Charleston (7 page)

With the new fortifications built, Hughston's company moved to the northern rampart. The city's defenses were formidable. The thick outer wall of tabby overlooked the flooded ditch, six feet deep, twelve wide, and crossed by small portable bridges. Beyond the ditch lay an abatis and a broad area of open ground. Palisaded communication trenches connected various points of the outer works. Sir Henry Clinton nevertheless had crucial advantages: superior manpower and strategic position.

Edward drew night sentry duty west of the hornwork. From there he could observe the flats of the Neck beyond the American defenses. The flats swarmed with riflemen and artillerists, fieldpieces and wagons. Clinton's new for
ward line was finished, cannon in place just 250 yards in front of the ditch. At night a fiery cover of incendiary shells and grapeshot partially protected engineers building a third parallel no more than a hundred yards out. From there the blue-coated Hessian fusiliers, famed for accuracy, would be able to hit the ramparts. It only remained for sappers to drain the ditch, and the enemy would stand at the gates.

Huddled at an embrasure, Edward watched bright campfires and glowing lanterns and thought of Joanna Willing. Her criticism infuriated him, yet he wasn't ready to turn his back on her. She challenged him. He wanted to prove he wasn't an insensitive clod.

One night Major General Lincoln inspected the defense line. Edward was shocked to see how he'd changed. Gone was the genial Father Christmas figure of the early days of the siege. Lincoln's wig was askew. He'd lost weight. The skirts of a shabby greatcoat flapped around his legs as he passed by, ghost-white and grim.

Lincoln's policy of resistance had changed as well. He insisted that the city not be damaged by further attacks. At the end of the third week in April he asked for a parley under a truce flag. He presented his surrender terms, the most important being a guarantee that his troops could leave the city unimpeded and unharmed. Clinton dismissed the demand as presumptuous; bombardment resumed.

Instead of trudging home that morning Edward went to Bell's Bridge, to ask Tom Bell whether he knew of a source of lead. His supply of musket balls was almost gone. He'd become adept at pouring molten lead into a bullet mold, then snipping the sprue off the hardened ball with a cutter. He found his father gathering up papers and account books and baling them with twine.

Edward explained his problem. “Without lead I'll be reduced to firing iron scraps and broken glass. Half the men are doing that already.”

“Have you thought of your toy soldiers?”

The painted hussars and dragoons and horse artillery of his childhood? He must have collected a hundred pieces. “But they're gone.”

“No, your mother saved them. She kept a great many things you outgrew. I think she would approve of your melting them in the cause of liberty. You'll find her old trunks in the attic.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No, sir. Thank your mother. She loved you dearly.”

When he left, the batteries were booming again. The air reeked of powder. At the pier head a squad of soldiers ran by, chasing four of the vicious wild dogs that roamed the city. Charleston soldiers had orders to kill the dogs by any means except firing a precious bullet.

When the soldiers passed, there stood Joanna. She greeted him cordially, showed a corked green bottle. “I know it's unpatriotic, but Papa loves his tea, and we happen to have a little left.”

“Better not let my father see it.”

“You look exhausted, Edward. Is it terribly dangerous on the defense line?”

“No more so than anywhere else.” A soothing lie. “I confess I've been thinking a lot about you lately.”

“Have you, now? Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”

“You've taken me to task pretty severely for”—stuck for a tactful phrase, he pointed to the cages on the wharf—“my opinions on those and related matters.”

“Oh, I never mean to antagonize you. I only hope that one day you'll recognize what really exists around you. Have you ever seen the workhouse?”

“Of course. I must have passed it a thousand times.” The so-called house of correction was a frame building on Mazyck Street, in the less desirable, western part of Charleston.

“But have you been inside? Seen how they treat those sent there for discipline? Slaves from Prosperity Hall have been punished at the workhouse.”

“Adrian's nigras? He won't set foot in the place.”

“Of course he won't, nor will many other fine white gentlemen of our slavocracy. The operating principle of the workhouse is this. You pay someone else a fixed price per head to beat and brutalize your chattels. That way your hands are always clean, even if your soul is not.”

“Joanna, doesn't this strike you as a peculiar conversation in wartime?”

“Not at all. The war will end.”

“Well, our part, certainly. South Carolina is nearly overrun. Our state troops are scattered and fled, and we're barely hanging on here in the city.”

She touched his hand. “Faith, Edward. I believe America will prevail, even though the fight is tainted.”

“Tainted? How so?”

“In Carolina the idea of freedom includes freedom to own human beings—movable property, that is the pretty phrase, isn't it? Suppose we win, as I believe and pray we will. We'll soon be back to the old system. That's why you should inspect the workhouse. After you do, perhaps we can discuss the subject again.”

She squeezed his hand more warmly than necessary and left him bewildered, annoyed, and carrying an erection like a musket barrel. Damn the woman, he thought as he trotted up Bay Street. What was she doing to him?

He ran for cover when a shell exploded a block away, shattering a roof and lifting debris and part of a human body into the blue sky, where they hung for a moment before they fell into a cauldron of smoke and flame.

 

British reinforcements led by Lord Cornwallis marched into the countryside between the Cooper River and the Atlantic. Tarleton's dragoons rode ahead, seizing and burning boats on the river and closing the last bolt-holes.

On May 6 the redcoats completed their third parallel. Hessian riflemen in blue coats and tall brass caps occupied the line and began to pick off any careless American who raised his head too high. Continued night bombardment covered the work of sappers at the ditch. They soon drained it. American batteries worked themselves to exhaustion returning fire.

Fort Moultrie fell on May 7, assuring that no French or American ship could sail in and relieve the city. A day later drummers signaled for another parley. It lasted until nine the following night. General Lincoln's new surrender terms
included a guarantee that citizens and militiamen would have their property respected and protected, and would be given a year to dispose of it if they chose not to live under British rule. Again Clinton threw the terms back in Lincoln's face, accusing him of unwarranted arrogance.

Edward was sitting on the rampart, braced against an onshore gale, at the hour the negotiations foundered. Battery commanders began shouting orders in the darkness.
“Attention. Worm out the piece. Ram down the charge. Prime. Make ready.”
He stuffed bits of rag into his ears before the first explosion.

The wind tearing from the ocean carried the clangor of St. Michael's bells. Captain Hughston came up a ladder as St. Philip's joined in. Bellicose and full of rum, Hughston said, “In the name of Christ, why are they ringing the bells? Are they mad? We have nothing to celebrate.”

“Captain, I wouldn't stand so near that lantern, you—”

A crackle of musketry ripped the night. A ball blew away Hughston's lower jaw and teeth in a shower of red that speckled Edward's face. The captain pitched off the rampart. By the time Edward climbed down to the body, Hughston was dead.

Two hundred British guns opened a furious bombardment of grape, bombs, and red-hot shot that ignited buildings and killed soldiers and civilians indiscriminately. Edward staggered home through the smoke-laden city, past carts piled with dead. At Broad and Meeting, William Pitt stood forlornly in the crossway, minus his right arm. A British cannonball from James Island had bounced off St. Michael's steeple and hit the statue.

He discovered Pharaoh in the garden, shoveling and tamping down earth in a bed of crape myrtle Eliza had planted next to the piazza. Edward loved the myrtle's burst of purple and crimson blooms every July. He asked Pharaoh what he'd buried.

“House silver an' plate. Master ordered it.”

“But you've torn up the ground so much, anyone could find the silver in a minute.”

“'S how he wants it, Mist' Edward. Yonder back of the live oak I got to be lot more careful.”

“What are you burying there?”

Tom Bell heard the question as he came out of the house carrying a long iron box. He lifted the lid to show the oilskin-wrapped contents. “Private papers and account books. A delegation of citizens, including your esteemed brother, will call on General Lincoln this afternoon, to plead that he surrender unconditionally. As soon as it happens, those who have no intention of kissing the enemy's fundament will be singled out. Property may be confiscated. I will give the damned British no information about my business, how it's conducted, or what it's worth. The silver and plate are a diversion, meant to be discovered.” He handed the box to Pharaoh, who disappeared beyond the live oak's great gnarled trunk.

Edward rubbed his stubbled face with his sleeve. “So you think we're finished?”

Tom Bell's sad, sunken eyes confirmed it before he said, “Only a matter of time now. Hours, perhaps.”

“And Adrian's in favor?”

“Aye. No doubt his fiancée is thrilled. Some weeks ago a friend told me Lydia was longing for the British to return and restore order, so there could be a proper social season again.”

Edward couldn't find words to voice his disgust.

 

At 9:00
A.M.
, while Edward drank small beer and chewed one of Essie's last biscuits, Clinton's artillery opened another furious bombardment. Hot shot set fire to more dwellings and commercial buildings. Smoke bannered the soft spring sky for three hours. Then the guns went silent, as if to allow Charlestonians time to contemplate their fate when the attack resumed. Lincoln's adjutant rushed to arrange another parley.

Truce terms were settled by eleven that night. General Lincoln would surrender Charleston at 4:00
P.M.
on Friday, May 12. Edward cursed and blasphemed when he heard the news. The object of his wrath wasn't the enemy but himself. He'd failed his mother. He hadn't killed a
single redcoat, so far as he knew. His debt remained unpaid.

Major General Lincoln, on horseback, and Brigadier General Moultrie, on foot, went to the hornwork gate to await the conquering army. First came its commanding officers, their staffs and adjutants, and the huge king's flag. The 7th Regiment of foot followed, with their field batteries, then von Linsing's Hessian grenadiers. Drums and fifes and oboes set the cadence with “God Save the King.” Once into the city the British moved light field guns up to the ramparts, facing inward.

Surrender of arms by the entire city garrison was not a quick or easy process. Charleston had been defended by 2,600 Continentals and 3,000 militia. On Saturday, Edward and the rest of the 2nd Regiment marched north on King Street with their colors cased. The band played a Turkish air; English marches were forbidden.

Spectators crowded the footpaths on both sides of King. In the balmy sunshine the rutted street breathed up a stench of human waste mingling with the burnt smell from demolished buildings. Edward heard a scattering of applause and one man shouted, “Long live the Congress,” but those who'd come to watch were for the most part loyalists. He spied his brother with his friends Lescock and Wragg. If Adrian saw him, he gave no sign.

The militia marched out through the gate to open ground. Watched by armed Hessian jägers and British light infantry, they laid down their muskets and fowlers and car
tridge boxes. Edward put the fine French gun on the pile, thinking,
Adrian won't miss it but I will.

Back in the city he stood in a long queue and signed his parole—his promise not to take up arms against His Majesty's troops again. Afterward, like the rest of the militia, he was free to go home. The Continentals would be confined in barracks in town, or over at Haddrell's Point.

The Bell house was silent, as though in mourning. Essie served a meager supper of bone marrow broth and stale bread. She wore a white camellia pinned to her blouse. Poorly's wife, Sally, wore one as well.

“The camellia is a hardy rebel bloom,” Tom Bell explained. “It thrives when trampled. Just as we will.”

General Clinton occupied number 27 King Street, the fine Georgian double house, brick with white pillars, built by Miles Brewton, another Charleston man who'd grown wealthy in the slave trade. It was said the new tenant would soon return north. For the moment Maj. Gen. Alexander Leslie commanded in Charleston. Redcoats camped everywhere, like a rash spread on the body of the city.

Monday afternoon, as St. Michael's rang one o'clock, Edward happened to be walking north on Church Street with Poorly. Essie had sent them to forage for food. The Bell household, like many others, was at the point of starvation.

Where Church intersected the first cross street above Queen, Cumberland, they found a chaotic jam of wagons, horses, imperious artillery officers, and two bedraggled platoons of militia surrendering arms. Negroes filed in and out of a masonry building on the south side of Cumberland, the city powder magazine, carrying muskets from the soldiers and kegs from the wagons.

Two young ladies squired by officers in white trousers, smart forest-green coats, and tall fur shakos watched the activity from the southeast corner of the intersection. As Edward and his slave passed by, the taller officer said, “Damme if those Yankees don't look like a pack of lice from a dog's back.” His companion and the young ladies laughed heartily. The tall officer snapped a monocle into his eye, preening.

Poorly whispered, “Who are those greencoats?”

“Banastre Tarleton's legion. The commandant himself is in town, no doubt enjoying the spectacle of Charleston prostrate. God curse them all.”

He and Poorly avoided an empty wagon pulling away and another arriving. Negroes climbed up via its wheels and began passing kegs to others, who took them inside. One of the artillery captains slapped the face of a black man obviously frightened of handling powder. “Step along, nigger, or I'll find a crocodile for you to ride.” The other British officers found that amusing; the colonial militiamen looked sullen or wrathful. Edward and Poorly finally managed to squeeze through the press and strike out for Market Street.

Whether the tragedy was caused by a musket not properly unloaded, then carelessly handled so that it went off inside the magazine, or by some act of a patriot sympathizer, remained forever a mystery. On the point of speaking to Poorly, Edward was deafened by an explosion. He and Poorly spun around as the magazine building flew apart and hurled its contents skyward—muskets twisted into corkscrews, bayonets and ramrods sailing like enchanted swords. Edward goggled at a bare-chested Negro tumbling through the air with a musket rammer impaling his throat, a flying horse's head gushing blood from the severed neck, a militiaman lifted and thrown against a wall, snapping his neck. A half-dozen bayonets flew at the same wall and lodged there like pins in a cushion.

The explosions continued, one keg after another detonating. Towering flames erupted. Some of the militiamen ran like wild animals. Some lay dead or injured. Edward shouted, “There are people hurt.” He dashed back toward the corner, Poorly at his heels.

He stayed close to the nearest wall; explosions were less frequent. Vomit churned in his throat when he saw the carnage. Bodies littered the street, some crushed by blocks of masonry. The wounded lay writhing and crying out. Negroes, human cinders, staggered through a wall of flame to drop and die. The stench was unbelievable.

A militiaman in a bloodied hunting shirt lay half hidden
beneath a dead horse. The man's mouth moved, a silent plea for help. Edward plunged into the street, hopping across the rubble, hiding his face behind his arms because of the fire's heat. He seized the militiaman's arms, tugged once, again, and with the third effort pulled him free. The soldier was a towhead, more boy than man. Edward threw him over his shoulder.

 

The taller of the two dragoons had left his safe corner and wandered among the fallen. He had no interest in succoring injured officers from his own army. He preferred to jab a wounded American with his boot, or lean down and whisper something that he found amusing.

The towhead's limp body and dangling arms partly obscured Edward's vision; he was unprepared for an unexpected collision with the dragoon, who booted Edward's leg out from under him. “Damned Yankee clod.” Edward fell with his burden. His face hit a slab of masonry; a corner tore his left cheek open.

Smoke choked him. All around he heard the screaming and thrashing of the wounded and dying. He jumped up, blood staining his chin. Edward recognized the British officer as one of those he'd seen earlier. He was slender, with a classically oval face spoiled by a large pointed nose.
Bird's beak,
Edward thought. The officer's eyes were ice-pale, some indeterminate shade between gray and blue. He'd lost his shako. His companion and one of the ladies were bending over the second young woman now lying prostrate in the street.

Edward snatched up a rock, threw it hard. The officer easily dodged, then drew his saber. He lunged forward, one long smooth step. Edward darted aside a moment before the injured militiaman lurched to his feet. Six inches of steel buried itself in the towhead's belly.

His eyes grew huge and round. He grabbed the blade with both hands, vainly tried to pull it out. His palms bled as he dropped to his knees and pitched sideways, dying.

“Venables, Venables,” the other dragoon shouted. “Lud's sake, man, Beatrice has swooned, we must find a doctor.”

The tall dragoon seemed not to hear. His behavior outraged Edward. He ran at the dragoon. “You fucking butcher.”

The dragoon had his saber and swung it in an arc that might have severed Edward's head if he hadn't thrown himself to one side. He fell again. The dragoon smiled with thin lips and those icy eyes and ran his blade through Edward's left thigh.

He wrenched it out, whipped it in the air; droplets of blood flew. “We can do with a few less colonials.” The other dragoon cried, “Percy, hurry, Beatrice is gasping for air.” The tall man spat on Edward and trotted away.

Edward lay clutching his bleeding leg. Darkness lapped at his mind. The screams went on. Bells rang. A last cache of powder exploded.

“Venables,” he mumbled, fixing it in memory. “Bird's beak. Percy. Venables.” The darkness closed.