Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  Snatching up her dressing-gown she rushed out into the hall. Three or four housemaids had dropped their tasks and were there too, squealing and shaking with fright, while a small colored boy clung to his mother and begged her not to let the British eat him up.

  Celia went to the attic. Burton had left the house early and she did not know where Elise was, probably looking through the spyglass at her own bedroom window. But Celia did not need the spyglass to see that during the night the British had set up cannon on the far bank of the river just across from the end of Tradd Street. These were the guns they were firing, while the rebels on the earthwork at that end of Tradd Street were shooting back. Between the guns the river was half hidden by puffs of smoke, but after peering through squinted eyes Celia observed that most of the British cannonballs were splashing into the water. Not one of them had come past the great earthwork into town. Most of the population of Charleston seemed to be running about the streets, but nobody was getting hurt. And while she stood and watched, the firing slackened.

  The smoke began to clear. It seemed that the British were not really trying to hit anything. They just wanted to announce that they were here. And the rebel guns, rumbling in reply, were merely answering, “We’re here too.”

  Now it seemed that the guns had stopped for good. As she watched the smoke blowing away Celia spoke aloud to herself. “That was a battle. That will be something to tell my grandchildren.” But she had a sense of disappointment. She had thought a battle would be more impressive than this.

  CHAPTER 11

  AFTER THAT SUNDAY THERE was more firing every day. The cannon would boom for an hour or two, then get quiet, then after a while they would start again. On both sides it had a sound of bravado. The British went on setting up guns on their bank of the river, the Americans on theirs. Neither side was strong enough yet to make a real attack; Celia wondered why they fired at all.

  After four or five days she asked Jimmy how much longer they were going on like this. Jimmy had come by the house not long after breakfast, dusty and unshaven and hungry, saying he had a few minutes to spare and would Celia scrape up some leftovers in the kitchen? She brought him a snack of cheese and cornbread, and he gobbled gratefully.

  In answer to her questions he said the firing was not useless. The watchman in the top of St. Michael’s had reported that the Americans were doing considerable damage to the British positions but because of the great earthworks they were receiving very little harm to their own. In the meantime they went on strengthening their defenses. The chief watchman in the steeple was Mr. Peter Timothy, who had been for years editor of the Gazette. He was a trained observer and you could trust what he said.

  Celia nodded impatiently. “Yes, Jimmy, yes. But they won’t keep firing like this, off and on! What’s going to happen?”

  Jimmy rubbed his fist over his stubbly chin. “Sweetheart, I can’t talk about that.”

  A few minutes later he hurried away. When she had taken the tray out to the kitchen Celia paused at the foot of the back staircase. From above her she could hear the voices of Elise and half a dozen others, chattering as they passed around the spyglass. The attic here, standing as it did on top of a three-story house, provided one of the best vantage points in the neighborhood, and women were always dropping in to look at the redcoats. Celia was welcome to join them, but just now she did not want to. She felt uneasy. Not because Jimmy could not answer her questions, this she could understand. But though Jimmy spoke cheerfully he did not look well. He was not merely tired, he was tense—Jimmy who was usually so loose-jointed that it was restful to look at him.

  Celia went up to the sewing room and took out the cravat. This cravat occupied not only her hands but her mind, for she was edging it with double-antique drawnwork and this meant she had to count threads every time she put in her needle.

  The wind blew in from the garden. It was a west wind, satiny on her cheeks, and now the flowers were blooming so thickly that even here on the third floor she thought she could smell them. When she was tired sewing she intended to go down and pull up some weeds. Unlike Elise she could not bear to sit in the house all day.

  She heard the garden gate bang, and the wind brought in a mighty tune.

  “Plant on my grave a weeping willow tree,

  A tree that sobs by night and day (Sad stuff),

  And that weeping willow tree will be weeping over me

  When you’ve dried up and blown away

  (Puff, puff).”

  It was Luke’s voice and Luke’s brand of nonsense and it brought her a sense of refreshment. He was going around toward the back. Leaving her workbasket on the table Celia ran down-stairs and out by the back door. Luke was striding past the vegetable garden, toward the stable. As he stopped to pull up some carrots he saw her, and waited.

  “Good morning, Sassyface!” he shouted. “Am I lucky enough to have you looking for me?”

  She laughed and nodded. Luke rubbed the carrots on the grass to get off the dirt, and they walked together toward the stable.

  “Did you have something to tell me?” he asked.

  “Nothing special,” said Celia. “I just thought it would be more interesting to talk to you than—” As she spoke she had glanced around toward the attic window, and now she stopped, realizing that she was not being very polite about her hostess. Luke grinned.

  “I told you she’d drive you daft. Ida’s planning to go up the river to stay with her folks, and Godfrey asked Elise if she wanted to go along, but not Elise. She’s having a fine time here.”

  They had reached the stable. Jerry put his head out of the half-door and nibbled the carrot Luke held out to him. After a moment Luke spoke again, this time more seriously.

  “Sassyface, I’ve come to take Jerry. I won’t be around for a while.”

  “Oh!” Celia stepped back so she could look up at him more directly. “You mean—you’re leaving for Moncks Corner?”

  “Not today. But soon. I want to have Jerry ready to go. Where’s Burton?”

  “Still sandbagging.”

  “I’ll probably see him. I’m not going to say good-by to Elise, she’d burst out bawling—not because she cares what becomes of me but she thinks that’s the proper way to send a hero off to the wars.”

  He paused, and stood stroking Jerry. Celia waited for him to speak again. When he did speak, it was with a smile of appreciation.

  “You’re easy to be with, Sassyface. You don’t talk all the time.”

  Celia made herself smile back at him, hoping there was nothing in her face or manner to show that she was feeling tremors of fear, as if somebody were brushing her skin with small cold feathers. She liked him and she dreaded his going into danger. She asked, “When are you leaving town, Luke?”

  He answered with a look of amusement. “Honeychild, even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she cried. “I forgot—you don’t ask a soldier things like that.”

  “Right, you don’t. But if you do, he doesn’t answer so no harm’s done.” Luke waved a greeting to a small black boy who had been sent from the kitchen to gather parsley in the garden. Turning back to Celia he said, “Now you’ll do something for me, Sassyface.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll go back into the house and get on with whatever you were doing before I came, and if anybody asks you what I was here for you’ll say I needed Jerry. I’ve taken him before. You’ll say nothing about this being the last time. Do that?”

  “Yes,” said Celia. She managed to look steadily into his blue eyes. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks,” said Luke. He took her hand. “I like you, Celia. Jimmy’s a lucky man. Remember what I promised—I’ll be around for your golden wedding.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it quickly. Celia was thinking, You’ll be around for my golden wedding if the British don’t kill you before I’m even a bride. She felt such a pain in her throat that she could barely push her voice out.

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nbsp; “Thank you,” she said, “and good-by.” This was the first time she had ever said good-by to a soldier. It was harder than she had thought. “God bless you, Luke,” she said softly, and she turned and hurried back toward the house. But she reminded herself that she must not run; they would suspect something if she seemed agitated. Slowing her pace she went on, past the garden and the kitchen-house, to the back porch, and then up the back staircase and into the room she had left.

  But her hands were not steady enough for her to take up her drawnwork. She walked up and down. From far across the Ashley River she heard the cannon start again. The sound sent goose-bumps over her skin. She wondered when she would see Luke again.

  She did not know when Luke left town. She did know that during the next two weeks the British kept moving up the far bank of the Ashley, setting gun emplacements as they went. But they seemed in no hurry about it. Through the spyglass she could frequently see the men sitting around, not doing anything at all. It made her nervous. She thought it would be easier—on herself at least—if they would really start their attack.

  She saw Jimmy only in snatches. He was always good-humored, always ready to eat with relish whatever she brought him from the kitchen, but his face was lined and he was getting thin. Jimmy had always been lean, but now he was almost gaunt. When she spoke of this he said it was because he had never worked so hard in his life. The militiamen coming in from the country had had only the sketchiest training, and the officers were on duty day and night getting them into shape. “But how they can shoot!” Jimmy exulted. “Those boys can hit anything they can see.”

  “Speaking of shooting,” said Celia—“oh Jimmy, I don’t want to ask a lot of questions I shouldn’t, but—”

  Jimmy was eating muffins and cold ham. As she left her question unfinished he wiped his lips, and his black eyes glinted at her merrily over the napkin. “You want to know why Sir Henry Clinton doesn’t attack?” he asked. “That’s no secret.” Laying the napkin on the table he gestured toward a window that stood open near by. “The west wind,” he said.

  Celia frowned, puzzled.

  Jimmy explained that Clinton could not attack without his full force of troops, and ships to block the harbor. Those men she saw across the river had come up from Savannah in small boats by the inland waterways, but the men-of-war and troop transports had to come by sea. “And the wind is blowing from the west,” said Jimmy—“out of the harbor, not in.”

  “Where are the ships now?” she asked.

  Jimmy’s long arm made a sweep toward the sea. “Out there. They’ve left Savannah, but they can’t get to Charleston. And the longer the wind holds,” he added smiling, “the more time we have to get ready for them.”

  A day or two later, Celia had just waked up in the morning and was still stretching when she heard a knock on the door. Raising herself on her elbow she called an answer and Marietta came in, full of excitement. “Miss Celia, we can see the king’s ships!” Celia sat up in bed. “Where? Not in the harbor!” “Oh no, no ma’am, they can’t get in. They’re away out to sea, out beyond Fort Moultrie. Mr. Burton is up in the attic right now, looking at them. He let Tessie and me look too, through the spyglass.”

  Celia was already up. She grabbed the pitcher and poured water into her washbasin. “Tell Mr. Burton I’ll be up there in no time at all. Is the coffee made? Would you bring me a cup?” She dressed as fast as she could and dashed up to the attic. Burton and Elise were there, and Tessie with Elise’s smelling salts. Burton had the glass. But today for the first time he was not looking out of a west window toward the Ashley River, but out an east window facing the harbor. When they heard Celia’s footsteps he and Elise turned, and Elise exclaimed, “Come see!” Burton offered her the spyglass.

  Celia looked. And there they were, ships with the British flag, scattered along the eastern horizon out beyond the harbor entrance. There were twenty ships or maybe fifty; she could not tell how many because they kept moving, disappearing below the horizon and coming into sight again, as if they were trying to find a place where the wind did not blow. Burton pointed out the different types—men-of-war and troop transports and supply ships, while Celia felt flickers of excitement all over. Oh, she was glad Jimmy had wanted her to stay in town. She would not have missed this, not for a pair of gold shoe-buckles. But as she watched the ships in front of her and remembered that line of British guns behind her, she had a curious choky feeling in her throat and a tightness around her middle. It was as if she was being squeezed. For a moment she could not get her breath properly; when she could, she heard her own voice saying—more to herself than to the others—

  “The wind can’t blow from the west forever.” “Oh now, don’t talk like that!” Elise begged her, and Burton smiled encouragingly, as on the morning when he first showed her the redcoats. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They won’t get into town. They’ve tried before.”

  With this Celia had to be content. To tell the truth it was not difficult, for the same spyglass that showed her the men-of-war showed her also that Charleston was now enclosed by a ring of protective guns. On the west side of town these guns fired steadily at the king’s men across the Ashley River. On the east side the Americans sank several ships of their own at the mouth of the Cooper River, and stretched a great chain below the surface, so that even when the wind should change, the king’s ships would not be able to come in close.

  American boats were swarming down the Cooper River bringing supplies to town. The streets were thumpy under the tread of marching men. Many of these had no uniforms, but it did not matter, because the people of South Carolina raised so much indigo that nearly every man in the state had at least one blue coat. Those who had no blue coat—or no coat at all—wore a bit of blue ribbon on their hats, or on their shirts if they had no hats, to mark them as rebel soldiers.

  The major headquarters of the Continental officers was a residence on Tradd Street. Every day Celia could see important-looking men going in and out. They wore splendid uniforms, with swords and epaulettes and fine white wigs, and their faces were grave and stern, the faces of men busy with destiny. It made her feel confident just to watch them.

  Now toward the end of March the roses fell over the garden walls in sheets of red and white, and the smell of jasmine overpowered the smell of gunpowder. In spite of the bristle of cannon around town Charleston was utterly lovely. And day and night Celia could feel the west wind.

  She finished Jimmy’s cravat. It was an exquisite piece of work; she had never made anything finer. When she gave it a last pressing and spread it on the table in the sewing room for Marietta to see, Celia smiled proudly.

  Marietta smiled too, in admiration. “He’ll love it, Miss Celia.”

  “I’ll give it to him,” said Celia, “next time he—”

  From the downstairs hall came a burst of voices. One of Elise’s friends must have brought a great piece of news. “Oh my goodness,” said Celia. “Bring me a clean towel to wrap this in, then we’ll find out what’s happened.”

  Marietta obeyed. As Celia began to wrap the cravat they heard footsteps on the stairs. The ladies were hurrying up to the attic, for while Elise had been tired out by one trip upstairs when they were packing the silver, she could run up six times a day to watch the redcoats. Celia went to the door, and caught a glimpse of Elise and Mrs. Baxter, with Tessie and Mrs. Baxter’s maid, but they were crossing the landing so fast that they did not see her. She finished wrapping the cravat and slipped it into a drawer.

  “Now then,” she said to Marietta, “come on.”

  In the attic they found Elise and Mrs. Baxter at a window, leaning out over the roof with the maids behind them, all four giving little screeches of enjoyable terror like people hearing ghost stories. Mrs. Baxter held the spyglass. She was a pretty little person about twenty-eight years old, and she still had girlish dimples in her cheeks.

  “I can’t see a thing!” she was lamenting.

  “Let me try,” said Elise.
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  She took the spyglass and leaned out so far that Celia thought it was a good thing the roof projected beyond the window, to catch her if she fell. With a mental picture of Elise tumbling over the sill and bouncing on her plump bottom, Celia smothered a giggle as she touched Mrs. Baxter’s elbow and asked, “Please, what’s happening?”

  “Oh my dear—don’t you know?” Mrs. Baxter exclaimed. She drew back from the window, beaming with the joy of a newsmonger who finds a fresh audience. “You haven’t heard?” she asked, prolonging the suspense. “Nobody told you? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I just heard it myself and came to tell Elise. Why my dear,” she said with exasperating slowness, “the British have landed! They’re fighting!”

  “Landed?” Celia repeated. “Where?” For she knew the wind had not changed. The ships still could not get into the harbor. But Mrs. Baxter gestured northward, toward the neck of land that joined the Charleston peninsula to the mainland.

  “Up there. They’ve crossed the Ashley—they went up the river in rowboats in the middle of the night, away up above town, miles above, and crossed. And this morning our men went up the highway out of town to meet them, and now they’re having a battle—haven’t you heard the guns?”

  Celia had been hearing guns every day for three weeks. She could not tell whether or not she had heard any extra ones this morning. She stood still, listening. She heard the babble of Elise and the colored women, and something else Mrs. Baxter was saying, and also she heard a distant sound of firing. But now that she was noticing, she could tell that the sound did not come from the Ashley River; it came from the north, toward the hornwork wall, and the guns did not roar like cannon. This noise was a series of pops with a long, low thrumming behind them—rifles maybe, or muskets. Celia knew rifles and muskets were different but she did not know what the difference was.