by Anna Myers
“I can help?” I stare at him with disbelief. Had he not just commented on the vastness of their number?
“You watch.” He grips the bars hard, and his eyes drill into me. “You watch for a chance to strike against the murdering, thieving lobster backs. Be vigilant, and your chance will come.”
I nod my head, and I say, “I will, Father. I promise I will watch.”
He smiles. I feel good. There beside my father I am confident that I will not fail his charge.
Then my father’s expression changes. “Son,” he says gently. “I think they have let you come today because it is my last day in this prison.”
“No,” the scream comes out without my willing it to, and I wipe my hand across my eyes, trying to erase the picture of the gallows that flashes before them.
“Easy, boy. I’m to be put on a ship, sent to an island prison, Bermuda perhaps.”
My knees are weak with relief. “I thought … Father, they’ve built a gallows in our side garden and this morning they hanged men, many of them.”
“In my garden! They hang Carolina’s defenders on my very property!”
“Among the honeysuckle,” I add as if the detail were an important one.
My father’s face now has no trace of old age or defeat. It is red, burning with hate. “By God, we shall show them!”
“Are you sure they won’t kill you?”
He is still angry and shakes his head vigorously. “They know I’ve still some important friends in England. They’ll save me for trading. When the war is over, they’ll want me to exchange for officers and such.”
Suddenly I remember. “Mother sent this,” I say, and I yank the letter from my pocket to hold out to him.
“Your mother,” he says, and he looks surprised, as if maybe she had slipped his mind. “Oh, give me the letter.” He is still reading when I hear the drums. A small group of six or so men come marching into the room.
“They’re here,” my father says and he begins to speak very rapidly. “Cornwallis wanted me to join the damnable British, actually thought I might.” He squeezes my hands. “See to your mother and the others. Tell them not to worry. I shall likely be allowed to write to you all.”
I hate the tear that forces its way from my eye, and down my cheek. My father, I hope, has not noticed. He straightens his worn uniform and tightens back the binding, which has let his hair fall loose about his face. He does this, I know, for the soldiers who served be neath him. He has no wish to appear as a beggar when the British march him out.
“Be brave, my son, and be vigilant for your chance to strike,” he says, and he smiles at me.
They are beside me now. “Step aside,” bellows an officer, and I catch the flash of his bayonet in the sunlight from a high window. A young soldier produces a key. The door is opened, and my father and his cellmates are yanked out.
“Wait,” I scream and try to slip around a large soldier to reach my father. The soldier does not look at me, but his red-sleeved elbow jams hard into my ribs.
I fall back against the cell bars, but I get a glimpse of my father’s face. “Stand tall, young Joseph Kershaw,” he calls. Then they are marching him away. My father looks back, but an extended bayonet forces him to turn again.
All around the jail our soldiers are shouting messages. “Cheers for Colonel Kershaw!”
“God be with you, Sir!”
“Carolina salutes you!”
Still leaning against the bars, I slide down and let myself settle in a miserable heap upon the floor. My father is out of sight now, and no pass will allow me to see him. They are taking him across the ocean, and I wonder if ever he will return.
From a corner of the jail one lone voice starts to sing. “Come join hand in hand, brave Americans all, And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty’s call, No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim, Or stain with dishonour America’s name.”
Other singers join. Looking about, I see several soldiers who, like me, have raised their bent heads. Many of them are singing now. Most of these men are bound hand and foot. They are in danger of being hanged. Yet they sing.
I have the strength now to rise and am about to do so when I stop, suddenly aware that a red leg is beside me. Looking up, I see the young soldier. He goes into the cell once occupied by my father. It occurs to me now to wonder what will become of the two men who were crowded in with my father. Will they too be shipped off to prison, or are they even now waiting in our side yard to be hanged?
The young soldier has picked up my father’s knapsack. I know that the bag contains things my father will need, one of them being a box with a lock of my mother’s hair tied with a blue ribbon.
“Will you take the bag to him?” I ask.
The soldier nods his head, and I see that his expression is kind. “That I will,” he says. “Me own father is in an American prison. Would that some soldier there be kind to him.”
He dashes away, leaving me staring after him. For a moment I think about Euven’s remark that not all redcoats are monsters, but I do not let the thought fully form. There is far too much for me to do. I cannot let myself be distracted by thinking of kind redcoats.
I am up then and making my way to the door. Men wave to me with shackled hands and call encouraging words. Near the door sits a boy who is certainly about my own age. His hair is red, and his face is freckled. On his cheek is a great bloody slash.
He glances up at me, and I lean down to him. “Are you a soldier?” I ask.
“Reckon I am now.” His voice is full of fire.
Beside him is a youth who is somewhat older, but who bears so strong a resemblance to the first that I am sure they are brothers. It is the older one who speaks next. “He was but walking beside me along the road after the battle. The lousy lobster backs slapped him in chains and threw him in here with the lot of us, him just an innocent boy.”
“Old enough to face a redcoat’s saber,” the boy says, and I see that he is proud of the injury.
His brother is proud too. “Refused to black the nasty colonel’s British boots.” He smiles, but then turns serious. “Wound needs dressing, though.” He uses his head to point to a shelf beside the door. “There’s bandages and cleaning solution right there, but not one guard will lift a finger to help.”
A snort comes from the injured boy. “I’d not have a redcoat bandaging any spot on me. Likely their very hands are poison.”
“I’ll do it.” I start to move away, but the boy grabs at my trousers. “Do they come and sight you they’re liable to do as bad to you as they did to me.”
I look directly into his steady eyes. “Let them do it, then,” I say. “We’re all likely to bear the hateful mark of the British in one way or another.”
It seems certain that the guards see me take the materials from the shelf and carry it back to begin the dressing, but no one moves to stop me. “They’re about half asleep,” I comment on the guards as I work.
The boy’s left hand, cut to the bone, is even worse than the injury on the cheek, which is what I first noticed. “I put it up to ward off the blow,” he says as I clean the gash.
I am not experienced as a nurse. The raw, gaping flesh makes my stomach roll, but I do not give up until a rough bandage covers both spots.
The brothers tell me they are from over Waxhaw way and that their surname is Jackson. They talk too about why they fight. “We’re a new country,” says the older one. “Don’t want to bow down to kings on account of who his father was.”
“Don’t want to bow down to any man.” The younger one makes a fist with his uninjured hand.
“Guess you’ve proved that,” I say.
The older one nods his head. “You mark the name Andy Jackson. There’s a flame in my brother, there is, and I’ll tell you the world is bound to see it.”
Andy laughs. “The British will see it for sure. If ever I get out of here, I’ll fell me more than one of His Majesty’s henchmen.”
Both brothers tha
nk me. I return the supplies to the shelf, but I am drawn back to the Jacksons. “Perhaps I’ll see you again,” I say.
“God willing, we may be side by side and fighting the British one day,” says the injured one.
I go down the stairs with a burning inside me, a flame built upon the promise to my father and lit from the fire of Andrew Jackson. I will watch, as my father has told me, for every chance to strike against the cruel enemy. Perhaps I, like Andy Jackson, will bring down a redcoat.
Moving again through the huddled prisoners, I feel much stronger. I meet their eyes, and I wave my hand or nod my head. Some of them smile at me, and I feel they know somehow that I too am at war with the British.
When I see the soldier who wanted to speak to me, I know that I will try again. I make my way through the others toward him. A guard, from his corner post, shouts at me, but I flash the seal. “Permission from Lord Cornwallis,” I call. He yawns and makes no effort to move toward me.
The soldier sits hunched, knees raised to support his head and arms. He does not see me. I touch the torn sleeve of his dirty shirt. “Hello,” I say softly, but he does not lift his head.
I glance at the spot where the guard stands, but he seems to pay me no mind. Still, another, more diligent than this tired, round man, may come at any moment. There is not a moment to waste. This time I put my hand on his shoulder. Through the rough material of his shirt, I can feel heat, too much even to be caused by being crowded in this hot jail.
“Fever,” I say and I give him a gentle shake. There is a small moan as he raises his head and looks at me with weak, watery eyes.
“I’m terrible sick, boy.”
“Someone should help you.” I glance around at the other men, also in shackles.
He raises his hand to give a feeble motion of dismissal. “It’s my boy I’m fretted over. We was in the battle together, but I ain’t seen him since. Rob’s his name. Rob Wilson. I’ve passed the word all about. He ain’t here. What’s become of him? That’s what I’ve got to know.”
I stare at the frail soldier whose life is likely slipping away, but whose only concern is for his son. “I’ll find out for you,” I promise.
“You’re a good lad,” he whispers, and he drops his head back to his arms.
Just as I feared, another guard has joined the round one and has been informed of my pass. “Boy,” shouts the new one. “Get over here. I’ll have me a look-see at Lord Cornwallis’s seal.”
I begin to wind around the soldiers, and I am aware that both guards watch me with eyes full of scorn. When I reach them, I say nothing, only hold out the paper.
The round one takes it, and they both study the paper. Something about the way they examine the seal makes me believe that neither of them can read. I force myself to make no insulting remark about their ignorance. Instead I say, “May I go now?”
“Reckon you can run along now, sonny,” says the round one. He returns my paper, and then with an ugly laugh he adds, “Hope you reach your journey’s end before the pox overtakes you.”
“What?” I look at him with wonder. “Why do you say such a thing?”
The other slaps at his knee with mirth. “That rebel, him what you was talking to. Reckon he has the pox. Lots of them does.”
“Yeah, that’s right, sonny.” The round one points to his own scarred face. “That’s why the likes of me and Johnson here gets the job of guarding the poor beggers. We done had the pox.”
The horror I feel must be evident on my face because their laughter grows stronger. It follows me across the crowded floor and out the door.
Captain Harkins leans against the porch rail as he waits. I am ashamed because the sight of him makes me feel better. Inwardly scolding myself for finding comfort in the presence of the enemy, I scowl when he smiles at me.
“How is your father?” he asks, and we begin to walk down the sandy street.
“My father is well.” I straighten my shoulders and head, pulling myself up tall and trying to quiet my pounding heart. “My father is strong, and he is not defeated.” I do not glance at the captain, who is my enemy, and we move through what was once the familiar village of Camden in silence.
When we are near Kershaw House, I see the lines of soldiers in the side yard again, and I see the gallows. The hangings are about to begin once more. I stop as if suddenly frozen. I will not hide my face this time.
The captain takes my arms and leads me toward the front steps. “Upstairs with you now,” he says, and he opens the door. Inside, I press against the wall, listening. The thuds, familiar from the morning, begin. Men are dying.
I draw in a breath and step back through the door. There are no redcoats on the porch. I go to the railing and, leaning over, I can see into the side garden. Four guards are there, muskets and bayonets pointing at the soldiers who, eyes down, wait.
Last in line is a young man. He is tall and his thin face is partially covered by the straggly beginnings of a beard. They should have let him shave before his execution, I think.
The guard who is at the last of the line is one whose face I recognize from the earlier encounter, one who Captain Harkins ordered to leave me be.
I know what must be done. With my hands clenched into a fist, I move toward the gallows.
“Halt!” the redcoat shouts.
Halt I do, but I fold my arms and speak gruffly. “Leave me alone,” I say in what I hope is a determined voice. “I have Captain Harkins’s permission to be here and Lord Cornwallis’s own seal.” I flash the paper in his direction.
The soldier hesitates. I consider reminding him of the captain’s threat, but I think better of it. “I only want to speak to the men,” I say.
The guard shrugs his shoulders, and I go quickly to the young soldier. “Rob Wilson,” I say. “Do you know him?”
With manacled hands, he pointed in front of him. “Third one up,” he says in a voice that sounds already dead. “You’d better hurry.”
Before I can move, though, he speaks again. This time there is life in his voice. “Are you a friend?” he asks. I nod. “My mother,” he says in a rush, “Sarah Jenkins is her name, lives over by Sander’s Creek. I’m James. Will you get word to her, please?” His voice almost breaks, but he swallows and goes on. “She’ll hate it powerful bad, but still she ought to know. Don’t you reckon?”
With a start, I realize he is waiting for an answer from me. “Yes, she ought to know.”
“You’ll see to it, then?”
“Yes. Sarah Jenkins by Sander’s Creek.”
“Bless you. God bless you.” Before I turn, I see a smile come to his lips.
Running, I call, “Rob Wilson?”
“Yes,” says the third man from Jenkins, and he pauses to turn toward me.
Suddenly the guard is beside him, bayonet thrust forward. “Move on,” he shouts.
The prisoner walks, and I trot to get beside him. “I’ve word from your father,” I tell him. “He worries for you.”
“My father,” he repeats. The two words come slowly as if he tastes them well before letting go. He turns his head so that I get one glimpse of his face. His eyes are blue, like those of his father, but clear and untroubled by sickness. “Tell him I died well. Tell him I did not beg.”
“Yes,” I say, and I stop walking, as he moves forward.
He turns back for another glance. “Is he wounded?”
“No.” Without deciding to do so, I lie. “Your father is well.”
“Good,” he says, and now he is at the steps of the gallows.
I want to turn away. I have managed to block out the sight of the other men and the sounds of their deaths, and I do not want to watch Rob Wilson die.
My feet start to move, but I force them to stay. As he climbs the steps, I suck in my breath and hold it. Just before he reaches the top step, I am forced to breathe again. I whisper a little prayer, but I do not bow my head or close my eyes. I will watch Rob Wilson die, and I will not be sick to my stomach. I am different fr
om the boy who vomited this morning.
Now I too am a soldier. I will not cry. I will not be sick. I will wait, and I will watch. The chance will come for me to strike back for Rob Wilson and the other men who die among the blooms in my side yard.
Even when it is over for Rob, I stay until James Jenkins too has stepped to his death. Now there is something I can tell my own father. I can tell him that these sons of Carolina did not die alone.
I do not stay to watch the men carried to the long ditch in front of the house. Inside me there is a great sadness and a great anger. I whirl away from the gallows and tromp back toward the front of the house. One of the guards steps out toward me as if to speak. I glare into his eyes, but I do not slow my pace. He says nothing, and I stomp around him.
The porch is no longer empty. Three redcoats lounge on the steps playing cards. Unaffected by the burials, they laugh and talk together. “I’ve got me eye on one or two of them pretty Camden maidens,” a fat soldier says.
“The major ordered us to leave them be.” His small companion stretches and yawns.
“Leave them be, huh! You just watch how I leave them be.”
All three of them laugh. There is space enough between the two smaller men for me to get up the steps. I duck my head and charge in that direction.
“Wait, little fellow. You didn’t say the password,” the big one says, and he laughs. The smaller one grabs my leg. I kick at him and stumble on through the front door.
The big one is behind me. I throw myself at the stairs, but the soldier’s hand reaches out and grabs me.
“Leave my brother alone!” It is Mary’s voice. I know that she stands about halfway up the stairs, but I do not look at her. I turn to face the redcoat.
“You rebel brat.” He reaches out and grabs my collar. I spit at him, and his heavy hand flies to slap me, leaving the left side of my cheek burning.
“Watkins!” Captain Harkins shouts. He too is on the stairs. The soldier lets go of me, and I run. Up the steps I go, and without slowing down I try to pass Captain Harkins. “Joey,” he says. I want to ignore him and push around him, but there is no railing. Reaching out, he locks his hand over my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Those men will go on report.”