by Anna Myers
A few days before Christmas a snow begins to fall, and a wonderful thing happens. Euven is allowed to come for a visit. He has with him a small basket of tea cakes. “Hannah made them for me, and I want to share them with thee.” He places the basket on the keeping room table.
“You should keep them for yourself,” I say, but my eyes do not leave the cakes. Cato has showed me how to make a kind of tea from the dried leaves of a blackberry vine. He keeps a tin of the leaves in the small box where we have our few personal things.
First I wrap two of the cakes in a cloth and put them away for Cato. Then I make cups of tea for Euven and me. It is a celebration. I am smiling, and the expression feels strange upon my face. “If only I could have lessons again,” I say.
He laughs. “So thee misses geometry?”
“Just history and literature. I let Mary take my books. She wants so to learn.”
“What pleasure it would give me to have Mary for a pupil.” He turns his head westward and with the broad-brim hat in his hand he makes a sweeping wave in that direction. “When I am out there, I will endeavor to gather all manner of young ones to me, boys, girls, the Negro children, and the young ones we call Indian, to whom this land truly belongs.”
I shake my head. “You have strange ideas, Euven Wylie. Even for a Quaker, you have daft ideas.”
He slaps at me with his hat. For a time we scuffle playfully as if there is no war. Then I hear an officer call out, “Order arms.” A group of soldiers is standing inspection before the big keeping room doors, and I hope the drill will last long enough for Euven and me to have our tea in peace. I want to hear about Hannah and about the special pine chest Euven is carving for her as a Christmas gift.
We have each eaten one cake when our merrymaking is interrupted with, “What are you doing there, Quaker man?” I look up to see Watkins, the man who slapped me on the porch, and I know the good time is over. My fingers tighten around my cup.
“I have news that just might interest you, Mr. Quaker.” Watkins is smiling, but there is an evil look in his eyes. The air is thick with trouble. My heart beats fast, but Euven’s face shows no disturbance. I long to see him rise up.
If only Watkins did not have the musket in his hand, Euven could best him easily. Watkins is nothing but blubber. How good it would be to see Euven take him on.
Watkins comes toward the table. “I just got word that me and two others will be moving into the Goodnight house. You’re acquainted with the folks there, ain’t you, Mr. Quaker fellow?”
The British soldiers are being billeted in homes of people all over town, who, like us, have no choice but to take them in. A frown begins about Euven’s lips, but it never quite forms. “Thee will find Mistress Goodnight to be a fine cook,” he says.
Watkins laughs. “And I’ll wager I find the young Miss Goodnight real warm on a cold evening.”
Suddenly Euven is up. The table shakes as he pushes away, but his voice is calm. “I must ask thee not to speak Miss Goodnight’s name so.”
Watkins laughs. “Keep your breath to cool your porridge.” He turns to walk away.
“Wait.” Euven’s face is red now. Watkins is near the stairs. Euven takes a step to follow. Suddenly Watkins whirls, and the butt of the musket strikes Euven’s face. There is a cry of pain. He reels, his arms flailing the air. I do not wait to see him fall.
I am up, but I do not rush to my injured friend. In one second I am on my knees beside the woodbox and have emptied it. The pistol is cold to my hand, but the blood rushing through my body feels hot. I am about to use my father’s gun to put a hole in a hated redcoat.
Euven does not stir, and a trickle of blood runs from his forehead to the stone floor. My hand is shaking as I level the gun.
I hesitate one moment too long. Watkins is grinning, and his musket is pointed directly at me. “I’ll rid the regiment of one pesky rebel brat and do it proper like by way of self-defense.”
There is a blur of movement by the stairs, and a red-sleeved arm lunges toward Watkins’s gun. A great explosion rattles the tin cups on the table. I look down, expecting to find a dark red stain beginning to spread across my shirt.
I have not been hit. Confused, I look again at Watkins and am surprised to see the confusion on my face mirrored in his. I follow his gaze to the floor. The spreading red stain that should have been my blood is there. I see with horror that the blood belongs to Captain Harkins.
There are other soldiers now, coming down the stairs and through the big keeping room doors. They bend over the fallen captain. The gun is taken from Watkins’s hands, and he is marched away at gunpoint. Someone has gone to Euven, and he is helped to sit up. I want to go to him, but my feet will not move. I watch what goes on in the room, but I do not feel as if I am really there.
“He’s dead,” says one of the soldiers who examines Captain Harkins. “No doubt about it, war’s over for this man.”
Chapter Eleven
I no longer write imaginary letters to my father. Someday I will write a real letter, but I do not yet know what words I will use.
Euven arranged for Captain Harkins to be buried in the Quaker cemetery, and I am surprised that he was able to secure permission for me to attend the burial. The Quakers do not believe in decorated graves, but on a small stone Euven chisels, “Matthew Harkins of Dover, England. He was a friend.” There is no mention of his military rank or of the war.
Captain Harkins was well liked. Many British soldiers stand about. There are drum rolls as the burial takes place, but I do not think of the redcoats or of the music. My mind is full of the captain’s son, a baby who will never see his father because of me.
The snow is still falling and will soon be deep. We do not often have big snows. I watch the fat flakes falling across the graves, and words come to my memory. They are from the play Euven and I read: “It is the dead, not the living, who make the longest demands.”
When it is over, Euven and I must separate. His head is swollen, but he pats my shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself over my wound,” he says. “It will heal.”
I move with the British back to my keeping room, and I think that, like the eyes that follow Cato, I will see those blue eyes of Captain Harkins always.
The winter passes slowly. Once Cato is able to steal a cow from the scrawny herd the British secure somewhere. He hides the animal in the forest and by night drives it to Burndale. Biddy will cook it over an open fire in the swamp and sneak meat to my family.
Euven is not allowed to visit me again, but Cato brings word that he is married now and has taken Hannah and her mother to his small home. I am pleased.
On a day in late March, I am sweeping the upstairs veranda when I spot the blue-violet wildflowers that have sprung up in the clearing just at the edge of the woods. I stop my work, walk to the railing, and stare. I marvel that spring has actually returned to South Carolina. Soon the honeysuckle will blossom once more around the gallows in the side garden. Will this war go on, as I, a prisoner, mark the beginning of spring after spring?
There is as yet no new growth in the vegetable gardens. Even the British are now hungry. “It may be de empty bellies that beats ’em,” Cato tells me one night, and I, having observed Cato’s wisdom, begin to hope.
On the 25th of April there is a battle just outside Camden at Hobkirk Hill. Lord Rawdon and his troops return claiming victory, but even I can see that the army is weakened. Moreover, the slight triumph is meaningless. American troops, driven back but a few miles, still surround Camden except for a narrow passage leading in the direction of Charleston. I stand, when I can, on the veranda, stare toward the coast, and imagine the British marching away from Camden. I can almost smile.
It begins on a morning in early May. Cato wakes me before dawn. “They going,” he says. “You got to hide yo’self away.” But it is too late. A British soldier is beside us and orders us to the ballroom to gather blankets thrown on the floor by soldiers in a hurry. From beneath us there is the sound of wood being struck with
axes. When I can slip away, I go at once to the dining room, and I stand in the doorway, watching.
Two soldiers are swinging axes, chopping at my mother’s mahogany table. I am unable to turn away until nothing is left except pieces that one man begins to heave through the glass panes of the back window. His companion now starts to hack at the sideboard.
Everywhere it is the same, broken beds, shattered mirrors. Bayonets have torn at the flowers on the sofa, and stuffing tumbles out to cover the shredded damask. What is left of Mother’s Sea Leaf china is smashed against the now scarred floors of our once fine home.
Rage leaves me weak. Why must they destroy what is left behind? From the upstairs window I see fires all about town, and know that destruction does not touch only Kershaw House.
Likely they will burn this house too, though I wonder if they would take time to break so much if they planned for it all to go up in flames. Will they leave behind, unharmed, the son of Colonel Joseph Kershaw? I find the possibility not a strong one.
Am I, who have survived these long and terrible eleven months with the British, to die on this their last day? Weak from lack of food and from the horror of many days, at first the thought of death does not disturb me overmuch. But gradually I begin to think of Mother, Mary, and the little ones. What agony for them to come back home to find my body among the ruins of home.
I gather my strength and begin to walk, staying close to the wall. Cato and I have been separated, but he comes to find me in the keeping room. “They ’pears to forget ’bout us,” he says. “We got to slip out ’fore they burns this house.”
Cato goes to a back window. I look around once at my keeping room before I follow. Outside I stare at the stockade.
Many of the prisoners have been loaded into wagons and driven away by the British. I wonder if those too weak to move have been left behind, but Cato pulls me away from the pen toward the woods.
When we reach the cover of trees, I stop. “Come on,” urges Cato, but I do not move.
“You go,” I say, and I lean against a pine. “I want to stay here. I want to see what happens to Kershaw House.”
Cato stays beside me. We watch the last British soldier leave our house and green. The somber sounds of the English drums and fife do not completely disappear before lighter notes begin to mix. “Our men,” I shout. “Our men are coming!” I am running from the woods and stumble over a fallen dead limb. Rising, I notice that to my left are two dogwood trees, full of white and wonderful blossoms. “The dogwoods are in bloom!” I shout.
I do not stop. I run past the house and down the green. I run, and jump, and shout. The Wateree River calls to me. It is spring, and I long to dash to the water’s edge, to see a white heron rise up in flight before me.
But I look back toward the house. Some of our troops will be left to care for sick prisoners. I want to see what is happening, and the redcoats, I am sure, have left Burndale also. Soon my uncle will bring my mother and the children. They will be eager to make sure that I have not been injured or killed.
The river will have to wait. I pick up a small tree branch. Dragging it through the sand and grass behind me as I did when I was a child, I turn back. I will sit on the front steps of Kershaw House, and I will strain for the first sight of my family returning home.
When at last they come, it is not in my uncle’s fine carriage, which I suppose has been taken by the British. Instead an old wagon, pulled by one thin horse, comes up the hill. I do not run toward them. Instead I hurry inside to watch from the doorway.
I want to look at each one. Uncle Samuel helps Mother down. She is thin, but still straight. Mary jumps to the ground at once and is running. George and Sarah have grown tall, and little Rebecca’s steps are no longer the uncertain ones of a baby.
Mother sees me and holds out her arms. “Welcome home,” I shout. “Welcome home to Kershaw House.”
Chapter Twelve
Dear Son,
My captors are allowing me to write a brief note to each of you. My prison is damp and uncomfortable. I pass the days thinking of South Carolina and of my dear family. By the time this reaches you it will be spring, and the air will be filled with the yellow pollen from Camden’s guardians, the pine trees. How I long to supervise the spring planting, walking with you by my side. We get no real news here, but whispered rumor says that the British are suffering great losses. I pray such is the truth and that I will be home shortly. I remain always
Your loving father,
Joseph Kershaw
The British have been gone now for a fortnight.
My mother does not complain about the condition of our home. She has had a banister made for the inside stairs.
People say that the rumors Father hears are true. The war is winding down. It is time for me to write him a letter.
On a day in late May, I go out to the veranda. There is a small table there. I take a quill and paper. Mary has found flower seeds, which she plants now in the front garden. Soon green vines will push through the scarred soil, and bright buds will cover the burial ditches.
I sit at the table. For a few minutes I stare at the blank paper, but once I have written, “Dear Father,” other words begin to come quickly to my mind.
The British are gone from Camden. You will come home soon, and we will be here waiting. There are some things I must tell you. For one thing, Mother has given Cato and Biddy both their freedom and land. She has bought Biddy’s husband too and given him his free papers. I think you will agree that it was right for her to do so. Without them we should not have survived our ordeal.
I have given Mary my books. Our Mary is determined to have an education, and I hope you will decide to provide her one as good as any boy’s. Mary is brave and strong, and I believe we will all be proud of her.
But the greatest change of all, I think, is in me. I can take no joy, ever again, in any battle. A British officer died here to save my life. Captain Harkins was a just man whose death does not allow me to hate a man only because he fights on the other side.
There is also the matter of slavery. Having learned what it is to be a prisoner, I can never imprison another human being by making him my slave.
I have no wish to distress you, Father, but I am not at all sure you will want me to manage your holdings in the future. Such a task would be a great honor, but I am not the boy I was before this war.
Often, I have stood on the veranda of Kershaw House and watched. I will be there watching for you, and I hope you will be glad to see me, the son who has changed but who loves and respects you still.
Joseph Kershaw Jr.
After I walk to town to post my letter, I go back to the keeping room. Mother protests because I still sleep on a mat spread upon this brick floor. Perhaps someday I can return to the room upstairs where I slept as a boy. For now the keeping room seems right.
Acknowledgments
A special thank-you goes to my niece, Amy Biggers Trent, who first suggested that I write about Camden and who helped with the research. Thank you also to Amy’s husband, Dr. Robert Trent, who gave me excellent medical care when I became ill while visiting.
My brother-in-law, Dr. Charles Biggers, has always helped me. In the early days, he put my manuscripts on his computer. For this book, he drove my sister and me on the research journey, took rolls and rolls of film, and made it possible for me to fly home at once when that suddenly became necessary. Thank you, Charlie.
I am grateful to Agnes Corbett, Director of the Camden Archives and Museum, for her invaluable research assistance.
I owe a great debt to my new friend Ruth Reddick, who showed us through Historic Camden. She went far beyond the call of duty, later writing for me a beautiful description of the things that make her love Camden.
I appreciate the people of Camden for their dedication to the preservation of history that made it possible for me to stand in Kershaw-Cornwallis House and imagine life there during the Revolution. I hope young Joseph and his family would approve o
f what I imagined and would forgive me the slight liberties I took with what we know of their history.
Also by Anna Myers
Red-Dirt Jessie
Rosie’s Tiger
Graveyard Girl
Fire in the Hills
Spotting the Leopard
Copyright © 1997 by Anna Myers
First published in the United States of America in 1997
by Walker Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.
E-book edition published in June 2013
www.bloomsbury.com
For information about permission to reproduce selections from his book, write to Permissions, Walker BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Canada, Limited, Markham, Ontario
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Anna.
The keeping room / Anna Myers.
p. cm.
Summary: Left in charge of the family by his father, who joins the Revolutionary War effort, thirteen-year-old Joey undergoes such great changes that he fears he may be betraying his beloved parent. ISBN 0-8027-8641-3 (hardcover)
1. United States—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Juvenile fiction. [1. United States—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Fiction. 2. Fathers and sons—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M9718Ke 1997