Just Jane

by William Lavender

  Here, in June of 1779, the Continental Army’s top supply agent in the Southern colonies set up headquarters. No one knew his name. He was called only The Schoolmaster.

  Into the inn’s courtyard one afternoon rode an olive-skinned man with thick black hair, a broad mustache, and an aristocratic manner. He regarded the grimy rustics around him with unconcealed distaste as he found the proprietor and, in Spanish-accented English, stated his business. A minute later he found himself in a small building across the courtyard from the inn. Simon Cordwyn sat working over a ledger book. Deeply tanned and wearing homespun, he looked as much the frontiersman as any native mountain man.

  “Mr. Roca?” Simon stood and greeted the Spanish gentleman.

  “Fernando Roca, at your service, señor.” He presented some papers for Simon’s inspection. “Have I the honor to address The Schoolmaster?”

  Simon glanced over the papers, then replied, “The same, sir. I’m glad to meet you at last. Please, be seated.”

  “It was difficult to find you here,” Roca remarked, taking a chair.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience. But for an operation such as ours, a remote location is essential. So, shall we get down to business?”

  “First, I bring you greetings from Charlestown, from our friend the merchant and his charming wife. They are well, and much relieved that the British attack on their city last month failed.”

  “Or was abandoned, some say. I’m glad to hear they are well.”

  “Indeed so. Now, to business. I can inform you, señor, that my country will soon join France in its war against Britain. This does not mean that King Charles of Spain wishes to be seen as aiding revolutionary forces in America. However, it cannot be denied that Britain is our common enemy. In sum, certain interests in Spain are now ready to supply your valiant fighters. And as their agent, I am here to arrange this matter with you.”

  Simon smiled. “This is welcome news, sir.”

  “The first supply ship should arrive off North Carolina around July first. Another comes in the fall.” Roca brought forth a map. “Our landing site is a heavily wooded cove near Cape Fear, far from normal shipping lanes.” He pointed to the spot. “You may keep this, but guard it carefully.”

  “You may be sure of that.” Simon carefully folded the map and put it into his pocket. “I can’t tell you how desperately General Washington needs supplies. Food, clothing of all kinds, medicine, blankets, boots—”

  “And weapons, of course.”

  “I don’t handle weapons, if I can avoid it.”

  Roca’s eyes went wide. “¡Dios mio! Are you Americans not at war?”

  “Sir, General Washington loses more men to disease, hunger, and cold than to enemy fire. My chief aim is to keep those poor wretches alive. Hasn’t Mr. Murphy, our contact in Philadelphia, made that clear to you?”

  “His communications with us never mentioned any such thing.”

  “Hmmm, an unfortunate oversight. Well, Mr. Roca, when I undertook this job I said I’d handle life-sustaining supplies only, not deadly weapons.”

  “And Murphy agreed to this?”

  “Not exactly, but he was forced to agree that we would leave the matter open for the time being. He desperately needed a supply agent, you see.”

  “No, no, no, señor, this will not do!” Roca’s agitation brought him to the edge of his chair. “Our ships carry all sorts of supplies—guns and ammunition, and all the rest. The matter cannot be left open. You will accept all of our cargo, or none of it.”

  Simon heaved a discouraged sigh. “Murphy said I’d run into this situation sooner or later. I was a fool to pretend otherwise.”

  Roca waited. “Well, señor? Are we doing business, or are we not?”

  A knock at the door spared Simon the necessity of answering. “Yes?” A fresh-faced, sandy-haired young man stuck his head in. “What is it, Billy?”

  “’Scuse me, sir. Gillis is here with a load o’ goods. And he’s got a couple o’ prisoners with him.”

  “Prisoners?” Simon frowned. “What sort of prisoners?”

  “British soldiers, seems like. Gillis says they’re spies, and he means to stand ’em up in front of a firing squad.”

  Grim-faced, Simon got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Roca, I must deal with this. Mr. Gillis is a mountain man with a very short temper.”

  “Take care, señor,” Roca warned. “I hear such people can be dangerous.”

  “They are dangerous, tough, and fearless. That’s exactly why this rebellion didn’t collapse long ago.”

  A tall, weather-toughened man with shaggy blond hair stood with several others in the courtyard. “How do, Mr. Schoolmaster!” he called with a grin as Simon approached. “Brought you a fine load of corn, leather, molasses, and—”

  “And two prisoners, I hear. Who are they, Gillis?”

  Gillis’s grin vanished. “Them ain’t for you. They’re mine.”

  “I said, who are they?”

  “British deserters, they say. I found ’em down near Cheraw, on the river. They’re spies, plain to see, and I’ll give ’em what spies deserve!”

  Against the other man’s bluster, Simon spoke quietly. “Sorry, Gillis, but prisoners aren’t your personal property. Bring them here at once.”

  Gillis glowered. “Don’t you be orderin’ me around, Schoolmaster.”

  “Bring them here now, or you no longer work for the Continentals.”

  Their brief stare down ended when Gillis sputtered, “AH right, dang it! But remember”—he shook an angry fist at Simon—“they’re none o’ yours!”

  The two strode off in opposite directions. Word spread quickly, and when Simon returned a crowd had gathered around Gillis and his two captives. One was only a boy, the other a bit older. Their soiled and tattered shirts once had been white, and their mud-spattered pants were remnants of British army uniforms. Hands tied behind their backs, they stood glassy-eyed with fear.

  While Gillis scowled disapproval, Simon inspected the prisoners. “Identify yourselves, please.”

  The older of the two spoke first. “Andrew Jennings, formerly Sergeant, His Majesty’s Sixtieth Regiment of Foot.”

  Then the other: “Edward Bailey, sir. Private, Sixtieth Regiment of Foot. Formerly, that is.”

  Simon’s gaze lingered on the boy. “How old are you, Bailey?”

  “Seventeen, sir.”

  “Seventeen!” Simon shook his head. “Did you both leave your regiment voluntarily?”

  Jennings gave the reply. “Yes sir, we did. We were moving north from Savannah, you see, and—”

  “And you deserted. Why?”

  “Well, sir, we both have kin in the colonies. My brother’s in New Jersey, Bailey’s uncle and cousins are in Virginia. We know they’re fighting on the American side, and—how can you take aim at a rebel knowing he might be your own flesh and blood? It’s no good, sir. We just wanted out of it.”

  “You’re out of it, all right!” Gillis barked. “Out of luck, too!”

  “Not necessarily,” Simon told them. “Going back to your regiment is out of the question, of course. You could, however, join the Americans.”

  “The devil you say!” Gillis bellowed in outrage.

  The captives stared at Simon, hope flickering in their eyes for the first time. “Is that so, sir?” asked Jennings.

  “Assuredly. There are two or three thousand former British soldiers serving in the Continental Army. Many have been commissioned for their excellent service. When the Americans win this war, everyone who served honorably will receive grants of land. Congress has pledged itself to that.”

  The two Englishmen exchanged amazed looks.

  “Of course, should we lose,” Simon went on, “I’d suggest you resort to your disappearing act again. And next time, keep clear of people like Jim Gillis here.”

  Laughter rippled through the circle of onlookers, most of whom—except Gillis—were enjoying the entertainment. The prisoners whispered to each other,
then Jennings announced their decision.

  “Thank you kindly, sir. You’re a gentleman. We’d be proud to join the Americans.”

  As the spectators cheered, Gillis snorted in disgust.

  Simon turned to him with a curt order. “Untie these men.”

  “Damned if I will,” Gillis growled. “They’re my prisoners, and if you try to take ’em, I’ll . . .” His right hand rested on a pistol in his belt.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Undaunted, Simon studied Gillis’s angry face. “You’re one of our best suppliers, Gillis. How much does the army owe you for your services so far?”

  Gillis blinked at the unexpected question. “My bills of credit are up to four hundred dollars. And that reminds me—when do I get paid?”

  “These things take time. But how much do you think you’d ever collect if you shot the army’s chief supply agent in these parts?”

  Gillis scratched his stubbly beard, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He had met defeat.

  Simon turned to his young assistant. “Billy, untie these men and get them food and drink. I’ll give them further instructions later.”

  Billy went to work and the spectators dispersed, many looking disappointed that there was no fight. Gillis edged up to Simon with a sheepish look on his face.

  “Lookee here, Mr. Schoolmaster, you didn’t think I meant to harm them fellows, did you? I was only fooling.”

  “Of course you were, Jim.” Simon clapped Gillis on the shoulder. “I never doubted it for a minute.”

  Returning to his meeting with Roca, he found the Spaniard standing in the doorway.

  “Tell me, señor,” Roca said with a skeptical look on his face, “was it really worth risking your life for two deserters?”

  “It’s a matter of necessity, Mr. Roca. If I let a man like Gillis get away with something like that just once, I might as well go home. Besides, even if I have to handle weapons, I like to save a life whenever I can.”

  Roca smiled. “You are a man of quality, Señor Schoolmaster. May I look forward to seeing you at Cape Fear on July first?”

  “We’ll be there, sir, to take delivery on all cargo.”

  “Till July, then.” Roca bowed stiffly, shook Simon’s hand, and strode off, glad to leave that strange place behind.

  Simon was again working on his ledgers when Billy returned. “They’re resting, sir. And dying to tell you what a fine, upstanding chap you are.”

  “I’ll see them in a few minutes.”

  Billy sat down. “Sir, if you don’t mind my askin’—who was the foreign gentleman?”

  “A Mr. Roca. He brings us greetings from friends of ours in Spain.”

  “I’ll be jiggered!”

  Simon pushed his book aside. “There’s a busy summer ahead, Billy. We’ll pull up stakes here soon and go down to the coast to meet a Spanish ship—and pick up more supplies than you ever dreamed of.”

  “Bully, sir!”

  “It’ll be some job, hauling it all up the Wagon Road. In the fall there’ll be another ship, and we’ll do it again. But in between we can grab some time off. I want to get down to Charlestown to see some friends.”

  Billy frowned at this. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that don’t seem too healthy these days. Not with the Redcoats so close by. You want to see those friends that bad?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. One, in particular. Although it’s been so long, I’m not sure she’ll remember me.” Simon was suddenly gazing out the window, as the face of a dark-haired girl floated before his eyes. Her beauty seemed close enough to touch. His next words were spoken in a distant voice, as if to himself.

  “I said I wouldn’t forget her. And I never have.”

  Chapter 16

  After Charlestown survived the second invasion threat, the number of Patriot-minded citizens swelled. Robert Prentice was not the only Loyalist who removed his family from the city for safety. But Patriot celebrations at the British retreat soon dissolved into dread. The enemy ruthlessly destroyed rebel strongholds north of Savannah. Fear was in everyone’s mind: They’ll be back. Meanwhile, spring faded into a surprisingly tranquil summer.

  But for Jane, with visits to Charlestown forbidden, life at Rosewall had become so oppressive that she almost agreed with Clarissa’s view of the plantation as a prison, even if a beautiful one. She spent as much time as she could with Omar, whose lordly manner was somehow comforting, and with Cuba, whose cheery personality brightened the shadowy house. Sometimes she accompanied her aunt and uncle to the Lambert plantation, a few miles away. But Jacques no longer lived there, having quarreled with his brother, Louis; and without his lively presence, Jane found these visits rather dull.

  One day toward the end of summer, Brandon appeared, on short leave from his cavalry unit. In high spirits, he swung down from his horse, beaming at Jane, who had come out to meet him. She was so starved for company that she gave in to an impulse to hug him—then promptly regretted it, fearing he might interpret it as a sign of budding love.

  But this time he was preoccupied with an eagerness to be admired. “How do you like my new uniform, Jane? Don’t I look fine?” He flourished his tricornered black hat with a gold insignia, then twirled to display his tan coat with red collar and cuffs, white ruffled shirt, and leather breeches. He did indeed look fine, and Jane told him so.

  He was also eager to show off his new horse, a huge chestnut stallion named Warrior, his beloved Princess having been “retired from active duty.”

  “Warrior’s better suited for the man’s work of war,” he explained. “Although, the damned rebels are too cowardly to stand and fight, so we haven’t actually seen any action yet. We mostly just chase them around.”

  Jane hoped that “chasing them around” was the worst her action-hungry young friend would ever have to do. But there was something else that concerned her, and as they strolled in the garden later, she brought it up.

  “Brandon, when did you last see your parents?”

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to say, Jane. They’re sad because I left home. But when Father rejected everything that loyal, law-abiding Englishmen in America stand for, he rejected me, too.”

  “That’s not true. He never did. Anyway, what about your mother? Isn’t she a kind of innocent victim in all this?”

  “Look here, I feel terrible about Mother. She’s such a kind, generous, warmhearted person. And Father, having taken leave of his senses, is leading her straight down the path to ruin. I worry about her, I miss her dreadfully, and I go to see her as often as I can. Truly, I do.”

  “I hope so,” Jane said with a sigh. “And I daresay that’s all we can expect of you, isn’t it?”

  Brandon had come saying he could stay only one night, because he had to get back to his regiment the next day. All afternoon, he chatted pleasantly with Clarissa about her gardening, and that night he held a long war council with Robert. Brandon had brought exciting news. The British were massing a huge force in Savannah, one far stronger than needed to hold that small city.

  “Obviously they’re planning a major offensive toward Charlestown, Uncle. Probably not until spring, they say. But the third time’s the charm, you know. This time it cannot fail.” Robert clenched his fists. “Gad, how time will drag till then!”

  The next morning, Jane accompanied Brandon to the gate, where Omar waited holding Warrior’s reins. There, clasping Jane’s hands, Brandon recited his habitual declarations of devotion. “Be patient, dearest girl. Though we’re far apart, you’re in my heart every moment. And when the world is finally put right again, we’ll have a happy future together.”

  She accepted a kiss on the cheek, wished him well, and waved good-bye as he swung expertly into the saddle and went galloping away. Dear, foolish Brandon, she thought. He’s been talking like that since the day we met, and it never occurs to him to wonder how I might feel about our “happy future.” Why don’t I set him straight? Is it because he hasn’t thought to ask?
Or because I dread hurting him?

  Suddenly Omar, standing beside her, spoke, his deep voice and solemn manner imparting immense weight to his words. “Young master want you for wife, miss. But you not want him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know it showed,” she said with a light laugh.

  Omar’s solemn face betrayed no hint of amusement. “You wise, miss. Young master talk fancy, but he just a boy that never grow up. You wait for real man. One day he come.”

  “How kind you are, Omar. But I really don’t think that’s going to happen.” She smiled up at the big man towering over her, then turned back toward the house.

  As summer heat gave way to the coolness of fall, Clarissa and Jane finally told Robert: Either we spend some time in town, or we lose our minds. Which shall it be? But after so many weeks in isolation, even Robert was ready to give in. Not for the social diversions Clarissa craved, but to get the war news, which was almost impossible to do holed up at Rosewall. Trips to the Charlestown house once again became part of the family routine.

  In town, Robert attended long sessions with Loyalist friends, while Clarissa made daily rounds of visits with Loyalist wives and daughters. Jane sometimes accompanied her but found the gentle ladies’ conversation drearily familiar—all about the scarcity of goods in the shops, or the high prices of goods that were there, or the folly of breaking with the king, which, of course, would soon be stamped out. She was often invited to parties, but the young men she met seemed to be only pale copies of Brandon, forever boasting of their horses and their horsemanship as they eagerly awaited the arrival of the Redcoats. It was all too tedious.

  One afternoon, Robert returned elated from a Loyalist meeting. “Great news from Savannah!” he fairly shouted. “French and American forces dared challenge the British there—and were utterly destroyed! Now those scurvy rebels see what their French alliance did for them—nothing! The Redcoats are again moving north from the Savannah River, this time in overwhelming force. Of course, we know what that means. They’ll soon be here!”