by Anna Myers
Just then they come in sight at the top of the hill. At first there is only one line, even with a row of small pine trees. The green, however, does not move, while the red comes on and on. Only the minister speaks. “Dear God,” he cries.
I stare, mesmerized by the scarlet procession that moves over the hill in the blazing sunlight. On and on they come. I feel certain they will march over our group of men, trampling the carefully made flag beneath their great boots. On they will go until the whole of Camdem is covered by red. The drumbeat drills into my very bone.
Reverend Fielding steps forward with the flag. The broom handle shakes in his hands, but I do not fault him for his fear. I think that I too am shaking, but I am unsure of almost everything except the line of soldiers about to engulf us.
As in a dream nothing seems quite real. A soldier with much gold braid upon his uniform steps forward and takes the flag from Reverend Fielding, who bows slightly and moves quickly back to be among us.
“I accept you all as prisoners of war for His Majesty, King George. You will now answer to the direction of Lord Cornwallis.” His words are almost sung, clear and loud enough to carry, I think, across our small town.
For a second I think the soldier is Cornwallis, but just as I realize Lord Cornwallis would not walk, a great white horse comes snorting to the front. The rider sits tall in the saddle. His wig is as white as the horse, and his red coat is more decorated than any of the others.
A bugle blasts and another soldier steps forward. There is a sheet in his hand, and in the same singsong voice as the former one, but not as loud, he begins to read.
“All cattle and other livestock are hereby to be rendered as property of His Majesty’s army. All businesses will be run under military direction. The property of one Joseph Kershaw, traitor to the crown, is hereby seized.”
The voice goes on, but the words are lost to my ear. Property! They will take the mills, the flour mill and the sawmill, the store, and the house. Our house! Slowly, hoping not to be noticed, I inch back. When I am behind the line of townsmen, I turn and run.
It is possible, I know, that I will be ordered to halt. I do not even listen. Let them shoot me if they will, but I will run until a musket ball knocks me down. I must warn my mother.
My mind moves as fast as my feet over the grass of the town, past the square where my father drilled his militia men, away from the scattered homes and places of trade, across our green, and up the little hill to home. In my mind’s eye I see the British. They shove my mother and treat her like a slave. I see one with his bayonet ready to run through my little brother because he spills a mug of ale he is ordered to carry.
I cannot bear to imagine more, and I shake my head. “Stop these awful thoughts,” I scream to myself. “You must think clearly.”
Of course, they have been watching. Mother and Cato wait for me on the porch. With my last shred of energy, I thrust myself up the stairs and into my mother’s arms. “They’re coming here to take our house,” I gasp.
My mother pays no heed to my words. Instead she makes soft, soothing sounds and wipes my face with her linen handkerchief. “Be calm, Joey. Be calm. I’ve expected this. Of course, Cornwallis is coming here.” She motions toward town. “Where else do you suppose he would find quarters to his liking? We will be calm, Joey, and face them together.” She motions again, and this time I turn and look in the direction she has pointed.
As if I have pulled them behind me, the great line of red moves through the town and up the hill. Within minutes the British army will claim our home as theirs. I move to the porch rail and lean upon it, staring at the red line moving like a snake to shoot its poison into our waiting bodies.
“Bring the other houseworkers,” my mother says in a steady voice to Cato, “and the children. I want my children with me.”
The others must have been watching through the window in the entry hall because Cato is back with them at once. Jurrusica carries baby Rebecca and leads Sarah by the hand. George holds onto Mary’s skirt.
Mother takes the baby in one arm and puts the other around Sarah’s shoulder. George runs to me and wraps his arms about my waist. Mary steps determinedly to be next to Mother. There is fire in her eyes. My sister’s bravery shames me, and I pull in a deep breath. “Stand tall.” I remember Father’s words to me, and I make myself as tall as possible.
The servants are gathered behind us. I hear Biddy and Tilda muttering prayers beneath their breaths. “Will they eat us?” asks Sarah.
“Certainly not,” says my mother. “Human beings do not eat one another.”
I know, of course, that she does not speak the exact truth. I have heard of cannibals, and I have heard of British cruelty. Being eaten might not be the worst thing that befalls us. I bend and lift Sarah into my arms.
Mary reaches back to pat Sarah’s leg. “If they eat me,” she says, “they shall find me tough indeed.” She folds her arms across her chest. “In fact, Lord Cornwallis himself might just break a tooth if he bites into the likes of me.” She laughs. Sarah and George have both crossed their arms in imitation of Mary.
The soldiers are on our green now, and I see that there are not as many as marched into town. The others, I am sure, have been assigned business elsewhere. The same officer who spoke earlier steps forward. “By the order of Lord Cornwallis I claim this house as property of King George the Third and declare it to be used as headquarters to Lord Cornwallis and His Majesty’s troops.”
Mother makes ready by stepping forward as if to say something, but the soldiers pay her no mind. A group of them move up the steps and head for the door. Only by stepping aside do we avoid being knocked down. We huddle there watching until one soldier stops, sticks out his musket, and motions. “Inside,” he barks.
Their heavy boots stomp across our polished floors. Mother drops to her knees and touches one of the great scars cut into the shine. I too stare at the scars and know with a terrible certainty that our lives will be similarly marred.
And so our splendid new home passes from our hands to the hands of the enemy. The soldier who motioned us in pulls at mother’s arm. “In there,” he says, and he herds our family into the parlor, where we are left with a Captain Harkins. He seems to have been placed in charge of the rebel family, which is what we are called. He is a young soldier, about Euven’s age, I think.
The captain speaks in a formal tone, all business, but it seems to me there is a surprising kindness in his eyes. Of course, his kindness makes no difference. He is our jailor. Our home has become our prison. A great hatred burns inside me for Captain Harkins and all other redcoats.
My mother interrupts him as he speaks of how we will be, always, watched. “May we know what has become of my husband, Colonel Kershaw?” she asks coldly. She has refused his offer of a seat and still holds the baby. The rest of us crowd around her.
“He is a prisoner, madam, being brought this day to Camden Jail.”
“Injured?” My mother’s voice is little more than a whisper.
“No.”
“God be praised.” She sinks to the sofa. For a moment I think tears of relief will fall, but then she pulls herself together. “What will become of him?”
The Captain looks down briefly at his boots. “He will be given the opportunity to repent of his rebellion and join His Majesty’s forces.”
It is Mary, standing beside me, who speaks first. “He won’t. You can just bet your red coat he won’t!” Mother shakes her head in an effort to stop Mary, but my sister stomps her patent leather shoe against the parlor floor.
Captain Harkins stares at Mary, who boldly meets his gaze. A bit of a smile plays about the captain’s lips. I think that he admires Mary’s determination. He is about to speak when another soldier speaks up.
“Well, then, little miss,” says another officer who has just entered the room. “We shall have the pleasure of hanging your loving father.” He pauses then and flashes a vile grin at my sister. “And you, my dear, shall have a sp
ecial place of observation.”
“Let me deal with the family, please, Keegan,” says Captain Harkins, and he frowns at the other soldier.
“As you wish. As you wish.” Keegan turns to walk away, but over his shoulder he adds, “Only why not let them see how it is from the start-off?”
I watch his red form move through the door, and I repeat his name to myself. I think we shall see Keegan again, and the meeting will not be pleasant.
Sarah and George begin to whimper, and Mary leads them over to the pianoforte. She wipes at their tears with her handkerchief and whispers to them in soothing tones.
“May I see my husband?” my mother asks.
“Not likely, madam.” The captain looks down again at the floor.
My mother’s body stiffens, but she lets go no cry. Instead she stands. “Where are we to be quartered? I need a place to put this sleeping child.” Baby Rebecca has indeed fallen asleep in my mother’s arms. I am glad that she, at least, is spared the anxiety of understanding our circumstance.
Captain Harkins leads us upstairs to my room, which was selected because it contains two large beds. Mother and Mary are told to bring clothing and other needed personal items from the other rooms. Captain Harkins steps out of the doorway to let them pass.
I guide Sarah and George to the window. “Watch the soldiers, and tell me what they do,” I say, hoping a job will keep them from crying. Across the room is a large chest made of shiny walnut. I go there thinking to remove things from some drawers so there will be room for what Mary and Mother bring. Instead, I find myself leaning against the chest just as Captain Harkins leans against the door frame. He is looking at baby Rebecca, who sleeps on the bed. There is a soft, longing look on his face. He moves a step toward her.
For a minute I think he might touch her. I am ready to protest, but he only gazes down at her and smiles. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” I think he is about to say more, but he doesn’t.
I decide to ask some questions while Mother is not present. “Are we to be kept here, then, always prisoners in this room?”
“Oh, I think you might walk about a bit at times if you are careful to mind your mouth and stay out of the way. There are those among us who would not hesitate to run you through with a bayonet.” He glances down for a moment, then goes on. “Your little sister seems a bit too bold for her own good.” I feel ashamed that he does not caution me against being bold.
His seeming concern for our safety does not soften my feeling toward him, but it does encourage me to ask another question. “Will my father truly be hanged?” I ask, and my every muscle tightens as I wait for his answer.
“You think he will not join us?”
I issue a disgusted snort and shake my head with certainty.
“It is not my place, or Keegan’s, to say what punishment will befall him.” He sighs. “Hanging is a large possibility.”
I glance quickly at Sarah and George, who are still at their post. They do not seem to have listened to our conversation.
“Joey,” calls George. “Come see what the redcoats are building. What is it?”
I move to the window, but I cannot answer my little brother’s question. There in our side garden, among the honeysuckle bushes, the soldiers are erecting a rough platform with a trapdoor. I am sure the wood is from my father’s sawmill, and I am sure they are using that wood to build a gallows.
“I don’t know what they build,” I say when I am able to speak. “Likely some sort of housing. Not all those men can sleep in this house.” I pull the brocaded curtains closed, take a hand of each child, and lead them away. “Why not look at storybooks?” I take two from George’s shelf.
Sarah does not open her book. “I’m hungry, Joey,” she says, and she rubs her tummy.
“May I go for food?” I ask, and Captain Harkins nods.
Mother and Mary are back before I leave the room. “They’re building a gallows in the side garden,” I whisper to Mary as I pass her, and I am ashamed that I am too frightened to keep the news to myself.
For a moment her face twists with fright, but then she tightens her lips and reaches for my hand. “Our father will not be hanged,” she says. “The redcoats will not so easily defeat Joseph Kershaw.”
She squeezes my hand, and courage seems to pass through her fingers to mine. I pull myself up tall again and remember that I am my father’s son.
Downstairs I peer cautiously into the dining room. Soldiers, all gold-braided officers, sit around my mother’s fine mahogany table. One heavy man with a dark beard leans back so that his chair balances on the back legs. I wonder that the legs have not broken. Our best pewter mugs are in the men’s hands, and from the smell I know they are drinking my father’s rum.
Then I catch a sight that almost makes me cry out. Two men stand just back of the table. They are throwing darts, and the target is my father’s portrait, which hangs above the mantel.
Like hot water, anger rushes through me. My mouth opens to shout a protest, but I clap my hand over it. What good would my words do? I pull myself back and head toward the keeping room stairs. “You have a gun,” I whisper to myself. “A day will come when you can make at least one redcoat pay.”
My favorite room is different now because it is full of soldiers. Some are eating, some poke about in the supplies. Some play cards at the table where Euven and I studied. Even the smell I love has changed. Now the odor of boot leather and sweaty bodies overpowers that of spices and tea.
Only the woodbox is unchanged. It sits, as always, beside the hearth. The pistol waits for me, still, beneath the firewood. I stand quietly, staring at the box. The time will come, I tell myself, when I throw out the logs, seize the gun, and use it. The time will come when I strike against the evil British thieves who mock my father with their darts.
Biddy is at her worktable. Like the rest of us, she is frightened. She kneads the bread with nervous jerks, and her eyes dart about the room constantly. I wish to say something that will comfort her, but the best I can offer is a weak smile.
Her fear has not made her forget us. On the table is a basket of cold meat and bread. There are also tin cups.
“Here,” she whispers, and she lifts for a second the cloth that covers a crock. “I done hid this away from the morning milking. Just now brings it up from the cellar.” She glances at the soldiers. “They got no business guzzling it down.” She sets the crock in another basket. “You tell the mistress not to worry ’bout food. Biddy has ways.”
“Thank you,” I say and take a basket in each hand.
“Don’t you fret either, little master. Them redbirds might perch here a bit, but they is going to fly away.”
“Yes, just red birds.” I will remember to tell George and Sarah to think of the soldiers as red birds. Staying close to the wall and keeping my head down, I move quickly back upstairs. Mother wakes little Rebecca, breaks the bread for her, and tears the meat into tiny pieces for the other children. “Eat, children,” she urges. “We must keep our bodies strong.”
I remember the soldiers rummaging through our provisions and wonder how long there will be food to keep up our strength even with Biddy’s hiding. But I have other worries. Outside my window the hammering continues. Who will be hanged in our side garden?
The pounding, I realize, now seems to surround the house. I go to the window. Dozens of English soldiers labor on the grass below. They dig holes for huge poles that take three men to raise. Some men are busy nailing up support timbers.
A great stockade-type fence is going up all around us. I hate the ugly wall that shuts us off from the rest of the world. “We will tear it down,” I say aloud. “When they are gone, the fence will come down.” In the back of my mind I wonder how many Kershaws will be left alive when this war is over.
I turn back to the room. My mother sits with the children on the bed. George’s eyes are big with fear. Even little Sarah is absolutely still except that she sucks at her thumb, a habit she gave up last
year. Only the baby, who plays with the empty tin cups, is happy.
It is soon evident why the British are building a stockade. Mary and I are at the front window when we see the first of them, coming across the green and up the hill toward our house. They are staggering, bleeding American prisoners. It seems they will surely fall, but somehow the unsteady line moves forward, prodded by muskets, bayonets, and curses from the mouths of redcoats.
“Oh,” says Mary. “Oh, no.”
Mother, followed by George and Sarah, are beside us then. She presses her fist to her mouth as if to hold back a scream. We watch silently. Each of us, I know, is thinking of Father.
Our eyes strain for a good look at every soldier. They are all broken, even the ones without the crude bandages on their heads or limbs. Their faces tell the story of a battle lost and of watching friends die.
They keep coming and coming. I feel as if all the men of fighting age in the Carolinas are being herded into a prison made from our yard.
It is George who spots the figure first, and he points.
The soldier is near the top of the hill. He is tall. Like Father his hair is mostly gray. His movements too seem familiar. Only the stooped shoulders do not fit. But then, do they not all look beaten?
Mary grips tightly to my arm. Mother’s lips move, and I know that she is praying. I am the first to realize, and I call out, “He is not Father.”
“Oh,” Mother whispers. “Oh, dear God, help us.”
I am uncertain as to whether she is relieved or disappointed that the man walking toward us is not the master of this house. I am even unsure how I feel, but I know I should do something to ease my mother’s strain. “Sit down,” I say to her. “It is too hard to watch.”
“They are so sad.” Her eyes are dry, but there is great anguish in her voice. “We are all so sad.” She leads George and Sarah back to the bed. “Call me,” she says. “Call me if …”