Celia Garth: A Novel (38 page)

Celia considered. “If you want me to kill somebody—Tarleton, for instance—I’ll be glad to.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Luke. “You don’t know how to fire a gun. What will you do that you
can
do?”

She thought again. “If you want me to go on an errand, a dangerous errand where I might get hurt or even killed, I’ll go.”

“That’s better,” he said. He leaned nearer. His blue eyes held hers in a hard straight gaze. “Will you lie, cheat, steal—”

“Of course,” said Celia.

“I haven’t finished,” said Luke. “Will you do this, knowing that any day you may be caught and we can’t help you?”

She did not quite understand what he meant, but she felt no hesitation. “Yes, of course,” she said again.

“It won’t be fun,” said Luke.

“I haven’t had any fun lately.”

Luke was very serious. “Darren told me how you felt. I couldn’t see you right away, so I sent you that message. Now I’m going to explain what you can do. When I’ve told you, think it over. Say no if you want to. Darren will take you home and you’ll never hear about this again. I’d like to have you with us, but not unless you’re with us all the way, not a single doubt. Now listen.”

Celia had no doubts at all. If she could do something to get rid of the redcoats she wanted to start doing it now, tonight, right this minute. But if Luke wanted to talk, let him. “I’m listening,” she said.

“All right,” said Luke. “Some people have given in. That always happens when the going gets hard. But some people have not given in. We’re still fighting. We’re going to free this country or die trying. Some of us will die trying. One of them may be me, and one of them may be you.”

He spoke with grim earnestness. But Celia was feeling pinpricks of pleasure.

“What I want you to do,” Luke said to her, “is to be a spy. I’m asking you because I think you can do it. Not everybody can. There are plenty of patriots in Charleston, but they haven’t got what you’ve got.”

Celia was not sure what her special talents were, but he was telling her.

“For one thing,” said Luke, “you notice what goes on around you. I remarked on that the first time I saw you—remember?”

She nodded. Luke went on.

“In the second place, you can keep your mouth shut. That’s a rare gift, my girl. And another thing. You can smile sweetly at people you hate.”

Celia knew she could do that. She did it every day.

“Now,” said Luke, “I’ll tell you what we want.”

Celia was leaning forward, her lips parted, her hands clasped on the table before her. She could fairly feel herself coming alive.

“We want information,” said Luke. “We want to know what the British are doing and what they’re going to do next. We don’t care how you get the facts. Listen at keyholes, read other people’s mail—just get the facts. You’ll have no reward. If you’re caught—I’ve told you that already. What do you say?”

Celia drew a happy breath. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“You’re that sure?”

“Oh Luke, you don’t understand!” she exclaimed. “What do you think I’ve been doing since that day at Bellwood? Just breathing. With no purpose, no reason—and this is a reason! Suppose I do get caught? What can they do to me? I’ve got nothing they can take away. I’ve got no future. Oh Luke, whatever you’re doing—let me help do it!”

Luke gripped both her hands. He gave her a grin of comradeship. “Good.” He glanced at the hourglass. “How that sand does run. I’ve got a lot to say so I’ll talk fast. Listen, and remember.”

Celia listened.

Luke said it was strange, how Fate worked things out. What seemed like a tragedy was sometimes a piece of great good luck. This had happened twice to the friends of liberty in South Carolina.

Remember when Francis Marion fell out of the window and broke his ankle, how distressed they were at losing him? But the city would have fallen even if he had been there. When the city was taken, every Continental officer in the garrison was made prisoner. Marion, in his home near Eutaw Springs, was not made prisoner.

Of course the British knew that so popular an officer would become a center of resistance if he was left at large. They had set out at once to capture him. Marion was still so crippled that he had to be lifted on and off a horse. But with the help of his devoted Negro Buddy, of soldiers like Luke who had escaped the British attacks, of friends like Herbert and Vivian who hid him in their homes, Marion had slipped around like a ghost. The British had not found him.

Then Marion went to join the army of Gates, and here came the second misfortune. Gates shoved him out of the way. But the result was that when Gates lost the battle of Camden, Marion was not there to be killed or taken. He was still free, Luke said triumphantly, to lead the men of the Lowcountry who wanted to fight.

And how they wanted to fight! Celia knew about Tarleton. But had she heard of a man named Wemyss?

Celia shook her head, so Luke told her.

As she knew, most of the Scotch-Irish farmers around Kings-tree had stayed out of the war. Busy with their flax and wool, they had asked only to be let alone. But after the fall of Charleston they received Clinton’s order that every man in South Carolina was now subject to call for the king’s army, and if a man refused to serve he could be hanged for treason.

The Kingstree men got mad. If they were going to fight, it would be for themselves and not for a king three thousand miles away. They began to organize, and sent a scout to look for Marion and ask him to be their leader. It was this scout who had found Marion at the camp of Gates.

With his other followers Marion went to the camp of the Kingstree men and led them to destroy the boats as Gates had ordered. But after Gates’ defeat Marion and his band—about a hundred and fifty men—had to go into a secret camp to avoid capture. At the same time Cornwallis, hearing that the Kingstree men were rising, sent troops of his own into that district. Their leader was Major James Wemyss.

Luke said Cornwallis had never shown himself unduly savage. It might be that he had not intended for Wemyss to do what he did. But anyway, Wemyss did it.

Along the road from Kingstree to Cheraw, Wemyss cut a swath seventy miles long and fifteen miles wide. In this strip, when they had emptied the houses of everything worth stealing, Wemyss’ men set fire to every building, destroyed every loom and storehouse, killed every animal on the farms. When they got through, that whole stretch of country looked like what Celia had seen at Bellwood. How many girls were raped, how many babies and old people died, nobody knew.

Rumors of Wemyss’ march came to Marion in his hidden camp on Lynches Creek. He sent scouts to find out the truth.

Luke spoke tersely across the table. “Celia, we saw those people skulking in the ruins like animals, eating things animals wouldn’t eat. Half of those homes belonged to men who had never fought the king. They hadn’t joined up with us because they still thought they could live in peace. They came out like crazy men, yelling ‘Where’s Marion?’ Celia, you’re not crying again,” he broke off, for she had dropped her head on her hands, covering her eyes.

Celia shook her head. “No, I’m not crying. I was thinking—Agnes Kennedy. So that’s why she’s not back.”

“Kennedy?” Luke repeated. “There’s a lot of Kennedys through there, I don’t know. Friend of yours?”

“She worked in the shop. Funny, I didn’t even like her very much, but she never hurt anybody. She couldn’t even swat a fly without feeling sorry for it. I wonder what they did to her.” Celia looked up, resolutely calm. “Go on, Luke.”

Luke had no more time for emotion. “Well, that was our start. Now men are coming to us from all over. But we can’t fight a war with our fists.” He spoke crisply. “We need guns, clothes, shoes. Some of those fellows came to us half naked. Wemyss had burnt up everything they owned. For something to fight with, we’ve raided sawmills and beaten the saws into sabers. In the farmhouses outside Wemyss’ line of march women have melted their kitchen pans to make us bullets. We take guns and powder-horns from dead Britishers. But it’s not enough. We need everything.”

Celia wondered where she would get guns and powder-horns, and how she would send them to Marion’s men if she had them. But Luke was still talking and it was her business to listen.

Luke told her the British expected to finish up the war in a few months, probably by next spring. They knew just how they meant to do it. Their plan, he added, was no secret. “We can read other people’s mail too,” he said.

As she knew, after Charleston surrendered, Sir Henry Clinton went to New York. The city of New York was the headquarters of the northern wing of the king’s army, as Charleston was now the base of the army in the south.

Clinton had left Cornwallis in command of the southern army. Now that South Carolina (as they thought) was licked, the redcoats expected to have an easy time in the south. They had a strong fort in Florida, at St. Augustine; and they held Savannah, as well as other major points in Georgia. Cornwallis thought all he had to do was organize military government in South Carolina, then he could leave a small force to keep order while he, with his main army, marched northward.

“In the meantime,” said Luke, “Clinton plans to hold enough men around New York to keep Washington busy, but to have a strong force from the northern army start south. The two armies expect to meet halfway, in Maryland or Virginia. They expect to meet about two months from now, say the end of November—anyway, before Christmas. If they do get together, it will mean that they’ll hold everything from Florida to the Hudson River. Then, together, they can close on General Washington, at West Point or somewhere near by.” He paused. “Get it?”

“Yes,” said Celia, “I understand.”

Luke smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Celia. You’re definite. You don’t say ‘I think so,’ or ‘Well, sort of.’ You say yes or no.” He glanced at the hourglass. The sand was still running, so he went on. “The trouble with this plan, Celia, is that it’s good. Those two British armies together will be stronger than anything Washington can bring to face them. Now here’s our job.”

She nodded. “I’m listening.”

“Our job,” said Luke, “is to keep those two armies from joining. We’re not strong enough to meet Cornwallis in open battle. But we can pester him. We can raid his outposts. Attack his supply trains. Slow down everything he tries to do. In the meantime the Americans in North Carolina will have time to get ready for him. They can slow him down some more. You see, we know Washington is negotiating with the king of France for more Frenchmen to fight on our side. But the Frenchmen can’t get here for six months, maybe a year. If those two British armies meet before the Frenchmen get here—well, we can’t let them meet, that’s all.” He covered her hands with his, and spoke with a desperate earnestness. “Celia, every day we can delay Cornwallis is one more day for changing the Thirteen Colonies into the United States of America. Understand?”

“Oh yes, yes, yes!” said Celia. She added joyfully, “And we can always hold him back
one
more day!”

“One more day—that’s it, Celia!”

“Go on, Luke! How do we do it?”

Luke began to speak more calmly. He said things would be easier if they were dealing with a clumsy fool. But Cornwallis was a smart man. Besides his two major bases at Charleston and Camden, he had set up British posts all over the state: at Georgetown and Beaufort on the coast, at Orangeburg, Ninety-Six, and other strategic points of the interior; at Quinby Bridge on the eastern fork of the Cooper River, Nelson’s Ferry on the Santee.

“In fact,” said Luke, “he’s got us enclosed in a ring of redcoats. Sounds tough, and it is. But every one of those posts has got to have a steady stream of supplies or the men can’t stay there. They have to send letters back and forth—make reports, get orders. We want those supplies. We want those letters. We want to take some prisoners so we can exchange them for our men who are prisoners now. We want a hundred little skirmishes, so they’ll never know where we’re going to turn up next. Then Cornwallis will have to use his troops to guard the roads instead of marching them north.”

Celia said slowly, “I see what you meant a few minutes ago. A lot of men will get killed.”

“A lot of them don’t care,” Luke said quietly. When she gave a start of disbelief, he said, “Miles Rand, for instance—he’s with us.”

She had no answer for this. So she asked, “Is Amos with you?” Luke said yes, and Big Buck too. Celia exclaimed, “Then you must get word to Marietta.”

“She knows,” Luke said smiling. “Now let’s talk about you.”

“Yes, let’s,” Celia said eagerly. “What can I do, Luke?
Me
?”

“Plenty,” said Luke. “You’re in a public place. Redcoats and Tories are coming into the shop all day. You can notice them, hear what they say, tell us. Also you can meet them socially, at Godfrey’s.”

“Luke, I’m ashamed of myself. I thought—”

“I know what you thought. People will think the same thing about you. Let them.”

“What about Burton?” she asked.

“You know, Celia, I’m proud of that large pink brother of mine. He still hasn’t taken the oath. He’s standing there like a rock, pained at Godfrey, and we have to let it go on like that. We can’t let him work with us.”

“Why not?”

“My dear girl,” said Luke, “you should know. Burton can’t keep anything from Elise, and telling anything to Elise is like printing it in the paper. She’d have us all in that dungeon under the Exchange. Let’s get back to you.” He spoke carefully. “Whenever you notice anything that might be useful to us, let us know. For the present your friends will be Darren, Godfrey, and Ida.”

“How do I tell them?”

“Some women,” said Luke, “have used the scheme of putting a workbasket on the windowsill. This means they have something to tell. Somebody passes the window several times a day, and if the basket is there he passes the word to somebody else, to come in and get the message. Try that once or twice, then think of another code. Keep changing, that’s vital.”

“Suppose the shop is full of people? How do I give anybody a message?”

“Write it and have it ready. Write it in the fewest possible words, on the smallest possible slip of paper, so you can hide it inside a thimble or something like that. If it’s that tiny, you can pass it over—say with a sample of cloth—and not be seen.”