Celia Garth: A Novel

by Gwen Bristow

  “I don’t know where Tarleton was when he got the order. But the main body of his legion was at Camden. He was in such a hurry to get after Marion that he wouldn’t wait for the legion—he sent them word that he was riding toward the Santee River and they were to catch up with him. He set out with a few horsemen and rode toward Nelson’s Ferry.

  “Marion got word from his informers—don’t ask me who they were, I don’t know. They told him Tarleton had set out with a small escort. We had about five hundred men, and Marion figured that if we could meet Tarleton before his legion caught up with him, we could make him prisoner. So we got orders to ride toward Nelson’s Ferry.

  “We rode hard. The night of November tenth—it was a Friday, I’ll never forget it—we had had a long day’s ride and were mighty glad when Marion told us to halt. We were in a grove near a plantation owned by a rebel officer named Richardson.

  “While we were making camp, Marion saw a glow on the sky over toward the Richardson place. He told a guard to see what was on fire. Pretty soon the man came back with Colonel Richardson—he’d been home sick and was barely strong enough to walk.

  “Colonel Richardson said Tarleton’s men must have caught up with him some time during that day. He said Tarleton and the whole force had come riding down the road toward his place not long before dark. They were looking for Marion, but when Tarleton saw a rich-looking country house ripe for looting, he couldn’t resist it.

  “The men stormed through, helping themselves to whatever they wanted. They even dug up the dead body of Colonel Richardson’s father, to see if anything worth stealing had been buried in his grave. When they had taken as much as they could carry they started the fires. The glare of the burning was what Marion had seen on the sky.

  “Now that Tarleton had his legion with him, Colonel Richardson said we were outnumbered two or three to one, and also they had brought along a pair of cannon. We’ve got no field-pieces. And what was most heartbreaking—Colonel Richardson said we had an Arnold right along with us. One of our men had deserted to Tarleton and had told him where we were camped that night.

  “There just one thing for us to do. We had to move fast.

  “So we did. We went through a swamp the like of which I hope I never have to go through again in the black slimy dark of a night in November. Six miles of it that night, and we’d already had a hard day. We sloshed on till we had passed a mill-dam on a little branch called Jack’s Creek—that’s around the bend of the Santee, upstream from Nelson’s Ferry.

  “But Marion knew exactly what he was doing. At the end of that six miles, he had put a bad swamp and a millpond between us and Tarleton. We had come to some big trees on high dry ground. He let us stop here, to eat whatever we had in our saddlebags—mostly cold roasted sweet potatoes—and fall down for some sleep.”

  Luke let out a tired-sounding sigh, as if remembering his own exhaustion after that night’s escape. He went on.

  “Tarleton sent some fellows to spy out our campsite. They came back and reported that we weren’t there any more.

  “They didn’t have any trouble seeing which way we had gone. We had had to move in such a hurry that we had left a clear trail. Tarleton ordered his men to their horses and they set out after us.

  “Marion expected Tarleton to follow. We were sleeping like pigs, but it seemed like no time at all before he was waking us up. I had time to eat half a sweet potato while my horse got some grass, and that was all before we were moving again.

  “Marion led us. It was broad daylight now, but under the trees where we were there was hardly enough sun to make shadows. Just that green swamp twilight. Do you know that country?—cypress trees hung with moss like gray curtains, vines thick as tree-trunks growing from tree to tree, swamp-water black from the cypress drippings. All around us birds and butterflies and a million flying things biting our faces and getting into our eyes, and little animals scurrying under the brush and sometimes an alligator in the water. Everything teeming with life, and yet there’s a silence—I don’t know why. The noises get lost.

  “We went on and on, splashing through water or picking our way along the ridges, our horses so tired they could hardly move, ourselves slapping and scratching and sweating and shivering and too tired even to complain. Marion was leading us northeast, toward the Black River. We rode, we stopped and cut the way through, we mounted again and kept riding. We had no stops to eat or sleep. You munched what you had, as you rode. When you couldn’t stay awake any longer you fell out for some sleep. When a man fell out nobody waited for him. The rest kept going, and he had to catch up when he could.

  “We rode to the river. Then we rode downstream.

  “Tarleton was right behind us. Every now and then Marion would tell one of us to climb a tree, and wait there to see what could be seen, and come down and catch up and report. So we knew. Marion was moving so fast that some of our men couldn’t keep up. They straggled at a distance, following our trail. Tarleton was so close that his foremost men were making prisoners of our hindmost.

  “Some of the men didn’t want to keep moving. Miles Rand, and other men who had had experiences like his. They wanted a battle. They wanted to get at Tarleton right now, tear him to pieces. But Marion kept his head, like always. He expected a battle, but he wanted to choose the place.

  “And he had chosen it—I know that country pretty well, and it was plain where he was leading us. Benbow’s Ferry. Ten miles above Kingstree. Right there, the swamp meets the river, then there’s some safe high ground. It’s the only spot for miles where you can cross the river safely. Once we got there, we could turn and make a stand on the high ground, and we would have command of the crossing. Since we had to meet a force so much larger than ours, at least there we would have a fighting chance.

  “We had left Richardson’s place on a Friday night, and now it was Sunday. For a while we’d been riding along fairly dry ground. Now we came to another bog, about ten miles above Benbow’s Ferry. Folks thereabouts call it Ox Swamp. It’s a mess of mud. Wide and miry, trees growing thick in the water.

  “Marion sent for me, and several other fellows who had been with him long enough to be well trained in his ways. He told us he could lead the men around the swamp, but it would take longer. He was going to lead them straight through.

  “He wanted us to stay behind, to see if Tarleton went through the swamp or around it. As soon as we made sure, we were to catch up and report, so he could know how much time he had to set up his defenses. He was leaving several of us as lookouts so if one man was caught, or two, there would still be the chance that another man would get through.

  “So he left us. We each chose a tree, and climbed up and waited.

  “It was bright sunshiny fall weather. I had picked a big tree with moss hanging around me like a tent. Before long, I saw Tarleton’s Legion. And Tarleton.

  “They were an impressive lot. Tired as we were and spattered with mud, but still a great array. Fine men, fine horses, fine weapons.

  “And a fine leader. Tarleton’s a good-looking man, green coat and white breeches and knee-high boots, and on his head a tall hat with black plumes—a shako, they call it.

  “They were coming over the dry ground where we had crossed a little while before. They were riding right in our tracks, Tarleton at the head of them. And there I sat in the tree, almost scared to breathe, waiting to see which way he would lead them.

  “They came near. As the ground got softer the men slowed down. Tarleton rode up to where the bad mire set in. He reined his horse, looked around. The leaders of his troop rode up. They all looked at that mess in front of them.

  “Tarleton knew Marion’s men had just been there. If Marion could get past the swamp, Tarleton could get past it too.

  “The men were waiting for orders. Up in those trees, we were waiting. Tarleton rode a few yards in one direction, then in the other, and back again. Then all of a sudden he stopped with a sort of disgusted snort, he wheeled his horse and shouted his o
rder. He said,

  “‘Go back! We can find that gamecock Sumter, but as for this damned swamp fox, the devil himself couldn’t catch him.’”

  Luke stopped. His hearers burst out laughing.

  “Swamp fox!” said Godfrey.

  “Swamp fox!” said Celia.

  They all said it, merrily, with appreciation. Celia was thinking that while she had never expected to thank Tarleton for anything, she did thank him for inventing so apt a name. Marion the Swamp Fox.

  “And he really turned back?” she said. “So close!”

  Luke smiled and shrugged. “He did. I saw him. He quit, and rode up toward Camden to look for General Sumter.”

  Godfrey gave an exclamation. The sand had run out. It was time for church. He and Ida had been so dutiful about attending and affecting to join in the prayers for the king, that they did not want to stay away now. Ida drew her cloak around her, laughing softly as she said, “And today we really have something to thank the Lord for.”

  They went out, and Luke told Darren to bring some pens and paper. Tarleton’s unsuccessful chase of Marion had been noised all over the country outside Charleston, and now, to spread the story in town, Luke said he would write a summary that could be quickly read. Darren and Celia would make several copies, and Darren would take these around to other friends of Marion who would make more. Tonight—or rather, early tomorrow morning—all these copies would be posted on walls and fences about town. They would be put up by people whose business took them out before dawn: a fisherman going to his boat, a doctor on the way to a patient; an old woman who kept hens, delivering eggs for breakfast.

  Of course the redcoat guards would pull down the notices as fast as they saw them, but no matter. The tale of the Swamp Fox would be out.

  When the papers were ready Darren went to distribute them, telling Celia that when he came back they would go to the refreshment room. “Mrs. Westcott’s making crackling-bread today,” he said.

  As the door closed Celia smiled happily up at Luke. He stood by her, resting one hand on the table.

  “I feel so much better than I did,” she told him.

  “Has it been hard going?” he asked with sympathy.

  She nodded. “I’ve been so tired. Ever since that business about Benedict Arnold.”

  Looking down at her, Luke smiled slowly. For a moment he did not answer. With his rough homespun clothes and thick boots, his face so weatherbeaten that his skin was darker than his hair, his bright blue eyes full of devilment, Luke looked like an embodiment of all he had been telling her. She thought of Marion’s men, tough and fighting mad, living on sweet potatoes and water, slogging into battle with two rounds of ammunition apiece, and many a man with not even a gun until some other man—friend or enemy—dropped and he could grab the gun from the falling hands. Such men had to have the kind of strength she saw in Luke. They had to have absolute faith, like his, in the rightness of their cause. They could not do what they were doing if they had had anything less.

  She had spoken of Arnold. With his untroubled grin, Luke answered,

  “Celia, when we lost Charleston, lots of people said, ‘It’s all over.’ After Camden they said, ‘It’s all over.’ After Arnold the same. And it’s not over yet.”

  “I wish you had been here the day we got the news,” she said, “to tell me something like that. I’ve never had such a day.” She told him what it had been like, the sneers and shrugs and Tory laughter. “And then that little fool Sophie, gabbling that she wanted to ‘do something’ for me! I suppose she’d like to have me move into her house and do her dressmaking for nothing, instead of disgracing her by working for wages in a shop.” Celia gave a shiver.

  Luke’s big rugged hand dropped on her shoulder. “My dear,” he said in a low voice, “I can’t protect you from the sneers, I can’t protect you from fools and Tories—how I wish I could.”

  His hand closed on her. His other hand gripped her other arm and lifted her up to meet him as he bent forward and kissed her.

  Celia was so taken by surprise that for an instant she made no response at all, either of yes or no. But then her back stiffened and she pushed herself away from him, violently exclaiming, “No, Luke, no! Don’t do that!”

  He still held her. “Why not?” he asked simply.

  “Because—” With an effort Celia pulled one arm free, and put up her elbow in front of her face. “Because I don’t want you to! Not you or anybody—after Jimmy—”

  “Oh, bosh,” said Luke. His hands closed on her as before. He kissed her again, hard and almost roughly, and let her go. Taking a step back from her, he spoke. “There. I didn’t want to fall in love with you! But I knew I couldn’t help it if this kept up.”

  He walked away from her and stood looking down. His big heavy-shod foot kicked at a seam of the canvas that covered the floor.

  Celia stood where she was. She was astounded. Luke had never, by any word or gesture, indicated that he might be in love with her. On the contrary, his manner toward her had been studiedly casual. As for herself, she had thought she was through with love. She felt now that she wanted to be through with it, she did not want Luke or any other man to come near her. After a moment to catch her breath she said shortly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  At the sound of her voice Luke turned around and faced her.

  “I’m talking about you, dear,” he retorted, “and about me. Everybody wanted you to work with us—Mother, Godfrey, even Hugo said, ‘Miss Garth has got the nerve, I have seen it.’ But me—I wanted you too, because I liked you so much, and I didn’t want you for the same reason. I knew I’d get into trouble—and I did.” Luke gave a mighty sigh.

  Celia did not know how to answer. The way he spoke was so different from the way he had ever spoken to her, and so different from the way she had ever heard anybody talk. She stood twisting her hands together, hearing him and not understanding him, and he seemed still more strange when he said,

  “You see—the fact is, I’ve been in love with you ever since I’ve known you.”

  This at least she could answer. “Oh no you were not!” she exclaimed. “When I first worked for Vivian you could have seen me any time you pleased and you ignored me utterly. That doesn’t seem like love—”

  “It was, though,” he said. But she rushed on.

  “When you found I was engaged to Jimmy—that night of the ball—you were glad to hear it!”

  “My dear girl,” said Luke, “I was delighted. I thought I was getting rid of you.”

  At her gasp of shock he laughed, softly and with a sound of pleasure.

  “Maybe,” he said, “you were slightly in love with me too, right from the start, or you wouldn’t have been so conscious that I was avoiding you—a man you’d never seen but once in your life.”

  Now she was getting angry. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “I’m trying to tell you,” Luke said patiently. “The first time I met you, I liked you. There was a communication between us—a sort of ‘deep calleth unto deep,’ as the Bible says in another sense. Remember?”

  She did remember. He had been so easy to talk to. Luke was saying,

  “When I left you I thought, Now there’s a girl—and right away my common sense told me, Look out! If one chance meeting has scorched you like this—let go, before you get burned by the real fire.”

  The tone of his voice changed. It became earnest, almost pleading.

  “Can’t you understand that, Celia? I was doing one of the most dangerous jobs of the war. There wasn’t any room in my mind for a girl—”

  “Oh yes there was,” said Celia. “That first evening I thought, He’s got a girl in every town between Charleston and Philadelphia. And I still think so.”

  “Oh no,” Luke protested, “not every town.” He took a step toward her, and stopped. “My dear, if you don’t know the difference between girls and a girl, you know even less about love than I thought you did.”

  Celia
spoke with a breathless anger. “What are you—”

  But Luke had not paused. “Of course, you were not in love with Jimmy—”

  “Oh, stop!” cried Celia. “How can you say I didn’t love Jimmy?”

  For a moment Luke did not answer. She felt his strong direct gaze, and when he spoke there was a quiet wisdom in his voice. “You loved him, Celia. But you were not in love with him. There’s a difference.”

  Celia’s throat felt as if she had a marble in it. She wanted to scream at him, and tell him again to stop this, but she could not. She could not say anything. His bright eyes held her and she had to hear what he was saying.

  “You loved Jimmy, yes. You loved his mother, and Miles, and you loved the feeling that they loved you. Nothing wrong with that. Plenty of women settle for less. But my dear—” again he spoke earnestly, in a low voice—“that’s not being in love with a man.”

  With a great effort Celia managed to free her voice. “Stop it, Luke! I won’t hear any more.” As she spoke she ran to the curtain that covered the door. She started to draw it aside, but she felt him gripping her elbows, forcing her to turn around and face him.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “Do you want to put us all in that lockup under the Exchange? Don’t go blundering out of here till you know it’s safe.”

  Celia was trembling with rage. “Let go of me!”

  He did not obey. His hands were so tight that he hurt her. “Keep your voice down,” he ordered. “And listen. Don’t leave this room till Darren comes here to get you. I’ll leave. Is that what you want?”

  Celia wished he would stop looking at her. He had such vitality that his eyes seemed to shine at her with a light of their own. “Yes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “Go away. I don’t want to hear any more of what you’ve been saying. About love.”

  Luke began to laugh. “All right, Sassyface. I’ll leave you now. But one of these days I’m going to teach you what I mean about love, whether you like it or not.”

  He let go of her, and with one hand he swept aside the curtain that hid the door. Celia stood rubbing her elbows, trying to ease the ache of his grip. Over his shoulder Luke grinned down at her.