by Anna Myers
“I will,” I promise. I do not move from my post. Mary stands with me. Finally, just when the sun is almost down, the last downtrodden soldier is driven into our garden.
Still we watch. A large barrel is rolled into view by two redcoats. Another brings four large dippers. The barrel is opened, and the men line up for drinks. The first soldier is bent and wrinkled with age. I wonder why a man so old has gone to fight. He grabs the cup and swallows the drink in one gulp. When he moves to dip again, a redcoat snatches away the dipper and shoves the old man down onto the grass. A younger prisoner behind him bends to help the older one up. Then he turns back for his drink, but the same redcoat pushes him on without a drop of water. The American looks at the Englishman, and for a moment I think he will strike back. Then another Englishman steps around the first and hands a cup of water to the American, who drinks it and moves on.
“Maybe they’re not all bad,” Mary says softly.
I shake my head. “Don’t count on it. Don’t you ever trust any of them, not one of the king’s henchmen.”
When twilight finally comes, someone in the yard below us begins to play a fiddle. We do not know where the instrument comes from. Neither Mary nor I saw a soldier carry one, but from the music we know the fiddler is an American.
“They are brave, children,” my mother says. “The soldiers are beaten, but they are brave. Listen to the music.”
We are quiet. When the tune changes, Mother smiles. “It’s a song my mother used to sing.” She goes to the window, leans on the sill, and begins to sing. “O Johnny dear has gone away, He has gone afar across the bay, O my heart is sad and weary today, Johnny has gone for a soldier. Shule, shule, shule agah, Time can only heal my woe, Since the lad of my heart from me did go, O Johnny has gone for a soldier.”
Her voice is strong but gentle at the same time. Her fair hair is let down, and the rays of the moon light her outline against the window. I think that to the suffering men below she must appear as an angel. At the chorus, she sings a line in Gaelic, the language she spoke as a small child before her family came to America.
When the song is over, the men clap and shout their thanks. Mother does not sing again, but she seems less nervous now. “We must be soldiers now too,” she tells us.
With very few breaks, the haunting fiddle music continues long into the night. The fog of sleep wraps around me, but I am still aware of the music and of the soldiers that fill our back garden. Neither do I forget the gallows that stand waiting in the moonlight among the honeysuckle.
Chapter Six
Dear Father,
Are you really in Camden Jail? We can see that building from our upstairs balcony. How can you be so nearby and seem so far away?
I wake to the thud of board striking board. I turn my head toward the window, but someone has pulled the curtains. “Don’t open them,” says my mother from across the room, where she sits writing at the desk.
I sit up, and I realize what causes the thud. The trapdoor of the gallows strikes the back of the structure when the latch is sprung. The hanging has begun. The other children are still sleeping. Mother does not speak. She keeps her head down, her mouth pulled straight and tight. The quill pen is gripped tightly in her hand.
Two, three, four, five, I count. There is little space between the thuds. The soldiers, I know, must be lined up on the great structure, waiting their turn to die.
How did the English decide who would die? Did they, I wondered, have some sort of trial, or were the death sentences handed out offhandedly to reduce the great number of prisoners the British had to care for?
My stomach begins to turn and then to rise. Jumping up, I run to the chamber pot. On my knees I am wretched and vomiting.
After I have washed at the bowl and pitcher, I go to my mother, who has put away her quill and folded her piece of stationery. She looks up at me and forces a smile. “We must endure, Joey,” she says. “We will fall sick to our stomachs many times, even sick to our souls, but we must endure.”
Later I learn that what my mother has written is a letter to my father. I wonder what she has said. Has she begged him to fight for the British, to at least pretend allegiance to the crown?
“I am going to see Cornwallis,” Mother announces. She goes behind the dressing screen and changes into a bright green frock. Then she brushes her fair hair and piles it on the top of her head.
“What will you say to him?” Mary asks as she watches Mother put on a green hat.
Mother draws in a deep breath. “I shall say, General Cornwallis, you have come into my home and banished my family to one small room. Your men eat my food and leave marks upon my floor. I am here to ask, politely, to beg if you wish it. I beg that you allow me to visit my husband in Camden Jail.”
It is a lovely speech, but Mother is never allowed to give it to General Cornwallis. She is told he will see her, but we wait for two hours outside the door to what was once our dining room. Soldiers come and go.
Once the general himself comes out to leave the house, but he is surrounded by other officers. “Lord Cornwallis,” my mother calls out, but he does not even turn his powdered wig to glance in our direction.
My mother wants to remain until Cornwallis’s return, but we are ordered back to our quarters. Finally, when he brings our noon meal of bread and cheese, Captain Harkins also brings us word. “The general says there is no time to give you an audience. Nor will he allow you to go into the jail, which is no fit place for a lady.”
Mother pulls in her breath as if someone has struck her, but the captain goes on. “He will, however, allow the boy to go.” He leans his head in my direction.
“Alone?” I blurt out the question before I think, and immediately my face burns with shame.
“I will go with you.” Mary jumps from her seat on my bed and comes to stand beside me near the door.
“The general will not allow a grown woman to go,” I say more gruffly than I should. “He would never allow a little girl to accompany me.”
Mary turns to Mother. “Let me dress like a boy in some of Joey’s clothes. I am almost as tall as he is.”
Mother does not even consider the request, and I am ashamed that I wish she would. Mary is plucky. Having her beside me would give me heart.
I am too unsettled even to taste the cheese or bread. While the others eat, I move about the room, trying not to pace the same spot.
Mother has folded the letter to Father, and she presses it into my hand when it is time for me to go. “Wait until he has read it if they will allow you to tarry so long,” she says. “He may want to give a word or two as reply.”
Our porch is now full of redcoats. They see me as I make my way out the door, but they do not step aside to let me pass. I pull myself up straight. “Excuse me, here,” I say, but my words come out much fainter than I intended. A soldier elbows me, and I fall sideways into another redcoat.
“There, now, little Yankee boy, watch your step.” He shoves me into yet another man, who is dark, with mean eyes.
“I say,” the thin soldier shouts, “what have we here? A bit of a ball to play with?” He shoves me back in the direction from which I came.
A third man grabs me now. There is a vile smell of strong drink on his breath, which he blows into my face as he speaks. “A letter, have you? Let’s have a look-see.”
He reaches for the papers. I scream, and with a mighty swing I kick at him.
My foot finds its mark, and there is now a streak of dirt on the white leg of his uniform. “You little rebel devil,” he shouts, and he spreads the palm of his big hand, ready to slap my face.
I am unaware that Captain Harkins has stepped out onto the porch until he bellows, “Desist.” The man who holds me loosens his grip at once. I stumble and almost fall among the men, who are suddenly quiet. “Attention,” shouts the captain, and they stand straight and salute.
The captain takes my arm and pulls me away from the others, at whom he glares. “Your behavior is disgracefu
l. Does the king’s army have nothing more to do than torment children? You are now warned. Should I see or hear again of any such behavior, I will see that the offender or offenders …” He pauses and looks about at each face. “I personally will see that you are thrown into Camden Jail and left to the mercy of the rebel soldiers there.”
The men are quiet. Without looking up, I say, “Thank you, Captain Harkins,” and I hurry down the steps. Another redcoat passes me on the first step. I do not look up at his face, but when he speaks to the captain, I recognize his voice. “You won’t always be about to rescue them,” says Keegan. I turn back and see his beastly grin.
On the bottom step, I stop and stare. A mound of newly dug earth is spread across the grass where a big ditch has been dug in front of our house. It is covered over now, but I know it serves as a grave for the men hanged this morning.
Don’t think, I tell myself. Don’t think at all. Just walk by the ditch with your eyes on the poplar tree. There is a robin in the poplar tree, and she sings as she builds her nest.
So fastened on the bird and her song am I that at first I do not hear Captain Harkins calling, “Young Joseph.” I stop, but I do not turn back, which would mean seeing the ditch again. He comes to stand beside me. “You have an order of passage from General Cornwallis.” He points to the paper I hold with Mother’s letter. “Use it.” He looks back toward the men on the porch. “Soldiers will soon enough part when they see the seal.”
For just a moment gratitude makes me feel warm toward the captain, but then I remember the uniform he wears. The warm feelings turn to ice. “Thank you,” I say, and I walk away from him.
“Wait,” he calls. “I may as well go with you a ways, give my legs a bit of stretch.”
I think I should not be happy of any Brit’s company, but I am. I do not say so, however, and we walk in silence.
The Camden I knew is gone, turned into a different town. I am amazed at how quickly the British soldiers have made it their own. Though the day is fair as only a June day may be, no children chase hoops through the streets. Women in gingham dresses do not pause before the shops with their baskets to exchange a bit of gossip with one another. Men do not stand about the doorways of the blacksmith shop or the tavern. Instead there are redcoats everywhere. Those citizens who do stir move quickly, eyes down. Even the dogs seem unnerved, slinking near their homes, tails between their legs.
Euven is standing in front of the Quaker meeting hall. I run to him. “They hang men.” My words are soft, but inside I am screaming. “They dig big ditches in our front yard. Just toss in the bodies and cover them up.”
For a moment Euven closes his eyes. He presses his fingertips against the sides of his face. Finally, he speaks. “War is never kind, Joey,” he says, and he reaches out to touch my shoulder before he leans against the wall of the church.
“They’re murderers.” I clench both my fists. “I wish I could hang every one of them.”
Then Captain Harkins is beside me. “You’ve found a friend then, young Joseph?”
“Yes,” I mutter without looking at him. “Euven is my teacher.”
Euven steps forward and introduces himself. Captain Harkins says his name, and Euven puts out his hand, as if the captain has come to our village on holiday, a pleasant visitor.
I am horrified to see an American so welcoming. “Euven is a Quaker,” I explain. “He does not believe in war.”
“Perhaps we should all become Quakers,” Captain Harkins says, and his smile seems sad.
“I wish to seek permission to come to Kershaw House to go on with Joey’s lessons. I’ve been paid in advance.”
I am disgusted with Euven for being so friendly to the enemy. I keep my eyes down so that he will not see how much I want to go on with lessons. Having him come to the house each day would be a comfort and a distraction, and I am hopeful.
Captain Harkins is all soldier again. “It is Cornwallis House now,” he says. “I will need to check orders, but come tomorrow. It is probable the way will have been cleared by then.”
Euven nods, then smiles at me and gives my shoulder a friendly slap. Captain Harkins and I move on, but I look back at Euven. I am very glad he will be each day in our house. As I watch, Hannah Goodnight comes from the meetinghouse door. Her golden hair shines in the sun. Euven steps toward her, and they stand smiling into each other’s eyes. For a moment the thought that war does not change everything warms me.
But the warmth cannot last. The jail looms before me. I am afraid, afraid of seeing my father as a prisoner, afraid to face him because I failed to save my mother and the little ones from the British.
At the low wooden steps Captain Harkins stops and tells me to show my pass to the guards at the entrance. “I will wait here for you,” he says, and he takes a pipe from his haversack.
My knees are shaking, but I step up to the big door and to the guards. They look only at the seal. “Tell them inside what business you have,” the taller one says.
I pull open the heavy door, and I am horrified. This small jail was never meant to be a military prison. It is full of men, most of them in shackles. They sit upon the floor everywhere. A few are stretched out, eyes closed. I wonder if they are asleep or dead.
The talking and the moaning mix and become one mournful lament. There is a smell of sickness and of human waste. The guards who surround the men look as miserable as do their prisoners.
“How did you get in here?” a guard demands. He points at my chest with the sharpest, shiniest bayonet I’ve ever seen. My skin stings as I imagine how that blade could slice.
“A pass from General Cornwallis,” I say. I hold it out, and I try to keep my hand steady. “I’ve come to see my father.” I do not step back, but I am glad when he finally lowers his bayonet.
“And who might that be?”
“Joseph Kershaw.”
He points toward a corner staircase. “Up there.”
I make my way through the broken men. Most of them ignore me, but one reaches out to touch my leg. He is older than most of the others, probably as old as my father. His face is flushed, and I believe he is ill. “Please lad,” he mumbles, “could you get me word of my …”
I can hear no more. His voice is too weak to compete with the sounds all about us. I hunch down closer to his face, but a guard is coming toward us. “You, boy,” he shouts. “No talking to the prisoners. Get on to your business.”
The soldier does not turn loose of my leg at once, but I pull away and move on. I turn to look back. He is bent, head on his knees, and the guard is coming toward him with a wooden club in his hand. Quickly, I look away, facing the stairs again. If the guard strikes the man, I cannot bear to see.
Moving toward the stairs, I keep my gaze down, determined not to look into the eyes of another prisoner. My own misery is enough. I have no strength for viewing another’s.
Twelve big steps make up the stairs to the second floor. Counting them helps calm my pounding heart. Unlike the crowded lower floor, there are cells here, but many men are crowded into each one. I stretch my neck trying to search out my father. A guard comes to me at once. I do not see his face at all because I study the buttons on his uniform. Yet somehow I am aware of his scowl, and that his expression is full of disgust. I hold out the piece of paper, at which he only glances.
“Miserable yokels,” he mutters, “why do they let them in here?” He does not seem to be talking to me, but he knows I can hear his insult.
My hand tightens into a fist, but I know that I have just used that hand to hold my entry permission. I push back my thoughts about how this jail belonged to the people of Camden long before redcoats such as this ill-tempered soldier came along. I do not wish to make him dislike me so much that he might throw me out despite my pass.
The guard begins to move, and I follow him through a hallway that leads to another group of cells. Without a word he points toward a middle cage made of iron bars.
There is my father. His head is down, a
nd he does not see me. But his face is in full view. I gasp and am unconcerned by the snort of disapproval made by the guard. Father has turned old, older perhaps than the soldier who tried to talk to me. Is it possible that his hair has always had so much gray? Could his face have been so lined before? I shake my head. No, this defeat has aged Joseph Kershaw the elder!
I do not want to walk up to him. He sits in chains with his head bowed. My father has never bowed his head to anyone but God. I will not tell my mother how he looks. I will lie and say he seems strong.
The guard prods me with the butt of his musket. “Want to see him or not?” he says before he stomps off.
I step closer. “Father,” I say, but I know my voice is too soft. “Father,” I say again, and this time he hears me. He gets up from the bench and comes toward the front bars. Watching him hobble with the chains is almost too much for me.
“Young Joseph,” he calls. “My son is here.” The other prisoners sit up and take notice, but soon I am aware only of my father. His face has lost most of the weariness now. It is you who makes the difference, I tell myself. You are your father’s son, and you bring hope to him.
His chained hands grip the bars, and I reach out to touch one of them briefly. I would like to lay my face against his fingers to feel his touch, but I do not. Such an act would be acceptable for Mary or George, but not for me, for I am now a man.
“You are safe,” he says. “Your mother, the other children?”
“We are all well.” I swallow. “The redcoats have taken over our house, put us in a room upstairs. The town did not even try to fight them.”
He nods. “There was no way. If a small regiment had come …” He stops and shakes his head slowly. “But the devils are everywhere, behind every tree, sitting on every step.” His voice drops. “There was never any hope of defeating them.”
Defeat is not a word I have ever associated with my father, but as if he reads my mind, he pulls his body straighter. “The war is not over yet, son,” he says. For a second I feel better, glad to see him unconquered, but then he adds, “We’ll win. We’ll get rid of those redcoats, and you can help.”