
 
You sneaked away to meet someone in the
lower camp and exchange an intelligence report."

"No, not
at all.
 
Why do you suspect me of
such?"
 
She blinked.
 
He'd positioned her to receive the sunrise
full on her face, while he remained backlit by sun, at an advantage for
interrogation.

"You
evaded Mrs. Pearson yesterday to meet your contact among the rank and
file.
 
Did you think Sullivan would say
nothing of it to me?
 
The sister of
Lieutenant Fairfax dallying among common soldiers.
 
Who is he?
 
To whom are
you reporting?"

"No
one!"
 
She spread her hands.
 
"I'm not a spy!"

He crossed his
arms over his chest.
 
"Perhaps it's
time I confined my wayward sister to my marquee for a few days."

Before she
could stop herself, she'd backed away a step in horror.
 
"No!"
 
Anger surged through her fear at the smugness on his face, and
she lifted her chin.
 
"If you do
that, I won't be able to find that desk."

He
snorted.
 
"You aren't looking for
it."

"But I
am.
 
I intend to find it."

"Then stop
lying to me and tell me what you're about.
 
You're meeting St. James, aren't you?
 
You're spying for him."

She stamped her
foot.
 
"Damn you, I haven't seen
him since Wilmington!
 
And I'm not
spying.
 
I'm — I'm —"
 
Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
 
"I'm writing another story."
 
She hung her head, knowing he'd mock her.
 
"To show civilians as courageous in
this war.
 
One woman in the lower camp
was burned out of her home after her husband joined the Legion.
 
She's still here after burying him at Camden
because her son now marches on the battlefield —"

"You've
allowed personal goals to obscure your priority on this mission: writing about
Tarleton and the Legion."

Bitter,
disheartened, weary of the confessional, she faced west.
 
Obedience.
 
He wanted obedience.
 
Damn, as
long as he didn't imprison her in his marquee.
 
"Whatever you say."

"You
shall attire yourself as a lady, clean soot off your face and dirt from beneath
your fingernails.
 
Since the clothing
you're wearing allows you to mingle in the lower camp, you shall hand both sets
of it over to me for safekeeping.
 
Wherever you walk, whenever you walk, you will take at least one
attendant with you.
 
I do not expect to
hear another report of your dawdling among the rank and file."
 
He walked around and faced her, enjoying
every inch of his authority.
 
"And
by the bye, it would please me exceedingly if you found my desk."

Chapter Forty-One

FAIRFAX
LOITERED IN the campsite until Helen emerged from her tent in a gown, her face
and hands scrubbed clean with soap and the warm water she'd obtained on her
forbidden excursion.
 
After inspecting
her with the enthusiasm he'd grant a barrel of turpentine, the lieutenant left,
taking her confiscated clothing and the legionnaires with him.

Embarrassed to
meet Helen's eye, Roger set off with Jonathan to make breakfast.
 
Disgusted, she retreated into her tent to
capture in her journal as much as she could remember of the trip to the
kitchen.
 
Damn Fairfax for being
correct.
 
Her priority
was
on the
Tarleton feature.
 
But she refused to
relinquish the other story.

She became
aware of Hannah weeping.
 
After
concealing her desk, she exited and sought the Pearsons' tent.
 
"Hannah, what's done is done.
 
Let the events of the morning go, and we
shall all move along."

Hannah
continued to weep and sounded as though she might be in pain.
 
Concerned, Helen untied the tent flaps and
discovered the younger woman curled up on her side among blankets, arms and
legs drawn up, head bowed forward, like a baby in a womb.
 
Helen knelt beside her.
 
"What is it?
 
Are you ill?"
 
She
pried Hannah's hands from her face.
 
"Talk to me, tell me what's wrong."

The blonde
ratcheted up into wild sobs.
 
Confounded, Helen held her.
 
Perhaps Hannah was spending grief, long overdue, on her father.
 
Helen stroked her back and murmured, "I
miss him, too, my dear."

A groan
trundled from Hannah.
 
"Roger
doesn't understand."

The dolt.
 
All he could think about was strutting in a
green coat.

"S-Something
horrible is g-going to h-happen to the Legion."

"No, the
colonel takes care of his men.
 
You've
seen how much they trust him."
 
Foreboding sent her memory to Woodward's parlor and the hunger on
Tarleton's face:
Mr. Fairfax, have you brought me a rebel spy?
 
You chased him too hard.
 
He's now hiding beneath Daniel Morgan's
petticoat
.
 
Vanity and
impulsiveness.
 
She winced.

"Ohh, my
poor Papa!
 
I m-miss him so.
 
I'm — I'm g-going to have a b-baby.
 
How c-can I lose Roger, too?"
 
Hannah wailed.

Helen's eyes
widened.
 
"Have you told Roger
you're with child?"

"Y-Yesss."

Helen
fantasized about punching Roger in the nose.
 
Charles would be appalled at his son-in-law.
 
This wasn't about duty to the king.
 
This was about self-indulgence.
 
Vanity and impulsiveness.
 
Cold
swept her.

The younger
woman's sobs dwindled.
 
After making her
more comfortable among the blankets, Helen left the tent to let her rest.

Something
horrible is going to happen to the Legion
.
 
Smoke from musket fire and cannons, hundreds of legionnaires dead or
dying — executed — on a battlefield, horses screaming in fear and agony.
 
In the lovely winter sunshine, Helen shoved
the images from her mind.

Back in her
tent, she concentrated on her journal.
 
The men returned.
 
She heard
Roger gab a rumor that General Greene planned to attack Lord Cornwallis in
Winnsborough.
 
Ludicrous.
 
Greene's army was underfed, overworked, and
laden with untrained militia.
 
Cornwallis had the seasoned Legion guarding his left flank and
reinforcements on the coast, eager to penetrate the interior of South Carolina.

Her mood
brusque, she stepped out and draped on her cloak.
 
Roger quieted at the sight of her.
 
"Jonathan, set out breakfast.
 
Roger, this way.
 
I would
have a word with you."

They walked
about twenty paces, far enough off to not disturb Hannah, and Helen placed the
sun in Roger's face.
 
He squinted.
 
"I apologize for what happened this
morning, Mrs. Chiswell.
 
I
overreacted.
 
I got you in trouble.
 
It won't happen again."

"I'm glad
we agree that it won't happen again.
 
Your wife is with child.
 
She
also recently lost her father, last of her family.
 
Explain to me why you're so keen on joining the British
Legion."