Freedom Bound (16 page)

“
THEE NEEDS NOT
carry laundry any longer,” said Mrs.
Doughty, “Nick pays a fair rate for thy lodging. Now that
Phoebe has a certificate to prove she is free, she can go about
town without hindrance as my helper.”

“But I like to!” Charlotte protested. “I need to be useful. If
I didn't help you, whatever would I do with myself all day?”

Into her mind came a vision of how Mrs. Knightly spent
her days in the officers' quarters. Drinking tea. Planning
balls. Being fitted for new gowns. No. That was not the life
Charlotte wanted.

She would have liked work that was both useful and interesting. Apart from the chance to pick up bits of news as
she made her rounds, carrying bundles of laundry was
hardly interesting. For the time being, she reckoned that she
would settle for useful.

Nick bought a two-wheel handcart for her use. It was a
great help, once she learned to navigate around potholes and
garbage. In her free time she often took Patience, Charity and
Joseph for rides—one at a time, for one child was all the
handcart could carry.

On these excursions she saw white labourers and free
blacks working together to repair the fortifications. Little
more than a year ago, the British bombardment had knocked
them down. Now another siege seemed likely. This time it
would be rebels attacking the British occupiers.

Tension gripped the city. Only the most optimistic Loyalists clung to the dream that victory was still within their
grasp.

Still, despite every rebel victory, gentlemen in coffee
houses assured each other, as long as Fort Ninety-Six remained in British hands, everything might still be fine. Fort
Ninety-Six. The key to the backcountry: that's what Nick
had called it. Captain Braemar was one of its defenders. His
regiment had gone there right after he gave Charlotte the
news of Nick's capture by ruffians. It was where Elijah would
be now, if he had not deserted. Fort Ninety-Six, with its prosperous village, was the stronghold where the loyal forces
would make their stand.

It was no wonder that she listened especially for news of
Ninety-Six. In the spring of 1781 its fate hung in the balance.
The fortress was under attack. For weeks in June the unbeatable General Greene, the Fighting Quaker, had the fort under
siege. Short of water, short of food, short of ammunition,
the defending army held on, waiting for reinforcements.

Then the miracle happened. General Greene gave up. One
fine day, he abandoned the siege and marched his army away.

For one week, there was great joy in Charleston.

Just one week. Then everything changed.

Charlotte, on her laundry rounds, had never before heard
such mutterings of betrayal as she heard when the news
arrived that the defenders of Ninety-Six, after driving off
General Green's rebel forces, had destroyed their own fort
and burned the village to the ground.

Gentlemen milled about in front of the London Coffee
House on King Street.

“I can't believe it,” one gentleman said, lifting his nose
from his copy of the
Royal Gazette
. “The rebels had retreated.
Fort Ninety-Six was saved.”

“Madness.”

“Utter folly.”

It made no sense to Charlotte either.

Nick returned late that evening. Charlotte had waited up
for him, a lit candle in the front room window, worrying lest
he had come to harm. At his approach, she opened the door.

As soon as he entered, he sank wearily onto the settle. She
sat down beside him.

“Have you heard about Ninety-Six?” he asked.

“Yes. I don't understand why an army would destroy its
own fort.”

“I can explain. More than a month ago, Southern Command decided that Ninety-Six was too remote to maintain.
It sent orders to Commander Cruger to abandon it. The
orders were sent repeatedly. Not one courier got through.

“So Commander Cruger didn't know he was under orders to abandon the fort. His duty, so far as he knew, was to
defend it. And that's what he did.

“He had requested reinforcements. When they finally
arrived, the rebels had already given up the siege. With the
reinforcements came the orders that had failed to arrive
weeks before.”

“I see,” said Charlotte. “So after saving Ninety-Six, his
army now had to destroy it.” She wondered how Commander Cruger could bear to carry out such orders.

“Yes. He had to command his men to tear down the fortifications and to burn the village. The church. The tavern.
The courthouse. The jail. The houses. All went up in flames.”

“What will happen to the people who lived in the village?”

“My department has two weeks to get ready for a thousand more refugees.”

“Where will you put them?”

“I don't know. Every bit of vacant land is already filled
with homeless people. In the camp just outside town, fami
lies are living in huts made of scraps of canvas, smashed carts
and palmetto leaves. I've seen wagons arriving from the interior with men between the shafts because their horses have
been stolen or their oxen eaten. Now worse is to come.”

On a hot August afternoon, Charlotte was returning to Stoll's
Alley from picking up laundry. The streets were jammed
with people pushing wheelbarrows and handcarts. Some had
bundles tied on their backs. None looked as if they knew
where they were going.

She felt tired and sweaty as she reached Mrs. Doughty's
door. Her hand was on the latch when suddenly a half brick
shot by her and smashed a pane in the front window. She
put her hand up to shield her eyes from the flying shards.
Something sharp struck her brow.

Blood was running into her eyes as she opened the door
and pushed the handcart inside.

“Thee is hurt!” Mrs. Doughty rushed to her and shut the
door. Phoebe jumped up from the braided rug, where she
had been playing with the children. At the sight of blood
streaming down Charlotte's face, Patience, Charity, Joseph
and Noah began to cry. Mrs. Doughty and Phoebe led Charlotte into the kitchen, and helped her to a chair.

“Let me see,” said Mrs. Doughty.

“It's nothing.” Charlotte struggled to control the shakiness of her voice.

“God be thanked thine eye has been spared.” Mrs. Doughty
pressed a folded cloth against her brow. “This will staunch
the flow of blood.”

Charlotte heard another smash as a second windowpane
shattered. “Who's doing this? Why?”

“Ruffians. The city is in turmoil. At times like these, people look for somebody to blame for everything. Outsiders
make a good target.”

The noise in front of the house had stopped.

“Hold this here.” Mrs. Doughty pressed Charlotte's fingers to the cloth on her brow. She went into the front room
and looked out the window. “Some good citizens have come
to our aid. They're holding the ruffians. It's all over.”

At least for now, Charlotte thought.

“I'll put sticking plaster on thy cut,” said Mrs. Doughty.
Calmly she mixed up a thick white paste in a little cup and
applied a dab of it to Charlotte's brow. “Rest for a bit while
this hardens. Then change thy gown.”

Charlotte glanced down. Her skirt and bodice were splattered with blood.

“One of the Friends, a carpenter, will repair the window,”
said Mrs. Doughty. “I'll write a note for thee to deliver to
him when thee is feeling better.”

“I can deliver it,” said Phoebe.

“No,” said Mrs. Doughty. “Thee is safer indoors while
there's such unrest.”

While Phoebe fetched Charlotte a tumbler of water, Mrs.
Doughty took a quill, an inkhorn and a sheet of paper from
her cupboard and, sitting at the kitchen table, began to
write. Her hands were red and cracked, and her fingernails
split. Washerwoman's hands.

By the time Mrs. Doughty finished writing, the children
had stopped crying. After a few more minutes' rest, Charlotte changed her gown.

Mrs. Doughty handed her the note. The name on the
front was Levi Blount. The address was on Meeting Street.

“Is that close to Mrs. Perkins' house?” Charlotte asked.

“Two doors further. There's a small community of Friends
whose houses are close together.”

“I reckon you'd be safer if you dwelt among them.”

“Indeed, we would be safer, instead of being the only
Friends living in Stoll's Alley.” She paused. “Caleb bought this
house because the location was convenient for his customers.
The front room was his shop.”

“Now that things are different, have you thought of moving?”

“That suggestion has been made.” Mrs. Doughty picked
up her broom and began to sweep together the shards of
broken glass.

Charlotte still felt shaky as she left the house, glancing this
way and that to be sure no more bricks were coming her
way.

In a few minutes she arrived at the plain clapboard house
two doors past Mrs. Perkins' home. As she lifted the knocker,
she felt very conscious of the patch of sticking plaster on her
forehead.

An elderly woman dressed in Quaker black came to the
door.

“I have a message for Friend Levi Blount,” said Charlotte.

“Levi!” the old woman called to someone in another room.

Charlotte, assuming that she was calling her husband, was
surprised to see a man no more than forty years of age come
to the door. Under the brim of his black hat, his dark sideburns were barely touched with grey.

He took the message from her and invited her to step
inside. Would she like a drink of water? She must be hot
after her walk.

“No, thank you. I must get back.”

She left him reading the note.

The next morning, Friend Levi arrived at Mrs. Doughty's
door, carrying a toolbox. Like all Quakers, he had a sober,
serious manner. Mrs. Doughty's manner was equally sober
and serious. She enquired after his mother's health and gave
him no more than a modest smile.

From his toolbox Friend Levi took a measuring tape and
heavy leather gloves. After removing the remaining bits of
broken glass, he measured the window opening for new
panes.

Before leaving, he said to Mrs. Doughty, “A young woman
like thee should be living closer to other Friends, not in
Stoll's Alley, where there is no family that shares our faith.”

“I manage very well, Friend Levi. Most of the time.”

When he returned, he brought two squares of glass and a
small quantity of putty. Setting to work with few words, he
finished the job quickly.

Mrs. Doughty thanked him and then added, “Perhaps I'll
see thee at meeting tomorrow.”

“I'll come by for thee. I don't like the thought of thee
walking out alone.”

Charlotte noticed that Mrs. Doughty blushed before lowering her face.

“
THINGS CAN'T GO
on like this much longer,” said Nick. He
was sitting up in the darkness. It was the middle of the
night, but he could not sleep. “Charleston's a powder keg
ready to blow up. We've jammed the freed slaves who work
on fortifications into an old sugar factory, where living conditions are worse than they endured in slavery. They're
angry about this. When we offered them freedom, they expected something better. And the backcountry Loyalists
who've fled to Charleston are just as badly off.”

“What do you fear will happen?” asked Charlotte.

“Riots. Bloodshed. Cholera. On top of everything else,
General Greene's army is fifteen miles away, with nothing
standing in the way of a siege.”

“Do you think he'll attack?”

“He may not need to. Sieges cost lives. I think he'll wait to
see what happens in Virginia. General Cornwallis is on his
way there to fight George Washington's army. Cornwallis
wants to bring on a decisive battle. He thinks he can win. If
he does win, he'll finally be able to join forces with General
Clinton's army in the north.”

Charlotte nodded. “That's if he wins. I reckon if Washington wins, that will be even more decisive.”

All through the long, hot summer of 1781, Charleston held
its breath and waited for the decisive battle that General
Cornwallis was so eager to bring on. At last, at Yorktown in
Virginia on October 19th, the battle took place. But Cornwallis did not achieve the result he desired. His surrender
was total.

The news arrived the next day. Seven thousand and eighty-seven British and Loyalist officers and men were prisoners
of war. Nine hundred British seamen were prisoners of war.
One hundred and forty-four cannons were turned over to
the rebels, as well as fifteen galleys, a frigate, and thirty transport ships. Cornwallis, pleading illness, did not attend the
surrender ceremony but sent his second-in-command.

People gathered in front of the coffee houses and on
street corners talking about it. They spoke quietly, soberly.
Was this the end of the war?

Again Nick arrived home after everyone had finished eat
ing and the children were in bed. He sank in weariness onto
his chair at the kitchen table. Charlotte took from the food
locker the biscuit and grits she had saved for him.

“This is the first I've eaten since breakfast,” he said between bites. “It's been a hard day.”

She sat beside him to keep him company, not speaking
much until he was finished, and then she said, “Everybody's
talking about the news from Yorktown. They say it's the end
of the war.”

“It's not,” he answered. “General Clinton's army is undefeated in the north, and the rebels lack the strength to take
New York.

“I'll tell you some other news I learned today. Ralph Braemar's parents have set sail for Jamaica. They chartered a ship,
and off they went. With them they took their money and
valuables, as well as a hundred slaves from their rice plantation. Mr. Braemar's name is sure to be on the list of Tories
whose property will be confiscated when the rebels win. He
saw the wisdom of getting out before he lost everything.”

“What about Captain Braemar? Where's he?”

“I suppose Ralph's a prisoner of war in Virginia. After
Fort Ninety-Six was abandoned, his regiment was attached
to Cornwallis' army. Most likely Ralph will join his parents
in Jamaica when the prisoners of war are released.”

“Then you're likely never to see him again.”

“I suppose not, and that's a pity. He's been a good friend.”
For a moment Nick's thoughts seemed to be far away. “I'll
try to get in touch with him when the war's over and I have
more time.”

“That should be soon, the way things are going.”

“Not soon. We have to wait for Parliament to decide
whether it wants to continue the war. Now that France has
thrown its support behind the rebels, I think Parliament will
vote to quit the struggle and let the Thirteen Colonies go
their own way.”

“You mean, let them have their own country?”

“That's not such a bad idea. I don't like slavery. I don't like
their treatment of the native people. But I've no doubt the
Continental Congress is capable of running a country. When
Britain stops thinking of these people as colonists and starts
thinking of them as trading partners, both sides will be better off. But there's nothing we can do about it. We have to
wait and see what Parliament decides.”

“Nick! That will take months!”

“I know. First a ship carries the news to England. Then
Parliament spends weeks debating the issues. After the vote's
finally taken, a ship has to bring the decision to North
America.”

“I don't like to admit that the rebels are right about anything,” said Charlotte. “But being loyal doesn't mean that you
want to be ruled by a government on the other side of the
Atlantic Ocean.”

“Charlotte, that's what I've been saying from the start.
And it's something that must happen. Within five years
there'll be ten thousand Loyalists settled in the Upper Country and thirty thousand in Nova Scotia. After what these
people are going through, they'll surely have earned the
right to manage their own affairs.”

“Will Britain let them?”

“After losing thirteen colonies, I think Britain will learn a
lesson,” said Nick. “It may take years to persuade Britain to
hand over the reins, but in time it will happen.”