Charleston (9 page)

At low tide the pale gray mudflats breathed out their pungent mix of fish and decay that to Edward would always be the smell of a Charleston summer. The sickly season brought its usual tropical rains and pestilence. This year the city's Tory elite, which now included Adrian and Lydia, could not conveniently board a packet for Newport, “the Carolina hospital,” there to remain until the weather improved. Tom Bell sadly referred to his older son as one of the “Protection Gentry,” a term coined by Edward Rutledge for those who would switch sides as often as necessary for personal convenience and profit.

On three successive evenings Edward noticed his father slipping out of the house for several hours, with no explanation. The fourth morning he discovered two saddles in a storage shed behind the house. Next day they were gone. When he asked who had brought them, then removed them, Tom Bell said, “Friends. It's safer if you don't know any more.”

Captain Marburg took pains to remind his hosts that not everything about the occupation was onerous. By regulating prices of what farmers brought into the city, the British gradually increased the food supply. Meat and common victuals reappeared in the stalls of the public market off Meeting Street. Pharaoh and Essie went there between sunrise and noon, with the required written pass from their master, to buy pork, peas, and rice for the larder.

The captive Board of Police supervised everything from distribution of food to the poor to fire control. Householders failing to have sooty chimneys swept once every fortnight were fined. Slaves who had run away from loyalist masters to join the British army were quietly returned, with a charge that harsh punishment be avoided. Whether the charge was widely observed, Edward couldn't say. One day, when he saw Joanna at Bell's Bridge, she said the workhouse was busier than ever. He withheld any mention of his visit.

Traffic in and out of the city remained restricted. Soldiers at the gate searched wagons and carts for concealed saddles, boots, ammunition, or boxes of precious salt that might go to patriot partisans in the countryside. Loyalists had their own partisan brigades. Those of “Captain” Paddy Carr and “Captain” William Lark were burning and pillaging patriot property.

Bell's Bridge and the other wharves saw a modest resumption of trade. Foreign ships arrived with nonessential goods—Belgian lace, French shoe buckles, Spanish wines. The military inspectors passed these to the retail shops without interference. Tom Bell left all dealings with the British to Esau Willing. The matter of sequestration of his property seemed to be in abeyance.

A slave brought Edward a single folded sheet sealed with
red wax, bearing the seal of Octavius Catullus Glass. The message was inscribed in Lydia's fine slanting hand.

After he read the note he limped out the back door to the cookhouse. He threw the paper into Essie's stove and watched it burn.

 

On a hot Sunday afternoon in mid-August Edward returned from a stroll along Bay Street to find Captain Marburg in the dining room, gazing at a framed engraving that hung above the elegant sideboard with rice leaves carved into its legs. The sideboard was the work of Mr. Elfe of Broad Street, a craftsman widely respected until he signed the loyalty oath, claiming intimidation. “Oh, yes,” Tom Bell had been heard to say publicly, “the intimidation of his empty purse.”

Marburg's moon face gleamed with perspiration as he admired Mr. Leitch's famous “View of Charles Town.” The handsome engraving depicted the city from the harbor, with church steeples and the Exchange prominent on the skyline. A ship with billowing sails filled part of the foreground; a Carolina sky spread over all.

“You are fortunate to live in such a beautiful place, Mr. Edward.” Marburg moved to examine the engraving from a different angle. His white linen shirt stuck to his back. Edward was no less uncomfortable.

“I wouldn't say it's beautiful just now.”

“I look beyond the war. I imagine what it was and what it will be again. I am thinking I would like to make it my home.”

“Well, it is, until your regiment's ordered back to Germany.”

“I would like to make it my home even then.”

Edward understood Marburg's meaning. Presently the captain said, “You will not tell others of my intent, will you, Mr. Edward?”

“No, I won't.”

“You are a gentleman. My friend forever.”

 

The heat persisted. Rowboats brought shrouded bodies from the harbor. Graves were dug in the Strangers' and Transients' Cemetery as dysentery and smallpox decimated the crews of the British ships.

On Sunday night, August 27, the household was wakened shortly before midnight by a commotion at the street gate. Intruders stormed through the garden and hammered on the piazza door. Edward ran downstairs in his nightshirt, a candle in hand. Tom Bell followed; sleep had twisted his thin white hair into spikes. Marburg stumbled out of the front room muttering, “What idiot calls at this hour?”

Shafts of light crisscrossed the ceiling, thrown through the fanlight by bull's-eye lanterns. “Friends of yours, I think,” Tom Bell said. “Christopher warned me something like this was coming.”

He opened the door. A hot, hissing rain fell on the garden. The lieutenant leading a detail of four soldiers said sharply, “Thomas Bell?”

“I am Bell, sir.”

The lieutenant showed a paper. “You are hereby commanded into the king's custody.”

“On what charge?”

“Seditious conduct. Organization of conspiratorial gatherings.”

“Oh? When and where were those gatherings held, sir? Give me the evidence.”

“It is not in my possession, sir. I only have this writ charging you with manifesting the utmost opposition to His Majesty's just and lawful authority. One of my men will accompany you upstairs while you dress.”

“And then?”

“You will join some of your friends aboard His Majesty's frigate
Sandwich
anchored in the harbor.”

Marburg said, “She is a prison ship.”

“Who the devil are you, sir?” said the officer.

“Captain Marburg, sir”—he emphasized the rank—“of Major General von Huyn's garrison detachment.”

The lieutenant moderated his tone. “You're quartered here? I respectfully ask you not to interfere. I am carrying out the orders of Colonel Balfour.”

“Who else is arrested?” Tom Bell said. “I demand to know.”

“Lieutenant Governor Gadsden. Several judges and former privy counselors. I do not have the entire list.”

“They're not going to take you out of this house,” Edward said.

“Go back to bed,” Tom Bell said in a calm voice. “I will survive this. I'm not afraid.”

As though it would be possible for Edward to sleep with his gut knotted and sweat running down his chest under his sticky nightshirt. Ten minutes later he and Marburg watched the redcoats march Tom Bell away into the rainy night.

 

Two dozen were arrested and confined aboard
Sandwich
. The prisoners were allowed visitors. Essie packed a basket of stewed chicken parts and bread. From Bell's Bridge, Poorly rowed Edward out to the frigate. It was a dank, airless morning. Green swells in the harbor had an oily glint; they broke occasionally into white horses as a storm rumbled offshore and the wind picked up. Edward gripped the gunwales and tried not to fear the churning water.

Poorly stayed with the rowboat while Edward climbed the rope ladder with his basket. He found his father on deck, taking the air with Gadsden, Levy the upholsterer, and Danes the carpenter. Perhaps there had been secret, conspiratorial meetings of some Liberty Boys after all.

Edward embraced his father. “How are they treating you?”

“Decently. Whatever else you may say about our enemies, most of them are well mannered.”

“I'll bring food every day.”

“It's welcome. The gruel this morning was full of maggots.”

Christopher Gadsden stepped over to them. “Extra food won't be necessary for long. I've been informed that we're to be removed to the British fort at St. Augustine. There are more arrests to come.”

 

Sandwich
raised sail and left the harbor before Edward could pay a second visit. Two days after the departure a military courier delivered an unexpected note.

“I need your help.”

Edward spoke the words in the brick-walled garden of Esau Willing's modest house on Elliott Street near East Bay. Intermittent rain had deluged the coast for days. The earth was soggy under his boots; leaves of three small um
brella trees still glistened. Beds of foxglove and snapdragon and their periwinkle borders had lost their blooms.

Joanna wore a threadbare muslin dress. He'd discovered her with dirt on her knuckles and the tip of her nose, happily digging up West Indian lantana and potting them for winter houseplants. He found her disarrayed state curiously appealing.

She laid her trowel aside, rose, and brushed off her skirt. “It's yours for the asking, Edward.”

“I must get out of the city without a search. I'm leaving to join the partisans if I can find them. Poorly's going with me. He asked to go, even though Sally's expecting a child in the spring.” He described Venables's threat against Tom Bell. “I can't help him, but I can take a few pounds of flesh for him, and my mother. I've hesitated and vacillated too long.”

“What can I do?”

“I have to smuggle two pistols and a powder horn past the sentries. A woman would never be searched.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Ah. You want me to hide them under my skirts.”

“Yes, yes,” he stammered.

She clapped her hands and laughed. “Edward Bell, I have never seen you so red faced.”

“Well, it's a damned, um, rather delicate subject, speaking of a lady's, um, clothing.”

“Haven't you learned by now that I am not a conventional young woman?” He was conscious of their isolation in the walled garden. “I think it's brave of you to go. Your visit to the workhouse can wait.”

“I went there, Joanna.” Her mouth rounded in a silent O. Quickly he added, “We'll talk about it some other time.”

Raindrops began to patter the ground. “As you wish. I'll take you through the gate and pray for you while you're gone.” She laid her palm against his cheek. “I want you to come back to Charleston. You see”—she leaned close; her breath was warm as the rainy air—“I've thought and thought about you of late. Reached a decision too. I intend to marry you, Edward Bell.”

She threw her left arm around his neck and kissed him,
pressing close to let him feel her slim body. Astonished and overwhelmed by the emotions she aroused, he held her tightly.

She drew away, gazed at him, appraising his reaction. He felt warm waves of pleasure and desire. He took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her again. The kiss was like a revelation of possibilities never imagined before.

The sky opened. They embraced in the downpour, not caring.

 

He assembled necessary supplies: blankets, his tin canteen, a wooden one for Poorly. Sally sewed two burlap sacks into a rough approximation of saddlebags. It wouldn't do to arouse the suspicion of sentries by carrying real ones. The bags held smaller sacks of parched corn and dried peas.

The late-summer rains continued. Edward chose a stormy morning for departure, hoping thunder and lightning would be added distraction. Poorly kissed and hugged his tearful Sally. Edward drove the family's two-wheeled cart to Elliott Street and there removed his pistols, holsters, and powder horn from the burlap bags. While he and Poorly looked the other way, Joanna hid them, then settled her skirts and picked up the reins. Edward sat beside her on the driver's bench. Poorly dangled his long legs off the rear of the cart.

As they reached the gate the rain stopped. Sunlight slanted through a broken cloud canopy. Edward cursed under his breath—suddenly it was a brilliant morning. Steam rose from the ground.

They pulled up to the sentry box. A young redcoat came out to challenge them. “Your name, sir?”

“Edward Bell. On parole from the Second Militia Battalion.”

“Where are you going?”

“My family owns a small property on the Cooper River. We were advised that partisans burned us out. I am traveling up there to assess the damage.”

“Your nigger too?”

“Yes.”

The soldier rudely gigged Joanna's arm with the barrel of his musket. “And who's this?”

“My sister.”

“Not much of a family resemblance. She's pretty.” Edward tried to smile; he wanted to break the soldier's jaw.

“What are you carrying in the cart?”

“Two drinking bottles and some food.”

The strutting soldier pushed Poorly off his seat, then took an excessive amount of time opening and shaking each canteen. He turned the sacks inside out, found the smaller ones, and emptied the corn and peas on the ground. A vein in Poorly's forehead jumped under his shiny skin. Edward cautioned him with a look.

Finally, almost regretfully, the soldier said, “Pass on.”

The cart rolled through the gate, over the drained ditch, and through the torn-up ground of the siege lines. Joanna drove with her right hand and held Edward's hand with her left. She was visibly relieved. His heart still hammered like an Indian drum.

 

After two miles they said good-bye with decorous handshakes. Her eyes spoke a good deal more intimately. He slung the sacks over his shoulder and watched her turn back along the rough road to Charleston. As they started trudging, Poorly said, “Where we find this colonel of yours?”

“God knows. They say he moves fast as lightning. We'll ask people and hope they aren't on the wrong side.”

 

“Now, George—that is your name, George?”

“Yessir, George my name all right.” The trembling black man could barely speak, which wasn't surprising, since Edward was pressing the muzzle of a pistol under his chin. They stood in the hot shade at the side of a small barn.

“Where's your master, George?”

“Squire Wando be in Charleston, hobnobbing with them lordships an' generals.”

“What we want, George, are two good horses, and saddlery.”

“Then we want you to forget you ever saw us,” Poorly said with a visage so threatening, Edward almost laughed.

“You don't do that, George, this child will be back to haunt you.”

George showed the pinkish palms of his hands. “Ain't saying nothing, ever.”

“Any firearms on the property?” Edward asked. “Your master must allow you to protect yourself when he's away.”

“Got an ol' fowler. Pretty bad rusted up.”

“My friend here will have that, and some shot, and thank you.” Since Henry Wando was a Tory, Edward had no qualms about stealing from him. The old slave was another matter. “Tell Wando that thieves struck in the middle of the night, while you slept. Or, I can tie you up.”

“No, no, sir, Squire Wando trus' me. I be all right.”

With the deception agreed upon George helped them select two of the Chickasaw horses from Wando's pastures. “Mighty fine animals,” he assured them. “Raised up on the limestone water round Eutaw Springs. You ought take this one, sir”—he rubbed the flank of a sorrel mare—“her name's Brown Eyes. Sweet tempered as an angel, but she run like the devil.”

They rode away from Wando's farm on two strong mounts. Edward hoped he wasn't demeaning Joanna by letting the mare's soulful eyes remind him of hers. He found himself lonely for Willing's daughter, and for the first time he harbored a fear that something might happen to prevent him from seeing her again.

 

They passed the night at the ruins of Malvern and in the morning set out to the northeast, through a divided and devastated land.

The countryside swarmed with British regulars and loyalist militia, as well as irregulars who respected no authority but their own. It was impossible to know whether a cabin or plantation was patriot or Tory, and thus better to
avoid them all. They stole food where they could and when they couldn't, they let their bellies growl.

They crossed low sand hills and broad savannahs, skirted marshes and swamps where black gum and cypress grew from the water. Rain fell every day, in one of the wettest Septembers that Edward could recall. Near the Santee they saw a wagon train guarded by redcoats moving on the supply road from Charleston to Camden.

They swung west to avoid Georgetown, known to have a heavy concentration of enemy troops. Turning northeast again, they took the torn-up Post Road that connected Savannah and Boston. Many homeless families camped along it. Few had anything but what they wore and carried.

The land along the Black River, settled mostly by Scotch-Irish Whigs, was a known patriot stronghold. They took a chance and stopped at a small plantation. The master, an Irishman, fed them a meal and surprised them with news of another commander in the field, Col. Thomas Sumter, whose name Edward knew. “Redcoats call him a gamecock 'cause he fights like one.”

“Do you know Colonel Francis Marion?” Edward asked.

“Of Pond Bluff on the Santee. I know him by reputation.”

“They say he's in the field. We want to find him.”

“Heard he was way north. He moves fast.”

At a puncheon causeway crossing Black Mingo Creek they came on a family of three with a broken axle on their wagon. The bearded father forlornly pointed at a buxom girl sitting on the edge of the causeway talking to herself. She was, Edward guessed, no more than fourteen. He thought of Hamlet's Ophelia.

“Mind's gone,” the father said.

Edward took off his old tricorne and wiped his sweaty forehead. “What happened?”

“Partisans. Before they burned our place, the captain ate supper while six of his sons of bitches took Marietta into the pines. I could hear her scream but I couldn't help her, I was trussed like a hog.” At the mention of it his wife cried. The girl hummed and chattered. A suspicion stirred.

“Did the captain identify himself?”

“Oh, yes, he bragged on his name. William Lark.”

Edward swung up on Brown Eyes. The mare turned her head to acknowledge his presence; they got along splendidly. The father took hold of the bridle.

“Kill some of the bastards, sir. As many as you can.”

“That's our intention,” Edward said.

 

Soon after, they veered west again to avoid a column of horses. From a canebrake where they hid under a peach-colored sunset sky, Edward saw the riders clearly. They wore green coats. He wondered if Venables was with them.

Riding toward Lynches River and the Pee Dee beyond, they discovered a horrific burned area ten miles wide. It stretched on and on toward the northern horizon. At a crossroads a man picked through ashes and blackened timbers. He told them he was pastor of the destroyed Presbyterian chapel. “They said it was a sedition shop.”

“Who did this?”

The pastor's haggard face showed un-Christian bitterness. “Major James Wemyss, under orders from Cornwallis. They had the most specific instructions, which they were pleased to recite repeatedly. ‘Disarm in the most rigid manner all persons who cannot be depended upon, and punish them with total demolition of their property.' From here up to Cheraw everything's gone. They broke looms people depend on for a livelihood. They burned gristmills and smithies. They shot milk cows and bayoneted sheep.”

Edward could offer no solace. “Do you have information about Marion? Where he is?”

“We've heard North Carolina. White Marsh, the southern reaches of the Waccamaw.”

Edward thanked him. “May God bless you,” the pastor said. “For the moment He has abandoned us.” They left him standing in the black rubble.

 

They crossed the border into Bladen County and approached White Marsh late one afternoon, through a
forest so densely grown with pines and oaks, only chinks of sun showed between the trunks. Mosquitoes whined around their ears. The only other sounds were the slow tread of the horses on matted leaves and pine straw, and the whistling and cawing of unseen birds.

“Never heard so many in one place,” Poorly said, frowning. “Don't seem quite right.”

They passed under the low limb of an immense live oak. Edward heard the familiar click of a musket cocking. A man hidden in the tree above them said, “Hold your places or breathe your last, boys. Your choice.”