Charleston (8 page)

Poorly tied off Edward's bleeding leg and improvised a litter from hunting shirts stripped from dead bodies. He dragged Edward home through the streets, helped part of the way by two slaves he didn't know. In Edward's second-floor bedroom the family doctor examined him and pronounced it a lucky wound: no major muscles or blood vessels cut. Edward knew none of this until he woke with a light fever some twenty hours after the explosion.

Each evening thereafter Tom Bell brought news to the bedside.

“Horrible casualties at the magazine. Two hundred, per
haps more. So far the cause is undetermined. The British would like to fix blame on us.”

And “Did you hear the commotion downstairs earlier?” Bleary eyed, Edward said no; he slept long hours under the doctor's opiate. “Four vultures in red coats searched the house for valuables. They gave the garden only a cursory look. However, to be safe, the buried silver will rest where it is for a while yet.”

And “Two hundred of our finest citizens addressed a memorial to General Clinton and Admiral Arbuthnot.” He read part of it from a copy of Peter Timothy's
South Carolina Gazette
. “‘We tender to Your Excellencies our warmest congratulations on the restoration of this capital and province to their rightful connection with the Crown and government of Great Britain.'”

Edward asked whether Adrian had signed. In a scathing tone his father replied, “Do you have any doubt? Old Glass signed, too, and my friend Hughston, who lost his son.”

And “They are billeting officers in private homes. We have acquired a Hessian, Captain Marburg. He arrived with a knapsack of books and a tendency to chat at every opportunity. He'll sleep on a cot in my office. He seems a decent sort.”

Carolina's soft spring sunshine burst into Edward's room every morning, bringing balmy airs from the sea and birdsong from the garden. Yet to Edward it seemed the bleakest of seasons. The Charleston surrender was the largest capitulation in the brief history of the American army. At Waxhaws on the colony's far northern border, Banastre Tarleton's green dragoons had overtaken a retreating force of Virginians and cavalry under Col. Abraham Buford. When Buford gave up and asked for quarter, Tarleton defied military tradition and refused it. Edward supposed Venables, he of the bird beak, took part in the ensuing massacre.
Tarleton's quarter
became a term of hatred and contempt.

The Hessian came upstairs one evening to pay his respects. Capt. Moses Marburg of von Huyn's regiment was a round-faced man, perhaps thirty, with curly carrot-colored hair and eyes like small blue pebbles. Edward drowsily invited him to draw up a chair.

Marburg spoke heavily accented English with considerable fluency; his commandant had insisted his officers learn. “I am a Jew, from the village of Wilnsdorf, in Hesse. I began as a forester, in the service of a duke of some distinction. Others in my family are more scholarly. My older brother is a rabbi. But all of us love books. In the duke's service the pay was decent, the position secure. However, the lady with whom I fell in love was permanently out of reach. The duke's daughter. She was a”—he foundered—
“Nichtjude.”
Then he remembered. “Gentile.”

“So you joined the army?”

“Yes, it seemed a good opportunity to cleanse the sorrows of the past and see the world.”

“Do you like soldiering?”

“Less than I expected. I do, however, like this country, South Carolina.”

“We've had a Hebrew temple in the city since around 1750. Charlestonians are tolerant people.”

“Good to hear. What I like most is the warm weather. All my life I've been a cold-blooded fellow. Always shivering, even in August. Here, I'm told, you can cook an egg in the sand in summertime.” He gave a little shrug, a shy smile. “I could be happy in Carolina.”

Edward agreed with his father. If they had to harbor an enemy soldier, Marburg was probably better than most.

After two weeks Edward was out of bed and taking short steps with a cane. He limped slightly. The long-faced doctor said the condition might be permanent.

Early in June, General Clinton and the bulk of his army prepared to set sail for New York. The general ordered citizens to swear a new loyalty oath. Many with important names—Middleton, Pinckney, Manigault, Hayne—obliged, but some forty patriots would not. They included Tom Bell and his friend Christopher Gadsden.

On June 8 the general and his troops embarked from the Cooper docks, leaving two Hessian regiments and three regiments of foot to garrison the town. Captain Marburg's regiment stayed.

Lord Cornwallis assumed command of the South. Com
mand in Charleston fell to a recent Clinton appointment, Col. Nisbet Balfour. “A dour and arrogant Scot” was Tom Bell's unhappy appraisal, “intent on rooting out traitors. Be assured, he will have his eye on Christopher, and me—anyone who refused to take the oath.”

One hot June morning, with flies buzzing and a fat mockingbird surveying the garden from the shrubs where he nested, Edward sat under the great live oak reading the latest
Gazette
. Joanna appeared at the gate. She carried a small sweet-grass basket draped with a napkin. Edward stood up too quickly, without using the cane. He staggered, dizzy. She rushed to him.

“Gracious, are you all right?”

“The leg's weak. I fear it's a permanent souvenir of the powder magazine.”

“What a terrible thing to go through.”

“More terrible for those who didn't walk away.”

“Father thought I ought not visit before this, but I've been concerned.”

Belatedly he took notice of her black dress, bonnet, and mittens. “Are you in mourning?”

“Many women are wearing weeds to protest the British presence.”

He pointed his cane at an iron bench; they sat. He admired the sweet full curve of her breasts that no amount of black drapery could minimize. She drew the napkin off the basket. “Gooseberry tarts. I made them.”

“Where did you find gooseberries?”

“My garden.” He had never seen it, though her father said it was elaborate, as many Charleston gardens were. “The cuttings came from England before the war.”

“Why the devil are you being so kind to me?” He meant it to be funny, but it came out as a quarrelsome bark.

“Well, sir, it isn't because of your courtly ways.”

Reddening, he made his apology. Joanna accepted it with a pretty tilt of her head. She took off her black bonnet. The day was hot, the air still; her face glowed with a light sheen of sweat.

“Is it really so hard to understand why I was concerned, Edward? We're friends. At least I believe so.”

The warmth of her eyes and smile relieved his embarrassment. He touched her hand. “We are, positively.”

“Thank heaven that issue is resolved. Now tell me, what will you do when you're recovered?”

He gazed toward the harbor, where an osprey sailed on the air currents. “I can't take up arms again. I gave my word when I signed the parole. Besides, there's no army worth the name left in Carolina. The garrisons at Camden and Ninety Six surrendered when they heard that Charleston fell. Relief from the North is the only hope.”

They chatted on about circumstances in the city. Neither felt cheerful about the occupation even though the redcoats were reasonably well behaved, with few incidents of looting or abuse of women. When Joanna rose to go, he saw her to the gate and thanked her for the tarts. “What can I possibly do in return?”

Her smile never wavered. “Why, this. If you've time on your hands, visit the workhouse.” She slipped through the gate and away before he could react.

“Damme if I will,” he grumbled. A week later, tired of idling in the house, he changed his mind. He took his cane and limped slowly to the large wooden building on Mazyck Street above Queen.

A block away he heard the shrill cry of someone in pain. He caught the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste. A coffle of seven blacks emerged from a compound behind the workhouse and trudged east on Magazine Street, guarded by a grubby white man carrying two muskets.

The man in charge of the workhouse greeted him in a small antechamber, where the smell was even more pronounced. The man's wig sat crookedly on his grotesquely oversized head. He was unctuous to a fault.

“Welcome, sir, welcome. Samuel Mouzon, your servant. And your name?”

“Edward Bell, sir.”

“Bell, Bell—not a relative of Squire Bell of Prosperity Hall, by chance?” The smack of a whip laid on flesh came from behind a thick oak door.

“His brother.”

“How excellent. Prosperity Hall sends us a nigger every few months. Do you own black property?”

“Some. I understand you discipline slaves for so much per head?” The whip hit again; Mouzon paid no attention to the scream. He rubbed his hands and bounced on his toes behind his high desk.

“Yes, sir, absolutely correct. Fees are negotiable.”

“And the punishment prevents a repetition of rebellious behavior?”

“We firmly believe so, sir. As do our clients.”

The next scream was even more harrowing. Edward pressed on. “You believe that what you do here makes a man more docile rather than more angry?”

“Oh, indeed. The best cure for future lapses is prevention. And we do not deal solely with bucks, sir. We apply the same treatment to wenches who misbehave. Would you care to observe?”

“That's the purpose of my visit.”

Mouzon led him to the door. “Forgive the foul odor, we're hellishly crowded. We also house some of the niggers swarming into town to find work. They may be runaways, we simply don't know.” Edward had seen gangs of blacks shoveling up garbage and rubble in the streets. He remembered the coffle leaving as he arrived.

Mr. Mouzon opened the creaking door to a large, dim room whose wood floor was scabrously stained by old blood and nameless filth. A thin mulatto, stripped to his trousers, turned to look at the newcomers. A bloodied cowhide, strips of leather braided into a long, supple whip, dangled from his hand.

Edward's eye fixed on the large wood frame behind him. Ropes from an iron wheel ran through pulleys on the crossbeam, then down to loops around the wrists of the woman being punished. The ropes stretched her arms straight over her head. Her skirt had been torn off and lay in a heap at her feet. Edward couldn't see her face.

The only sound in the room was the woman sobbing. A dozen bloody stripes marked her spine and buttocks. “What was her offense?”

“Deliberately spilling hot tea on the dress of her mistress while serving.”

“How do you know it was deliberate? Did the wench confess?”

“Wasn't necessary. The daughter of Mr. Octavius Glass has an unfailing eye for the concealed malice of niggers.” Excitedly, Mouzon went on, “Notice how we pull her up on tiptoe? Extremely painful. Enhances the punishment dramatically.”

Edward was pale. Mouzon signaled the mulatto youth, who delivered a stroke that made the woman jerk forward and shriek. A fresh stripe leaked blood.

“Yes, I have the idea,” Edward said, abruptly whirling and striding to the door. Mouzon pursued him.

“When might we anticipate serving you, sir?”

Edward slammed the street door and leaned against it. “Sweet Jesus.” Joanna had said the place was a hellhole, and it was. Charleston's prosperity was maintained by the very thing he'd witnessed. He'd always known such cruelties existed; he'd just never involved himself. Poorly, thank God, didn't need that sort of discipline, nor did Tom Bell's house slaves.

Profoundly upset, he limped to Thomas Pike's tavern on Church Street and drank himself into forgetfulness.

Edward's experience at the workhouse undermined his lifelong tolerance of slavery, though he didn't call on Joanna to tell her. At twenty-one, admitting a mistake, or the possibility of bad judgment, came hard.

The loyalists feted their military friends with nightly ban
quets and balls that lasted until dawn. The knowledge fueled Edward's need to avenge his mother. He didn't know how; he'd signed his parole. Both parents had taught him that a promise once given was not to be broken.

His wound was nearly healed. Only a slight leftward list remained when he stepped out with that foot. He drifted through the humid summer days feeling useless and worthless, and spent more and more time in dramshops.

 

“Marion's on the Santee, burning boats and watching the fords.”

“Colonel Marion of the Second?” Edward said.

“The same. He has no official rank and no more than twenty men. Some are colored. You've never seen such a miserably equipped rabble. All they have is the will to fight.”

The speaker was Micah Youngblood, a young man Edward's age with whom he'd fished and hunted in happier times. Micah had been a printer's devil in the employ of Peter Timothy until Col. Nisbet Balfour shut down the
South Carolina Gazette
as part of his campaign to intimidate those still resisting Crown authority. Mr. Wells, the popular bookseller who published a loyalist paper, was thriving unmolested.

“I saw Marion three days ago,” Youngblood went on. “He said he had taken his men up to Deep River, in North Carolina, to offer their services to General Gates.” Over Washington's objection the hero of Saratoga had been given command of a mixed force of Maryland, Delaware, and Virginia Continentals in the south. “Pompous old Horatio couldn't stand the sight of ragged men bit to pieces by red bugs and ticks. He sent them right back to detached duty in South Carolina. Which Marion prefers anyway.”

 

Seven men gathered in the great room of Thomas Singleton's house on Church Street: Tom Bell and Edward; Christopher Gadsden; Storrow, a blacksmith; Levy, an upholsterer; Holderman, a portrait painter; and Danes, a car
penter. August heat lay heavy, as did a general depression of spirit. Balfour's new Board of Police was enforcing its own civil tyranny. If you signed the loyalty oath, you could bring someone up before the Board to settle a debt or contract claim, but if you'd refused to sign, you were denied the privilege. Balfour was sending suspected persons to the provost dungeon under the Exchange, where they shared the company of thugs and whores.

“Christopher,” Tom Bell said, “while General Gates rushes to our rescue, where is our esteemed governor, Mr. Rutledge?”

Gadsden waved at an unseen horizon. “Out there, governing as best he can from his rolling carriage. More to the point, where's our host? I'm thirsty. Singleton?”

“Here, coming, with my little surprise,” answered a loud voice from the hall. An ungodly screeching jerked every man's head up. Their host marched into the room holding a thin chain. He bowed to his guests. “Gentlemen, you have met my friend Mr. Jolly before. A fine acquisition from Brazil two years ago. In honor of our esteemed city commandant I have renamed him Colonel Balfour.”

Colonel Balfour leapt on the table. With one furry paw he knocked a tankard off the edge.
“Mein Gott,”
Levy cried, his coat soaked, his face dripping ale. Colonel Balfour hopped up and down, showed his teeth, and screeched. Singleton's pet was a reddish-brown capuchin with a white front and face. He wore a perfect little replica of a British officer's red coat, braid and all.

Singleton yanked the chain. “Colonel, compose yourself. You've been very naughty.” He pulled grapes from his pocket and fed them to the monkey. To Levy he said, “I'm sorry he soiled your shirt. I'll buy you another.”

“Never mind. I want to know why you named a monkey after that damned arrogant Scot.”

“Simple enough, Otto. I did it because an ass is much too large to wear a red coat.”

 

Edward and his father walked home through streets whose lamps were lit by the civic lamplighter for a fee es
tablished by the Board of Police. Edward mused aloud, “I wonder if Marion would have me as a recruit?”

“You told me you'd never serve with a man like him. A puritan.”

“I know I did. Things keep changing. I'm ready to serve with Satan if he's the only general left.”

“Be careful when you say that. Break your parole and you could find yourself at the end of a rope.”

 

On August 16, at Camden, Charles Lord Cornwallis and Francis Lord Rawdon, with a force of some two thousand effectives, routed the larger but less seasoned army of Gen. Horatio Gates. The Continentals fled the field in disarray. Baron Johann de Kalb, the brilliant Bavarian soldier, took a fatal wound. Tarleton's legion of infantry and horse chased the fleeing Americans, killing ruthlessly. After Camden no American military presence of any significance existed in South Carolina.

Occupied Charleston celebrated the victory with illuminations, fireworks, and enforced ringing of church bells. For the first time in Edward's life St. Michael's peal sounded discordant. One elderly lady of good reputation was hauled off to the Exchange because she stood in front of her dark windows and told a squad of armed redcoats, “Shoot me if you wish, I will not illuminate for an American defeat.”

Next evening Christopher Gadsden came to the house with word of a new outrage. “They intend to sequester the property of suspected rebels. I saw the list. Bell's Bridge is on it, and Malvern.”

“If they think they can bluff me into signing their damned oath, they're wrong. They're welcome to Malvern's ashes until we win the war. Bell's Bridge is another matter. Let them try to seize that, and Esau and I will meet them with guns.”

“No you won't, Tom. It's exactly the excuse Balfour would need to lock you away.” Gadsden's dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “There are more important battles.”

“But when will we fight them?”

Edward wondered the same thing.

 

A few nights later another group of patriotic gentlemen gathered at Mr. Pike's Church Street tavern. When Edward arrived, his eyes and ears told him that all the men, including his father, had been drinking for some time. Tom Bell's condition surprised his son; he always drank moderately, if at all. The prospect of having Bell's Bridge wrested away was weighing on him.

The taproom rang with raucous hoots, whistles, applause. Colonel Balfour was capering on a table, alternately baring his tiny teeth and squealing, and refreshing himself with a mug of beer. His amused owner reposed in a chair, chain in hand.

The tavern keeper, Mr. Pike, tried to quiet his guests. “There are British officers in the long room. More will be arriving.”

“Introduce them to the colonel,” Tom Bell said. Another man said, “What are they doing upstairs, Pike, buggering each other?”

The publican winced. “They have engaged the room for the night, for a ball to celebrate Camden. Ladies of the town have been invited.” Sweatily fearful, he lowered his voice. “Women of color.”

The uproar died. For the first time Edward heard a harpsichord, hautbois, and flute playing a minuet. Someone said, “Whores, are they?”

“Some are, I suppose. Some may be free persons. I don't ask questions. I'll tell you this, the women are elegantly gowned.”

“By God, I must see that.” Singleton tugged the chain. “Let us present ourselves, Colonel.”

The street door opened suddenly and six boisterous celebrants trooped in. Two of the men wore red coats. The third, in green, was the bird-beaked dragoon, Venables. Edward had learned through quiet inquiries that Maj. Percy Venables was temporarily attached to Balfour's staff.

“Upstairs, ladies,” one of the redcoats said. He smacked the bottom of a Negress whose breasts were nearly falling out of her stiffly boned bodice. The second girl was light brown, with a glittering necklace adorning her throat.

Venables was escorting the most beautiful black woman Edward had ever seen. Six feet tall and black as night, she'd painted her face as aristocratic white ladies did: a base of flour or cornstarch with vivid reddish-purple lip color and rouge made from berries. Lampblack accented her lashes. A red diamond beauty spot adorned her left cheek, a red heart her exposed cleavage. Her high cylindrical wig was pure white.

To the plainly dressed men watching silently, the first redcoat said, “Gentlemen, good evening.” He saluted them with his bearskin cap, too drunk to recognize the animosity on their faces.

Venables pointed at the monkey. “And who is this little beast?” Edward was startled when his father spoke up.

“Isn't the uniform familiar, sir? The monkey is Colonel Balfour.”

One woman giggled; her companion twisted her wrist to silence her. Tom Bell held fast to the back of a chair; he was weaving on his feet. Venables threw off the hand of his beautiful companion.

“You're mocking a king's officer. Are you the owner of that nasty little creature?”

Silence. Tom Bell stared his defiance. Venables caught Tom Bell's chin in one hand.

“I say, sir. Are you the owner?”

Silence again.

“You will answer me.” The dragoon's hand flew, a stinging slap.

Edward hurled himself forward, fists up. His friends scrambled to give him room. Venables drew his dress sword. The sharp point touched Edward's throat, stopping him. Venables addressed Tom Bell. “You know this young puppy?”

Edward answered. “I'm his son.”

“His son. Well. Pity I didn't finish you at our first encounter.” His wrist turned; the point of the sword drew
blood. Then he pulled the blade away. “Someone remove that filthy monkey before I gut it on the spot.”

Singleton leapt to seize Colonel Balfour and rush him from the room. Venables sheathed his sword. “Ladies, let's away to the supper and dancing. No reason to let this scum spoil it.”

He pushed the tall woman to one side and ascended the stairs ahead of her. He turned back long enough to fix Tom Bell and Edward with ugly looks. His companions, somewhat subdued, followed him. The musicians struck up a Scottish reel.

Tom Bell said, “Do you know that man?”

“I do. He's the same whoreson who sabered my leg.”

Overhead, booted feet moved in time with the lively music. In the back of the house Colonel Balfour shrieked and gibbered.

“Fortunately, he doesn't know my name,” Edward added.

“He will,” Tom Bell said. “He will.”