Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  Too nervous to keep still, she went up to the attic and opened the window that looked eastward over the harbor and the Cooper River. Along the streets she could see windows twinkling as they reflected the sun. She could hear the guns, and here and there she saw a puff of smoke, but the firing was not violent.

  Out there in the harbor she saw the British fleet. No supplies would come to Charleston that way. Celia picked up the spyglass and turned it toward the Cooper River.

  Now in the bright sun the river looked empty, for the supply boats waited until after dark to slip past those British guns on the Neck. It made her almost sick to think that only twenty miles up the river was Bellwood Plantation, stocked with red meat and milk and eggs and salt—everything Jimmy needed.

  Celia spoke aloud. “If I could get a rowboat, Amos could take Jimmy up to Bellwood.”

  She felt a stirring of hope. Maybe it was not a good idea, but any idea was better than none. How long would it take to row those twenty miles? She did not know, and she did not know if Jimmy could stand the trip. But Amos was a strong man and devoted to Jimmy; he could do it if it could be done.

  Another thought struck her with cold discouragement. Even now, Amos should have been working on the defenses. He had managed to bring Jimmy here and stay with him so far, but as soon as somebody in authority learned that he was here, he would be sent back on the lines. Every strong young man, white or colored, was required to be at some post of duty. Burton, who had finished his job of sandbagging and was well past military age, had had no trouble leaving town, but a husky young fellow like Amos could not possibly get a pass through the lines, unless on a mission useful to the army.

  A mission useful to the army.

  Celia lowered the spyglass to the floor. She closed the window and stood up. Her thoughts were dancing.

  Now she knew what to do. She ran across the attic and down the stairs so fast that she tripped and had to catch the banister to keep from tumbling headlong. At the door of Jimmy’s room she stopped to catch her breath. The door stood ajar, and she saw Godfrey supporting Jimmy’s head while Amos gave him the last of the broth.

  Her hand in her pocket rubbing the rabbit’s foot, she waited till they had finished. When Godfrey stood up she beckoned him into the hall.

  She spoke eagerly. “Godfrey, you said you’d do anything you could to help Jimmy. And you can help him. You can get him to Bellwood.”

  He frowned, puzzled. She hurried on.

  “The men gathering supplies—they have authority to take anything they need from any plantation, I know that. But I bet it’s hard work sometimes. Some people are Tories and some are just mean—they hide their cattle in the woods and their hams under the hay in the barn—don’t they?”

  Godfrey smiled and nodded. “We’ve had a good deal of trouble that way. But what about Jimmy?”

  “Well, it’s a lot simpler if our men know that on a certain plantation the people are on their side. So just for one trip, have Amos assigned to the supply service. There must be some boat starting upriver tonight. Put Jimmy on it. With Amos. Give Amos a letter to Mrs. Rand telling her that in return for the boatmen’s bringing Jimmy home, she’s to give them whatever they want. He’s her son, Godfrey! I don’t know how much she has already given, but for the chance to nurse Jimmy and feed him decently—she’ll tell the men to take anything the boat will carry!”

  Godfrey gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Yes—I believe—it could be done.” Unlike Celia, who had been talking as fast as her tongue would move, he spoke deliberately, thinking of ways and means. “I can get a pass for Amos to guide them to the plantation landing. He’ll have to come back with the boat, of course, to work on the—”

  A shell whanged overhead. Celia started, and Godfrey put a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “You go down cellar,” he said in a voice of command. He sounded like himself again. “I’ll manage this.”

  Celia did not want to go to the cellar, but neither did she want to waste time arguing, so she obeyed. Godfrey sprang to action. Sitting on the cellar stairs, her arms wrapped around her knees, she heard him calling Amos and giving orders. She smiled confidently. Godfrey could not control the weather, but that was about the only thing in Charleston that he could not control when he put his mind to it. He would get Jimmy out.

  And he did. Godfrey had yearned for a new challenge. He grasped at Jimmy’s need as a lesser man might have reached for a bottle, to dull his thoughts of his own defeat.

  With boundless energy, he got all preparations made by nightfall. He found Miles; he found a surgeon, a stretcher, a mule and wagon; he found a boat and crew about to go on a supply trip. He did all this though the British had increased their firing and a shell knocked a hole in one corner of his own stable. He took this lightly, saying, “No matter—no horses there now.”

  When Jimmy learned what they were planning, he rallied all his shreds of force to protest against going to safety while Celia stayed behind. Miles reminded him of the reason. A few of those men on the supply boats were patriots who worked for love of their country, but most of them were hard-fisted sailors who made these dangerous journeys because they got paid for it. They would carry a wounded man for more pay, but a girl would be practically torn to pieces before morning. Jimmy knew this, and he did not want Celia to make the trip, but he did not want to leave her. Jimmy had never been seriously sick in his life before. This whole experience of helplessness insulted his manhood. He was not a baby, he said, and he did not want to be treated like one; and even as he said it, the effort of talking brought a cold mist of sweat to his forehead, and his words died off from sheer lack of strength to continue. He had to yield.

  Miles told him good-by and went back on duty. The surgeon dressed Jimmy’s wound, and he left too, and Godfrey went out to attend to some last details. The day was declining in a pinkish twilight. Celia went to Jimmy’s room to say good-by.

  The surgeon’s examination of his wound had been agonizing, and now Jimmy was lying in strained exhaustion. But when she pushed back the net and put her hand on his and bent over him, he opened his eyes and smiled at her, murmuring, “My dearest.”

  His voice was so weak and low that it brought a sob into her throat. Jimmy, dear Jimmy, she thought, who hated this war because he could not hate his enemies. She kissed him softly, and Jimmy said,

  “Celia, lie down by me.”

  She lay on the bed and put her head on the pillow close to his. With a great effort Jimmy turned and put his arms around her. They did not say anything. Celia thought how cruel it was that Jimmy should have been hurt the day after her birthday. If only that shell had not struck him, Mr. Moreau would have married them and they would have been together like this all night, their heads on one pillow and Jimmy’s arms around her. And she would not have been afraid of anything because for the first time she would have felt that she really belonged to somebody.

  The pink evening faded to purple. The front door banged, and Godfrey’s energetic voice sounded in the hall. Celia slipped off the bed and knelt beside it.

  “Good-by, darling,” she whispered.

  Her throat choked up and she could say no more. She walked away and stood in a corner of the room, smothering her tears. The boom of the guns rose, and dwindled again. There was a knock on the door and she called an answer. Godfrey came in.

  With him was Marietta, holding a candle. She had been saying good-by to Amos and there were tears on her cheeks too. Godfrey told Celia briskly that the wagon was waiting at the door, and he and Amos would put Jimmy on the stretcher and carry him out.

  “He’ll be all right,” Godfrey said encouragingly. “It’s going to be a dark night—the moon goes down at ten, and the men won’t start till after that. They’ll slide past the guns without a whisper.” Celia said “Yes.” She squeezed the rabbit’s foot. She did not know which she hated more, the king’s men firing the guns or those other men who had made it all happen by signing the Declaration of Independence.

>   CHAPTER 16

  THAT NIGHT—SATURDAY—THE firing was slow, but at dawn Sunday the guns began to make pandemonium. Unwashed and unbreakfasted, Celia and Marietta cowered in the cellar. By the sounds, they could tell that the shells were coming from all directions—from the trenches north of town, from the Ashley River on the west and the harbor on the east, from James Island a mile to the south.

  The cellar had a damp chill. By the light from the sidewalk gratings, Celia could vaguely measure the passage of time. The sun was shining, but she thought hopefully that it would probably rain this afternoon. In late spring and summer they had thunderstorms several times a week, and these would dampen the king’s gunpowder and quench his fireballs. And oh, what a joy to know Jimmy was out of this!

  The thought cheered her so that it even lessened her fear of the shells. She went up and made coffee—the kitchen-house, brick and very solid, was fairly safe—and Marietta found some cornbread left over from several days ago. It was stale and hard, but at least it had salt in it and tasted better than that unsalted rice.

  While they were in the kitchen a shell came whistling up Meeting Street, and Godfrey’s fat cook rushed to call over the fence that it had struck the steeple of St. Michael’s. With Marietta, Celia ran out to the sidewalk to look. To her relief she saw that the shell had glanced off, doing no damage except to make a white mark like a blaze on the black steeple. But as it fell into the street the shell had struck the statue of William Pitt, breaking off his left arm at the shoulder.

  Celia gave a shrug as she turned to take refuge in the cellar again. The Americans had put that statue there because William Pitt had been their friend. Maybe it was fitting that the British should break it now.

  Sunday night and Monday, and again Tuesday, the firing was steady. But now after a month of battle, Celia and Marietta had learned that the guns on the neck of the peninsula sent shells mainly into the north side of town. The shells falling here in the south side came from the men-of-war or from the islands. So they would listen, and if they heard firing from the north only, they knew it would be fairly safe to leave the cellar.

  The garden was getting weedy, but the vegetables were still growing, a godsend to enliven their meatless and saltless meals. Monday, Marietta cooked rice with chopped onions. Tuesday, she mixed cakes of cornmeal and water, and served them hot with mustard greens.

  It was midday when they ate the cakes, but the kitchen fire felt welcome, for after the heat of last week the weather had turned freakishly cold. The guns on the Neck were keeping up a deep thud-thud, but those on the ships were quiet. Marietta, washing the dishes, remarked, “I wonder what Amos and Mr. Jimmy are doing now.”

  “Right this minute,” said Celia, “I bet they’re having dinner at Bellwood. Beefsteaks, hot baked sweet potatoes with chunks of butter—”

  “Oh Miss Celia!” Marietta sighed. “Don’t tease me with such talk.”

  “I won’t,” Celia said laughing. “I can’t stand it either.” She heard a sound of thunder, heralding the afternoon rain. “I’ll bring in some water,” she said, “before the shower starts.”

  She went out, a bucket in each hand. Standing by the well, she listened. The growling of the guns still came from the Neck, but when she saw Marietta go into the garden for vegetables, Celia called that they did not know when things would get rough so she’d better hurry. Marietta called back grimly that she certainly would.

  Celia filled her buckets, lugged them into the kitchen, and came out again carrying two more. As she set the empty buckets beside the well she heard Marietta scream.

  She wheeled around. Marietta was standing by the gate to Godfrey’s yard. Her basket had dropped from her arm, scattering radishes and onions around her. On the other side of the gate Godfrey’s cook was lamenting, patting Marietta’s shoulder, wiping her eyes on her apron, and calling upon heaven. Celia ran to them.

  “What’s happened?” she cried.

  Marietta, sobbing into her apron, spoke in gasps. “Oh Miss Celia—Annie says—that man Tarleton—”

  “That devil-man Tarleton!” Annie stormed, and between her sobs Marietta said something else. Now they were both talking at once and Celia could not understand either of them. She shook Marietta’s arm.

  “Stop crying, can’t you? What’s wrong?”

  Half choking, Marietta tried to make her words plain. “Oh God help us—Annie says—that man Tarleton and his Tories—” Another sob broke her voice but she struggled on. “They’ve taken Moncks Corner, Miss Celia—they’ve killed nearly all the men with Colonel Washington—they’ve got the Cooper River!”

  Celia felt little fires run along her nerves. She heard Annie exclaiming,

  “It happened last Friday, Miss Celia, but Mr. Godfrey he just got the news—”

  And Marietta cried out, “Miss Celia, if Amos and Mr. Jimmy went up the Cooper River Saturday night they’re sure dead now.”

  She and Annie went on talking but Celia did not hear what they said. The guns went on firing but she did not hear that either. She seemed to be standing in a world where time was suspended and nothing happened at all. Then as things began to clear she found that her hands were holding the gate in such a grip that it was hard to move them. She heard the guns again, and the voices of Annie and Marietta, but nothing made sense.

  Her swirling thoughts could toss up but one idea. Tarleton and his Tories—they held the Cooper River. And she had sent Jimmy straight into their hands so they could finish killing him. A Charleston supply boat, going up to get food for the rebels, would be a prime target for their guns.

  Her knees gave way. She sat down on the ground among the fallen radishes, she put her head down on her knees and burst into tears. Sobs shook her and ripped through her till she felt as if she was being torn to pieces, and she could not stop. A shell screamed close overhead but she did not notice.

  Another shell whizzed above her. She did not look up. But she felt a man’s hands on her shoulders, and heard Darren’s voice say, “Come with me, Celia.”

  The words roused her. Darren helped her to her feet, and she leaned against him, still too shaken to stand alone.

  “I was on my way over here,” said Darren. “I’m sorry you had to hear it like this.”

  Celia wet her dry lips. “Darren—Jimmy?”

  “I’ll tell you all I know. But let’s go in. These shells now are coming from the ships.”

  He led her toward the house. She walked mechanically, stumbling over the soft earth.

  “The boat may have gotten through to Bellwood,” he said. “Or maybe the men have tied it up behind some bushes, and are hiding.”

  Celia blurted, “And maybe they’re all dead.”

  Darren’s arm jerked her to a standstill. A fireball had fallen on the ground in front of them. When it had sputtered out, leaving a black ring in the weeds, he led her indoors to where the stairs went from the back hall down to the cellar. They sat on the steps, and he told her all he could.

  A courier had slipped through with the news. Before daybreak last Friday—the same morning that Jimmy was wounded—Tarleton’s Legion had attacked the cavalry base at Moncks Corner. The cavalry had withstood many attacks, but this time Tarleton was too strong for them and they had scattered. The Tories had then crossed the river by a bridge and had routed another band of rebels camped at the church of St. John’s Berkeley.

  “This means,” said Celia, “that since last Friday, there’s been no way out of Charleston at all.”

  “No sure way,” said Darren. “But the boat might have made it. Moncks Corner is a long way above Bellwood.”

  “And suppose Tarleton raids Bellwood?”

  Darren sighed. His tired, handsome face was stern with warning. “Celia, if you turn your imagination loose you’ll go insane.”

  She tried to speak calmly. “Do you know anything about Luke?”

  Darren said no, but Annie’s tale that most of the rebels at Moncks Corners had been killed, was exaggerated. The of
ficial report was that a good many of them had escaped into the swamp.

  He went on talking, to ease his own nerves as well as hers. He said the church of St. John’s Berkeley was near Colonel Marion’s plantation. He hoped Tarleton’s green jackets had not captured Marion, as they would certainly have liked to do.

  Celia sat on the cellar steps twisting her hands in her lap, hearing the shells and not hearing them, telling herself to be brave and quaking with cowardice. Marietta came and sat on the stairs too, crying quietly. They heard a thunderclap, and the rain began.

  At length Darren said he had to go. He promised that if he had any news of Jimmy or Amos he would bring it. But he had to say—for Darren was not sophisticated enough to make up pretty stories—that his chance of getting any such news was small.

  In the cellar Celia and Marietta crouched in corners like two scared animals while the guns soared and the shells crackled around them. Hand in her pocket, Celia felt the rabbit’s foot. She thought of Jimmy as he had given it to her, tall and strong in his rebel blue uniform, his black eyes twinkling warmly.

  She thought of Vivian’s fear at Luke’s going up to that post of danger. And Vivian now, hearing of this defeat, pacing the floor at Sea Garden as she wondered if Luke had gone like his father.

  She thought that any knowledge, anything, would be easier than living like this, not knowing.

  After Tarleton cut off the Cooper River, living in Charleston was like living in a jail. The city was enclosed in a double ring of guns, British guns pointing inward and rebel guns pointing out, and now they were firing all the time.

  Time itself became a crazy uncertainty. Often Celia did not know whether it was morning or afternoon, or how long it had been since she had eaten or slept or changed her clothes. She and Marietta hunched in the cellar, while the earth trembled and shook, and shells screamed in the air, and smoke rolled through the sidewalk gratings. Sometimes she tried to remember what silence was like, but she could not.