When both of them had descended, Charlotte asked, “What shall we do with the ladder?”
“Let’s leave it in place, with the ceiling boards pushed out of the way, in case someone else comes along who needs a dry place to stay.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Let’s do that. When the next person comes here, I wonder what he’ll make of what he sees. Will he guess at the stories the red coat and the shackles have to tell?”
They waded from the cabin into dappled sunlight. On the creek bank the alligator lay basking.
“It’s not hungry. It’s not hungry,” Charlotte told herself. Certainly it didn’t look hungry. As they walked by, its leathery eyelids flicked over its bulbous eyes. No other part of the gator moved. On its sculpted face it wore a yard-long crooked smile.
Chapter 24
THE GROUND WAS spongy but firm as long as they were under the trees. Nick, in the lead, seemed confident that they were walking in the right direction. Charlotte was not so sure. One cypress tree looked much like another. But she suppressed her suspicion that they were lost and followed doggedly after.
She didn’t know how long they had been walking—maybe an hour—when they came to a field of mud that looked half a mile wide.
“Do we go through it or around it?” she asked.
“Let’s try going through it. Going around it would take an hour.”
They had walked only a few yards, their feet squelching, when Nick stopped and turned toward her. “I think I’ve lost my shoes.”
There he stood in mud up to his ankles.
“We’d better find them, ” she said, “if only to save the buckles.”
They groped in the muck and pulled out the shoes. Under an inch-thick coat of mud, they barely resembled shoes any longer. Nick carried them until he and Charlotte reached higher ground. Then he borrowed her knife to scrape them before putting them back on his feet.
Charlotte felt thankful for her stout boots, with their waterproof coating of beeswax, tallow and tar. Through everything, her feet were dry.
On their left rose a wooded hill.
“If we climb to the top, ” Charlotte suggested, “we might get a better idea of problems that lie ahead.”
“That might help, ” Nick agreed.
As they climbed, the wooded slope began to look familiar. This might, she thought, be the same hill that she had mistaken for an island when she stood on the porch of Hewitt’s Inn.
Reaching the top, she saw Hewitt’s Inn below them, half a mile to the south. So all their slogging through the swamp had taken them in a circle. At this rate, they’d never reach Charleston in just one day.
From the top of the hill, Charlotte and Nick also had a perfect view of the wagon track, which was mostly above water once again.
Approaching from the northwest was a wagon drawn by a pair of mules. Two men sat on the seat at the front. A black tarpaulin, sagging in the middle, covered the wagon bed.
“That wagon’s empty, ” said Nick. “It’s probably on its way back to Charleston after delivering its load—supplies for General Greene, most likely.”
“Maybe it will stop at the inn.”
“It probably will, but just long enough for the men to have a meal and rest the mules. They’ll want to get the wagon back to town tonight.”
A brilliant idea sprang into Charlotte’s mind. “Let’s hitch a ride.”
Nick snorted. “You can’t be serious! With a slave collar around my neck and a hand bolt locked to one wrist, I need to stay out of sight. But even if there were no danger in being seen, who would offer either of us a ride, the way we look? We’re filthy.”
“I didn’t mean we’d ask for a ride. If the men go into the inn, we can crawl under the tarpaulin and relax all the way back to Charleston. No more mosquitoes. No more bogs. And we’ll be back in Charleston tonight.”
“You clever girl!” His eyes brightened. “We can jump off when we reach the outskirts of Charleston. It will be dark by then. No one will see us.” He squeezed her hand. “Let’s go!”
Descending the wooded hill, they briefly lost sight of the wagon. But when they reached the bottom and watched from the cover of the trees, there it was, coming to a stop in front of the inn, only about fifty feet from where they stood.
The carters climbed down from their seat. They hitched the wagon to a post and went inside, leaving the mules, still in harness, munching the greenery that grew beside the track.
Nick and Charlotte approached the wagon, careful to keep it between themselves and the inn, in case somebody happened to look out the window.
“I’ll release the tailgate, ” said Nick, “then I’ll climb under the tarpaulin and lift up an edge for you to crawl under.”
She nodded. “Hurry!”
He crept to the back of the wagon, undid a couple of catches—one on each side—and carefully let down the tailgate. Then he climbed onto the wagon bed and disappeared under the tarpaulin. A moment later, one edge rose. She saw his arm holding it up in an inverted V, like the entrance to a little tent.
Charlotte dashed across the open ground that lay between the trees and the wagon. Nick grabbed her hand to pull her up. Then she dived under the tarpaulin while Nick lifted the tailgate and fastened it in place. When he dropped the tarpaulin, it lay on them like a collapsed tent.
“What’s that bad smell?” Charlotte asked. “Like rotten eggs.”
“Gunpowder.”
“It doesn’t smell like gunpowder.”
“Unfired gunpowder doesn’t smell the same as burnt powder. What you’re smelling is saltpetre and sulphur.” They lay side by side. “Now, ” said Nick, “you crawl over to one side, and I’ll go to the other. We don’t want to make a lump in the middle.”
It was black as night under the tarpaulin. As soon as Charlotte reached her side of the wagon bed, she lifted the edge of the tarpaulin just an inch to admit a little light and air. As she squirmed about, trying to find a comfortable position on the wagon bed, her hand brushed a smooth sheet of paper.
Curious, she picked it up, and then she lifted the edge of the tarpaulin another inch so that she could read the writing. The paper appeared to be an invoice or bill of some kind—not the sort of thing she would expect to find lying on the floorboards of a wagon. The writing was in a neat clerical hand:
Bill of Lading
Rifles, 6 crates. 10 rifles per crate
Gunpowder, four barrels
For Delivery to General Nathanael Greene
Benbow’s Ferry
She turned over the paper. On the other side was a scribbled note in pencil:
Load shipment 19 February. End of 2nd Watch.
Warehouse foot of Broad Street.
Speak to Lewis Morley and no one else.
This took a moment to sink in.
It was hard to believe. But the words admitted no other interpretation. Lewis Morley, a staunch Loyalist, was involved in shipping arms to the rebels.
She slipped the paper between the pages of the Bible that Mrs. Doughty had given her. As she put it into her pouch, she heard men’s voices approaching. Charlotte dropped the edge of the tarpaulin and lay still.
She heard the men untie the mules. The wagon gave a slight lurch as the carters climbed onto their seat.
“Giddy-up!” one called out.
The wagon jolted forward. At first she felt as if her bones would shake loose with the bouncing and jouncing. But she got used to it. Lying there with nothing else to do, she had plenty of time to think.
There were two possibilities. First, Mr. Morley might always have been a secret rebel, a man who truly believed in the goals of the revolution. Second, he might be doing this just for the money. Importing goods from abroad had made him rich. Selling rifles and gunpowder to the rebels would make him richer still.
Charlotte really didn’t care about his motives. His actions were what counted. And as she mulled over the consequences of his actions, she thought of Jammy.
Morley’s
treason, when it came to light, would turn Jammy’s situation upside down. If he applied to Southern Command as an escaped slave owned by a rebel, he would not be sent back to his owner. Instead, he would be offered a chance to work on fortifications or to join a regiment like the Black Pioneers or the Black Dragoons. And at the end of one year he would be awarded a General Birch certificate guaranteeing his future as a free man.
She must get this news to Jammy before he left Charleston. She could hardly wait to tell him that now there was no reason for him to flee. He and Phoebe need not part.
Hurry! Hurry! She silently urged the plodding mules. But her urging had no effect.
She couldn’t relax, not holding such a secret. She burned to tell Nick.
Many long hours went slowly by. It was dark under the tarpaulin. Even when she raised its edge to admit a slit of light, the wagon’s solid wooden side kept her from seeing where she was. She had no idea how far they had travelled until the light outside began to fade and the approach of night told her that Charleston must be near.
It was completely dark when she felt a tap on the shoulder. Nick had crawled over to her side of the wagon.
“Now!”
The tarpaulin shifted. A click, followed by another click, told her that Nick had released the tailgate. The wagon gave a bounce when he jumped.
Then she jumped too, half rolling from the open end. Nick pulled her to her feet and off the track.
The wagon did not stop. To the men seated at the front, their passengers’ departure must have felt like a couple of bumps on the rutted track. When the men arrived at the stable, they might wonder how they could have forgotten to fasten the tailgate. Apart from that, Nick and Charlotte’s presence would leave no mark.
Charlotte looked up. The sky was full of stars.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“At the Charleston boundary. We’re inside the hornwork wall that crosses from the Ashley River to the Cooper.”
A breeze was blowing from the harbour, fresh against her skin. Over the sound of small creatures scuttling in the grass, she heard the rippling chime of distant bells—the bells of St. Michael’s Church, each singing with a different voice.
“Eleven o’clock.” Nick put his arms around her and held her for a minute without speaking. Then he kissed her. “We’ve done it!” he said, and kissed her again. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Doughty’s house.”
“Just a minute. I have something to show you. A paper I found on the wagon floor.” She pulled the bill of lading from her satchel and held it under his nose.
“I can’t read it. It’s too dark.”
“It’s a bill of lading that lists six crates of rifles, ten rifles to a crate, and four barrels of gunpowder to be delivered to General Nathanael Greene at Benbow’s Ferry.” She stopped for breath. “And on the back there’s a note in pencil that says, ‘Load shipment 19 February. End of 2nd Watch. Warehouse foot of Broad Street. Speak to Lewis Morley and no one else.’”
“Good God!” said Nick. “Put that paper right back in your satchel. I have to show this to Southern Command. You know what it means, don’t you?”
“It means freedom for Jammy.”
“Yes, it does. We certainly owe it to Jammy to make sure of that. But much more than one boy’s freedom is involved.”
Chapter 25
THEY WALKED HAND-IN-HAND to Stoll’s Alley through the quiet streets. At the front door, Charlotte took her house key from her satchel. They tiptoed inside, not wanting to waken the household.
Nick struck a spark with his flint and steel to make a fire in the front room fireplace. Charlotte lit a candle. By its light Nick read the bill of lading. He read both front and back.
“It seems that Lewis Morley isn’t the upstanding citizen everyone thought him.”
“I never thought he was upstanding. Look how treated Phoebe. How upstanding was that?”
“It’s his public reputation, not his private morals that I’m talking about. Everyone thinks he’s a loyal subject of King George.” Nick tapped the bill of lading with his finger. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone.”
“Not to Phoebe? Not to Jammy?”
“Not to anyone. In the morning I’ll show this paper to Southern Command.”
“When you’ve done that, may I tell Phoebe and Jammy.”
“No, my dear. There must be absolute secrecy. If word leaks out, the people involved may simply disappear. They’ll escape before they can be caught. Morley’s an important man. He may not be the only important man to have a hand in this. We know supply wagons reach General Greene’s army and Francis Marion’s swamp dodgers in the interior. Some wagons go all the way to George Washington’s forces in Virginia.”
“Why doesn’t the army intercept them?”
“Southern Command’s troops are spread too thin. Besides that, there are hundreds of rebel sympathizers ready to turn a blind eye, even when they have an idea what’s happening. Wagons load in the middle of the night. We don’t know who the suppliers or the organizers are.” His finger tapped the paper again. “This is the only breakthrough there’s been.
“First thing tomorrow, as soon as I’ve bathed and changed my clothes, I’ll visit a locksmith to remove the rest of the hardware. I mustn’t attract attention when I take in this paper. Even at Southern Command there may be traitors. There’s more than one Benedict Arnold in this world.”
“I know about Benedict Arnold. Everybody despises him, even though he’s on our side.”
“Arnold’s not on anybody’s side but his own. He’s been a schemer all his life. He schemed to win George Washington’s support to make him Commander of West Point. As soon as he took command, he started negotiations to hand it over to the British for twenty thousand pounds.”
“That’s a fortune!”
“If the plot had succeeded, he’d be a very wealthy man, and Britain would be winning the war.”
“You sound sure of that.”
“I am sure. Here’s why. In the North, the British commander General Clinton has an army of thousands of soldiers. In the South, General Cornwallis has thousands more. But they can’t function as an effective fighting force as long as George Washington’s troops hold the territory in between. West Point is a strategic location on the Hudson River. If England held West Point, Clinton and Cornwallis would be able to unite their forces in a single campaign.”
“Is Morley as dangerous as Benedict Arnold?”
“There’s no telling how dangerous he is. I’m sure he’s not acting alone. What if there’s a conspiracy to hand over Charleston to the rebels?” Nick looked at the bill of lading again. “This is the most important document I’ve ever held in my hands, even during the years I was a courier. Sweetheart, I’ll tell Southern Command that you found it. This makes you some kind of hero.”
“I didn’t do anything except pick up a piece of paper,” she said modestly, though secretly thrilled at the idea of being recognized as a heroine.
Nick stretched. “I can do nothing until morning. We might as well get some sleep.”
“I’m too excited to sleep,” Charlotte said as she dragged their mattresses onto the front room rug. “Can’t I just give a hint that Jammy won’t be a hunted man much longer?”
“Not even the smallest hint.” Nick stretched out on his mattress. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
At daybreak Noah woke them, crying to be fed.
Charlotte and Nick waited to give Phoebe enough time to take care of him, and then a little longer until they heard Mrs. Doughty’s footsteps on the stairs.
When Charlotte opened the door to the kitchen, there was Mrs. Doughty pouring flour into a big, yellow mixing bowl. Over by the window, Phoebe sat with Noah at her breast. Phoebe and Mrs. Doughty looked up. Their eyes opened wide.
Phoebe gave a shriek. “You’re back. You found Nick!”
“God be thanked!” There was a tremble in Mrs. Doughty’s voice and a smile on her face. “Nick l
ooks like a man of mud, and thee’s no better.”
“I dredged him from the very depths of the swamp,” said Charlotte. “Unluckily, it cost me your husband’s hat.”
“Do not trouble thee about a hat. I thank the Lord for thy safe return. We’ll eat breakfast, and then set up the bathtub.”
“No breakfast for me,” said Nick. “But I need a bath. It’s important that I report to Headquarters as soon as I can.”
“There’s water in the rain barrel for two baths,” said Mrs. Doughty.
While Nick was fetching the water, Charlotte set up the tin hipbath and the wicker privacy screen in the kitchen. As soon as he returned, he disappeared behind the screen with a full bucket of water, not taking time to warm it over the fire.
While Nick was taking a bath on one side of the screen and Mrs. Doughty was cooking grits on the other, Patience, Charity and Joseph came down the stairs. Now there were eight people, including the baby, in the small kitchen. They made so much confusion that there might as well have been eighteen. Charlotte shepherded the little Doughtys into the front room.
In a few minutes Phoebe joined them, leaving Noah in his cradle. As soon as she had shut the door, she asked, “Did you see Jammy?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. Has he been here?”
“No.” She stared hard at Charlotte. “You have seen him, haven’t you?”
“Yes. In the swamp.”
Before Charlotte or Phoebe had a chance to say more, Nick emerged from the kitchen clean-shaven, his freshly washed hair tied at the back with a black ribbon bow. He wore a blue coat and grey breeches with gleaming brass knee buckles. He would have looked very smart if there hadn’t been a slave collar around his neck and a hand bolt clamping one wrist.
“Apart from the hardware,” said Charlotte, “you look like a new man.”
When he took a step toward her, she took a step back, holding out her hands palm forward to fend him off. “Don’t touch me! I’m too dirty!”
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