“I already have. It’s one of her fine characteristics, if not exactly a restful one.”
Both were able to smile at that. Arm-in-arm they walked back to the office to drink a Christmas toddy.
On the last day of December the gates of the Tower of London opened and Henry Laurens of Charleston walked out, free to travel to Paris to negotiate a peace treaty in company with Mr. Adams, Mr. Jay, and Dr. Franklin. Half a world away Edward wrote a deed of manumission for Sally Strong and her son, Hamnet. Sally was joyful at having a last name. Edward promised her something else:
“A place in my household, at fair wages, for as long as you want it. When you don’t, you may leave. You’re a free person, Sally.”
“Takes some getting used to,” Sally said as Edward dandled her gurgling beige-colored infant on his knee. “Feels mighty wonderful, though.”
At Epiphany, Edward’s morning was spent attending worship service at St. Michael’s, sans bells. The rector informed him that the British would soon ship the bells to New York. He showed Edward a memorial from the vestry, addressed to the perpetrator of the theft, and that gentleman’s punctilious reply:
I can assure you I am not Possessed of any “private property” such as you Describe. I trust you will do me the justice to believe that, in the matter of the Bells, I have not been actuated by Avarice, but solely by a desire to assert that Prerogative which our Corps has always maintained at Towns or Garrisons conquered from the Enemy.
I have the honour to be
Yours faithfully, P. Traille
Commandg. 3d Batt.
Royal Artill’y.
In the afternoon Edward presented small wooden boxes of money to all the Negroes at home and at Bell’s Bridge. Captain Marburg was off duty, so Edward invited him to Tom Bell’s office for a mug of bumbo, a potent punch concocted of rum, sugar, and water.
Though Marburg was a Jew, he had a liberal spirit about the Christian holidays. He described the German custom of bringing a tree into the house and decorating it for Christmas. Edward had never heard of such.
He told Marburg of his decision about the cages, and the reason for it. The Hessian said, “A principled woman, Fraulein Joanna. Where did she come by it?”
“Her mother. German, like you. In Joanna’s words, the woman had a conscience of steel. Read the Bible constantly. The Old Testament prophets were her heroes. She died when I was about ten, and frankly I can’t even remember the sound of her voice. She was shy with outsiders. I do recall she spoke with an accent.”
“Heavy as mine?”
“Heavier.”
“And she disliked slavery?”
“She loathed it. She told Joanna it promoted godless behavior because it gave the owner the right to take slave women to bed, no permission needed. It’s still true. The masters sire bastards and then treat them as step-asides.”
“I do not know that term.”
“It means the child of a master who steps aside from responsibility. Never acknowledges his illegitimate son or daughter.”
Marburg reflected a moment. “If you and Fraulein Joanna raise children, this strong lady may give them a gift that is sometimes unwelcome and almost always vexing.”
“What’s that?”
“A conscience,” Marburg said.
Governor John Rutledge, soon to retire, called for a special legislative assembly at Jacksonboro, thirty-six miles south of Charleston. The selection of delegates surprised no one: thirty of the sixty-three St. Augustine prisoners were chosen, including Mr. Gadsden and the governor’s brother, Edward Rutledge. General Marion and General Sumter were among those representing the military.
A vindictive spirit prevailed in the Jacksonboro assembly. Under a confiscation act that it passed, 239 loyalist estates were taken from their owners. Another forty-seven were amerced at twelve percent of assessed value; these estates belonged to those deemed lesser offenders.
Charleston’s Royal Gazette published the list of forfeited properties, together with a fiery denunciation of the assembly. This mock government has enacted ruinous and impolitic measures solely to disburse plunder to its members, buffoons and criminals who dare to sit in judgment of their betters. Edward wasn’t surprised to find Adrian’s name on the confiscation list.
Lydia called on him at Bell’s Bridge one afternoon in March. Her husband’s Tory prosperity was evident in the closed coach with an ostentatious quartet of horses; before the surrender Adrian had run about in a modest chaise. The coach’s enameled door panels bore a new crest incorporating golden bells and a Latin motto.
Lydia’s arrival caught Edward by surprise. He’d been helping to unload a lighter from a Belgian trader anchored in the harbor, and he smelled like it.
“Edward dearest,” Lydia trilled as she swept to the office door ahead of him, a picture of petite beauty. She removed a green silk mask she wore to protect her skin from the bright sun. “You haven’t called on us.”
“That’s right, I have not.”
“You haven’t even kissed the bride.” The sight of her still stirred him. His weakness made him angry.
In the office he nervously shifted papers and an inkhorn on the desk. “Please take my chair. I’m sorry there’s only one.” He positioned it for her.
She arranged her skirts and settled gracefully. He lit a strong green cigar to cover the awkward moment; the smoke barely masked the stink of his sweat. “Really, my dear,” she said, “you must visit our new home. It’s grand.”
“I’ve seen it from the outside and I agree.”
“Everyone knows you served with the old Swamp Fox last year. Was there great danger?”
“There was some. I survived.”
“Adrian heard you freed a slave. That won’t enhance your popularity in Charleston.”
“I didn’t do it for popularity. I don’t mean to be rude, Lydia—”
“But you are,” she broke in, her blue eyes afire. “Rude, cold—not at all cordial as a brother-in-law should be. I’ve come on a most important mission.”
He guessed its nature. “Something to do with land?”
“Yes, yes, the terrible crime of the Jacksonboro men. Prosperity Hall is to be taken away from Adrian. It’s damned unfair,” she exclaimed, color in her cheeks. Polite ladies didn’t use such language, at least not in the presence of gentlemen.
“You may find it unfair, but it should hardly be a surprise. Adrian belongs to an exclusive club.”
“Club? What club?”
“Those who congratulated Clinton and Cornwallis. The memorials addressed to them when the city fell haven’t been forgotten or forgiven.”
“But can’t they be? Can’t Prosperity Hall be stricken from the list? That’s why I’m here, to plead with you to intervene.”
“Why didn’t Adrian come personally?”
“He’s afraid of you. It’s true, Edward. He knows how bravely you fought, facing danger, and Colonel Hayne’s fate if you were caught. You’ve always outshone Adrian in matters of courage.” She glided to him, trapping him in a corner. “Don’t you know that’s one more reason I think about you constantly?” She stood close, her yellow hair teasing his chin. “I do, dearest. I dream of you even when Adrian’s in my bed and we’re—”
“For God’s sake, Lydia. Have you no decency?” He seized her wrist, drove her hand down. “I told you I’d never cuckold Adrian. I meant it.”
“I don’t believe you.” On tiptoe she kissed him ardently. She pushed his hand against her breast. “You know I’m lively in bed, that I’ll do anything you ask.”
“But now you’ve set a price for those favors? Removal of Adrian’s name from the list?”
“Is it so much to ask? He’s your brother.”
“He truckled to the enemy.”
“Please, Edward. Speak to Gadsden. Have you seen him?”
“Not yet. He traveled straight down to Jacksonboro from Georgetown. Even if I were willing to talk to him, which I’m not, it would do no good. Christoph
er put more names on the list than anyone else. I expect Adrian’s was one of them. My brother turned his coat to save his land and, presumably, to keep you secure and happy at the end of your golden chain.”
“You vile bastard.” Her hand flew to the open inkhorn; she dashed ink on him, stinging his eyes, splattering his face, staining his shirt and waistcoat. Someone pounded on the door. One of the Negroes who worked on the wharf nervously asked if Mr. Edward was all right.
“I’m fine, Seth, nothing to worry about. Lydia, you must go.” He’d forgotten her temper, the familiar bursts of wrath. Thank God she hadn’t been within reach of hot coals, or a hand ax.
Strangely, she started to laugh. “What a sight you are. You look like a filthy nigger. It’s appropriate, you have the soul of one. You’d probably murder me if you could.”
Edward’s face wrenched. With his thumb he wiped a spot of ink from her cheek. He smeared it on the bodice of her dress.
“Oh, you’ve ruined it.”
“Adrian will replace it. Next time tell him not to send a woman to do his begging.”
Lydia’s rage dissolved into tears as she started for the door. “Oh, Edward, Edward. You hurt me so. How I wish to God I didn’t love you.”
Sunlight flashed in his eyes as she donned her mask and went out. He watched the coach clatter away toward the pierhead. He’d wash out the ink stains easily enough. The stain left in memory by the violent scene would be less easy to erase.
20
War’s End
A month later Edward dined with Christopher Gadsden and his wife at Thomas Pike’s. Ann Gadsden had followed her husband to Philadelphia when the British shipped him there from St. Augustine. Mrs. Gadsden and the lieutenant governor looked careworn. Edward asked Gadsden what he knew of Tom Bell’s death.
“Very little. At Castillo de San Marcos they wanted us to give our paroles. Most did, but I did not. They clapped me into a cárcel, a dungeon with a dirt floor and no windows. There I stayed with my candles and my books. I saw no one but guards and was never allowed outside. Only on the ship to Philadelphia did I learn Tom’s fate. He also would not give his parole, and was similarly imprisoned. He died in the dungeon, having refused food as a form of protest.”
“I doubt they offered him food. I think a certain British officer conspired with the authorities to keep it from him.”
“Yes, I heard that said. And now we’re bowing and exchanging compliments with ’em as though they hadn’t treated us like vermin.” His wife took his hand to calm him. “No, Ann. The war’s over for some, but not for me.”
That kind of hatred growled beneath the surface of Charleston life in the spring of 1782. At Jacksonboro, Pocotaligo, and Georgetown, sales of confiscated estates netted a million pounds sterling. When summer came, terms for evacuation were still in limbo. General Leslie had no arrangement for the British to trade with farmers in the countryside, but it was necessary because of the large numbers of loyalists flooding in from all over the state. They came to the port wanting to leave the country on the first available ship.
Leslie dispatched men into the Low Country to forage for food; buy it if they could, steal it if they couldn’t. In August, encountering one of these raiding parties at Tar Bluff on the Combahee, Henry Laurens’s highly esteemed son, Col. John Laurens, died in what Nathaniel Greene called “a sad and paltry little skirmish.”
That same month Leslie received orders to evacuate Charleston as soon as practicable. Greene’s army advanced to the west bank of the Ashley while a new governor, John Mathews, negotiated terms of withdrawal. Leslie agreed to leave the city in good order, restore seized property—St. Michael’s bells were conveniently overlooked—and return all slaves who hadn’t run away to join the British. Mathews in turn pledged no additional confiscatory legislation, and no interference with collection of lawful debts. English merchants would be allowed to remain in Charleston for six months to recoup what was owed them.
“Goddamned lawyers,” Gadsden raged to Edward. “Ought to hang them all.” Two attorneys, Edward Rutledge and Benjamin Guerard, had assisted Mathews’s negotiations. Both men were nominally patriots. “The terms are humbug. They favor the very men who did the least for our cause: planters who only care about exporting fall crops through the merchants and factors we so kindly allow to remain here. There will be bad blood for years.”
In September a British evacuation fleet sailed into the harbor. In the cool of an early October morning Marburg said to Edward, “We have orders. My regiment leaves on the twenty-seventh. All troops will be gone by December.” The captain’s round face turned toward the sunlit waves rolling in from the Atlantic. He seemed to gather his nerve before he spoke again. “I wish to stay.”
Edward understood why Marburg had asked him to walk along the harbor near the house. This was a matter of utmost privacy, not to say illegality. He said, “You mean desert.”
“I am aware of the nature of the deed, Mr. Edward. Also the price if I’m discovered.”
“You really want to make Carolina your home?”
“I want to make Charleston my home. I have worshiped at Beth Elohim. The rabbi and the congregation made me welcome.”
“In Germany you were a forester, then a soldier. What would you do here?”
“I would like to open a small bookshop, if I can raise the capital. A shop somewhat more American than that of Mr. Wells, who favored the Crown.”
Edward lobbed a stick into a bleached oyster bed. He knew what Marburg wanted but waited for him to say it.
“Will you help me? I have no right to endanger you, but I trust no one else.”
Edward felt somewhat put upon, but he liked Marburg, who had behaved decently while sharing the house. “Well,” he said, thinking aloud, “we’d have to smuggle you out of the city in mufti. Hide you under a blanket in a cart. One of Esau’s men can drive you to what’s left of Malvern. You’ll have to conceal yourself there until all the ships leave. When they come to question me, as they surely will, I can plead ignorance. You simply walked out of the house one night and never came back. I don’t think they’ll press hard. Their position’s untenable.”
Marburg’s china-blue eyes welled with tears that he dashed away with embarrassment. “Mr. Edward, you are a true friend.”
Edward smiled, deprecating the remark. “Get your kit together. We’ll pull this off in the next day or so, before either of us changes his mind.”
Marburg’s desertion was accomplished without difficulty. Two officers, one English, one Hessian, came to the house. Their interrogation was short and perfunctory. Leaving, the Hessian said, “I never liked the little Jew. I hope a crocodile eats him while he cowers in the swamp. One day we’ll rid Germany of all the dirty shit-eating killers of Christ.”
Charleston hummed with preparations for the first evacuation. Embarkation would take place at Gadsden’s Wharf; Mr. Gadsden savored the irony of that. The redcoats busily ransacked houses and packed up such plunder as they could steal. A few householders met the raiding squads with weapons, but for the most part owners stood aside in weary acquiescence.
Two days before the first departure, with a hard rain blowing off the ocean, Edward passed Adrian’s house on Legare Street. Boards covered the windows. Black men carried trunks from the house to a canvas-topped Conestoga wagon. Lydia stood in the doorway, rain-spattered, bedraggled, and shrill. “Keep that trunk upright, my fine crystal’s in there.” She boxed the ears of the offending Negro. Edward saw a flash of hatred in his eyes.
He climbed the steps. “I didn’t know you were leaving.”
“Did you think we’d stay and let your vicious friends trample on us? Or worse?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know about Nigel Bezzard, the Liverpool merchant?” Edward said no. A figure loomed in the dark hall—Adrian, minus his wig. His head was a shaven ball of stubble. He carried a decanter of red wine and a goblet. Edward hadn’t seen his brother in months. His sunken eyes and
stooped posture saddened Edward. Adrian had the look of a whipped dog.
“Nigel Bezzard did business with the wrong people,” Adrian said. “Someone put a dirk in his back. They found him in Beddon’s Alley at daybreak yesterday.”
“The war goes on. I wish it didn’t,” Edward said. “Where will you go?”
Adrian poured wine for himself. “East Florida. From there”—he shrugged—“it’s immaterial, so long as I never see this accursed town again.”
“You can petition the legislature to transfer Prosperity Hall to the amerced list. Pay the tax, now or in a year, and the plantation will be yours again.”
Adrian sneered. “Pray tell me how I pay the tax without income from land? Even assuming the legislature would permit it? It’s a game I can’t win. You and your kind have beggared me.”
Lydia cried, “We won’t have our child born into such circumstances.”
“Your child—?”
“We’ll make a new start, prosper somewhere else, you’ll see.” Her voice was high, strident. Adrian touched her arm.
“Go inside, Lydia. Dry yourself.” She flung off his hand and disappeared. Adrian noticed the four black men huddling by the wagon. “Stop staring. Do your work, you nigger trash.”
The black men filed into the house, heads averted. Rain trickled down Edward’s cheeks. “I am very sorry for all this, Adrian.”
“The hell you are. You revel in it. Well, know this. In the Bible where family names are written, I’ve struck out yours. I no longer have a brother.”
He drank his wine, threw the glass so it broke at Edward’s feet. In the boarded-up house Lydia screamed like a termagant. Adrian stumbled and almost fell as he went in to join her.
On Sunday, October 27, Edward and Joanna stood among hundreds watching a greater number of loyalists, with their slaves and possessions, queuing up to board schooners and frigates moored at Gadsden’s Wharf. Forty ships were scheduled to carry off more than three quarters of the occupying army, and more than three thousand refugees who were scattering to Halifax, Florida, Jamaica, St. Lucia, and the Bahamas. Edward and Joanna spied Lydia and Adrian in the crowd, bundled in cloaks too heavy for their destination in the tropics. Edward felt no sense of victory, only dismay.