Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (63 page)

"Yes."
 
He paused.
 
"But your story about the Legion —?"

"I
finished it last night in Palmer's safe house."
 
She laughed softly.
 
"I shall sell it to the rebels."

For a second,
he stiffened.
 
Then he whooped with
laughter, and she joined him to the consternation of those holed up in the barn
with them.
 
"For god's sake,"
snapped another man, "keep it down, or Pickens's lackeys will be all over
us."

They
subsided.
 
Jonathan pecked her
nose.
 
"Ah, Helen, the rebels
deserve that story, and you deserve their money.
 
I take it you'll write publishers before we leave Camden?"

"Exactly,
and — well, there's a matter I must investigate in Boston, too.
 
I've heard that Agatha Chiswell left me land
up there."

"Good heavens."
 
Intrigue and amusement laced his tone.
 
"I smell another adventure."

She peered up
at him in the darkness, suddenly shy.
 
"
This
adventure turned out to be far more than you ever
bargained for.
 
I don't blame you if you
want to rest.
 
I'm sure Enid will be
delighted to accompany me in your stead."

"Hah.
 
The former Helen Grey descends upon the
Chiswells of Boston for the second time in the century."
 
He groped for her hand, raised it to kiss
her wrist, and sighed with merriment.
 
"My dear, I wouldn't miss that party for anything in the
world."

Chapter Sixty-Three

MORE THAN A
week after the Battle of the Cowpens, Helen and Jonathan arrived at a modest
inn near the Camden courthouse and were reunited with the Pearsons, who awaited
them there.
 
Hannah was much improved
from having a roof over her head and rest, and she, Roger, and Helen wept at
the reunion.

Helen learned
that Cornwallis had ordered his army north after General Greene.
 
Camden's residents expressed a palpable
apprehension at the departure of several thousand British troops from South
Carolina.
 
What army would occupy the
void next?

The trickle of
battle refugees into town didn't ease any nerves, especially when refugees
brought tales of atrocities committed by Morgan's men.
 
One fellow visited taverns with a horrific
tale of finding three bodies in a wood: a young girl, shot to death, and two
men, bound and tortured.
 
Those rebels,
he insisted, were demons.

His story drew
a shudder from Helen.
 
If she'd been
more dexterous with the knife, there'd have been a fourth body in that
wood.
 
Fairfax had left the site of his
recreation alive.
 
Regardless of whether
he'd become Morgan's prisoner or rejoined Crown forces, she mustn't linger in
Camden, where he had informants.

Jonathan made
the acquaintance of a scholar who prepared to leave town with his party, bound
for Cross Creek, North Carolina through the Cheraws — a northeast route that
veered away from any impending conflict between Cornwallis and Greene.
 
From Cross Creek, Wilmington was but a few
days' travel southeast.
 
The gentleman
was delighted at the prospect of Jonathan's company on the road.
 
Helen dashed off letters to rebel
publishers.

Shortly after
dawn on the twenty-ninth, while Jonathan and Roger readied horses and wagon
outside the inn, she passed more letters to the inn's proprietor.
 
"Glad to send this batch off for you
with the ten o'clock post."
 
Mr.
Booten winked.
 
"What a great day
for your departure.
 
No rain in sight,
and not too cold."

She transferred
her basket to Hannah and counted out postage money.
 
Jonathan hadn't disclosed how much he'd tipped Booten for
services such as delivering breakfast in bed, but the fellow did look
disappointed that they hadn't stayed longer.

He handed her a
sealed note.
 
"This arrived by
special courier."

Mystified, she
studied the address:
Helen Chiswell, Booten's Inn, Camden, South Carolina
.
 
Who knew she was in Camden?

"And just
before you came downstairs, a gentleman inquired after you.
 
I told him you and your party were leaving
today."

Fear pumped her
blood.
 
Damnation, Fairfax had tracked
her to Camden.
 
"What did he look
like?
 
Mid-twenties?
 
Reddish hair?"

"Closer to
thirty, I'd say, dark-haired and well-dressed."

She eased out
relief.
 
That didn't sound like Fairfax.

"He asked
to wait in the common room.
 
I wasn't
sure whether you wanted a visitor.
 
You
want me to get rid of him?"

Curious now,
she looked toward the common room, its doors ajar.
 
Dark-haired.
 
Was the
mystery man Neville?
 
Likely not.
 
Booten had said
well-dressed
.
 
"Please do attend me."

He led the way,
and she followed, the unopened note in her hand, Hannah behind.
 
Booten pushed the doors of the common room
open further.
 
Chair legs scraped the
wooden floor, and David St. James rose from a seat near the fireplace.
 
Relief, wonder, regret, and sadness twined
together within Helen's heart.
 
Stone-faced, he bowed to her.
 
She said to Hannah and Booten, "A friend.
 
Wait for me outside, please."

Out of
courtesy, Booten had lit a fire.
 
New
tongues of flame quested among logs in the fireplace, adding light to the room
but no heat yet.
 
Helen and David
regarded each other across the ten feet and eleven years that separated them,
and he said, "I couldn't just leave matters the way we left them that
night at Daniel's Plantation, but I wasn't sure whether you'd see me
again."
 
His jaw clenched.
 
"One last time, that is.
 
I'll seek out my sister and niece now."

A lump built in
her throat.
 
Was she so sure she didn't
love him?

He held up his
hand to stop her from speaking.
 
"I
should have spared you what you went through in your tent after I left.
 
Yes, I heard you weep.
 
And spared you this moment, too.
 
I've been a selfish cad, enjoying you for
short, stolen seasons but ever too much of a boy to accept the responsibility
of a lifetime commitment."

"No, I'm
at fault here.
 
I selfishly kept you in
orbit around me."

He waved his
hands to dispel her words.
 
"I've
known all along that Jonathan's the fellow for you.
 
Perhaps if I'd cleared out years ago, you might have recognized
it sooner, and this — this disaster, this peril to your life might never have
happened."

"Now, see
here.
 
It was my decision to follow the
Legion."

"Yes, but
I had a hand in it.
 
Are you headed back
to Wilmington now?
 
Good.
 
Please, stay out of harm's way.
 
If there's anything I can do for you, a last
favor, I'd be glad to help."

She was on the
verge of shaking her head in negation when a wild idea hit her.
 
David would probably think her daft to
suggest it, but she didn't care.
 
"Does your father have access to a press?"

He stared hard
at her a few seconds, as if he'd expected a different request.
 
Then he skittered his gaze away in
affirmation.

"I knew
it."
 
She lowered her voice.
 
"And you also know how to find
him?"
 
His gaze shied off in the
opposite direction, and she stamped her foot.
 
"I've a story to sell a lucky rebel publisher.
 
The eyewitness account of Banastre
Tarleton's defeat at the hands of Daniel Morgan.
 
Tell your father that.
 
You know where to find
me
."

He gaped.
 
"Helen, you dare not publish that story.
 
The redcoats would jail you for
sedition.
 
Besides, no woman journalist
has ever followed the Legion — or any unit, for that matter.
 
No one would believe it."

"Correct.
 
Therefore, the author's name shall be Henry
Clancy, not Helen Chiswell."
 
She
almost laughed aloud at the play on initials, as well as her own joke.

"Henry
Clancy — Lord Ratchingham?"
 
Some
of the disapproval left his expression, replaced with a glint of humor in his
eye.

"Yes.
 
Does the thought amuse you?"

"In a
black sort of way.
 
Ratchingham,
speaking from the grave."

"Then
you'll ask your father?"
 
At his
nod of approval, she laughed, short.
 
"Don't take too long.
 
Mr.
Clancy has posted query letters to other rebel publishers.
 
One of them is bound to bite."

His sudden
playful smile took her back to a summer night when they'd danced beneath the
stars at one of Governor Martin's parties.
 
Again she wondered if she'd never loved him.
 
Then she realized that although he was no longer as impulsive as
he'd been the summer of 1770, he'd pegged the problem himself.
 
Ever too much of a boy
.

His smile
faded.
 
He bowed.
 
"Godspeed back home, Helen."

"A safe
journey for you as well."
 
She
curtsied.

He walked from
the room, to her relief without expecting an embrace, and left the doors open behind
him.
 
She remained rooted a moment,
listened to the quiet, and watched dust motes dance upon early morning
sunlight.
 
A tear slid down her cheek.
 
When she blotted it, she spied the note,
still in her hand.
 
Helen Chiswell,
Booten's Inn, Camden, South Carolina
.

As she broke
the seal, a dark earthy scent lunged for her.
 
On a base level, she recoiled.
 
Her eyes widened over the scripted message:
Divine sister, for the
Moment, I'm indisposed in Service to Cornwallis, but rest assured that I shall
find a Way to express my Gratitude over your Gift.
 
D.

Dread clenched
her hand, crumpling the note, and she flung it into the fire.
 
Then she swept from the room to rejoin her
party.
 
Long past time to be leaving
Camden — and its network of informants.

Finis

Historical Afterword

History texts
and fiction minimize the importance of the southern colonies during the
American War of Independence.
 
Many
scholars now believe that more Revolutionary War battles were fought in South
Carolina than in any other colony, even New York.
 
Of the wars North Americans have fought, the death toll from this
war exceeds all except the Civil War in terms of percentage of the
population.
 
And yet our "revolution"
was but one conflict in a ravenous world war.

The Battle of
Cowpens occurred on 17 January 1781 in South Carolina.
 
Brigadier General Daniel Morgan's army was
at a disadvantage for battle training, and British Lt. Colonel Banastre
Tarleton caught Morgan in retreat.
 
However, the price for cornering Morgan was that Tarleton and his
seasoned soldiers suffered sleep deprivation, exhaustion, hunger, and winter
weather extremes.
 
Almost immediately
after Crown forces engaged Morgan's army, battle fatigue and panic set in,
resulting in a swift, shocking victory for Morgan.
 
The British Army never recovered from the collapse and loss of
Tarleton's infantry at Cowpens.

A controversial
figure from the Southern Theater of the war, Banastre Tarleton was one of Lord
Cornwallis's subordinates and commanded Loyalists in the mobile British Legion.
 
The "villain" mythology shrouding
Tarleton is difficult to pierce, sustained by a body of folklore created about
him for decades after he left America, perpetuated even in modern times through
such vehicles as the evil Colonel Tavington in "The Patriot."
 
For certain, he practiced the Total War
Cornwallis was reluctant to administer himself.
 
Although Tarleton was undeniably intimidating, ruthless, and
hotheaded as well as a gambler, a drinker, and a ladies' man, his counterparts
among the Patriots, such as Henry ("Light Horse Harry") Lee, were no
less intimidating and ruthless.
 
For the
war in the South was a
civil
war, fueled by hatred.
 
Certain incidents attributed to Tarleton —
for example, disinterring corpses and butchering pregnant women — simply don't
fit with his personality and are more the realm of horror fiction and
sensationalism.
 
Reliable evidence for
his having committed these sorts of acts doesn't exist.