Me, too, Emily thought as she watched Donnan bark orders at the tattooed Catawba Indian and Go-la-nv Pinetree before swinging into his saddle, and shouting at Ferguson, the pig farmer, whose mule kept kicking as two other men tried to slide a pack on its back.
Having dispensed the biscuits, Machara hurried to the porch.
Underneath the giant oak, holding hands, Darlene Courtney and Rachel Zachary began singing an Irish ballad, “My Gallant Darling,” in the old language. Emily felt a pang of jealousy. She hated Rachel’s voice, and Darlene’s as well, because she could never sing like those two women.
Sé mo laoch, mo Ghile Mear
Sé mo Chaesar, Ghile Mear,
Suan ná séan ní bhfuaireas féin
Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo Ghile Mear.
She sang softly with them, only in English.
He’s my champion, my Gallant Darling,
He’s my Caesar, a Gallant Darling,
I’ve found neither rest nor fortune
Since my Gallant Darling went far away.
She watched her father as she sang, and felt the tears begin to flow again. When the girls had finished the song, her mother, now standing beside Emily, began a new song, her voice booming.
Hie upon Highlands,
And lay upon tay.
Bonnie George Campbell
Rode out on a day.
He saddled, and bridled,
So gallant rode he.
And hame cam his guid horse,
But never cam he.
Emily felt her mother’s hand, and their fingers locked. She wanted to join her in song, but she was crying too hard now. Several of the regulators had joined in the song with fifes, and then a drum began beating as the men rode out of Ninety Six, heading north.
Donnan spurred his horse past, grinning and tipping his cocked hat as he galloped across the yard, leaping his horse over a fence, shouting the savage Scottish battle cry “Creag an Sgairbh!” while riding to the point.
“Look at Donnan ride!” Alan screamed with delight.
Emily didn’t. She just kept her eyes on her father, squeezed her mother’s hand, and cried as the regulators rode out.
Out cam his mother dear,
Greeting fu sair,
And out cam his bonnie bryde,
Riving her hair.
The meadow lies green,
The corn is unshorn,
But bonnie George Campbell
Will never return.
Saddled and bridled
And booted rode he,
A plume in his helmet,
A sword at his knee.
But toom cam his saddle,
All bloody to see,
Oh, hame cam his guid horse,
But never cam he.
* * * * *
When the frost arrived the following week, she led Alan and Elizabeth to the garden to pull up the carrots. Alan naturally kept pretending the one he had gathered was a pistol, firing it at bandits, squirrels, and Indians. Emily had to keep her eye on Elizabeth to stop her from putting any of the vegetables in her mouth.
“Wait until we wash them, Elizabeth, and scrape the dirt off them!”
They had filled two baskets, and the third was growing heavy. It had been a good crop, not just for the carrots, but for the tomatoes and corn, practically everything. Even if winter proved to be hard, they would not likely go hungry.
“Where’s Da?” Elizabeth said.
“Killing bastards,” Alan answered.
“Alan Stewart!” Emily said. “If Mum heard you say such a naughty word, your mouth would taste like soap and you would not feel comfortable sitting in a chair for a week.”
“It’s what Donnan says,” Alan whined.
“Let him say it. You shan’t.”
He stuck out his tongue. “You say it, too.”
She tossed a dirt clod at him, and the playful fight was on.
It stopped when Machara leaned her head out the back door. “Emily, can you help me?”
“Yes, Mum!” she called back, standing and brushing the mud and dirt off her dress. As she moved past the scarecrow and climbed over the fence, she said to her siblings, “Can you two concentrate on pulling carrots for a few minutes?”
Their heads bobbed.
“Dig deep. Do not just pull these up by the greenery. They will break off and you will leave a good portion of the carrot in the dirt.”
“We shan’t,” Elizabeth said, but Emily had her doubts.
She met her mother inside the winter kitchen.
“We have a visitor,” her mother whispered as she poured water into a pot.
“Aye? And who might it be?”
“I do not know, Emily, but he is hungry and he is thirsty.”
“Oh.” She shook her head at her stupidity, it having been so long since they had actually had a customer that Emily had practically forgotten that Cormorant’s Rock did business as an inn.
“If you will fetch him a drink, I shall try to water down our leftovers enough that it might make a decent meal. Oh, my goodness,” Machara said, pulling back at her hair. “What would Breck say? The stove is not hot, and the cornbread is at least two days old!”
“Mum,” Emily said, heading toward the tavern, “a bit of mead is likely all he wishes for supper.” She pulled the door shut behind her, and saw the back of a man in a ribbon shirt, sitting alone, one leg stretched underneath the table, spur resting on the seat of the opposite chair.
“What is your pleasure for a drink?” she called out to the man’s back as she moved toward the cask of mead.
“The persico is bragged about as far north as the Cowpens,” came the answer, and Emily stopped, and quickly turned around.
Finnian Kilduff dragged his right leg off the chair, turned slowly, and grinned that devilish smirk of his.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Is this not a tavern? I am hungry. And thirsty. And have traveled far.”
“We have no persico. My father is … visiting.”
“Aye.” He cocked his head at a rakish angle.
Since she had left her pistol upstairs, she reached with her hand for the bung starter her father kept underneath the bar.
“I have no sentiment when it comes to mead,” Kilduff informed her. “I do not know how people drink that stuff, but a wee bit of rum with a splash of water would wash the grit off my tongue.”
Finding a jug of the kill-devil, Emily filled a mug, and caught a glance of herself in the mirror. She groaned. Her dress was covered in filth, her hair looked a mess, and carrots and dirt had stained her hands a horrible brown-tinted orange.
I do not give a damn, she thought to herself, and rounded the bar, sliding the mug in front of Kilduff and putting both hands on her hips.
“I shall ask to see the color of your coin,” she said.
Kilduff laughed. “Is that how you treat all of your neighbors?”
“Neighbor?” Her head shook. “We are a long way from your hideout.”
“I now reside on Cane Creek,” he said.
She frowned, but said nothing. Instead, she walked to the door, pulled it open, and stared outside.
“Looking for something?” he asked. “I came alone.”
“I am looking at your horse.”
“Indeed. That dun is a beaut. Won me a hogshead of rum in a race at Wilmington.”
She slammed the door, and glared.
“Are you angry?” He scratched his chin. “Well, the man who sold me his home did say that the people of Ninety Six are not friendly.”
She made a guess, saying, “Joseph Robinson.”
He laughed. “Indeed.”
“And where, by chance, did you see that lout?”
“In Charles
town.”
“Did you rob him on a dark street?” she asked.
He picked up his mug, toasted in her direction, and took a sip. “I bought him several drinks in Dillon’s Tavern. Then I bought his home. Before he met with Lieutenant Governor Bull to complain about … your Cane Creek Regulators.”
“Aye,” she said, feeling a need to fill the silence between them. “I thought your home was a hut in the forest … with …” she had to think back to remember the name, “Tasmin.”
He was sipping the rum when she spoke the name, and he almost choked. He set the mug on the table and produced a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “By Jehovah, Miss Stewart, you have a memory, but her name was Tanwen.”
“Was?” Emily asked.
Kilduff’s eyes dropped, and he fingered the cup absently. “Aye,” he said after a long moment. “Was. The bloody flux laid her low.”
“I am sorry.”
“As am I. As were we all … those of us who were left afterward.” He tried to smile when he looked up at her. “Those days are behind me now, Miss Stewart, for I have found a new vocation.”
She looked back at the kitchen, saw the door closed, and leaned closer, lowering her voice, “If the Reverend Monteith returns, he will remember you. And my brother will remember you, as well. And that marsh tacky that you ride will carry you underneath our gallows tree.”
“Indeed. Where is your brother, Miss Stewart? And your father? And … where are most of the men in Ninety Six? This place feels like a cemetery.”
“You better leave, sir. After your supper.”
“Yes, where is my supper?”
“I will see if it is ready.”
She turned, her heart pounding against her ribs and sweating hard despite the chill. The door opened with a crash before she had even gotten close, and her mother came in, looking nervous. She wet her lips as she served the platter containing a bowl of lukewarm soup and stale bread.
Kilduff sprang to his feet, removing his cocked hat, bowing and saying, “Please, please, Missus Stewart, there is no rush.”
“It is not very filling, I fear,” Machara said.
“Have a seat,” Kilduff said, and eased Machara into the chair that recently had housed his right boot and spur. “I wanted to come by and make your acquaintance, as I am newly settled in the district. I wanted to introduce myself to your husband.”
Machara tried to catch her breath as Kilduff motioned Emily toward another chair, but Emily shook her head.
“You are new here?” Machara asked.
“Yes. I have acquired the home of Mister Joseph Robinson.”
“Oh, yes.” Machara’s head bobbed. “He was …” She looked at Emily, blushing, and shook her head. “You bought his property?”
Kilduff sat back down, shaking his head. “Not personally. In a sense, it belongs to Lord Montagu. In another sense, I suppose my landlord is Richard Cumberland.”
Machara blinked. “Richard … Cumberland?”
“Yes,” Kilduff said.
Having moved closer to the table to protect her mother, Emily was so stunned, she blurted, “The provost marshal?”
“Aye.” Kilduff beamed as he nodded at Emily. “You know much for a young woman so far from Charlestown. Richard Cumberland, provost marshal for the colony of South Carolina. Lord Montagu has appointed me his deputy. I am Kilduff.” He bowed at Machara. “Finnian Kilduff. Deputy Provost Marshal Finnian Kilduff.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Why did they send you to Ninety Six, Deputy Kilduff?” Robert Gouedy asked. He tested the tea Machara had poured him, found that it was too hot, so blew on it, all the while never taking his eyes off the deputy provost marshal.
“There is grave concern in the colony about what is going on in the backcountry,” Kilduff said.
“Would you do otherwise?”
Kilduff’s eyes caught Emily’s and held for a moment before he fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and container of tobacco. He shrugged, and said, “The governor feels strongly about these regulators. Lord Montagu has heard rumors that they will march on Charlestown in the spring. Revolution … it strikes fear in the gentry, and in those holding office in the Assembly. And parliament, as well.”
“We are loyal to King George,” Gouedy said.
“But not to Lord Montagu. You have ignored his order to have your militia disperse.”
“If Breck Stewart disbanded his army …”
“Then you admit it is an armed force.”
Gouedy shook his head in disgust. “If you go unarmed against bandits, you would not accomplish much, would you, sir?”
“And if you marched on Charlestown?”
“We have no intention of marching against the Crown, sir. But as I said, if the Cane Creek Regulators marched against the criminals in this country without weapons, they would be slaughtered, and those fiends would be free to wreak even more havoc on farmers, traders, and travelers.”
Kilduff’s head shook. “Charlestown …”
“Charlestown is too far from the backcountry,” Gouedy said. “Charlestown does not know what is happening to the King’s people. In Charlestown, you revolt against parliament’s Stamp Act, and that is fine for your wealthy merchants. You celebrate your cause. You turn away the King’s ships. But when those of us revolt against outlaws who commit robbery, rapine and murder, you call us criminals. You, sir, seem to forget that the majority of this colony’s settlers reside not along the tidewater, but out here in the frontier.”
“Once, I resided here, too, sir.”
“I remember you.” Gouedy picked up his mug, and sipped the tea. Emily decided that was a good excuse to bring the kettle from the kitchen and refill their cups, though Gouedy’s was practically full, and Kilduff’s still steaming.
“You remember me, sir?” asked Kilduff.
“Certainly. You traded with the Cherokees. You were a barrister in Dublin, London, and later in Charlestown.”
Emily arrived at that moment, and filled Kilduff’s mug, then motioned toward Gouedy’s, but he waved her away with irritation.
“May I bring you some bread, sirs?” she asked.
“No,” Gouedy snapped, but Kilduff smiled and said, “Please. If it is no trouble.”
She curtsied and raced back to the kitchen, found the bread and a bit of butter, and sprinted back to the tavern.
“I would not expect to see you here as a provost,” Gouedy was saying, “but rather as one the provost’s prisoners bound for Charlestown.”
Kilduff had the audacity to wink at Emily as she set the plate on the table. “There are many in agreement with you, sir. But be that as it may, I am the deputy, and I can produce the documentation from Lieutenant Governor Bull if you so desire.”
“You have always been a man of your word, Finnian.”
Finnian? They were on a first-name basis, Emily thought to herself. Then she heard herself saying, “If you do not mind, I would like to see such proof.”
Gouedy stared at her in horror, or maybe he felt rage at the audacity of a seventeen-year-old girl, but Kilduff chuckled, and reached for the leather valise at his feet. The grip came onto the table, almost knocking over his mug of tea, and he opened it, still laughing, and reached inside. She expected him to come out with a pistol, and for his face to become savage, but his expression never changed, and out came a parchment, which he unrolled, and slid toward, not Emily, but Robert Gouedy.
“You are familiar with the governor’s royal stamp, are you not, Squire Gouedy?” Speaking now with strict formality.
Gouedy sighed, nodded, and produced the spectacles he carried in his pocket. At least, he didn’t take Kilduff at his word. He leaned forward, holding the glasses on the bridge of his nose, and his mouth moved as he read. Finally he lifted his head, dropped the eyewear inside his pocket, and frowned at Emily, who back
ed away from the table.
Damned if she would apologize. Not to the likes of Finnian Kilduff, and certainly not to Robert Gouedy.
“I have work to do,” she said, and returned to the bar, keeping herself busy, or at least pretending to work as she polished mugs and steins, and wiped the counter—something her father rarely did, except when there had been a fight.
“The Cherokee War ruined me, Gouedy,” Kilduff said. “But made you richer than God.”
“’Twas your own doing, Finnian. You were branded a rebel.”
“In more ways than one, Gouedy. Would you care to see my back?”
“A distasteful punishment, but I had no hand in it.”
They paused to drink their tea and partake of bread and butter. Emily grew impatient, hoping the conversation would resume, but when it did, they had moved away from Kilduff’s past.
“So you are to turn Mister Robinson’s house into an office?” Gouedy said, finishing his tea. “And a jail?”
Kilduff shook his head. “That was the plan, but Robinson said his place was close to Ninety Six. I fear it is too far from the tavern and other buildings to do much good as a jail. It is, after all, quite a walk from your stocks and pillory.” Gouedy remained silent. “Robinson’s sense of location was somewhat lacking, so we will have to find a more fitting location for a jail.”
“Robinson’s sense of duty was also lacking. But Lord Montagu thought of building a jail?” Gouedy’s voice rose in anticipation.
“I do not know how much of this is the governor’s idea and how much credit should go solely to William Bull,” Kilduff said. “That Anglican minister who spent the fall and winter with you, he spoke to the Assembly recently and cited many requests … dare I call them pleas … to help you, as well as those in the Peedee, on the Saluda, the Broad, the Catawba.”
“And what did that itinerant ask for?” Gouedy asked, shaking his head. “Churches?”
“Churches? Aye. But he also asked for courts. He said there is a need for courthouses, schools, and, as you see by my presence, jails.”
“That foolish preacher did that?”
“He did not sound foolish to me, sir. And I think he preaches fine Old Testament brimstone.”
Emily’s head jerked up, and she had to stop herself from calling out, And when, sir, did you have the privilege of hearing the Reverend Monteith preach? What stopped her was Finnian Kilduff, who turned away from the trader to look at Emily as if he expected her question. Immediately she looked away, hating his smirk.
The Cane Creek Regulators Page 14