“I said I was comin’ back,” said Jammy. Phoebe, sobbing against him, did not answer.
At once, Charlotte spotted Nick standing by the kitchen door, grinning and shaking his head at the same time. She ran to him. He put an arm around her and pulled her close to his side.
“Sweetheart, you’ve had a busy day. I was at Headquarters when the Magistrate’s message arrived. The messenger told us that a young woman had stood up in court and commanded the magistrate not to proceed with sentencing. That was the word he used. ‘Commanded.’ I knew the young woman must be you. I wish I’d been there to see it. But, darling, you were taking a chance.”
“I had my fingers crossed.” Charlotte smiled. “If Morley hadn’t been arrested, I would have looked an utter fool . . . if not actually insane. But I was lucky.”
Jammy, his arms still around Phoebe and his chin resting on the top of her head, was smiling too. “I’m the lucky one, ’cause I’m still alive, and Charlotte says that in one year I’m gonna be free.”
“This is a wonderful day,” said Charlotte. “But I’m glad it’s over.” She turned to Nick. “What was the reaction at Southern Command when you showed them the bill of lading?”
“Complete shock. But the evidence left no room for doubt. The commanding officer sent a platoon to arrest Morley. Naturally, I went along to observe. We went first to his warehouse at the foot of Broad Street. The foreman said Mr. Morley wouldn’t be in until later because he had to go to the Magistrates and Freeholders Court to give his deposition about a runaway slave. The moment I heard this, I felt sure the slave was Jammy.
“It was just eight o’clock, too early for court to be in session. The captain of the squad thought Morley would still be at home, so he led us directly to his house.
“The butler answered the door. When he saw the soldiers with their muskets and the captain with his sword, he went lickety-split to fetch Morley. In a couple of minutes Morley appeared, already dressed for his morning in court. It seems he fully intended to be there; he’d prepared the deposition just as a precaution, which was a common practice with him.
“When the captain told him he was under arrest for assisting the enemy, he looked too shocked to speak. But he did speak, and I’ve never before heard such defiance. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘you have received false information. I am, and always have been, a true and faithful subject of His Majesty the King.’
“Then the captain read the charge and said that he had orders to take Morley to the Provost Dungeon. Morley looked furious, but he had dignity. ‘Sir, ’ he said, ‘there is no need for your men to lay their hands on me.’ And off they went.
“Mrs. Morley had come downstairs by this time. As the soldiers marched her husband away, she started moaning that she didn’t know what would become of her and her children.”
Phoebe, now released from Jammy’s arms, was wiping tears from her cheeks when a whimper from the direction of Noah’s cradle sent her hurrying into the kitchen.
“I think all of us are hungry,” said Mrs. Doughty. “So I’m going to cook up a mess of grits. And then I’ll look for some clothes that will fit Jammy.” She turned to him. “Unless thee objects to dressing like a Friend?”
“That’ll be just fine, ma’am. But first I want to clean up.”
“Thee needs a bath,” she agreed. “Nowadays, it seems that everybody who comes to my house reeks of the swamp.”
Jammy cleaned up very nicely, Charlotte thought. Phoebe, so clever with her needle, turned one of the late Mr. Doughty’s suits of solemn black into a trim-fitting pair of breeches with a matching short coat.
But Jammy did not join the household in Stoll’s Alley. Mrs. Doughty’s small home was already crammed to capacity with her own family, Charlotte and Nick, and Phoebe and the baby.
Application made to the magistrate resulted in permission for Jammy to lodge with a Quaker family, friends of Mrs. Doughty, who lived on Meeting Street.
After two nights of sleeping in Mrs. Doughty’s cellar, Jammy was willing to move. The Quaker family agreed to take responsibility for him until he became eligible to apply for the General Birch certificate.
Since, for the time being, Jammy was not allowed to leave the premises of the family on Meeting Street, Phoebe promised to visit him every day.
“Here’s something for you, Phoebe,” Nick announced when he returned from work the day after Jammy’s move. “This has been waiting at the lawyer’s office for me to sign. Guard it well.”
Phoebe and Charlotte, both busy with mending, looked up from their work. The long document in Nick’s hand bore a bright red seal. Phoebe set down the child’s stocking she had been darning and took the paper from him. After scanning it for a minute, she read aloud:
Province of South Carolina. To all to whom these Presents shall come to be seen or made known, I Nicholas John Schyler send Greeting. Know ye that I the said Nicholas John Schyler have manumitted, enfranchised and set free, and do by these Presents manumit, enfranchise and set free a certain Negro woman named Phoebe of and from all manner of bondage and Slavery whatsoever. To have and to hold such manumission and freedom unto the said Negro woman for ever. In Witness whereof I have hereunto set my Hand and Seal this twenty-seventh day of February in the year of out Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-one.
Charlotte sat listening. So this was the document that she had asked Captain Braemar to pick up if he could. It had remained in the lawyer’s office, waiting for Nick to sign it.
Phoebe looked up. “Thank you, Mr. Nick. All my life I’ve dreamed of freedom.” For a moment she appeared incapable of saying more. Then she added in a low voice. “There’s one thing missing. This paper doesn’t say anything about Noah.”
“Since I didn’t own him, it wasn’t in my power to manumit him.”
“Then he still belongs to Mr. Morley?”
“Legally, he does. But you have nothing to fear from him. Mr. Morley is locked up in the Provost Dungeon. His house and all his property have been confiscated.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that,” Charlotte said. “It’s what the rebels did to us Loyalists, back in the Mohawk Valley. I’m tempted to say, ‘It serves him right.’ But in truth, two wrongs don’t make a right. What will Mrs. Morley and their children do? It seems harsh to throw the family onto the street.”
“Mrs. Morley’s sister, Mrs. Vesey, is sending a schooner to take them all to Fair Meadow, the Veseys’ plantation up the Cooper River. Don’t feel too sorry for Mrs. Morley. The British authorities are allowing her to take not only her clothes and jewellery, but also any slaves who choose to stay in her service.”
“Do any choose to stay?” asked Charlotte. “I certainly wouldn’t choose to remain in slavery.”
“It goes against the grain, doesn’t it?” said Nick. “But one slave has chosen to remain.”
“Who?” asked Phoebe.
“The nursemaid.”
“That’s Betty.” Phoebe nodded. “I understand. She’s getting old and wants to be sure of a roof over her head. She’s likely afraid she’ll starve if she’s on her own. But what about the others?”
“They’ll all apply for the General Birch certificate. The butler will serve by polishing British officers’ boots. The laundress will wash their clothes. The cook will prepare meals for the new residents of Morley’s house.”
“I already know what Jammy will do,” Phoebe exclaimed. “He wants to enlist in Colonel Thompson’s cavalry unit, the Independent Troop of Black Dragoons.”
“That will be perfect for him,” said Charlotte, “with all his experience around horses.”
Nick turned to Charlotte. “Sweetheart, I have some news for you, too.”
“Yes?”
“Morley’s house has been assigned as living quarters for the Civilian Department of Southern Command.”
“Your department!”
“Exactly. There are eight bedrooms. You and I can have one, if you like.”
For a moment her mind dwe
lt on what this meant. A house in the finest part of town. Dinners prepared by Lewis Morley’s cook. A bedroom of their own. A featherbed instead of two straw mattresses on the front room floor.
It was not easy to say no.
“I can’t live there, Nick. I’ll always remember how I felt when I learned that the Sons of Liberty had taken over my family’s home: sleeping in our beds, warming themselves at our fireplace. I’d consider myself no better than those villains if I were to do the same.”
“I thought so. That’s why I did not put down our name.”
Chapter 29
“THEE NEEDS NOT carry laundry any longer,” said Mrs. Doughty, “Nick pays a fair rate for thy lodging. Now that Phoebe has a certificate to prove she is free, she can go about town without hindrance as my helper.”
“But I like to!” Charlotte protested. “I need to be useful. If I didn’t help you, whatever would I do with myself all day?”
Into her mind came a vision of how Mrs. Knightly spent her days in the officers’ quarters. Drinking tea. Planning balls. Being fitted for new gowns. No. That was not the life Charlotte wanted.
She would have liked work that was both useful and interesting. Apart from the chance to pick up bits of news as she made her rounds, carrying bundles of laundry was hardly interesting. For the time being, she reckoned that she would settle for useful.
Nick bought a two-wheel handcart for her use. It was a great help, once she learned to navigate around potholes and garbage. In her free time she often took Patience, Charity and Joseph for rides—one at a time, for one child was all the handcart could carry.
On these excursions she saw white labourers and free blacks working together to repair the fortifications. Little more than a year ago, the British bombardment had knocked them down. Now another siege seemed likely. This time it would be rebels attacking the British occupiers.
Tension gripped the city. Only the most optimistic Loyalists clung to the dream that victory was still within their grasp.
Still, despite every rebel victory, gentlemen in coffee houses assured each other, as long as Fort Ninety-Six remained in British hands, everything might still be fine. Fort Ninety-Six. The key to the backcountry: that’s what Nick had called it. Captain Braemar was one of its defenders. His regiment had gone there right after he gave Charlotte the news of Nick’s capture by ruffians. It was where Elijah would be now, if he had not deserted. Fort Ninety-Six, with its prosperous village, was the stronghold where the loyal forces would make their stand.
It was no wonder that she listened especially for news of Ninety-Six. In the spring of 1781 its fate hung in the balance. The fortress was under attack. For weeks in June the unbeatable General Greene, the Fighting Quaker, had the fort under siege. Short of water, short of food, short of ammunition, the defending army held on, waiting for reinforcements.
Then the miracle happened. General Greene gave up. One fine day, he abandoned the siege and marched his army away.
For one week, there was great joy in Charleston.
Just one week. Then everything changed.
Charlotte, on her laundry rounds, had never before heard such mutterings of betrayal as she heard when the news arrived that the defenders of Ninety-Six, after driving off General Green’s rebel forces, had destroyed their own fort and burned the village to the ground.
Gentlemen milled about in front of the London Coffee House on King Street.
“I can’t believe it,” one gentleman said, lifting his nose from his copy of the Royal Gazette. “The rebels had retreated. Fort Ninety-Six was saved.”
“Madness.”
“Utter folly.”
It made no sense to Charlotte either.
Nick returned late that evening. Charlotte had waited up for him, a lit candle in the front room window, worrying lest he had come to harm. At his approach, she opened the door.
As soon as he entered, he sank wearily onto the settle. She sat down beside him.
“Have you heard about Ninety-Six?” he asked.
“Yes. I don’t understand why an army would destroy its own fort.”
“I can explain. More than a month ago, Southern Command decided that Ninety-Six was too remote to maintain. It sent orders to Commander Cruger to abandon it. The orders were sent repeatedly. Not one courier got through.
“So Commander Cruger didn’t know he was under orders to abandon the fort. His duty, so far as he knew, was to defend it. And that’s what he did.
“He had requested reinforcements. When they finally arrived, the rebels had already given up the siege. With the reinforcements came the orders that had failed to arrive weeks before.”
“I see,” said Charlotte. “So after saving Ninety-Six, his army now had to destroy it.” She wondered how Commander Cruger could bear to carry out such orders.
“Yes. He had to command his men to tear down the fortifications and to burn the village. The church. The tavern. The courthouse. The jail. The houses. All went up in flames.”
“What will happen to the people who lived in the village?”
“My department has two weeks to get ready for a thousand more refugees.”
“Where will you put them?”
“I don’t know. Every bit of vacant land is already filled with homeless people. In the camp just outside town, families are living in huts made of scraps of canvas, smashed carts and palmetto leaves. I’ve seen wagons arriving from the interior with men between the shafts because their horses have been stolen or their oxen eaten. Now worse is to come.”
On a hot August afternoon, Charlotte was returning to Stoll’s Alley from picking up laundry. The streets were jammed with people pushing wheelbarrows and handcarts. Some had bundles tied on their backs. None looked as if they knew where they were going.
She felt tired and sweaty as she reached Mrs. Doughty’s door. Her hand was on the latch when suddenly a half brick shot by her and smashed a pane in the front window. She put her hand up to shield her eyes from the flying shards. Something sharp struck her brow.
Blood was running into her eyes as she opened the door and pushed the handcart inside.
“Thee is hurt!” Mrs. Doughty rushed to her and shut the door. Phoebe jumped up from the braided rug, where she had been playing with the children. At the sight of blood streaming down Charlotte’s face, Patience, Charity, Joseph and Noah began to cry. Mrs. Doughty and Phoebe led Charlotte into the kitchen, and helped her to a chair.
“Let me see,” said Mrs. Doughty.
“It’s nothing.” Charlotte struggled to control the shakiness of her voice.
“God be thanked thine eye has been spared.” Mrs. Doughty pressed a folded cloth against her brow. “This will staunch the flow of blood.”
Charlotte heard another smash as a second windowpane shattered. “Who’s doing this? Why?”
“Ruffians. The city is in turmoil. At times like these, people look for somebody to blame for everything. Outsiders make a good target.”
The noise in front of the house had stopped.
“Hold this here.” Mrs. Doughty pressed Charlotte’s fingers to the cloth on her brow. She went into the front room and looked out the window. “Some good citizens have come to our aid. They’re holding the ruffians. It’s all over.”
At least for now, Charlotte thought.
“I’ll put sticking plaster on thy cut,” said Mrs. Doughty. Calmly she mixed up a thick white paste in a little cup and applied a dab of it to Charlotte’s brow. “Rest for a bit while this hardens. Then change thy gown.”
Charlotte glanced down. Her skirt and bodice were splattered with blood.
“One of the Friends, a carpenter, will repair the window,” said Mrs. Doughty. “I’ll write a note for thee to deliver to him when thee is feeling better.”
“I can deliver it,” said Phoebe.
“No,” said Mrs. Doughty. “Thee is safer indoors while there’s such unrest.”
While Phoebe fetched Charlotte a tumbler of water, Mrs. Doughty took a
quill, an inkhorn and a sheet of paper from her cupboard and, sitting at the kitchen table, began to write. Her hands were red and cracked, and her fingernails split. Washerwoman’s hands.
By the time Mrs. Doughty finished writing, the children had stopped crying. After a few more minutes’ rest, Charlotte changed her gown.
Mrs. Doughty handed her the note. The name on the front was Levi Blount. The address was on Meeting Street.
“Is that close to Mrs. Perkins’ house?” Charlotte asked.
“Two doors further. There’s a small community of Friends whose houses are close together.”
“I reckon you’d be safer if you dwelt among them.”
“Indeed, we would be safer, instead of being the only Friends living in Stoll’s Alley.” She paused. “Caleb bought this house because the location was convenient for his customers. The front room was his shop.”
“Now that things are different, have you thought of moving?”
“That suggestion has been made.” Mrs. Doughty picked up her broom and began to sweep together the shards of broken glass.
Charlotte still felt shaky as she left the house, glancing this way and that to be sure no more bricks were coming her way.
In a few minutes she arrived at the plain clapboard house two doors past Mrs. Perkins’ home. As she lifted the knocker, she felt very conscious of the patch of sticking plaster on her forehead.
An elderly woman dressed in Quaker black came to the door.
“I have a message for Friend Levi Blount,” said Charlotte.
“Levi!” the old woman called to someone in another room.
Charlotte, assuming that she was calling her husband, was surprised to see a man no more than forty years of age come to the door. Under the brim of his black hat, his dark sideburns were barely touched with grey.
He took the message from her and invited her to step inside. Would she like a drink of water? She must be hot after her walk.
“No, thank you. I must get back.”
She left him reading the note.
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