Margaret was slow to open up to the Dragoons she found herself living with, but slowly she got to know some of them, no matter how hard she tried not to. She ate with them in the mornings and at night. In sharing their fire and food, she learned about their homes, their families, their hopes and their dreams. They ceased to be a group of faceless dragoons and became individual men. Between meals, Margaret rode out with the dragoons, showing them the lesser known trails and helping them to forage.
But to them, she was still a mystery. She might eat with them, but she shared little about her life. They knew she was a widow and that she'd come with them to scout and guide them through the swamps. They'd seen her fearlessness in standing up to Colonel Tavington that night at her stepfather's farm and they'd seen her push through exhaustion and fatigue at the Colonel's behest. On more than one occasion, she'd shown knowledge of the plants and mosses, saving the dragoons' lives. But they knew nothing of her; she never opened up to them or told them stories of her life before the army, and though this bothered some of the men, others merely took it in stride.
Scout, Guide, Forage, Rest.
Every so often reports would come in of "The Ghost" and the dragoons would speed out looking for them.
Scout, Guide, Forage, Rest. Chase the Ghost.
Margaret's life was predictable, grueling, and dirty. At times when she was not needed in the field, she laundered clothes for the men at the fort, mended coats and trousers and helped tend a small kitchen garden for the officers' mess. It was late in the season, but she hoped that some of the vegetables would be large enough to harvest before the autumn truly set in.
On one of the many off days, she and a few dragoons went to Morristown to trade. She went to the crossroads tavern to trade for some whiskey and some other ingredients for making beer up at the fort. While she was waiting on the bar keep to bring her purchases she overheard a man speaking to a small group at the other end of the bar.
"You'll get to keep or sell back the muskets and gear of any lobster backs you kill." The man told his comrades. Margaret glanced around the barrel of ale that was set up on top of the bar and looked at the men, memorizing faces. "The Colonel will train you up to fight good and then we'll pick them red coats off in the swamps, like shooting fish in a barrel." Margaret eased away from the bar and made it to the side door without alerting anyone that she had been there. She skirted the side of a mercantile and made for the black smith's shop where Private Edwards and Corporal Hastings were discussing the finer arts of the trade and getting another of the dragoons' pistols repaired. She grasped Corporal Hastings sleeve and brought him round to face her.
"I overheard some men in the pub. They were talking about recruiting for a unit of men."
"So?"
"So they were talking about picking off red coats quick as you please. Using the cover of the swamps." Private Edwards, one of her frequent mess mates had turned and was listening intently to the conversation.
"The Ghost?" He whispered. Margaret shrugged.
"I'm not sure, but it didn't sound like they were up to honest business." The two dragoons went to the tavern and after a brief altercation, the conspirators were dragged from the tavern and brought back to Fort Carolina to be tried for treason.
Late that night, Margaret was visited by Colonel Tavington and Captain Borden. They interrogated her about how she had discovered the men in the tavern and whether she'd be willing to do it again.
"You mean spy?" Margaret stared the Colonel down. His eyes sparked cold fire in the evening light, excited at the prospect of finally catching up to his ghost.
"Spy is such a harsh term." The Colonel sounded as if he were scolding a slow child. "Consider it more….gathering information."
"Last time I checked, that was the definition of spying." Margaret stabbed her needle angrily into a shirt she was repairing. "A thistle cannot be called a rose just because it grows in the garden."
"A rose growing on the road side is just as beautiful as the one in the garden and we make no bones about it." Tavington snapped back. "A woman is far less suspect than a man. They won't be looking for you."
"I seriously doubt those men are looking for a woman when they're shooting at red coats." She said glaring up at the Colonel. "I'm just as likely to be shot as you out there. More so if I'm caught spying."
"Then you'll have no regrets about stopping these men before they have a chance to cause us trouble. Think of it as saving your own skin; increasing your chances of survival in the swamps." Margaret stared at the Colonel for a long moment.
"It's also a convenient way for you to get rid of me….if the worst should happen."
"You are intelligent. I'll give you that." Tavington stood and strolled around to her side of the fire. His gloved hand landed heavily on her shoulder. "But I have no doubt that an intelligent girl like you would be able to get out of any trouble she might find herself in, yes?" With a painful squeeze to her shoulder he walked away into the darkness, Captain Borden following in his shadow.
And so Margaret went from scout, to spy. Mostly she just listened at taverns or on trading forays. Usually it turned nothing up. Other times, she was given a few pounds to take with her to take up a room at an inn and listen for gossip on the Ghost. Those nights she relished since it meant at least one evening in a real bed…straw ticking and bed bugs aside. Most evenings her spying came to naught. Other nights, she managed to gather a good deal of information and bring it back to the Colonel. If she had information, she lit a candle and set it on the windowsill. A dragoon placed in the woods would see it and the two would meet when Margaret left the inn under the premise of using the necessary. She'd relay the message and if Colonel Tavington thought it good enough, he might raid the inn or use the information to his advantage to ambush the rebels.
One such evening Margaret walked her horse slowly in to a cross road inn. A dirty boy at the stables took her horse from her to be fed and watered down. Margaret took her satchel and slung it over her shoulder walking slowly across the yard. There were many horses tied up outside and the noise coming from behind the structure, where the kitchens were, indicated that the tavern would be quite busy. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, prepared to do as she had done numerous times before. The instant she was inside she began to regret ever saying she'd spy for colonel Tavington. Every eye in the room turned to her and every eye was not only unfriendly, but lascivious. She rushed to a table close to the wall and sat in shadow watching the room carefully.
"What's a pretty little miss like you doing here?" One man asked, coming and leaning heavily on the table. "This ain't no place for you."
"I'm on my way to Acworth." She said, sipping at the beer the inn keeper had brought to her table. It was strong and bitter tasting. "My sister lives near there and is near her time."
"Her time for what?"
"Bringing another screaming brat into the world, you brainless oaf." Another man shouted. "Only Acworth has their own Midwife….crazy old bat lives out in the swamps I'd heard."
"My sister asked for me to come. She lost her first babe….she trusts me more than that crazy swamp woman." The men left her alone for the rest of the night until she turned in. Since no one had trusted to speak with her, with the exception of a woman asking for advice on her own impending delivery, she did not set a candle on the window ledge of the common sleeping room that evening. She lay down in a bed she was sharing with two other female travelers and heard other inn patrons treading past. She dozed off some time after midnight until she heard the big door slam shut. She could barely make out the voices from the big room below, but figured anything going on this late must surely be nefarious. She lit off the stub of candle and set it on the window ledge, hoping a dragoon was still posted outside the inn. She quietly put her stockings and shoes on and pulled her gown over her head. One of the women stirred.
"Put that light out…." The old woman grumbled.
"Sorry, just making a trip to the necessary…." Margaret snatched the candle away from the window ledge and made her way to the hall. She doused the flame and then crept to the head of the stairs, standing on the edge of the shadow left by the light from the hearth in the big room.
"We need more men, if any of you desire to join our ranks, please, speak now." Margaret listened as details were discussed, bounties promised and marks made in the recruitment books. Slowly she eased down the stairs and out the back door to make her way towards the necessary. She looked behind her to be sure no one had seen her or decided to follow her and then made her way into the deeper woods. She tried to be quiet, but the dry brush grasped her skirts and dead branches snapped beneath her feet. There was no moon shining and every shadow hid the threat of something ominous. She nearly bumped into Corporal Alexander before he was able to warn her of his location. She quickly told him of what was transpiring in the main room.
"Will you be able to make it back alright?" He asked as he cinched the saddle tight and made ready to tell the Colonel and bring the rest of the dragoons.
"I'm sure I'll be fine." Margaret waited until she couldn't hear the sound of horse and rider anymore and then made her way back to the inn. The men were still talking when she returned. She tried to sneak back up the stairs as quietly as she'd come down them, but the bottom step groaned beneath her weight and the men turned as one to see her standing there.
"Who are you?" Asked a man she didn't recognize. "What are you doing up and about?"
"I was just out…" Margaret pointed over her shoulder towards the door that lead out back.
"At this hour?" The man stalked towards her. "Meeting up with a lover my dear?"
"Hardly." Margaret's spine stiffened at the effrontery of the man. "Is it a crime to have to relieve oneself in the middle of the night? And who are you to interrogate me? You are not the inn keeper."
"But I am, and you'll keep a civil tongue in that head of your'n if you plan on returning to the bed I rented you." Margaret swallowed as she glanced at the big barman who was smoking his pipe at the table beside the hearth.
"I meant no offense to your…guests." Margaret dipped a curtsy, keeping a wary eye on the man who still approached her. "I'm for Acworth in the morning and have a long day ahead of me if I'm to get there before my sister goes in to labor. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me." Margaret turned and had barely moved when the man darted forward and grabbed her. He clutched her wrist and pulled her down the stairs, dragging her across the floor.
"Who are you?" Margaret tried to stand up but the man forced her back down into the chair. "I asked you a question. Who are you? Why are you going to Acworth?" The man roared. Margaret stared up at him, defiantly refusing to give her name.
"Said her sister is breeding in Acworth." The barkeep spat tobacco onto the floor as he carved a stick of wood. "Didn't ever say her name though….I didn't ever ask."
"She will now by God, or I'll…" Suddenly doors were kicked open and a flood of crimson tore through the tavern. Margaret ducked as the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air and several pistols fired close to her. She covered her ears as she bent low over her knees and kept her eyes on what was happening. She saw the man who had been questioning her fall at her feet, a knife skittered across the floor. Margaret was half out of the chair when someone's arms wrapped around her waist, dragging her towards the door.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Margaret screamed, kicking and clawing at the arm that grasped her. Suddenly she was flung against the outer wall of the inn, her head slamming against the siding painfully.
"Stop struggling, harpy." Margaret froze as she heard Colonel Tavington's harsh words. "Are you alright?"
Margaret quit struggling and Tavington allowed her to take a few steps away from the inn. She nodded slowly in the darkness as her fear subsided, even as the noises from within continued. "A bit bruised…" she was interrupted when the door crashed open beside them and several men rushed out heading towards the horses. The first man bowled into them, turning Margaret into the light from within the Tavern and taking a good look at her face, the second man tried to strike Colonel Tavington, but the Colonel was armed and shot the man point blank in the gut. The man fell, with an agonized groan as the others raced past.
"English Bitch…" the man that had grasped Margaret thrust her away from him towards the colonel as he reloaded his pistol. Margaret flailed, trying to avoid hitting the Colonel. He paused in the process of loading his pistol long enough to catch her up and push her behind him. A pistol flashed in the darkness and before the ball could find its mark, Margaret found herself flat on her back in the hard dirt of the tavern yard, the Colonel's weight on top of her and the air knocked from her lungs. Her hair had come loose and had tangled around her shoulders. She felt the Colonel's fingers slide through the tangled mass a few times, gently easing the tangles from the lock of hair that he'd momentarily had under his hand. Margaret struggled to breath – she couldn't see his face—or read what was going through his mind. He was merely a shadow, darker than the blackness of the yard. She could feel his breaths, coming quickly, against her cheek, and the rise and fall of his chest as it pressed into hers.
"Colonel?" Tavington's grip tightened on her shoulder and she thought she saw him shake his head.
"Were you hit?" He kept his voice low in the darkness. The word intimate came to Margaret's mind.
"No….no I'm alright." Margaret stuttered. She felt, rather than heard the Colonel heave a sigh.
"Good. Stay away from the building. Stay out of sight and don't come inside until one of the dragoons come out for you."
"Colonel Tavington?" The voice sounded again from the doorway. The Colonel's weight suddenly lifted and Margaret saw his shadow disappear into the square of light that was the inn door. She sat up slowly, dusting her hands on her dress and then rising up, she looked around for a good place to stay that wouldn't be in the middle of the yard. She settled for the low branch of an angel oak, the ancient branches sprawling close to the ground. Margaret shivered in the cold yard, she heard screaming, gun fire, and furniture crashing within the inn, but knew she was safe outside. She heard what she thought were grunts and groans and watched as one by one the plotters were hauled out of the inn and forced to kneel in the dirt.
Bedlam…this is madness! She thought as she watched one of the dragoons strike one of the plotters in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. She gasped as the man slumped forward unconscious and turned away. This is all my fault.
Hours later, in the pale light of dawn, the dragoons were preparing to leave the inn. Four bodies hung from the tree in front of the inn—the same tree Margaret had gone to while waiting out the skirmish. The bodies would serve as a warning to all travelers on the cross roads not to associate with the Ghost or his men.
"We'll split up." Tavington announced. "Since the information we got was not only conflicted but is probably unreliable, I think it best to send men on both routes back to the fort." Margaret tried to hide a yawn behind her hand but failed. "Tired Mrs. Thomas?"
"I'll be well enough, Colonel." He knew that she hadn't slept; he'd seen her watching the interrogations from the corner of the tavern once they'd started hauling the men inside.
"Good, you'll be with me then." Margaret followed the men who followed Colonel Tavington, briefly admiring the precision with which the men divided themselves. She shook her head as her tired brain repeatedly conjured up images of the chaos of the evening before. She had to stay alert if she was going to keep up with the dragoons.
