Marion turned aside, galloped to the head of Jack’s Creek, then down along the Pocotaligo River through harvested fields and dense pine forests. Tarleton chased him for seven hours. Then, confronted by a trackless bog near Ox Swamp, he gave up, announcing that he would go after Gen. Thomas Sumter’s militia brigade instead. Weeks later an express rider brought Marion word of what Tarleton said after making his decision:
“As for that damned old fox Marion, the devil himself couldn’t catch him.”
The anecdote might have been amusing if it hadn’t been accompanied by an account of Tarleton’s retreat. He burned over thirty houses, and corncribs full of precious winter food. At the Richardson plantation he ordered the general’s body dug up, punishment for Mrs. Richardson’s alarm to Marion. He demanded a lavish dinner and left the general’s rotting body beside the desecrated grave while he dined. Before he rode away, his men herded Richardson cattle, pigs, and chickens into a barn, locked it, and burned the animals alive.
“The man who threw the torch was your old friend Venables,” Marion told Edward.
Revenge became Edward’s obsession. It flowed in every vein and tinctured every thought like a poison. He soon learned that his commander had no tolerance for personal vendettas. Marion sent a small detachment to stop the slaughter of cattle at the farm of a prominent Whig. The party included a recent recruit, Lt. Gabriel Marion.
British soldiers surprised and caught the Americans. Someone identified Gabriel as the colonel’s nephew. Someone else fetched a musket loaded with buckshot, put it against Gabriel’s chest, and fired.
The others managed to escape. Next day a patrol captured a mulatto who admitted he belonged to a Tory master. At the nightly campfire a sergeant walked up to the mulatto, shoved a pistol in his ear, and blew half his head away. Marion could barely control his fury. “Why did you do it?”
“For your nephew, Colonel. For Gabriel.”
“Gabriel’s gone. Another murder won’t bring him back. They may be animals, but we are not. There will be no such action in this company ever again.” To Major Horry he said, “Chain that man’s wrists. When we move out tomorrow, he walks. No food or water until I say so. This lesson will not be forgotten.”
Edward hid his passion for vengeance.
In the late autumn they went to ground on Snow’s Island, a low ridge of land five miles long and two miles wide, bounded by the Pee Dee, the Lynches, and Clark’s Creek, a virtual moat surrounded by swamps and pine forests. It was a haven safer than most.
December brought a change of command in the South. One of Washington’s most trusted officers, Gen. Nathaniel Greene, relieved Horatio Gates. Greene, not yet forty, was a Quaker from Warwick, Rhode Island. He took command of three thousand Continentals who faced at least four thousand of the enemy in the Carolinas.
Greene’s first letter to Marion praised the colonel’s reputation and hoped for an early meeting. Meanwhile, to bolster Marion’s command, he dispatched Lt. Col. Henry Lee of Virginia. Light Horse Harry arrived with his men impeccably clad in smart green coats, spotless white breeches, and shiny brass helmets crowned with horsehair plumes.
Lee and Marion sat under a live oak dining on hominy and corn bread. Lee was clean and manicured, his wig properly powdered. Marion’s red jacket showed months of hard wear. His boots were scuffed, his neckcloth grimy. As Edward observed the colloquy from a distance, however, it seemed to him that Lee and Marion got on splendidly. Each recognized the other as an accomplished soldier.
A courier arrived on New Year’s Day 1781 with another express from Greene, promoting Marion to brigadier. A great celebration followed. Rum appeared surreptitiously, obtained from unknown sources in the neighborhood. That day drinking was not punished.
Edward rode on into a stormy and eventful year. In January, with barges, canoes, and piraguas spirited to Snow’s Island by sympathetic country folk, Lee and Marion launched a waterway attack on Georgetown. It failed, but they captured the British commandant.
After each sortie Marion slipped back to Snow’s Island. Lt. Col. John Watson, five hundred loyalists, and a full British regiment moved against the base in March. Marion ordered all supplies burned before his company of seven hundred broke camp. After a sharp engagement at Wiboo Swamp on the Santee, Marion allowed Watson to send two wagons of wounded to Georgetown without harassment.
April took them to Fort Watson at Scott’s Lake. The fort had a high, almost impregnable palisade. They overcame it by erecting a forty-foot tower made of swamp lumber. They built it at night, by stealth, and in the morning Edward was one of the marksmen who scrambled up ladders to the protected platform on top. He looked down the muzzle of his Brown Bess into the fort’s central compound. Small red figures scurried about in panic. On command he fired, dropping one of them. Conquered from the sky as it were, Fort Watson surrendered.
Edward knew many men in the company, but he had no close friends. He was a private and solemn person, usually spending the evening staring at the fire and brooding about Venables and Lark. Or Joanna. He wanted to see her, see whether he could find a life with her after the war. But that had to wait.
Nathaniel Greene won no stunning victories, yet he exhausted the British with his ferocious fighting when he engaged. After Guilford Court House, Hobkirk’s Hill, Eutaw Springs in early September, Greene was in a position to advance toward the coast. A farmer’s wife Edward met on patrol said joyfully, “There’s a new motto in South Carolina. ‘Soon everything will be Greene down to Moncks Corner.’”
Eutaw Springs proved to be the last battle of consequence. Shortly afterward Marion announced that militia under his command would be released to go home after a year’s hard service. Edward hired a farmer’s boy to carry a letter into Charleston, asking Joanna whether she could leave the city safely, and if so, would she meet him on the first of November at Malvern?
In late October he said good-bye to the general whose fame had spread to all the great cities of the North. Exploits of the “Swamp Fox,” true or otherwise, were regularly presented in the papers. Marion might be less important than General Washington, but throughout the North he was more celebrated, colorful, and mysterious, galloping in and out of Carolina’s gloomy swamps to strike and confound the enemy.
Edward rode down to the coast on Brown Eyes, a ragged blanket wrapped around himself. At a roadside dramhouse he heard great news from Virginia. Cornwallis and his army had surrendered at Yorktown on October 19; his musicians had ironically mocked the defeat by playing a familiar British air, “The World Turn’d Upside Down.”
“And across the York, at Gloucester,” said a little button-eyed tailor at the blazing hearth, “that rogue Tarleton gave up with a thousand men. He feared for his life, so he threw himself on the mercies of Count de Rochambeau. The count protected him but would have nothing to do with him personally. My cousin wrote that General Washington invited Lord Cornwallis and his officers to dine but would not invite Tarleton.”
Edward’s fingers closed around his tankard. “I knew a Major Venables in Tarleton’s Legion. Any word of him?”
“Never heard of him, sir. However, the senior officers will sail to New York and after that, I suppose, hie off to England to enumerate a thousand reasons for their defeat.” Edward remembered Marion’s little homily on life’s unfairness and the certainty of ultimate judgment. It didn’t help.
He approached Malvern on a golden afternoon that spoke of summer more than autumn. Saddle sore, he dismounted near the weedy rubble lying untouched since the fire. Birds chattered; the river sparkled. The lawn was sere from summer drought. He’d passed slaves working the indigo fields again. He saw no sign of Joanna.
“We’ll wait till morning,” he said to Brown Eyes, rubbing her flank affectionately. He heard a horse whicker in a palmetto grove near the riverbank. He spied a small, sturdy marsh tacky, and then its rider.
He flung off the stinking blanket, vaulted over black timbers and stonework, and ran down the lawn, full of such
strong emotion, he felt like a drunken man. He nearly crashed into her, whipping his arms around her waist, lifting and whirling her, feeling her warmth, her youth and strength.
Her hair flew against his face. She laughed and let herself be whirled again and again. Finally he set her down beside the purling river. He touched her face as though unable to believe its reality. Tears came to her brown eyes while she clung to him. “Oh, Edward. How tired you look. And how wonderful.”
He pulled her to him more roughly than he intended, desperate to kiss her, feel affection to counter the dark pus of hatred. She opened her lips and touched his tongue with hers. Before he knew it he’d carried her farther down the bank, scaring a white egret into graceful flight. She reclined on her back while his hand worked at her skirt. Her hands came up to his chest, holding him away.
“Only if you love me, Edward.”
“I do. Today and forever. All these months away from you made me know that.”
She lowered her hands, smiling.
She was astonishingly ardent for a sheltered young woman, yet maintained that she was inexperienced until this very day on the bank of the Cooper. Dressed again, she helped him build a small fire near the ruined house. “There’s a great deal of news to relate.”
“Tell me. I heard nothing while I was galloping hither and yon with the old fox.”
“Early in August, Colonel Isaac Hayne was hanged for violating his parole and taking up arms. The British thought his death would send a warning. Instead it roused the wrath of the city like nothing else before.”
“My father knew Hayne. He signed his parole only so he could leave Charleston to help his family. There was smallpox at their country home. What else?”
“Mr. Henry Laurens was apprehended on the high seas near Newfoundland in September, en route to the Netherlands. He and”—hesitation—“many of the exiles were sent from Florida to Philadelphia. Laurens sailed from there. He’s locked up in the Tower of London accused of high treason. Dr. Benjamin Franklin is waging a vigorous campaign for his exchange.”
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Sally’s baby boy is fine and healthy, awaiting a name. Do let Poorly know.”
“I can’t.” He told her about the killing, and Poorly’s wish that his boy be called Hamnet Strong.
Joanna gazed at the river. “I seem to have nothing but bad news for this reunion.” He waited. “In May your brother married Miss Glass at St. Michael’s.”
Edward felt a stab of hatred but he said, “It’s no concern of mine. They’ll find themselves on the wrong side again.”
“The British show every intention of remaining in Charleston for a while.”
“It won’t be forever. Anything else?”
“Yes, Edward, and the worst, I fear. Your father—” She stopped. He gripped her hand. Her colorless lips showed he was hurting her. He let go, feeling the lub of his heart in his chest.
“While in the St. Augustine dungeons your father succumbed. Late March, it was. The formal report said it was self-induced starvation.” Or the special attention requested by Venables? “They buried him in Florida,” she said.
Edward’s voice was wrathful. “My mother was shot down in this very place because of me. My father died in exile because of me. Sally is widowed and the boy orphaned because of me. Who’s next?” Deep-socketed eyes held hers. “You might do better to stay away from me lest something happen to you.”
“Stay away?” She kissed him. “Not in a million, million years, my love. We’re going to have a long and happy life together.”
He stared at the first faint stars, saying nothing.
She tried to be cheerful. “Will you ride back to Charleston with me? There’s hardly a guard presence anymore. People come and go freely.”
“I’ll come in a few days. I have one more task.”
The small farmhouse faced the Sampit River, a few miles below Georgetown. Sweet woodsmoke threaded from the chimney into blue autumn dusk. After his supper William Lark carried a lantern outside and crossed the yard. It was possible to observe him through a cracked window in the barn.
A rusty hinge squealed as Lark entered. Two horses neighed. It had been hell’s own task to sneak in and keep them quiet.
Lark smelled of beer. He petted the muzzle of a big gray, murmured endearments. Edward rose in the empty stall behind Lark, laid his pistol on his left elbow to steady it.
The horses stamped and snorted. Lark turned around. All he could say was “How did you find me?”
“Many people know where you live. I tracked you here a week ago. I’ve been planning this moment for a long time.”
Lark’s bravado deserted him; he knew what was coming when he looked into the eyes of the filthy scarecrow with the pistol. A tremor in his hand shook the lantern. Edward said, “Put it down.”
Lark obeyed.
“See here, lad. I’ve never borne you a grudge. We do what we must in wartime.”
“No, with you it went beyond that.”
“If this is all about your slave, what’s the concern? He was just a common nigger.”
“He was an uncommonly good man. He was my friend since childhood. There is also the matter of my mother.” Edward cocked the pistol. “Do you have any other last words?”
Bloody Bill Lark was reduced to mumbling fright. A dark stain spread at the crotch of his breeches. “I appeal to your decency. I have a family.”
“So did my slave.”
“My wife, Bridgit, my new little boy, Crittenden—oh, if you saw him, you’d love him—they depend on me.”
“They’ll have to find someone else,” Edward said, and shot him in the stomach.
While the horses reared and kicked the stalls, he pulled his other pistol. Lark was on his knees, weeping and clutching himself. Edward put the second ball in his chest.
He coughed in the powder smoke as he slipped out. A woman rushed from the house, calling, “Bill? Bill?” Edward untied Brown Eyes from a willow branch and rode away in the night.
He rode slowly down Meeting Street, looking every bit the ragpicker. He was twenty-three years old and felt ten times that.
A clock in a shop window showed him it was nearly three in the afternoon. At the corner of Broad he waited, gazing upward, but the hour came and went in silence.
He touched Brown Eyes with his heels and approached a knife grinder wheeling his cart beside the footpath. “Doesn’t St. Michael’s ring the hours anymore?”
“You must have been away, young man. Major Traille of the Royal Artillery took down the bells. Spoils of war. The British lost, but they will make us pay for winning.”
19
The List
Although troops of the Crown still controlled Charleston, commanded by the noxious Balfour and Lord Cornwallis’s replacement, Gen. Alexander Leslie, the rest of South Carolina belonged to the Americans. Redcoats in the city still tended to swagger, but abuse of civilians declined noticeably. The Board of Police pursued its duties with less zeal and thoroughness. The occupying forces surely would leave after negotiating with Nathaniel Greene, though no one knew when.
Tory sympathizers made themselves less visible. Edward’s brother and his new wife stayed close to the white frame house they’d purchased, two and a half stories of Georgian elegance on Legare Street. Edward grudgingly sent a wedding gift, a beautiful swan made of glass on the island of Murano in the Venetian lagoon. He’d bought it from the master of an Italian schooner, one of the first European ships to dock at Bell’s Bridge when the hurricane season ended and the December-to-March trading season began. Vessels from England called only to supply the garrison. Charleston was, realistically, an American port.
Lydia wrote a cool note of thanks for the gift, closing, We would be glad to receive you at your convenience. I am most sorrowful over your father’s death, as is my husband. We remain, we sincerely hope, objects of your deep familial affection.
A little too personal and pointed, that last line, he thoug
ht. Or was he inventing hidden meaning to flatter himself? No matter; she was out of his life. She was an old wound that Joanna’s love would heal.
Christmas Eve was a blustery warm day. Edward and Esau Willing walked to the end of Bell’s Bridge at the close of business. Edward’s eyes ached from adding numbers and studying bills of lading. Esau carried biscuits in his pocket. He tossed pieces in the water; soon they had a great cloud of black-headed gulls wheeling and diving and squabbling over the floating morsels.
“I am thrilled that you and Joanna will marry,” Esau said.
Edward rubbed his aching left leg. “After the soldiers leave and life’s normal again.” As if it could be with Lark’s blood on his hands and both parents casualties of the savage war. “Meanwhile I’m trying to learn the business. One day I may want rooms on Broad Street for a legal practice, but for now my place is here.”
“I wish we had better records. Your father carried off the ledgers before the city surrendered. I have no idea where he took them.”
“They’re at the house. He buried them in our garden to hide them from the British. I dug up the iron box myself.”
“Excellent, that’s heartening news.” Esau’s gray locks tossed in the ocean breeze. “I am sixty-four years old, Edward. I will not want to keep at this work forever.”
“Understood. When you decide to leave, we’ll remove the cages. And commencing immediately, we’ll receive no more black cargoes. When the slave trade resumes, plenty of wharf owners will be eager to take our place.”
Esau’s face showed an initial negative reaction, but a smile smoothed away his frown. “This is my daughter’s work.”
“But my decision.”
“If it’s all the same, let’s tear down the cages immediately. I lost that battle with Joanna long ago. She is a strong-willed woman, as you’ll discover.”