The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Read Free Page A

Tom Alexander, forever one size larger
than the coat, waistcoat, and breeches he wore, no matter how quickly his
mother sewed.   "Good morning!   Bless me if you aren't the only one who's
always here a little early.   Have a
biscuit?"   But sandy-haired Tom
didn't lunge for several biscuits.   Nor
did he flush and shyly return her smile as usual.   He didn't even gawk at all that Cordovan leather, set aflame by a
beam of sunlight.
    Instead, he fidgeted his cocked hat
in his hands, a crease of concern between his gray eyes.   "You folks haven't been out front yet
this morning, have you?   Better come
take a look."
    The three walked out and turned to
face the front of the house.   Daylight
illuminated the message TORY SCUM painted red across the gray wood
siding on the first floor.
    Shock rammed through Betsy.   Augusta was full of Whigs, but she never
believed they'd vandalize a neighbor's home.   Clark wasn't outspoken in his political beliefs.
    The dogs trotted from around back,
and Tom patted Hamlet's side.   "Clark, did you hear any suspicious noises last night?"
    "No."
    "Dogs bark?"
    "No."
    Betsy's jaw slackened with
distress.   The vandal was someone
familiar to the hounds.   Otherwise
they'd have bayed an alarm.   Her uncle
wouldn't deface the home of kin.   Plus a
man on the run had no time to dally with paint.   A more likely culprit was Sooty.   But why would he do that to a client?
    Clark touched the lettering.   "Dry."
    Tom stripped off his coat.   "I'll help clean it off."
    "Thanks, Tom."
    Betsy recovered her mettle and
cleared her throat.   "Since the
paint's already dry, gentlemen, removing it can wait fifteen minutes.   I've a pot of coffee inside, and I don't
make biscuits every day."
    ***
    Neighbors and their children
pitched in with scrubbing, even the Sweeneys and the Cochranes, Whigs.   Sarah and Lucas O'Neal, first cousins to
Betsy's mother, lent a hand.   Sarah
removed a second batch of biscuits, burned, from the beehive oven out back
before guiding a fretting Betsy inside.   "Off your feet.   I shall
manage."   When Betsy protested, her
foster-mother shushed her with a St. James expression she'd seen her mother
wear.   "The day will only get
longer, and you want the baby's cooperation."
    Clark's friend, Lieutenant Adam
Neville, who'd arrived to investigate the crime, popped inside wearing a smile
and his Loyalist Rangers' hunting shirt and trousers.   Twenty-five years old, like Clark, Adam removed his hat and bowed
to Betsy and Sarah, manners impeccable despite having fought rebels in the East
Florida swamps beside Colonel Thomas Brown.   "Morning, ladies."   He assessed
Sarah's competence at replenishing biscuits, ale, and molasses switchel, and
nodded his approval to Betsy, his brown eyes warm.   "Listen to Mrs. O'Neal, now, and stay off your feet.   That's a hot sun out there."
    "Yes, sir."   With humor, Betsy saluted him from her
chair.
    Several off-duty soldiers and
Rangers — friends with whom Clark shared ale at the White Swan — arrived with
brushes and buckets.   Shoulder to
shoulder they worked: Whig and Loyalist, soldier and civilian.   They discussed the weather, crops, midsummer
fair, and new babies.   Nobody talked
politics.
    Late morning, amid children playing
Thread the Needle and Prisoner's Base, potluck appeared on blankets in the
front yard — ham, squash cooked with apples, fruit pastries, molasses bread — along
with grandmothers who shooed away inquisitive dogs and flies.   By mid-afternoon, the Sheridans sported the
cleanest house north of town center.   Everyone shook hands and congratulated themselves on an event no less
festive than a barn raising — one that had, as a bonus, worn excess energy out
of several dozen little boys and girls.
    In the dining room, Betsy pondered
what to do with the leftover food, when she heard Hamlet and Horatio baying in
the front yard.   Strangers.
    From the window, she spied Clark
striding around front