by Anna Myers
Chapter Three
Dear Father,
It is hard to fill my days without you. When I walk about in town, men no longer bow their greeting. In fact, I often receive no notice at all. Am I not worthy of a greeting without you? If I am not the son at your side, who can I be?
Mother still calls us all to morning meal together, but the empty chair at the head of the table makes it difficult for us to swallow down our porridge and sausages.
After Jurrusica, the nursery girl, comes for Sarah and baby Rebecca, Mary will busy herself with needlework while Mother goes into the parlor with George to do lessons. Next year George will be taught by Euven as I am. Mary’s studies stopped after she learned to read and write. My father does not think it important to educate girls. Mary does not agree. I know she has taken my books from time to time, but I have never discussed any bit of learning with my sister. It is my place to hold the same ideas as my father.
There is nothing worthy to occupy my time. I am accustomed to spending mornings following my father about his holdings. The store was always interesting with its shoppers and clerks who hurry to dust shelves, pretending they do not see my father step, tall and straight, through the door.
We used to go also to Father’s two mills, one a gristmill grinding flour and one a sawmill for turning timbers into building materials. Because it was his first business, the gristmill is most dear to my father. Before he went away, we would stand, he and I, for long periods of time beside the great millstones and watch them grind grain between them. Father’s voice would mix with the splashing sounds of water against the vast wheel. Always his story was the same.
“I built this mill with my own two hands, Joey, owned no slaves yet then, did I.” The mill on Pine Tree Creek has been good to my father. “In a span of but five years, boy,” he would say, “my holdings in this backcountry grew to include the sawmill, indigo works, tobacco warehouse, the brewery, and large mercantile businesses here at Camden and at Cheraw.”
“And lands,” I would put in. “Don’t forget your lands.”
“That’s right, son,” he would say. “All in but five years, and I was ready then to ask for your mother’s hand.” Never tiring of the story, I would stand beside my father and listen. Even in winter when the air from off the mill pond was near ice, I felt warm.
The troubles with England were never far from my father’s thoughts, and on our mornings together he often talked to me of what boiled within him. I remember a day, not a month past, though it seems much longer ago, when Father said to me, “They’d have us in chains, son, making laws for us without giving us any say.” He removed the arm that rested around my shoulder and, forming a fist, he raised it to the sky. “I did not come to this country to become a slave,” he shouted.
It would not have surprised me to have learned that King George himself heard my father’s words, but then, of course, had my father’s message carried across the sea, the king on his throne would have called a halt to the war. Not even a king, I believed, would have the nerve to ignore my father’s warnings.
Later that day when we left the mill and went home for our midday meal, Father’s words about being a slave came again to my mind as Cato ran from the keeping room’s front doors to lift to his small shoulders the large bag my father had carried from the store.
“Father,” I whispered, “do you suppose Cato and the others wanted to leave Africa and become slaves?”
My father frowns. I know he and my mother do not agree about how slaves should be treated. I have heard him say, “It is not seemly for you to be so friendly with the cook, my dear.”
He stopped and placed his hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes as he spoke. “Do not trouble yourself about such things, Joey. Slavery fits the order of things. Without slaves, who would tend the rice on Carolina’s plantations?”
I nodded. He smiled, and I trotted so as to stay up with my father as he climbed the great steps that would lead us to dine at our well-laid table.
Now, with my father gone, I spend my mornings wandering about in the swamp that lies not far behind our house. There I climb through the hanging moss of a live oak tree and settle upon a strong limb. I sit absolutely still, watching for a blue heron and listening to the cry of the other birds.
I wonder where my father is. It comes to my mind that he may be dead, but then I dismiss the thought. Are not the yellow warbler and the little brown wren still holding forth with their morning songs? Surely, no bird in all of South Carolina would call out joyously if Colonel Kershaw were no more.
But on this particular day in late May of 1780, I do not dress for a day in the swamp. Instead I put on a new linen shirt with ruffles at the throat and sleeves to show from beneath my waist coat. I also choose a pair of my best silk stockings to fasten with garters at my knee breeches. I am going to town, and the son of Colonel Kershaw must cut a fine figure on the streets of Camden. But a thought comes to me, and I say aloud, “He must also put on start-ups.” So I pull the large boots over my buckled shoes to protect them from the mud in the streets of our little city.
“Camden needs boardwalks, Joseph.” I remember my mother scolding my father at our evening meal one day last spring. “I might find it pleasing to go about town except for all that mud. Don’t you think you ought to see to the walks?”
“Send Cato to town, my dear. Do you forget that you are the wife of Camden’s founder and most prosperous citizen? And perhaps you forget that we are at war. I have the redcoat enemies to see to.” He pushed his chair back from the table.
“I do not forget the war,” Mother said and her voice took on a sad sound, “but in truth I would like to.” Then immediately she began to urge each of us children to take more smoked ham from the big platter.
Now, as I dress to go about town, I know that even had I not covered my shoes, I too would be more worried about the redcoats than about the mud. I try to set my cocked hat at an angle that will make me look jaunty and unafraid.
I do not tell Mother that I am going. I cannot bear to see the questions in her eyes, so I slip quietly down the stairs. From the open parlor door, I hear her discussing George’s copy book with him. “Too many ink blobs,” she complains. “You must be more careful with your quill.”
Our new house is built on a small hill slightly away from the rest of the town. I stand on the high porch and look down on what once seemed a safe, peaceful world. Before me lies our green, thick and undisturbed now except by the occasional cow or horse that Cato might stake there to graze. Once the green vibrated with the sound of balls being whacked with cricket bats and with the sound of boys’ excited voices. There was a time, even before the new house was built, when we played there almost every day after our evening meal.
There has been no game since last October. Jacob, the blacksmith’s son, had time away from his father’s shop that last game day. We laughed in the autumn sun, pushing one another good naturedly. But things went bad when David Brinker lost his temper with Charlie Eaton. “It’s not your turn, Tory,” he shouted.
“It is.” Charlie raised his fists, ready to strike. “And I’d rather be a Tory than rotten no-good rabble.”
The game was over. I knew it was Charlie’s turn, and I knew that Charlie had a friendlier spirit than David Brinker, who whined when he lost a game. Still, the sides were drawn, and I stood with the other boys whose fathers were ready to fight the king.
Only Lynn Noll stood with Charlie as a loyalist. I liked both boys and wanted just to go on with the cricket game. Instead I grabbed up a small stick and threw it at Charlie. “Give this to your king,” I shouted.
We drove them running from the field. There has not been another game since that day. Tory families have mostly left town by now. Jacob has no time at all away from the shop now that his older brother has gone to fight. I used to love to play cricket. I cross the green quickly, tromping the damp grass beneath my feet.
When I head west on Wateree Street, which is named for the nea
rby river, I am forced to walk in the road. The sand has changed to mud that sucks at my start-ups and slows my progress. At Meeting Street I turn, planning to stop first at Thompson’s blacksmith shop. Jacob likely will be busy at the forge, heating iron until it is soft, or he may be pounding at the anvil until the iron becomes a horseshoe or a cooking utensil.
There will be no chance for a real visit with Jacob, but men frequently stand about watching the work. Once they gathered too at our house discussing the war with my father. I miss their deep tones and the smell of their pipe tobacco, but even more I hunger after news.
But as I grow near the shop, I hear no voices, no hammering. The big doors are open, but I see that the fire at the great forge is little more than coals. Wondering, I dash through the shop to the dwelling entrance at the back. I knock loudly, but there is no answer. Mistress Thompson and the younger children are gone too.
Leaving the dim shop and moving back into the sunlight, I shade my eyes and look down the empty street. Where are the people? Have the British come and carted them all away? The innkeeper’s wife hurries from her front door, which is in the middle of the block. “Where is everyone?” I yell.
She is moving away from me as quickly as her short, plump legs will carry her, and I strain to catch her shout or “Square.”
The town square, of course! Something has happened and everyone is gathered at the square. I feel resentful that no one has come to Kershaw House to tell us, but my resentment does not keep me from moving. Unlike the mistress of the inn, I do not stick to the street. Instead I dart between the houses and shops, making a more direct path to the square. My start-ups slow my pace, and I toss them aside. The shoes, I think, may go too. If necessary I will not hesitate to run through the town in my silk stockings.
Behind one house my way is blocked by a large pigpen. I hurdle the fence, ignoring the snorts of the pigs. At the other side, I jump again. This time my hat falls from my head. I do not look back at it. Let the pigs quarrel over which of them might look best in a cocked hat.
The crowd I see as I come out on Broad Street is big. Men in their work clothes, some with tools still in hand, women with the lace caps they wear only inside still upon their heads, and children everywhere. Even old Grandfather Murphy, who must have been carried, sits under a tree.
My exhaustion forces me to slow at the back of the crowd. But, breathing heavily, I begin to shove my way forward, because someone shouts, “We’ve gathered now. Out with it.”
As I push between two ladies, one of them swats at me with the end of her long apron and says, “Mind your manners there, young fellow.” Ignoring her, I drop down to crawl between the widespread legs of a tall man in leather breeches. I listen while I move, catching comments that tell me battle news has just arrived. Now my heart beats fast as much from fear as from running.
Isaac Kent, who owns the tavern, seems to be acting as town leader in my father’s absence. He holds up a hand to the crowd. “Let all be silent,” he calls. “We will hear the boy now.”
Just a space or two away from Mr. Kent, near a large wooden barrel, stands a boy. He looks to be perhaps two years younger than I am. His clothing is like that of a farmer, with worn shirt and no stockings showing between the coarse woolen breeches and broken shoes. Mr. Kent gives a leg up to the boy who climbs upon the barrel and removes his broad felt hat.
The crowd still murmurs. “Silence!” the tavern owner thunders. “Let Will have his say.”
The boy wipes his hands first across his face and then upon his breeches legs, and with a deep breath he begins. “Forty miles or so from here it be. Not two miles from me own home, out in the open woods, just trees by and by, not so as for cover. It fell out this way. Tarleton was the British commander, and a fellow named Buford leading our side. Them that lived told it, some with their last breaths. Tarleton sounded his bugle.”
Will holds an imaginary horn up to his lips, but the crowd moaned. “Go on, lad,” urged Mr. Kent. “Leave off the bugling.”
The boy looks disappointed but continues his story. “Tarleton advanced with the infantry in the center and the cavalry to the sides. Buford’s rear guard got hit first.” Will’s eyes appear to be almost popping from his head. “Cut to pieces they was. Lieutenant Pearson was shot down, then got his nose cut off and his lips too. Even his eyes knocked out, but he was still a-breathing when I rode off.” He pauses to take a breath.
“For God’s sake, lad, what happened to Buford’s other men? Did they hold firm?” someone shouts.
“Stood their ground they did at first, but when they discovered the cavalry a-coming round to the rear, Buford gave the order to drop arms and surrender. Cruit, him what hoisted the flag of truce, was cut down. Them redcoats took to massacring, tossing wounded about on their bayonets and torturing them to death. Blood running everywhere and all the begging for mercy going for nothing.”
Except for some gasps the crowd stays amazingly quiet. I cannot bear to focus on what he is saying. Instead I stare at his legs, bare and red from being held close to the horse on the long ride.
Then I force myself to look about me, knowing that behind those white faces minds grope with the same question burning in my own. I wait for someone to shout, “Colonel Kershaw’s Camden troops, were they with Buford’s slaughtered men?”
As if by some silent pledge, no one asks the question and Will goes on. “Tarleton took prisoners, not so many. Dead and dying was everywhere. More than a hundred dead, me pa wagers. He’s there now along with others, helping the Reverend Carnes put bodies in one big grave and toting them what might live over to Waxhaw Church to be treated. ‘Ride quick to Camden,’ me pa says to me. ‘Carry the news.’”
I am my father’s son, I tell myself. It is I who must give voice to the question. “The Camden men,” I yell, “led by Colonel Kershaw? Were they in the battle?”
Not a stir moves through the crowd. Will’s face twists. He has not thought, it seems, about to whom he speaks. His answer, little more than a whisper, vibrates through my ears and out into the mud of the street. “Fought bravely, they did.”
The crowd breaks loose then. “My boy, Jim Wheeler, do you know his fate?”
“Roger Watts, a tall man, what of him?”
“Did you see Robert James?”
“My husband,” screams a young woman with a babe in her arms. “Scott’s his name?”
Will’s head drops, his chin upon his chest. There is no joy in the telling now. “I don’t know no names,” he says. “Not none at all.” Scrabbling down with his gaze lowered, he runs across the square and retreats into the safe darkness of the tavern’s open door.
A few people go after him, but most of the crowd makes no move to follow him or to break up. Instead they huddle in small groups talking in soft voices. The sound of weeping comes from some of them.
I stand miserably alone, staring down at my mud-covered breeches, stockings, and shoes. I want to think about my ruined clothing. I do not want to think of the massacre. I do not want to let the pictures form in my mind, pictures of my father’s body, broken and bleeding.
Move, I tell myself. Moving is better. Without making a real decision to go there I start toward the tavern door, mud sucking at my shoes. My father, well known in the area, would likely have been recognized. I can find Will, demand to know what he could tell me of the fate of Colonel Kershaw.
Just inside the tavern door, I pause, waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. I see Will in the far corner, his back pushed against the wall.
Someone has brought him a mug along with bread and a strip of some kind of meat. For a moment I watch as he tears at the meat and bread, then takes a swig from the mug.
“I done told. I can’t call a single name.” He pushes against the wall with his back as if he hopes to go through and be outside away from the questions about to come.
I want to move closer to him, but my feet refuse to be lifted. “Joseph Kershaw, Colonel Joseph Kershaw? I daresay y
ou know that name?” I am pleased because I think my voice is steady and loud, like that of a man.
“I don’t. Just let me be,” he whimpers, and I think he is about to cry. I also think he lies. I will go to him, jerk him up by the front of his dirty shirt, and beat him into the wall. He is a coward, and I can make him talk.
My feet remain planted just inside the doorway. It is you who is the coward, I accuse myself inside my head. You are afraid to know the truth of your father’s fate. I turn and run from the accurate voice of accusation.
Outside people are still standing about. I see Isaac Kent with Blacksmith Thompson, the innkeeper, baker, and the Presbyterian minister. I go to them and listen. Very aware that as a mere boy I should not speak until I am spoken to, I remain quiet. But the gist of the conversation begins to come to me, and I am amazed.
“We’re agreed, then?” Isaac Kent is a small man, but he pulls himself up straight and stares squarely into the face of each man in the group.
“There’s nothing else for it. Nothing but to meet them with surrender,” says Mr. Thompson.
“No,” screams from my throat. Amazed, the men turn to look at me, but I rush on. “We have powder in the magazine.” I point wildly in the direction of my home and the nearby brick structure where ammunition is stored.
“Hush, boy,” says Mr. Kent.
“Kershaw has spoiled the lad,” says the baker, and he shoots a snarl in my direction.
Only Reverend Fielding looks at me kindly. “The boy deserves an explanation. His father has strived valiantly to defend us.” He comes to stand near me and places his hand on my shoulder. “The powder is even now being loaded so that it can be taken to Charlotte. ’Tis better than letting it fall into enemy hands.” He shakes his head and his face is sad. “There’s no hope for us, young Joseph, not against so many.”