Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (62 page)

Neville's
whisper savaged the damp, still air.
 
"Did he injure you?"

Above her head,
Palmer and the rebel from Virginia were laughing over some jest.
 
She glowered.
 
"Does it matter to you, Mr. Neville?
 
Does anything matter except your amusement
over playing both sides in this war against each other?"

"I don't
owe you an explanation for what I do."

"You're
just as evil as he."

"I'm
nothing like Lieutenant Fairfax."

Conversation
above had quieted.
 
She waited for it to
resume, then whispered, "Prove it, even if nothing else on this earth
matters to you.
 
He's a fiend, a
parasite."
 
She flinched,
recognizing David's exact words, and steadied her breathing.
 
"You and Mr. Stoddard must bury the
hatchet and find a way to rid us of him."

"How did
you —?"
 
A snarl exploded through
his expression.
 
With self-control, he
maintained a low voice.
 
"How much
about Stoddard does Fairfax know?"

"I don't
have an answer for you, but I cannot imagine him idling while you and Mr.
Stoddard resolve your differences."
 
Especially since Fairfax now suspected Stoddard of being a member of the
Epsilon ring.
 
She sighed and braced fists
on her hips.
 
"At the point I'd
managed to leave Mr. Fairfax's company, it didn't sound as though he was going
to obtain the intelligence he sought about Epsilon from Prescott or
Treadaway.
 
Fate could easily have
allowed you to encounter him upon the road today in your injured
condition."

Lantern light
threw inhuman sparks in Neville's dark eyes, but he said nothing.
 
She faced away from him again, arms crossed
beneath her cloak.
 
Silence between them
yawned.
 
It was just as well.
 
She had nothing further to say to a man who
was a ranger in every sense of the word.

Chapter Sixty-Two

THE PALMERS
LODGED Neville in the stable with horses and Helen in the loft with squirmy,
whispery children aged four through twelve.
 
While the night was far from quiet, it was warm.

Memory
persisted in replaying Tarleton's panic, agonized screams of Prescott and
Treadaway, and supernatural radiance in Fairfax's face.
 
Outside the cabin, in the wilderness between
the Pacolet River and Thicketty Creek about fifteen miles south of the Cowpens,
wind whistled through trees, owls hooted, and dogs sounded an occasional
warning to a wayward possum or raccoon.
 
All of it hummed Helen awake long after the house had settled down.

The proximity
of other warm bodies reminded her that Jonathan had slept beside her every
night for several weeks.
 
His absence
echoed in her heart.
 
The feel of her
desk safe and nestled beside her in the loft, its story intact, only emphasized
the absence.

Trails of slow
tears stained the side of her face.
 
Across twelve years, she reached out and embraced Nell Grey, restored
her into her heart, bestowed upon her long overdue gratitude.
 
Nell — tough, scrappy, and common born — had
saved her life.

She slept
through cockcrow, through children rising to tend morning chores, and awakened
after dawn to the aromas of flapjacks, frying bacon, and fresh-brewed coffee,
the obstinate mahogany of the desk pressed into her ribcage.
 
After draping Mrs. Palmer's extra shawl over
her shift, she descended from the loft, shoved on her boots, and paid a morning
visit to the vault.

The rain had
stopped, and the overcast appeared to be lifting.
 
She saw no one except Mrs. Palmer, so she drew on her filthy
clothing and helped her cook breakfast at the hearth, even though she felt more
like crawling back up into the loft and sleeping.

The lady handed
her a crock of butter and a plate heaped with flapjacks.
 
"Weather's clearing today.
 
We'll be able to launder.
 
I'll help you with that bath you were
wanting last night."

Helen sneaked a
flapjack before slathering the rest with butter.
 
"I thank you for your hospitality and courage last night,
but for your family's protection, we must leave today."

"Mmm.
 
Here's cane syrup to go with those
flapjacks.
 
For
your
protection,
you'll have to stay with us a few days.
 
We heard Tarleton and his cavalry safely forded the Broad River late
yesterday, but rebels are still searching the area.
 
You don't want to become their prisoner."

Helen tried to
count days in her head, assess whether she had time to reach Camden before the
Pearsons left.
 
Reuniting with them was
critical.
 
"I must meet friends in
Camden before the ninth of February so they can escort me home.
 
And I'm worried about another friend.
 
I lost him in a skirmish yesterday.
 
I suspect he may be trying to reach Camden
also —"

"Look
here, honey."
 
Mrs. Palmer gestured
with her spatula.
 
"You can't go
off roaming the countryside.
 
It's too
dangerous.
 
Let the rebels quit
strutting their victory.
 
We'll find a
way to get you to Camden.
 
We aren't the
only safe house in these parts.
 
Maybe
your friend found his way to one of the others, and folks are telling him what
I'm telling you.
 
Relax.
 
Rest.
 
Eat."
 
She wrinkled her
nose.
 
"Bathe."

Despite concern
over Jonathan, the corners of Helen's mouth crept upward.
 
She had to admit that she stank.
 
"You'll have to tie down Mr. Neville to
get his cooperation."

"Hah."
 
The other woman turned to the hearth and
stirred bacon sizzling in the skillet.
 
"Too late.
 
He left out of
here before dawn on the same horse he rode in on yesterday."

Shock and anger
belted through Helen, and she gave herself a mental kick.
 
She should have realized that Neville would
steal a horse and hasten back to the business of spying.
 
Then acceptance settled over her.
 
Good riddance to Neville.
 
Good riddance to Prescott's gelding, too,
reminder of her recent nightmare.

Mrs. Palmer
extended a plate of greasy, sizzling bacon.
 
"What's in that desk of yours?"

Helen set the
bacon on the table.
 
"It's a
story."

"So you're
a writer."

She squared her
shoulders.
 
"I'm a
journalist."

Keen perception
filtered through the other woman's expression.
 
"If what happened up there at the Cowpens is your story, seems to
me you need time to finish it."

***

Helen's lips
crooked slyly, and she slid the last page of her story about the Legion atop
the other papers of her journal before closing them into the desk.
 
Rebels would be appalled and outraged when
they read Tarleton's final moments with his civilians, just before he and his
dragoons rode off: "We may have lost the Cowpens, but we aren't
beaten.
 
We shall never suffer the rebel
curs to count their victories.
 
We are
the might of His Majesty!
 
God save the
king!"
 
Uncowed, cocky, and lethal
as ever — and after a supposed defeat.
 
With elevated fear and loathing, the cry of "Tarleton's
Quarter!" would spread faster than lice in summer among the rank and
file.
 
Children of rebels would be
terrified to sleep lest the demon in green lurking beneath their beds rise in
the middle of the night and slay them.
 
Will St. James might even print another broadside in the colonel's
honor.

She envisioned
Tarleton reading the account of the defense of the baggage train and setting
the magazine aside, puzzled.
 
It was,
after all, what he desired: to be a source of terror in every rebel household
and a source of grim pride among the Loyalists.
 
But, how odd, had he spoken those exact words?

Everyone, she
decided, would get just what he or she needed from the feature on the
Legion.
 
And as for the story about the
courage of civilian followers, she could already hear hot debate in taverns and
coffeehouses.

The apothecary
slipped in through the front door and closed night without for a moment.
 
"Ready to leave, madam?"

Two days of
sleeping with squirmy children had more than readied her to leave.
 
"Yes, Mr. Palmer."
 
She fastened her cloak.

"Luck to
you, honey," said his wife.
 
Helen
curtsied to her, picked up the bag with her desk, and followed the man out.

Inside the
stable, doors closed, Palmer's eldest son uncovered a lantern, enabling Helen
to secure her desk upon the remaining gelding, now her packhorse and roped
behind Calliope.
 
She scratched the base
of the mare's ears.
 
"What a
pleasure to ride
you
."

Palmer led
their horses for the exit and paused.
 
"Here's our plan again, madam.
 
Five miles to cover before we reach Abbott's house.
 
Loyalists from two other safe houses will
meet us there.
 
Mr. Abbott will guide
you across the Pacolet River to the Cherokee road.
 
Then you're on your own."

"Thank you
for everything, sir."
 
They shook
hands.
 
"God save the
King."
 
The apothecary's son
covered the light and opened doors.

Palmer guided
her south-southeast over rolling meadows and through pine copses.
 
As much as possible, they kept the horses to
a trot.
 
In the bitter, breezy night,
clouds sallied past the waning crescent moon.
 
Cold stripped the breath from Helen and hurt her teeth.

Her menses had
arrived a full week late and gifted her with backache.
 
She'd greeted its arrival with a peculiar
blend of disappointment and relief.
 
During her ride to Mr. Abbott's house, however, she glimpsed the wisdom
of the universe and allowed herself to accept what was.
 
Pregnancy would have heaped a multitude of
complications upon her life.

In Abbott's
barn an hour later, she met two Loyalists who'd found their way there from the
baggage train.
 
While they waited for arrivals
from the other safe houses, she learned that both men were headed to the homes
of relatives in Camden.
 
Both swore to
help reunite her with the Pearsons after they reached the town.

Axle squeak and
snorts from horses announced an arrival.
 
The two men cracked open the barn door for a look.
 
Her pulse jumpy, Helen peeked out at a
wagon, six men aboard.
 
Abbott slipped
from his house to greet the driver, his tone friendly.
 
When he aimed the passengers for the barn,
the men with Helen opened the barn door in silent welcome, and she relaxed a
bit.

One refugee
received a bundle of clothing from Abbott, and as he drew nearer, Helen
realized he was a uniformed dragoon from the Seventeenth Light.
 
Those first seconds, her breath froze at his
stature, so similar to Fairfax's by moonlight, and her brain fumbled with
escape actions — mount Calliope, kick her into a gallop, and fly past
everyone.
 
But as the arrivals neared
them and she discerned more of his features, she leaned against the barn door
and heaved a sigh of relief.
 
Not
Fairfax, but a cavalryman unhorsed, his saber lost, his life endangered.

"Helen?"

A cloud had
blocked the moon.
 
Her stare pegged on
another refugee.
 
He dislodged himself
from the others and trotted ahead for her.
 
Her heart leaped a mile, and she sprang for him, ecstasy unleashed and
singing in her bloodstream.
 
She needed
no moonlight to know him.

Jonathan caught
her up in his arms, and a moan of union soared from them.
 
"Hsssst!" said an irate voice from
the barn.
 
"Get in here and quiet
down!"

Inside,
Calliope snorted a greeting for Jonathan, who roughed her neck with affection
before he drew Helen away from the nervous men at the door.
 
They embraced again.
 
He kissed her with the searching tenderness
of a first love, his lips tasting tears at the corners of her eyes.
 
Forehead to forehead, they swayed.
 
He whispered, "I lost you in the
skirmish.
 
When I searched, you and
Calliope had gone.
 
I presumed you'd
fled south ahead of me."

"Let's
discuss details later.
 
What matters is that
we're uninjured, and we've found each other."