The Cane Creek Regulators

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Flosnik, Anne;

  “Aye,” Conley whispered.

  “Whilst your young son lies in bed with the croup, and your wife, poor Betsy, is left to care for him and a seven-month-old daughter.”

  “Aye.”

  Shaking his head, Donnan stepped back. “Take him to the whipping post,” he ordered, and Middleton marched outside, while the two other men escorted the prisoner toward the front door.

  “Wait a minute!” Emily called out, hurrying from behind the bar to wave a finger under her brother’s nose. “Since when is it a crime to be a poor husband? If you start arresting every man jack of those who …”

  Donnan brushed her hand aside. “Then you would surely be out of business, Sister.”

  “What will drive me to the poor house, Brother, is your propensity for drinking kill-devil for free.”

  Conley and his escorts had already left the tavern, and Donnan was practically to the door before Emily blocked his path.

  “He rode with you,” she said. “Jonathan Conley helped you burn down the Robinson barn.”

  Her brother just stared.

  “Is this why you order him to the pillory, Donnan? Because he regrets what you ordered him to do … to burn …?”

  “To burn down a blight on this community!” Donnan yelled as he straightened his back. “A haven for outlaws.”

  “A haven for men like that vagabond you call a regulator who has a cabin on the Long Canes but is more often to be found in the Blue Ridge Mountains or as far north and west as Kentucky.”

  Donnan said nothing.

  “You know who owned the Robinson place, did you not?” Emily said. “It belonged not to that pompous Virginian, but to the deputy provost marshal.”

  “Who has not dared show his face in months, Sister. Who for all I know is back with his boss in London, writing for the boards, trying to become the newest Shakespeare.”

  “That was an office for a Royal official,” Emily corrected him.

  “Balderdash. What has your deputy provost marshal done for Ninety Six? That damnable stockade by Gouedy’s place remains our jail.”

  “Which is likewise empty,” she said. “Thanks to Da.” She made herself add, “And you.”

  “It shan’t be empty for long.”

  His voice made her cringe. “Do not do this, Donnan,” she whispered.

  His hand moved, and she flinched, fearing he would strike her, and hating herself for showing such cowardice. Yet Donnan merely pulled his cocked hat tighter.

  “I take no pleasure in whipping a man like Jonathan Conley,” he said. “He was always kind to Da. He could make Da laugh. And he showed much bravery at Jacob’s Fork last fall.”

  “Then why …?” Emily asked. “Why flog a man like Conley?”

  “Did you not hear what I said, Sister? He has not been at his home in more than a week. His son is sick. His daughter is not yet a year old. He has not lifted a hand to help his wife. He would become a vagabond, a derelict. For all I know, it was he who stole Pierre Maupin’s eggs.”

  “You do not whip a man for being a poor husband. Or for stealing eggs,” she told him, and put her finger in her brother’s face again. “And you have no proof that he stole any egg.”

  “He is not charged with theft,” Donnan said as he grabbed her wrist, tightly, and shoved it to her side, leaned forward, and said in an icy tone: “If you want to stop a flogging, run to his farm. See his wife Betsy! It was Betsy who came to me. In tears. It was Betsy who asked the Cane Creek Regulators to do something about her husband.”

  Later, Emily would remember how it all felt like a dream. She followed Donnan outside, but stopped on the porch, watching him as he crossed the yard, moving to the path lined with the stocks, long empty, and toward the nearest whipping post. Middleton and the two others had already lashed Conley’s arms to the bindings, and ripped off his shirt. Redheaded Ferguson slowly walked from a pack mule, from which he had retrieved the blacksnake whip, and handed it to Donnan.

  “Benji Cooper!” Donnan shouted.

  The black carpenter stood in front of his work shed, face covered in sawdust and sweat. He took a deep breath, and slowly removed the stout leather apron, tossed it atop a barrel, and slowly, silently made his way toward the whipping post.

  After handing the freedman the whip, Donnan stepped aside, turning toward the settlers who had gathered. Cooper uncoiled the whip, and took a few steps back. He knew why he had been summoned, and his face told how much he dreaded the task.

  “Jonathan Conley has abandoned his wife and children,” Donnan said. “He is idle. He is drunk. One of his children is sick with the croup. The punishment assessed is forty lashes less one.” Donnan turned, went back to Cooper, and for a moment, Emily thought her brother might take over the duty as executioner, but he merely whispered into the freedman’s ear, and stepped back.

  Emily looked away, refusing to watch that poor farmer be whipped like a dog. She cringed at every lash, and watched the faces of the settlers she knew, many of them friends of hers, all of them friends of her father. Underneath an elm, Darlene Courtney held her baby, patting the infant’s back as if she were burping it, watching as Cooper laid the stripes on Conley’s back.

  What amazed her was how stoic Jonathan Conley took the punishment. He did not cry out, did not beg, just let out stifled grunts, until the last strike. Middleton and the long hunter released him, and dragged his limp body into the tavern.

  There, Emily rubbed bear grease onto the welts and cuts, before the Cane Creek Regulators escorted the farmer back home to his wife.

  Only that part did not feel like a dream.

  Chapter Twenty

  The slaves moved back and forth, sweating, silently transporting casks, hogsheads, and bottles into the storeroom. One stopped, and Emily muttered both an apology and thanks as she squeezed past him, and headed toward Robert Gouedy, who sat at a window table, fanning himself with his cocked hat. But then she stopped and turned and, after clearing her throat, said to the men, “You will find a plate of scones in the kitchen. I cannot cook like my mum, but the food is yours when you are done. And there are two buckets of water, cool and fresh, there, too. Please take all you want, with the thanks and blessings of Cormorant’s Rock.”

  The slaves just kept right on hauling the liquor into the storeroom, and Emily went over to Robert Gouedy’s table, sank in the chair opposite him, and smiled.

  “I hope you do not mind, Mister Gouedy,” she said.

  He did. He treated his slaves like dirt

  Emily hefted the leather pouch and slapped it on the table; the clinking of the coins halted any more complaining from the man.

  “Of course not, Miss Emily.”

  Laying his hat on the table, Gouedy reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a small ledger, which he placed on the table and slid toward Emily. She studied the numbers as he fished for his spectacles.

  “A bountiful trip to Charlestown,” she said as she tugged on the pouch’s drawstring.

  “Indeed. And business has been good whilst I was gone?”

  She shrugged, faked a smile, and said, “Despite my brother, who thinks he deserves free grog …”

  “Aye, yes, Donnan …”

  Once Emily had counted out the coins, she slid two piles toward the trader. He left them there and reached for the mug of tea.

  “I brought you some newspapers,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. There is not much to read in Ninety Six.”

  “You may not like all that you read.”

  She nodded, knowing what was coming next, and said, “Donnan.”

  The Cane Creek Regulators had not stopped with the burning of the Robinson place and the whipping of Jonathan Conley. Although there were no outlaw gangs to bring to justice, the regulators found criminals anyway. Men were flogged for crimes such as being shiftless, being lazy. Others w
ere exposed to dunking stools on the suspicion that they had abetted horse thieves. At least two had been tarred and feathered for protesting the actions of the regulators.

  It was not limited just to Ninety Six. Emily served many travelers bound for Keowee, Fort Loudon, Charlotte Town, and bid farewell to those who had given up making a life in South Carolina, some moving as far away as Delaware or New Jersey. Mars Bluff appeared almost to be in a state of civil war, and the cause seemed to be their regulators. Word had spread of similar complaints against the vigilance committees on the lower Saluda, along Lynches Creek, and up to Cheraw.

  Emily sucked in a breath, and shook her head. Although no one was lashed to either pillory, and the stocks were empty, she knew that at least five were imprisoned in the old stockade by Gouedy’s post. She brought them bread and water every night, and each morning.

  “Donnan,” she whispered again. Then not even knowing why, she said, “He murdered Go-la-nv.”

  The trader sighed, looking older, wearier. “You do not know that.”

  She knew it in her heart. Could see it in her brother’s eyes. She expected Gouedy, who had married a Cherokee woman and who had half-breed children, to be irate, but he was calm, as always.

  “From what I heard,” he said, “that young brave was found dead on the field. Do not believe what your brother says, that the young Indian was yellow. A bullet in the back is not always the result of cowardice. I have seen enough violence on this frontier to know of such things. It could have been an accident, shot by our own men. He could have simply turned, and caught a ball from some scamp. Your brother says many things. Donnan is not … prone to … kindness.”

  Emily regretted the fact that she had brought up Go-la-nv Pinetree and all those awful memories. “He had Jonathan Conley whipped,” she said.

  “Aye, but his wife, young Betsy, indeed complained of his sloth and intemperance. And you must admit that Conley, since his punishment, has been acting much better, as a husband should. And do you know what your brother told Ol’ Benji Cooper before he executed that sentence? Cooper himself told me that you brother told him … ‘Be soft with the blacksnake.’”

  “He is not always soft … Donnan, I mean,” Emily said, and turned to watch the slaves, hoping to find some way to regain her composure.

  Gouedy said, “But Donnan has caused much trouble and could, I fear, bring more misfortune to this district.”

  She faced Gouedy again. “You spoke of Charlestown newspapers.”

  Gouedy looked around, but other than the his own slaves, the tavern was empty. “Has not your mother returned from Georgetown?”

  Shaking her head, Emily said, “I expected her and Alan and Elizabeth last month, but the summer has been mild, so mayhap they extended their stay.”

  “Aye, the Carolina coast is lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as Ninety Six,” she said. “At least not to me.”

  Gouedy smiled. “I have not been to Georgetown in some time. Perhaps I should go. Breck … your father often told wild tales about fishing in Winyah Bay, looking for pirates’ treasure on Waccamaw Neck and Pawley’s Island, and even fighting alligators on Mingo Creek.”

  She made herself grin. “Aye. He told us the same stories. Sometimes I think he believed them himself.” His hearty laugh almost made her join him.

  He shook his head at some long dormant memory, saying, “I remember once, he was telling me about…”

  When Emily lifted her hand slightly, the old trader stopped. “Mister Gouedy,” she said mildly, “my father never was one to beat around the bush, as they say.” He nodded. “Should I read the Gazette?” she asked.

  “There is much talk about the regulators in Charlestown.” His tone sounded ominous.

  “There is talk in Ninety Six, as well,” she said, thinking that is was in whispers and never in front of anyone who rode with the Cane Creek Regulators. “It is one thing to brand thieves, even to lynch murderers. William Bull and Justice Shinner supported our cause as much as they could, but I fear Donnan and his men have gone too far, and Shinner has been removed as chief justice.”

  “For supporting my father’s cause?” Emily said.

  “No.” He sighed, and shook his head, then suggested, “Mayhap we should test your wares, Miss Emily? You never know how those Charlestown thieves might cheat you, and ’tis best you know before you give it to your customers.”

  When they each held a noggin of rum, Gouedy leaned forward. “The colonies are astir,” he said. “And not just in the backcountry. Even in Charlestown, I saw fear, anger, and resentment. Your father said that parliament’s Stamp Act had nothing to do with the backcountry, but I think Breck was wrong.”

  She knew little about the Stamp Act. It had arrived in Charlestown in the autumn of 1765. Donnan had laughingly recalled that effigies of the stamp collector had been hanged from the gallows on Broad and Church streets, Stamp Act printed on one and Liberty on another. After the effigies were removed and as the bells of several churches rang, a crowd had carried the dummies to the home of the stamp inspector, burned them in his yard, and the one that had been named Liberty was buried in a mock funeral.

  “Aye,” Emily said, “but did not I read that parliament repealed that act?”

  “Indeed, that is what happened,” said Gouedy, “because in London the Crown realized it could not be enforced. Lieutenant Governor Bull made that obvious when he said stamp paper was not available and opened the port. Justice Shinner agreed. Eventually, because of that, and other affairs, including the justice’s support even if somewhat lukewarm of the regulators’ actions, Lord Montagu had him removed.”

  She thought about that as she sipped her rum, and shook her head. “The Stamp Act and its protest, that all happened years ago, even before our troubles started. I still cannot see how this affects us in the backcountry.”

  “Not just the backcountry,” Gouedy said. “Not just South Carolina. It is unrest among all of us in all of the King’s colonies … It is the need to govern … ourselves.” He smiled. “We in the backcountry pride ourselves as a most independent lot, do we not?” Emily couldn’t help but grin at that as Gouedy continued. “We do not think much of those in Charlestown, but many are not much different than we. Had your father lived in Charlestown and not Ninety Six, I could picture him marching toward Tradd Street and burning the effigies to frighten a poor Royal tax inspector. In Ninety Six, we have the Cane Creek Regulators. In Charlestown, an organization has been formed that calls itself the Sons of Liberty.” He repeated the word. “Liberty.” Then took a hefty swig of rum.

  Emily studied the innkeeper’s face before saying, “I would not liken our regulators … at least those riding today … as anything worthy of the name liberty.”

  “War is coming, Emily,” Gouedy said. “I feel it in my bones.”

  “Are you suggesting, Mister Gouedy, that we in the backcountry would revolt against Lord Montagu?”

  His head shook. “Not Charlestown, Miss Emily. But the Crown. And not just the frontier, and, mayhap, not just South Carolina.”

  She fell back as if she had been kicked. The mere thought caused her to take in a deep breath. Exhaling, she shook her head. “King George? England?”

  “Indeed.” His answer had been barely audible.

  Now she laughed. “Mister Gouedy, my father would never commit such treason. He was loyal …” The words died in her throat.

  A heavy silence descended on them, and they sat staring at one another as the slaves finished bringing in the last of the rum and supplies that would have to last Cormorant’s Rock for another year.

  “It will be an ugly, most horrible kind of war,” Gouedy whispered, “for it will not just be colonists against the King’s bayonets. We will be fighting one another. Already we have seen that, and I even more now … with the Cane Creek Regulators.”

  “I do not believe …”
Emily began. But she did believe, and she knew that Robert Gouedy was right.

  He drained the last of his rum, and pushed back his chair. “I am an old man, Emily.” He dropped the ‘miss.’ “I doubt that I shall live to see my neighbors fighting His Majesty’s redcoats.” He leaned forward, pointing a long finger at her. “But your children, and possibly even you, shall see this. All its tragedy. And what your brother is doing with his regulators is just a portent of the coming storm.”

  “It cannot happen,” she said, hoping she could convince herself by saying it out loud. But she didn’t.

  “There is something else you should know,” Gouedy said. “You shall read about it in the Gazette.” He gestured at the satchel he had laid atop the bar when he first arrived. She waited. “Complaints have been filed in Charlestown.” He pressed his lips together, dreading what he had to tell her. “Written and filed by those abused by our regulators. There is nothing even Justice Shinner could do, even were he not in a state of disgrace thanks to that idiot made governor by King George. Even William Bull knows that the regulators have gone too far.” He paused to pour a little more rum, then said, “They will be sending someone with authority here, with writs, mayhap with sheriff’s bracelets, or even a sheriff’s picture frame.”

  Handcuffs and a gallows. For the regulators. The words passed in disbelief through Emily’s mind. She said, “Someone … such as … a provost marshal?”

  “Such would be my guess. And if the provost cannot quiet the disturbances here, then, by my guess, Lord Montagu will send either a Charlestown militia … or the His Majesty’s army.”

  Gouedy stood, gathered his coins, put them in his vest pocket along with his ledger, and reached for his cane. “Were I a praying man, and not the heathen I am, I would drop to my knees, Emily, and pray my damnedest that such not be the case, such not be the will of God.” His knees popped as he straightened. “But if there be a God, he would surely not listen to me.” He winked. “But you …?”

  With a smile, he gathered his slaves, leaving Emily alone in the tavern with her thoughts, and her fears.